Deathlist (15 page)

‘Either of you gentlemen know a chap called Steve Mann?’ he asked. ‘Steve from Doncaster?’

‘Sorry, mate,’ Porter replied, giving the prearranged response. ‘We’re both from Chelmsford. Never been to Doncaster in our lives.’

The liaison nodded again, their identities established. He lowered his voice. ‘I’m Nealy,’ he said flatly, giving them the usual warm and friendly Firm welcome. ‘Follow me, please. They’re waiting.’

‘Who?’ Bald asked.

‘You’ll see.’

Porter sank the dregs of his Bushmills, putting the lid on the hangover drilling between his temples. Then he and Bald followed Nealy out of the bar. They paced across the spit-polished lobby and took the next available Otis lift to the twelfth floor. Thirty seconds later they were following Nealy down a wide, stuffy corridor lined with old paintings. Eventually Nealy stopped outside a room with a discreet brass plaque next to it that read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He took out a keycard from his jacket pocket and swiped it through the reader. The reader clicked and the lock light flashed green. Then Nealy cracked open the door and motioned for Bald and Porter to step inside.

They entered a hallway that smelled of potpourri and money. There was a private dining room ahead, and a bathroom to the right that seemed to be constructed entirely of white marble and gold. Nealy ushered them into a large room to the left. They swept into a lounge twice the size of Porter’s flat, and maybe a thousand times more expensive. An Egyptian rug covered the polished marble floor. The furnishings were antique and the paintings hanging from the walls looked like they belonged in the Louvre. If Sotheby’s rented a storage unit, Porter figured it would look something like this.

Three figures were sitting around a coffee table in the middle of the room. Two men and a woman. They stood up to greet the two Blades as they entered. Porter sized up the woman first. She had dark brown shoulder-length hair and wide green eyes. She wore a black skirt suit and low heels and although she appeared to be in her late forties, Porter could tell from her figure that she kept herself in good shape. She greeted Porter with a professional smile. The kind you get when you walk into Coutts to open a bank account, maybe. Her whole demeanour suggested someone who knew exactly where she was going in her life, and what she had to do to get there.

‘Thank you, Nealy,’ the woman said.

Nealy took the hint. He turned on his heels and paced out of the suite, closing the door behind him. Once he was gone the woman turned back to Porter and Bald. She still wore the professional smile, but it was wavering slightly at the edges.

‘Thank you for joining us, gentlemen. My name is Cecilia Lakes, Director of Operations at MI6.’ She gestured towards the nearest of the two men. ‘And this is Clarence Hawkridge, MI5.’

Porter swivelled his gaze towards Hawkridge. The guy frowned at him, as if Porter was something he’d just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Hawkridge had a childlike face and horn-rimmed glasses and thinning hair. His lips curled up at the edges slightly in a sneering expression.

He said, ‘Thank you for coming, chaps. Hope you had a pleasant journey.’

Bald grunted and said, ‘It was fucking wild.’

Hawkridge adjusted his glasses. Smiled uncomfortably. Lakes moved on. Gestured to the third man. ‘This is Marcus Keppel. CEO of Templar International.’

Porter recognised the name immediately. The ex-CO of 22 SAS. He had a square jaw and bright, piercing blue eyes. He wore a charcoal two-piece with a crisp white shirt and a popped collar button, no tie. His shoes were polished to within an inch of their life. His cufflinks gleamed. The guy was so crisp it was like he’d walked straight out of the fridge. Keppel looked posh as fuck, but hard as nails. One of those Ruperts with an uber-competitive streak, Porter figured. The guy probably climbed mountains and competed in triathlons in his spare time.

What’s Keppel doing here?
Porter wondered.
I thought this was an MI6 op, not some private gig.

‘Always good to see a couple of Regiment men.’ Keppel talked in a deep and matter-of-fact voice that was rough around the edges. ‘You were in Beirut, if I recall?’

Porter nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Bloody mess, that. After my time, of course, but I heard about what happened on the grapevine.’

Porter felt his hand instinctively clench. He glanced around the room, hoping to see a rack of drinks or maybe a mini-bar. There was nothing except the tray of tea and coffee and posh mineral water placed on the coffee table in front of him.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.

