by Chris Ryan
Bald clenched his jaws so hard Porter could hear the enamel grate. ‘No.’
‘You should, chief. You fucking should. It’s wild out there. And the women.’ Coles whistled. ‘They’re unreal. I’m talking tits out to here.’
Coles cupped his hands and held them about twelve inches in front of his chest to demonstrate. He kept on grinning at Bald. But if the guy was looking for a reaction, he didn’t get one. Bald just pressed his lips shut and said nothing. Neither did Porter. They didn’t want to let on to the other lads that they were being taken for a ride by their Vauxhall paymasters. Besides, Porter told himself, it was too late. Lakes had given them the hard sell. They’d already signed on the dotted line, signed their lives away to Templar. There was nothing they could do about it now.
They were locked in.
TWENTY-THREE
Two days later.
0911 hours.
‘Deeds is still in Puerto Banus,’ Lakes said.
They were sitting around the living room. Bald, Porter, Devereaux and Coles. Lakes was sitting opposite them. Nealy guarded the door. This was it. The final briefing before the team began their mission.
For the past two days Porter had settled into a decent routine. In the mornings he worked on his phys down at the gym, pounding the treadmill and hitting the weight machines, doing all the compound exercises. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses. In the afternoons Porter and the other guys on the strike team committed their identities to memory and studied maps of Puerto Banus and the surrounding terrain. In the evenings, Porter drank.
There was no booze in the flat but on the first evening he’d found a corner shop two minutes away from the block where you could get a bottle of cheap vodka for under a tenner. The bloke behind the counter gave him a brown paper bag without Porter even asking. He must get a dozen blokes like me in here every day, thought Porter. Alcoholics. Blokes slowly drinking themselves into an early grave. There was a park behind the block of flats with a burial garden and a few benches. Porter sat there drinking his vodka. Then he’d head back to the safe house and sit in front of the TV, smoking and flicking between Sky News and BBC News 24. With no new developments on the Selection attack the media was beginning to lose interest in the story. Their attention was turning to the imminent war in Kosovo.
On the third morning Porter returned from his gym session to find Lakes in the living room. She was pacing up and down, a cigarette dangling from her lips and a cup of coffee in her right hand. Porter had quickly towelled the sweat off his face then pulled up a pew as Lakes had dug a folder out of her tote bag. Nealy stood in the hallway while Lakes spread a dozen photographs across the coffee table. The snaps were slightly out of focus, as if they’d been taken with a long-range camera lens. Each one showed Deeds entering or leaving various bars and establishments.
‘These pictures were taken twenty-four hours ago,’ Lakes continued. ‘Deeds is staying at the Romano Hotel on the Golden Mile, five kilometres to the north of Puerto Banus. According to our guy on the inside, Deeds has a fairly regular routine. During the day he sticks to the hotel. He hangs by the pool, working on his tan and drinking cocktails.’
‘So we lift the prick from his hotel room,’ said Devereaux. ‘Easy.’
Lakes shook her head. ‘The Romano is a five-star hotel with its own security detail. Plus security cameras in the lobby and lifts. You wouldn’t stand a chance of getting to Deeds there. Not without the hotel’s security staff knowing about it. Even if you did lift Deeds, there’s still the security footage. Your faces would be all over the news before you could get out of the country.’
‘Doesn’t he ever leave the hotel?’ Porter asked.
‘Only in the evenings,’ said Lakes. ‘Around seven o’clock he heads over to Jimmy’s, an Irish joint where all the expats meet to talk shop over Guinness. Deeds usually sticks around til closing time. Sometimes he stops off for a few drinks at Hollywood’s, a trendy bar down by the marina. One of those places where all the local celebrities and footballers hang out.’ She tapped her finger at another photograph, showing Deeds slipping out of a dingy doorway with a glitzy neon sign above it. ‘Later, he heads to a nearby strip club, the Pony Lounge.’
‘Same routine?’ Devereaux enquired, stroking his chin. ‘Every day?’
