Backlash

A P Bateman

Backlash

Copyright © 2025 by A P Bateman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Also by A P Bateman

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Author’s Note

Also by A P Bateman

The Alex King Series

The Contract Man

Lies and Retribution

Shadows of Good Friday

The Five

Reaper

Stormbound

Breakout

From the Shadows

Rogue

The Asset

Last Man Standing

Hunter Killer

The Congo Contract

Dead Man Walking

Sovereign Power

Kingmaker

Untouchable

The Enemy

Die Trying

All the King’s Men

The Eagle’s Talon

The Rob Stone Series

The Ares Virus

TheTown

The Island

Stone Cold

The Cartel

The DCI Grant Series

Vice

Taken

Standalone Novels

The Most Dangerous Game

Never Go Back

Novellas

The Perfect Murder?

Atonement

Chapter One

Prague

Snow was falling. All around. Children playing, having fun... King couldn’t get the Christmas song out of his head as he watched the lights twinkling in the snow. The sky had a warm orange hue to it glowing from the seasonal lights and decorations which was quite at odds with the icy air. Shouts and shrieks of joy from the last of the older children filled the air as they sledded and rolled in the snow and fought with snowballs. The younger children had begrudgingly left their snowmen behind as they were rounded up and marched inside, or dragged away clutching their parents’ gloved hands, led away to be met with glasses of warming glühwein and hot chocolate respectively. It was a heartwarming scene, quite at odds with the blood in the snow from the man he’d just killed, the body slumped between the car and the pavement.

He had spotted the man following him twice yesterday. Today was a coincidence too many. King had slipped out of the car, walked to the man’s vehicle to confront him and found himself staring into the muzzle of an automatic. The man had been too close for that kind of fun and games and King had caught hold of the slide and pushed it back half an inch, which disengaged the floating barrel and the firing pin rendering the weapon useless. King’s knife had found the man’s carotid artery – purely a reactionary move – and now he had lost his chance for information. The blood had splashed the snow like a contemporary artist’s brush flicks on a blank canvas. King had opened the door, pulled the man out by his lapels and pressed him into the gutter as he looked around him and checked that he was in the clear. By the time he looked back at the man he was dead.

King cursed at the man’s stupidity, and his own savage reactions. Years of living the dangers of his profession had taught him, no – evolved him – to become primal and reactionary. Kill or be killed. His left hand had gripped the pistol, and his right hand had felt for the comfort of the knife’s handle. The man had already been pulling back the pistol, the slide would not have remained out of alignment for long, so King had merely done what he had been programmed to do. Pure lizard brain. Fight or flight. And now the man was dead.

King watched around him as he scraped drifts of snow over the blood splatter. Before long, he had covered the corpse, and he stood back and checked the street again. The windows glowed with warmth and music played on the wind, as the city relaxed and channelled the Christmas spirit with their traditions and expectations. King’s Christmas eve would be spent differently. He had a location for his mark. A trusted contact inside the otherwise corrupt city police force. Ramsay had put out feelers with Scotland Yard, GCHQ and MI6, and the intelligence had been good. The Czech police warrant officer – a trusted contact with the Scotland Yard international crime unit – had come good. The assassin named Jenko, otherwise known as ‘The Blade’ – and contract killer previously linked to both the Russian FSB and mafia alike - should be inside the tiny apartment off Kodaňská in the Vršovice, Czechia.

It wasn’t King’s first visit to Prague, known as The City of a Hundred Spires. He had been here before. But not in winter. Not with the snow covering the roofs and spires, the smell of roasting chestnuts and fire smoke, the distant sound of music and celebration on the air. He checked his watch. He should be sitting in front of the fire with Caroline enjoying Christmas Eve or wrapping her present upstairs. Damn. No present, either. He would have to do better next year. Or maybe she should have thought twice about sending him out on a job so close to Christmas. Surely someone else could have been sent. Jack Luger, perhaps. He had history with the man known as ‘Jenko the Blade’. Luger was lucky to be alive after stumbling into him in Japan. Four members of the elite Special Boat Service had not been so lucky.

He’s not ready, Caroline had said. He needs more experience…

King had scoffed. He had got his experience the hard way. Thrown into the deep end and expected to swim. Different times, he supposed. A different world. But perhaps not that different because he was standing here with orders to kill a man and to send a message to his employers.

King brushed the snow from the face of the corpse and took a picture with his phone. Perhaps Ramsay could get an ID on the man and add another piece to the puzzle. King wiped the blade clean on the man’s coat and quickly sheathed it in the horizontal sheath on his belt. The knife was a souvenir from his last mission. The Russian Spetsnaz commando had not wanted to give it up easily. It was an antique dagger with a seven-inch Damascus steel blade and a six-inch rosewood handle. King had thought it lucky he had won the encounter, given the man’s fighting skill and reluctance to submit, and he had named the blade ‘Lucky Thirteen’ because of its overall length. Perhaps if he worked in metric then there would be no lucky element involved. But that was luck. You made your own. Normally not one to take souvenirs from battle, the blade of his own bayonet had broken off inside the man’s ribcage. There had been a sense of justice in ordering King to kill Jenko with a knife, but he was damned if he was going to play against the odds. For a man to have his moniker in life, King figured that Jenko would be pretty damned handy with a blade. So was King. But now he had a gun. King checked the Glock 19 over and kept it held down by his side as he crossed the pavement. Fourteen 9mm hollow points nestled within the comforting, fat grip of the pistol, with one in the chamber. There was something incredibly confidence-giving about being armed, and he had always known the real reason why so many people with inferiority complexes took to carrying guns in countries with lenient firearms laws. It had little to do with the need for protection and everything to do with an overwhelming sense of power.

A persistently leaking pipe had melted the snow and ice from the alley and the slush had a yellow tinge to it as King walked through it, ignoring the likely reason for the colour as he concentrated on the task at hand. The apartment was located at the top of a flight of metal steps that were coated in a sheen of sheet ice. It was precarious at best, downright dangerous at worst. King clutched onto the railing as he climbed, the shouts of laughter from the children playing in the snow and the music that he had listened to on the street now barely audible in the stillness of the alleyway. He took a few tentative steps, then froze. The ice had a pure, glacier-clear quality about it. Unmarked, neither scuffed from shoes nor worn in the middle. The diamond pattern of the treads were clearly visible underneath the sheen of ice. He glanced at the steps behind him, the grit trapped within his boot treads had scuffed the ice. If Jenko was inside the apartment, then he had not left in days, and King knew that to be untrue. Or at least, according to the trusted contact inside the Prague police.

King felt a shudder run up his spine and as he turned to retreat down the stairs, a ground floor door on the opposite side of the alleyway opened a crack, and a pistol filled the void. King aimed, both weapons firing simultaneously. King’s footing was perilous, and he slipped as he adjusted his aim. The door opened a touch more, the man still using the doorjamb as cover, his arm extended to allow a wider arc of fire. King took the rest of the steps on his backside, gravity and the ice doing the rest for him. As his boots gained traction on the rough concrete, the leaking pipe keeping the ground around the staircase clear of ice, King fired several shots at the door, which closed abruptly. Scrambling to his feet, King crossed the alley and stopped just short of the door. Three gunshots rang out as three holes simultaneously appeared across the door. The bullet holes were equally spaced and would have cut King down had he not stopped short. That was experience. The ability to keep a clear head and make decisions while the adrenalin pumped through the veins like a lava flow. Perhaps Caroline had made the right call in sending him after all. King dropped to the ground and fired, sending three shots in return less than a metre above the ground. He heard the man groan, pictured him kneeling low, still aiming at the door from his position, expecting either to have hit King with his salvo or be under the height of any return fire. That was experience, too. King had noticed the slight upward angle of the splinters of wood around the bullet holes and knew where his target would be. He crossed the doorway and stood to the side, then put the muzzle of the Glock a hair’s breadth from the lock and fired. The bullet passed through the brass keyhole, deforming the lock. King then fired two shots through the door before standing back and driving a powerful front kick near the lock. The door crashed open, and King stepped over the threshold with the pistol aimed in front of him. There was a great deal of blood on the wooden floorboards and the ornate Turkish rug in the vestibule, and a trail of blood leading to King’s right. He stopped and checked the bedroom off the vestibule first. You never followed blindly. Jenko may not have been alone, and King wasn’t about to take a bullet in the back if he could help it. The bedroom was exactly that. A double bed, unmade with a suitcase on the floor. Jenko must have been living out of the suitcase, not wanting to put down any form of semi-permanence. He was a man on the run. King knew what it was like. He had been there many times. He took a step forwards, feeling a pulling sensation at his side. He took another step and winced. He felt for the pain, then looked at his fingers which were smeared with blood. Cursing loudly and angrily – more with himself than at Jenko – he moved forwards, gun in hand and watching the world through the notch and pin sights.

King could feel the icy air as he passed the basic kitchen to his right. He already knew what he would find, the lounge window open, the net curtain billowing in the breeze. King kept the weapon aimed at the open window, but he edged into the lounge, checking behind the threadbare sofa and the matching chair in the corner of the room. Again, King did not like surprises. Satisfied that he was alone in the apartment, King made his way to the open window, peering tentatively outside, making sure that he wasn’t stepping into the man’s sights. There were footsteps and blood in the pristine snow. The tracks made it all the way to the where King had left the body between the car and the pavement. Only the car was no longer there, and the body still rested beside the pavement, King’s attempts at covering it looking insufficient now that the vehicle had gone. Jenko had clearly had a partner but was now fleeing alone. Wounded. King tucked the pistol into his waistband and headed for the kitchen where he found a clean tea towel in a drawer and some kitchen cleaner. He sprayed some of the cleaning fluid on the folded cloth and pressed it against his side, tucking the bottom into his belt. He felt around his back, but there was no exit wound. The bullet had been slowed considerably by the wooden door. He kept the wad of cloth pressed against him, then headed for the bedroom and started to go through Jenko’s meagre possessions for any clue where the man had been, and more importantly, where he was going.

Chapter Two

GCHQ, Cheltenham

“Something is coming.”

“No doubt,” Ramsay replied.

“Something imminent,” Callum Ray continued. “And something bad. A coordinated attack.”

“By whom?” Caroline asked.

“We don’t know,” the GCHQ director replied.

“When?” Ramsay persisted.

“We don’t know.”

Caroline scoffed. “Well, unless you can come up with where, then I think we’re done here…”

“Thank you, Ms Darby…” Ray said, somewhat irked by her apparent lack of respect for his position.

“I apologise, Director Ray,” she said sincerely. “It’s just that this warning couldn’t be any more vague and we have a lot on. We made the journey from London at your request to limit the chances of a security leak. The Russians and Chinese are listening to everything and everyone, hacking and interfering. We’ll be down to using carrier pigeons next.” She paused, expecting the man to ease his expression of disdain just a little, but realising that the new director of the Government Communication Headquarters was a humourless man. Even Ramsay had more humour and a softer demeanour than Callum Ray, MBE. “But we need more to go on.”

Callum Ray steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on his glass-topped desk. The furniture inside GCHQ was light shades with much glass. The décor light and airy. Caroline had noted the gravel contemplation gardens with water features, and a variety of cafés throughout the building including a sushi counter, juice bars and coffee shops. There were comfortable chairs and sofas in alcoves indicating that GCHQ personnel valued nothing more than a good sit and think and the chance to work things out in comfort. Predominantly technology and language experts, GCHQ monitored all manner of communications with the ability to intercept radio, telephone and email conversations. The listening systems around the country were technologically advanced, and the bases at Cheltenham and Bude in Cornwall hosted personnel from allies such as the United States, NSA and CIA. “Alright,” he said measuredly. “We know that they are freelance agents.”

“Freelance?” Neil Ramsay asked somewhat dubiously. “Isn’t that what Iron Fist boils down to?”

