by Ryan, Chris
‘I’m not over the hill,’ Porter insisted. ‘I won’t fuck this one up.’
‘You’d better not. Because if this op goes pear-shaped, Six won’t be sending in the cavalry. You heard what Madeleine said.’
Porter nodded.
Once you’re on the ground, you’re on your own.
Another thought occurred to him. ‘You think Cantwell was right? About that researcher having panic attacks?’
‘Fuck knows. But I know one thing. If it goes noisy, it won’t matter if she’s having a breakdown. We’ll have half the Venezuelan army on our backs. It’ll be a miracle if we make it out of there alive.’
Two miles away, Julian Cantwell took a fortifying sip of Lagavulin and picked up the phone.
The office was dark. Outside, the street was quiet except for the hum of the occasional passing car. Strange to think that two days ago, Nick Gregory had died just a few hundred metres away from this very building. The death of the cyclist had been unfortunate, but Cantwell had understood the argument that it made the journalist’s death look more like an accident. He had played his part, staying in his office and waiting until the incident hit the news before contacting the police to make a statement. There had been a brief interview with a pair of detectives, but they had swiftly cleared him of any involvement.
Now it was time to focus on the other thing.
Cantwell had returned to the office directly after his briefing with Strickland and the two soldiers. He had hacked through some of his emails, responded to questions from a few prospective clients, but in truth he was just dithering. Delaying the inevitable. At ten o’clock he had finally summoned up the courage to make the call.
He opened up the same HideMyTracks app he’d used to contact the Americans. Tapped in the overseas mobile number he had committed to memory and hit Dial.
Then he waited.
After four rings, the other guy picked up.
‘One moment,’ the voice said.
There was a muffled sound of someone hack-coughing. Cantwell sat and waited. A few beats later the gruff voice came back on the line.
‘How did it go?’
‘Well, I think,’ Cantwell said.
‘You think?’
Cantwell inwardly cursed himself. His boss disliked vague answers.
‘It’s hard to be definitive,’ he said. ‘Strickland was playing her cards very close to her chest. Habit of a lifetime, I suppose.’
‘Did she suspect anything?’
‘I didn’t get that impression.’ He hastily added, ‘They don’t know a thing. As far as they were aware, I was just a concerned citizen wanting to help an old friend.’
‘Who you haven’t spoken to in fifteen years.’
‘She doesn’t know that.’
‘What do they know?’
‘About the plan? Nothing, apparently. They’re completely in the dark.’
The voice was silent for a few seconds.
‘What about the other thing?’
‘It’s still early,’ Cantwell replied. ‘But so far, no issues to report.’
‘So we’re ready?’
‘As much as we can be.’
The voice went quiet again.
‘It’s important this works, Julian.’
‘I know.’
‘Because if it doesn’t—’
‘It will,’ Cantwell cut in. ‘Trust me. I’ve got my best people on it. They know what they’re doing.’
‘Good.’
Another pause.
Cantwell said, ‘Are your men in place?’
‘That doesn’t concern you. Just focus on your side of the arrangement, and we’ll take care of ours. Division of labour. Makes everybody’s life much easier.’
‘What now, then?’
‘You wait,’ the voice said. ‘When it needs to happen, we’ll be in touch.’
ELEVEN
Bald rose at exactly five o’clock the following morning. He dressed in the workout gear Six had left for him in the wardrobe and headed down to the basement gym in the pre-dawn light. Beasted himself with his usual routine. Twelve sets of crunches, push-ups and pull-ups. An eight-kilometre run on the treadmill, followed by twenty kilometres on the bike. He pushed himself until he was lathered in sweat. Until the demons in his head were drowned out and he was ready to go to war with the world again rather than with himself. Then he padded back upstairs, showered, shaved and changed into a fresh shirt, 5.11 tactical trousers and Gore-Tex boots.
