by Chris Ryan
Danny still didn’t let go of Joe as they changed trajectory. The mist swirled and curled around them. Occasionally, a voice drifted through the trees towards them. Hard to determine the direction from which it came. They had no option but to keep running and to hope they had their own direction right.
Six minutes. They hit a road. Joe was gasping for air. Danny looked to the right. The rented Honda was just visible by the side of the road, fifteen metres distant. Their bearings had been spot on. He was about to lead the others towards it, when the sound of a siren hit their ears – distant, but approaching. He yanked Joe back into the cover of the trees. Twenty seconds later, two police cars screamed past. Their sirens faded. Danny, Spud and Joe remained statue-still. The only noise was Joe’s heavy breathing.
But now there was a new sound. Another chopper overhead. Danny looked up. Through the bare canopy of the forest he suddenly saw the charcoal-grey silhouette of a military helicopter about a hundred feet up, its edges blurred and ill-defined because of the mist. It was moving fast and south, towards the Sandringham Estate.
‘Let it pass,’ Danny breathed.
Thirty seconds later it was out of earshot.
Joe had regained his breath. Now the only sound was the persistent dripping of condensation from tree branches all around them.
‘Get to the vehicle,’ Danny said. ‘Now.’
They sprinted across the road. Once they were at the Honda, Danny threw the keys to Spud. ‘Drive,’ he said. He turned to Joe. ‘You – in the back with me.’
Joe looked scared. His patched-up glasses had slipped down his face, which was sweating and dirty. He seemed very unsure that he should do what Danny said.
‘Unless you get in the car with us,’ Danny told him, ‘you’re going to be picked up by the security services. Do you think they’re not going to shoot the only Muslim in the vicinity of a major terrorist event?’
His words obviously hit home. Joe’s face twitched. Spud pressed the key fob to unlock the car doors. Joe clambered into the back. Danny opened the boot. He and Spud carefully placed their weapons inside, then he climbed into the back while Spud took the wheel.
There were no tyre screeches. No revving of the engine. Spud clearly understood that if they were to get out of here they needed to keep under the radar. He switched on the headlamps to burn through the mist, and trundled carefully on to the road.
Danny turned to Joe. ‘How did you know where to find him?’
Joe was digging his nails into his palms. ‘Are you sure I’m not in trouble?’
‘You’re in a world of trouble, Joe. Unless you stick with me. But you’ve got to tell me: how did you know where to find him?’
Joe drew a deep breath. ‘I tracked him,’ he said.
Danny shook his head. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘How?’
‘I – I was forced to work for Daesh in Syria. After he . . . after Mujahid killed my mum and dad.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Computer systems, social media – they wanted me because I’m . . .’ He searched around for the right phrase. ‘Because I’m good at it,’ he finished a bit feebly. ‘I told your security services this. They tried to threaten me. I ran away.’
‘How did you track him, Joe?’
‘Through his communications with Daesh. And through his phone.’
Danny stared at him. ‘How long have you been doing that for?’ he asked. His heart was pumping hard.
‘A couple of days,’ Joe said.
Danny was almost too scared to ask the question. ‘So you know where he’s been?’ he breathed.
Joe nodded.
‘Exactly where he’s been?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can you show me?’
The kid looked at the rucksack on his lap. ‘I need a lead for my laptop,’ he said. ‘And power.’
Danny’s mouth was suddenly dry. He tasted something almost – but not quite – like excitement.
‘You got it,’ he said.
Guy Thackeray, director of MI6, looked sick.
It seemed that with every minute that passed, a new piece of information, each one worse than the last, reached his ears. An innocent choirboy shot in Westminster Abbey in full view of the PM by an out-of-control SAS man. A terrorist strike at Sandringham. Three casualties, including one child.
If Thackeray still had a job by Boxing Day, it would be a miracle.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. The news out of Iraq had left him dumbstruck. The CIA negotiating with Islamic State. The Americans withholding intelligence from the British because they planned to strike a deal with IS just like they’d cosied up to the mujahideen in the eighties.
No wonder Langley was avoiding his calls.
But they couldn’t avoid him for ever. And now, the secure phone in his office overlooking the London skyline on this brutal Christmas Day was ringing. He picked it up.
‘Thackeray,’ he said.
‘Guy. It’s Al.’
Al Scott, his counterpart at Langley.