Ray shook his head. “We don’t think this is Iron Fist. However, we believe the agents to be either Russian or associated with Russia. Hence the freelance angle, because nothing has come from the Kremlin, and our contacts inside the FSB can’t shed any light on it, either.”

“Could it be Islamic extremists working out of Russia?” Caroline asked. “We’re due something from ISIS or Al Qaeda, it’s been a while…”

“Possibly,” he replied. “They have found sanctuary in the Russian Federation recently, supplying cannon fodder for Ukraine in return for safe haven and arms.”

“What about an affiliate?” Caroline asked.

“An affiliate? You mean rather like when the IRA splintered, and all the little turds who thought they could capitalise in crime under the umbrella of freedom fighting came out of the woodwork.” Callum Ray paused. “It’s a possibility. However, we believe that money is the motivation here. Some of the freelancers that they have tried to recruit are former special forces operators from both allied and axis countries alike.”

“Do you think it’s a mercenary outfit like Wagner?” Ramsay frowned.

“Not so much an established outfit, more like recruited especially for this purpose. Rather like a sports team buying talent. These people know that they have limited abilities against the likes of the SAS or your murky crew, so they are moving with the times, I suppose.”

Ramsay frowned. He hadn’t liked the murky crew quip, but it was a fact. His team’s successes had been noted, and he suspected, too, had their failures. “It sounds as if you know more about them than you first intimated.”

Ray shrugged. “Yes and no,” he replied. “Every time we intercept them, we lose them. What we do know is that they have been trawling the dark web for specialists.”

“What sort of specialists?” asked Caroline.

“That’s what I called you here for,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want anything committed to email or said over the phone…” He slid a file across the glass table towards Ramsay. “My office is swept for listening devices daily. I also use my own equipment to check after the security personnel have left. One can’t be too careful…”

“Quite…” Ramsay had no such qualms. Anyone would have to get past Mae first. But the man’s admission was food for thought. One couldn’t be too careful.

“It’s all in there,” Ray told him. “I’ll have my assistant make you some coffee or tea while you study the file, but it remains here.” He got up quietly and left, closing the glass door behind him.

Ramsay opened the file and scan read first, flicking through the sheets. It was his habit to scan read a document before going back and studying it in the minutest detail, which meant he had already flagged up anomalies or points of importance. “Well, that makes sense,” he mused.

“What does?” Caroline asked, somewhat irked that she hadn’t yet read the file.

“Where is Rashid?”

“He’s on leave for another week. His mother is sick, remember?”

“Ah, yes…” he replied distractedly. Cancer. A sudden and shock diagnosis. Ramsay wasn’t good with illness, or the platitudes that went with it. “Very sad,” he managed.

“Why do you want him?” Caroline asked, attempting to read the file in his hand.

“Get him back into the office,” Ramsay said decisively. “We have a job for him…”

Chapter Three

Prague

Whether it was maintaining his cover, or whether it was simply his pride King had refrained from asking for help, intent on dealing with the situation himself. He could have texted Ramsay or Caroline and waited to be pointed to a friendly asset – perhaps directly to a doctor who would not ask questions. Hell, a vet willing to look the other way would have done just as well. But King knew that if he asked for assistance then not only would he be admitting defeat, tarnishing his reputation for getting things done.

King had found a discount homeware depot and bought the things he would need. When he was back in his hotel with the door locked and wedged and the pistol with its few rounds remaining resting beside him on the bed, he unpacked the bag. A shaving mirror, a pair of snips, antiseptic wash and dressings, and some heavy-duty painkillers. King stripped off and drank most of a bottle of mineral water. He waited to see if anything leaked from the clotting wound. If water seeped out, then he would bite the proverbial bullet and give Ramsay a call. Satisfied that there was no dramatic internal damage to his stomach or intestines, King took four of the painkillers and started to wash the area with antiseptic. It stung like hell, but he always remembered his mentor Peter Stewart saying, “If it hurts, then you’re still alive, son. Worry when you can’t feel a fucking thing…”

He had propped the shaving mirror up on his pillows and laid a towel on the bed, and as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, his left hand probing around the entrance wound, he thought what a sorry state his body looked. Yes, he was in incredible physical shape with muscle and his ribs visible despite weighing over fourteen stone, but he was scarred and burned and each one of those scars and burns told a story that meant that there hadn’t been a happy ending for someone. Battle scars. Each one a warning, like the ninth life of a cat. Manipulating the mirror, King prodded and found the bullet jammed inside the wall of muscle. He tensed his stomach and felt the bullet move. Picking up the snips which he had rubbed in antiseptic, he opened them and tried to jemmy them inside. It was no good. The 9mm bullet had been greatly deformed after going through the door and into King’s body and getting it out wasn’t going to be simple. Or clean. He took out his Leatherman, unfolded the razor-sharp blade and wiped it in antiseptic. The half-centimetre cut didn’t hurt while he sliced, but it stung like hell by the time he put the knife down, and it bled heavily as well. King dabbed at the cut with gauze. He could feel the painkillers kicking in. He had started to feel lightheaded, and in need of sleep, and realised that the combination of shock and adrenalin, and the effect of the extra strong Czech medication, was taking its toll. He needed to get this done. King took a deep breath and slipped the snips inside. He opened them wide, catching a momentary glimpse of the tail of the bullet before it was lost in the blood. Reaching round with his right hand, he mopped the blood and then eased the snips around the bullet. He tensed his abdominal muscles as tightly as he could, and the bullet eased out of the muscle wall. The sharp edges of the deformed bullet jabbed and sliced at the muscle, and he grit his teeth and sucked air through them as he pulled the bullet out and dropped it along with the snips onto the towel beside him. He mopped up the blood again using plenty of antiseptic, then held a piece of gauze on the wound while he picked up the needle and thread. He had bent the needle with the pliers of his Leatherman and sterilised the needle in boiling water. However, before he set about using it, he carefully applied superglue around the edges of the wound and pinched it closed. This was the worse pain of the entire procedure, and he doubted whether lemon juice in his eyes would have stung any more. The wound was just about holding together when he pushed through the needle and started to suture. For practical reasons he did not stitch individually, but rather laced the wound with six tidy stitches, then pulled both ends together tightly like tying boot laces. The wound pulled closed, and he managed to tie off the thread before collapsing on the bed. Heaving for breath, sweating profusely, he pulled on his dwindling reserves and stuck a large, padded plaster over the wound, which was already bruising around the edges. King’s bloody hands were shaking as he drank the rest of the water and laid back on the bed, falling into a deep sleep less than a minute later.

Chapter Four

Because of the flurry of snow the traffic on the M4 motorway was slow-moving, though not particularly heavy. People had heeded the weather warnings and despite the usual Christmas holiday travel plans, nobody wanted to be stuck in snow on the hard shoulder of the motorway on Christmas Eve. Jim Kernow was at the wheel of the Range Rover Vogue and for practical reasons both Caroline and Ramsay travelled in the rear seats so they could converse without distracting the driver.

“The dark web is a difficult place to navigate, but not impossible,” said Ramsay. “It requires imagination and creativity in using search words and prompts. That, and a service provider that doesn’t sensor. Something like TOR is quite acceptable to delve deeper. Charlotte was an expert at peeling away the layers even further…”

Caroline nodded. It was always going to be thus. They had just buried Charlotte, one of the technicians working on the floor below their offices, and an unrivalled computer whizz. She had worked with Ramsay for many years at Thames House and the two had shared a kinship in their work, and a close friendship. They had been soulmates, only Ramsay had been oblivious. Charlotte had been targeted by a Russian agent. The spinster had been wined and dined and bedded and had unwittingly given details of their operation away. It had been a bitter pill for Ramsay to swallow. An accidental betrayal by someone who should have known better, but the woman had paid for her mistake with her life. Gunned down by her own lover. The same man had shot Caroline and attempted to assassinate Ramsay before Jim Kernow had shot him dead. “We have plenty of experts who can go deep. Including yourself, Neil.” She paused. “As expert as a person can be in computer and web technology, I have yet to meet your equal.”

Ramsay nodded. It wasn’t in Caroline’s nature to be sycophantic, so he took the compliment in the way it had been intended. “Any news on Rashid?”

Caroline checked her phone. “Nothing yet…”

“Christmas, I suppose…”

Caroline sighed. “Oh, come on, Neil…”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “How foolish of me…”

Rashid was a Muslim, despite being a little too relaxed for his parents’ taste. He had once confided in Caroline that he found the stigma difficult. A person raised Christian could let their faith slide, become an atheist or agnostic and Western society didn’t so much as blink. However, a Muslim losing faith or deciding to take another path quickly became a pariah. Hated by their own community and viewed with suspicion by others. Even so, Caroline doubted that Rashid would celebrate Christmas, even if his mother wasn’t bed-bound with a bleak prognosis.

“Wait,” Caroline said, thumbing through her messages. “He’s on the way down from Birmingham and will meet us at the office.” She paused, staring at the snow swirling in the headlights. “Can we use somebody else, Neil?”

“Rashid is a specialist.”

“Alex should be back from Prague soon…”

“Rashid is a sniper. The terrorists are searching the dark web for a sniper.”

“Alex is a superb sniper, too.”

“Not with a checkable history. Rashid has a service and war record. Commendations and a mention in Dispatches.”

“Okay,” Caroline conceded. “But we can’t use his real identity without possible repercussions on his family.”

“That’s a risk, yes,” Ramsay replied. “Anyway, he’s the right colour if these people are Islamic fundamentalists working out of Russia.”

“We really do need an HR department, Neil…”

“You know what I mean,” said. “His ethnicity will be right for terrorists with an Islamic extremism agenda.”

“But the man’s mother is sick. She has cancer, Neil,” she protested. “We should use somebody else. Besides, we have legends in play, Rashid can fit into one of the legends and maintain his privacy and security. That’s what they were set up for.”

“Will staying beside her cure her?” he asked sharply. “Will turning down this assignment change her outcome? No, of course it won’t. The man needs to take his mind off such morbidity.”

“No! The man should be able to say goodbye!”

“Alright, I’ll concede to his checkable history and shoe-horn him into a pre-made legend.” Ramsay shrugged. “But he has a job to do, and he can say goodbye to his mother before he goes undercover…”

Chapter Five

Prague

King had given up any chance of finding Jenko the Blade. Bleeding heavily as King had been, the man couldn’t have chanced going to a hospital with a gunshot wound, so he would either have gone to ground to treat his wound, sought out an underground contact for help, or would have died from blood loss. King wasn’t going to find the man anytime soon. The trusted police contact on the other hand, was another matter entirely. King had a name, and from that he could find an address. It was Christmas Eve, and he suspected that gave the man about a seventy-five per cent chance of being off duty. King knew the man to be in his late thirties, so he could assume that if the man was indeed off duty, then he would likely have a family because single people always got the short straw on public holidays.

King had first called the police precinct that he knew the man to work from on the pretext of aiding the man in an inquiry for a crime committed several weeks ago. He had hung up when the officer had confirmed that the man was off duty and had tried to assist King’s inquiry and asked for a crime number. King had negated texting Ramsay to ascertain the man’s address because that would be admitting defeat. He was already on the backfoot and was not in the mood to answer questions. Returning injured and having lost Jenko was one thing, but leaving an unreliable asset in play was quite another. Using his phone to search Real Estate Cadastre he found a filing for property tax, then cross referenced the name with the Czech Republic electoral roll and the Gov.cz vehicular taxation page. On a site that could match names with landline telephone numbers and an address – an online Czech version of the UK phonebook – King paid six-hundred koruna, a little over twenty-pound-sterling and had the address sent back in a text message.

Warrant Officer Jan Novak lived in a suburban home in a row of three up, three down boxes with a small front garden and parking for one car. King could see that there was a larger garden at the rear of the row of houses. The houses had been constructed from pre-fabricated materials and had been painted brightly in white, red, blue and yellow with contrasted doors and window frames. All the houses had red rooves and white picket fences. He supposed the residents liked the houses, but King found them characterless despite their primary colours. It was if Disney had designed a suburban cul-de-sac for a Christmas scene with a flurry of snow on demand and the chime of sleighbells on the wind.

