Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Eight minutes later, Glover pulled up outside the Wainwright.

  Porter was light-blinded as he stepped out of the Rover. He stretched his legs and gave the hotel the once-over. It was a great big red-brick place the size of a medieval castle. It looked like something out of a Harry Potter film. A row of trees screened the entrance from the main road. There was a tower mounted in the middle of the rooftop with a clock face on the front, like a miniature Big Ben. The ageing doorman cast a long look at Porter, as if weighing up whether he should admit the trampish-looking Blade. With a doubtful expression the doorman opened the grand mahogany door and Bald and Porter stepped inside a lobby full of suited-up rich types speaking in busy voices. Porter glanced around. To his right stood a bank of lifts, with the main reception desk in front of them. To the left was the Piano Bar.

  The RV.

  Porter led the way. They strode into the bar and sank into a couple of leather armchairs and casually scanned the joint. It was a dimly-lit room with retro furnishings and a big mirror behind the bar with a rack of luxury Scottish single-malts arranged on a shelf in front of it. Most of the punters were red-faced men in pin-striped suits. Their throated laughs filled the air, drawing out the classical music. There was a young woman sitting on her own in the far corner of the bar, next to a door leading to the toilets. Porter noticed her because she was the only one sitting by herself, and because she looked a little cheap compared to her surroundings. Her hair was dyed peroxide blonde, and she wore tight jeans and high heels. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking through a glossy magazine. In the corner of his eye Porter noticed Bald casting a dirty look at the blonde.

  ‘Any sign of our man?’ Bald asked, looking away.

  Porter checked his watch. It said 1647 hours. He shook his head. ‘We’re early.’

  ‘Best get a round in, then. Don’t want to stand out next to all these sloppy Herberts.’

  A bored-looking waitress with a thick eastern European accent wandered over to the table and took their order. Bald went for a bottle of Yank lager. Porter settled on a double measure of Bushmill. The waitress came back with their drinks, and the bill. Bald made to reach inside his jacket. Then a frown creased his face and he looked to Porter, clicking his tongue.

  ‘Shit. Left my wallet at home, mate. Do us a favour and pick up the tab.’

  Porter grudgingly reached for the bill. He looked down at the total and did a spit-take. Jesus, he thought. Twenty quid. You could buy a crate of Special Brew for less than that. The waitress tapped her foot and waited. Porter dug out his wallet and handed over his last crumpled twenty-pound note. The waitress almost looked sorry for him as she handed back a few coins in change.

  As soon as she had moved away, Bald got up from his seat.

  ‘Need a slash,’ he said. ‘Been busting for a piss ever since we left Hereford.’

  Porter nodded. He watched Bald as the guy threaded his way towards the toilets at the rear of the bar. He took a detour, hooking around the edge of the bar and swinging directly past the blonde. The woman looked up, saw Bald and quickly stubbed out her cigarette. Then she grabbed her leather handbag and moved towards Bald as he approached the toilets. Bald stopped by the entrance and said something to her. The blonde glanced nervously around, then reached into her handbag. Porter’s view was partially blocked by the crowd of Hooray Henrys but for a split second he thought he saw the blonde passing something to Bald. A package of some kind. Before he could get a better look the blonde had turned away and was moving at a brisk pace towards the second exit at the rear. At the same time Bald disappeared inside the toilets. Five minutes later he strolled out, puffed out his cheeks and swaggered back over to the table wearing a big grin.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Porter asked.

  Bald clenched his brow. ‘What do you mean, mate?’

  ‘That blonde bit. The one you were chatting to just now.’

  ‘Her? That’s nothing, that. Just some tight bird trying it on. Happens all the time.’ Bald winked at him. The grin widened. ‘You know what they say. Them posh birds love a bit of rough.’

  Porter smiled and took a sip of his drink. Thought about pressing Bald over the blonde. But he couldn’t be sure what he’d seen. He parked the thought. Necked the rest of his Bushmills in a single gulp.

  ‘Jesus, mate,’ said Bald. ‘And I thought the Scots could fucking drink. The rate you’re going, you could drink half of Glasgow under the table.’

