Who Dares Wins (39 page)

‘Yeah?’

‘You know the building that used to be a record shop?’

‘Tower Records?’

‘The newsstand is just outside it. The moment you ID Jacob, you hold up five fingers. I’ll put a round into the front window of the shop. Should cause quite a bang. Glass will shatter. I reckon that’ll be enough to distract everyone’s attention, don’t you?’

Mac nodded and pulled at what remained of his right ear.

‘Think it’ll give you enough time to warn J. – to get him away?’ Sam asked.

‘Yeah,’ Mac nodded. ‘But what about you?’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘The Firm might think you’re Jacob, making a distraction. You might get some incoming.’

‘You got a better idea?’ Sam snapped.

A pause. ‘No, Sam,’ Mac replied. ‘I haven’t got a better idea. We’ll do it your way.’

And without another word, Mac turned his back on his friend and started fiddling with the straps on his ops waistcoat. Sam couldn’t help thinking that he was tying them tighter than they really needed to be.

It looked like just another night. The huge neon billboards flashed high overhead: an advert for
The X Factor
. Then the weather: dry but overcast. The date: May 24. And then the time: 9.50 p.m. On the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue a man with a guitar sang old pop songs, but was mostly ignored by the passers-by. The air was filled with the smell of fried onions; buses and cars swung round the roundabout, dodged by half-drunk pedestrians. Japanese tourists, looking at everything through the lens of a camera. There was a lot of pissed totty out on the streets, tarts dressed in mini-skirts shorter than the average belt, belching, stubbing out fags in the road and screaming at nothing in particular. On their flanks stalked hordes of horny, Brylcreemed blokes trying to look hard in their fake Ralph Lauren tops and identical black shoes. They were burping and swigging from alcopop bottles, ready for a fight, gasping for a shag. Just another night in London town.

Toby Brookes sat in the back of a black cab at the north end of Lower Regent Street. The windows were not blacked out, but were heavily tinted. Opposite him sat an MI6 field agent, a much older man, whose work name was Gillespie. Gillespie would be giving orders to the surveillance and pick-up team; Brookes would be giving orders to Gillespie.

‘Dolohov’s in place,’ the field agent said.

Just then there was a knock on the window. Brookes looked out to see a policeman indicating that he should roll it down. ‘Not the best place to park, sir,’ the copper said. Brookes didn’t reply. He just held up some ID. The policeman’s eyes widened. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir,’ he said, much more quietly, before turning and walking away.

Brookes glanced out of the window of the cab. He could just make out the figure of the Russian on the west side of Eros, facing south towards Brookes’s cab. He wore a big overcoat and his wounded hands were plunged into the pockets. He barely moved. Dolohov knew he was being surveyed from every possible angle; that there was enough firepower aimed in his direction to take out everyone milling about on the steps around the statue: the group of eight or nine schoolchildren posing for a photograph; the couple snogging; the guy with half his ear missing, sitting a couple of metres away slowly munching on a burger.

Brookes’s stomach twisted. Bland was furious that it had come to this. Not furious in a loud, explosive way, but in that calm, wordless manner that was so much more threatening. But what else could he have done? Sam Redman had gone dark; Jacob Redman had not been picked up at any of the ports. They didn’t have any other hands to play. If it all went pear-shaped tonight, Brookes could expect to leave the table. Hell, he could expect to leave the casino.

Gillespie put two fingers to his earpiece. ‘All units ready,’ he told Brookes. Then he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, son. We’ve been here before. It’ll be a walk in the park.’

‘Just keep your mind on the job.’

Gillespie inclined his head. He obviously didn’t like taking orders from someone younger.

‘I mean it, Gillespie. If this doesn’t go like clockwork you’ll be drawing your pension before midnight.’

And so will I
, he thought to himself. He dug his fingertips into the palms of his clammy hands and went through everything in his head. Piccadilly Circus was surrounded by rooftop snipers. All the watchers had been supplied with the target’s likeness. The moment Jacob Redman approached Dolohov, they’d move in. Ten vehicles were on standby – black cabs, white vans, sports cars, nothing suspicious. They would block off each of the six exits to the Circus, while an armed response unit of fifteen men closed in on the statue of Eros. Instructions: shoot to wound, not to kill.