King checked the pistol. Five bullets remaining. Enough to take on an experienced police officer who would undoubtedly be armed inside his own home? That all depended on how it went down. Christmas Eve, snow and music and the aroma of chestnuts on the air. Jan Novak wouldn’t know what hit him.

King took the keys with him but did not lock the car. The vehicle was keyless, so all he needed to start the car was to have the key fob on his person when he pressed the ‘start’ button. He held the pistol down beside his right leg as he crossed the road and headed up the partially cleared pathway. The ice was enough to affect how he walked, and that in turn caused pain in his side and he winced as he climbed the steps to the front door. He knocked on the door and kept the pistol held at waist height. There was movement behind the glass, muffled voices inside. The door unlocked and Novak opened the door expectantly, a man expecting guests on Christmas Eve. King caught hold of the man’s right wrist and jammed the pistol into his ribs.

“Someone followed me,” he said.

“Who are you!” he exclaimed, staring at the pistol in King’s hand.

“You told my handler where to find Jenko,” King growled. “The man known as The Blade…”

“I…” Novak started.

“Tati, kdo to je?” a small boy asked, trotting out of a room with a toy airplane in his hand. As was Czech tradition Christmas was largely celebrated on Christmas Eve. The aroma of roasting meat and steaming vegetables filled King’s nostrils as he stared at the young boy.

“Vraťte se dovnitř!” Novak snapped and the boy hesitated before running back in floods of tears, throwing the airplane on the floor as he fled. “Oh, lord…” Novak whimpered. “Now the last thing my son will remember about me was chastising him…”

King stared at the man. Jan Novak was guilty, that much was clear. No protest, no denial. He hadn’t even begged for his life. “Money or ideals?” King asked. Novak looked back at him blankly and said, “Were you paid to betray your handler? Or do you truly believe in Jenko and whatever cause he is operating under?”

“Money,” Novak scoffed. “Jenko is a killer, nothing more, nothing to believe in. He kills for money. I just want a bigger house for my family, and to spend more time at home…”

“And you saw the opportunity to make some money and got greedy.”

Novak bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, almost sounding acceptant of his fate. “Please, let’s go round the back of the house. Do it there. I can’t have my son see me dead on the doorstep. Not on Christmas Eve…”

King nodded and stepped backwards releasing the man’s wrist. Novak turned and took one last look inside the house, then closed the door quietly behind him. He thrust a hand towards the gun, but King stepped back, striking him in the throat with his left hand and whipping the pistol across his temple. Novak yelped and slipped onto his backside on the second step. He looked up at King, dejected, beaten. “Get off your arse,” said King quietly, keeping the gun on him, steady, low and confident. His bread and butter. He had been here a dozen times before. He didn’t enjoy it, but he could live with it. Had done so far. But the child’s expression was another matter entirely. King had seen the boy’s innocence, felt the man’s sadness when he realised what his unexpected visitor was here to do. God dammit! If it had been any other time than Christmas Eve! The boy, giddy with excitement playing with his new toy… King only remembered one Christmas of joy as a child. It had been the Christmas with Ron, one of his mother’s lovers when King had been around seven or eight years of age. Ron had brought presents for King and his siblings. King’s present had been a toy airplane. A Phantom fighter-bomber with RAF roundels and a button that made the sound of afterburners or machineguns, depending on how many times the button was pressed. There had been a feast, too. A Bernard Matthews turkey roast sizzling in the oven, frozen mixed vegetables with sweetcorn in – which had blown King’s mind because he had never tried sweetcorn before - and roast potatoes, with Christmas crackers and mince pies for later. He had remembered Ron bringing in the food in two large carrier bags and his mother helping Ron to cook it all. King’s mother had never cooked, and King honestly couldn’t think back to a time when she ever had. Afterwards they had watched the Queen’s speech and then gathered around to watch the family film which had been Mary Poppins. And then the man had realised what a lost cause King’s mother had been, and they had never seen Ron again after Boxing Day. Before New Year’s Eve, one of his mother’s boyfriends had stepped slowly onto the toy airplane as he smiled at King. He had never forgotten that look of sadistic pleasure on the man’s face. Over the years a few of his mother’s men friends and regular punters had played football with him on the estate or sent him out on errands to the corner shop and told him to buy some sweets with the change, but there had only ever been one Ron and there had only ever been that single Christmas of fun and warmth and contentment.

Ahead of him, Novak was sobbing and walking slowly, making the time between now and reaching the end of the house last forever, because the man knew that when he reached the end of the house it would mean the end of his life. All the fight had gone out of him. It was something that King had witnessed before, something inconceivable for many, but nobody really knew how they would act when the moment came. It was the dead man’s walk. Acceptance, fear and sadness all rolled up into a few slow shuffles through stiff, unwilling legs on soft snow. King was thinking about the little boy, and his own toy airplane bought for him by Ron, more than thirty years ago. The best Christmas he’d ever had. He told Novak to stop walking, and the man wobbled before falling onto his knees with his back to him. King looked around, bringing the pistol up and aiming at the nape of the man’s neck. That was the money shot, and it would keep the man’s face in one piece for an open casket funeral. He owed the man’s family that much at Christmas. King half turned upon hearing the front door open and the little boy calling Tati! Tati! Which he figured was pappa or daddy. Novak whimpered and muttered something that King couldn’t understand.

“You belong to us,” said King as he lowered the weapon. “Don’t forget that. Someone will be along shortly to see that you understand what your new commitment entails…” He slipped the pistol into his waistband as he turned around and headed back out to the quiet street. He passed the boy in the snow. The boy had clearly forgotten his father’s scolding and made airplane noises as he flew his new toy alongside him with an outstretched hand. King had the hire car started and was pulling away on the compacted snow before Jan Novak and his son emerged from the side of the house having given the informant the best Christmas present anyone could ever receive. The remainder of his life and a second chance.

Chapter Six

County Mayo, Ireland

The wind blew harsh here. Icy and sharp, like a cold blade to the neck. To the west, lay the great cliffs of Croaghaun, the mountain that rose dramatically over two-thousand-two-hundred feet from the depths of the Atlantic, anchoring Achill Island in dramatic swells and protecting the mainland from the angry sea. These were the highest cliffs in Ireland, and the third highest on the European continent. Andrea O’Shea had wrapped against the cold, her auburn hair blowing wildly in the blustery wind, her pale skin highlighting the red like blood in freshly drifted snow. She watched the black Mercedes SUV crawling along the lane to the abandoned farmhouse. A hundred metres behind it a large delivery van bounced down the lane followed by a huge, black SUV that looked tastelessly American and at odds with the rugged surroundings of rural Ireland. Beside her, Keith Doherty reached across into his inside jacket pocket and gripped the butt of the Browning pistol.

“No need for that, Keithy Boy…” she drawled in the dulcet tones of her Western Irish accent. “McManus has put them our way, because they’re shit-out-of-options. They need us more than we need them…”

Doherty nodded. He was young. Too young to have known The Troubles, but he had been raised on the stories and trained by his father and uncles for the day when it all came back and landed at their doorstep. And it would. Everything happened in cycles. Fascism was coming next, and the world was not ready for it. A new movement for independence could easily follow when the dust had settled. Doherty swept a hand through his greasy, black hair. He was struggling to grow a patchy beard to hide his stubborn acne, and he had a complex about it that had manifested into compensating with his ideals and always carrying the illegal handgun. He watched as the men got out of the vehicle. The heavy nine-millimetre pistol felt tantalisingly close, ultimately final, and it bolstered his confidence. He could gun the men down now and be done with it. Save their cache for another day, the day when Ireland would unite against their enemy and Ulster’s repression. Andrea O’Shea was only in charge because her uncle was a big man back in the day, and she was by no means old school. It was deals like this that she excelled in, but if all their caches were exhausted, then they would not be able to raise an army to fight the British if the time came again.

“Look at ‘em,” he said. “You can fecking smell them from here…”

“I can smell you from here,” Andrea replied.

“It’s different. Spice and sweat.”

“You smell of sweat.”

“I’ve just dug the ground for nearly a fecking hour…”

“Shut up, it’s time to put your big boy pants on.”

“I just don’t like dirty fecking Arabs. All that fecking bowing, and their women all covered from head to fecking toe. Imagine the smell under there in that fecking heat…” He paused, running a hand through his mane of greasy hair. “Fine fecking Christmas morning this has turned out to be…”

She watched the three men walking towards them. “Three wise men from the East on Christmas morning. What more do yer want?” She chuckled. “Besides, the enemy of my enemy is my friend…” She watched as the three men climbed the path, slipping and sliding on the soaked grass in their flat-bottomed dress shoes. The three men had left their driver behind the wheel of the Mercedes, and the two men in the white van remained where they were, the onshore wind gently rocking the vehicle. As the men got nearer, she could see that one of the men was here for his muscle. Six-three, seventeen-stone or more with the face of a boxer. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she greeted them warmly.

A short, squat man in his early fifties with a thick black beard and sporting a kufi looked past Andrea O’Shea and directed his greeting to Doherty. “Peace be upon you…”

O’Shea sneered. She wasn’t playing this game. “You’re doing business with me. So, speak to the organ grinder; not the fecking monkey…” She grinned when she saw his expression of disdain. “It’s cold, it’s early and it’s fecking Christmas Day. Not that you lot would give a shit about that, but we’ve got better places to be.”

“I was told…”

“You’re being told now,” she said acidly. “I take it you are Mister Habib?”

His companion stepped forwards and whispered something into the man’s ear. He was thin, five-eight and wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Dressed in a smart navy-blue single-breasted suit, he looked a world apart from the man wearing the kufi. Everything about the man screamed accountant to Andrea O’Shea. The other man smiled, gave her a half nod of the head. “Very well,” he conceded. “I was told that you have what we are looking for.”

Andrea nodded, satisfied that she had asserted herself, and satisfied that Habib had just been schooled in the ways of the West. Her uncle had always told her that no meeting could take place until the status quo had been established. These men wanted something therefore she was in demand – not the other way round. What’s more, they were standing on the toiled soil of her beloved Ireland. If they had not bowed down to the British, then she was damned if she was going to be abused by men whose ideals harked back a thousand years. Andrea O’Shea’s uncle had been a prominent and active member of the IRA until he had been killed in France by agents of MI6. She often lay awake at night wishing that she could meet the man who had taken such a brave soldier from the Cause in the last days before the Peace Agreement. He had been planning one last hurrah to raise funds for the day when it all went to pieces and the British soldiers flooded the streets of Belfast once more. “We never deployed these,” she said, standing aside and allowing the three men to see the newly dug hole behind her, the crate still submerged but with its lid prised off. “They were deemed too important for a trivial attack. They were a gift from our Basque brothers and came to us via Libya. It was decided that we would wait and use them for something very special. The Royals, perhaps. A coordinated attack on their fecking castles and palaces.” She paused, sorry for the missed opportunities. “But that never happened because then came the Good Friday Agreement. Naturally, weapons of this quality were not handed in during the peace process.”

“Saved for a fecking rainy day,” said Doherty. “We don’t know when that rainy day will come, so there will be no fecking haggling. Yer pay what’s been agreed, or yer feck off.”

“We are not Turkish carpet sellers ripping off tourists in a souk, young man. We have agreed a price with your superiors, now show us the merchandise,” the smartly dressed man said amicably. His name was Tarik Kamal, and he was a Saudi banker and city trader who helped fund various Islamic freedom groups. Or terrorist groups, depending on which side you were on. “So, that we can all be on our way.”

Andrea O’Shea nodded to Doherty, and he leapt down into the hole, heaved out a mortar and laid it carefully on a blanket. “This is the Podnos,” she said of the Soviet-made 2B14 Podnos 82mm mortar. The Irish Republican Army received these in the late nineteen-eighties. Thirty-five of them.”

