by Andy McNab
The muzzle of the Glock hadn’t moved an inch, and neither had he.
Something was coming in through his earpiece.
He dropped his left hand to the pressel of the radio on his belt. ‘Roger that.’
He motioned me to join him in the corridor. Neither of us gave Foxtrot a second glance as we left the room.
12
Lights blazed from the boathouse windows and spilled out across the water. Echo followed me along the path beside it, round the corner and shoved me inside.
The other call signs stood back, doing their best to disappear into the wallpaper. There wasn’t a Glock in sight. It wasn’t that kind of party.
Guy’s VC and citation lay among the wreckage of the frame at the centre of the room. Chastain was kneeling, oblivious, on the shards of glass that were scattered across the polished floorboards around it, rocking back and forth like Harry had done, back in our Baghdad cell.
He clutched Marcia in his arms.
Two pill bottles and an empty blister pack lay on the low table by the armchair she must have retreated to. Ella stood to one side of them. She’d clearly been in paramedic mode. I glanced down at the dog-eared photo of a small boy in a rowing boat propped against the remains of a half-bottle of Scotch, then up at her.
She shook her head. ‘Clomipramine, moclobemide and paracetamol. Maybe St John’s wort too. Not a cry for help, I’m afraid.’
Marcia didn’t deserve this. She’d been knocked sideways by the death of her son. Watching her husband go insane must have tipped her over the edge.
For a good five minutes, nobody moved.
Ella put her hands on Chastain’s shoulders and murmured in his ear. He had finally joined Marcia’s world of pain, but he tuned into whatever message the doc had given him, and allowed her to help him carry his wife’s body back to her chair.
He covered Marcia with a blanket. Maybe he couldn’t deal with the fact that she looked like she had finally found the peace he couldn’t give her.
Then he dusted the fragments of glass off his trousers, apparently puzzled by the flecks of blood that had gathered where they’d pierced the material and his skin, and straightened.
He was back on the parade ground.
I watched his hand dip into his Barbour pocket and reappear with Sam’s Browning. He didn’t check chamber and flip off the safety catch until he reached the door. Then he turned and looked at Ella.
‘Thank you … for your grace.’
He paused.
‘And though I know this will do little to console you both … I’m truly sorry …’
He switched his attention to me.
‘One request?’
I nodded.
‘The Koshtay incident dies with me?’
I gestured towards Ella. ‘As long as you tell your foot soldiers to keep away from her. For ever.’
The instruction was given.
Echo stepped aside to let Chastain pass.
We watched him walk to the end of the jetty.
He stood for a moment beneath the cover of the mandarin temple, placed the barrel of Sam Callard’s pistol very precisely against the roof of his mouth and squeezed the trigger.
EPILOGUE
The King’s House, Glencoe
Friday, 6 April
12.30 hrs
Mist clung to one or two of the hilltops that flanked the valley. The bright sunlight made the greens of the grasses and the reds and browns of the heather on the lower slopes come alive, but it was still a lonely place.
I pulled off the main where a three-sided wooden pyramid marked the turning, and cruised towards a herd of Highland deer. One or two of the boys with the big fuck-off antlers looked up as I passed, but soon went back to munching the spring foliage.
I parked the 911 beside the trees and walked into the hotel. I’d picked it up from Father Gerard after the Cheltenham Gold Cup, but said he could have it back for the National next weekend. I’d run the Skoda through a nearby carwash. Amazingly, it didn’t have a scratch on it. Maybe his rosary beads worked after all.
A serious selection of single malts was lined up in front of the mirrors behind the King’s House bar. I knew I should be toasting Catriona’s remission, but I wasn’t in the mood. And not just because it was Good Friday. I settled for a bottle of Diet Coke, took it to a table in the corner and pulled out the bench.
I’d slowed my life right down over the last few weeks, partly because I didn’t have a clear idea what I was going to do next. I’d driven Ella back to her scented candles and her shepherd’s hut, but hadn’t seen her since. Neither of us went to the Chastain funeral.
The media reported that the colonel had remained a hero to the last. In the face of his son’s selfless sacrifice and his wife’s tragic overdose, he had chosen a soldier’s death. The congregation sang ‘Jerusalem’ as their coffins were carried from the local church.
