by Andy McNab
He changed mags before entering the house. He would have to clear it before he started to look round. It smelt of tobacco smoke, alcohol and dog: Eau de Single Country Bloke. There must be something among the contents that would prove of interest.
He stepped into the kitchen. An old, greasy Rayburn gave off some warmth but the room was in stark contrast to the trademark Invicta neatness. There was a full ashtray on the windowsill, the table was strewn with food remains, and the washing-up from at least one meal was piled haphazardly in and around the sink: definitely not what Carter had had in mind as maintaining the place. He counted three dinner plates.
The match was still on. Though he had been a passable forward, Tom had never bonded with the nation’s favourite sport. He turned it off: the silence was a relief. He waited for a couple of minutes. Although there was no sound, he felt a presence. He was used to old houses seeming to be alive, letting out creaks and groans for no reason.
Clearing the ground floor first, he peered into the large wood-panelled living room, lit dimly by the last embers of the fire, taking care not to catch his foot on the frayed, unsecured rug. There were two more doors, one of which revealed some stairs down to what would have made a great wine cellar.
The circuit of the ground floor complete, he headed for the first floor, taking his time, eyes and weapon pointing upwards, towards where he was going. The stone staircase was good for moving up noiselessly, unlike wood. But all the same he paused with each step. At the top he halted for longer, and listened. After a minute he became aware of the sound of breathing, short and rapid. To his left was what looked like the door to a fitted cupboard. It had no handle, just a keyhole. Good choice. If it hadn’t been for the breathing he might have missed it.
‘Come out very slowly, hands on the back of your head. Anything different and I will fire. You’ve got five seconds. Five … four … three …’
The door opened. The figure had only one hand behind his head; the other was in a sling. He had on nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of boxers. His feet were bare. But on his face, which was contorted with a mixture of indignation and dismay, a livid bruise surrounded a scabbed-up wound. It had to be the man from the flat Tom had attacked with the umbrella. The man who had killed Jez and his girl.
‘Evans. Good evening.’ Tom kicked him over so he fell face down on the landing, a nice big ‘Aargh’ as he went. Then he leaned over him, his boot pressing down on the back of his head so that Evans’s wound, with its newly formed scab, was pushed hard against the floor.
Evans squirmed and thrashed, like an insect pinned to a cork board by a curious school kid. Tom twisted his boot into the back of the man’s head as if he was trying to screw it into the floor. ‘So, how’s the face?’
‘The fuck? What is this?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Fuck you, Buckingham.’
Tom pressed down a bit harder with his boot.
Evans let out another long furious groan of pain and frustration. ‘Go on – just get on with it, then.’ He spat the words through clenched teeth.
This wasn’t revenge. This was the application of pain so Tom could get what he needed from him. ‘We need to talk, you and me.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘You fucking killed Randall, you cunt …’
Tom leaned harder on the wound, twisting his boot. Evans was in tremendous pain but doing a good job of not giving anything away.
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one tells me what the fuck to do. You fucking killed my best mate.’
He was writhing around on the floor, like a beached marlin. Tom pressed his boot down harder once more, then stepped off him. ‘Hmm, well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a brew. Let’s go down to the kitchen, shall we? It’s nice and quiet there.’
38
Keeping half an eye on Evans, Tom filled the kettle. He found two mugs at the bottom of a cupboard, tipped out the mouse droppings and washed them in some of the boiled water from the kettle. There was just enough milk. Evans sat and watched him petulantly.
‘Too bad about Frankie. Only doing his job. Yours, was he?’
There was no answer from Evans, apart from a curt nod.
Tom eyed the empties as he reached for the teabags. ‘Your mates were having quite a party. This a refuge now for all of you who’ve fallen off the wagon?’
‘Fuck you.’
It could have been the demise of Frankie and his mates, getting caught barely dressed or being mocked for drinking that was pissing Evans off. He looked like a man who had been born angry, his features contorted into a mask of barely contained fury, which had reshaped what had once probably been an acceptable face. Tom had come across others like this in the forces, overstuffed with natural aggression but without the nous to channel it towards anything but their ultimate disadvantage. They attracted trouble like magnets, this sort. Every word that came out of Evans’s mouth was accompanied by a rather limited range of expletives. Even by the repetitive standards of the army, it was tiresome.
‘So what was on Randall’s mind?’ Tom put a mug down in front of him. ‘Come on. We can have a nice civilized chat, or more fun and games where I stand on your shoulder. Your choice.’
There was no reaction.
Tom pushed the mug closer. ‘Look, I get it. You’re pissed off about Randall. But he was about to drop two civilians. What else was I going to do? Rolt wasn’t even in the building. Just like you, Randall fucked up, but he was stopped and you weren’t.’
Tom could see behind the angry face the wheels of Evans’s brain slowly turning, only to be hijacked by another eruption of anger.
‘Rolt fucked us after all we fucking did for him.’
‘Okay, but how?’ Tom had some sympathy for that view but this wasn’t going to be a bonding exercise. It was going to take all his resources to get Evans to stop being aggrieved for two seconds and actually think.
