The door opened. Two police officers entered and cuffed his hands behind his back. Sam didn’t bother to struggle. He could sense their hatred – the hatred of a policeman for a murderer – but he could also tell they had been instructed not to talk to him about the events of the past few hours. ‘What time is it?’ he demanded.
‘Time for you to fuck off out of it,’ one of the officers replied.
He was roughly led out of the cell, along an institutional corridor and up some steps. At the main entrance to the police station he drew stares from members of the public: whether that was to do with the cuts on his face, the handcuffs or the armoured police van with flashing siren that was parked just outside, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. On the wall there was a clock that told the time and date: 18.38, May 25. Sam was wordlessly escorted into the back of the van, then left alone as the doors were shut. He was encased in steel and there was no way to get out, even if he wanted to.
The journey was long and uncomfortable. Sam endured it sitting in the corner of the van, ignoring the bruising jolts that bumped through his body, and brooding on everything that had happened. An idle corner of his mind wondered where he was being taken, but he didn’t really care much about that either. He’d find out soon enough.
Having driven at speed for a couple of hours, the van began to stop and start. City driving. He felt it going down a long ramp, then coming to a halt. The doors opened and an armed escort of four men awaited him.
‘Where am I?’ he demanded, but he received no reply. Just a flick of an MP5 telling him to get out. He was in some sort of subterranean car park, the kind that echoed when you walked. He was taken through a guarded door, along a network of corridors and finally into a room. It was sparse: a table, chairs bolted to the floor, strip lighting and a black window – one-way glass, he presumed. The door was locked and once more he was left alone.
This time, however, he didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and two men marched in. One of them was Gabriel Bland. He looked tired. Much more tired than he had been earlier that day. Haggard, almost. With him was a small man. Thick glasses. Dumpy. He was short of breath, had sweat on his wide forehead and carried a thick file. The door was locked behind them and the two men sat down opposite Sam.
‘Thank you for joining us, Sam,’ Bland said without a hint of irony. He closed his eyes and smoothed his eyebrows with one hand. As he did so, he continued to speak. ‘This is Julien Batten. One of our analysts.’
‘Where am I?’ Sam asked.
Bland’s eyes popped open. ‘Didn’t they tell you? MI6 headquarters. You didn’t think we were going to leave you in a Hereford police station, did you?’
Sam shrugged.
‘Julien’s been processing the, ah . . . the information you gave us. I wanted you to hear his conclusions directly from him.’
Sam couldn’t understand what was going on. Bland sounded worried, but he was talking to him like an old and trusted friend. He kept quiet.
‘Carry on, Julien,’ Bland instructed.
The bespectacled man cleared his throat. ‘I hardly need say this falls under the auspices of the Official Secrets . . .’
‘Just get on with it,’ snapped Bland.
The analyst readjusted his glasses before carrying on. ‘Kakha Beridze,’ he said, pulling a photograph from his file. ‘Georgian ambassador to London. His personal assistant, Gigo Tsiklauri. Beridze’s been two years in the job. Hardline anti-Russian, but a good relationship with Number 10.’
‘I’m very happy for him,’ Sam retorted, before turning to Bland. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Just listen,’ Bland told him.
‘Ordinarily, we would have put Beridze low on anyone’s list of assassination targets,’ Batten continued. ‘But the information we have about the FSB’s activities in Kazakhstan puts a rather different light on things.’
The memory of Kazakhstan forced Sam’s stomach into a knot. He kept listening.
‘We’ve constructed a scenario,’ the analyst continued. He waved one hand in the air. ‘Just a theory, you understand. Beridze is assassinated by a young man who believes he is working for MI5. The Russians feed this information to the Georgians. Maybe they even deliver the assassin. Clearly it will create a major diplomatic incident between the UK and Georgia.’
Sam scowled. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘Nothing the men in suits can’t sort out.’
