by Chris Ryan
And no doubt Keppel will pocket a small fortune and a knighthood in exchange for doing Whitehall a favour, thought Porter. No wonder the guy wore such a big smile. He was going to be fucking minted, even more so than he was now, probably.
Hawkridge leaned forward and dropped his voice so low it could’ve fallen off a cliff.
‘Of course, if either of you gets caught, then you’re on your own.’
Porter smiled faintly. It was the same old Vauxhall deal, then. The contract might be in a different font but the small print was still the fucking same. He didn’t like the idea of working for Keppel. But he didn’t have much of a choice. Either they shook hands with the devil, or they passed up the opportunity to take down the guys who’d slotted their mates. When you framed it like that, it wasn’t any kind of a choice at all.
‘Well?’ Lakes asked. ‘Are you going to sign?’
Porter didn’t hesitate. He took the pen. Scribbled his signature at the bottom of the resignation and then flipped to the highlighted page at the back of the Templar contract. Signed on the dotted line, then set the pen down. Bald did the same. Once they were done, Lakes took the contracts and handed them back to Keppel. She passed the resignation letters to Hawkridge. Then she straightened her back.
‘Nealy will take you to a safe house across town. You’ll spend three days there until your new documents have been processed. In the meantime, I suggest you tie up your affairs and work on memorising your new identities.’
‘What about the other lads on the team?’ Bald asked.
‘Patience, old chap,’ said Keppel. The guy had an annoying habit of always sounding pleased with himself. ‘They’ll RV with you at the safe house. They’re two of my best men.’
‘Regiment?’ Porter said.
Keppel shook his head. ‘But they’re both former SF. They’ve been vetted by our friends over at Thames House. I can vouch for them personally.’ He glanced quickly at Lakes as he spoke.
Bald frowned. ‘Why the outsiders? Why not just get two other fellas from Hereford?’
Porter already knew the answer to that question. ‘Deniability,’ he said, looking at Lakes. ‘The less of a connection us lot have to Hereford, the easier it is for you lot to claim you don’t have anything to do with us.’
Lakes almost smiled. ‘Exactly.’
At that moment the main door clicked and Nealy entered. Lakes stubbed out her cigarette in her empty coffee mug and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘I’ll be along in a couple of days to present your papers and brief you further. Unless you have any questions?’
‘Just the one,’ Porter said. ‘Why us?’
Lakes considered for a beat. ‘We needed someone who fitted our profile and was close to retirement. Someone who could disappear from the grid without attracting much attention.’
Porter smiled wryly. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, love. There are plenty of other Blades in the same position as me. Lots of ex-Regiment men kicking their heels on Civvy Street too.’
Lakes hesitated. Hawkridge shifted awkwardly. ‘We wanted someone obstinate. Someone who doesn’t quit. I’ve seen your file, John. You could have walked away after Beirut. But you didn’t. You decided to stick it out. And you took down two gunmen at the Brecons and very nearly stopped Deeds. That tells me you’ve got guts.’
Porter shook his head. ‘I’m no hero.’
‘We’re not looking for heroes,’ said Lakes. ‘Heroes are no good when you’re trying to keep a low profile. We’re interested in the men who never give up, even when the odds are stacked against them. Men like you.’
‘What about me?’ Bald put in.
‘Your CO recommended you, John,’ Lakes replied. ‘In fact, he couldn’t wait to get rid of you. I understand that incident over at the Killing House was the final straw in your rather chequered Regiment career. If you’d turned down our offer, they would’ve booted you out of Hereford for good.’
Bald stood there, stewing. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.
The meeting was over. Nealy ushered Bald and Porter out of the suite. They rode the Otis back down to the hotel lobby in cold silence. For the first time in a long time, Porter felt alive. He could feel his muscles beginning to pump with adrenaline. Against all the odds, someone had tossed him a second chance. It was a chance to avenge his dead muckers, and a chance to make up for that day in Beirut ten years ago when he’d failed Keith, Mike and Steve.
He wouldn’t fail. Not this time. He would find Bill Deeds and the others. And he would settle the score.
Permanently.
TWENTY-TWO
1827 hours.