Christ. If that wasn’t enough, nothing would be. Redman was only one man, after all.

Brookes looked at his watch: 21.54.

Six minutes to go.

He stared out of the window, and waited.

*

21. 55.

Mac swallowed the last mouthful of his burger. It was cold. He’d spent too long eating it. Crunching up the packaging he dropped it on the floor. Some kid gave him a hard stare, but he ignored it and lit a Marlboro Light. He wasn’t a regular smoker, but it gave him a reason to be sitting alone, here on the steps of the statue of Eros.

Two metres away from the man Sam had called Dolohov.

He did not look directly at the short fat man, but even from the corner of his eye Mac could tell that Dolohov was nervous. He was standing too still for a man who was at his ease. The Russian had his hands deep in his pockets. Mac allowed himself a smile. He knew why
that
was.

Mac checked his watch: 21.56. He took another unwanted drag on his cigarette. Across the road, leaning up against the window of what used to be Tower Records, but which was now closed down, its windows misted from the inside, he saw Sam, hooded to stop people gazing at his cut-up face. If anyone looked at him too closely, they’d think from his face that he was just some drunk, his scars a residue from a fight. As disguises went, it wasn’t a bad one.

Mac looked about, as casually as he could. There were probably thirty people milling around the statue of Eros, tourists mostly. He didn’t know why they felt the need to be there. His eyes scoured the late-night crowds spilling into Piccadilly Circus from Regent Street. Hundreds of people. This place was like a jam jar. The people were like wasps. They swarmed to it.

It had been six years since he last saw Jacob, but Mac felt confident that he would recognise him. The dark hair. The serious eyes. His stomach turned. Nerves. Nothing to do with the operation. He could handle that. But seeing J. again. Especially when he had so many questions to answer.

And if Mac was nervous, what the hell was Sam feeling?

He took a last drag on his cigarette before stamping it out on the ground. Dolohov hadn’t moved.

He wanted to look at his watch again, but stopped himself. Clockwatching would make him look suspicious. And anyway, Jacob would come when he came.

It was only a matter of minutes now.

The neon billboards flickered on the edge of Mac’s vision.

He lit another Marlboro Light, and waited.

*

Sam held a copy of
Nuts
magazine in front of him as he leaned against the shop window. Plenty of naked flesh on the pages, but had anyone asked him what he was reading, he wouldn’t have been able to say. His eyes didn’t even brush the text or pictures in front of him. In the distance, on the other side of the statue, a neon digital clock counted down the seconds.

21.57.

Dolohov was in position. It had almost been a relief to see him – it meant at least that Jacob had not yet fallen into the Firm’s hands. But Sam’s mouth was dry, his blood hot with anticipation. He double-checked Mac: there he was, lighting another cigarette. That was two, now. He cursed under his breath. Two cigarettes in two minutes. Damn it, Mac
looked
like a guy waiting for something to happen.

He breathed deeply. He kept watching. His fingers felt for the Browning strapped into his ops waistcoat underneath his loose, hooded top. It was comforting to have it there.

21.58.

His brain burned with concentration, with the strain of trying to stop the crowds morph into one impenetrable blur. He looked for evidence of the Firm, but saw nothing suspicious. That figured. Unmarked cars, plain-clothed agents – they’d have pulled out all the stops to make sure they looked like part of the scenery.

21.59.

Mac had finished his second cigarette. He was blowing into his hands as if to warm them. But it wasn’t cold. Or maybe Sam was sweating for other reasons. His eyes darted around. He could taste the anticipation. His brother was here somewhere. He had to be.

Damn it, Jacob. Where are you? Where in the name of . . . ?

Sam’s breath caught in his throat.

Everything around him – the noise of the cars, the chattering of the people – dissolved into silence. The world went by in slow motion.

Someone was approaching Dolohov.

In the distance the neon clock announced the time: 22.00 hrs.