Keppel nodded professionally. His eyes were cold and grey and hard. Like wet stones on a winter beach. ‘Still. These things stay with a man. We’ve all been there, lad. Nothing for it but to stand tall and soldier on through.’

There was a pause of silence, and then Lakes gestured to the empty sofa next to the coffee table. ‘Please. Sit down. Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?’

‘Fine, love,’ said Porter as he parked himself on the sofa. He almost asked for a shot of Bushmills. Almost, but didn’t.

Lakes reached for a pack of Parliaments from her handbag and sparked up with a silver Zippo lighter. She took a long drag. Exhaled. Porter noticed a thick manila folder lying next to the ashtray on the coffee table. Lakes took another pull on her smoke then reached for the file and flipped it open to the first page.

‘John Porter,’ she began, as if doing a book reading. ‘Born in Ealing on 7th May, 1962. Served in the Irish Guards from 1980 to 1988. Transferred to the SAS the same year. Served until ’92, then given a six-month sabbatical before returning to the Regiment in 1993. Lost two fingers during a hostage-rescue operation in Beirut in ’89. Separated from your wife, Diana, and your eight-year-old daughter Sandy.’

Porter listened impassively as Lakes read out his file. This was a typical Firm play, he knew. The Vauxhall suits get you nice and comfortable. Then they read out your file in front of you, showing you how much they know about you, from your primary school reports right down to what brand of toothpaste you use. Their aim was to intimidate you. It was the Firm’s way of saying,
See how easily we can find out about the tiniest details of your life? Don’t try hiding any aces up your sleeve, because it won’t work.

Lakes flipped the page and turned to Bald. Gave him the same treatment.

‘John Fraser Bald. Born 20th June, 1971 at the Maryfield Hospital in Dundee. Attended St John’s Roman Catholic High School. Left at sixteen and joined the Black Watch. Passed Selection to 22 SAS in 1993. The same year, faced charges for almost triggering a diplomatic incident by crossing the border in Northern Ireland and killing several Provisional IRA suspects, as well as an MI5 informant.’

‘To be fair,’ Bald said, grinning, ‘those Irish fuckers started it.’

Porter raised a half smile. Lakes just stared at the Jock. Like she was suffering from a total sense-of-humour failure. She took another drag on her tab and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

‘Before I continue, I must point out that everything that is said in this room is classified information. Under no circumstances will you mention our conversation to anyone else. Not to your family, not to your friends. Not now, not ten years from now. Am I clear?’ She noticed Bald looking warily around the room and added, ‘The room’s secure. Our guys swept it thoroughly.’

‘Fine,’ said Bald, giving a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘What’s the craic, love?’

Lakes looked at the two men carefully. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Because someone told us to get in a car.’

Lakes arched an eyebrow at Porter. ‘Is your friend always this funny?’

‘Only when I’m sober,’ Bald deadpanned. ‘You should see me after a dozen Stellas. I’m fucking hilarious then, lass.’

Hawkridge poured himself a glass of sparkling water and took a long gulp, as if trying to calm his nerves. Keppel just sat there, carefully studying the two men and giving away nothing. His mouth was like the stroke of a knife across a throat.

Lakes said, ‘You’re here because of Friday’s events. But you probably guessed that already.’ She watched Porter. He nodded. She smoked and continued. ‘The government’s stance on this matter is perfectly clear. An attack of this nature cannot be tolerated, and the people behind it must be made to pay. We’re putting together a team, and we want you both to be part of it.’

‘What kind of a team?’ Porter asked. But he already knew the answer to that question.

Lakes smoked and said, ‘We want you to find the people who did this. And we want you to kill them.’

There was a pregnant silence in the room. No one said anything for what felt like a very long time, but was probably no more than four or five seconds. Then Lakes continued.

‘It’ll be an outside job. You’ll resign from the Regiment with immediate effect, both of you. Officially you’ll be working for Templar as private contractors on the Circuit, with Marcus’s blessing. Unofficially, you’ll report to myself and Clarence.’