He found Porter in the kitchen, dressed in a long-sleeved olive-green shirt and stone-coloured khakis, grazing on a slice of thickly buttered toast while he flicked through one of the guide books to Venezuela. Bald guzzled down a long black coffee, fixed himself a bowl of porridge and perched on the sofa, watching the news on the TV.
The headlines were dominated by the power outage in north London. Experts were claiming that some sort of technical fault had caused the blackout. National Grid officials were saying that it was too early to comment. Reporters were out roaming the streets of Edgware, interviewing locals. There was no mention of possible Russian interference.
Twelve minutes later, Hugo Merrick arrived.
He entered unannounced, using his own key card to unlock the door. The guy looked just as tired and shabby as he’d appeared at the briefing the previous day. His grey hair was ruffled, his shirt heavily creased. Dandruff on the lapels of his jacket.
Bald and Porter gathered round the kitchen table as Merrick laid a leather briefcase flat on the surface and popped the latches. He pulled out two wadded envelopes from the briefcase, along with a pair of plastic document folders and a couple of brand-new smartphones.
‘I’ll make this quick,’ Merrick said. ‘There’s rather a lot to go through before you catch your flight.’
Porter said, ‘Where’s Strickland?’
‘Madeleine is busy. She’s asked me to handle the operational side of things.’
‘Must be hard,’ Bald said. ‘Being Maddy’s errand boy.’
Merrick stared at him. ‘I’d drop the attitude if I were you, chum. Especially since we’re going to be working together closely in the future.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Porter.
‘Director of the Branch is a stepping stone to bigger and better things. Madeleine will be moving upstairs before long.’
‘How soon?’
‘Sooner than you think. A year. Could be more, could be less. Word is, she’s being groomed for Deputy Director. Which means someone else will have to take over at the Branch.’
‘Meaning you.’
Merrick stretched his thin lips into a grin. ‘Who else? I’m the second-in-command at the Branch, I’ve got two decades of experience at Vauxhall. I’m the natural choice.’
Bald looked at the guy, suddenly grasping why Merrick didn’t seem bitter about being subordinate to someone much younger. Merrick was simply biding his time, he realised. Playing the role of the helpful 2iC, knowing that one day he would be sitting in the hot seat.
‘So . . . word to the wise,’ Merrick went on, ‘you’d do well to stay in my good books. You don’t want me as an enemy when I’m the one calling the shots. That goes for both of you.’
Bald said, ‘Doesn’t matter to me. One last op and I’m done with you wankers anyway.’
Merrick continued smiling at him but the look in his eyes was cold.
Porter pointed to the plastic folders and broke the silence. ‘What’s all this stuff?’
‘Identification,’ Merrick replied. ‘Clean passports, driving licences, plus work visas and corporate ID, proof that you are contracted employees of GreyWatch International.’
Bald picked up one of the holders, took out the passport and leafed through the pages. It looked fairly new, but some switched-on individual at Six had made sure to crease the front of the passport and include a few backdated visa stamps. He tossed it aside and looked up as Merrick indicated the two envelopes.
‘Walk-around money. You’ll take two thousand d
ollars in US currency each. Technically illegal in Venezuela but most places will accept them, now that the bolivar is essentially worthless. You’ll also carry a million Colombian pesos apiece, plus credit cards linked to GreyWatch’s corporate account. A credit limit of ten thousand dollars on each. They won’t be much use in Venezuela, I’m afraid – the card readers are notoriously unreliable. But they should take care of any unforeseen expenses when it comes to getting out of the country.’
Porter gestured to the smartphones. ‘What’s the deal with these?’
‘Your Six-issued phones. Standard features, really. End-to-end encryption for both voice and text, GPS tracking and an emergency locator beacon in the event you’re compromised.’
‘How do we reach you?’
‘There’s a number stored on the phones. Under your Contacts list. Call it, and you’ll be put through directly to Vauxhall. Someone will monitor the line around the clock. Use it only in case of emergencies.’