‘I have to tell you, Guy, we got some pretty pissed individuals here at the agency, and in Washington.’
Thackeray didn’t trust himself to speak. So he didn’t.
‘It seems your guy Danny Black had every opportunity to help our mole escape out there in Iraq, but didn’t. Blew her cover instead. One of our deepest agents, too. Plenty of folk this side of the water want to have a word with him, Guy. Plenty of people.’
Silence on the line. Thackeray breathed deeply.
‘Listen carefully, Al,’ he said, very quietly. ‘Wars have been started for less than this. I recommend you think about that very carefully.’
‘Back up there, Thackeray, we will not be—’
‘And one other thing, Al. If it comes to my attention that Danny Black, or any of my guys involved in that operation, so much as trip up in the street and graze their knee, you’re going to find that your agents in London start meeting with accidents.’
Silence.
The door opened. Alice Cracknell walked in. Her face was haunted. ‘It’s the PM,’ she mouthed. ‘He wants to see you now.’
‘I hope I’ve made myself clear, Al,’ Thackeray said, and he put down the phone. He looked at Alice. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.
‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s just . . .’ She spread her hands. ‘He’s just disappeared.’
Thackeray stepped out from behind his desk. ‘He’s in danger,’ he said. ‘Find him.’
‘But sir—’
‘Find Danny Black!’ Thackeray shouted, and he stormed out of the office.
Christmas Day. Nothing was open. Spud drove carefully through the wide, flat Norfolk scenery. Past closed-up roadside burger vans, and through sleepy towns with fairy lights twinkling in the windows, and no pedestrians on the streets. The only indication that this Christmas Day was different to any other was the police presence. They passed countless police cars heading in the opposite direction, their neon lights flashing but their sirens switched off. They saw five choppers speeding back the way they’d come, including a Chinook. They passed several military trucks, heavy and khaki-coloured, carrying troops to the strike area.
Each one made Danny’s pulse race. They couldn’t risk being stopped. It wasn’t that he cared about anyone finding the weapons stashed carelessly in the boot of this rented vehicle. It wasn’t that they were AWOL. It wasn’t that they had a wanted former IS associate in the back of the car.
It was simply this: the clock was ticking. And with every second that passed, Clara and Rose’s chances of survival diminished.
1147 hours. Spud slowed down as they approached a roundabout. There was a Little Chef off the second exit. Five or six cars were parked out front. It looked open.
‘Pull over here,’ Danny instructed.
‘Who has their fucking Christmas lunch at a Little Chef?’ Spud murmured as he drove towards the restaurant and parked up.
Two dirty, tired, grizzl
ed Regiment men. A scared Muslim kid in tow. Danny knew they looked like an unusual trio as they entered the restaurant, which stank of grease and bad coffee. He didn’t care. He told the spotty teenage waitress that they needed a seat by a power socket. They were led to one with bad grace. They asked for the Wi-Fi code and ordered black coffee. Danny and Spud watched as the kid plugged in his laptop, using Danny’s lead.
‘It will take a couple of minutes to power up,’ he said.
Danny nodded. He looked around. There were four other parties in here. All of them were eyeing the kid with barely concealed mistrust. On the far wall a TV was on. BBC News. The sound was down, but that didn’t matter to Danny. He recognised the aerial shots of Sandringham House and grounds. Stills of the church, and of Yellow Seven and the other royals. Danny thought he caught a glimpse of Tony standing there behind them.
The footage cut to Westminster Abbey. Crowds. A high police presence. A part of his mind wondered what had been happening there. But he was too focussed on other things to care deeply.
‘It’s on,’ Joe said.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, opening up windows that displayed lines of impenetrable code. Then, after thirty seconds, a map appeared. Joe tapped on the screen, and Danny examined it.
There were pins placed in the map, many of them, at approximately five-millimetre intervals. They described a journey. It started in London. Moved along the roads Danny knew so well to Hereford. From Hereford it moved north-east, to Birmingham.
From Birmingham, the trail disappeared. But then there were more pins on the north Norfolk coast. Joe pointed at the gap between the two. ‘He must have removed the battery from his phone between here and here,’ he said.
‘How long was he in Birmingham?’
Joe hovered over the pins. ‘About two hours,’ he said. ‘On the morning of the twenty-third.’
‘Can you give me an address?’
Joe swallowed hard. He typed a few more lines of code. Cross-referenced a GPS location. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can.’
