Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Bald shook his head angrily. ‘Why the fuck would Brozovic carry out an attack on the Regiment?’

  He looked to Deeds as he spoke. The guy was still groaning in pain, struggling to keep his head up. The skin on his chest was blistered. He parted his cracked lips and said, ‘The same reason you’re here. Revenge.’

  ‘For killing his brother?’ Porter said.

  Deeds nodded. ‘For killing Bosko. And for wiping out half his gang. Brozovic wanted to make the SAS pay. An eye for a fucking eye.’

  ‘So he had you carry out the attack?’

  ‘Brozovic had his own men lined up for the gig. But he needed someone local. Someone who knew about Selection, all the ins and outs. Someone who could show his guys the ropes.’

  Porter glared at Deeds. A spark of rage flared in his chest. ‘And you just went along with it?’

  ‘I had no fucking choice,’ Deeds said. There was a pleading look in his eyes as he spoke. ‘Jesus, I needed the wedge. After they kicked me out of the Paras, I couldn’t get a job. I had sod-all. I didn’t even have a pot to piss in.’

  ‘Spare us the fucking sob story,’ Bald put in. ‘You should have thought about that before you started trading weapons to the Serbs.’

  Porter rubbed his jaw and said, ‘How did Brozovic know it was the Regiment who carried out the attack? That op was covert. No one knew we were out there. All the lads were undercover.’

  ‘Brozovic hired a private investigator,’ said Deeds. ‘Some Serb down in London. Ex-security services. He cross-checked the records of the London Gazette looking for anything that matched the date of the bombing. He found that there had been a DCM awarded for a lad in the Irish Guards on that day. And the Irish Guards weren’t even in Bosnia then.’

  The temperature in the room plummeted. The hairs on the back of Porter’s neck stood on end as he cast his mind back to the notice in the Gazette. He remembered every word of it. The notice had appeared under ‘Honours and Awards’.

  The Queen has been graciously pleased to approve the award of the Distinguished Conduct Medal to 24479620 Sergeant John Porter Irish Guards 21 October 1998 in recognition of gallant and distinguished services in Bosnia, 14 February 1997.

  Blades who got decorated were never listed as currently serving in the SAS. That was too risky. Instead they were listed as belonging to their old unit. In Porter’s case, the Irish Guards.

  The room got colder. Deeds went on.

  ‘It didn’t take long for the investigator to work out that the SAS were involved. He checked out the birth records and marriage certificates. Looking for anyone who went by the name John Porter who’d served in the Irish Guards. Found out this Porter guy had got married in a registry office in Hereford a few years back.’

  Deeds hacked and coughed, going red in the face. His eyes were bloodshot and there was white crap at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Water,’ he croaked.

  Porter reached for a bottle of water and pressed it to Deeds’s lips. At the same time the door swung open behind them and Devereaux returned. He took one look at Deeds and the blood splatters and his severed toes and did a double-take. Porter took the water bottle away.

  ‘Keep talking, Bill,’ he said.

  Deeds licked his lips and composed himself.

  ‘This Serb, he asked around a few Hereford boozers. Discreetly, like. Nothing heavy-handed, so word wouldn’t get back to the Regiment. He didn’t have any luck at first. Then some pissed old Blade let slip that the fucker who got decorated was serving on the Regiment Training Wing. So Brozovic came up with the plan. He’d take out the guys on Selection. We’d slot the instructors, and wipe out the next generation of operators as well. Two birds, one stone. That’s when he reached out to me.’

  Porter glanced at his mate. Bald was bristling with animal rage. His hands were balled into tight fists and his veins were bulging on his neck. He was on the verge of losing his rag, thought Porter.

  He looked back to Deeds. ‘Where can we find Brozovic?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear.’

  Bald dangled the bolt-cutters menacingly in front of Deeds.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘It’s the truth!’ Deeds exclaimed, his voice trembling with panic. ‘Please. You don’t believe me, ask around. Brozovic went deep underground after the bombing. I’m talking way off the radar. The guy’s got a warrant out for his arrest, for fuck’s sake. No one’s been able to find him. Not the Brits. Not the UN. Not even the Yanks.’

  ‘If that’s the case, how did he stay in touch with you?’ Porter asked.