Bald said, ‘What’s the procedure if we need to bug out of the country early?’
‘We can’t offer you any support on this one,’ Merrick replied impatiently. ‘Madeleine has already explained all that.’
‘You’re just going to hang us out to dry?’
‘The Americans will have your backs. They’ll be watching you every step of the way. If it goes wrong, I’m sure they’ll do what they can to get you to safety.’
He remembered something else and pointed to another icon.
‘Boarding passes for your flights are in this folder. You’re already checked in. The fourteen thirty-five from Heathrow to Bogotá. There’s a short stopover at Houston before your connecting flight departs. Should arrive at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Porter said, ‘What happens once we land?’
‘One of our local contacts will meet you at the airport. Alberto Mendoza. He’s connected to the guerrillas. He’ll escort you to their jungle camp.’
‘What about the ex-SEALs?’
‘They’re already en route. You’ll meet them at the camp. Once you’re all in place you’ll receive a detailed briefing on the rescue mission from one of our chums at Langley. You shouldn’t be at the camp for more than a couple of days.’
‘Why aren’t we moving out straight away?’
Merrick adjusted his glasses. ‘The Americans are still building up the intelligence picture. There’s also a great deal for us to arrange at our end. We need to prepare a cover story for Fuller’s rescue. Her family will need to be briefed. And that’s without the problem of gathering information without any assets on the ground.’
‘Don’t the Yanks have anyone?’
‘A handful of people. But it’s not easy, in the current climate. They’re pulling together as much information as they can, but it’s taking time. They want as much clarity as possible before they give the green light.’
‘Not like them,’ Bald observed. ‘Usually they can’t wait to go in guns blazing.’
‘The Company’s keen to keep this mission discreet. They’ve got as much to lose as we have if it goes wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘They have a shared interest in our anti-cartel operations in Venezuela. The White House is keen to bring down the main suspects. Especially the president’s brother. That would be a big win for them, politically. If Fuller gives up what she knows, the brother will inevitably go underground. The case against him will collapse.’
‘Let’s assume the op goes smoothly. Assume we manage to lift this researcher without getting bumped by the Venezuelans. What then?’
‘Once you have the package, your orders are to head for a designated extraction point. The Americans will handle the details.’
Bald grunted. ‘We’re relying a lot on the Yanks here.’
‘We don’t have a choice. Venezuela is their backyard, geopolitically speaking.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t have to, chum. You just have to do what you’re damn well told. Now, unless there’s anything else, I suggest you get packing. Your driver will pick you up in an hour.’
Bald and Porter checked out of the apartment fifty-nine minutes later. They travelled light, carrying only their passports, phones and money, with the bare essentials for their journey packed inside their black nylon go-bags. They carried a change of shirts, socks and underwear, a spare pair of Gore-Tex boots, a few basic toiletries, their guidebooks and a pair of heavy-duty portable power banks for charging up their phones on the move. They left behind their personal phones, along with their bank cards and ID. Anything that might incriminate them. Their items would be returned to them once the mission was over, Merrick had said.
They were picked up by the same Vauxhall Insignia driven by the same widow-peaked guy and ferried west towards Heathrow. Fifty minutes later, the Insignia disgorged them in front of Terminal 2. Bald and Porter hefted their backpacks out of the boot and joined the stream of passengers trotting into the main building. They located the check-in area for their flight, handed over their passports and answered a bunch of questions.
The check-in guy tapped a few keys, smiled and wished them a nice trip.
They breezed through security and hit the departures lounge. Which looked more like an out-of-town shopping mall than an airport terminal. They strolled past the designer fashion outlets and the luxury jewellers and found a spare table at the back of a garishly lit coffee shop. Ordered cappuccinos and propped their backpacks against the legs of their chairs and watched the screen for their gate number.
Bald said, ‘What do you reckon their game is?’
Porter said, ‘Who?’
‘Bill and Mary. The CIA. What are they helping us for?’
