Gray Salvation (11 page)

Chapter 17

23 January 2016

Len Smart pulled his Ford into a bay in Heathrow’s long-term car park and the team climbed out to retrieve their luggage from the back of the car. Along with Smart and Sonny were three others, handpicked for the mission.

Mark Howard was only four months out of the regiment and, like Sonny, had been an instructor in close quarters battle, specialising in fighting in urban situations. A Yorkshireman, he stood a shade under six feet and wore his black hair in a tight crew cut.

Sean Butterworth, also known as Doc, was a tall, wiry figure who brought language and first-aid skills to the party. He would be the squad’s medic and one of two who spoke fluent Russian.

The other was Edgar Melling, who matched Sonny’s diminutive physique but lacked his joviality.

Along with his personal luggage, Smart pulled a Samsonite suitcase containing the Sentinels, automated firing systems patented by Gray and used to good effect in Malundi a year earlier. They consisted of a modified rifle breach and two-inch barrel that was fed with up to two hundred rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition. The external casing of these particular units was designed to resemble stone, ideal for deployment to places such as Afghanistan. The satellite imagery had shown plenty of rubble on the streets of Dubrany, making them the perfect choice.

While Sentinels could be left in deploy-and-forget mode – the units opened fire when proximity sensors were triggered – they could also be controlled remotely. This enabled the operator to see approaching targets and manoeuvre the barrel to pick them off. Gray’s company had tried developing an app for phones and tablets that would do a similar job, but in Wi-Fi and data blackspots the units refused to respond. They’d been able to achieve a little success using Bluetooth technology, but unless the handsets were adapted to use Class 1 radios, range bottomed out at around thirty feet.

The handsets in Smart’s luggage allowed him to control up to eight units by toggling through a visual display and pressing a virtual trigger. The time lapse between firing and the bullet leaving the barrel was negligible, meaning the operator could take part in a battle while hundreds of yards from the action.

Having these handy weapons was one thing. Getting them through airport security was something else entirely.

Although the British armed forces had yet to decide if they wanted to take delivery of the Sentinels, Minotaur Logistics had been granted a licence to use them for training and demonstration purposes, which meant they could take them overseas. Unfortunately, each trip abroad required clearance from the government in the form of a Standard Individual Export Licence, or SIEL. These took up to four weeks to process and, as Harvey barely had a day before the deadline was reached, they’d had to improvise.

Ellis had instructed MI5’s tech wizard Gerald Small to find his way into SPIRE, the government’s export licensing system, and create a new permit. A printable copy had then been emailed to Sonny, who had used a previous permit to copy over the relevant signatures. While it looked authentic, and the soft copy was correctly entered on the government database, the ruse would fall apart if anyone cared to do a little digging.

Ellis had assured them that Small had covered his tracks, but if they got caught at the border, they were on their own.

Smart had seen it as an acceptable risk. Not only did the Sentinels more than double their firepower; they would also hold up any pursuers, aiding the team’s escape.

After checking in the rest of their baggage, Smart led the squad to the security desk, where he handed over the permit with a smile. The woman behind the counter didn’t reciprocate as she picked it up and studied it closely, occasionally glancing up at Smart, who did his best to remain calm.

‘Bring it through,’ she said, and opened a door so that Smart could wheel the luggage into a small room. He lifted the suitcase and placed it on a counter, then undid the combination locks and flipped open the lid.

‘What are these?’

Smart took one of the devices from its compartment and quickly took it apart, explaining its purpose.

The woman asked him to put it back together, then counted the contents of the suitcase and compared it with the permit.

Just stamp the bloody thing
, Smart silently urged her, but instead the clerk picked up the phone and began dialling.

Betty Hemmingway wanted to ignore the bleeping phone and get to the George and Dragon, where her sister was waiting to have lunch with her. Betty was desperate to know the results of the scan, but her supervisor was hovering near the water cooler and wouldn’t take kindly to her leaving her desk five minutes early and ignoring an incoming call.

Hemmingway snatched at the handset. ‘Department of Business, Innovation and Skills,’ she said, trying to sound civil.

‘Hi, this is Anne Pickering from Heathrow,’ the caller said. ‘I’ve got a SIEL here and would just like to authenticate it.’

Great
, Hemmingway thought. A ten-minute slog back and forth to the archive, meaning a short lunch break. Not what she needed when her sister was going to give her the results of the oncology test.

Sorry to hear the bad news, sis, but I have to get back to work now.

‘Okay, give me the number,’ Hemmingway said, resigned to the fact that she would be late. She picked up her pen and pulled a notepad towards her, but an idea stopped her.