  ‘He didn’t. We never met. We did everything through his 2i/c. Some guy called Ninkovic. He used to serve in the Red Eagles under Brozovic, so I heard. But I only met him twice. I don’t know where he is. I couldn’t even tell you what fucking continent he’s on. That’s everything I know.’

  Porter kept his mouth shut and searched Deeds’s eyes. He was shitting himself, alright. But there was a glimmer of defiance in his eyes too. He’s holding something back, thought Porter. He knows something else.

  He gave his back to the ex-Para and tipped his head at Bald. ‘We’re done here. He’s all yours, Jock.’

  Bald hefted up the bolt-cutters and moved towards Deeds.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Deeds spluttered.

  Porter stopped. Did a one-eighty and looked back at Deeds. The guy didn’t look defiant any more. He just looked shit-scared. He waited for Deeds to unglue his eyes from the bolt-cutters.

  ‘The other gunmen,’ he said. ‘The Serbs. I know where they’re hiding. Two of ’em, anyway.’

  Porter said, ‘I need names, Bill.’

  Deeds closed his eyes, riding another wave of pain. ‘Niko Kavlak and Dejan Petrovich. They’re laying low in a safe house in Malta.’

  ‘What the fuck are they doing there?’ Bald demanded. ‘Why not just head back to Serbia?’

  ‘It’s a double feint,’ said Deeds. ‘Sooner or later, the Brits will find out that the Serbs were responsible for the attack, right? So they’ll have their people looking all over Serbia for the gunmen. Brozovic figured it would be safer if his guys were outside the country when the shit hit the fan. Once the dust’s settled, they’ll move back to Serbia. Like I said, it’s a double feint.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’ said Porter.

  ‘It’s a penthouse in Valleta. The old town. 215 St Paul’s Street. Brozovic used it for hooking up with his mistresses. The Serbs, they’ve got orders not to leave unless it’s an emergency. They’re just holed up there, bingeing on coke and hookers.’

  ‘There were four gunmen who escaped the Brecons,’ said Bald. ‘You and the two Serbs in Valletta makes three. Where’s the fourth guy?’

  ‘Stankovic? I don’t know. The guy kept to himself. He never told me his plans. That’s all I know, I fucking swear.’

  Porter stayed quiet for a beat. Then he nodded and said, ‘Okay, Bill. I believe you.’

  He dug out his Glock from his holster. He still had all seventeen rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. Deeds caught sight of the piece and closed his eyes. Straightened his back and exhaled. Bracing himself for his soldier’s death.

  Then Porter lowered the Glock and turned to Bald. ‘Kill this cunt.’

  Bald grinned. Deeds popped his eyes open. He looked confused. Then his confusion gave way to fear as he saw Bald set down the bolt-cutters and reach for a metal ground spike next to the power tools. The spike was maybe thirty centimetres long and had a sharpened tip at the end that glinted under the intense glare of the naked lightbulb. Deeds looked back to Porter, his face crumbling into absolute terror.

  ‘No! No, no! Shit. You promised. You said you’d make it quick.’

  Porter shrugged. ‘I lied.’

  ‘Jesus, no. Christ, please, don’t do—’

  Porter stuffed the rag back in Deeds’s mouth. Then he stepped back, giving the stage to Bald. Deeds gave out a muffled scream as the Jock clasped a hand around his skull and plunged
the sharpened spike tip directly into his left eye. There was a sickening wet crunch as the tip punched through his eyeball. Deeds started convulsing madly as Bald jerked the spike around, doing all kinds of damage to the guy’s frontal lobe. His arms and legs started to shake. He looked like a guy on the electric chair right after the executioner had flipped the switch. His screams hit a new crescendo. Then Deeds voided his bowels. Bald drove the spike deeper and angled it up, boring deep into his brains. Deeds jerked some more. Then he stopped screaming.

  Then he went still.

  Bald stepped away, leaving the spike buried deep in Deeds’s skull. Blood trickled out of his eye socket and ran down his chin, dripping onto his chest. There was blood all over the place. There was a steaming brown pool of piss and shit and vomit between his feet.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Devereaux, sucking the stale air between his teeth. He was staring at Deeds. ‘Jesus bloody Christ. The fuck did you do that for?’