“That is what we had been told,” the man wearing the kufi said irritably. “But there are only ten in that hole at the most.”

“This is our sales sample,” Andrea O’Shea grinned. “And before you ask, there are no eighty-two-millimetre shells in this cache. The ordinance is stored at another location.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Kamal asked indignantly.

“The meaning is… this is Christmas Day. Our religious holiday.” She paused. “And I’m not freezing my tits off high up on this mountain any longer than I have to.” Both men sneered in disgust at her. The large man who had been stood aside from the two men stepped forwards threateningly but the man wearing the suit put a hand on his shoulder and he stopped. Doherty’s hand slipped inside his jacket. He was young and full of bravado and was just waiting for an opportunity to use the Browning at anything other than tin cans and cardboard targets. He often told all who would listen at his local pub that he had been born three decades too late and on the wrong side of the border. He wanted a united Ireland and would have loved to take on the British pigs in Ulster. Especially the paras whom he hated because of the stories of Bloody Sunday. “Now, now Keithy Boy, let’s not make our guests nervous…” She turned to the three men and said, “That’s ten of our mortars. There are three more crates at various locations near here, totalling thirty-five mortars in all. The ordinance is stored separately at another two locations.”

“We have not come here on a treasure hunt, young lady,” Kamal said irritably, shivering in his well-tailored suit. “Before I transfer the funds, I want to see thirty-five Soviet-made Podnos mortars and seventy, eighty-two-millimetre mortar rounds.”

Andrea laughed. “Well, you can have ten launchers, a list of GPS coordinates and a fecking shovel.” She knew that there was another cache of ten mortars and fifty projectiles that was being saved, but she did not know the location. She was trusted, but she did not know everything. “That’s the deal, because we don’t know you from Adam, and we don’t get paid for digging.”

“This is not what was agreed!” Habib protested.

“Get that money transferred quickly, or an anonymous call may have the Guarda snooping around these hills while you’ve all still got your hands dirty.” She walked up to Habib and handed him a piece of paper. “Happy Christmas, Mister Habib. I wish you all of God’s luck with your venture…”

Doherty chuckled to himself as he climbed out of the hole and adjusted his jacket, making sure that the three men saw the butt of the pistol. He picked up the shovel and handed it to the hulking bodyguard, following Andrea O’Shea down the hill towards her old hatchback parked beside the ruins of the farmhouse. “Fecking showed them!” he said as they reached the vehicle.

“Aye, Keithy Boy,” she said as she opened the creaking driver’s door. “You know what that was about, don’t you?”

“Yeah. We may be Irish, but we’re not shit-digging Micks. They can do the digging in their fancy suits and silly hats…”

“You really are a moron,” Andrea shook her head. “We’re on the moors, miles from anyone and outnumbered. We’ve seen their faces, would have given them all we had and become unneeded, unwanted baggage. If we parted with all the caches, then you could bet your Christmas roast dinner that we would have been buried out there.”

“Jesus… Do you think so?”

“I know so…” She paused. “The quartermaster will get the money for today’s deal, and the Arabs will be busy all day on a little treasure hunt. And you and I will probably get our fecking ears chewed out for treating those men like that, but we’ll be well-fed and singing down the pub tonight with many a drink inside us.”

Chapter Seven

Rome

King had learned that when a hit went wrong, you got the hell out. His old mentor Peter Stewart had always said, “Get the hell out of Dodge…” referring to Dodge City and the legendary gunfight at the OK Corral. As far away and as quickly as possible. He had wasted enough time dressing his wound. However, it wasn’t just the distance he needed from danger. It was distance from the life he lived.

Rome had been the next flight out of Václav Havel Airport, Prague. It had been undersold, and King had parted with just fifty-pounds to get a seat in a row to himself. Rome wouldn’t have been his first choice, but upon reflection, thirty-seven-thousand feet above the ground, it seemed a pretty good place to immerse himself in a crowd. A year-round destination for short city breaks, a vibrant city with restaurants and bars on every corner, unlimited history and architecture, an altogether anonymous place, he thought Rome would give him chance to take stock.

The wound had held together, although the variations in cabin pressure had caused the bruising to swell and had pulled at the stitches, forcing him to change the dressing mid-flight. He had downed several painkillers along with a double whisky to numb the pain and kept up his fluids to replenish the loss of blood and strain on his internal organs. The two-hour flight had landed shortly before midnight and after a manic taxi ride, an agitated hotel receptionist, and a surly room service attendant, he had spent the early hours of Christmas Day eating steak, fries and roasted cherry tomatoes on his bed, washing it down with a cold Peroni beer.

King rose early and showered, cleaning the wound with soap and warm water. He then ran the shower as cold as it would go and directed the spray onto the wound to bring down the swelling. He prodded and pushed, gritting his teeth through the pain. But it was a good pain. A healing pain. Nothing needling inside, no dull throb from infection. When he stepped out of the shower, he dabbed more antiseptic around the wound and after he had towelled himself dry, he applied another large plaster over the stitches. He would give it another day or two then he would do without the plaster and allow the wound to dry. He knew that the cotton stitches were not ideal, and the shoelace method of suturing would hurt as the cotton – having soaked into the clotting wound – was pulled out, but that was more than a week away. Most likely two. He could worry about that later. There was a rare text alert on his phone from Caroline which he ignored. They had an understanding between them. No contact while on separate operations. Distractions cost lives in this game. King helped himself to the dreaded Lipton tea – there never seemed to be another brand in European or American hotels – and perused the cold buffet breakfast, settling on a couple of hard-boiled eggs and an apple which he took with him. Outside, the street was quiet. Rome wasn’t a Christmas destination for many, and he enjoyed the calm as the sun rose behind him and cast a beautiful orange hue on the street ahead. By his reckoning, he was close to the colosseum, and it would be a quiet time to visit. The streets looked like the opening scenes of a zombie apocalypse film, minus the carnage. There was something special, yet slightly eerie about having the city to himself as he walked. Cities were busy by design, so it made the experience of isolation even more unique. Caroline would have loved it. The thought made King recoil. All she had done was text to wish him a merry Christmas with a couple of kisses, but try as he might, he could not bring himself to reply. He had crossed the line. The point of no return. He had weakened because of the man’s child. The sight of him excited by the season, the toy in his hand and the sight took King back to that one special Christmas and he had become sentimental and weak. Novak had tipped off Jenko, and King had been shot because of it, and he had failed in his mission. He could easily have been killed. King should have made the man pay the price. That was how he had worked for twenty years, how Peter Stewart had taught him, ingrained it into him. Novak was no longer an asset. He had become the enemy, and in this game, it never paid to leave your enemies alive. No doubt Ramsay would disagree. He would likely come up with a long play for the man. He was the part of the intelligence services that saw life like a game of chess. People were worth far more alive than dead, and men like Ramsay would have assets and agents playing silly games all over the world if he had the opportunity. Three steps forward; four steps back. Two if the luck held out.

When the colosseum finally came into view, it took King by surprise. One minute it wasn’t there, the next minute it dominated everything. King studied the sight, wondering how many people had perished within its walls. Fight to survive, win to leave. It seemed a metaphor for how King’s life had been within the murky world of intelligence. He knew that he had been a blunt instrument for men like Ramsay, and now he wasn’t even that. Something had pulled at his emotions back in Prague. His instincts had been pushed aside by a sentimentality for something he had never known – a father’s love.

King took out his phone and replied to Caroline’s text. Merry Christmas xxx.

But what now? He had failed, despite not having received orders to kill Novak. Theoretically, he had done nothing wrong. His orders had been to kill Jenko. Had he gone to Novak’s home simply to make up for his failure? No doubt. He could easily press the reset on this. Return to London, report the facts and await Ramsay’s response. Novak wasn’t a paid asset – he was simply a trusted contact. Ramsay may well do nothing. Or he could want to put pressure on Novak. He may well send King back to kill him. King could choose the moment, make sure that his family did not witness it. King hadn’t just killed single men in his career. He had made plenty of widows and orphans along the way. However, he had never stood on a target’s doorstep on Christmas Eve and stared into the joy on a young boy’s face. Something had changed in that moment, and King knew it.

Chapter Eight

London

Caroline checked her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes, sighed and stared out of the window at the moody waters of the Thames. Then she checked again, and thirty seconds after that.

“Go out there,” said Ramsay. “Go now.”

“He’s switched his phone off,” she replied. “It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“But why Rome?” asked Rashid. “What’s the significance?”

Caroline shook her head. “No idea,” she replied curtly, sweeping a lock of her mousy blonde hair away from her brow. “Perhaps there is no significance, just a random act.”

“I don’t understand.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it was just a whim. Some people act on a whim, Neil.”

“How chaotic…” Ramsay turned his laptop around and showed them the screen. “The analysts on the floor below found this footage from Václav Havel Airport in Prague…”

Caroline and Rashid huddled around the screen and watched as King purchased a ticket from the standby desk and proceeded to the Swiss International Air check-in counter. He did not check in any hold luggage, carrying just an old, battered leather holdall that Caroline knew well.

“Is he favouring an injury?” asked Rashid. “He kind of looks tender when he uses his left arm. He’s walking a bit off, too…”

“You’re right,” Caroline agreed. Oh, Alex, what’s going on…? She thought but was far too proud to show weakness by voicing her emotions.

“There were reports of gunshots in the Vršovice district, along with the discovery of the body of a man killed with a knife…” Ramsay read from his notes. “But the man was not Jenko… So, it might have been unrelated, and it clearly wasn’t King,” he said without compassion or sensitivity for Caroline’s feelings. “Because King was on the airport CCTV footage getting on a plane to Rome on Christmas Eve…”

“Doesn’t make much sense,” Rashid said pointedly. “Shall I go over there and have a scout about?”

“No,” said Caroline. “I’m truly sorry about your mother. It must be an extremely difficult time for you and your family.”

Rashid shrugged. “I won’t say that it isn’t…”

“We need you on something else,” said Ramsay. “And with regards to your mother’s health… I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t vitally important.”

“I appreciate that,” Rashid replied, knowing that for emotion, that was the most he could expect from Neil Ramsay. “What is it, then?”

“GCHQ have detected traffic. Enquiries for the services of a sniper. Ex-military, essential. Special forces experience preferable. I now have a small team below this office trawling through the dark web. It’s no use trying to find these people, so it makes more sense to lure them out with a shop window. Your shop window, to be precise.” He paused, looking at Rashid. “A legend was built for you soon after Simon Mereweather took directorship of the Security Service. Nothing special, just a name and date of birth suitable for you. It was done with all the members of the team, all for various scenarios. We have dozens of websites that can be edited according to our requirements. Anyone checking just discovers when the site first came online, not its content updates. Your site is buried deep in the dark web and has been edited overnight. The images have been photoshopped, and with the colour of your face and a suitable bio, that should prick up the ears of these terrorists. It’s a longshot, but right now, you are the premier sniper on the dark web who is offering his services, if you know how to read between the lines.”

Rashid nodded, ignoring Ramsay’s comments about skin colour. Ramsay was sometimes an oblivious genius with the vocabulary of a fool, but Rashid was past caring. His focus was elsewhere, and he knew that he needed to get his head in the game. “What do I do now? Wait for an email?”

“No. I think what we need is something to get their attention.” Ramsay slid an envelope across the desk. “In there is everything you need to memorise. Failure to have this on the tip of your tongue verbatim could cost you your life.”

“So, what do you have in mind for me to get their attention?” Rashid asked curiously.