Sam could only see the figure sideways on. He wore a black raincoat. Long. Down to his knees. It had a hood, pulled up to cover his head. Dark glasses. He stepped confidently. He was five metres away from Dolohov.

Everything happened so quickly; and yet, in Sam’s mind, so painfully slowly.

Dolohov looked up, recognition in his face. He knew he was being approached.

From two metres away Mac took a step towards the Russian. As he did so, he looked across the road and directly at Sam. Sam waited for the signal. Five fingers. But Mac was hesitating. Dark glasses and a hood – they stopped him from giving a positive ID. He looked unsure. Sam’s hands slipped into his top, ready to pull out his Browning. Ready to defend Jacob from whatever was to come.

A bendy bus blocked Sam’s vision for three or four seconds. He cursed. When the bus slipped out of view the figure was only a metre from Dolohov; and Mac was looking at Sam in panic. Fuck it, thought Sam. We need the diversion.
Now!
He put his hand to his gun.

But before he could spin round to blast out the shop window, he stopped. For three reasons.

The first, a screeching of tyres. Vehicles everywhere. A crunch as two cars hit each other. Men sprinting across the road and towards the island. Weapons being pulled.

And the second, a sudden, twisting realisation that something was wrong. The figure, dressed in black. It was the same height as Jacob. Almost the same build. But something wasn’t right. The gait? The slope of the shoulders? Sam didn’t know what, but he did know one thing.

The figure in black wasn’t his brother.

It was a dummy. A decoy.

The third reason, that was something he should have seen. Something he should have noticed. It had been right there staring him in the face all the time, after all. It was a small thing. Just a length of red ribbon, tied to a lamppost to the right of Eros and fluttering in the wind.

A sickening feeling in his stomach. He knew what the ribbon was, of course. A wind marker. There to make sure a sniper knew exactly what kind of breezes he was up against.

‘
Mac!
’ he screamed at the top of his voice. ‘
Shooter!
’ But too late. Mac had already realised something was wrong. He stepped back, then looked over at Sam as if to say, ‘What the hell do I do now?’

But Sam couldn’t answer. He didn’t have the time. All he could do was watch what happened . . .

*

21.57.

From the roof of the former record store, Jacob Redman looked down on to the statue of Eros. By his feet there was a dead body.

It had been dead for ten minutes and blood still flowed from its head wound. The corpse’s comms set was now fitted to Jacob’s head, and it was Jacob who responded into the microphone every two minutes, when the sniper unit’s commander checked that all was okay. And when the commander had reminded them that if Jacob Redman was positively ID’d they should shoot to wound, he had replied with a curt ‘Roger that.’

Through the telescopic sight attached to his Armalite, he viewed the red ribbon. It fluttered slightly to the south-east. A steady wind. Gentle. But enough to swerve a round off-course. He redirected his aim towards Dolohov, then moved it fractionally to the left. Experience told him that this would be a direct hit.

The Russian appeared frozen. Fear? Jacob didn’t care. It made it easier for him to keep his target in his sights.

Earlier in the evening he’d visited the hooker again. Another two hundred quid in cash and the promise of a third payment once the job was done. In the back of his mind there was a niggling worry that she wouldn’t show. He suppressed it. Jacob had seen the way the girl’s eyes had lit up at the prospect of more cash.

Money. Sometimes it was the only thing you could trust. She’d be there.

21.58.

It had been straightforward getting up here. An external staircase – a fire exit – leading down into a small alley off one of the mews streets between Piccadilly and Regent Street. If you didn’t know these places were there, you’d never notice them; but Jacob had been party to enough rooftop stakeouts to know how to gain access.

He kept his gun trained on Dolohov.

21.59.

He had told her to be on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. They had synchronised their watches. Jacob pulled away from the telescopic sight and looked down with the naked eye. An ordinary London scene. No sign of spooks or police of any kind. Maybe there weren’t any. Maybe Dolohov was clean. Safe. Uncompromised. If that was the case the girl would lead him away to the RV point. If not . . .

Jacob put his eye back to the telescopic sight.

Only seconds to go.