Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Bald. ‘If you’d told us earlier then Devereaux would still be alive.’

  A pause. ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Coles slotted him before we could grab the fucker.’

  Hawkridge clicked his tongue. ‘Pity. We knew Lakes had flipped one of the chaps on the team, but we couldn’t be sure who. What about Brozovic? Is he still alive?’

  ‘He’s still breathing,’ said Bald. ‘For now.’

  A sigh of relief came down the line. ‘Thank God. Listen, John. You must keep Brozovic alive and get him to us. It’s vital we find out who else was part of this secret movement along with Lakes. She’ll be finished after this. Bloody finished, I tell you. We’ll crucify her.’

  Hawkridge sounded enthusiastic at the prospect. No bloody wonder, thought Bald. He’ll probably be next in line for the top job at Vauxhall once Lakes is out of the picture.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he said.

  ‘The airfield’s out of the question, now that we know Lakes was planning to make the intercept there. We’ll divert the plane and try to find an alterative RV. Until then you’re to sit tight and wait until further notice.’

  ‘And we’re just supposed to fucking trust you?’

  ‘Right now, I’d say you don’t have much of a choice, old fruit.’

  Bald gritted his teeth and said, ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Hawkridge. ‘Stay low. Ciao.’

  Click.

  Bald stuffed the Nokia inside his jacket pocket and quickly outlined the plan to Porter. After he’d finished talking Porter glanced around the farmhouse and said, ‘Well, we can’t stick around here.’

  ‘Where, then?’ asked Bald.

  Porter thought for a moment. ‘There’s a lay-by a few miles to the north. I noticed it on the map. We can go static there and sit it out until we hear back from Hawkridge.’

  Bald said, ‘He could be setting us up.’

  ‘Maybe. But Hawkridge is right. We don’t have any choice. We’ve got to get Brozovic out of the country and Hawkridge is our only ticket.’

  ‘That just leaves us to deal with this fucking twat,’ said Bald, tipping his head at Coles.

  Porter glanced across at Coles. ‘Leave him to me.’

  He paced over to the South African and knelt down beside him, pressing the tip of the Sig Sauer to the side of the guy’s head. Coles started convulsing. Blood streamed out of his nostrils and ran down his chin, mixing with the tears dried to his cheeks. He looked like shit.

  ‘Fuck,’ Coles spat, breathing hard. ‘Jesus, fuck. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Time to go to the great veldt in the sky, you cunt.’

  ‘Jesus, no—’

  Porter fired once. Coles’s brains exploded across the ground in a slippery red shower. The close impact shattered his temple area, leaving a crater in his skull big enough to sink an orange into. Porter stood back, watching the blood pumping out of the fuck-off huge hole in the South African’s head. He felt the same as he did after crushing a cockroach, or feeding poison to a rat. He felt nothing, nothing at all. When you were dealing with vermin, there was no such thing as remorse.

  He paced over to Devereaux and fished the car keys out of his trouser pocket. He took the Sigs from the two dead operators. He also took the spare clips in case they needed the extra. The way things were going he didn’t want to take any chances. Then he called over Bald. They picked up Coles by his arms and legs and dragged his dead weight over to the pile of debris next to the farmhouse. Then they did the same with Devereaux. Porter and Bald laid their bodies next to the metre-high heap of smashed concrete and rotten wood and lead piping. Then they started piling the rubbish on top of Devereaux and Coles. They kept at it until both the bodies were buried under a stack of rubbish, hidden from view. It wouldn’t cover the smell of decomposing flesh. And it wouldn’t stop the flies from getting at the corpses. But it would keep Coles and Devereaux out of sight. Long enough, at least, to give Bald and Porter time to get out of the country.

  They folded themselves into the Merc’s front seats. Porter took the wheel. He arrowed out of the farmhouse and steered the motor back down the dirt track. The Merc bounced and shuddered. Thirty seconds later they were heading to the lay-by north of Founex. Porter figured they could kill a few hours there until they heard back from Hawkridge. Then we’ll hand over Brozovic and get the hell out of here, he told himself.

  And then Lakes is going to pay.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  0837 hours.