Verification was normally done against hard copies to ensure that the necessary signatures were in place, but there was also a database containing records of all permits issued. She checked the clock on the wall and saw that her lunch break started in two minutes.

Hemmingway glanced over to her supervisor, who was thankfully in conversation with the office Romeo and flirting like a teenager. She opened the SPIRE screen and typed the reference number into the box before hitting the Enter key.

‘Issued to a Mr Leonard Anthony Smart of Minotaur Logistics on January sixth,’ she said, reading from the screen. ‘Eight Sentinel automated devices – whatever those are – and no ammunition.’

‘Thanks,’ Pickering said. ‘That tallies with what we have here.’

Hemmingway put down the phone and saw that she was a minute into her lunch hour. She closed down the screen and locked her computer, then grabbed her coat and bag and hurried to the exit.

The fact that the name of the authorising clerk on the permit was Betty Hemmingway simply didn’t have time to register with her.

‘Thank you, Mr Smart. If you leave this with me, I’ll make sure it’s loaded onto your flight.’

Smart left the office and joined the four other men; he was finally able to release the breath he felt he’d been holding for the last five minutes.

‘We good?’ Sonny asked, and got a nod in reply.

‘I think I need a beer, though,’ Smart said.

They wouldn’t be heading into Tagrilistan for another twenty-four hours, so it wasn’t as if they didn’t have time to sleep it off. Smart led them through customs and security, then found a bar that sold his favourite ale. He bought a round on the company credit card and settled into his chair.

‘I can’t believe Tom didn’t come,’ Sonny said, sipping his lager.

‘I know,’ Smart agreed. ‘He’s changed so much in the last couple of years. I can’t say I blame him, though. Melissa’s his world.’

‘Who’s Melissa?’ Howard asked.

‘Tom’s daughter,’ Smart told him.

The three newcomers had all met Gray during their interviews with Minotaur months earlier, though they knew nothing of his private life beyond what was available on the Internet.

‘I heard his wife died a couple of years ago,’ Doc said. ‘Must be hard bringing up a kid alone.’

‘He’s doing a great job,’ Sonny said. ‘Maybe a little overprotective, but that’s his prerogative. Still, with his mate in trouble . . .’

‘Tom’s been through his fair share,’ Smart said. ‘He deserves to call it a day.’

Melling asked when they’d receive further details about the mission.

‘Once we land in Kazakhstan we’ll be met by our pilot,’ Smart said. ‘We’ll then have eighteen hours to go over the plan and get our kit sorted.’

Smart would have preferred another couple of days going over satellite imagery before setting off, but the countdown to Harvey’s demise was ticking. He’d given the trio the basics – location, target, time frame – but the finer details would have to wait until they were on the ground.

Sonny asked the others about their backgrounds. He’d been the one to put them through their paces at the training facility as part of their interview, but that had only lasted a couple of hours and the point had been to test their skills, not delve deeply into their private lives.

Doc Butterworth, it turned out, was the only one who was married, though he admitted it had been on the rocks for a few years now. It was the typical story of soldiers everywhere: always being away from home, putting a strain on yet another military marriage.

Smart rose and got another round of drinks in, then sat back down and pulled his Kindle from his hand luggage.

‘Hey,’ Sonny said, nudging Smart’s foot with his own. ‘You’re becoming a real antisocial prick in your old age.’

‘If we make it out of this alive, you can sue me,’ Smart said, flicking the device into life. ‘But just in case we don’t, I want to finish this book. It’s an absolutely cracking read.’

‘I didn’t know
Playboy
made e-books.’ Sonny nudged him again.

Smart sighed. ‘I know you have trouble concentrating on anything for more than two minutes if it doesn’t centre around naked women, but some of us are a little more sophisticated.’

‘Okay, professor, so what does SpongeBob SquarePants get up to this time?’

‘It’s actually called
Killing Hope
, by Keith Houghton.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Sonny said.

‘That’s because you’re an uncultured yob, but give it a couple of years and even you’ll recognise the name.’

Sonny shrugged and turned back to the other men, leaving Smart to indulge his passion.

Smart wasn’t left alone for long.

A holdall was dumped on the seat next to him, startling him, and he looked up to see who the culprit was.

‘Tom!’

‘None other,’ Gray said. ‘Where’s my pint?’

‘We didn’t think you were coming, remember?’

‘What? You think I’d leave Andrew’s life in Sonny’s hands?’

‘So what made you change your mind?’ Sonny asked, ignoring the dig.