The safe house was a fifteen-minute ride east of the Wainwright. Nealy drove them in a slick black BMW 3 Series that still had that new-car smell. Porter eased back in the leather seats as they trundled east on Euston Road, past Madame Tussauds and Regent’s Park and tree-lined streets overflowing with gawping tourists. Everywhere Porter looked there was a lot of rebuilding work going on. Urban regeneration. Cranes towered in the distance. Roads had been sealed off for construction. Old London giving way to the new. They swept past King’s Cross and its cramped rows of shabby pubs and decrepit betting shops and prowling hookers. After another twenty minutes in traffic they hit the City Road, a chaotic spiral of sixties buildings and artists’ warehouses rubbing shoulders with big new glass office blocks.
‘You’re very lucky to be working for Miss Lakes, you know,’ Nealy said.
‘Yeah?’ Bald arched an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s on the up. Lakes is really going places. There are rumours that she’s being lined up to be the next chief of MI6.’
‘Good for her.’
‘Par for the course for her family, I suppose.’ Nealy was making small talk now, filling the silence in the Beemer. ‘They’ve done well for themselves down the years. Highly connected, if you know what I mean.’
‘How so?’ said Porter.
‘Her grandfather was a political commentator in his day. Very influential. Lots of friends in Westminster. Good friend of Oswald Mosley, apparently.’
‘Mosley? The guy who led the British Fascists?’
Nealy nodded awkwardly. ‘I think there’s a bit of mystery there. How much did he really believe all that stuff, you know? Anyway, her father didn’t seem to have any trouble getting a job because of it. Sir Terence. He worked his way up the civil service ladder and ended up being Cabinet Secretary under Ted Heath. Like I said, lot of connections in that family.’
‘Fascinating,’ Bald said drily.
Nealy slowed down past the roundabout at Old Street and made a couple of quick turns down a one-way system. Heading west in the direction of Farringdon and Barbican and Chancery Lane. Halfway down the street he pulled up outside a modern apartment block wedged between a pair of crumbling Georgian townhouses. He steered into a parking space and climbed out of the Beemer. Porter and Bald unfolded themselves and followed Nealy as he beat a path towards the entrance to the apartment block. A sign above the frosted glass doors said, ‘TWENTY-TWO FEATHERSTONE STREET’.
‘Templar own a number of properties in and around town,’ Nealy said cheerily as he fished out the key from his pocket and fiddled with the lock. ‘Serviced apartments for their clients, secure locations for meetings and so on.’
‘Must cost a packet,’ Bald said as he took in the shiny exterior.
‘Oh, Templar aren’t your usual one-man-band security company. Far from it. They have offices all around the world. New York, Boston, Mexico City, Delhi, Tokyo. They’re big business, you know. Very lucrative. Keppel’s an extraordinary man.’
Nealy sounded in awe of Templar, thought Porter. Next he’ll be trying to sell me shares in the bloody company.
They stepped into the foyer. The on-duty doorman greeted Nealy with a polite smile then went back to his paperback Grisham. The three men made for the lift and took the first available one to the third floor.
‘The clientele here is travelling bu
sinessmen,’ Nealy explained as he led them towards the apartment at the end of the corridor. ‘No one stays here for more than a few days, and most of them visit three or four times a year. That means you’re not going to raise any questions. No one’s going to pay any attention to four guys coming and going.’
They arrived at the door to number 9. While Nealy twisted the key in the lock, Porter found himself wondering if there was any booze stashed away inside. With a bit of luck Keppel kept the place stocked up with expensive whiskys for his clients.
They stepped into an apartment that looked almost as new as the Beemer, and had the same kind of smell. Nealy gave them the grand tour. There was a huge living room with a twenty-eight-inch Sony TV in one corner and a pair of matching white leather sofas. The kitchen had a Nespresso machine and a black retro Smeg fridge. The laminate wooden flooring was so polished Porter could see his own face in it. The apartment looked more like a showroom than a place where people actually lived. Probably cost north of two million, he figured. And Templar owned dozens of apartments like this, according to Nealy.