  Seventeen minutes later they reached the lay-by. It was on the side of a quiet country road surrounded by flat fields and with zero traffic in either direction. Porter parked up and turned off the engine.

  Brozovic didn’t make a sound in the boot. The gag in his mouth made sure of that.

  As the minutes ticked by questions rattled around inside his head. How deep did this far-right movement run inside the Firm? And if Lakes and Brozovic were both on the same side, why had she allowed him to be targeted by the strike team? Why not just send a message to the Tiger in advance? Warn him that he was about to be lifted? But Porter knew the answer already.

  Lakes was trying to burn the warlord too. As long as Brozovic drew breath, he represented a serious threat to her ambitions. If the authorities ever caught up with Brozovic, there was a chance he might expose his relationship with Lakes. Sell her out and cut himself a deal. With the Tiger out of the way, Lakes wouldn’t have to worry about her secret being revealed.

  She’s getting rid of all the skeletons in her closet before she receives her promotion, Porter realised. Smart. But it’s too late, now Hawkridge has rumbled her. Once we hand over Brozovic to the Firm, his evidence will bury Lakes.

  It’s not over yet. We’ve still got to make it out of here.

  Two hours later, Bald’s Nokia buzzed. He tossed his gum out of the window and took the call.

  ‘The plane’s off,’ said Hawkridge. ‘Mechanical problems. You’ll have to get across the border by car instead.’

  ‘Bloody great,’ Bald replied drily. ‘This just gets better and better. Remind me how you managed to wangle a job at Thames House again?’

  Hawkridge ignored the last remark and said, ‘There’s a crossing at Premanon, west of Nyon. Make your way there now. We’ll have a team in place ready to extract the target and take him back to the UK as soon as you cross the border. They’ll ferry Brozovic across Calais in the back of an articulated lorry.’

  ‘What if the border guards stop us?’

  ‘They won’t,’ Hawkridge replied confidently. ‘The crossing is lightly guarded. The guards usually just wave drivers through. You shouldn’t encounter any problems on that front.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ said Bald. ‘It’s not your fucking neck on the line.’

  ‘Yoga,’ said Hawkridge.

  ‘What was that?’ Bald replied, frowning.

  ‘Once this is over. I suggest you try it, old fruit. Very relaxing, you know. It could really help with your anger.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll stick to the Famous Grouse and Stella.’

  ‘Your call. Our people will be waiting for you at the rendezvous point. There’s a camp site a mile south of Premanon. It’ll be empty at this time of year. You’ll find our chaps there.’

  The line went dead. Bald listened to the dead air for a moment and imagined slogging Hawkridge in the guts. The thought pleased him. Then he put away the Nokia and filled Porter in on the details of the RV. Thirty seconds later they were pulling out of the lay-by and racing north towards Nyon.

  Porter stuck to Route de Suisse, following the dual carriageway for three miles until they hit the city outskirts. Then he made a series of turns and arrowed north-west out of the city on Route de Signy, following the road past Grens and Trelex. The Juras loomed on the horizon, a series of low rugged mountains like the knuckles on a clenched fist. On the other side of the Juras was the border with France. Porter knew the area like the back of his hand from study
ing the maps. He reckoned they were fifteen miles from the border now. Not far to go until we’re home and dry. He could almost taste that first pint. He imagined the warm feeling flowing through his veins as the booze juiced his bloodstream.

  Only this time I won’t be drinking myself into oblivion. I’ll have one pint and bloody well savour it.

  My days as a drunk are behind me.

  After five miles the incline steepened as they started climbing high into the Juras. The road corkscrewed, twisting and turning through a series of bends like a snake through the long grass. Porter kept the Merc ticking along at forty miles per hour, staying under the speed limit. The road was deserted. Earlier on they’d passed a few Lycra-clad cyclists and the odd family car but now they were driving through an isolated stretch of blacktop in the middle of a large forested area, flanked by tall pine and fir trees. They kept climbing. The road kept winding. Another three or four miles and they would hit the junction at Saint-Cergue. From there it was a straight run west towards the French border.

