Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Kavlak necked his vodka and felt the stirring in his groin again. He poured himself another drink and reached for the landline. Then he punched in a number. It was seven-thirty in the evening and Kavlak needed another whore.

  Nine hundred metres to the east, Porter waited for the phone to ring.

  He was sitting in the kitchen of a rundown apartment on the first floor of a block on the corner of St Joseph’s Street and North Street, spitting distance from the bleached ruins at Fort Saint Elmo. Bald sat across the table from Porter, eyeballing the phone. As if he could make it ring just by staring at it. They’d been waiting for the call to come through for the past three hours, and still they hadn’t heard a peep.

  ‘How much longer?’ said Bald.

  ‘No idea,’ said Porter. ‘Could be a while yet.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  Porter took a sip from his bottled water and said nothing. Six days had passed since the Puerto Banus job. Six days since they’d tortured Bill Deeds and dumped his body in a storm drain. Six days since Porter last had a drop of booze.

  Spain had been a wake-up call. A sign. On the flight out of Malaga he’d ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke from the stewardess. He cracked open the miniature and went to tip the contents down his throat. But then something had stopped him.

  The voice.

  The one telling him, You can’t afford to fuck this up.

  There are no more chances, John. It’s time to clean up, or go home.

  Porter had listened to the voice. Reluctantly. For the last six days he’d been sticking to water and black coffee. The first forty-eight hours had been pure torture. But after the third day, the shaking in his hands and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach began to pass. Slowly, Porter could feel some of his old sharpness returning. The puffiness on his face disappeared. His eyes started to glow again. He felt leaner. Clear-headed. Ready to perform.

  All four guys on the strike team had taken separate flights out of Malaga. They’d changed at Zurich, taking connections to the airport at Luqa, six miles due south of Valletta. Then they’d RV’d at the apartment. Devereaux had sourced the place courtesy of one of his contacts at Templar. A local fixer and retired cop who ran a side-business selling unregistered weapons and forged documents. Under instructions from Devereaux, the fixer had paid cash to rent the apartment in the old town under his own name, handing the keys over to the Aussie as soon as he’d landed at Luqa.

  As soon as the strike team had RV’d at the apartment, they started running surveillance on Kavlak and Petrovich. There was no time to lose. Deeds’s body might be discovered any day now, and the team had no idea how long the Serbs were planning on staying holed up inside their penthouse. But it didn’t take them to long to realise that Deeds had been bang on the money. Kavlak and Petrovich never left the penthouse. Not for a stroll, not to check out the local watering holes. Not even to take out the rubbish. They were more locked down than Wormwood Scrubs during a prison riot. Getting to them outside the penthouse was out of the question.

  ‘What about triggering the fire alarm?’ Devereaux had suggested three days earlier, when the team had sat down to study the layout and the int they’d gathered on the targets. ‘Force ’em out into the open, mate.’

  ‘That’s a non-starter.’ Porter pointed to the blueprints. ‘There must be seventy people living in those apartments. Even if half of them are out when we trip the alarm, that still leaves us with a bunch of witnesses at the emergency gathering point. And Valletta’s small. We’re talking four hundred thousand people in an area the size of Camden. If someone hears a gunshot, we’ll have every fucking cop on the island on our case in the time it takes to make a brew.’

  ‘What about people going in, chief?’ Coles had asked.

  ‘There’s two we know about. A cleaner, and a runner who delivers supplies to the Serbs every few days. The runner’s some local thug. He delivers vodka, beer, fags, dirty mags, pizzas. All that shit.’

  ‘Can we use him to gain access?’ Devereaux asked.

  ‘No chance,’ said Bald. ‘He doesn’t have a regular schedule.’

  ‘That leaves us with the hookers,’ Porter said. ‘Kavlak and Petrovich get them in every other night, as far as we can tell. They always order two of them, and it’s always a couple of blondes.’

  Devereaux said, ‘Same agency?’

  ‘No. They use a couple of different ones. But they always ask for the same type. The Serbs like their tarts leggy and blonde, and they like them European. They don’t go for anything exotic.’

  ‘Amen to that, brother,’ said Coles. ‘White is right.’