“I’ve pondered on this all day…”

“Christmas sounds a blast in your house,” Rashid quipped. “I can see why we give it a miss…”

“We spent this morning in GCHQ, Cheltenham. Anyway, damned public holidays just get in the bloody way of things,” Ramsay replied distractedly, taking a file out of his desk drawer. Not a humorous man, he had no idea that Rashid had been making a joke as a Muslim. “I don’t know how you feel about being ordered to kill. I have only ever instructed King to do so…” He glanced at Caroline, both knowing that wasn’t strictly true, but Rashid did need not to know what Caroline had done for her country. “I realise that there is a tremendous difference between taking a man’s life in self-defence, when your life, or the lives of your colleagues are at stake. What the team has done over the years is one thing; but being ordered to kill is quite another.”

Rashid stared at the file on the desk, then glanced at Caroline and back at Ramsay. “Who is it?” he asked, still having not picked it up.

“A serial rapist.”

“Sounds like a job for the courts.”

“He has killed, too.” Ramsay paused. “And trafficked women in plain sight.”

Caroline stared at Ramsay, then back at Rashid. She had been abducted once, and the women she had been held with had been trafficked into the sex trade. She had been lucky to escape, and upon returning to free the women, had found them missing. To this day, they had never been found.

Rashid still did not pick up the file. “How many people has he killed?”

“Numerous. Women and young girls who have died because of drug abuse and conditions. A direct result of his trafficking.”

“Still sounds like a job for the police.”

“Are you kidding?” Caroline exclaimed.

“No,” Rashid replied.

“But you’ve killed before!” she snapped.

Rashid scoffed. “By that logic, then just because you’ve had sex, then there would be no issue with prostituting yourself in the line of duty…”

“That’s not the same!”

“It is exactly the same!”

Ramsay held up a hand. “Please, stop…” He pushed the file towards Rashid. “Go away and read this. Take your time. I understand your reasoning, and know this… I am proud to work with people of such integrity.”

Chapter Nine

“That was a delicious lunch, thank you.”

“I think the chefs at Harrods need at least a little credit!”

“Harrods… oh, very swish! I always think I’m doing well when I pop into M and S for a dine in style meal deal…” Lillia Bailey paused, watching the black labrador go after the tennis ball. Regent’s Park was far from quiet as dog owners and non-owners alike walked off their Christmas lunches. “I should have known. There was me thinking you were a Master Chef contestant, or something. That beef wellington was to die for, and the red wine gravy…”

“Jus…” Luger interrupted playfully. “It’s always jus when it’s posh nosh.”

“Jus…” she smiled. “Well, that was superb!”

“It’s the bone marrow that makes it,” he told her.

“Oh, that actually sounds bloody disgusting!”

They walked on, Luger stopping now and then to throw the ball which the dog dropped somewhat begrudgingly at his feet, often nosing it towards them only to snatch the ball back and race around them in giant circles. “I’m glad you enjoyed lunch,” he said, stopping to look at her. She was attractive. The epitome of the classic girl next door. Understated beauty and utterly beguiling because of it. It had been a last-minute invitation, and he had been relieved when she had accepted. Both for the company and her company. “It’s been nice.” Lillia smiled. It was round about now that Luger would choose to lean in, either receiving a kiss in return or the cold shoulder, but he wasn’t going to do it. Not yet. They had met when she investigated an airline disaster that was of interest to MI5, and he had made a move on her far too soon. He had been arrogant and thoughtless – buoyed by recent successes with women – and she hadn’t been ready to move on from her fiancé who had died in a plane crash just over a year previous. Lillia’s work as an aviation crash investigator had brought her into MI5’s reach, and she had not been keen to remain there. The dog dropped the ball, and Luger was grateful for the distraction. He picked it up and tossed it towards the treeline and watched as the black labrador took off after it, kicking up the last remaining soggy leaves in its wake.

“I am surprised you kept the dog,” she said. “Although I think he deserves a better name than Dog.”

“My neighbours are older and wanted another dog after theirs died of old age. They saw looking after Dog when I’m away for work as a happy compromise. I’m grateful to them, because I haven’t owned a dog since I left home for university. A beautiful yellow labrador named Hobie. I couldn’t have a dog at uni and obviously couldn’t keep one as a single man serving in the Royal Navy.” He paused. “I felt for him, too. His owners dying in that airliner incident and all.” They started to walk again, and Luger allowed the back of his hand to brush her own. She did not flinch away, and upon the third time their hands brushed together, he chanced it and took her hand in his. She did not resist. Luger felt his heart leap. There was more to Lillia, more to this situation. His heart raced with more intensity than it had with other women, and more than it had a whole lot further along the intimacy journey than simply holding hands. It was a new experience for him. He liked it. His phone rang in his pocket, bringing the moment to a shuddering halt. He had a ringtone just for work and his colleagues and a different one for family and friends, although he hadn’t heard that one in a while. Not until Lillia had replied to his invite for Christmas lunch. “I’d better get that,” he said.

“Luger…”

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” Caroline greeted him, although her tone was by no means warm. He detected that something was wrong but did not ask. He was learning to stay in his lane.

“It was…” he replied. “What is it?”

“We could do with a briefing.”

“A briefing…” Luger said heavily. “Today?”

“If that’s alright,” Caroline said, but it was far from a question. “Sorry, we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t vitally important.”

“Aren’t we all. Sorry, that is.”

“I really am sorry, Jack.”

“Merry Christmas, Caroline,” he said and ended the call.

“Problem?” Lillia asked, already knowing the answer.

“Something’s come up,” he replied. He called the dog over to him and clipped him back onto his lead. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Hey, it’s your job, don’t apologise,” she said lightly. “I don’t keep the most sociable hours, either. Last month I was flown out to Brunei with a day’s notice, then on to Lima the same week,” she said with a shrug. “Nothing at all this month, which considering my line of work, is a small mercy for everyone else with a plane ticket in their hand.”

“It must feel strange flying halfway around the world to an aviation crash, unnerving I would imagine.”

Lillia shrugged. “It’s still the safest way to travel. More people would have died the world over this morning being knocked off a bicycle than in an aircraft critical incident.”

Luger nodded, but he still couldn’t shake off his underlying fear of flying. “Well, it was too good to last,” he said as they reached the park gates.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” Lillia said happily. “Lunch was delicious. Even if the chefs from Harrods did the brunt of the work,” she added with a cheeky wink.

Luger smiled. It had been nice. Neither of them had plans nor at least plans they couldn’t willingly change at short notice. So, the day had been cut short, but what would have been left? Him making a move too far? An awkward moment when he realised that she was still viewing him as a friend? Ruining what could be the start of something special?

“I’m really glad you came,” he said. “I’ll drop Dog off with the Wilsons and give you a lift back to your flat on the way… I don’t know what they have planned for me, or how long I’ll be gone for. No, we’d better scrub that, I’ve had too much to drink to get behind the wheel.” He paused. “And now to the dreaded bicycle that is likely to leave me a broken wreck at the side of the road, if your statistics are anything to go on…”

Lillia laughed as they stepped onto the pavement and started out towards his road. “Alright, then. I’ll walk home from here, then,” she said. She’d brought her bag along with her and was wrapped in her coat and scarf against the cold. “Call me when you get back,” she said, stopping and looking up at him as they paused on the pavement, an invisible junction calling them both. “Perhaps we can go out for a drink. Someplace nice and quiet…”

“Sounds good,” he replied. To his surprise she reached up and kissed him softly on the lips. Closed mouth and a fleeting touch, but her lips felt warm and soft and tasted faintly of champagne and strawberries, and he couldn’t help feeling victorious that she had not kissed him upon his cheek. It indicated something more than friendship. An encouraging sign. He could live with that.

Chapter Ten

Rome

King could see why Rome was often referred to as The Eternal City, bathed in a brilliant, yet crisp sunlight, it offered a picturesque scene that few places on Earth could rival. Its timeless allure became even more enchanting as the winter chill set in, casting a new light on its ancient monuments and usually bustling piazzas. Amidst this serene, cold day, the Colosseum stood tall, an enduring symbol of Rome’s monumental history. The amphitheatre’s grand arches and majestic ruins basked under the sun’s golden rays, which seemed to warm the very stones that had borne witness to centuries of spectacles and stories. No, more than mere stories – legends. The sky, a deep azure blue, contrasted sharply with the weathered stone, creating a breathtaking panorama that captured his imagination and admiration. The streets of Rome, usually teeming with tourists, now possessed a tranquil and almost introspective charm. The cold air filled with the sounds of distant chatter, echoing footsteps, and the occasional ring of bicycle bells as children tested out their two-wheeled presents, laughing and screeching with pleasure.

King had walked through Circus Maximus, the home of ancient chariot races. Only older couples and singletons were walking and taking in the sights. People for whom Christmas was an awkward or lonely time or had now found themselves on the periphery of family as time moved on. He had paused to think at the Roman Forum, which was dusted with a light frost. The columns and remnants of temples cast long shadows in the morning sun, adding depth and texture to the landscape. He had not painted in years and thought that he could find an art supply shop in a day or two and try his hand again. But would he still be here? What was the purpose to this? If he was done with the job, he was not done with his relationship. He needed to return and speak to Caroline, decide how best to proceed. She had recently been promoted to second in command after thinking about whether she should stay in the job, and now King was having doubts. It would look like he was not comfortable with her promotion, ultimately being his boss. But that wasn’t it. He had glimpsed love and normality and doubted himself and the job which had become his life.

King studied the blue sky and scudding clouds. There was something about the winter sun in mainland Europe. The air felt clean and healing when compared to the grey skies of Britain. Something to cherish. He had stood here once before and stared at the same sky and the same architectural wonders. That last time had been with his wife, Jane. Before the cancer had taken hold. Before his world had changed forever, a bit for the worse. He had never truly ‘lived’ as he had before she had died, and he wondered whether something in his subconscious had chosen Rome over the other destinations that had all been less than two hours from check-in. It certainly must have influenced his decision. Perhaps by being here he could feel some comfort in the familiar. Memories of a happy time, and time certainly of more contentment. After Jane’s death, King had thrown himself into his work and the most dangerous, bloody operations imaginable. That was when he had earned his moniker of ‘The Reaper’ in the hushed corridors of MI6. There was nobody he could not track down and send on an appointment with Death. King closed his eyes, then looked back at the buildings. There seemed to be a comfort in knowing how long these buildings had stood, standing up to the test of time. Adding a sense of permanence to bask in, to take comfort from.

Despite the cold and being Christmas morning, the city’s vibrant café culture remained in full swing. Residents and tourists alike had taken to the streets and sipped on espressos and hot chocolates, the steam rising from their cups as they enjoyed the sun’s warmth on their faces. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and roasting chestnuts wafted through the air, adding a sensory delight to the visual splendour. King wondered how Italians, or Romans celebrated Christmas, because today looked like any other day. Not a religious man, King toyed with the notion of visiting the Vatican to see how Romans took to their religion on Christmas Day. Did the Pope preach and pray with the masses on Christmas Day? He couldn’t be sure. It seemed like the sort of thing the Pope would do. He had switched off his phone and did not want to switch it back on again to search the internet for confirmation. Instead, he thought he would give it a miss and spend some time thinking beside the Tiber river, which wound its way through the city. Water always provided King with a muse to think by. The sea with its pounding waves, the sound of sand and shingle being pulled and pushed up the beach in the ebb and flow, or a waterfall upon rocks, all the colours of the spectrum caught in the prism of light like his own personal rainbow. The gentle movement of a river worked just as well. The mind freed itself of trivial matters as troubles, and more often than not, the solutions to those troubles rose to the surface.

Chapter Eleven

London

“You cycled in? Where’s the Bentley?” Caroline asked, balancing the tray of coffee on one hand, but feeling the weakness in her back and shoulder from her recent gunshot injury. She needed extensive physiotherapy, but she had found her new appointment simply too busy. Swapping the tray to her left hand, she held the door open with her knee, but Luger took the tray from her and ushered her through ahead of him.

“Well, it’s Christmas Day,” Luger told Caroline sharply. “I’ve had three beers and the best part of a bottle of Moët. I’m quite pissed, actually …”

“The coffee will help,” she said, taking hers and Ramsay’s off the tray and leaving him to balance his own. “Extra strong and black. No sugar.”

