Who Dares Wins (19 page)

Mac shook his head. ‘You can’t, Sam. You’ll only get them all a stretch in the nick for disobeying orders. You know J. better than anyone – you think he’d want us to do that on his account?’

Mac was right. There was one thing Jacob had always insisted on, and that was fighting his own battles. ‘So how we going to play it?’ he demanded.

Mac walked silently for a moment. ‘When we get to the camp,’ he said finally, ‘We’ll need to make some noise, let J. know someone’s coming . . .’ He let the sentence trail off, clearly aware that it wasn’t much of a plan.

‘What if Jacob comes out shooting?’ Sam asked.

But Mac didn’t answer. They had caught up with the rest of the unit.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ Cullen said darkly.

Mac smiled at him. ‘Well,’ he said, his voice suddenly much brighter than it had been only seconds ago, ‘we didn’t really want to miss the party.’

There were two C-130 Hercules aircraft waiting for them up ahead; a refuelling lorry was just driving away. The two aircraft would fly in convoy over a commercial airline route until they reached the insertion point. Once the unit had jumped, one of the Hercules would refuel the other in midair before returning to base. The remaining plane, its fuel stores replenished, would circle at a high altitude until they received the radio signal from the guys on the ground that they were ready to be picked up.

But the moment when that was to happen, Sam thought – the planes’ engines roaring in his ears as the unit boarded their aircraft – seemed a very, very long way off. Mac’s sudden admission had been a shock; Sam didn’t know whether he felt better or worse.

They sat in the belly of the Hercules, four to a bench, facing each other. For now their rucksacks and helmets were on the floor in front of them, but when the time came to make the jump, that would change. Around them a loadie checked the plane’s apparatus and made it ready for flight. Sam sat opposite Mac. The two of them did their best not to catch each other’s eye, but it was difficult and every time it happened, Sam felt a little surge in his stomach. It wasn’t the usual pre-HALO butterflies. It was something else.

It was deafeningly loud in there, but Craven managed to make his voice heard above the noise. ‘Nothing like a nice quiet evening in,’ he shouted. A light-hearted comment, but delivered in a deadpan way. Craven clearly didn’t expect a response; nor did he get one.

At that moment the tailgate of the Hercules closed and the lights of the airfield disappeared from sight. A sudden lurch as the aircraft juddered into motion. Any minute now and they would be airborne.

And then?

Sam kept his breathing steady as he prepared for the ordeal ahead of him.

*

The telephone on Gabriel Bland’s desk rang three times before he picked it up.

‘Bland,’ he answered it shortly but not impolitely.

‘It’s me, sir. Toby. I’ve brought Nicola Ledbury in. Interview room three. Would you like me to start asking questions?’

‘Ah . . .’ Bland made a pretence of considering the suggestion. ‘Perhaps I’ll come down and lend a hand,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll be with you shortly.’

He replaced the phone on its cradle and left the room with a swiftness that belied his advancing years. He took the lift to the basement of the building and stepped briskly along a corridor until he found the room in question. It was sparse and unfurnished. Just a table and a two chairs. Toby was sitting in one of them, and opposite him a woman. She was pretty, with blonde hair and a long, smooth neck. But she looked frightened.

They
always
looked frightened.

Toby stood up the moment Bland walked into the room, immediately offering him his chair. ‘Thank you, Toby,’ he murmured before sitting down and smiling impassively at the woman in front of him. ‘Detective Inspecter Ledbury,’ he said calmly. ‘How kind of you to come and see us.’

The woman’s frightened eyes flickered up towards Toby and her lips grew a little thinner.

Bland feigned concern. ‘I do hope Toby wasn’t brusque with you.’

‘He was bloody brusque,’ she replied hotly. ‘I’m a police officer, you know . . .’

Gabriel Bland continued as if she hadn’t even spoken. ‘I wonder, Miss Ledbury, if I might just ask you a few questions.’ He paused briefly, waiting for a response that was not forthcoming, before continuing. ‘Two nights ago, you requested a billing address for a mobile phone number belonging to a Miss Clare Corbett. Am I right?’

The woman’s expression changed. Wariness. ‘Should I have a solicitor here?’ she asked.

