Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  The hotel was located opposite a designer clothes store, a hundred and fifty metres south of the Promenade du Lac and the Jet d’Eau. It looked just like every other street in Geneva. Grey and cold and spotless. More like a showroom than a place where people actually lived. Bald and Porter checked into a twin room using their aliases and paid using Porter’s company credit card. Devereaux and Coles paid for rooms at the Hotel Lafarge, two hundred metres further to the west. They would sit tight wait until Porter heard back from the Firm.

  The twin room looked like every hotel room they’d stayed in, but cleaner. There was a TV so big Stephen Hawking probably had a theory about it, and a mini-bar stocked with miniatures of Jim Beam and Smirnoff and Johnnie Walker Black Label. A few weeks ago I’d have been all over that, Porter told himself. I’d have cleaned that bloody fridge out. now the craving was gone

  Maybe when this is all over I’ll crack open a bottle, he thought. Celebrate with a few measures of Bushmills.

  If we ever make it that far.

  He put on a pot of coffee to take his mind off the booze. Then he sparked up a cigarette and flicked through the maps of Geneva they’d purchased from a souvenir shop at Zurich airport. Genthod was a wedge of luxury mansions located four miles north of the Hotel Dauphin and less than a half a mile east of the French border. The school Ninkovic had mentioned was eighteen miles further to the north of Genthod, on the outskirts of a small town called Rolle, on the banks of Lake Geneva.

  One look at the map told Porter this op was going to be tricky. First, they were going to have to get through whatever layers of security Brozovic had. Second, they would have to breach the Serb’s fortress and slot the target. And they would have to do it all inside a built-up area a stone’s throw from downtown Geneva. The Swiss cops wouldn’t fuck about either, Porter knew. That was the deal in Switzerland. You could be a criminal or a mafia don, you could commit fraud or traffic weapons, and the Swiss would welcome you with open arms as long as you had money to burn and you didn’t cause any trouble. But if you stepped out of line, the cops would be all over you like flies on shit.

  Ninety minutes after they’d checked in, the phone rang.

  Porter picked up the receiver. Thinking, This must be Templar’s local contact. The team had a list of stuff they would need to source before they made an attempt on Brozovic. Cars, weapons, safe houses. He pressed the receiver to his ear and said, ‘Yeah?’

  A husky voice came down the line and said, ‘John. We need to talk.’

  Porter froze and felt a coldness rising in his guts. Cecilia Lakes. The warmth drained from his head to his toes. Porter gripped the phone tightly and thought, How the fuck has Lakes got our hotel number? And why is she reaching out directly to us? The standard method of comms had been through the coded messages left on the numbers station. Lakes had never reached out to them over the phone before.

  ‘John?’ Lakes asked again. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said after a beat. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Don’t act so surprised. Listen. I’m in town. We need to speak. In person.’

  He felt a familiar dread rising in his guts. Why the fuck have the Firm dispatched their agent to Switzerland at a moment’s notice? he wondered. Something was going on here. Something he didn’t like.

  ‘I got on a plane as soon as we received your message,’ Lakes explained matter-of-factly. ‘I just landed. Look, I can’t say any more over the phone. For obvious reasons. Come and meet me.’

  ‘Where?’ Porter asked.

  ‘The jetty next to the Jet d’Eau,’ she said. ‘Thirty minutes.’

  2029 hours.

  The jetty was mostly deserted by the time Porter and Bald made their way down Quai Gustave-Ador past the Jardin Anglais. Coles and Devereaux stayed back at the hotel, studying maps of the city and waiting to hear from Templar’s local fixer. Darkness was muscling in on the city and the Jet d’Eau was lit up neon blue against the fading light. Out on the side of the lake a huge fountain of water spurted up a hundred and forty metres above the rows of moored yachts and sail boats, hissing like steam escaping a hole in a pipe. It was early February, the sky was dark and gleaming like a slit throat, and the air had a mean bite to it as Porter strolled towards the jetty. It was the kind of cold that felt like someone was scraping the blade of a rusted knife across your face.

