by Zoe Sharp
“Blakemore. He’s the unarmed combat man, isn’t he?” she said. I should have known she’d be fully up to speed on all the major players in this drama. “McKenna’s a brave boy. He must have been pretty drunk.”
“That’s just the thing,” I said. “He was making out that he was completely sloshed, but when I caught up with him outside, he was sober as a judge.”
“Hmm, you wouldn’t say that if you knew many judges,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
Dammit, take this seriously. Out loud I said, “I need to know if the kid’s got any connection with Kirk. He accused Blakemore of getting careless and then people dying. Something about it not being the first time. He can’t have pretended to be drunk in order to take Blakemore on, because they never actually got to blows, so it must have been to deliver that little speech without repercussions. Can you check out his background for me? He’s not exactly the chatty type.”
“Of course,” she said, all trace of amusement gone. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That black Peugeot I told Sean about is back. They were hanging around outside the bar last night. Took off when they knew they’d been spotted. Any clues as to who they might be?”
“Mm, I’ve already been looking into that one,” Madeleine said, and I heard her rustling papers in the background. “Ah, here we are. The car is registered to a German security company who, in turn, have their roots in Russia. I get the impression the German company’s a front, but I’m still trying to get past the layers.”
“Russia?” I echoed, almost to myself. “Why would the Russians be interested in Gilby?” Something stirred in my mind, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I shook it off.
“That’s a good one. We’re working on it.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve found out any more about the identity of this German security agent have you?” I asked. “I’m getting a bit fed up of looking over my shoulder all the time.”
Madeleine sighed. “No, we’re still working on that, too. They’re not exactly the easiest people to get information out of.”
“Well, speaking of getting information out of people, I’ve had O’Neill hanging round me today, making noises about how he knows me from somewhere.”
“Hmm, not the most original line in the world,” she said.
I almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. “I thought that, but are you sure there’s no way he can access any information about me other than what you’ve planted?”
“We-ell,” she said slowly, “reasonably sure.”
“What do you mean, ‘reasonably’?” I snapped. “I thought you were supposed to be providing me with cover.”
“We are,” she said, not sounding offended. Not sounding that concerned though, either. “Trouble is, Charlie, you’re ex-army, and you’re surrounded by other people who are ex-army, too,” she went on, her voice patient, as though she was explaining the patently obvious. “I can plant all the info you like, but if someone actually remembers you from that time, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”
After I’d ended the call I sat for a time, remembering back to my army days. It seemed so long ago it might as well have been another life. Despite my words to Gilby in his study after the first-aid sim, the army had suited me. Up until my attack, it had suited me very well.
For possibly the first time in my life I’d found somewhere I fitted, where clearly I had talent. I’d gone looking for a long-term career, and I’d never intended to jeopardise that by having a spur-of-the-moment fling with Sean Meyer.
Things don’t always work out quite the way you plan them.
Sean and I had only met when I volunteered for the Special Forces course. I’d been encouraged to apply for it by the commanding officer of my own unit. He’d recognised my skills and had seen a channel for them.
Sean had been one of my new instructors, a sergeant then. He had a tough reputation and eyes that seemed to be able to penetrate your soul. Of all of them, he was the one who scared me the most. He was the one who could see when I was weakening, could sense when I was closest to giving up, giving in.
And he’d exploited that ability to its fullest extent. He was never vicious, never sneering. He was the reasonable one who stood there at the end of an all-night orienteering exercise and asked who would like a hot meal and a shower, and who would like to go the whole route again. Some of them fell for it, opting for the truck back to camp. By the time the rest of us got back, they’d already packed their kit and been Returned To Unit.
So, when Sean started paying particular attention to my every failing move, I thought I was finished. It had hardened my resolve not to let him beat me. I’d trained hard, pushed myself up onto a level of fitness I’d never managed to attain since. Because of Sean, or maybe for him, I’d begun to shine.
Perhaps that was what had marked me out as a worthy adversary, a suitable victim, and had ultimately sealed my fate.
***
In unarmed combat that afternoon we went through the drills of dealing with crowds. Two of us walked Blakemore down a line-up of the others. He played the visiting dignitary, smiling and shaking hands. Every now and again someone would try and grab him. When they did we had to deal with the problem, quickly and quietly, and keep him moving along to the next.
I was partnered up with Hofmann and together we slowly paraded Blakemore along the line. I was watching eyes and hands, waiting for the first sign of intent. Then a movement to one side caught my attention and I glanced towards the open doorway.
Gilby was standing there, leaning against the frame observing the class, with O’Neill beside him. As I looked, the Irishman seemed to nod in my direction, and Gilby fixed me with his battlefield stare.