  Porter put down the glass. ‘What’d you mean by that, Jock?’

  ‘Nothing. Just saying.’

  But the look in his eyes gave Bald away. Porter knew what he was thinking. The guy’s a full-blown alcoholic. How the fuck is he supposed to perform? Porter knew, because he was thinking the exact same thing. He was at the fag end of his career in the Regiment, and whatever the Firm had lined up for them he would need to be sharp. If he didn’t stop boozing, he wouldn’t be much use in the field.

  Six minutes later their liaison walked into the bar.

  Porter clocked the guy straightaway. He looked almost as out of place as the blonde. But for different reasons. He had a six-quid haircut and cheap-looking shoes, and his brown suit looked like it came straight off the discount rack at Burtons. He sported the tiniest amount of bumfluff on his chin in some pitiful attempt to make himself look older than he really was. But it was the eyes that gave him away. They swept across the room in that way that only suits working for the Firm did. Scanning, they called it. Taking in everything in sight at a moment’s notice. The liaison’s gaze quickly settled on Bald and Porter. He strode over to their table and greeted them with a slight nod.

  ‘Either of you gentlemen know a chap called Steve Mann?’ he asked. ‘Steve from Doncaster?’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Porter replied, giving the prearranged response. ‘We’re both from Chelmsford. Never been to Doncaster in our lives.’

  The liaison nodded again, their identities established. He lowered his voice. ‘I’m Nealy,’ he said flatly, giving them the usual warm and friendly Firm welcome. ‘Follow me, please. They’re waiting.’

  ‘Who?’ Bald asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Porter sank the dregs of his Bushmills, putting the lid on the hangover drilling between his temples. Then he and Bald followed Nealy out of the bar. They paced across the spit-polished lobby and took the next available Otis lift to the twelfth floor. Thirty seconds later they were following Nealy down a wide, stuffy corridor lined with old paintings. Eventually Nealy stopped outside a room with a discreet brass plaque next to it that read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He took out a keycard from his jacket pocket and swiped it through the reader. The reader clicked and the lock light flashed green. Then Nealy cracked open the door and motioned for Bald and Porter to step inside.

  They entered a hallway that smelled of potpourri and money. There was a private dining room ahead, and a bathroom to the right that seemed to be constructed entirely of white marble and gold. Nealy ushered them into a large room to the left. They swept into a lounge twice the size of Porter’s flat, and maybe a thousand times more expensive. An Egyptian rug covered the polished marble floor. The furnishings were antique and the paintings hanging from the walls looked like they belonged in the Louvre. If Sotheby’s rented a storage unit, Porter figured it would look something like this.

  Three figures were sitting around a coffee table in the middle of the room. Two men and a woman. They stood up to greet the two Blades as they entered. Porter sized up the woman first. She had dark brown shoulder-length hair and wide green eyes. She wore a black skirt suit and low heels and although she appeared to be in her late forties, Porter could tell from her figure that she kept herself in good shape. She greeted Porter with a professional smile. The kind you get when you walk into Coutts to open a bank account, maybe. Her whole demeanour suggested someone who knew exactly where she was going in her life, and what she had to do to get there.

  ‘Thank you, Nealy,’ the woman said.

&
nbsp; Nealy took the hint. He turned on his heels and paced out of the suite, closing the door behind him. Once he was gone the woman turned back to Porter and Bald. She still wore the professional smile, but it was wavering slightly at the edges.

  ‘Thank you for joining us, gentlemen. My name is Cecilia Lakes, Director of Operations at MI6.’ She gestured towards the nearest of the two men. ‘And this is Clarence Hawkridge, MI5.’

  Porter swivelled his gaze towards Hawkridge. The guy frowned at him, as if Porter was something he’d just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Hawkridge had a childlike face and horn-rimmed glasses and thinning hair. His lips curled up at the edges slightly in a sneering expression.

  He said, ‘Thank you for coming, chaps. Hope you had a pleasant journey.’

  Bald grunted and said, ‘It was fucking wild.’