Bland interrupted. ‘I’m, ah . . . I’m afraid it’s a little bit more complicated than that, Sam.’ He stood up and, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had asked the sweating analyst to explain what was going on, continued talking. ‘For the past nine months,’ he said, ‘the British military has been constructing a missile launch facility on Georgian territory. The materials are covertly flown in under the guise of humanitarian aid for those Georgian nationals displaced by Russia’s military intervention in their country. The Georgian government is happy to help us. With the Russians on their doorstep, they, ah . . . they need all the friends they can get. As for us . . .’ He looked sharply at Sam. ‘As for us, we really need that missile base.’
Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. You’re never going to launch a missile strike on Russia.’ He ignored the analyst, who was frowning impatiently.
‘No, Sam. Not the Russians. Our conflict with them remains strictly, ah . . . cold.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Iran.’
Sam blinked. He didn’t understand.
‘We’ve known for some time that their nuclear enrichment programme has been ongoing, despite their occasional claims to have halted it. They’re a long way down the line to becoming a nuclear power.’
‘Weeks away,’ the analyst butted in, and this time he received no reprimand from Bland.
‘The Americans know this, of course,’ Bland continued. ‘They talk a good line about peaceful diplomatic relations with Iran, but believe me, the moment the Iranians become a threat, we’ll see a US military surge in that part of the world.’ He paused. ‘Where the Americans go, the British follow. But we can’t afford another war in the Middle East. Georgia is the closest, safest friendly territory we have to Iranian soil. It’s only the threat of our missile launch capabilities in that area that’s keeping the Iranians at bay. If the Georgians think that MI5 have assassinated their top man in the UK, we can kiss goodbye to the facility.’
Bland paused, then sat down again. ‘If that happens, Sam, the Iranians will complete their nuclear programme. The Americans will invade and we will be dragged into it.’ Beside him, the analyst was nodding in agreement, his skin even sweatier now than when he had entered. ‘We don’t need another war in the Middle East, Sam. But if your brother’s little plan comes to fruition, that’s what we’re going to end up with.’
At the mention of Jacob, the familiar conflict of emotions burned through Sam’s blood. ‘Jacob wouldn’t . . .’
Bland interrupted. ‘I, ah . . . I rather doubt Jacob Redman was even aware of the wider implications of his actions, Sam. The FSB have put a lot of time and effort into this. I think it unlikely that they would have entrusted him with any more information than he needed.’
A silence fell over the room. It was Sam that broke it. ‘I still don’t understand why the Russians would want another war in the Middle East.’
The analyst replied. ‘The Russians want to avoid a British military facility on their doorstep. War in the Middle East is a happy sideline for them. It keeps the West’s hands full, while they pursue aggressive military policies on their own doorstep.’
‘In short,’ Bland concluded with stinging understatement, ‘the assassination of the Georgian ambassador would be a disaster.’ He fixed Sam with a meaningful stare. ‘It’s a shame,’ he said, ‘that we are unable to speak to your brother about this.’
Sam felt like he had been stung. ‘What’s the problem?’ He knew he was being obtuse, but he couldn’t help it. ‘You know who, you know when. You can stop it happening. And even if the red-light runn
er gets lucky, you just tell the Georgians the truth.’
‘And if you were the Georgians, Sam, would you believe the truth?’
Sam looked away. ‘I’ve done what I can,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I’ve told you everything Jacob gave me. It’s up to you now.’
Bland surveyed him calmly. Then, without any warning, he stood up and left the room. The sweaty analyst avoided Sam’s eye, choosing instead to burrow himself in his file. When Bland returned he had another man with him. The newcomer silently walked up to Sam, undid his handcuffs, then respectfully left the room.
Sam rubbed his wrists. It felt good to be free.
‘I’m going to put my cards on the table, Sam,’ the older man said. ‘I hope you’re listening carefully.’
Sam gave him no indication that he was.
‘The FSB has run rings around this service. I, ah . . . I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that’s largely due to your brother. And what’s more, I’ve underestimated you. You’ve been one step ahead of us all the way. It would be foolish of me not to acknowledge that.’