It so unnerved me that I missed Romundstad make a lunge for Blakemore’s arm. With a small snort of irritation, Hofmann had to lean across and yank him away. Annoyed with myself, I concentrated on the job in hand. By the time we reached the end of the line and I looked back at the doorway, it was empty.
When we finished up there and headed for the outdoor range, the afternoon was already starting its toboggan run into evening. The rain had died, but the cold was thin and biting. My bones ached with the memories of old breaks.
As well as the SIGs, this time out O’Neill and Rebanks had also issued us with belted speed-draw holsters. We spent the first hour practising disengaging one from the other without making fools of ourselves. We were dry-firing to lessen the chances of shooting ourselves in the process. Probably a good job, too.
Rebanks then set up targets at only around six metres on the five-lane range. When we were given the command we had to draw and fire three shots. The first from the hip, and the second and third with the arm extended as we backed away from the source of danger.
Everyone was becoming a lot more relaxed around firearms now. As soon as they strapped on a holster, they suddenly became cowboys. There was plenty of swaggering and references to John Wayne. Even the encroaching darkness didn’t diminish the general air of confidence. It was enough to make me nervous.
As if to play on that, the rest of the instructors turned up in time for us to start live firing, so each of the open lanes was supervised. As though they were expecting something to go wrong.
The floodlights were on by this time, creating a pool of light around the firing positions. Our collective breath rose and mingled like smoke into the beams of the lights. Beyond them the trees suddenly seemed very still and very black.
“Keep your wits about you, people,” Rebanks shouted as we prepared for the first shoot. “Mr Lloyd, get your thumb out of your gun belt. You are not Wyatt fucking Earp.”
Declan dropped his hands to his sides, looking shamefaced.
“OK, when I give the signal you will draw and fire one group of three shots only, as you’ve been practising, then you will return your weapon to the holster.” Rebanks favoured us with a hard stare. “Is that clear to everyone? Good, so there’ll be no fuck-ups, the
n.”
He waved us into position and pulled his ear defenders into place. I checked the SIG was loose and easy in its holster, and waited for the signal to fire, my mouth suddenly dry. Rebanks was taking his time. Why are you dragging this out, man?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him start to raise his arm, but his eyes weren’t on the targets, or on us. He was looking past me, over towards the small wooden shed that formed the range control centre. I started to turn my head, to see what he was looking it. I never got that far.
The floodlights clicked off, and the whole area was plunged into total darkness.
For a moment I was dumb with the shock of it. I kept my feet still, tried to get my bearings, but after the brightness of the lights, I could see nothing. My eyes had completely shut down in the blackout that followed.
I ripped my ear defenders off. Robbed of sight, I needed my hearing as sharp as I could make it.
“All right, all right,” Rebanks yelled, “don’t anybody panic, let’s just—”
The sound of the gunshots was terrifyingly loud. There were two of them, over to my right. I spun my head away, but the muzzle flash lasered across my retinas, burning in and destroying what little night vision I’d just managed to accrue.
“Who the fuck was that?” Rebanks shouted. “Nobody fires! Cease firing, cease firing!”
Then, as my ears began to put away the assault of the shots, other, quieter sounds came into focus. I heard moaning. My heartrate leapt.
Rebanks produced a torch and came rushing past me. “Who’s hit?” he demanded. “Who’s down?”
Other small lights sprang up across the range as the other instructors clicked on their torches. Next to me, Romundstad had got out his cigarette lighter. The flint sparked twice before it caught, and then I saw his anxious face behind the flickering flame.
The torches converged jerkily on a figure writhing on the ground a few metres away. It was the big Welshman, Craddock, his face contorted. Rebanks was on his knees alongside him. So was O’Neill, burrowing under Craddock’s jacket, yanking his shirt open. In the unsteady shafts of light that jumped onto him there seemed to be blood everywhere.
Rebanks was cursing steadily under his breath. “Somebody get me a first-aid kit here.”
Figgis arrived at a dead run with a canvas pack. He dived into it and ripped open a sterile field dressing.
It was at that point that Rebanks sat back on his heels and looked up at the shocked faces surrounding him.
“OK, Major,” he called, his voice calm, “that’ll do.”
The floodlights snapped back on with a suddenness that made us all blink. For a moment nobody moved, then the realisation slowly began to seep through the layers. We’d been had.
Craddock sat up and grinned at us, mopping the fake blood away from his stomach. “Hellfire, a little of that stuff goes a long way,” he remarked cheerfully as he examined his gore-stained clothing. “I hope it washes out. I was fond of this shirt.”
Figgis clapped him on the shoulder. “Oscar-winning stuff, lad,” he said, “although if you’d really been shot you’d have been screaming like a baby.”
Not necessarily, I thought. The last person I’d had to deal with who’d taken a bullet hadn’t made a sound, even though he’d had to run with it.