  Bald had arched an eyebrow at the South African. ‘Says the bloke who comes from the rainbow nation.’

  Coles made a screw-face. ‘Piss off, chief. That’s just some crap the darkies came up with. Make themselves feel better about stealing all our land and jobs.’

  ‘Now you know how we feel about the English.’

  Devereaux shook his head and said, ‘So what’s the plan?’

  Porter said, ‘There’s only one thing for it. We can’t lure the fuckers out. And we can’t go in noisy. We’re going to have to use the hookers to get in.’

  They moved quickly after that. Porter had reached out to Lakes via the emergency number she’d given them at the mission briefing. The number put him through to the antique dealer in Berlin. Kovacs Antiques. No one answered the phone, just as Lakes had said. The call went through to voicemail. Porter left a message outlining their plan and hung up. Then he waited for the Firm to pick up the message and respond.

  While Porter was making the call, Devereaux met with Templar’s local fixer. An ex-cop called Cabinelli. The Aussie purchased four Beretta 92 pistols fitted with Silencerco Osprey suppressors. The silencers wouldn’t hush the gunshots to a whisper like in the movies, but they would muffle the deafening crack and reduce it to something more polite. If someone heard a silenced round discharging inside a building, they wouldn’t automatically think, Gunshot. The suppressors would buy the team a few precious seconds in the event that they needed to make a quick escape. Along with the guns Devereaux also bought four boxes of Fiocchi 115-grain full metal jacket 19x19mm ammo, with fifty rounds to a box. Plus a few grams of a yellowish powder called GHB, otherwise known as liquid ecstasy. An odourless and colourless drug, in small doses GHB gave a person a dreamlike high. But a higher dosage could knock someone out in a few minutes.

  At the same time, Bald and Coles headed over to Rabat on the other side of the island. They found an independent car dealer and paid cash for a blue Ford Transit and a red Alfa Romeo 146. On the way back to the safe house they stopped at a hardware shop in Qormi. Bought a selection of power tools and zip wire, plus a snap gun for picking locks. Snap guns had originally been designed for law enforcement but they were freely available from any locksmith. The gun would come in useful in case the plan went wrong and the team had to force their way into the penthouse.

  Twenty-four hours later there was a new message on the numbers station. Porter listened to it twice before decoding it. It simply said, Message received. Assets en route. Landing tomorrow at 0949 hours. GCHQ listening in.

  There were two parts to the plan the team had cooked up. The first part arrived the following morning at Malta International Airport. Two intelligence officers sent down from the Firm, Ophelia Starling and Evelyn Cross. At first glance the two spies didn’t look like much. They were both dark-haired and pale and severe-looking. With their Barbour jackets and dark-blue jeans and suede shoes they looked like a couple of PhD students on a weekend getaway. But slap a couple of blonde wigs on them, some fishnet stockings and a touch of make-up, and they would instantly grab the attention of every full-bloodied male in sight.

  Six hours after the two spies arrived the second part of the plan was up and running. Porter had requested that GCHQ tap directly into the Serbs’ landline. It was easy enough to do, even at a distance of two thousand miles. GCHQ had the capability to tap into an
y phone, anywhere in the world, by accessing the local telephone company’s substation. For the past twenty-four hours an intelligence analyst had been sitting in front of a screen in a drab open-plan office somewhere in Cheltenham, listening in to every phone call the Serbs made and received.

  As soon as Kavlak and Petrovich put in a call to one of the escort agencies, GCHQ would pick up the chatter. They would get straight on the blower to the strike team. Then Porter would reach out to Devereaux and Coles. The two guys were waiting in the Transit fifty metres west of the penthouse. Once they had eyes on the hookers, Devereaux and Coles would move to intercept them. At the same time Ophelia and Evelyn would approach the penthouse posing as the whores. Once they were inside they would spike the Serbs’ drinks with GHB and wait for the drugs to take effect. Then they’d let in Porter and Bald. Half an hour or so later, the Serbs would wake up. Then the operators would introduce Kavlak and Petrovich to a world of pain.

  ‘Them lasses are taking their time,’ said Bald.