  ‘Almost there, mucker,’ Porter said.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Bald. ‘First round’s on me. Celebrate getting the Firm off our backs. I’ve had it up to here with those backstabbing pricks, mate. I’m done with them.’

  Yeah, but are they done with us? Porter wondered. Something tells me they’re not gonna let us off the hook that easily. The Firm never does.

  He kept his mouth shut and focused on the road. They passed a secluded gravel path at the roadside and after another hundred metres reached a dog-legged bend. There was a steep treeline to the left, and to their right the road dropped off on a heavily forested slope down the side of the mountain. Porter slowed down to twenty per as he followed the bend round. The turn was so sharp he couldn’t see the other side of it. As he hit the apex the view opened up in front of Porter.

  Then he saw it.

  Ahead of him a BMW 5 Series had stopped in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes. The front doors were open and the hazard lights were flashing and popping. Porter hit the brakes. The Merc stopped six metres behind the Beemer.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Bald said. ‘What now?’

  ‘Looks like they’ve broken down,’ said Porter.

  Bald pulled a face. ‘In the middle of the road?’

  Before Porter could reply he heard an engine gunning at his six o’clock. He glanced up at the rear-view just in time to see a Land Rover Defender 110 hurtling out of the gravel path to the rear and rushing towards them. The Defender screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, five metres to the rear of the Merc. Blocking them in.

  Shit.

  Porter automatically slid a hand down to his holstered Sig. Before he could retrieve his weapon he spied movement at his three o’clock and his nine. Four figures swept forward from the treeline either side of the road. Two guys to the left. Two more to the right. They were big guys. They all had shaved heads and deep suntans and Ray-Bans. They were all packing Heckler & Koch MP5 9mm submachine guns. They didn’t look like soldiers. Too flashy. Too tanned. They looked more like mercenaries coming off a job in Africa. The four gunmen converged on the Merc simultaneously, their MP5s tucked tight to their shoulders and sighted at Bald and Porter.

  ‘Get out!’ one of the gunmen shouted.

  A Scouse accent. These guys were Brits, then. But definitely not from the Firm. Porter knew it was pointless to resist. It would be suicide. They’d brass him up before he could deholster his weapon.

  ‘Fucking out!’ the Scouse gunman shouted again.

  Porter reached a hand down from the steering wheel and popped the handle on the door. Then he slowly stepped out of the Merc. Bald got out the other side. Two more gunmen debussed from the Defender. They looked identical to the four steroid-guzzling freaks standing either side of the treeline. They probably lifted weights together and shared spray-on tan tips. They turned towards the Beemer. Porter chased their line of sight and saw two figures stepping out of the rear passenger doors. A man and a woman. The woman dashed her cigarette and crushed the butt under her low heel. Then she paced over to the Merc, with the man at her side.

  ‘Hello, John,’ Cecilia Lakes said. She smiled. ‘You didn’t think you’d get away from us that easily, did you?’

  Porter showed no reaction. Keppel stood next to Lakes. The former Regiment CO wore a crisp suit with the collar button popped. He had a Heckler & Koch USP pistol in his right hand. His jaw looked squarer than ever. He cocked his chin at Porter and Bald.

  ‘Lose the weapons,’ he said. ‘Nice and slow.’

  Six gunmen, Porter was thinking. Seven including Keppel. Against two of us. Grim odds, whichever way you looked at it. He carefully slid his pistol out of his holster, ejected the clip and shunted the round out of the chamber. So did Bald. Then the operators placed their unloaded weapons on the blacktop and kicked them across to the nearest gunman. The Scouse. He stepped forward and scooped them up.

  Six miles from the border. Six miles from freedom, and now we’re fucked.

  Lakes ran her eyes over the Merc then looked back to Porter. ‘Where’s Brozovic?’

  ‘In the boot.’

  There was no point holding back. They’d find him anyway.

  Keppel snapped his piercing gaze to the nearest gunman. ‘What the fuck are you waiting for, man? Get him out of there.’

  The gunman lowered his weapon and hurried over to the Merc, snatching the keys from the ignition. Then he swung around to the boot and unlocked it. He removed the dirty cloth from Brozovic’s mouth and hauled the warlord out of the boot. He stood unsteadily on his feet, groaning and gulping down mouthfuls of air.