Bland raised an eyebrow. ‘Toby,’ he said, quite calmly, ‘be so good as to lock the door, would you?’

Toby did as he was told; the woman shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.

‘Shall I repeat the question, Miss Ledbury? Or would you just like to answer it now?’

The woman hesitated, but only briefly. ‘It’s common practice,’ she said uncertainly. ‘An easy way to find someone. I’ve done it a lot. Hundreds of times.’

Bland nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re a very conscientious officer, Miss Ledbury.’ His voice sounded a lot less encouraging than his words. ‘I’m not much interested in the hundreds of times. I’m interested in this time.’

Silence.

‘I want my solicitor.’

Bland suppressed a sudden surge of frustration. ‘Miss Ledbury,’ he intoned, ‘you’re not at Paddington Green now.’ He stared at her. Gabriel Bland knew that not many people could withstand that stare. Nicola Ledbury was no exception.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I asked for the billing address.’

‘I see. Would you care to tell me why?’

The woman glanced at the floor. ‘It was a favour,’ she said. ‘For a friend.’

Instantly the atmosphere in the room grew tense. Bland’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Which friend?’ He pronounced each word slowly and forcefully.

She closed her eyes. ‘His name is Sam Redman.’

‘I see. And what can you tell me about Sam Redman?’

‘He’s . . .’

‘Yes, Miss Ledbury.’

‘He’s military. SAS.’ She looked up at him, eyes appealing. ‘It was
just
a favour.’

But Bland no longer appeared interested in her. He did his best to look unmoved, but in truth a sinister knot had just tied its way round his stomach.

Bland got to his feet. ‘Keep her here,’ he instructed Toby. ‘Have somebody watch her. No phone calls. Then I think you and I need to pay Miss Corbett another visit.’

Ten minutes later Bland, Toby and a third man – an Asian by the name of Amir – were in a black cab. At least, it
looked
like a black cab, but the driver, an employee of the Firm, wouldn’t be stopping to pick up any fares. When, half an hour later, they parked in the quiet residential street in Acton where Clare Corbett lived, the driver pulled out a newspaper and started to read: the perfect image of a cabbie on his break. Bland and Toby approached the front door, while Amir headed round the back alleyway to the rear of the house. Bland looked at his watch: 10 p.m. He stretched out a gloved hand and rang the intercom.

They waited. A crackling noise came over the loudspeaker. Someone had picked it up, but they were declining to speak.

‘Please open the door, Miss Corbett,’ Bland replied. ‘Immediately.’

A pause. He spoke again. ‘We have somebody at the back entrance, Miss Corbett. I suggest you cooperate.’ Beside him, he was aware of Toby handling his firearm.

A buzz from the door. Toby went in first. Bland followed closely.

Clare Corbett stood framed in the entrance to her flat. Her face was white and Bland noticed her hand trembling. ‘May we come in?’ he asked.

‘Do I have much choice?’ she asked weakly.

He looked her in the eye. ‘We all have choices, Miss Corbett.’ She stepped aside and allowed them to enter. ‘I’m hoping that you’ve been making the right ones.’

In the kitchen, Bland indicated to the terrified woman that she should sit down. He remained standing, as did Toby Brookes who hovered threateningly by the kitchen door, making no attempt to hide his firearm.

‘I had hoped,’ he said smoothly, ‘not to have to burden you with our presence again, Miss Corbett.’

‘Yeah,’ she replied, avoiding his eye. ‘Me too.’

Bland sniffed. He waited a moment, then took the direct approach. ‘Tell me everything you know about Sam Redman.’

He watched her carefully, looking for the signs. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she said, but he could immediately tell she was lying. The lack of eye contact. The way she stiffly touched her hand to her right ear.

A thick silence fell on the room. The woman’s face began to redden. He looked over at Brookes and nodded shortly. Brookes didn’t hesitate. He stepped over to where she was sitting and, with his free hand, grabbed a clump of her hair, twisting it tight so that she gasped with the sudden pain of it. With his other hand he pressed the butt of his firearm deeply into the soft flesh of her cheek. She looked faintly ridiculous, her eyes wide and short breaths of fear escaping from the O of her mouth. Ridiculous, but terrified.