Gray asked a passing waiter for a beer and took a seat. ‘Hopefully, I’ve got another forty years left on this planet. I just couldn’t spend every day between now and then knowing that I didn’t step up when a mate needed my help. Especially one who’d already saved my life.’

‘What about Melissa?’ Smart asked. ‘Who’s looking after her?’

‘I wanted to get her to Ken and Mina in Italy, but there just wasn’t time, so I asked my next-door neighbour. Sue used to be a teacher, and as they’re both retired, they were happy to take her in for a few days.’

‘I don’t want to sound the pessimist, but what if we don’t make it back?’ Smart asked.

‘I’ve already spoken with Ellis,’ Gray said. ‘She has instructions to take Melissa to San Giovanni in Fiore, and Ryan Amos has my will. She’d be well looked after.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re here,’ Sonny said, glancing at Smart. ‘It wouldn’t be the same with Granddad in charge.’

Chapter 18

23 January 2016

Harvey heard the lock on the door being pulled back, and he forced himself further into the corner of the room, giving them as little of his body to aim at as possible.

For the last . . . he had no idea how long it had been – they’d been coming into his cell and beating him mercilessly. Not once did they ask any questions, they just set about him with their fists and feet. The assaults lasted just a couple of minutes, then they would leave, laughing as they slammed the door and locked it once more.

Harvey got himself into a foetal position and waited for the punishment to begin, but all he heard was metal scraping on the floor, before the door banged shut again. He waited a few moments, just in case it was a ruse to get him to drop his guard. He listened for breathing, and when his ears failed to register anything, he cracked open one bruised eye and surveyed the room. His head pounded when he moved it, but eventually his gaze came across the tray of food on the floor.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He recalled having a late snack before going on the stake-out with Hamad, but how long ago was that? He’d spent at least eighteen hours at the farmhouse before he was drugged, and it took another ten to fly to Tagrilistan, plus the drive to the airport and the journey to his current location. That accounted for a day and a half, and then there was the time he’d spent in his cell.

Harvey eased himself over to the tray, his arms and legs aching from the beatings. Close to three days, he reckoned. He’d had a drink of water at the farmhouse, but nothing since. The liquid in the Styrofoam cup tasted like nectar as it slid down his throat, but there was too little of it. He used his parched tongue to extract every last drop, then turned to the rest of the fare. Two slices of hard bread sat next to a grey-brown mush that must have passed for stew to the locals. He sniffed at it, a pointless exercise as his broken nose was bunged up with blood and snot. Harvey scooped up some of the stew with a slice of bread and thrust it into his mouth.

He instantly regretted it.

As he bit down on the rock-hard bread, his broken incisor sent a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his skull. The food dropped from his mouth as he screamed, and he cursed himself for forgetting about it. It was one of two teeth that had been damaged during the assaults, the other a molar on the other side of his mouth.

Harvey abandoned the bread and scooped up the stew, sucking at any lumps before swallowing the foul-tasting mess.

Once he’d finished, he sat back and tried to take stock of his injuries. His arms were covered in bruises from his attempts to deflect the blows, and one or two of his ribs felt like they were broken. Blood caked the side of his head where it had been smashed against the brick wall, and both eyes were swollen almost shut.

All in all, he looked like crap and felt like shit.

Harvey slowly edged himself back into the corner, ignoring the more comfortable-looking bed. If they decided to rush in again, he wouldn’t have time to get to the relative safety of the floor before they set about him again. It meant sitting on the freezing-cold stone floor, but a cold backside was better than leaving his internal organs exposed.

What concerned him most – above the pain and hunger – were the words Colonel Aminev had left him with.

You will be shot as a spy on Tuesday morning.

Harvey tried to focus his mind and work out what the hell he was doing here. Why would Bessonov have him sent all the way to Tagrilistan? Why not just kill him and dump him in the river, as he had done with Willard? If they really thought he was a spy, they would have dealt with him by now, so why wait until Tuesday?

Perhaps the British government had offered a deal to get him out, and a deadline had been set to secure his release. That would explain the delay, but what could Aminev want in return? It wouldn’t be weapons, because Aminev was getting plenty of those from the Russians. Money, perhaps? A prisoner exchange?

If it were the latter, then he was in big trouble. Cooper had told him how much the Tagrilistani president, Viktor Milenko, hated Moscow, so there was no way he’d allow a single separatist prisoner to go free.

He had to pray that it was something else.

A deal that both sides could live with.

One that would be finalised before Aminev and his cronies finished him off.