Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel

by Chris Ryan

  The Albanian’s eyes went wide. He had just enough time to realise what was happening. He raised a hand at Bald.

  ‘No, fuck, don’t—’

  Bald pulled the trigger, emptying two rounds into the Albanian. The nine-millis thudded into the guy’s skull, severing the plumbing in the front of his brain. His neck jerked back and he fell away, his arms pinwheeling. Like someone had just cut his strings. The guy was dead before he hit the floor. He slumped back against the wall, his jaw slack, the hot stink of blood filling the air.

  Porter stared at the two bullet holes in the wall to Bald’s right. Firing Sami Hoda’s gun had been necessary to make his death look like a justifiable killing. Which meant Porter had needed to shoot a couple of rounds close enough to Bald to make it look as if Hoda had been aiming at him. But Porter had got his angles wrong and almost ended up taking off Bald’s head in the process.

  Christ, he thought. Maybe I am losing it.

  I almost slotted my mucker.

  Voices sparked up in the earpiece. More than one of them. Kemper and Crabb and a bunch of the other officers, responding to the gunshots on the second floor, wondering what the fuck was going on. Porter and Bald had a few seconds until the SO19 crew came storming up the stairs. Porter snapped out of his stupor, dropped down beside the slotted Albanian and quickly started wiping down the CZ 75 with his sweatshirt. He could hear the loud thud of footsteps pounding up the stairs. He had a few seconds until the cops hit the second floor.

  ‘Fucking hurry,’ Bald said.

  Porter placed the Czech semi-automatic in Sami Hoda’s right hand and clamped his chubby fingers around the grip. Then he bolted to his feet and rushed past Bald into the hallway, digging his Glock 17 out of his holster. Swung around so that he was standing outside the door, with Bald a couple of steps inside the room. Kemper came vaulting up the stairs with Crabb and another officer hard on his heels. He flashed a look at Porter then stopped in the doorway and glanced inside the bedroom. Saw Sami Hoda lying against the wall, blood disgorging from the holes in his skull and slickening his front. Bald stood over the dead Albanian, gripping his Glock 17 and shaking his head.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Bald. ‘Fucking hell, I’ve killed a guy.’

  Kemper shaded white. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He didn’t give me any choice,’ Bald said, turning to face Kemper and pretending to look anxious. ‘Bastard pulled a weapon on us.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Porter added. ‘We entered the room to arrest the target and shouted for him to put his hands up, just like we’d been told. The fucker drew his weapon and let off a couple of rounds. That’s when we engaged.’

  ‘The suspect fired his weapon?’ Kemper asked, working his face into a deep frown.

  ‘Aye,’ Porter replied. ‘Two shots.’ He pointed with his head at the bullet holes lodged in the wall and doorframe. ‘You’ll find the slugs in there.’

  Kemper cocked his head at Porter. ‘Where were you when this happened?’

  ‘Outside the room, covering Jock.’

  ‘Shit,’ Kemper muttered.

  ‘I can’t believe I fucking killed him,’ Bald said, fixing his eyes on the slotted Albanian.

  Kemper turned to Officer Crabb. ‘Cordon the area off. Clear everyone out and get the SOCOs down here asap. I want fingerprints, blood splatter, the lot. No one’s to touch or move a fucking thing. Right now this house is a crime scene. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘And for Chrissakes keep the press away from here.’

  Crabb nodded, turned and marched down the stairs with the other SO19 officer. Kemper watched them leave. Then he turned towards Bald and sucked the air between his teeth. ‘I’ll have to get on the blower and notify the PCA about this. We’re legally required to report every police shooting to them. They’ll be wanting a word with the two of you at the debrief, no doubt.’ Bald opened his mouth to speak but Kemper cut him off. ‘Look, fellas. I know you were bang within your rights to engage the shooter, but we’ve got to do things by the book here. You understand.’

  Bald and Porter exchanged a look. Porter looked back to Kemper. Nodded. ‘We’ll answer any questions they have.’

  Kemper nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Right, then. You’d better make your way down to the cordon. An investigator will be waiting there to take both your statements.’