‘Deeds is a creature of habit. He doesn’t go anywhere he doesn’t know. Far as we can tell, his tastes are pretty narrow. He likes a full English, a pint of Stella and a stripper called Brandy.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Bald said.
Lakes shot him a look. A thought took hold of Porter. He leaned forward and pointed to one of the photographs. ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’
Lakes sucked on her cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Deeds has just slotted a load of British soldiers, right? If I was in his boots, I’d be trying to keep a low profile. I’d keep my head down as much as possible. I wouldn’t come up for air unless I had to. And I sure as shit wouldn’t be strolling around the Costa del Sol without a care in the world.’
There was a pause. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in front of Lake’s face. Like a veil. ‘Deeds doesn’t need to hide. He’s being protected.’
‘By who?’
‘Scarsdale.’
Bald and Porter exchanged a look. Bald turned back to Lakes. Frowned. ‘Scarsdale wants to protect Deeds? Why?’
‘Two reasons. First, because Scarsdale and Deeds go way back. Deeds did a few favours for Scarsdale back in the day. Now he’s calling them in. Plus Scarsdale comes from the old school of British criminals. He’s from that generation that hates snitches. He’s not the type to rat on an associate.’
Porter said, ‘What’s the second reason?’
‘Business. According to our guy, Scarsdale and his associates are trying to get into the weapons smuggling racket. It’s a logical move. The Russians have been muscling in on the drug trade in Marbella, and everyone knows you don’t mess with them. A lot of their competitors have wound up dead. You don’t get to be where Scarsdale is today by being stupid. He’s read the writing on the wall and wants to move into a less crowded trade.’
‘And Deeds is his way in,’ said Porter. ‘He’s an asset.’
Lakes nodded. ‘But it also means that trying to get to Deeds is going to be difficult.’
‘Why?’ Devereaux asked. ‘You’re not telling me that Scarsdale’s people have got the whole town on lockdown?’
‘I’m saying exactly that,’ Lakes replied. ‘The gangs are highly active in and around Marbella. They own a lot of bars and restaurants, they supply drugs and hookers to tourists and they have eyes on most of the town, because their shipments come directly in to the marina from Morocco.’
‘What about cops?’
‘The police are there just for show. To make the tourists feel better. It’s bad publicity if word gets out that Marbella is basically run by criminal syndicates. The tourists would dry up and the place would go under. So the cops turn a blind eye most of the time and no one investigates shootings or disappearances too closely. Their number one priority is making sure stuff says out of the news.’
‘Good for us, then,’ Bald cut in. ‘Makes it less likely that Deeds’s face will be in the papers after we’ve grabbed him.’
‘What protection does he have?’ Porter asked.
Lakes said, ‘Whenever he’s out and about in town, Deeds has usually got a couple of Scarsdale’s toughs along with him. Low-grade thugs. You could probably handle them, but Puerto Banus is a busy place, even at this time of the year. We’d like to avoid things getting noisy.’
‘How do we get to him, then?’
Lakes held up her hand. ‘I’ll leave the operational details to you. Just make sure you take Deeds alive. He’s our only link to the people behind the attack. If he dies, it could take months to turn up another solid lead.’
A wave of anger pulsed through Bald as he cast his eye over the photos. ‘We’ll get the bastard,’ he said to Lake
s. ‘Don’t you worry about that, lass.’
‘I’m not worried,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have chosen you for the job.’ Lakes took a last pull on her smoke and stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Marcus has arranged accommodation for you. You’re checked into an apartment on Calle Ramon Areces. It’s not far from the marina. Under your assumed names, of course. Your cover story is that you’re four middle-aged guys on a drinking jolly. You’re looking to have some fun and enjoy being away from your wives for a few days.’
‘That’ll hold up?’ Coles asked.
‘It’s Marbella. The place is wall-to-wall cheap bars and strip clubs and kebab shops. Middle-aged guys on boozy weekends are their biggest customers.’
Lakes reached under her jacket and came out with four slim burgundy passports. She slid them across the table.
‘Your new identities.’