Bland took a seat at the table opposite her. He placed his hands palm downwards on the top and looked straight at her. She wasn’t avoiding his stare any more.

‘He came here,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t know how he found me. I didn’t tell him anything.’

Bland glanced up at Toby; the younger man yanked her hair suddenly and pressed the gun further into her face.

‘
Oh God!
’ Clare breathed. ‘
Please, don’t! I’ll tell you. Please, don’t hurt me!
’

Bland nodded at Toby, who immediately let go of the woman. Her body seemed to crumple as she hid her face in her hands. For a moment the room was filled with the desolate sound of her heavy, petrified sobs.

‘He just turned up,’ she wailed. Her words started to tumble out, as though if she said it all quickly it wouldn’t make it so bad. ‘He knew about the article. He had a copy – it was all, you know, blacked out, censored. But he made me tell him. He said he was special forces, I don’t know which one. And that he was being sent to a training camp . . .’

At this point she removed the hands from her face. Her eyes were red and what little make-up she had been wearing was now streaked over her cheeks.

‘Carry on,’ Bland said.

‘He said his brother was there. And that he wasn’t going to let anyone kill him.’

Clare Corbett stared, wide-eyed. She appeared horrified that she had blurted out all these things. Bland barely noticed. He had pushed his chair back and was standing up. ‘Make the call,’ he told Brookes, his mind suddenly racing. ‘Tell them to pull the mission.’

Brookes hesitated, blinking at his boss.

‘NOW!’ Bland roared.

The man scurried away, leaving Bland and Clare in the room. Not a word was spoken. He didn’t even look at her. The only sound was of Brookes in the corridor, talking urgently into his mobile phone. When he reappeared, his expression was dark.

‘What?’ Bland demanded.

Brooke shook his head. ‘The unit’s been inserted,’ he replied. ‘They’ve already gone in. I’m sorry, sir. It’s too late.’

When you’re waiting to perform a HALO jump, two hours seem like two minutes. As the Hercules cruised northwards, Sam and the rest of the unit checked and rechecked their rigs more times than they could count, ensuring everything was packed correctly, nothing was frayed and the oxygen gear had been properly serviced. There was occasional banter above the noise of the engines. When Craven tugged at the straps of his pack for what must have been the twentieth time, Tyler was quick to pounce. ‘What’s wrong, Jack? Ain’t learned to fall stable yet?’

Craven looked up, one eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I fall stable on your missus every Friday night.’

The company laughed, but soon they all went back to checking and rechecking their gear. Nobody wanted to leave anything to chance.

The loadmaster approached them. ‘Ten minutes!’ he shouted over the noise of the engines, holding up the gloved fingers of both hands so that there was no confusion.

The men started to get ready. Sam’s chute and weapon were already firmly strapped to his body, as was his GPS unit, but the rucksack was on the floor in front of him. He hooked his legs over it, then scraped it towards him so that it was under the bench. Once it was in position, he clipped the bag to the back of his legs and wound the straps round to his front, pulling them so they were firmly tightened. It would make walking to the tailgate difficult when the time came, but the bag needed to be attached to the back of his legs to balance his weight properly. He then turned his attention to the digital screen of his automatic opening device. Four thousand feet. If all went well they would open the chutes at four thousand five hundred; but if there was a problem the AOD would save his life.

‘Five minutes!’

Sam fitted the oxygen mask and helmet to his face. Up until now they had been breathing the oxygen from the aircraft’s mainframe, but now they needed to make sure their breathing apparatus was fully operational. As soon as he attached his oxygen mask, Sam’s breathing sounded much louder in his ears. It heightened his senses somewhat, even though the toughened black plastic of his mask had plunged the area around the tailgate into a deeper shade of darkness. The men around him looked more like cosmonauts now than soldiers. He breathed steadily and deeply. Everything was as it should be. The air was coming through. He got to his feet, as did the other seven members of his troop. The loadmaster approached to help them to the back of the plane.

Steve Davenport and Matt Andrews went first. Behind them were Tyler and Craven, then Webb and Cullen. Sam and Mac took the rear. In front of them a red light shone in the gloom of the Hercules’s belly. When it turned green, that would be the signal for the off.

A sudden rush of noise and with it a judder of turbulence. The tailgate was opening.