Luger accepted his coffee with a loose smile. He’d made his point, there was no use in prolonging his annoyance at being called in. “Thanks,” he said putting the tray down on the table. “And merry Christmas to you both.”

Ramsay nodded, but did not take his eyes off the laptop screen. “It’s a bodyguarding job,” he said. “You did the security course in training, I see. Close protection, counter surveillance and advanced evasive driving.”

Luger frowned. “Who’s the principal?” He sipped the coffee, still feeling far too relaxed for work, but the coffee should help.

“Rashid.” Ramsay paused. “Only, he won’t know that you’re protecting him. Or rather, he’ll know but he’ll soon forget because I want you to be invisible.”

“He’ll know.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?” Ramsay asked in annoyance.

“He’s top class. Whatever he does, he’ll have a good degree of situational awareness.”

“Then see that you’re better.” Ramsay turned to Caroline and said, “Can we fix him up with a weapon?”

“Legal, or a toss it in the Thames job?”

“The latter.”

“I’ll have something couriered over to his apartment.”

“Jim will be on hand for extra surveillance duties and as your personal taxi driver. I don’t imagine your Bentley being the ideal surveillance vehicle,” said Ramsay. “Caroline, you’ll have to act as my driver in the meantime.”

“Only if we can use the Range Rover,” she said lightly.

“That’s fine,” Ramsay nodded. “Jim is extremely territorial about the Jaguar, anyway.”

“Who else is on this?” Luger asked.

“Just you and Jim,” Ramsay replied.

“Where’s King?” Luger asked, looking at Caroline. “Not much of a Christmas for you two.”

“Alex is… on assignment,” she said, her complexion fading. Her normally healthy glow had diminished since she had seen the CCTV footage of him at Prague airport.

Luger nodded, knowing when a conversation wasn’t going to go anywhere. “I need to know more about Rashid’s, er… assignment.” He paused. “If I am to protect him, or at least keep tabs on him, then I should know some background information.”

Ramsay nodded. “A terrorist group want to hire a sniper. GCHQ have found chatter through their Echelon system, and intercepted emails from various disposable accounts, and traffic in the dark web.” He paused. “We don’t have much more information than that.”

“And you’re putting Rashid out there as a gun for hire?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the terrorists?”

“We don’t know.”

“What’s the target?”

“We don’t know.”

“Do you know the location of the target?”

“No.”

“Shit. Well, you’re wrong about not having much information,” he said dryly. “You have literally no information at all...”

“We’ve started out before with far less,” Caroline shrugged. “The pieces will come together, eventually.”

“And Rashid has signed up for this?”

“Yes,” she replied. “From now on, he will not come anywhere near headquarters, nor any government facility. He is out there on his own.” She paused. “With you keeping an eye out for him.”

“Does he have a tracker on his person?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you got tabs on his phone?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, but as soon as he is contacted by these terrorists, then he will be forced to give up his phone. That’s just basic operational security.”

Luger sipped some more of his coffee. It had cooled enough for him to take a few large gulps, and that would soon help to sober him up. He was grateful for the beef wellington and pommes dauphinoise, and the finest Harrods Christmas pudding and brandy butter. At least it was soaking up the champagne. “I’ll need surveillance equipment, including drones and wireless cameras.”

“Of course,” Ramsay replied. “Jim is on top of that. It’s one of his specialities.”

“And a surveillance van as well as the Jag,” he frowned, wondering what else he would need. He was still a bit lightheaded, but he took another gulp of coffee and said, “A motorbike could be handy as well, if I have to follow him through rush hour traffic or get to him quickly.”

“No jumping over twenty-foot-high fences this time,” Caroline smiled.

“I only jump between countries,” he replied. “And only from hostile ones at that…”

Chapter Twelve

Rome

As Christmases went, it wasn’t the worse he’d had. He had spent previous Christmas days patrolling in Northern Ireland, holed up in a wadi in Iraq, and mopping-up Taliban fighters in Afghanistan’s Tora Bora after the battle had officially ended on December 17th. He had killed two men in the morning and had eaten a Christmas dinner back at camp that evening. Another Christmas had been spent as a mercenary in the Congo, and another in Syria. Big Dave had been ready to sit down to a turkey dinner with a single mother he had kept in his phonebook after a one-night stand last year. The son had been a spoiled little brat, and the woman had turned out to hold some pretty wild internet-fuelled conspiracy theories. After filling up on crisps and nuts and cheese footballs while she had battled with the dinner, he had welcomed the call from Caroline that had taken him away from a free lunch and into the overpriced taxi to Gatwick Airport and the half-empty standby flight to Rome. He had hired a Fiat that he ended up wearing as much as driving and headed for the last known GPS coordinate from King’s phone.

What the hell was the man doing here? Big Dave knew enough about being compromised to know that you got the hell out. He had been briefed that King had appeared to be injured, and he had the bare bones of King’s mission in Prague. King being here would point to mission failure. Caroline had confirmed that Rome was the next flight out of Prague when King had entered the airport. The next three flights were to countries that may have seemed more trouble than they were worth. Italy was in the European Union, and despite British citizens losing the travel freedoms that EU membership entailed, Italy would have been a better bet for King than Georgia, Egypt and Albania, which had been the three next flights out of Prague.

Big Dave dropped the driver’s window and turned up the heater, so he did not freeze to death while he hung his shoulder and elbow out of the vehicle for comfort. He had the seat racked all the way back but still clipped his knee on the underside of the dash each time he worked the clutch, and his head rubbed against the headlining as he steered the vehicle through the sharp bends and narrow streets of Rome. The roads were quiet by Rome’s standards, with young couples and older people sitting sipping coffee and eating pastries in the morning sun, café tables placed on the pavements and shifted by the customers to get out of the shade.

Big Dave drove the tourist loop near the Trevi Fountain, Circus Maximus, the Vatican and the Spanish Steps, once again ending up at the Colosseum. He had been to Rome only once before, and the taxi ride had been hell. He had been riding in the back with a girlfriend, and he had put his foot clean through the material on the back of the seat using an imaginary brake when the driver had failed to stop for three nuns in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. The driver hadn’t even hovered his foot over the brake pedal. Even with a few cars on the roads and people sitting in the sun outside cafés, the city felt like a ghost town. As the big Fijian drove the circuit for a third time, he noticed that the people and traffic were thinning. Italians seemed to celebrate Christmas in the afternoon, and he imagined large and noisy family gatherings with roasted porchetta and matriarchal elderly women shouting at the young and restless to sit still and eat. It was an image that conjured up memories of his village in Fiji and the great cook-outs that the villagers, all seeming to merge into one family, enjoyed on holidays and festivals. The thought made him sad. He had been estranged from his family for twenty years, returning only recently to help search for his missing half-sister, whom he never knew he had. Big Dave sighed. Christmas was a time for spending with family or friends. Even the single mum with a screw loose and her brattish son now seemed a better prospect than driving round in circles looking for a man who clearly did not want to be found. At least there would have been a free turkey dinner.

Big Dave pulled to the kerb and opened the map. He had apps on his phone that would do the job, but you just couldn’t beat paper and a large overall view of an area. Years in the military had conditioned him to use the basics and not to rely on technology. He had tried the sights – places where someone could lose themselves in history, legend and architecture – but there had to be something else. King loved the ocean and had lived in cottages overlooking the sea in Cornwall and had spent time living on yachts in the Mediterranean. He swam in the sea year-round, and Big Dave had always known the man to use swimming as a means of thinking things through. He studied the Tiber and its snaking path through the city. Not the widest, nor the deepest river. But it was a body of water, nonetheless. Big Dave tossed the unfolded map onto the passenger seat having memorised the route. Despite feeling more wrapped up in the car rather than riding in it, the tiny Fiat Panda was the ideal vehicle for the Italian capital. It was narrow and rode high enough to make light work of the savage speedbumps and outrageously deep potholes, and he weaved in and out of the traffic like the scooters and mopeds that dominated the traffic. Once he reached the Tiber, he drove slowly, and despite the traffic being relatively light, horns sounded behind him, the drivers gesticulating as they overtook him. Peace and goodwill, to all, thought Big Dave. On his second pass of the river, he pulled in and parked the car on the pavement. He doubted that there would be many parking attendants on duty today, and he hadn’t seen a single police officer yet. He got out, crossed the pavement and started out across the bridge. Below him, steep steps led down to a wide walkway beside the river, and he noticed that it was empty for as far as he could see to each bend in the river in both directions.

“Merry, fucking Christmas…” he said to King’s back.

“Hey, mate,” King replied without turning round. He was leaning over the railing and staring at the river below him.

“You knew it was me?”

“I saw you on your first drive past,” King replied, turning around to look at him.

“Still got it, then…”

“I’m not so sure.”

“What’s happened?”

King told him about the hit and his shootout with Jenko culminating in his injury. He skipped over the treatment, but told him about Novak and his son, and the fact the man was still breathing. When he’d finished, he turned back to the river.

“Well, if you’re going to jump, it looks a bit shallow to me,” Big Dave said glibly. “And you’re a fine swimmer, so drowning’s out of the question.”

“Piss off…”

The big Fijian leaned on the railings beside him. “It’s just normal, King.” He paused. “I wouldn’t have shot the bloke, either. For starters, it wasn’t your brief. You took it to that level, and that conclusion,” he said shaking his head. “And the fact that you didn’t shoot that man through the back of his head with his family… his wife and his son… in the house, well you sure made the right call. Hell, I wouldn’t respect you if you had done anything different.”

King looked at him and frowned. “I was soft…”

“You were being human!”

King looked back at the river. Hundreds of roses floated on the surface of the river beneath them. Red and white, various lengths. He turned and looked behind them but there was nobody to be seen. It was a bizarre sight, surreal. “I’ve done stuff…” He paused. “Things I shouldn’t have…”

“I figured as much,” Big Dave replied. “We all have. I had orders in the Regiment, things I would rather not have had to do. It’s human. We’re not robots, devoid of emotion and feelings. Even in the SAS we had to know when to use judgement. Take the guys who were made famous in the Gulf War. The ill-fated reconnaissance mission, Bravo Two Zero; they could have killed the boy goatherder who discovered them. They might well have evaded death or capture, but some of the guys were family men. They weren’t going to kill a little boy. Not for war, not at any cost.”

“That’s not how I was taught to do things,” King mused.

“Then you had a bad teacher…” Big Dave shrugged. “Ramsay would likely have wanted to find out why his police contact chose to let the mark know that you were on the way. Was he financially motivated? Who, if anyone, was he working for? Could he use the man and his contacts? Could the man lead us to Jenko ‘The Blade’? You saw red because you got shot, and you wanted the man to pay. Seeing him at home on Christmas Eve with his son brought you back to your senses. And thank goodness for that.”

“So, what do I do?” King asked. “I’ve turned soft.”

“Trust me, King. You are the last person in the world that I would want to fight. Right here, right now, it would be the battle of my life. You haven’t turned bloody soft, dickhead. You just found your conscience.” Big Dave paused. “Welcome to the human race, mate.”

Chapter Thirteen

Her hand was soft and cold, her skin loose and as delicate as tissue paper. She had aged a decade in the past month. Death was now her constant companion and would take her soon. He sat beside her bed, not noticing how uncomfortable the upright chair was, nor that his sister sobbed behind him.

Rashid leaned forwards and kissed his mother’s brow. She had been in and out of both consciousness and coherency over the past week, but in a rare moment of lucid clarity, she looked into his eyes and said, “My son… I am so proud of you…” She paused, licking her parched lips. “I do not pretend to know what it is that you do… but I know that we have all lived safer lives because of you…” Rashid didn’t quite know how to respond, but he smiled as she squeezed his hand. “An officer, the youngest Pakistani officer in British history… the special services… so very proud…”

“I love you too, mam…” he replied quietly. And then she was gone again. He could see it in her eyes. He hoped she had found a nice memory, a warm feeling to cling to. “Rest easy, mam…” He stood and released her hand, with no resistance from her own. He kissed her brow again, then hugged his sister. “Keep me in the loop,” he said, knowing that was going to be easier said than done. Taking a new identity, living a false life – his phone could be his Achillies heel. One text, one call and his cover would be blown.