  Bald answered for both of them. ‘He had it coming. They all do. Brozovic and his lieutenants. They’re dead men, Mick. That’s what we’re here for, in case it’s slipped your mind.’

  ‘Fair enough, he had to kick the bucket. But this . . .?’ Devereaux waved a hand at the metal spike.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ Porter said back. Surprising even himself at the anger in his voice. ‘You didn’t see your mates getting shot and blown to shit. We did. Take it from me, that’s something you won’t ever forget.’

  Devereaux thought about pressing the issue further, but in the end he just shrugged and flashed his palms at the two operators. ‘I get it, fella. You want these wankers to hurt. But it’s your call. That’s all I’m saying.’

  There was another cold beat and then Bald turned to Porter and said, ‘What you want us to do with this prick?’

  Tipping his head at Deeds. Porter looked at the ex-Para. Blood dripped from the end of the spike lodged in the guy’s head, hitting the floor in a dull wet patter. Porter thought for a beat. Then he looked to Devereaux.

  ‘Bring the car round once we’ve cleared this mess up. We need to get rid of Deeds.’

  Bald made a face. Like he was chewing on a block of tar. ‘I thought we were supposed to leave him here for everyone to see, mate? Set an example, like.’

  Porter said, ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  Thirty minutes later Devereaux steered the Toledo to the front of the apartment. Coles checked that the coast was clear, then signalled to Bald and Porter by rapping his knuckles on the door twice. Then the two operators emerged from the apartment with Deeds. He was bound up inside a breathable Gore-Tex bivi bag sealed at the hood with a strip of duct tape. They dumped the body in the boot of the Toledo and rolled west for three minutes on Calle Rio Grande, pulling up next to a row of tumbledown shops. A pharmacy. A convenience store. A couple of empty lots with to-let signs out front. Porter had noticed them on the drive up from Puerto Banus.

  There was a big storm drain at the end of the street, next to a broken streetlamp. Devereaux killed the engine. Then Coles got out and did a quick recce of the street. At gone three o’clock in the morning they were in the dead hours. Every house light was switched off and the street was dark and deserted except for a couple of feral cats sniffing for scraps around a dumpster. The cats scuttled away as soon as Bald and Porter debussed from the Toledo. The two operators swung around to the back of the motor while Coles dropped down beside the storm drain and lifted the large metal grate. Then Bald and Porter lugged over the bivi bag with Deeds in it and rammed the body head-first into the drain opening. Deeds was heavier dead than alive, and it was a tight squeeze. Once they had shoved him inside, Coles replaced the grate.

  Burying Deeds in the storm drain was technically going against orders, but Porter considered it a necessary precaution. They needed to keep Deeds hidden for a while. At least long enough to move onto the next names on the list without alerting them. The last thing they wanted was to give the two Serbs advance warning that they were being targeted. Deeds would stay hidden for a couple of weeks, or until the rain came and the storm drain overflowed. Which meant his name wouldn’t be in the papers. There was still the firefight in the streets to worry about, but there were plenty of inter-gang rivalries and shootings in and around Marbella, and Porter was confident that the local police wouldn’t investigate too closely. Even if they did, the authorities would want to keep the shooting out of the news. They always did. Crime was bad for business on the Costa del Sol. Everyone knew that. Tourists didn’t like to read about gangland slayings over their midday sangria.

  At 0344 hours the Toledo quietly steered out of Calle Rio Grande and motored east out of Fuengirola on the A-7, heading for the back-up safe house the team had rented in downtown Malaga.

  Seventeen hours later they headed to Valletta.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Six days later.

  Valletta, Malta. 1928 hours.

  Niko Kavlak reached for the bottle of Grey Goose and poured himself another slug.

  Fifteen fucking days.

  The penthouse in Valletta was situated on the fourth floor of a five-hundred-year-old crumbling block, a hundred metres from the city’s cathedral and the main square at San Gwann. It was the perfect blend of the old and the new. The balcony had a panoramic view of the old town and the grand harbour and the sea, deep, deep blue against the pale sky. It was like looking out across an open-air museum. Quaint, if you gave a crap about that kind of stuff. Which Kavlak didn’t.