  Porter headed downstairs with Bald. They made their way down to the ground floor hallway and stepped out into the street. The noise of the assault had stirred the locals out of their sleep. Lights were switching on up and down the street. A few residents stood outside their front doors, rubbernecking the scene. The reception area downstream from the townhouse was buzzing with activity. A trio of police officers were processing the Albanians while another cop read them their rights. Police dog handlers remained close by in case any of the Albanians tried to make a run for it. A paramedic team was busy lowering a stretcher from the back of an ambo. Bit late for that, thought Porter. He grinned at Bald.

  ‘You should give yourself an Oscar,’ he said. ‘You almost had me fooled back there, Jock. Looks like Kemper bought it.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Bald shrugged. ‘We nearly screwed up the op, thanks to you.’

  ‘The fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  Bald rounded on Porter. His face was twitching with anger. ‘You almost clipped me back there, pal. That second round was a cunt hair away from my face. Another inch or so and it would have been me lying on the carpet with the hole in my head.’

  Porter clenched his jaws and met Bald’s piercing stare. ‘It was an accident. The pistol must have been dodgy. Christ, you know what those old CZs are like. They’re dodgier than a two-bob watch.’

  Bald shook his head. ‘The gun wasn’t the problem, mate. You are.’

  ‘It was an honest mistake, that’s all,’ Porter said. He could feel the hangover returning. A dull pain throbbed inside his skull.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Bald stepped into Porter’s face and glowered at his mucker. ‘You’d better sort yourself out. Because the next time you almost clip me, I’ll drop you. And mark my words, I won’t fucking miss.’

  THREE

  0617 hours.

  The questioning took forty-nine long minutes. Bald and Porter had been taken to a dreary glass-fronted office block on High Holborn, opposite a row of tatty souvenir shops and grubby boozers. They were shown into a bland interview room with a two-way mirror, and found a guy in a sharkskin suit waiting for them inside. He introduced himself as Charles Capewell QC, and explained that he was one of the Firm’s legal advisers, and that he had been brought in to advise Bald and Porter during the interrogation. If either of them was asked a question that might incriminate them, Capewell said, he would step in and cut the interview short. Bald and Porter both nodded. They had done this before. They knew the drill.

  After a while a pair of investigators stepped into the room and introduced themselves. A guy called Westwood and a guy called Steer. They were both former police officers, and they both looked the part. Weary look in the eyes, beer bellies that threatened to burst out of their crumpled white shirts. They sat down opposite Bald and Porter and Capewell and said they had a few questions. They were broadly sympathetic, Westwood explained. They still had friends on the force. They knew how these things worked. They listened patiently as Bald and Porter walked them through the shooting. First Bald, then Porter. Then they walked them through it again. The investigators took notes, asked a few questions and didn’t press too hard. As if they were going through the motions. Every so often, Capewell intervened and told them in a firm but polite voice that his clients would not be answering a particular question. When they were finished, Westwood said Bald and Porter were free to leave. He said they would have to interview Kemper and the other officers after the debrief. Steer added that if they had any more questions, they would be in touch. He thanked Bald and Porter for their time. Capewell made his excuses and left.

  Two minutes after they left
the building, Porter’s pager buzzed.

  Both he and Bald carried MoD-issued Motorola pagers clipped to their belts. It allowed their handler to contact them at any time, day or night. The pagers received two test messages a day. One at seven o’clock in the morning, and another at seven o’clock at night. As soon as they received the test messages, the guys had to check in on the secure line at Thames House. So when Porter’s pager buzzed, he figured it was the first test message of the day coming through. Then he glanced at his G-Shock. 0620 hours. Too early for the test message. Which meant that someone at the Firm was reaching out to him.

  He unclipped the pager from his belt and squinted at the tiny luminous screen. Messages sent from the Firm were in the form of a three-digit code. The different numbers corresponded to different instructions that Bald and Porter had committed to memory when they had transferred from Hereford. The number 555, for example, told them to check in with Thames House as soon as possible. Whereas 111 told the guys to drop everything and get over to the safehouse immediately. A 111 was the most urgent type of message that the Blades could receive.

  Porter stopped. He stared at the pager.

  The message on the screen read 111.