“I will,” she said. “But, do you have to go?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“You always have to go…”

“It’s what I do,” he replied quietly. “I’m sorry…” Alia led him outside the lounge. The family had quickly made the room up as a bedroom before she had lost the ability to climb the stairs and go to the toilet unaided. It had been important for her to remain downstairs in the hub of the home. Rashid hugged his sister, catching sight of his father seated at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, staring blankly at the back garden. There was a bird table there, but no birds. Nobody had remembered to buy bird feed since his mother’s prognosis. The bird table was usually thriving with colour, sometimes with squirrels dominating the feeding. “Look after pops for me,” he said.

“He’s a wreck,” Alia said quietly. “Aunty Jan is bringing some dinner over with her tonight. He can’t even think about cooking…”

Rashid nodded, a fond smile spreading across his sombre expression. His aunt’s Mantu beef dumplings and chicken jalfrezi were legendary. However, Rashid liked to eat her jalfrezi with chips, and his aunt had never forgiven him for it. Rashid hugged his sister and suspected that it would be the last time they would be together and still have a mother. As he walked out into the kitchen, he wondered whether she felt the same. Rashid’s father was a quiet, unassuming man in his early sixties. He was nearing retirement, and his parents had always planned to move to the Lake District and buy a small, wooden dayboat to use on Lake Windermere. Like so many dreams, this would now go unrealised.

“Your aunty Jan is coming over tonight with some food,” he said, his eyes still on the empty bird table.

“I know, Alia told me.”

“But no chips…”

“No.”

“She still moans about that night.”

“I bet she does.”

“Your mother will die soon, son. If not tonight, then tomorrow or the next day.”

“I know.” Rashid replied. “I’m so sorry, dad.”

“You should stay.”

“I have to go.”

“You’ve always had to go. To the army, to those butchers at Hereford, Afghanistan, the secret service… always you have to go…”

“That’s my job,” he replied. “And we weren’t butchers, we just had a difficult job, that’s all. You came here for a better life, and that’s what people who serve this country in the military or police or intelligence services do… make the damned place safer for everyone. It’s a free country because of other people’s sacrifice.” Rashid paused. “If you don’t like it, then maybe you should have stayed in Pakistan…” he trailed off. He had never spoken to his father like this, and he could see the hurt on his father’s face at the disrespect. The man would be hurting, his life crashing down around him. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and said, “I’ll call…” Rashid regretted speaking to his father like that. Maybe it was the stress, or maybe he was just fed up with always being told that he was never at home.

Rashid’s father did not reply as his son walked out of the house by the back door. He brushed a tear away and continued his vigil on the empty bird table. Usually full of life and colour, the sight seemed fitting for such a dark winter’s day, and the constant darkness that lurked within the walls of the usually vibrant family home. Death was near, and occasionally Death would cruelly choose to let its presence be known before it took its prize.

Chapter Fourteen

Banbury, Oxfordshire

Richard Collins watched the moorhen bobbing in the gentle wake of the barge. The reeds gave the bird sanctuary, cutting the height of the wake and providing it with shelter from the wash, each wave a tsunami for a creature of that size. There had been a sharp frost, and steam was rising from the water, which was barely a degree or two above freezing. He walked along the towpath, the frost crunching beneath his boots, towards the jetty beside which a dozen narrowboats were moored in a scene of abject chaos.

“Mister Smith?” the gnarled and squat man asked as he approached.

“That’s right,” Collins replied. “I was surprised when you said that you would be here today.”

The man shrugged, the tiniest butt of a home-rolled cigarette poking from the edge of his cracked lips. “Boxing day is like any other day for us,” he replied. “Got guests picking up this week, so plenty to do.” He paused. “Are you South African?”

“Something like that,” Collins replied noncommittedly. “Are these the boats?” he asked.

“No,” the man said, standing up straight with the pain showing on his face. He was still crooked in his posture and at six-two, Collins towered over him. “This way, Mister Smith.” He walked along the towpath and Collins followed, watching the man’s stiff gait become freer as he put in the first few steps. He led him down a path to where a small lake had been dug and lined with wooden railway sleepers, filled from both the canal and a small stream. The water in the lake was clearer than the brown, slick water of the Oxford Canal, but that wouldn’t have been difficult. Collins thought that only cow slurry or raw excrement could be any less appealing. “Here they are…” the man said, flicking the cigarette butt into the lake. A duck saw its chance and powered through the water, snaffling up the cigarette butt in its bill, then discarding it and looking as annoyed as a duck could be.

Collins looked at the canal boats. He wasn’t sure whether they were barges, narrowboats or canal boats, but he figured all three would cover it. The boats ranged from twenty-five to sixty feet in length, and all were narrower than he imagined they would have been. He ran a hand through his closely-cropped greying hair, stopping to rub the back of his neck somewhat ponderously. “These are all canal boats, right?”

“Narrowboats,” the man replied dubiously. “Canal boats can be different sizes, but all narrowboats are six-feet-ten inches across the beam, and no longer than sixty feet. Boats of those dimensions can travel along every canal in the country. Through the canal locks, that is. Turning them around is another matter entirely. Almost all of them are longer than the canal is wide, so you need to find turning bays.” He paused. “What is it you want them for, anyway?”

“Same as you,” Collins replied. “Only we are buying all the old vessels, while people like you are buying in new,” he said, hoping to appeal to the man’s ego. “They will be used for Airbnb rentals and most of them won’t even leave the mooring. They all float, right?”

“You see them floating, don’t you?”

Collins sighed. “I mean, do they leak?”

“No. They’re just too tired for holiday rentals,” the man replied. “Ours, that is. Which one takes your fancy?”

“I’ve been instructed to buy twenty vessels.”

The man tried to hide his excitement but failed miserably. It was clear that he had thought he could sell one or two of his older narrowboats ahead of purchasing new models, but he looked to be doing some mental arithmetic as he surveyed the pond. “I can do that,” he said. “There are two or three on the moorings that I was going to sell next season, if it helps you out…”

“It does.”

“We can get you to twenty that way. The market is strong, though…”

“I know.”

“An old, but tidy vessel goes for seventy or eighty thousand, on account of all the people trying to get round housing issues in London and other big cities. All the cities still have canals somewhere and the trendy lot are using them as homes.”

“These are certainly old,” said Collins. “But they’re far from tidy…”

“They need some fettling, that’s for sure,” the man agreed. “But they still hold a good price.”

“Half a million,” Collins said confidently. “I want twenty. I’m not fussed about the condition, but they all need to float, and they all need to run.”

“But…”

“I can do cash. Half payable today.”

“Cash?” the man stared at Collins, but he was already walking back to the towpath. “Wait!” he called after him. “Five-fifty?”

Collins ignored the man and by the time he caught up with him, Collins was walking alongside the moorings with the rental-ready narrowboats. “Five-hundred-thousand pounds,” he confirmed. “Only offer. I’m just the middleman, so I’ll simply get back inside my car and visit the other person on my list.”

“Okay, Mister Smith, okay.” The man paused. “When will you collect?”

“I’ll be in touch. You’ll get the other quarter of a million when the boats are collected and are shown to be running. Oh, and they will be fuelled, batteries charged and ready to go.”

The man seemed to be calculating the further cost of this, but he shrugged. “Okay.”

“Good.” Collins paused. “Walk with me to my car and I’ll give you the quarter of a million. I won’t require a receipt, but I will expect you to commit to my terms.”

“That sounds like a threat, Mister Smith…”

Collins opened the door of the old Toyota Landcruiser, pulled out a sports bag and handed it to him. “There you are. A quarter of a million reasons to understand that I wasn’t making a threat. I was making a promise. Half the money, and no receipt. You get the other half when my people pick up the boats, and they had better be watertight and running, or there will be serious repercussions…”

Chapter Fifteen

Harley Street, London

“What kind of a butcher thought that it was acceptable to sew you up like this?”

King stared at the female doctor with annoyance. The suturing was some of his finest work, and besides, how easy did the woman think it was to sew yourself up after removing a bullet yourself. “Needs must,” he replied.

The doctor checked the clock on the wall above his bed. “If we’re going to redo the stitches, then we’d just as well open you up and have a little look inside. There’s no fragments showing up on the X-ray, but it would pay to have a look-see and treat any signs of infection. You’ll need two weeks of antibiotics and some anti-inflammatory medication as well.”

“I’m sure there’s no need to…”

“Unless you have a seven-year medical degree behind you, then please be quiet, Mister King. You have been sent here for medical attention, and we have a good working relationship with the intelligence services, so I’m not going to do half a job.” She looked over at the door at the sound of the knock. “Wait!” The door opened and Caroline stepped inside. “I said: wait!”

“I heard you,” Caroline replied as she walked over to King and threw her arms around him. “I just chose to ignore you…”

The doctor stared at Caroline and said, “Who are you?”

“Caroline Darby, Neil Ramsay’s deputy.” She paused as she sat down beside King on the bed and looked at the doctor. “Could you give us a minute?”

The doctor cocked her head indignantly, somewhat curious, but ultimately royally pissed off at the intrusion and her subsequent dismissal. “He will be collected for surgery in fifteen minutes…” she said as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Surgery?” Caroline said to him. “What happened?”

“Big Dave didn’t tell you?”

“You know what he’s like. He’s hardly an office gossip. Christ, it’s like pulling teeth! He’s a gossip clam. He spoke to Ramsay, asked for medical attention and Ramsay gave him the green light with this place.” She looked around the room. “Bloody place… too many of us have been in here recently…”

“I was shot,” King said casually. “I got the bullet out and stitched it up.” He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal a mass of bruising and stitches that looked like a laced boot. “I thought it was pretty good job, myself.”

“Damn…” Caroline traced a fingertip over the lattice work of cotton. “That’s alright if you were stranded in the jungle, but I think the doctor has a point.” She paused. “You could have made a call; we could have sent you to a trusted asset.”

King shrugged, but said nothing, looking into Caroline’s deep hazel eyes. He enjoyed looking at her, realising that he hadn’t done enough of that lately. “I missed Jenko,” he said. “I shot him, but he got away.”

“We’ll get another chance. Luger has history with the man, perhaps he should take care of him next time.”

“He’s not ready,” King replied hastily. “And he’s an intelligence officer, not a specialist.”

“He did alright on the last mission.”

“It’s because of the last mission and his involvement that Jenko became a problem.”

“Big Dave was on that mission, too. You still think he’s a capable operator, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then cut the young man some slack.”

“He’s not a cold-blooded killer,” King replied, but remembering how he’d left the police contact in Prague, he looked away from her. Perhaps he was no longer a cold-blooded killer, either. “Novak, Ramsay’s police contact in Prague, should no longer be considered a friendly asset.”

“Really?”

“Big Dave didn’t say anything?”

“The man is discretion himself,” she replied.

“He sold me out,” said King. “Jenko knew I was coming after him. He had someone follow me. The man was acting as a block between Jenko and myself. Jenko knew I was coming for him. I think the man I killed in Prague had been ordered to kill me, but I intercepted him first and he reacted by pulling a gun on me. When he failed to kill me, Jenko came out shooting. He knew exactly where I was and what I was doing there.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to order a termination?”

Caroline shook her head. “Thank goodness that’s well above my paygrade.”

“Do you think that Ramsay will?”

