Deathlist (17 page)

‘The fuck is this?’

‘It’s your contract. Actually, it’s two contracts. The first is a resignation letter. It states that you are being discharged from the Regiment, effective immediately. As soon as you sign that letter, your status will change to civilian. You will be removed from the government payroll, your bank cards will be changed and your military ID rescinded. To all intents and purposes it will look as though you’ve resigned from active duty. Only you haven’t.’

‘It’s called sheep-dipping,’ Hawkridge butted in. ‘It will appear to anyone on the outside that you’ve been stood down and are now on Civvy Street. But you will still be employed by HMG. We’ll place you both into Templar as clean assets. That’s your second contract. A boilerplate agreement between yourselves and Templar, hiring you as security contractors. You’ll have a new identity, new documents, new bank accounts. New everything.’

‘Think of it as money laundering,’ Keppel said with a smug smile. ‘Except with people instead of currency.’

Lakes glanced at her colleagues then turned back to Porter. ‘Nobody will know your past. Where you’ve been, what you’ve done. Who you were. You’ll be entirely clean, or as close as it’s possible to get in today’s world.’

‘We haven’t talked money,’ said Bald.

‘Yes,’ said Lakes. ‘We have.’

Bald shook his head. ‘You’re trying to fob us off with the same salary we were getting in the Regiment. But this isn’t some regular op. You want us to do your dirty work, fine. But you need to pay the going rate.’

Lakes attempted a smile. ‘You care more about money than revenge?’

‘Who says we have to choose? We’re up for slotting the fuckers behind the attack, love. We’re up for that all day long. But if we’re gonna put our necks on the line, we should be getting paid properly.’

‘Out of the question. Money’s tight at the moment. The budget’s being squeezed.’

‘You can always find some more. This is the MoD. You practically have a licence to print the stuff.’

Lakes glanced at Hawkridge. Shifted. Looked back to Bald. ‘Fine. We’ll pay you one-and-a-half times your salary.’

‘Triple it,’ said Bald.

‘Double your salary,’ said Lakes. ‘That’s our final offer. Do we have a deal?’

Porter stilled his trembling left hand and looked down at the contracts. They were giving him the big sell, Lakes and Hawkridge and Keppel, but there was no need. He was already sold on the idea. His name, his past, everything that had happened to him in Beirut. Finally he was being given the opportunity to draw a line in the sand. Put it all behind him and start again. Twelve hours ago Porter had been drinking himself into an early grave and trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Now they were offering him the chance to wipe the slate clean.

Lakes said, ‘Marcus will be your go-to man during the operation. Anything you need will come via Templar. Safe houses, vehicles, hardware. We’ll supply the intelligence and the money, but to all intents and purposes this is a private Templar venture, independent of – and unknown to – HMG.’

And no doubt Keppel will pocket a small fortune and a knighthood in exchange for doing Whitehall a favour, thought Porter. No wonder the guy wore such a big smile. He was going to be fucking minted, even more so than he was now, probably.

Hawkridge leaned forward and dropped his voice so low it could’ve fallen off a cliff.

‘Of course, if either of you gets caught, then you’re on your own.’

Porter smiled faintly. It was the same old Vauxhall deal, then. The contract might be in a different font but the small print was still the fucking same. He didn’t like the idea of working for Keppel. But he didn’t have much of a choice. Either they shook hands with the devil, or they passed up the opportunity to take down the guys who’d slotted their mates. When you framed it like that, it wasn’t any kind of a choice at all.

‘Well?’ Lakes asked. ‘Are you going to sign?’

Porter didn’t hesitate. He took the pen. Scribbled his signature at the bottom of the resignation and then flipped to the highlighted page at the back of the Templar contract. Signed on the dotted line, then set the pen down. Bald did the same. Once they were done, Lakes took the contracts and handed them back to Keppel. She passed the resignation letters to Hawkridge. Then she straightened her back.

‘Nealy will take you to a safe house across town. You’ll spend three days there until your new documents have been processed. In the meantime, I suggest you tie up your affairs and work on memorising your new identities.’