  ‘A shame we’ll have to kill him,’ Lakes said curtly.

  Porter swung his gaze back to her. He bristled with rage. ‘You sold us a fucking lie.’

  ‘I’ve got the eyes of the security and intelligence committees on me,’ Lakes replied with a shrug. ‘I had to be seen to following orders. If I’d ordered you to execute Brozovic, my bosses would have understood I had something to hide. Besides, it’s clear Brozovic is too much of a liability now. He was useful once, but as long as he’s alive there’s a chance he may be arrested, and I can’t allow that to happen. Not with my career on the line.’ She smiled again. ‘You see my predicament.’

  Porter growled, ‘I know what I see. You supported a warlord who got a kick from chopping up civvies and planned the attack on the Regiment. You’re a backstabber and a fucking coward.’

  Lakes smiled faintly. ‘Coles told you everything before you killed him, I see. I presume you killed him, since he’s not with you now.’ She looked for a reaction from Porter, then went on. ‘Yes. You’ve figured it out. I helped Brozovic during the war. With some help from our American friends, naturally. But something had to be done. We couldn’t just stand back and do nothing while our governments abandoned our Christian brothers.’

  ‘We?’

  Lakes nodded. ‘The movement. Look around you, John. There’s an Islamic takeover of the West happening right now, in front of our very eyes. Look at the mosques. The faith schools. Multiculturalism.’ Her voice trembled with anger. ‘In the days of the Crusades, it was the job of the Knights Templar to fight Islam. Now it’s up to those of us inside Whitehall and Washington to carry on the struggle.’

  There was a fanatical look in her eyes as she spoke. Christ, Porter thought. Lakes really does believe this crap.

  ‘You’re fucking insane.’

  ‘No. Not really. You’d be surprised how many people share my beliefs. Mine and my grandfather’s. There are plenty of people inside the establishment who agree with what we’re doing, even if they can’t say so publicly.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Lakes chuckled. ‘Come on, John. Do you really think a single MI6 agent would be able to arrange an illicit deal to funnel weapons and intelligence to Brozovic, without any of her superiors taking notice?’

  ‘Who else?’ Porter said. ‘Who else is in on it?’

 
; ‘Too many to name. But we have friends in the cabinet. In the upper echelons of the civil service. The media. Indeed, in every corner of the establishment there are people who support our agenda. We’re more powerful than you could ever imagine.’

  Porter said nothing. He thought back to what Nealy had told him before the mission briefing. About Lakes’s family being highly connected. About how her grandfather had been a mate of Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts. How her father had been a top civil servant under Ted Heath. Now he wondered if they were all part of this secret movement. A state within a state. Christ, how deep does this thing go?

  ‘But why support some Serb warlord on the other side of Europe?’

  ‘Brozovic shared our beliefs. And he needed our help. He was on the frontline, and the Americans had betrayed him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The CIA was supplying weapons to the Bosnian Muslims. Unofficially, of course. When the war broke out, the Saudis wanted to help their cousins in Bosnia. So they called in their debts to Washington. The Americans owed the Saudis after the Gulf War. But supplying guns to the Bosnians was strictly illegal. We heard about it through our friends in the agency. We had no choice but to intervene. We had to support Brozovic, in whatever ways we could.’

  Porter could barely believe what he was hearing. There was a secret arms race going on in Bosnia, and no one even knew about it.

  ‘Then the war finished,’ Lakes continued. ‘We had to hide Brozovic. Keep him out of sight. In hindsight, it was a mistake. We should have simply disposed of him. Still, we’ll take care of that problem now. And you two will die as well. It’s all working out rather nicely, I’d say.’

  ‘How the hell did you know where to find us?’ Bald seethed.

  ‘It was easy enough. Once you failed to show at the RV I knew the plan had been compromised, and you’d have to get out of the country by road. There are only two crossing points near Nyon. And you wouldn’t have tried to cross at Geneva. Not with the heavy security presence there. This was the only route open to you. Then it was just a case of waiting until our guys in the Defender caught sight of you.’