The Kill Zone

by Chris Ryan

  Jack Harker was staring at the radio. Then he bent down again. Quickly. Aamir jumped, his nerves shredded. To his surprise, however – and, he supposed, his relief – Harker pulled him out of the bath.

  ‘Untie me,’ Aamir begged. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Not as much as it will if you don’t shut the fuck up.’ Harker picked up a mobile phone from the top of the toilet cistern. ‘Yours?’ he demanded.

  Aamir nodded. Harker had obviously removed it while he was unconscious. Now he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out of the bathroom, into the hallway and out the front door.

  There were children playing on the pavement, kicking a ball around. As soon as they saw the two men erupt from the flat, they ran off. Harker didn’t appear remotely concerned that they’d seen him dragging a soaked, bound man out of his flat. He just bundled Aamir, face downwards, into the back seat of his car, then took his place behind the wheel and flicked on the central locking.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Aamir demanded. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  Harker didn’t answer him. He just started the engine and drove.

  26

  13.42 hrs.

  Jack burned through the streets of Hereford. He knew the route he was taking – he could have driven it blindfolded. He kept one eye on the rear-view mirror just in case the fucker in the back tried anything on.

  SAS HQ never changed. The vast former RAF training centre was as drab and utilitarian as ever. If you didn’t know what it was, you’d walk right on past, in the hope of finding somewhere more interesting. Jack sped round the perimeter road; when he reached the main entrance, he came to a sudden halt and waved his military ID at the MoD policeman at the gate. The guy recognised him: he opened the barrier and let him through.

  There were designated parking places at the base. Jack didn’t bother with them. He just stopped his car in the middle of the tarmac courtyard in front of the main building, then loosened the knots around his hostage’s ankles before dragging him out of the back. The little shit could try to run, he figured, but one shout from Jack and he wouldn’t get very far. Not here.

  ‘That way,’ Jack said, pointing up at the main building, and he pushed the hit man towards it.

  Inside the building, a group of lads Jack knew saw him and gave a low ironic cheer – news of his little disagreement with the goon back in the Stan had obviously travelled. Jack ignored them. He dragged his man through a network of corridors until he came to a door. He didn’t knock. He just burst straight in.

  There were three men in the little office. Jack recognised only one of them: Elliott Carver, CO of 22 SAS. He was a big man, with steely-grey hair and a square jaw. Carver had seen it all in his time with the Regiment, and Jack liked him. When the CO glanced up and saw him, however, he didn’t exactly look full of the joys.

  ‘Jack, what the hell . . .’ He looked from the soldier to the hostage, then back again.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Jack said. He looked at the two men who were sitting on the other side of Carver’s desk. They wore suits and didn’t have the bearing of military men. Spooks, Jack assumed, but he wasn’t going to spill his load in front of them. ‘Alone, boss. It’s important.’

  Carver’s face was a thunderstorm. ‘I’m busy, Jack.’

  Jack turned his back on him, walked up to one of the suits, hauled him to his feet and then threw him out of the door. He looked at the second man. ‘You,’ he growled. ‘Out.’

  The guy scurried away. Jack shut the door after him then pushed his hostage down on to one of the newly vacated seats.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Jack. You’re ten feet deep in the shit and a cunt hair away from being fired. What the hell are you playing at?’

  Jack ignored the CO and turned his attention to the hostage. ‘Tell him what your orders were,’ he said.

  The hostage looked fearfully at Jack. ‘To kill you,’ he replied. His voice cracked.

  ‘Jack, what’s going on?’

  ‘Get a couple of the guys to watch him. Then I’ll tell you.’

  The CO stared at him, like he was staring at a madman.

  ‘Elliott,’ Jack snapped. ‘How long have I been with the Regiment?’

  ‘Twenty years . . . more . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Then give me ten minutes of your time. If you still think I’m a lunatic, you can have me in the fucking nick. I won’t put up a fight.’

  The CO narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. ‘All right,’ he said, the reluctance clear in his voice. He picked up a phone on his desk and dialled a single number. ‘I just hope you don’t make me fucking regret this.’

  Jack hoped that, too.

  Carver gave a short instruction into the phone. Moments later there was a knock on the door and two Regiment guys appeared. Jack didn’t recognise one of them, but the other was Fly Forsyth, one of Jack’s unit from the Stan who, along with his cousin Dunc, had chaperoned him back to the UK. He gave Jack a mystified look.

  ‘Look after our friend,’ the CO instructed. They led the hit man out of the room without any kind of ceremony, then closed the door behind them.

  ‘Ten minutes, Jack. Make it good.’

  Jack took a deep breath. And then he started to speak. He took it slowly. Carefully. From the beginning. He told Carver about Siobhan, her lead on O’Callaghan and the girl that had ended up in hospital. He explained about Khan, how Siobhan had followed him to Mogadishu, and why; that he’d followed her and what they’d discovered about their daughter, and about the dirty bomb. He forced himself to keep his voice steady as he explained to his boss about the call he’d received from Siobhan, what he’d heard and what he’d found in that barn outside Belfast. And while he didn’t go into detail about the manner of O’Callaghan’s death, he didn’t shy away from explaining that the piece of shit had gone the way of the dodo.