Porter poured a sachet of fake sugar into his coffee and considered. ‘Could be just like they said. Maybe they want to do us a good turn.’
‘Bollocks. When did you ever hear of the Company lifting a finger for us?’
‘They helped the Regiment in Iraq. Supplied us with intel.’
‘When their own backs were against the wall. They were fucking desperate to bring down al-Qaeda and needed our help to do it. But this is different. There’s nothing in it for them.’
‘There’s something they’re not telling us?’
‘Either that, or we’re letting the American president build a shiny new hotel on the Thames.’
Porter stirred his sugar into his coffee and went quiet for a beat. ‘There’s something else that doesn’t make sense.’
‘What?’
‘Why is Vauxhall going to all this trouble to rescue Fuller in the first place? Usually they’d just go through the diplomatic channels. Now, all of a sudden, they want to send in a bunch of ex-SF blokes to break her free. What for?’
‘She’s got int. From her research. The cartels. Maddy explained all that.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Maddy wouldn’t lie to me.’
Porter cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’ve really taken a shine to her, haven’t you? Fuck me, mate. You’ll be buying her a box of Milk Tray next.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m pulling your leg. It’s just strange to hear you praising someone other than yourself.’
‘She’s different to the rest of those back-stabbing twats at Vauxhall. She’s a tough lass. A fighter. I respect her for that. But my point is, she’s got no reason to lie to us.’
‘Just seems like we’re going to a lot of effort for some academic.’
‘We’ve rescued civvies before,’ Bald countered. ‘Pacifists, charity workers, journalists. All sorts.’
‘When it’s clear they’re about to be executed. But we’re not talking about the Taliban here, Jock. The Venezuelans aren’t in the head-chopping game. They’re corrupt as fuck, but they’d hand Fuller over sooner or later, for the right price.’
‘Maybe they don’t want to bargain with Vasquez.’
‘It’s got to be less risky than sending us in to rescue her. What if it goes
noisy? She might get slotted in the firefight.’
Bald shrugged. ‘Six must have their reasons. I couldn’t care less. We’ve got enough problems on our plate without worrying about that.’
‘You mean the Yanks?’
‘I mean Venezuela. We’re going into a Grade-A shithole. Place was bad enough the last time I was there.’
Porter looked at his friend curiously. ‘You’ve been there before?’
‘Aye.’
‘When?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘What for?’
‘A job,’ said Bald. ‘With Six. Before Strickland’s time.’
‘Just you?’
‘And another Hereford lad. Joe Gardner.’
Porter made a face. ‘I knew Joe. What ever happened to him? He seemed to disappear off the grid.’
Bald cast his mind back six years. He remembered the scene vividly. A farmhouse in the French Alps. Joe Gardner’s bloated corpse hanging from a rope tied to a ceiling beam. His guts hanging out of the wide gash in his stomach, the glistening pool of blood and entrails on the floor.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ he muttered. ‘We lost touch. Guess he moved on to better things.’
Porter said, ‘Do you think we’ll get her out of there?’
‘Depends,’ Bald replied. ‘If those ex-SEALs are up to scratch, and the plan is sound, then we’ve got a fighting chance.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
‘Then I’ll walk away. Simple.’
‘You can’t do that. You gave Strickland your word.’
‘I’m not risking my balls for some swot who got herself into trouble, mate. If the odds look good, then fine. But if it smells like a suicide mission, you can count me out.’
‘We’re Blades, for fuck’s sake. This is what we do.’
‘Not any more, we’re not. I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on getting myself captured and thrown in a Venezuelan prison. That’s not how the Jock Bald story ends.’
‘What about Strickland’s offer? The company?’
‘She can keep it. I’ll find some other way to make my millions.’
‘You can’t pull out. Not now. The ball’s rolling. Jesus, you’d shaft the op.’
‘Not my problem,’ Bald said. ‘Mark my words. If this thing looks dodgy, I’m gone. No ifs or fucking buts.’