Rebanks climbed to his feet. His hands were streaked with what had looked for all the world like real blood. He glanced down at them and grinned too, more a baring of his teeth. “Let that be a lesson to all of you,” he said. “Don’t get cocky around weapons. They don’t suffer fools gladly, and they always have the last word. Just be thankful this was a simulation, not the real thing. OK, back to your positions and let’s go from the top.”
Just as I was about to shift back to my firing lane, Blakemore brushed past me and moved in close on Rebanks, Figgis and O’Neill. He looked the three of them up and down with an expression of distaste on his heavy set face.
When he spoke it was quietly, so that only the few people closest overheard, but I got the impression Blakemore didn’t care who was listening.
“So,” he said softly. “That’s how you did it.”
Twelve
We spent the morning of Day Seven back in the classroom, brushing up on our table manners. I don’t know if Major Gilby had been paying particular attention to the way most of this batch of students handled a knife and fork, but they made Napoleonic naval surgeons look refined. It must have made him cringe enough to do something about it.
Gilby had laid out a white cloth onto the desktop in front of him. He identified and demonstrated the correct use of the selection of cutlery he’d placed on top of it with a delicacy that was almost effeminate.
As I watched Hofmann’s face crease into a frown of concentration, I silently thanked my mother’s insistence on nice table manners. He was wrestling with the novelty of having different spoons for soup, dessert, and to stir his coffee.
“So,” the Major said now, pointing to the array of wineglasses, “which of these would you use for red, and which for white?”
A few people obligingly indicated different glasses, eager to display their genteel upbringing.
Gilby waited a moment before giving us a chilly smile. “Wrong,” he said. “You don’t, because the last thing you people should do when you’re on the job is drink. You don’t drink when you’re in a restaurant with the client. You don’t drink in a hotel bar even after he’s turned in for the night, and you certainly don’t ever charge alcohol to the client’s tab. Is that clear?”
Chastened, we murmured our understanding and he moved on to restaurant behaviour. It was lightweight, skimming the surface kind of stuff, but there were a few nuggets, even so. How you should always order the fastest thing on the menu so you were always finished before the client. How you should tip well so the staff were especially helpful.
“You’d be amazed how fast a waiter will get a meal on your plate,” Gilby said dryly, “if you tell him up front that he can add a thirty percent gratuity onto the bill. You’re going to need to eat quickly because when the client stands up to leave, you’re finished, whether there’s food still on your plate or not.”
As a closer, Gilby briefly went over dressing the part. It was at this point that he went completely blind to the three remaining women in the group. “A double-breasted suit is cut best to conceal a weapon,” he said, “and make sure the trousers are loose enough to move in if things get nasty.”
It was Jan who waved her hand at him. “What about us?” she asked. She managed, for once, to keep the belligerent tone out of her voice.
Gilby had the grace to look uncomfortable, at least. “Just something smart casual,” he muttered, which wasn’t exactly a great deal of help. “No high heels.”
A few of the group were starting to look bored by this time. Clearly this wasn’t quite what they’d signed up for. The Major noticed the restless edge and wound it up.
“Right now you probably don’t realise the importance of what I’m telling you, but you will,” he said meaningfully. “Looking presentable, and not eating your peas off your knife won’t, by itself, get you any work in this business, but try behaving like a slob in front of the client and see how fast they dump you.”
He allowed his eyes to travel slowly over his students, most of whom suddenly found their interest renewed. “Don’t worry,” he said, cracking another of those icy smiles, “this afternoon Mr Figgis is going to take you out for some ambush drills in the forest. That should wake you all up a bit.”
***
We went out in a fast convoy made up of all five of the school Audis. Figgis was driving the lead car, which was where I would have preferred to be, given a choice. I wasn’t, and ended up in the third, with Todd behind the wheel.
Hofmann had claimed the passenger seat alongside him, with McKenna, Elsa and me squashed into the back. It was so tight a fit I could barely fasten my seatbelt, despite the comparative skinniness of the three of us. McKenna and I were at t
he sides, so our forward vision was limited to the small gap between two pairs of beefy shoulders.
Figgis led us at breakneck speed along the rutted driveway and out in the direction of Einsbaden. The weather was dry, but with a hint of a foggy mist hanging in wisps around the dips in the road. Before we reached the village itself the lead car slowed suddenly, turning off the road and onto a side road that was little more than a wide forestry track.
I held onto my door pull and tried not to let my head bounce against the roof of the car as Todd aimed for every pothole. It was like being back in that damned taxi.
Just when I thought I was going to need all my fillings replaced, Figgis brought the convoy to a halt and we all de-bussed.
“OK everyone, as you probably know we’re going to practise ambush drills this afternoon,” Figgis said. “For this we wanted a space that was a bit more enclosed than the driving arena back at the Manor, to simulate a built up area.”