  Inside the penthouse, it was a different story. Everything was brand new, from the leather sofas and the huge TV right down to the exotic fish in the tank next to the kitchen. There was everything a guy could ever want. A fridge stocked full of beer. Flagons of vodka and whisky in the drinks cabinet. Satellite TV with a couple of hundred channels including Sky Sports. A rack of movies and a separate stack of porn DVDs. A PlayStation and a Nintendo 64. They had cartons of cigarettes and menus for a dozen local takeaways. There was even a games room with a pool table and a dartboard.

  But after fifteen days, even the best penthouse can start to feel like a prison.

  Kavlak and Petrovich had been bottled up in the apartment ever since the attack on Selection had gone down. Orders from Brozovic himself. They were to stay low and not leave the apartment. Not under any circumstances. And Kavlak knew better than to disobey a direct order from the Tiger of the Balkans. But still. Fifteen days straight inside these four walls was enough to drive anyone stir-crazy. Especially when you were sharing with Petrovich.

  The kid was on edge. Had been since the moment they’d bugged out of Merthyr Tydfil and headed to Fishguard, taking the ferry across the Irish Sea. Kavlak didn’t know why. The kid should have been celebrating. They’d got away with the attack, against the odds. Kavlak had feared the worst when the two SAS soldiers had rocked up to the Storey Arms and killed Markovic and Dragan. But he’d managed to get into the Transit just in time, along with Petrovich. So they had lived, while their companions had died. But Petrovich didn’t seem to appreciate his good fortune. Instead he was pacing up and down the living room, chain-smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds and working a trench line into the hardwood floor. He had bags under his eyes the size of hockey pucks, and his hair was a mess. It didn’t help that he was caning it on the Bolivian marching powder.

  ‘How much longer we gonna be here?’ Petrovich asked.

  Kavlak shrugged and knocked back his Grey Goose. Poured himself another measure. ‘As long as it takes, nephew. As long as it takes. Calm down. The Tiger will tell us when it’s over.’

  Petrovich pulled on his Marlboro, scratched his four-day-old stubble. ‘What if they’re onto us? What then?’

  Kavlak smiled. ‘They’re not. If they were, our faces would be on the front page of every newspaper and TV station from here to Moscow. Trust me. We’re in the clear. We covered our tracks. Now we just have to wait.’

  ‘I don’t like it. We shouldn’t be here. We should be back in Belgrade.’


  ‘No, we shouldn’t. Not unless you want the Tiger to feed you into a meat grinder.’

  Petrovich smoked and paced. ‘I’m just saying, uncle. I don’t like it.’

  Kavlak sighed. Blowing up those Brit soldiers should have toughened his nephew up. Put a set of balls on him. Instead Petrovich had turned paranoid. The kid had seen too many Hollywood films. Now he constantly panicked that the cops would come crashing through the door at any moment to arrest them. Kavlak knew better than to entertain such thoughts. He’d done this kind of thing before, and he knew the score. They’d been careful not to leave any loose ends. The hard part was over. Now they simply had to wait. But Petrovich didn’t see it that way. Kavlak was finding it hard to stay calm despite the stack of porno mags and bottles of vodka and cocaine on tap. About the only thing keeping him from going mad was the steady supply of hookers.

  There were plenty of good whores in Valletta, and in the past fifteen days Kavlak had been an enthusiastic user of their services. The high-end ones, mostly. He liked his women clean and obedient, and for a few extra lira the premium ones would let you slap them about a bit. And since they were on the Tiger’s clock, they didn’t have to spend a cent of their own money. They could have a woman or two whenever they wanted, for free.

  For the past two weeks Kavlak had spent his days knocking back Grey Goose, doing lines of coke and watching EuroNews on the TV. He passed the daytime thinking about all that money sitting in his off-shore bank account in the British Virgin Islands. Kavlak liked to think about how he’d spend his money. On whores, mostly. He was thinking he’d move to Nicaragua once this was over. Or maybe Belize. Half a million dollars could buy a lot of whores in a place like Belize. Maybe all of them. Maybe for life. These were the sort of thoughts that occupied him during the day.

  In the evenings, Kavlak fucked whores.

  There were three decent agencies in town. They worked at the classy end of the market, catering for the wealthy Russian and Chinese businessmen who’d recently put down roots in the city. As such, their services were reliable and discreet. Kavlak alternated between the three agencies, because if too many girls left with bruises and nosebleeds the agency madams would maybe stop taking your calls.