  He was nodding at the bathroom. Ophelia and Evelyn had been locked away in the bathroom for the past half hour, getting themselves slagged up. Porter took a sip of his water and shrugged.

  ‘Long as they look the part.’

  Bald stared at him for a beat. ‘You sure you’re up for this, mate? Maybe you should sit this one out. Swap places with Davey or Mick.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Porter growled.

  ‘Yeah, mate. Because you looked fine in Spain. You looked sharp as fuck when you were shoving that hooker out of the way.’

  ‘I said I’ll be fine. I’ve still got it.’

  ‘I should fucking hope so,’ said Bald. ‘Because if you’re sloppy again, I won’t be there to bail you out.’

  Porter looked away from Bald. Took a swig of his water. I might be old, he thought, but I’m still a bloody good soldier. I’ll show Jock. I’ll show them all. You don’t spend eleven years in the Regiment without having the skills to perform.

  At 1938, the phone rang.

  TWENTY-NINE

  1938 hours.

  Porter grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

  ‘We’ve got the buggers,’ the voice on the other end of the line said.

  Porter recognised the voice at once. Hawkridge.

  ‘They put in a call?’

  ‘Roughly six minutes ago, old fruit.’ Hawkridge paused. There was the sound of paper rustling in the background. ‘To a company called Divine Pleasures. They’re based in Paceville over in a town called Saint Julian’s. North of your location.’

  ‘What time did they ask for the girls?’

  ‘Soon as possible, old fruit.’ Hawkridge cleared his throat. ‘It seems our Serbian friends are an impatient bunch. They’re sending out two ladies at this very moment. Blondes.’

  Porter glanced down at the detailed map of the area spread out across the kitchen table. Saint Julian’s was situated five miles to the north of Valletta. He found the address and quickly calculated the route. A cab ride from the Paceville district to St Paul’s Street would take twenty-five minutes, max. It would take Porter and Bald maybe five minutes to drive down to St Paul’s from the apartment. Maybe eight minutes in traffic. They’d have to bug out of the apartment in the next few minutes in order to set everything up in time for the intercept.

  He said, ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Sapphire and Charity. Not real. Obviously.’

  Porter said, ‘Nationality?’

  ‘Romanian.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Porter hung up. Punched in a ten-digit number and put in a call to Devereaux on the mobile burner the Aussie was packing. Gave him the description of the two hookers and their ETA.

  ‘Just make sure those girls don’t reach the penthouse,’ said Porter.

  ‘On it, fella.’

  Then Porter killed the call. Turned to Bald.

  ‘Well?’ the Jock asked.

  ‘We’re on,’ Porter said.

  At that moment the bathroom door swung open and the two Firm lasses swaggered out in their whore kit. Bald took one look at them and dropped his jaw so far it almost thudded against the kitchen floor. The girls were unrecognisable from the two plain birds who’d stepped off the plane at Luqa. Ophelia wore a skin-tight red mini-skirt and a pair of six-inch platform heels, with a tight black crop-top that barely stretched across her smooth breasts. Evelyn wore a pair of knee-high leather fuck-me boots and a black lace-fringe dress that reached teasingly down to her arse. The pair of them had more curves than a Monte Carlo racetrack. They were caked in make-up and the blonde wigs completed the look. Bald could feel a boner coming on as he checked the spies out.

  ‘Okay,’ Ophelia said coolly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘We’re ready.’

  Bald grinned. ‘That’s one way of putting it, love.’

  Evelyn shot him a look. She had a stern, businesslike manner about her. Professional. But something about her told Porter that she could put on a sexy pout when the mission called for it. That’s what made them so dangerous. And why they were so good at their job. They understood that a compelling disguise was about more than slapping on some eyeliner and a blonde wig. These lasses could change their entire personalities at the drop of a hat.

  Ophelia turned to Porter and said, ‘Do you want to tell us who’s who?’

  It took Porter a moment to compose himself. Just staring at the spies reminded him that it had been a while since he’d last got a bird in the sack. Not since the breakdown of his marriage. A hot feeling stirred up inside him just then, but he quickly blocked it from his mind. He had a mission to complete, and a pair of Serbs to grab and torture. Everything else was secondary to revenge. That’s how it would remain until they had avenged all those who had died in the Brecons.