  Sixty seconds later, they were hailing a black cab.

  The safehouse was off Edgware Road. Less than three miles away, but a forty-minute journey, even at six-thirty in the morning. The pavements were mostly empty except for a few joggers and shift workers, but the roads were clogged with early-morning traffic. Delivery trucks, white vans, taxis, buses, cyclists. The speed of the traffic was somewhere between standstill and slow crawl. The taxi driver shuttled north on Southampton Row, passed Russell Square tube station, and then hooked a left and crawled along the Euston Road. Everywhere Porter looked the skyline was dominated by industrial cranes and the skeletal outlines of half-finished skyscrapers and high-rise apartment blocks. The city transforming. It’s come a long way since I grew up in Bethnal Green, Porter thought. Give it another ten years and I’ll hardly recognise the place.

  They headed east on the Euston Road for a mile and a half. Past the steel-and-glass buildings around Great Portland Street, and the crowds of tourists around Baker Street, and the multi-million-pound houses lining Regent’s Park. The driver inched through Marylebone and then angled left after Westminster Magistrates’ Court. Rolled down Old Marylebone Road for a couple of hundred metres. Crossed the Edgware Road, past the shisha bars and Turkish coffee shops and greasy Lebanese restaurants. Headed down Sussex Gardens and took the first right onto Sale Place. After fifty metres the driver eased off the gas and pulled over. Porter handed him a twenty and got a handful of pocket shrapnel in change. Then he climbed out of the cab with Bald and the two of them waited until the taxi had pulled out and disappeared from view. They walked north on Sale for forty metres, then hung a left onto Star Street.

  The safehouse was set midway down a row of discreet whitewashed terraces. It looked like any other house on the street, with its small tiled porch and wrought-iron fence overlooking the basement. The only difference was that the curtains had been pulled across all the windows. From the outside the place looked neat, tidy. Anonymous. The kind of place that wouldn’t attract attention. Which made it the perfect location for a safehouse. Bald fished a set of keys out of his jeans pocket, unlocked the door and stepped into into the hallway.

  Bald stopped in his tracks, and listened.

  ‘Alarm’s been disabled,’ he said.

  Porter nodded. We’re not the first ones here, then.

  They headed down the hallway and made for the stairs. The place was modern but sparsely furnished. Like an Ikea showroom, five minutes after the clearance sale had ended. Porter followed Bald down the stairs into the basement. They paced down a short corridor and made for the heavy-duty door at the far end. A pair of flunkies in shiny suits stood either side of the door. One of the suits spoke into his microphone while the other pulled open the door. Then the flunkies stepped aside and Bald and Porter entered.

  The briefing room looked like a recording studio, minus the music equipment. The walls and ceilings were lined with egg-box-shaped foam that was specially designed to absorb any sound. Which meant that conversations that took place inside the room would not transmit to anyone potentially listening in from the outside. There were no windows inside the basement and the only light came from a couple of tall halogen lamps burning in separate corners of the room. An American Security safe the size of a Smeg fridge stood against the far wall, the kind of thing a Texas gun fanatic might stash his assault rifles in. There was a plain metal desk in the middle of the room with a Cisco phone on it hooked up to a secure line, and four metal chairs. Porter knew the layout of the basement room like the back of his hand. He’d been in this place more times than he cared to remember over the last year. The Firm had dozens of safehouses just like this one, scattered across the capital.

  He turned his attention to the two figures in the middle of the room. Clarence Hawkridge stood leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his front while he tapped a black leather brogue against the floor. A woman Porter didn’t recognise sat at one of the chairs behind the metal desk, her hands resting on top of a pile of bulky manila folders. She wore a black pencil skirt and a dark-grey ponte jacket over a long-sleeve blouse. The corporate look. Porter guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties, but the lines on her face made her look ten years older. She had streaks of grey in her mid-length hair, and bloodshot eyes and heavy lines etched across her brow.

  Hawkridge straightened up and glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘You chaps took your time getting here.’

  ‘Traffic,’ said Bald with a shrug. ‘Anyway, we were busy cleaning up your mess.’

  Hawkridge cocked his chin at Porter. ‘Well? Was it a clean job?’