  Hawkridge adjusted his glasses. Smiled uncomfortably. Lakes moved on. Gestured to the third man. ‘This is Marcus Keppel. CEO of Templar International.’

  Porter recognised the name immediately. The ex-CO of 22 SAS. He had a square jaw and bright, piercing blue eyes. He wore a charcoal two-piece with a crisp white shirt and a popped collar button, no tie. His shoes were polished to within an inch of their life. His cufflinks gleamed. The guy was so crisp it was like he’d walked straight out of the fridge. Keppel looked posh as fuck, but hard as nails. One of those Ruperts with an uber-competitive streak, Porter figured. The guy probably climbed mountains and competed in triathlons in his spare time.

  What’s Keppel doing here? Porter wondered. I thought this was an MI6 op, not some private gig.

  ‘Always good to see a couple of Regiment men.’ Keppel talked in a deep and matter-of-fact voice that was rough around the edges. ‘You were in Beirut, if I recall?’

  Porter nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Bloody mess, that. After my time, of course, but I heard about what happened on the grapevine.’

  Porter felt his hand instinctively clench. He glanced around the room, hoping to see a rack of drinks or maybe a mini-bar. There was nothing except the tray of tea and coffee and posh mineral water placed on the coffee table in front of him.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.

  Keppel nodded professionally. His eyes were cold and grey and hard. Like wet stones on a winter beach. ‘Still. These things stay with a man. We’ve all been there, lad. Nothing for it but to stand tall and soldier on through.’

  There was a pause of silence, and then Lakes gestured to the empty sofa next to the coffee table. ‘Please. Sit down. Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?’

  ‘Fine, love,’ said Porter as he parked himself on the sofa. He almost asked for a shot of Bushmills. Almost, but didn’t.

  Lakes reached for a pack of Parliaments from her handbag and sparked up with a silver Zippo lighter. She took a long drag. Exhaled. Porter noticed a thick manila folder lying next to the ashtray on the coffee table. Lakes took another pull on her smoke then reached for the file and flipped it open to the first page.

  ‘John Porter,’ she began, as if doing a book reading. ‘Born in Ealing on 7th May, 1962. Served in the Irish Guards from 1980 to 1988. Transferred to the SAS the same year. Served until ’92, then given a six-month sabbatical before returning to the Regiment in 1993. Lost two fingers during a hostage-rescue operation in Beirut in ’89. Separated from your wife, Diana, and your eight-year-old daughter Sandy.’

  Porter listened impassively as Lakes read out his file. This was a typical Firm play, he knew. The Vauxhall suits get you nice and comfortable. Then they read out your file in front of you, showing you how much they know about you, from your primary school reports right down to what brand of toothpaste you use. Their aim was to intimidate you. It was the Firm’s way of saying, See how easily we can find out about the tiniest details of your life? Don’t try hiding any aces up your sleeve, because it won’t work.

  Lakes flipped the page and turned to Bald. Gave him the same treatment.

  ‘John Fraser Bald. Born 20th June, 1971 at the Maryfield Hospital in Dundee. Attended St John’s Roman Catholic High School. Left at sixteen and joined the Black Watch. Passed Selection to 22 SAS in 1993. The same year, faced charges for almost triggering a diplomatic incident by crossing the border in Northern Ireland and killing several Provisional IRA suspects, as well as an MI5 informant.’

  ‘To be fair,’ Bald said, grinning, ‘those Irish fuckers started it.’

  Porter raised a half smile. Lakes just stared at the Jock. Like she was suffering from a total sense-of-humour failure. She took another drag on her tab and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘Before I continue, I must point out that everything that is said in this room is classified information. Under no circumstances will you mention our conversation to anyone else. Not to your family, not to your friends. Not now, not ten years from now. Am I clear?’ She noticed Bald looking warily around the room and added, ‘The room’s secure. Our guys swept it thoroughly.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Bald, giving a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘What’s the craic, love?’

  Lakes looked at the two men carefully. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘Because someone told us to get in a car.’

  Lakes arched an eyebrow at Porter. ‘Is your friend always this funny?’