Evans gave him another look of contempt. ‘You cunts got no fucking idea.’
‘You may well be right there. What don’t we know?’ Tom pushed the sugar bag towards him. ‘Two spoons or three?’
Evans tipped a cascade of sugar into his mug and used the end of a dirty fork to stir it, while he delivered a speech Tom could have scripted for him about Westminster selling the country down the river, betraying the troops they’d sent in to fight bloody suicide bombers with one hand tied behind their backs because the politicians wouldn’t provide what they needed to give it good and proper to the Taliban, then brought them home and pissed all over them. And now the country was being fucked over by fucking raghead scum while the government did fuck-all. The whole thing was depressingly predictable.
Then he fell silent, frowning at Tom with a weird gleam in his eye.
‘What don’t I know? Spit it out.’
Evans shook his head. ‘Randall wasn’t like us.’ He gestured at the empties. ‘He stayed on the wagon, wasn’t going back to any of that. He worshipped Rolt. Reckoned he’d saved his life. He was devoted to him, never wavered. Getting the job driving him around in the Bentley, that was the ultimate. He was there for Rolt twenty-four seven.’
‘I heard he was awkward.’
Evans looked at Tom as if he’d gone mad. ‘Whoever said that’s talking fucking bollocks! You couldn’t have asked for a more obliging—’
‘Never mind. Keep talking.’
‘Then came the trip to Geneva. Rolt says to him, round dinnertime, “Get me to Switzerland for breakfast.” No advance warning. Randall says of course. So he takes him through the Tunnel, drives him all the way down to Geneva for a meet.’
‘Who with?’
Evans looked at him, pitying. ‘You’re Rolt’s arse-licker and you don’t know shit.’ He nodded slowly, relishing the fact that he knew something Tom didn’t. ‘He’s kept it from you an’ all, hasn’t he? Randall was the only one who knew.’
‘Knew what?’
; ‘That was when he found out, driving round Geneva while they talked in the back. Rolt closed the partition but Randall kept the intercom on. Heard the whole thing. Rolt begging and pleading …’
‘Come on, then, begging who?’
Whether Evans was about to enlighten him or not, he never got to find out. Tom heard it first, the distant growl of an approaching engine, something making its way towards the house. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t fucking know, all right?’
‘Who else knows you’re here?’
Evans didn’t answer. Despite the snow the vehicle was moving fast. Tom leaned across the table and punched hard into Evans’s shoulder to control him, then killed the lights and dragged him, whimpering, by his other arm towards the stairs.
‘Who the fuck is that?’
‘Fucking told you. I don’t know.’ There was a new note of desperation in Evans’s protest. Maybe he was telling the truth.
Tom twisted both his arms. ‘Who?’
But Evans was starting to panic and they were out of time. Tom bundled him up the stairs and followed, keeping a firm grip on the injured arm. He had just seconds to decide whether to slot him right now so he could concentrate on the new threat coming up the lane, or keep him alive to use as a bargaining chip. He would have been better off staying on the ground floor, but he had the fire escape at the back as an alternative exit. All these thoughts were coursing through his mind as they reached the top of the stairs.
The engine noise was the distinctive grumble of a petrol V8. He glanced over his shoulder as the headlights came through the windows below and turned back to see Evans’s hand held high, smashing something down on his head.
39
Tom came to with a blinding pain across the back of his head and the sensation of something warm trickling over his face. All he could see in front of him were flashes, pulsing from the pain. He had no idea how long he had been out: maybe no more than a minute. He struggled into a sitting position and found an old metal alarm clock that must have been Evans’s weapon.
Evans was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had taken flight, but he was barefoot. Tom didn’t fancy his chances on the hills. But then he heard voices coming from downstairs.
‘What the fuck’s all this, you stupid little cunt?’
With the aftershock of the blow still ringing in his ears, at first Tom couldn’t place the voice: a similar vocabulary to Evans but deeper, muffled and heavily laced with incandescent rage.
There was no reply from Evans. Evidently he wasn’t given a chance to respond because there followed a hard thwack, the sound of someone toppling over, then a scream, followed by retching.
‘Look at this fucking mess. This is so fucked up. What were you fuck-heads thinking? Running around shooting people isn’t how it goes, Evans. It isn’t how we do this shit.’
Then the voice changed tone – and language. Tom strained to hear above the ringing in his ears.
‘Voz’mite organy i sobaku. Nichego za ne ostavit.’ Take the bodies and the dog. Don’t leave anything behind. Russian.
Tom was by the closet where he’d found Evans. He didn’t know who was down there, or how many. He had a strong desire to throw up and an even stronger feeling he was about to pass out again. Escape was out of the question. He felt for where the blood was coming from and found a pulpy area on his left temple. The closet door was open. Without getting up he shuffled backwards into it and closed the door. In the darkness he strained to follow the exchange coming up from below.
Evans had gone into pleading mode. ‘Fucking give me a chance, will you?’
‘No deal.’
Evans wasn’t giving up. ‘For fuck’s sake—’
There was the dull thud of a suppressed shot and no more from Evans.