I’d had tea and biscuits with DSF, and let him know that no one would hear the truth about Koshtay and the CQB Rooms from me.
He said that our Serbian friends had been sent back, under escort, to their homeland. The local law-enforcement people had slapped a Red Notice on them: they’d been charged with the murder of a Muslim by a church in the Belgrade Fortress.
I’d found a flat near St Saviour’s Dock, but hadn’t yet made an offer. If I did, I thought I might drop by and see how life was treating Dave. But right now I had one last piece of unfinished business.
Al threw open the door before I’d had my second swig of Coke. He came straight over and clapped me on the back. ‘Great news about Harry’s boy!’
His eyes were back on full beam and his beard was totally out of control, but his grin sat very uncomfortably between them.
I gave him a brisk nod. ‘No case to answer.’
Jack Grant had left a suicide note. It was one of the things he’d had to sort before I could come back to continue our chat at Bob’s apartment.
‘DSF has asked him to stay on. I don’t know if he will. He might just settle down with his girlfriend and be happy.’
Al frowned at my glass and told me this called for a celebration. I said he should go for it, but that I wouldn’t join him. I had a big drive ahead of me.
When he came back from the bar with a man-size Lagavulin, I handed him a piece of paper.
Al gave it no more than a brief glance, then folded it in two and put it in his pocket. It wasn’t news to him. He didn’t need to read a print-out from the Companies House website, recording the successful acquisition of AGS by a major PMC on Monday, 6 February. A PMC called Astra.
His grin had disappeared. He opened and closed his mouth like a big furry goldfish. No words came out.
‘So you’re going to be Monarch of the Glen, after all. Hope it’s worth it.’
His pain leaked out of every pore. ‘It’s all about Catriona, Nick. You must believe that …’
I did believe it, actually. I was also doing my best to believe Al had had no idea that he and his new best mate at Barford were part of a plan to deliver me and Sam to Chastain’s ink-stained reception committee.
I didn’t ask. There were still some things I never wanted to know.
‘I’m pleased she’s on the mend, Al. I really am. Maybe we’ll all be able to raise a glass together another time.’
I pushed back the bench, got up, and headed outside.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From the day he was found in a carrier-bag on the steps of Guy’s Hospital, Andy McNab has led an extraordinary life.
As a teenage delinquent, Andy McNab kicked against society. As a young soldier he waged war against the IRA in the streets and fields of South Armagh. As a member of 22 SAS he was at the centre of covert operations for nine years – on five continents. During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, ‘will remain in regimental history for ever’. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military ca
reer, McNab was the British Army’s most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS.
Since then Andy McNab has become one of the world’s bestselling writers, drawing on his insider knowledge and experience. As well as three nonfiction bestsellers, he is the author of the bestselling Nick Stone thrillers. Besides his writing work, he lectures to security and intelligence agencies in both the USA and UK, works in the film industry advising Hollywood on everything from covert procedure to training civilian actors to act like soldiers, and he continues to be a spokesperson and fundraiser for both military and literacy charities.
Also by Andy McNab
Novels featuring Nick Stone
REMOTE CONTROL
CRISIS FOUR
FIREWALL
LAST LIGHT
LIBERATION DAY
DARK WINTER
DEEP BLACK
AGGRESSOR
RECOIL
CROSSFIRE
BRUTE FORCE
EXIT WOUND
ZERO HOUR
DEAD CENTRE
SILENCER
Featuring Tom Buckingham
RED NOTICE
FORTRESS
Andy McNab with Kym Jordan
WAR TORN
BATTLE LINES
Quick Reads
THE GREY MAN
LAST NIGHT ANOTHER SOLDIER
TODAY EVERYTHING CHANGES
Non-fiction
BRAVO TWO ZERO
IMMEDIATE ACTION
SEVEN TROOP
SPOKEN FROM THE FRONT
For more information on Andy McNab and his books, see his website at www.andymcnab.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Andy McNab 2014
Andy McNab has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508538
ISBNs 9780593073711 (cased)
9780593073704 (tpb)
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