  Cecilia Lakes sat on one of the benches under a tree near the fountain. A group of Chinese tourists mingled around the stone jetty, posing in front of the huge fountain of water jetting into the sky. There were a few restaurants and coffee shops further down the promenade doing a brisk trade. A bunch of swans were feeding on scraps down by the water’s edge. Porter glanced around then made his way over to the bench and pulled up a pew next to Lakes. She was dressed in a long woollen coat with a belt over her pencil skirt and she had a scarf wrapped around her neck. She was blowing out cigarette smoke and glancing up at the fountain, pretending to give a shit about the view.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ Lakes said. Her voice was barely audible above the hissing noise coming from the water fountain. That was deliberate, Porter figured. That was why she’d chosen the fountain as the meeting point. The noise would conceal their chatter in case anyone was listening in.

  ‘Very well indeed,’ Lakes went on. ‘Everyone at Whitehall is delighted with the results you’ve been getting. Four targets killed in less than a month is quite remarkable. Better than we could have expected. The Prime Minister’s asked me to convey his thanks. You’d be heroes back home, you know.’ She pulled on her cigarette and smiled slightly. ‘If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re both officially retired, of course.’

  ‘Spare us the back-slapping, love,’ Bald said. ‘What do you want?’

  Lakes took a final drag on her cancer stick then stubbed it out beneath her knee-length heeled leather boot. She stood up, pulled the coat tight around her and tipped her head at the jetty.

  ‘Walk with me.’

  The two operators stood up and paced alongside Lakes as she wandered down the jetty. A sharp breeze picked up and blew in from the lake, seething drops of water across the stone walkway. Lakes reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of tabs. She tore off the cellophane and the foil wrapper and sparked up another smoke. She looked stressed, Porter thought. Tired. Like she’d aged five years in the past month.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay for long,’ she explained quickly. ‘Really, I shouldn’t even be here. I’m being vetted right now.’

  ‘Vetted for what?’

  Lakes sucked on her smoke and said, ‘Chief of Six. Pettigrove’s stepping down at the end of the month and I’m on the shortlist to succeed him.’ She paused then added, ‘It’s a very short list.’

  ‘At least someone’s doing well out of this,’ Bald muttered.

  ‘We’re singing from the same hymn sheet, John.’

  ‘That’d be a first.’

  Porter gritted his teeth and said, ‘Just tell us why you’re here.’

  Lakes hesitated. She brushed back her scarf and stopped in her tracks. They were halfway up the jetty. The water from the fountain spattered the ground a couple of paces ahead of them.

  She said, ‘It’s about the last target on the list. Radoslav Brozovic.’

  Porter said, ‘What about him?’

  ‘We need him alive.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  2039 hours.

  There was a long pause. Porter said nothing. He listened to the seething hiss of the fountain and the sharp whip of the breeze sweeping in from the lake, rocking the boats either side of the jetty. A young couple strode past them and ambled up closer to the fountain, taking snaps on their digital camera and laughing as they got soaked. Bald just stared at Lakes. His expression shifting from puzzlement to full-blown anger.

  ‘You want us to spare Brozovic?’ he snapped quietly. ‘Why the fuck would we do that?’

  Lakes pursed her lips. She had one eye on the foreign couple and waited for
them to wander further along the jetty. Then she turned to Bald. She had a cold, impenetrable look on her face.

  ‘How much do you know about Brozovic?’

  ‘He’s a paramilitary leader,’ Porter answered. ‘One of Milosevic’s thugs.’

  ‘And he’s the tosser who bankrolled the Selection attack,’ Bald added in a low growl.

  Lakes tipped ash onto the jetty and kind-of nodded. ‘True. But that’s not the whole story.’

  ‘The fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ Bald asked.

  ‘After the war ended, most of the other warlords went back to being small-time criminals. But not Brozovic. He was different. He was a national icon with an army of devoted foot soldiers willing to serve him. So he took the veterans from the Red Eagles and turned them into a highly organised criminal network. A network that stretches from Belgrade to Amsterdam. It has deep links with the Camorra in Italy and the Russian mafia. It’s one of the most powerful organisations in Europe.’