Porter picked his up and flipped it to the information page. It was one of the shiny new digital passports with a computer chip stitched into the back page containing all his personal data. The passport was under his new name, David Mulryne, and listed his place of birth as Luton. It had been backdated to two years ago, and someone at the Firm had the foresight to put a few visa stamps in the front pages. Turkey, Canada, Mexico. That made sense, Porter figured. A brand new passport would raise suspicion with the border stiffs.
Lakes then took out four slim white envelopes and handed them out to the four guys. Porter opened his envelope and peeked inside. There was a driving licence made out to his new name, along with an HSBC bank debit card and a credit card made out to Templar, both with the words ‘BUSINESS A/C’ stamped along the bottom.
‘The cards are for small expenses,’ Lakes said quickly. ‘There’s a daily cash limit on them of £250. It should be enough to cover your basic needs. Flights, hotels, car rentals, that sort of thing.’
‘What about when we need to buy hardware?’ Porter said.
‘We’ve arranged for a safe deposit box at the Rehmer International Bank in Zurich. There’s two hundred thousand pounds in sterling in the box. You can wire the money to local accounts as necessary. Every time you make a withdrawal, the box fund will be automatically replenished.’
She saw the greedy look in Bald’s eyes and her expression hardened.
‘I want receipts, gentlemen. This isn’t some government jolly. Every expense has to be accounted for. Anything else will be deducted from your retainer upon completion of the mission.’
Porter said, ‘We’ll need contacts.’
‘What for?’
‘The hardware. If we have to source all our kit locally, it’ll take time.’
Lakes tipped her head at Devereaux. ‘That’s Mick’s area of expertise. Templar has access to a number of contacts across Europe. Suppliers. Mick has their details. They can get you whatever you need at short notice. Guns, cars, armour, forged documents.’
‘What if we need to get in touch with you?’ Porter asked.
‘Generally speaking, you won’t need to,’ Lakes responded. ‘The way we’ve set up the team, you should be self-sufficient. All of you have the skills and financing to operate independently of a command unit.’
‘What if the situation changes, though?’ Devereaux said. ‘What if your people come across new int that you need to share with us?’
‘In that case, we’ll communicate through a telephone service. It’s one-way. The number will put you through to a secure line. You’ll hear a brief tune, then a series of numbers in code. Think of it as a numbers station, but using telephones. Anything we need to alert you to, we’ll leave as a coded message, so you should check in frequently.’
‘What if there’s an emergency?’ Porter said. ‘Something we need to communicate to you.’
Lakes nodded impatiently, as if she’d already thought of that. She took out four business cards and placed them on the table. Porter picked one up. It was plain white with some kind of textured surface. There was a name embossed on the front in black lettering: Kovacs Antiques. Below the name there was an address on Friedrichstrasse, Berlin, and a telephone number.
‘The dealer’s a front,’ said Lakes. ‘No one will ever pick up the phone, but if you leave a message there, one of our guys will pass it on. Otherwise you’re on your own.’
‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ said Bald.
Lakes flashed him a dirty look. ‘You might think we’re washing our hands of you, John. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re all taking a risk here. Just make sure you don’t screw it up.’ Then her features softened at the edges and she added, ‘Get this right, gentlemen, and we could start talking about a more permanent arrangement.’
‘How do you mean?’ Porter asked.
‘Let’s just say that there might be one or two senior openings at the top end of Templar. Think about it. Director of a global PMC. Six-figure salary, private travel, benefits. Complete your mission, and we’ll talk some more.’
Bald’s eyes lit up. He rubbed his hands at the prospect of a job on the board. Porter watched Lakes follow Nealy out of the door, his stomach muscles tightening into an anxious knot. Then he looked back to Bald. The Jock had dug out his old Nokia mobile and was busy tapping out a message.
‘Get the feeling they’re not telling us something?’
‘What else is new?’ Bald tucked away his phone and sighed. ‘You know what the Firm’s like. Slippery bastards. I’d rather shit on my hand and clap than believe a word they say. Fuck it. We’ve got a chance to kill Deeds, and anyone else who had a hand in the attack. That’s all I give a toss about.’