Bland let that sink in before he continued. ‘Kakha Beridze is due at a function tomorrow evening. A dinner. May 26. Georgian Independence Day, to add insult to injury. Two hundred guests. It’s been planned for months. I think we might safely say that this is where the assassination attempt is to take place, don’t you?’
Sam nodded, despite himself.
Bland didn’t take his eyes off him. ‘You know how your brother thinks, Sam. You were on ops with him in the Regiment for years. How would he pull it off ?’
‘I don’t know. With two hundred people there, any number of ways. The guy’s a sitting duck.’
‘Think, Sam. I don’t need to impress upon you how important it is.’
‘I don’t know, all right?’
Bland nodded thoughtfully, then stood up. He paced a little, before stopping by the one-way window, his back to Sam. ‘Just at the moment,’ he said, ‘as we speak, Clare Corbett is being taken into custody. We have all sorts of powers to detain her under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, but ah . . . frankly we don’t really need them. Mark Porteus, of course, is at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, and it really won’t take long for our friends in blue to construct a murder charge for you that will earn you a life sentence. Just think of the effect that will have on your father.’
He turned round and smiled thinly at Sam. ‘Oh,’ he added, ‘and I, ah . . . I suppose it barely needs to be said that we have DNA evidence that puts you at the scene of Mac Howden’s death. I wonder what his family will think when they learn about that . . . ?’
It was as if something had snapped inside Sam. He jumped to his feet and, in two big strides, he approached Bland, grabbing the older man by the scruff of his neck and thrusting him up against the glass. ‘You fucking dare . . .’ he hissed, ignoring the shouts of help he heard from the frightened analyst behind him. ‘You fucking dare and I swear I’ll kill you!’
Bland looked down on him. His thin body was light and he was clearly alarmed, but he said nothing. He just stared. And then the sound of the door opening. Men with guns. ‘Put him down!’
Sam hurled Bland to one side. The old man stumbled, but did not fall. He turned to the guards. ‘Get out,’ he ordered. Then, seeing that he needed to repeat himself, he shouted: ‘GET OUT!’ He looked at the analyst. ‘You too.’ The little man didn’t need telling twice.
Only when they were alone did Bland speak again, his eyes tough and determined as the two of them stood barely metres apart, warriors in some kind of duel. ‘If you think for one minute, Redman, that I won’t do whatever it takes to stop our national security from being compromised, think again.’
Sam stared him down, his breath short and angry.
‘I need to get inside the head of this assassin,’ the older man continued. ‘You’re the only person I know who can do it. Work with me and I’ll put you in charge of the operation. But I’m telling you, Sam – if Beridze gets killed tomorrow night, I’ll do all those things and more.’
Silence. Sam felt nothing but hatred and frustration. Yet he knew when he was in a corner. He closed his eyes and did his best to calm down. Only then did he speak.
‘Cancel the event,’ he said. ‘You could put an entire fucking squadron in there – Jacob would know how to get past them.’
Bland nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Put him in a safe house. Regiment guard. His assistant too.’ He looked over at the glass. ‘Nobody in the Firm’s to know where it is.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Bland demanded.
‘I told you,’ Sam said. ‘When we hit the training camp, we were expected. Spetsnaz. Where else would the information have come from other than inside the Firm? For all I know, the mole could be you.’
Bland’s lips thinned. ‘There’s no mole, Sam. You’re seeing shadows. Spetsnaz were there as a precautionary measure, not because they’d been tipped off.’
But Sam didn’t want to hear it. ‘You want to do this my way, then we’ll do it my way. If not, you might as well put me back in that police van. I’ve lost a brother, a friend and a colleague in the last few days and I’m not going to lose any more. Truth is I don’t even know if I can trust you, but I don’t really have much choice.’ He jutted out his chin. ‘I want the same team that hit the training camp. What’s left of them, at least.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Tyler, Cullen, Andrews, Davenport and Webb. They were there when Craven died.’
‘I didn’t have you down as the sentimental type, Sam.’
‘I’m not. If this hit is connected to Craven’s death, they’ll want to make sure it doesn’t happen. That makes them the best men for the job. That’s my bottom line, Bland. Take it or leave it.’