  ‘So?’ Bald shrugged.

  ‘Even in exile, Brozovic is a big deal. He has more power and influence in his little finger than any Serbian politician. Including Milosevic. He has half the security service in his pocket, and a good number of politicians too.’

  There was a touch of admiration in Lakes’s voice as she spoke. Porter thought back to what Ninkovic had said. Brozovic stood up to the Muslims. He dared to make a stand against the enemy.

  ‘Nothing happens in Serbia without Brozovic knowing about it,’ Lakes went on. ‘He knows where all the bodies are buried. And it’s therefore likely he knows the whereabouts of the other warlords. There are thirteen of them, all with outstanding warrants served up by the ICTY. Arresting them would be a major coup. If we take Brozovic alive, there’s a chance we can find out where the other warlords are hiding and arrest them.’

  ‘Two birds, one stone,’ said Bald.

  ‘More like fourteen birds, one stone,’ said Lakes.

  Porter said, ‘You just said the other warlords were small-time. Why would the Firm give two shits about snatching a few Serb thugs?’

  ‘Because this is the end game for Milosevic,’ Lakes replied. ‘He knows it, and so does the rest of the international community. Kosovo is his last throw of the dice. But he still has the backing of the warlords, and they have a lot of supporters across the country. Hooligans, ex-soldiers, ultra-nationalists, the local mafia. All those nice people. If he wanted to, Milosevic could drag this conflict out for a while yet. Capturing the warlords would deprive him of his last column of support. His regime would quickly crumble. That’s the theory we’re working on, anyway.’

  ‘We? As in the Firm?’

  Lakes said nothing. Her eyes said everything. A thought nudged at Bald.

  ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you just kick down Brozovic’s door and arrest him? Why bother having us lift the bastard in the middle of the city?’

  Lakes flicked her cigarette butt into the water and shook her head. ‘It’s not that simple. If we seized Brozovic through official channels, we’d have to jump through all the usual bureaucratic hoops. He’d get lawyered up before we had a chance to question him. You don’t need me to tell you what would happen next. The other warlords would hear about it and go to ground. Any hopes of bringing them to justice would be gone.’

  ‘You couldn’t arrest him formally anyway,’ Porter said, following her train of thought. ‘Even if you wanted to. There would be questions about how you found him, right? Questions that would make life awkward for the Firm.’

  Lakes smiled uncomfortably, like she’d sat down on a bed of rusty nails. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What happens to Brozovic?’ Porter said. ‘After he spills his guts?’

  Lakes stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and shrugged. ‘Depends. If he refuses to talk, we’ll make him quietly disappear.’

  ‘But if he agrees to cooperate?’ Bald asked, his expression tightening.

  Lakes shrugged again. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  Bald took a step closer to Lakes. Porter could see the fire raging behind his eyes. ‘Yes it bloody is. We’re the ones putting our necks on the line here. Now you’re telling us we have to hand over the guy who orchestrated the whole thing? That’s a bag of bollocks, that.’

  Lakes sighed. ‘I’m not the one making the decisions here. I understand why you want Brozovic dead. Believe me, if I had my way we wouldn’t even be having this discussion. But this order has come right from the very top. The powers that be want Brozovic alive, and there’s nothing I can do to change their minds. My hands are tied.’

  Lakes stared levelly at Porter as she spoke. She’s telling the truth, he thought. She doesn’t want Brozovic taken alive any more than we do.

  ‘You’ll let him off,’ said Bald. ‘If he cooperates. You’ll let the tosser get away with it.’

  Lakes hardened her expression. ‘This isn’t up for negotiation. Arrest Brozovic and hand him over to us once you’ve completed your mission. That’s an order.’

  ‘We don’t work for you, remember?’ Porter said. ‘We’re retired.’