Bald stood up and popped on his trainers. Coles and Devereaux had already left the apartment and headed down to the gym.
‘Going for a session with Saffer and Crocodile Dundee.’
Suddenly Porter was alone in the apartment. He thought about putting in a call to Sandy. Tell her he was sorry for not making it to her birthday party. Promise that her old man would find some way of making it up to her. But Lakes had given them explicit orders not to reach out to anyone connected to their real-world identities. Phone calls were off-limits. They weren’t even permitted to have their own personal mobiles for as long as the mission lasted. It would be a long while before Porter heard his daughter’s voice again.
We think it’s best if you stay away for a while. That’s what Diana had told him. Stuart’s there for her. Not me. My one shot at a happy family, and I blew it.
His hands started to shake. I need a drink. Porter grabbed his coat and made for the door. He headed out of the building, turned right on Featherstone and paced towards City Road. Half past ten on a gritty Friday morning in London, and it was as if the Selection attack had never happened. People were just getting on with it. Businessmen were striding briskly to work, looking equal parts aloof and harrassed. Japanese tourists stood around taking snaps of old buildings. The streets were bustling with students and dog walkers and nannies doing the school run.
Porter was getting ready to kill a bunch of people.
The corner shop was just off Old Street, situated between a sushi bar and an organic coffee house. Porter ducked inside and approached the sweaty bloke behind the counter.
‘The usual,’ he said.
The guy took a bottle of cheap vodka from the shelf along with a pack of twenty Bensons. Porter handed him fifteen quid, grabbed the brown paper bag and stuffed the cigarettes in his pocket. Stepped outside. Unscrewed the cap and took a swig from the vodka bottle. God, but that felt good. He took another gulp. Then a third. His hands stopped shaking. Porter screwed the cap back on and started across the street, heading back down Featherstone towards the burial garden. A bottle of vodka and a pack of fags to start the day. And I’m supposed to be leading a fucking kill team.
What the hell happened to you, John?
He reached the corner of City Road and Featherstone and stopped in his tracks. Sixty metres away he saw Bald stepping out of the apartment block and cro
ssing the road, a brown envelope tucked under his arm. He was heading away from Porter and didn’t appear to have noticed his mucker. Porter hung by the corner and looked on as Bald approached an apartment building on the opposite side of the road. A blonde-haired woman stood in the doorway, her coat flapping in the sharp breeze. From where Porter was standing he couldn’t get a good look at her face. Bald stopped next to the building. Glanced up and down the street. Then he handed over the envelope to the blonde. She hurriedly stuffed the envelope into her handbag. Like she didn’t want anyone to see it. Bald nodded at her. Hurried back across the road. Then the blonde stepped out of the doorway and into the street. She turned right, heading east towards City Road. She walked right past Porter. That’s when he finally got a look at her face.
He recognised her immediately.
It was the same blonde he’d seen in the Piano Bar.
TWENTY-FOUR
Puerto Banus, Spain. Four days later.
2348 hours.
Ten days after the attack on Selection, Porter took a sip of his pint and waited for the man they’d been sent to lift.
He was sitting next to Bald at a table at the front of the Paradiso Bar, midway along the main strip and thirty metres up from the marina. Outside a cool wind blasted in from the Mediterranean, shaking the awnings above the restaurants and tumbleweeding cigarette butts across the cobbled street. Close to midnight and Puerto Banus was heaving with stag groups and tourists and bored-looking Russian models with their Louis Vuitton handbags and Jimmy Choo high heels. Marbella in January was a lot like Essex in July, thought Porter. Only with less fake tan.
Thirty metres away on the other side of the street stood the Pony Lounge. The strip club was discreetly tucked away on the first floor of a whitewashed building at the corner of the strip, at Porter’s two o’clock. A set of steps led from street level up to a whitewashed building with a plain brown door and a small neon sign above it in bright pink lettering, and the svelte silhouette of a topless dancer. There were no windows looking into the club. Maybe the Pony Lounge was going for the discreet end of the market.