  Carver listened intently, his face expressionless. He didn’t say a word as Jack was speaking, and even when Jack had finished he remained silent for a good minute or two, though now there was a frown of concentration on his forehead.

  ‘You should have come to me with this earlier,’ he said finally.

  ‘I couldn’t, boss. Think about it. Until Mogadishu, I didn’t know anything. And after Mogadishu, my leads kept disappearing.’

  ‘You could have brought in O’Callaghan.’

  Jack glanced at the floor. ‘I fucked up,’ he admitted. Then he jutted his chin out at the CO. He knew Carver wouldn’t hold it against him. It was a Blade rule: admit to your cock-ups and there was no comeback. Total indemnity. When the shit hit the fan, there wasn’t time for the blame game. ‘You should have seen what he did to her,’ he added in a quiet voice. ‘You’d have done the same, boss. Any of us would.’

  ‘I remember her,’ Carver said. ‘She was a good lass.’ And as far as commiserations went, that was it. There was no time for them.

  Jack said, ‘You know about the President.’

  Carver gave a curt nod. ‘Fucking dickhead politicians. Today of all days . . .’

  ‘Get our man to make the call to his employer,’ Jack urged. ‘To tell them I’m dead. GCHQ can listen in. If it’s Khan who answers, Five should be able to match his voice with our records. Even if it’s not, GCHQ can try to use the number to triangulate the position of the phone. You can send in a unit to go after them.’

  Carver stood up. Say what you like about the guy, he knew how to make a decision. ‘I’ll get it in motion,’ he said in a curt voice.

  ‘Boss, Khan knows where my daughter is. When you find him, you’ve got to get a location out of him, let me go in to find her.’

  A brief, tense silence. Jack knew he was asking a lot; but even though the CO was a boss, underneath it all he was still a Blade. He had to let him do this.

  But Carver shook his head. ‘No can do, Jack . . .’

  ‘Boss—’

  Carver held up one hand. ‘You saw Khan two days ago. You can ID him. I’m attaching you to the Special Projects tea
m. You want to know where your daughter is? When you find Khan you can ask him yourself. I’ll make sure there’s a team on standby to retrieve her the moment you get an address.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘All right,’ Jack said quietly.

  Carver nodded. ‘One more thing, Jack,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a free pass for you. I’m under pressure to deliver your head on a plate. So no fuck-ups. You’ve run out of credit.’

  14.45 hrs.

  David Colley, the MI5 representative who had been the main point of contact with Brad Joseph and the Secret Service, cut through the busy corridors of Thames House like the bow of a fast ship cutting through the waves. His mouth was dry and he could feel sweat running down the back of his neck. It was like one of those dreams when you have to be somewhere, but can’t move fast enough.

  The Director General’s secretary looked up in surprise as he burst into her room.

  ‘I need to see him,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Colley, he’s—’

  ‘NOW!’ Colley roared.

  The secretary gulped, then disappeared into the DG’s room; seconds later she was ushering him in.

  Jonathan Daniels looked tired. He was reading reports over the top of a pair of half-moon glasses; when he saw Colley, however, he dropped the papers on to his desk. ‘What is it, David?’

  ‘Ops room at Hereford, sir.’ Brisk and to the point, Colley relayed everything he knew.

  Daniels got to his feet. ‘Habib Khan?’ He was incredulous. ‘They’ve got to be out of their fucking minds. Have we got anything on him?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Squeaky clean.’

  ‘And this Harker fellow. I know the name – isn’t he the one that laid in to our man Willoughby?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But just because he rubbed Willoughby up the wrong way, it doesn’t mean we should discount everything the man’s telling us.’

  ‘Have they made the call yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. The GCHQ boys are setting it up now. The Special Projects team at Hereford are on standby and we’ve given CO19 the nod. And sir, I need to inform the Americans. Do I have your permission?’

  Daniels didn’t answer immediately. He turned back to his desk and pressed a button on his handset. The secretary’s voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘I need the Prime Minister,’ he instructed. ‘Now.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside, sir,’ Colley offered.

  ‘No.’ The DG shook his head. ‘Stay here.’

  An awkward silence while they waited for the call to go through.

  ‘Prime Minister’s office. Please hold, Mr Daniels.’

  And then, a moment later, a familiar voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘Jonathan, I’m rather busy. What can I do for—’

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Prime Minister,’ Daniels interrupted, and he proceeded to tell the top man the bare bones of what Colley had just relayed to him. When he had finished, he didn’t wait for the PM’s reaction. ‘I need your permission to inform the Americans, sir. The President hasn’t landed yet—’

  ‘No!’ the PM said.

  ‘Prime Minister, I hardly need remind you that this is a credible threat.’

  ‘Of course, of course, of course.’ The PM’s voice came over the loudspeaker unnaturally loudly. ‘But I’m right in saying, am I not, Jonathan, that there’s no intelligence to suggest that this is an attack specifically aimed at the President?’

  ‘Not specifically . . .’