  A smile crawled out of the corner of Lakes’s mouth. ‘We still pay your salaries. Don’t forget that. You might be off the books, but you’re still answerable to Whitehall. I’d tread carefully, if I were you.’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Lakes replied. There was a coldness in her voice and a matching look in her pale green eyes. ‘I’m just telling you how it is. You both signed the contracts. You know the score.’

  Porter clenched his fists in anger. As much as he hated to admit it, Lakes was right. Trying to take on the Firm was a waste of time. The suits over at Vauxhall had long arms. Infinite resources. All they had to do was push a button, and Porter and Bald would be shafted.

  He sighed and said, ‘Just tell us what to do.’

  Lakes relaxed her face into something approaching a smile.

  ‘Once you have Brozovic, you’ll ferry him to the pick-up point. There’s an abandoned airfield ten miles outside Lausanne, at a place called Clarmont. Templar’s local contact will supply you with the details. We’ll have a team waiting for you at the airfield. Once you arrive, hand over the target. Our guys will safely transport Brozovic out of the country to a secure site in Britain.’

  ‘What happens to us after all this?’

  The question came from Bald. Lakes shifted on her feet. ‘You’ll both return to London, as previously agreed. Then our little arrangement will formally come to an end. You’ll remain on the Templar payroll on full-time contracts. Your salary will be eighty thousand a year. Plus benefits and expenses.’ She saw the gleam in Bald’s eye and quickly added, ‘But if Brozovic comes back in a body bag, the deal’s off. Am I clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ Bald replied in a low, angry voice.

  ‘Good.’ Lakes shaped to leave, then stopped. ‘Oh, and before I forget. You’ll be needing these.’

  She reached into her tote bag and took out a padded brown envelope and passed it discreetly to Porter. It wasn’t sealed. Porter popped open the envelope and looked inside. There was a bundle of receipts and train tickets inside. They were all dated a few days ago and carried addresses in Zagreb.

  ‘Leave these behind, once you’ve captured Brozovic,’ Lakes explained. ‘The cops will find them and assume that the men who carried out the attack were Croatian Muslims looking for revenge. They’ll just figure that attackers forgot to dispose of their receipts in their rush to escape.’

  Porter took the envelope and stuffed it inside his jacket. Lakes shivered in the cold and straightened her back.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a plane to catch.’

  Bald grunted. ‘Jetting in and out on the same day? Bloody hell, love. You’re going up in the world.’

  Lakes shot him a look. Then she turned on her heels and paced briskly down Quai Gustave-Ador. She headed south towards the roaring traffic along the wide thoroughfare on Quai du General-Guisa
n, hailed down a taxi and climbed inside. A few moments later the taxi took off and disappeared from view. Then Porter and Bald set off in the direction of the Hotel Dauphin, retracing their steps down Rue d’Italie. They were both fuming at the prospect of having to hand Brozovic over to the Firm. They had spent the past month tracking down the target. Porter had imagined slotting him. The look of fear in his eyes as the men of the SAS finally got their revenge. Now Lakes was taking that away from them. Porter could feel the anger calcifying in his bones.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Bald scowled. ‘It ain’t right, mucker. That warlord killed our lads, and now he’s going to get a fucking free pass.’

  Porter scratched the nape of his neck. ‘I don’t like it either. But you heard her, Jock. She’s got us over a barrel. We’re not in the Regiment any more. Not officially. If we go against orders, she’ll sell us out. We’d be fucked then.’

  ‘Not necessarily, mate.’

  Porter stopped in his tracks and turned to Bald. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  There was a devious gleam in Bald’s eyes. His lips parted into a sly grin. ‘We’ve no worries on that front, mate. I’ve got us covered.’

  Porter stared inquisitively at Bald. Waiting for the guy to explain himself. Without saying a word he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. A pre-paid Nokia handset.

  A burner, Porter realised.

  And then: What’s Jock Bald doing with a burner? The orders from Lakes and Hawkridge had been clear. No one on the team was to have any contact with anyone other than through the official channels. The guys were banned from having any ties to their old lives. And that included a ban on owning a personal mobile.