‘Danny,’ Spud said quietly. He glanced towards the counter at the front of the restaurant. The spotty waitress was on the phone. She had one hand over the mouthpiece, as though talking secretly. She was looking at the three of them, and occasionally glancing towards the TV screen.
Danny pulled out a twenty-pound note and left it on the table. ‘Pack up,’ he said.
The kid blinked at him, then shut down the lid on his computer and quickly stuffed it into his rucksack. By that time Danny and Spud were already on their feet. They strode to the exit, Joe scurrying behind them. The waitress slammed her phone down, guilt written all over her face.
Back at the vehicle, they took their usual seats. Danny turned to Joe. ‘The address,’ he said. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Milton Road,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you the number.’
That didn’t matter. For Danny Black, it was information enough.
Ray Hammond’s landline was ringing, and so was his mobile. He ignored them both and stared at the member of Regiment support staff standing nervously at the other side of his desk.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘They’ve been sweeping the ground at Sandringham. They found a box of ammo in the bushes near the strike area. They came from the Regiment armoury. We’ve just checked it. There are several items missing. Two assault rifles, two handguns, sights, radio equipment, ammo—’
‘Yeah, I get the fucking picture,’ Hammond spat. ‘Did you call Danny Black and Spud Glover in?’
‘We tried to, boss.’
‘What do you mean, you tried to?’
‘They’re not at home. We called, sent people round . . .’
Hammond covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Find him,’ he said.
‘Boss, he’s gone AWOL.’
‘Don’t give me fucking excuses!’ Hammond roared.
The guy swallowed hard. ‘We’ve had a report of two men answering their description in a Little Chef about eighty miles from Sandringham,’ he stuttered. ‘But I don’t think it can be them. They had a Middle Eastern kid with them. I mean, surely he’s not—’
‘Just find him!’ Hammond shouted. ‘Just find Danny Black!’
Night had fallen.
Milton Road was an unpleasant street on the northern edge of Birmingham. Houses along one side. Lock-ups along the other. There were no Christmas lights here. It wasn’t that kind of area.
The mist had stuck around all day. Now the temperature had dropped and the fog seemed to freeze against everything. The windows. The tarmac. The metal of Danny and Spud’s weapons.
The car was parked at the top of the street. Danny, Spud and Joe were standing on the opposite side of the road, next to a lock-up whose grey garage door was fastened with a huge padlock.
‘You can stay,’ Danny said. ‘We’ll find a place for you.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I want to disappear. It shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve been learning how to be invisible.’
Danny inclined his head. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes, which he handed over to Joe. The kid looked hesitant. ‘Take it,’ Danny said. ‘Find somewhere warm to stay. You ever need me, get a message to RAF Credenhill. Can you remember that?’
‘RAF Credenhill.’ He took the money and gave Danny a grateful look.
‘If you’re going to go,’ Danny said, ‘it’s best you go now.’
Joe glanced up the road. ‘Are you going to kill them?’ he asked.
Danny sniffed. ‘What’s your real name, Joe?’
‘Yusuf,’ the kid said.
Danny nodded. ‘It’s best you go now, Yusuf,’ he said.
The kid stuffed the money into his trousers and stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He nodded at Danny and Spud, then turned his back on them and walked away into the freezing mist.
Danny and Spud watched until his grey silhouette disappeared.
‘Good kid, that,’ Spud said. Then, as they both turned to look the other way: ‘Ready?’
Danny looked down at himself. He was filthy. Covered in blood, sweat and mud. He removed his Sig from its holster, cocked the weapon and then made it safe. When he looked back at Spud, he saw that his mate had done the same. ‘Ready,’ he said.
They walked calmly and silently down the street. They heard music coming from one of the houses. Distinctively Arabic. They passed that house, and three others, before stopping.
They were outside house number nine. It looked just like all the others. With one small difference. Just to the side of the front door was a pram. Danny recognised it. Recognised the multicoloured toy tied to the handle that he had bought for his daughter just six days ago.
In the front window was hung a thick net curtain. Behind that curtain was the silhouette of a woman holding a child. She was pacing the room, swaying from side to side, clearly trying to comfort the baby.
Spud turned to Danny. ‘Shall we go get them?’ he said.
Danny nodded. He flicked off the safety catch of his weapon. Then he and Spud advanced towards the house.