‘We’re in the wrong bloody business,’ Bald said, reading his mucker’s mind.
‘There’s a gym in the basement,’ Nealy said as he handed the two Blades a set of keys each. ‘Pool, weights area, treadmills. The fridge is stocked up with food and there’s coffee and tea if you need it.’
‘What are we supposed to do in the meantime?’
Nealy shrugged. Like he pretended to care. Bald said nothing. He was used to sitting around doing nothing. There were long stretches in the Regiment when you were just hurrying up and waiting.
‘What about a drink?’ Porter asked hopefully.
‘Afraid not,’ Nealy said. ‘Company policy. You’re on Templar’s clock now. Keppel runs a tight ship and doesn’t like his men drinking on the job unless it’s to blend in with their environment. For now there’s water, iced tea or coffee.’
Porter gritted his teeth. Maybe signing his life over to Templar hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Nealy pointed to a set of A4 folders lying on the kitchen table. He handed one to Porter, gave the other one to Bald. ‘Backgrounds for your new identities. Names, dates, where you were born. What school you went to, what beer you drink. The works. The backgrounds of the other guys on the team are there as well. Memorise your identities. Every detail. The slightest inconsistency could make somebody suspicious.’
Porter browsed through the folder. His assumed name was David Mulryne. Someone had gone to great effort to flesh out a full background for his character. Which told him one thing. The Firm planned on using theses identities for a while. This wasn’t going to be an in-and-out job. They were in it for the long haul.
Porter looked around. ‘Where are the other guys?’
‘They’ll be here shortly,’ said Nealy. ‘They’ve been briefed separately by Keppel so they know what they’re walking into. Oh, before I forget.’
Nealy took out a pair of crumpled white envelopes from his jacket pocket. Handed them over to Porter and Bald.
‘There’s two hundred quid in there. That should cover any essentials. Clothes, food. That kind of stuff. Any belongings you need from your homes, let us know and we’ll have a driver go pick them up.’
Porter took a peek inside the envelope, then pocketed it. Two hundred quid. Now that’s more bloody like it. I could buy half a dozen bottles of Bushmills with that. Or a crate of White Lightning.
‘Right,’ Nealy added. ‘That covers everything. I’ll be off. Lakes will brief you again once your documents are ready. In the meantime, sit tight.’
Then he gave his back to them and left. As soon as the door had shut behind him Porter rummaged through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, hoping that someone had left a bottle of booze somewhere. But Nealy was right. The place was drier than a camel’s armpit. After a while Porter admitted defeat and fixed himself a double shot of espresso from the coffee machine. Then he sat down at the table overlooking the balcony and lit up a Bensons. The smoke flowed through his veins. It wasn’t as good as a slug of Jameson’s, but it was the next best thing. Porter smoked and drank his coffee and flicked through the folder Nealy had given him while Bald sat on the sofa, hopping channels. He eventually settled for Sky News.
The main item on the news was still Friday’s bombing. The reporter managed to spin out a six-minute piece on what they already knew. Which amounted to very little. They regurgitated the same old shots of smoke pouring into the sky above the Brecons, helicopters circling the cordoned-off area around the Storey Arms. With no new angle to cover, the news turned to events in Kosovo. Serbian police had rounded up a bunch of local farmers, taken them to a hill and given them the double-tap. There was a shot of a pile of corpses slumped in a mass grave. Most of them were naked. Their flesh had putrified and their faces were caked in mud. Then the screen cut to a NATO conference with various foreign ministers standing before the cameras. According to the reporter’s voiceover there was talk of Milosevic being indicted on charges of war crimes. There were shots of US fighter planes being scrambled off aircraft carriers, and protests on the streets of Belgrade. Everyone seemed to be gearing up for another round of war.
It never ends, thought Porter. First the Bosnian war a couple of years ago. Now this. It’s like they can’t bloody help themselves.