Bland fell silent. He looked at Sam for what felt like an age, his head nodding gently and his body swaying slightly like a snake.
‘All right, Sam,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal. But please don’t think I’m bluffing. If Kakha Beridze dies, you’re going down. And I promise you – you’ll take the people you care about down with you.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Georgian Embassy, London. May 26.
Kakha Beridze stared across the desk. He was plump and heavy set, with thick, badger-like hair. He had a thick, dense moustache, the kind that always seems so popular amongst dodgy Eastern European men, and his fat fingers were adorned with gold rings. If he truly had any diplomatic skills, they had deserted him: the Georgian ambassador to London was clearly furious to have been woken up at 3 a.m. by two insistent MI6 spooks. He was furious at having been dragged into the distinctly shabby embassy, and furious at the implacable way in which he was being spoken to by Gabriel Bland.
‘Impossible,’ he said in his almost impenetrable accent. ‘The event has been organised for many months now. I am entertaining Georgian nationals from all over this country. I will not cancel it.’
Bland sat at the opposite side of Beridze’s desk. Sam stood behind him, grim and silent. Occasionally, Beridze would glance up at him. His presence clearly made the Georgian nervous. To Beridze’s side stood another man, also plump, but younger. He bent down and whispered something into Beridze’s ear. The ambassador brushed him off and turned his attention back to Bland. ‘Impossible,’ he repeated.
Even though he couldn’t see Bland’s face, Sam could imagine the thin smile on his lips as he spoke. ‘It would be perfectly possible,’ the older man said, ‘for us to be, ah . . . heavy-handed in order to stop the event from taking place, Mr Beridze. But I thought it would be more politic for us to give you the opportunity to make your excuses.’
Beridze blinked.
‘A security threat, you say? What manner of security threat? I demand not to be kept in the dark about this . . .’
‘I have no intention of keeping you in the dark, Mr Beridze.’ He paused. ‘We have very good intelligence that an attempt will be made on your life tonight. Not only on your life, but on th
at of your, ah . . . assistant.’ He held a hand up to the man standing by the ambassador who gave no reaction – he clearly didn’t understand what was going on.
‘Intelligence?’ the ambassador scoffed. ‘What sort of intelligence?’
‘Good intelligence. From a reliable source.’
Beridze licked his lips. ‘Then we will employ security,’ he announced. ‘Everyone to be searched before they enter. Bags, clothes . . .’
A silence. ‘Sam?’ Bland addressed him without turning round. ‘Off the top of your head, perhaps you could suggest one way of infiltrating Mr Beridze’s event, despite such, ah . . . extensive precautions.’
Sam sniffed. ‘Pen gun,’ he said. ‘.22 calibre. Looks like a biro. Realistic. No one would know what it really was until the target was down.’
Beridze shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably.
‘You see, Mr Beridze, Sam is a professional. He has an imaginative way of looking at these things and I’m sure he could come up with any number of, ah . . . variations on the theme. Of course, the person sent to assassinate you will also be a professional. Have I made my point?’
Beridze scowled. ‘I will not be bullied.’
‘Sam.’ Bland continued almost as if the ambassador had said nothing. ‘Perhaps you could escort Mr Beridze and his assistant off the premises.’
Beridze stood up, his eyes full of fury. ‘I hope I do not need to remind you, Mr Bland, that you are technically on Georgian territory. I will not be spoken to like that in my own embassy.’
Bland stood too. ‘Mr Beridze, if you refuse to listen to what I have to say, then there will be a new ambassador in this embassy very soon. To be quite frank with you, that would be a matter of supreme indifference to me. But if you are the subject of an assassination attempt, the implications would be wider than you could possibly know. Your refusal to do as I ask puts the security of this country at risk. I have a number of legal means at my disposal to force you to do what I’m suggesting, which will be embarrassing for you and awkward for our two countries. I would rather not resort to these, but one way or another you will be going with this man to a place of my choosing. The manner of your departure is up to you.’
Who Dares Wins Page 34