  Porter glanced over at Bald. The Jock shot him a funny look. He turned back to Hawkridge and nodded stiffly. ‘It went down just the way we discussed. As far as the cops are concerned it was a justifiable shooting. We had to give a statement to the PCA, but there might be some follow-up involved.’

  Hawkridge smiled and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. Like he was swatting away a bad smell. ‘No need to worry about the investigation, old fruit. We’ve got that covered. Consider yourselves in the clear.’

  ‘Great,’ Bald deadpanned. ‘When do we crack open the bubbly?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put your celebrations on ice for the time being. We’ve got another job for you.’

  ‘What’s the craic?’ Porter asked.

  Hawkridge gestured to the two empty chairs facing the desk. ‘Why don’t you both take a seat, gentlemen.’

  Porter and Bald planted their arses on the chairs and waited for Hawkridge to continue. Porter found himself scanning the room, looking to see if there was any booze lying around the place. He wondered how much longer he could go without a drink before the shakes kicked in again. These days he could hardly last more than a few hours without a drop of the strong stuff.

  Hawkridge tipped his head at the woman. ‘Before we continue I’d like to introduce you to Angela March. She’ll be sitting in with us. Angela is with the Foreign Office, and she’ll be helping to coordinate the operation.’

  ‘Gentlemen. A pleasure,’ March said. She had a husky smoker’s voice and a cool, professional manner. Porter nodded a greeting at her. But in the back of his head he asked himself, Why the hell would some civil servant from the Foreign Office take an interest in an MI5 op?

  March tapped the manila folders. ‘I’ve read both your files. Excellent work taking down Radoslav Brozovic’s gang, by the way. You two are practically minor celebrities inside Whitehall, you know. It’s a shame you’ll never be able to take public credit for what you did.’

  ‘We didn’t do it for the glory,’ Bald said. ‘We did it because Brozovic killed our mates.’

  ‘So I gather.’ March went on, ‘Actually, it’s one of the reasons we’ve taken an interes
t in you. I understand you’re both experienced operators, capable of surviving alone in hostile environments for extended periods of time. Your fighting skills are second to none. And you’re both extremely loyal towards your fellow SAS men. That’s important on this particular operation.’

  Porter frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  Hawkridge sat down and brushed back his thinning hair. ‘I trust you’re both familiar with a chap called Ronald Soames?’

  The name got their attention. Porter sat bolt upright and tensed.

  ‘Soames?’ he said, almost spitting out the name. ‘Aye, we’ve heard of him.’

  March took a folder from near the bottom of the pile. She opened it up and glanced down at the first page, then lifted her eyes to Porter. ‘I understand Ronald was Commanding Officer of 22 SAS during your time in the unit.’

  ‘For a short while. He transferred a few months after I passed Selection, as I remember it.’

  March read from the page in front of her. ‘Ronald Soames, born in Esher, Surrey in 1947. Born into a prestigious military family. Father Onslow served in the Corps of Guides in the Indian Army, later elected as Conservative MP for Henley-on-Thames. Ronald received his commission from Sandhurst in 1969 and joined the Household Cavalry Division. Promoted to the rank of Captain and passed SAS Selection in 1977. Later promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. Commanding Officer of 22 SAS from 1987 to 89. Became Director Special Forces in 1994 before retiring in 1997. After he retired from the MoD Ronald set up his own private military contractor, Janus International. They operate security contracts, mostly in Africa.’

  She stopped reading. Unclipped a photograph from the front of the file and slid it across the desk. Porter and Bald leaned over for a closer look. It was a snap of Ronald Soames, a recent one by the look of it. Post-Whitehall. He looked good for his age. He was dressed in an expensive-looking linen suit, light blue shirt underneath with the collar button popped. Everything about him oozed money. The suit, the watch, the neatly stubbled jaw. In the photograph Soames was gazing off somewhere to the left of the camera. His eyes were cold and black, like wet stones. His thin lips curled up at the edges to form an arrogant smile. Soames somehow looked both charming and cold-blooded. The kind of guy who acted as if he owned the world and everything in it, and ruthlessly dealt with anyone who thought otherwise.