Tom heard a grunted exchange outside, also in Russian. Two men were evidently loading the dead into the vehicle, the engine still ticking over. Then, in the house, he heard footsteps on the stairs, one pair, which came right past his closet, down the landing, into each bedroom, back onto the landing, to the top of the stairs – and paused.
All Tom could hear now was the sound of his own blood pulsing through his body and his ears still ringing from the blow, distorting all other sound as if it were coming down a long pipe. He had his weapon pointed at where he hoped the guy’s chest would be. Years of training and experience meant that he automatically squeezed the trigger very gently using only the top pad of his finger, until it had taken the first pressure.
The steps moved down the landing pausing at each door then back to the top of the stairs and paused again. Tom could hear the slow breaths of someone calmly taking their time. All his concentration was on the door inches in front of him, waiting.
‘Okay. Davayte ubirat’sya otsyuda.’ Let’s get out of here.
The footsteps went back down the stairs.
Tom couldn’t let them leave without getting a visual. He gave it another minute, opened the door an inch, listened some more, then emerged from the closet and moved into the bedroom that overlooked the yard, the night sight already in his hand. The vehicle was a Mercedes G-Wagen on low-profile rims. One of the Russian speakers standing by an open door lit a cigarette.
The English voice urged them on: ‘Come on, do that later.’
The voice had been familiar – a standard-issue middle-England accent from nowhere in particular, but used to barking orders. Plus the impressive command of Russian … Now there was no doubt. In the blazing lights of the G-Wagen, he caught the profile of the man ordering the Russians back into the vehicle. Someone he knew – and knew well.
His old commanding officer from the Regiment – Ashton.
40
05.30
Bampton Lodge, Charlbury, Oxfordshire
Mandler’s eyelids fluttered open. Something that had always stood him in good stead in this game: he was an excellent sleeper. He didn’t need long either – five hours seemed to do it – and once he was out nothing usually roused him. The music was definitely coming from somewhere other than inside his brain. Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E minor. Had he left the radio on? He squinted at the clock: 05.35. Bugger. His eyes closed again, but the music persisted. He peered at the other side of the bed but, of course, Miranda had gone to Val d’Isère with her old college friends. Of all the weeks for her to be away, just when he needed someone to moan at …
He turned over, plumped the pillow and closed his eyes again but little windows in his brain began to open, like a cerebral advent calendar.
The so-called ‘promotion’ had come completely out of the blue. Of course he should have seen it coming. Clements’s connection with Rolt he was aware of: Buckingham had uncovered it in America on the Fortress operation, though both Clements and Rolt had come out of that mess with their reputations somehow unscathed. After that you’d have thought the wily old cabinet secretary would have realized how toxic Rolt was and given him a wide berth. Not a bit of it. When he’d heard Clements had proposed Rolt to the PM as a way of saving his political arse, he’d thought it was an April Fool.
He could feel his pulse speeding up. He must try to think of something else. The music was not at all unpleasant – but he really had no recollection of turning it on, though he’d had a couple at his club before being driven home. Oh dear, he thought. Is this what old age is going to be like? Unwelcome thoughts about other mishaps began to foment in his weary brain.
In fact it was he, Mandler, who had been made the fool of. He had remonstrated with the PM – what was he thinking of, parachuting in a man with no real experience of public life, let alone government at cabinet level? – only to find he had already made up his mind. But Mandler knew he had a bit of a blind spot where politicians were concerned. Always underestimated how low they might reach to save their arses. Garvey had warned him about the PM’s weakness for compromise. Well, Mandler had known he was a marked man after that. He’d shown his hand, but now he
was just too damn old to play those games any more. What angered him most was that the main casualty had had to be Garvey – the only one of the whole damn bunch with any integrity.
Now his pulse was really going: there would be no easy way of getting back to sleep. Nothing for it but to go down and turn off the music, though it was rather pleasant and soothing, now he had got himself all worked up. He swung his legs out of the bed, felt for his slippers and pulled on his ancient dressing-gown, which Miranda was always threatening to get rid of. He’d had it since Oxford. Some things were sacred, worth hanging on to.
The music was definitely coming from downstairs: the kitchen, in fact. There was a light on as well. Burglars? Should he get his Webley? The revolver had been in the family for generations; his father had used it during the Normandy landings. He opened the bedroom door. Miranda’s Ming vase was still there. It was a shame in a way, since he had always hated it, but had never dared say so. Cautiously, he went down the stairs and pushed open the door, telling himself there was nothing to be afraid of: what kind of burglar chooses Brahms?
The answer was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, with a makeshift bandage wrapped round his arm.
41
‘Sorry to barge in like this, sir.’
‘So you bloody well should be. How did you get in? And what in God’s name happened to your arm?’
‘I was going to ring the bell, but the back door was open. You really ought to be more careful, sir.’ Tom looked at the man who had been Woolf’s boss and had engineered his infiltration of Invicta. Without the three-piece suit and wrapped in a distinctly dog-eared paisley dressing-gown he lacked some of his usual authoritative bearing.