Roughly an hour later a car pulled up outside. Porter spotted it through the balcony window as he smoked another cigarette. A white Mercedes-Benz E-class sedan, rolling into the parking space directly in front of the block. Two figures clambered out of the back of the Merc and made for the entrance. Less than a minute later Porter heard the click on the front door. He drained the rest of his espresso and stood up to greet the two guys as they strode into the hallway. They dumped their gym bags on the floor and glanced around, giving the place the once-over. Stood together, the two figures looked like opposite ends of a matryoshka doll set. The bigger one finally rested his eyes on Porter and frowned at the sight of his missing fingers.
‘You must be Porter,’ the guy said.
He had a throated, rusty voice that sounded like a car that wouldn’t start. His face was leathery, with prominent crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Like someone had carved his face out of a block of petrified wood. With his lantern jaw and huge physique, he gave the impression of guy who could drink a dozen cans of Fosters and still drop a couple of heavies.
Porter waved a hand at the folder on the table. ‘We were told not to use those names.’
The bigger guy adjusted his crotch and snorted. ‘Ah, sod it, mate. We’re not on the mission. Not yet.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘Mick Devereaux.’
Porter shook it. The guy had a firm grip. Like a boa constrictor tightening around its prey. ‘You’re from Oz?’
‘Darwin born and bred, mate,’ Devereaux replied. ‘Did eight years in the SASR down at Swanbourne.’
Porter nodded. The SASR was the Australian equivalent of the Regiment. Their lads shared the same training principles and even the same motto. Porter had taken part in a few joint training ops with the SASR guys and they’d proved themselves a bunch of tough hard-drinking bastards. Also more than capable of handling themselves in a fight.
‘How long have you been with Templar?’
‘Couple of years now. Best decision I ever made, handing in my notice. If I hadn’t joined Templar I’d be back in Darwin right now, fixing up old Fords for cents.’
‘Cars?’ Porter asked. ‘That’s your thing?’
‘Anything on four wheels, mate. Or two. If it has an engine, I’m your man. I can fix up any motor there is. When I’m not racing the heck out of ’em, that is. Guess that makes me your transporter.’
Bald cocked his head at the shorter guy standing next to Devereaux. The smaller half of the doll set. ‘What’s your story?’
‘Name’s Davey Coles,’ the guy responded in a distinctive South African accent. ‘You’re Bald, right? They warned us about you, chief.’ He
winked at Devereaux. ‘Said you were a bit of a cunt.’
Bald frowned at Coles. ‘Who the fuck said that?’
‘Does it matter, chief? We’re all here now.’
Porter sized Coles up. He was a scruffy bastard. He had tanned skin the colour of mahogany and the lean, angular physique of someone who exercised outdoors rather than in the comfort of an air-conditioned gym. He gave away six inches in height to Devereaux and maybe fifty pounds in muscle. He had a wild look in his eyes, as if he was constantly gunning for a fight. He was the walking definition of small man syndrome.
‘You’re ex-SF too?’ Porter asked.
‘Among other things,’ Coles replied evasively. ‘I started out in the Recces. Back in the days when the darkies knew their place.’
Porter looked at Bald but said nothing. The Recces were South Africa’s Special Forces outfit. Porter had never worked with their guys, but in the SF world the Recces carried a reputation as some of the toughest warriors in the business. They’d fought in nasty local conflicts in Angola and Namibia, operating in some of the most hostile places on the planet.
‘What brought you over here?’
Coles scratched his balls. ‘Not much work for an old Recce in South Africa these days. Not when you’ve got the darkies running the fucking shop. I came over here, spent six months pulling pints in a boozer over in Fulham. Then one day I get a call from a guy at Templar. Saying he wants to make me an offer I can’t refuse. Turns out he was right.’
Bald made a face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The money we’re getting for this job, chief. Half a million large each.’ Coles grinned, revealing a set of small, stained teeth. ‘Can’t argue with that. It’s a hell of a lot better than pulling pints for six quid an hour.’
Porter swapped a look with Bald. Thinking, the mission’s not even started and the Firm is already shafting us. We’re doing the job for peanuts while these two guys and Coles are raking in the big bucks.
‘Once this is over, I’m going to get myself a beach pad in California,’ said Coles. ‘Somewhere in LA. Away from all the darkies, like. Santa Monica, maybe.’ He nodded at Bald. Grinned. ‘Ever been to California, chief?’