‘What about the other lads on the team?’ Bald asked.

‘Patience, old chap,’ said Keppel. The guy had an annoying habit of always sounding pleased with himself. ‘They’ll RV with you at the safe house. They’re two of my best men.’

‘Regiment?’ Porter said.

Keppel shook his head. ‘But they’re both former SF. They’ve been vetted by our friends over at Thames House. I can vouch for them personally.’ He glanced quickly at Lakes as he spoke.

Bald frowned. ‘Why the outsiders? Why not just get two other fellas from Hereford?’

Porter already knew the answer to that question. ‘Deniability,’ he said, looking at Lakes. ‘The less of a connection us lot have to Hereford, the easier it is for you lot to claim you don’t have anything to do with us.’

Lakes almost smiled. ‘Exactly.’

At that moment the main door clicked and Nealy entered. Lakes stubbed out her cigarette in her empty coffee mug and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘I’ll be along in a couple of days to present your papers and brief you further. Unless you have any questions?’

‘Just the one,’ Porter said. ‘Why us?’

Lakes considered for a beat. ‘We needed someone who fitted our profile and was close to retirement. Someone who could disappear from the grid without attracting much attention.’

Porter smiled wryly. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, love. There are plenty of other Blades in the same position as me. Lots of ex-Regiment men kicking their heels on Civvy Street too.’

Lakes hesitated. Hawkridge shifted awkwardly. ‘We wanted someone obstinate. Someone who doesn’t quit. I’ve seen your file, John. You could have walked away after Beirut. But you didn’t. You decided to stick it out. And you took down two gunmen at the Brecons and very nearly stopped Deeds. That tells me you’ve got guts.’

Porter shook his head. ‘I’m no hero.’

‘We’re not looking for heroes,’ said Lakes. ‘Heroes are no good when you’re trying to keep a low profile. We’re interested in the men who never give up, even when the odds are stacked against them. Men like you.’

‘What about me?’ Bald put in.

‘Your CO recommended you, John,’ Lakes replied. ‘In fact, he couldn’t wait to get rid of you. I understand that incident over at the Killing House was the final straw in your rather chequered Regiment career. If you’d turned down our offer, they would’ve booted you out of Hereford for good.’

Bald stood there, stewing. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.

The meeting was over. Nealy ushered Bald and Porter out of the suite. They rode the Otis back down to the hotel lobby in cold silence. For the first time in a long time, Porter felt alive. He could feel his muscles beginning to pump with adrenaline. Against all the odds, someone had tossed him a second chance. It was a chance to avenge his dead muckers, and a chance to make up for that day in Beirut ten years ago when he’d failed Keith, Mike and Steve.

He wouldn’t fail. Not this time. He would find Bill Deeds and the others. And he would settle the score.

Permanently.

TWENTY-TWO

1827 hours.

The safe house was a fifteen-minute ride east of the Wainwright. Nealy drove them in a slick black BMW 3 Series that still had that new-car smell. Porter eased back in the leather seats as they trundled east on Euston Road, past Madame Tussauds and Regent’s Park and tree-lined streets overflowing with gawping tourists. Everywhere Porter looked there was a lot of rebuilding work going on. Urban regeneration. Cranes towered in the distance. Roads had been sealed off for construction. Old London giving way to the new. They swept past King’s Cross and its cramped rows of shabby pubs and decrepit betting shops and prowling hookers. After another twenty minutes in traffic they hit the City Road, a chaotic spiral of sixties buildings and artists’ warehouses rubbing shoulders with big new glass office blocks.

‘You’re very lucky to be working for Miss Lakes, you know,’ Nealy said.

‘Yeah?’ Bald arched an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s on the up. Lakes is really going places. There are rumours that she’s being lined up to be the next chief of MI6.’

‘Good for her.’

‘Par for the course for her family, I suppose.’ Nealy was making small talk now, filling the silence in the Beemer. ‘They’ve done well for themselves down the years. Highly connected, if you know what I mean.’

‘How so?’ said Porter.