  ‘Only when I’m sober,’ Bald deadpanned. ‘You should see me after a dozen Stellas. I’m fucking hilarious then, lass.’

  Hawkridge poured himself a glass of sparkling water and took a long gulp, as if trying to calm his nerves. Keppel just sat there, carefully studying the two men and giving away nothing. His mouth was like the stroke of a knife across a throat.

  Lakes said, ‘You’re here because of Friday’s events. But you probably guessed that already.’ She watched Porter. He nodded. She smoked and continued. ‘The government’s stance on this matter is perfectly clear. An attack of this nature cannot be tolerated, and the people behind it must be made to pay. We’re putting together a team, and we want you both to be part of it.’

  ‘What kind of a team?’ Porter asked. But he already knew the answer to that question.

  Lakes smoked and said, ‘We want you to find the people who did this. And we want you to kill them.’

  There was a pregnant silence in the room. No one said anything for what felt like a very long time, but was probably no more than four or five seconds. Then Lakes continued.

  ‘It’ll be an outside job. You’ll resign from the Regiment with immediate effect, both of you. Officially you’ll be working for Templar as private contractors on the Circuit, with Marcus’s blessing. Unofficially, you’ll report to myself and Clarence.’

  ‘Give up our jobs in the Regiment?’ Porter spluttered. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘We are,’ Hawkridge replied. ‘Deadly, old fruit.’

  Bald said, ‘What about our pay? Our pensions?’

  ‘You’ll be paid by Templar, as if you were contractors on their payroll. The pay will be equal to what you currently receive at Hereford. As for your pensions, they’ll be funnelled into private accounts. No one will have access to them as long as you’re employed by Templar. They’ll gather dust, and interest, until such a point as your contracts are terminated.’

  Lakes saw the sceptical looks in their eyes and said, ‘That’s non-negotiable. This operation has to remain at arm’s length from Whitehall. Orders from the very top. If you want in, that’s how we have to play it.’

  Porter pressed his lips shut. Said nothing. Now he understood why Keppel was there. To keep the Firm out of it. To disguise their involvement. Someone higher up the food chain than Lakes or Hawkridge didn’t want any government fingerprints on the job. The whole thing sat uneasily with Porter. His gut instincts told him to get up and leave. Walk away from the job, John. While you still have the chance. Porter didn’t like the idea of throwing in the towel and giving up the only job he’d ever known.

  But then an image flashed in front of him. Joe Kinsella’s mutilated body slumped in
the road, the air choked with the putrid stench of burning flesh and metal. The garbled screams of his dying muckers carrying through the cold air. He thought of the dead soldiers’ families. He thought of the police investigators collecting up the bits of bodies, and the anger flared up inside him, like someone had thrown a switch in his chest. As much as he distrusted Keppel, he couldn’t leave. He’d pulsed with the desire for revenge. Now Lakes was offering him a chance to slot the guys responsible for the attack. It wasn’t the kind of offer you turned down, no matter what strings were attached.

  Hawkridge and Lakes exchanged a quick look. The MI5 man leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Chaps, I realise this is a big decision. If you need some time to think it through—’

  Porter cut him off with a wave of his palm.

  ‘I’m in,’ he said.

  Hawkridge nodded. He turned to Bald. ‘And you, John?’

  ‘I was never fucking out, mate. Who’s the target?’

  Lake’s lips curled up slightly at the edges. Porter figured that was as close as she ever got to breaking out into a smile. She stubbed out her cigarette and cleared her throat. ‘There will be several.’ But right now we just have the one.’

  She plucked a photograph from the folder and slid it across the table. Porter and Bald both leaned forward to get a closer look at the snap. It was a grainy shot of a heavyset guy dressed in army combats, posing in front of the camera with his shirt off. He had a tattoo of the St George’s flag inked across his chest, and a distinctive red cross on the side of his neck. The cross was narrow at the centre and curved at the edges. It looked like the kind of thing knights wore over their chainmail armour in the Crusades. The guy’s face was round and hard and smooth, like a bowling ball. His small eyes peered out from their deep sockets like a couple of coins glinting at the bottom of a deep well.