  He said, ‘One of you is Sapphire. The other one’s Charity.’

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. ‘With names like that, who’d ever think they were prostitutes?’

  Ophelia said, ‘Anything else we should know?’

  ‘The girls are from Romania. You’ll have to wing it. Say there’s been a mix-up at the agency.’

  ‘What’s the name of it? The agency.’

  ‘Divine Pleasures. They’re based over in Paceville.’

  ‘Imaginative,’ said Evelyn.

  Porter stiffened his jaw and said, ‘Just focus on getting us inside the apartment. We know that Kavlak and Petrovich like to crack open a bottle of vodka and have themselves a party before they get down to any action. That’s your best window of opportunity to spike their drinks.’

  ‘We know.’ Evelyn sounded impatient. ‘We’ve been through this already.’

  ‘Then we’ll go through it again,’ said Porter, forcefully. ‘It shouldn’t take more than seven or eight minutes to knock the Serbs out. Make sure you don’t overdo it on the drugs or you’ll put them in a coma. Once they’re out cold, get on the blower and ring the number for my burner. Hang up as soon as I answer. Then we’ll enter the building. We’ll be close by in the getaway car. If there’s any problems, activate the transponder in your purse.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ophelia. ‘But we can handle ourselves.’

  Porter stepped towards the spy. Placed a hand on her shoulder and fixed his gaze on her.

  ‘These guys are fucking killers. They shot dead Regiment men in cold blood. Take it from me, love. If they find out who you are, they won’t hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes.’

  Ophelia adjusted her bra and said, ‘You don’t need to worry about us. We know what we’re doing. We’ve done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ said Bald. ‘What are you doing after this?’

  ‘Getting on a plane,’ Ophelia replied. ‘And definitely not calling you.’

  ‘You’re missing out, lass. Us Scots are harder than those poofs from down south.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  ‘It’s time,’ said Porter, checking his watch. ‘Let’s d
o this.’

  The two operators slid out of their chairs. Ophelia grabbed her clutch purse, containing the two small vials filled with GHB and an emergency transponder.

  Then they made for the door.

  1959 hours.

  Twenty-one minutes later an unmarked taxi pulled up on the corner of St Paul’s Street and Saint Lucia. Two women climbed out of the back seats and stepped out into traffic. One of them paid the driver, and the guy took off. Then the women crossed the street and strutted towards the apartment block at number 215.

  Devereaux saw them from his position thirty metres to the west of the taxi, behind the wheel of the Ford Transit. He’d been sitting there for the past two hours, watching and waiting. Coles sat alongside him, cracking his knuckles and chewing tobacco furiously. They were parked directly outside the apartment building, at the side of a steep and narrow street flanked by ancient baroque buildings. In the distance Devereaux could see the streets leading on a sharp decline all the way down to the old fortifications that ringed the city. Like a ski slope made out of concrete. Beyond the fortifications stood a narrow band of sea, gunmetal and choppy in the January gloom.

  The apartment block looked like any of the other buildings lining Valletta’s cramped streets. Five storeys high with a limestone façade that had faded in the sun, overhanging balconies on each floor and Venetian blinds on the windows. The main entrance was a two-metre-high wooden door with a pair of stone lion heads fixed either side of it. The street was deserted. Had been for the past forty-five minutes. The government workers had clocked off for the day. The tourists had migrated to the bars and cafes on Old Theatre Street a hundred metres or so to the north. Everyone else had gone home.

  Devereaux saw the two whores immediately. Hookers dressed the same the world over. They didn’t go for subtle. Not unless the clients were paying big bucks for the girlfriend experience and taking them out on a date. Most punters wanted something trashy-looking in something leather and tight that didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. These two more than fit the bill. They were dressed in matching black mini-skirts and platform heels and low-cut tops. One of them was maybe five-five and had the whole petite thing going on. Her fake breasts were tightly packed into her strapless white tank top. The other one was taller and slightly darker. She was all legs. Every inch of the two women screamed hooker.