‘Her grandfather was a political commentator in his day. Very influential. Lots of friends in Westminster. Good friend of Oswald Mosley, apparently.’

‘Mosley? The guy who led the British Fascists?’

Nealy nodded awkwardly. ‘I think there’s a bit of mystery there. How much did he really believe all that stuff, you know? Anyway, her father didn’t seem to have any trouble getting a job because of it. Sir Terence. He worked his way up the civil service ladder and ended up being Cabinet Secretary under Ted Heath. Like I said, lot of connections in that family.’

‘Fascinating,’ Bald said drily.

Nealy slowed down past the roundabout at Old Street and made a couple of quick turns down a one-way system. Heading west in the direction of Farringdon and Barbican and Chancery Lane. Halfway down the street he pulled up outside a modern apartment block wedged between a pair of crumbling Georgian townhouses. He steered into a parking space and climbed out of the Beemer. Porter and Bald unfolded themselves and followed Nealy as he beat a path towards the entrance to the apartment block. A sign above the frosted glass doors said, ‘TWENTY-TWO FEATHERSTONE STREET’.

‘Templar own a number of properties in and around town,’ Nealy said cheerily as he fished out the key from his pocket and fiddled with the lock. ‘Serviced apartments for their clients, secure locations for meetings and so on.’

‘Must cost a packet,’ Bald said as he took in the shiny exterior.

‘Oh, Templar aren’t your usual one-man-band security company. Far from it. They have offices all around the world. New York, Boston, Mexico City, Delhi, Tokyo. They’re big business, you know. Very lucrative. Keppel’s an extraordinary man.’

Nealy sounded in awe of Templar, thought Porter. Next he’ll be trying to sell me shares in the bloody company.

They stepped into the foyer. The on-duty doorman greeted Nealy with a polite smile then went back to his paperback Grisham. The three men made for the lift and took the first available one to the third floor.

‘The clientele here is travelling businessmen,’ Nealy explained as he led them towards the apartment at the end of the corridor. ‘No one stays here for more than a few days, and most of them visit three or four times a year. That means you’re not going to raise any questions. No one’s going to pay any attention to four guys coming and going.’

They arrived at the door to number 9. While Nealy twisted the key in the lock, Porter found himself wondering if there was any booze stashed away inside. With a bit of luck Keppel kept the place stocked up with expensive whiskys for his clients.

They stepped into an apartment that looked almost as new as the Beemer, and had the same kind of smell. Nealy gave them the grand tour. There was a huge living room with a twenty-eight-inch Sony TV in one corner and a pair of matching white leather sofas. The kitchen had a Nespresso machine and a black retro Smeg fridge. The laminate wooden flooring was so polished Porter could see his own face in it. The apartment looked more like a showroom than a place where people actually lived. Probably cost north of two million, he figured. And Templar owned dozens of apartments like this, according to Nealy.

‘We’re in the wrong bloody business,’ Bald said, reading his mucker’s mind.

‘There’s a gym in the basement,’ Nealy said as he handed the two Blades a set of keys each. ‘Pool, weights area, treadmills. The fridge is stocked up with food and there’s coffee and tea if you need it.’

‘What are we supposed to do in the meantime?’

Nealy shrugged. Like he pretended to care. Bald said nothing. He was used to sitting around doing nothing. There were long stretches in the Regiment when you were just hurrying up and waiting.

‘What about a drink?’ Porter asked hopefully.

‘Afraid not,’ Nealy said. ‘Company policy. You’re on Templar’s clock now. Keppel runs a tight ship and doesn’t like his men drinking on the job unless it’s to blend in with their environment. For now there’s water, iced tea or coffee.’

Porter gritted his teeth. Maybe signing his life over to Templar hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

Nealy pointed to a set of A4 folders lying on the kitchen table. He handed one to Porter, gave the other one to Bald. ‘Backgrounds for your new identities. Names, dates, where you were born. What school you went to, what beer you drink. The works. The backgrounds of the other guys on the team are there as well. Memorise your identities. Every detail. The slightest inconsistency could make somebody suspicious.’