  ‘And is it not policy to ensure that all threats are confirmed by at least two sources?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister, but—’

  ‘No buts, Jonathan. Inform the Americans that we have low-level intelligence about a possible threat and that we’re doing everything necessary to counter it. Nothing more. The politics are very delicate at the moment, Jonathan. Don’t let me down. We are doing everything necessary to counter it, aren’t we?’

  Daniels and Colley exchanged a long look. ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Daniels said. ‘Everything we can.’

  15.20 hrs.

  ‘Brad, it’s Dave Colley, Thames House.’

  ‘I’m hearing you, Dave. What’s happening?’

  ‘Something’s come up on the radar. I wanted to keep you in the loop.’

  ‘Serious, Dave?’

  A pause.

  ‘Low-level intelligence. Unreliable source. We’re following it up but our analysts don’t expect it to lead anywhere. Our people are talking, but I thought I’d let you know personally.’

  Another pause.

  ‘I need details, Dave.’

  ‘I don’t even have them. I’ve delegated this down. Like I say, it’s low-level. Your guys will fill you in if you need chapter and verse.’

  ‘Dave, you sound tense.’

  ‘Not tense, Brad. Just busy.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Just one thing, Dave.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘We go back a whiles, huh? If there was anything I needed to know, you’d tell me, right?’

  A final pause.

  ‘Right, Brad. Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Me too, Dave. Me too.’

  15.23 hrs

  Brad Joseph pressed a button on his cellphone, then stared at it for a while. He was standing in a wood-panelled room in the Houses of Parliament that the British had given over to the Secret Service and at that very moment there were at least another eight men in there, all of them wearing black suits and each with a coiled earpiece attached to one side of his head. None of them appeared to be at all impressed by the magnificent stained-glass windows looking out on to the river beyond. They were all too preoccupied for that.

  Brad remained perfectly still. Colley’s call made him uneasy. Hell, everything made him uneasy these days, but this especially. His British colleague had sounded concerned. And if he was concerned, Brad should be too.

  He dialled another number. ‘Get me Air Force One,’ he instructed. ‘I need to speak to the Chief of Staff.’

  A thirty-second pause, and then a familiar voice came on the line. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Sir, this is Brad Joseph.’

  ‘What is it, Brad?’

  ‘I just took a call, sir, from a contact at MI5. They’re getting a bit antsy about something.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Brad?’

  Brad thought for a moment. What was he trying to tell the President’s Chief of Staff – and by extension, the President himself.

  ‘I think we should abort, sir. Cancel the event. Something doesn’t feel right.’

  A brief silence. Brad could almost see the Chief of Staff’s faintly patronising politician’s smile. ‘Relax, Brad,’ he said. ‘The British have already made our people aware of their concerns. They’re not taking it seriously. Believe me, they’re puppies. They wouldn’t dare let this go ahead if there was a real problem. The President has instructed that we proceed.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘I gotta go, Brad. See you on the ground.’

  The Chief of Staff hung up, leaving Brad to stare at his cell once more.

  16.00 hrs.

  In the operations room in the basement of Thames House, electronic maps glowed on the walls, and banks of technicians sat at computer terminals. Ordinarily, there was a low blur of steady conversation in this room twenty-four hours a day. But not now. Everybody was silent, their attention clearly focused on what they were doing.

  A woman in her mid-forties approached Colley. ‘GCHQ have put the mobile-phone company that issued the number on alert. As long as the phone’s switched on, they should be able to start locating it any minute now. They’ll be piping the information directly through to us.’

  ‘How accurate can you be?’ Colley demanded.

  ‘Hard to say, sir. If the phone is switched on and in a service area, it’ll be wirelessly communicating with at least one mobile mast. But that will only give us a very rough area.’
>
  ‘Enough to send a team in?’

  ‘No, sir. You’re talking two to three square miles. But depending on the phone’s location, it could be communicating with more than one mast. We get three masts, we can triangulate. As soon as we do that, we can pinpoint the location to a fifty-metre radius.’

  ‘OK. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jackie, sir.’

  ‘Let me know the minute you’ve got anything, Jackie.’

  The woman nodded and went back to work. Two minutes later, Colley heard her voice from the other side of the room. ‘We’ve got a fix. Coming up on screen now.’

  Colley looked up at the main wall in front of him. An enlarged map of London appeared, several metres square. And superimposed on to it, a big red circle centred on an area of south-east London. ‘Single mast,’ the woman announced. ‘Bermondsey area.’

  Colley found himself involuntarily shaking his head. The circle reached as far north as the river, as far south as New Cross. To locate one mobile phone in that area in the time they had was impossible. He cursed.

  The woman’s voice again. ‘Sir, we have an estimate of the kill zone based on what we know about the device from Hereford.’

  Colley blinked. ‘Go ahead.’

  The screen changed. The red circle was still there, but this time it was superimposed with a larger circle, shaded in blue. This blue area covered most of the eastern half of London.

  Ten per cent fatalities in a month; half within a year.

  With a sickening twist in his stomach, it came home to Colley what they were talking about. Thousands of deaths.

  A thick silence penetrated the room.

  ‘It’s an estimate,’ Jackie stated, as if that made things better. ‘Based on what we know about the device—’