‘Give up our jobs in the Regiment?’ Porter spluttered. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘We are,’ Hawkridge replied. ‘Deadly, old fruit.’

Bald said, ‘What about our pay? Our pensions?’

‘You’ll be paid by Templar, as if you were contractors on their payroll. The pay will be equal to what you currently receive at Hereford. As for your pensions, they’ll be funnelled into private accounts. No one will have access to them as long as you’re employed by Templar. They’ll gather dust, and interest, until such a point as your contracts are terminated.’

Lakes saw the sceptical looks in their eyes and said, ‘That’s non-negotiable. This operation has to remain at arm’s length from Whitehall. Orders from the very top. If you want in, that’s how we have to play it.’

Porter pressed his lips shut. Said nothing. Now he understood why Keppel was there. To keep the Firm out of it. To disguise their involvement. Someone higher up the food chain than Lakes or Hawkridge didn’t want any government fingerprints on the job. The whole thing sat uneasily with Porter. His gut instincts told him to get up and leave.
Walk away from the job, John. While you still have the chance.
Porter didn’t like the idea of throwing in the towel and giving up the only job he’d ever known.

But then an image flashed in front of him. Joe Kinsella’s mutilated body slumped in the road, the air choked with the putrid stench of burning flesh and metal. The garbled screams of his dying muckers carrying through the cold air. He thought of the dead soldiers’ families. He thought of the police investigators collecting up the bits of bodies, and the anger flared up inside him, like someone had thrown a switch in his chest. As much as he distrusted Keppel, he couldn’t leave. He’d pulsed with the desire for revenge. Now Lakes was offering him a chance to slot the guys responsible for the attack. It wasn’t the kind of offer you turned down, no matter what strings were attached.

Hawkridge and Lakes exchanged a quick look. The MI5 man leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Chaps, I realise this is a big decision. If you need some time to think it through—’

Porter cut him off with a wave of his palm.

‘I’m in,’ he said.

Hawkridge nodded. He turned to Bald. ‘And you, John?’

‘I was never fucking out, mate. Who’s the target?’

Lake’s lips curled up slightly at the edges. Porter figured that was as close as she ever got to breaking out into a smile. She stubbed out her cigarette and cleared her throat. ‘There will be several.’ But right now we just have the one.’

She plucked a photograph from the folder and slid it across the table. Porter and Bald both leaned forward to get a closer look at the snap. It was a grainy shot of a heavyset guy dressed in army combats, posing in front of the camera with his shirt off. He had a tattoo of the St George’s flag inked across his chest, and a distinctive red cross on the side of his neck. The cross was narrow at the centre and curved at the edges. It looked like the kind of thing knights wore over their chainmail armour in the Crusades. The guy’s face was round and hard and smooth, like a bowling ball. His small eyes peered out from their deep sockets like a couple of coins glinting at the bottom of a deep well.

Porter looked at the face and recognised it with a jolt.

It was the face of the rambler he’d seen bombing it down the side of Pen y Fan. The gunman who’d escaped the Storey Arms and given Bald and Porter the slip at the Beacons reservoir. The guy Porter had nailed in the shoulder.

Tank.

TWENTY-ONE

1714 hours.

‘His name is Bill Deeds,’ Lakes said. She paused and reached for another cigarette from her pack. ‘He’s ex-Parachute Regiment. Born in Clacton in 1969. Deeds got in trouble for a string of petty offences as a teenager. He flunked his exams but earned money working as a doorman in various clubs in the East End. In 1991 Deeds joined 2 Para. Three years later, he applied for SAS Selection. He failed the distance on the Fan Dance. The following year he tried out again, but he was kicked out for failing a drugs test. His failure left him with a lifelong grudge against the Regiment.’

‘What’s new?’ Bald said. ‘Half the crap hats hate our guts.’

‘Perhaps. But Deeds’ hatred runs deeper than most. After he failed Selection the second time around he fell in with an Essex-based crime syndicate run by a guy called Curtis Scarsdale. The syndicate is made up of former football hooligans and old East End gangsters who got into the cocaine smuggling business. Deeds needed the money. He did a few jobs here and there for Scarsdale.’