She shrugged. “Who’s to say? Ramsay will want to study the angles and work out whether it’s worth it or not, or whether the asset can be useful, or whether we just cut and run and leave him to his own devices. Prague isn’t necessarily a vital location, and the man was merely a point of contact. He can’t know anything about us or pose a significant threat. Any termination order would simply be an act of revenge, and Ramsay isn’t big on that. An eye for an eye only makes the world blind.” She paused. “Thank goodness you didn’t exact revenge on him. It could have created a right storm if you had.”

“Right…” King sighed. Should he tell her? No. He’d messed up enough with Jenko. He felt like he was a chapter or two behind in the book that everybody else was reading.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, then added by way of deflection, “Just this surgery is a pain in the arse.”

“I imagine it’s not too complicated. Just a tidy-up job.” She covered his hand with her own. “You’ll be out tonight, tomorrow at the latest…”

King nodded. “Happy Christmas, by the way.”

“It’s too late for that now,” she replied sharply. “Been and gone. We’ll have to do better next year.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“I put the duck in the freezer,” she said.

“Right.”

“And the pigs in blankets, along with the shellfish platter.”

“Christ, alright, I feel bad enough about it!”

“Why Rome?” she asked.

King shrugged. “It was the next available flight. Always get the hell out of Dodge when the plan goes to shit. That’s what I was taught.”

“Have you been to Rome before?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” he lied. He didn’t know why he had fled to the city, but Caroline was smart, and she knew how to read people. She would read into something that wasn’t there, or more worryingly, something that was there but that King did not want to accept. As was his way, King did not want to deal with an emotion when he could ignore it.

Caroline did not reply. Fortunately for King, he was saved from the conversation with the more favourable prospect of being cut open, as a porter, two male nurses and a female anaesthetist walked in. The porter and one of the nurses set about taking the brakes off the bed, while the anaesthetist started to read King’s notes.

“I can walk to the operating theatre,” said King, shifting his weight on the bed.

“No, stay where you are, please,” the anaesthetist replied, not looking up from the notes. “You are in our care, the very best Harley Street private medical practice, sit back and enjoy the ride. Afterwards, if you’re hungry the chef can make practically anything you wish to eat. A good night’s sleep and Doctor Cunliffe will appraise you in the morning.”

Caroline stood aside as the bed was wheeled out into the corridor, watching as he was taken away to the operating theatre, and wondering why he had lied about previously going to Rome with Jane.

Chapter Sixteen

Courtmacsherry, Republic of Ireland

Andrea O’Shea watched from the comforting warmth of the Land Rover Discovery. The crates were aboard the trawler, and the Arabs wasted no time in leaving in a blur as their two black SUVs accelerated out of the fishing port.

“That’s them gone, Keithy Boy,” she said into her phone. “Have you still got eyes on that fucker?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m coming over…”

“Aye, just short of the harbour master’s office, near the toilets.”

“Fecking charming…”

Ordered here by the higher echelons of the IRA, to check that the merchandise left the country without a snag, Andrea O’Shea and Keith Doherty had been tasked with following the Saudis and their deadly cargo south to the fishing port of Courtmacsherry, where it had been arranged for a vessel to take the mortars to England by a devious route that would negate ports and official customs channels. Only upon arriving, O’Shea had recognised a man on the IRA’s wanted list. The peace agreement meant a great many concessions for the IRA, but allowing traitors who informed to the British government to live, wasn’t one of them. O’Shea had recognised Terry Goodman driving a forklift as she had driven into the port. A quick snapshot and text message later, and she had orders to see that the man did not leave his shift alive.

Terry Goodman had been a big man in Northern Ireland during The Troubles and he had fled before the Peace Agreement seeing the writing on the wall. There had been a few sightings, but after more than twenty-years the man obviously thought that being about as far south as one could go in the country, he could live a peaceful life edging ever closer to retirement. Goodman had informed on the IRA and had been a ‘dead man walking’ – one of the people willing to infiltrate the IRA and inform on them to MI6, MI5 and British army intelligence. These people never lasted long before they took a dozen bullets to the back or were blown to kingdom come by a car bomb. Terry Goodman, however had lasted right up until the weeks before the Peace Agreement and fled with a handsome payoff and a pat on the back from his British paymasters. Nobody outside of MI6 would ever know for sure, but Goodman’s information had led to the death of seven IRA terrorists and the arrests and imprisonment of twenty more. Those twenty men and women had all been released in accordance with the Peace Agreement, but the seven men weren’t coming back, so a contract was still open on Terry Goodman’s head.

Andrea O’Shea walked along the lobster pots, fish crates and coils of rope. The icy air was thick with the smell of salty residue punctuated by seaweed and fish guts, damp rope and diesel. Many of the fishing boats had left on the high tide and there were few people around the harbour. On the far side, dozens of men and boys fished from the quay with rods and handlines. Fishing enthusiasts who would not bother them on this side of the harbour. Terry Goodman was standing against the wall, eyes transfixed on the 9mm Browning held firmly at waist level, the muzzle pointing at him. Keith Doherty looked as if all his Christmases had come at once. Goodman could see the pleasure in the young man’s face, and it had seriously unnerved him. He had seen men like him before, men sucked into a world of death because they craved power over their fellow man and lacked the wherewithal to command respect. These were the men who frightened Goodman the most. These were men who got their kicks from having people beg for their lives, with no intention of sparing them.

“I won’t say anything,” Goodman said as Andrea O’Shea walked over and stood beside her cousin.

“About what, exactly?” she asked incredulously.

Goodman shrugged. “About the crates those Arabs put aboard that trawler.”

“And what do you think you’ve seen?”

“Military hardware, I suppose,” Terry Goodman replied with a shrug. “Weapons or munitions, judging by the weight. That or bottles of whiskey, but we’re not living in the days of prohibition. No need to smuggle booze, not even with America’s tariffs in place.”

“And who would you have told?”

“Nobody.”

“But if you felt compelled?”

“The Guarda, I suppose… but I won’t.”

Andrea shook her head. “That’s not your style, Terry. Your wee little tweeting went to a different kind of bird back in the day.”

“Back in the day!” he scoffed. “You probably weren’t even fucking born, back in the day!” He turned to Keith Doherty and added, “And you certainly weren’t even fucking thought about, sunshine!”

“I know who you are, Goodman. I know all the men and women on the list,” Andrea O’Shea replied coldly.

“Still?” the man’s shoulders sagged. “There’s been so much water pass under that bridge, darling. We have peace with the mainland. We got our boys back…”

“Not for us,” she replied coldly. “As you well know. And not everyone came back. Treacherous bastards like you made sure of that.”

“Who would you tell?” Keith asked gruffly, the pistol unwavering in his hand. “And don’t say the fecking Guarda again!”

“I had a contact,” he conceded. “Someone in the British intelligence services.”

“Yer fecking pig…” Doherty raised the pistol and Andrea put up her hand to calm him down.

“How far up the chain of command.”

“Pretty far. He ran agents, had people killed.”

“What’s their name?”

“I don’t have his name,” Goodman said. “But I have a number. I’ll never forget that bloody number. It’s imprinted on my fucking mind…”

“My fecking heart bleeds for yer!” Doherty seethed. “You, filthy, treacherous fecking rat!”

“And what if you called that number?” Andrea mused. “Would your contact in the intelligence services act on your information?”

“Quite possibly,” Goodman replied. “But it’s been years. Twenty for God’s sake!”

She looked at Doherty as she took out her phone and said, “Keep your gun on him. And don’t let your guard down. I’ve got an idea…”

Chapter Seventeen

Mayfair, London

As well as his apparent Anglo-French and Spanish heritage and birth in the United Kingdom, Rashid had studied the military history doctored by the analysts on the floor below Ramsay’s office and had sent it back to be altered. It had read too perfect. He had insisted on a demotion of rank as well as a court martial for dereliction of duty, in which he had been found not guilty. The banking history went back ten years, but he had insisted on a significant arrears and a blip in his credit history in which he missed three payments at the same time as his court martial. A Swiss bank account had also been set up for transactions relating to his ‘services’ and like all Swiss banking institutions, anyone checking would have more chance hacking the Pentagon and NASA in their lunchbreak than discovering the name behind the numbered-only account. His name was now Jed Pascale, and his date of birth, place of birth and early education had been doctored to fit his real life. It was difficult to remember a legend under duress, but second nature if it was true. His family details had been glossed over, and a string of deceased social workers and foster parents had been easy to remember but easily discounted through trauma. Pascale’s life had started in the army and drew a blank with the 22 Special Air Service regiment, which was as difficult to access as the aforementioned Pentagon and NASA, and all service members were given the option of a fake name upon joining.

Rashid had taken a rental house in Mayfair with a tenancy agreement backdated six months. The house belonged to MI5 and was used as a safehouse for agents and assets, or for foreign dignitaries requiring a private place to conduct discreet meetings with the British government. The house was a five-bedroomed, three-storey building with a chequered history. One of their team had been killed there. Big Dave had arrived mere seconds too late and had killed Sally-Anne Thorpe’s murderer in the foyer at the base of the marble stairs in an act of pure rage. Rashid thought about their ex-police colleague as he looked around the foyer. They had lost many over the years. Marnie had been the most bitter blow to him, but Jo Blyth had been the first person he had been attracted to since Marnie’s death, and Jo had been taken in the course of her duties. He had vowed never again to allow himself feelings of attraction towards a colleague. In fact, he wasn’t interested outside of work, either. It seemed anyone he loved was quickly taken away, and the thought of his mother laying so ill in bed, surely her death-bed, filled him with both a void of sadness and a heavy weight upon his shoulders. He checked his watch, a plain analogue military model on a NATO canvas strap, wondering how his sister and father were doing, and whether his aunt was feeding them well. She would be. She was a damn fine cook, and he could barely bring himself to enter an Indian, Nepalese or Pakistani restaurant because they were places of bitter disappointment leaning towards Western tastes compared to the family’s dishes. His thoughts were rambling, and he knew that he was not in a good space to embark on this mission. Working undercover, living a lie, he could easily trip himself up if his head wasn’t in the game. He felt a fraud to his family, and a fraud to his work. Sitting on the fence, unable to fully commit to either. He carried guilt with him, because he did not wish his mother to linger, yet he did not want to remain in the purgatorial world that those waiting for the death of a loved one occupied. His mother’s death would, in fact, make his life easier because he could concentrate on the known, the facts. You could deal with life, and you could deal with death, but the middle ground was simply too much, too uncomfortable a place to occupy. The guilt-ridden thoughts, even though he had not and would never voice them, made him want to scratch out his own eyes in disgust. What would his family think of him if he ever admitted to it? How could he have even thought that speeding up his mother’s suffering could ease his burden and discomfort? Rashid tossed his holdall into a corner and made his way into the kitchen. He needed strong, black coffee and once he got to grips with the commercial barista coffee machine, he nursed the large mug in his hands as he looked at the parked supercars on the street below, bringing colour to the greyness of post-Christmas December. He wondered how many of the multi-million-pound homes were currently occupied. Mayfair property owners enjoyed country homes, ski-chalets and beach-front property in Monaco, the south of France or the island city of Miami Beach. Christmas had been and gone, Harrods, and Fortnum & Mason hampers used up and it was off to the next happening place, the next gathering of their like.

Rashid watched the white convertible Alfa Romeo pull to the kerb. Rashid wasn’t really a car enthusiast anymore but thought it pretty despite its age. Against the Mayfair supercars and Range Rovers as a backdrop it looked distinct, yet somehow understated. The wheels were simple steel instead of modern alloys and looked all the better for it. Jim Kernow got out, contorting his stiff knees as he struggled with both age and gravity. Rashid noticed that he locked the vehicle with a key, which gave an indication of its age. Jim glanced around him, crossing the road as he did so. He carried a leather messenger bag and glanced up at the camera as he reached the pavement. Rashid walked to the front door and opened it before Jim could knock, his features full in the CCTV monitor on the wall adjacent to the door. As well as Kernow’s image the camera captured a large proportion of the street behind him. There was a similar monitor on the back door to the garden, as well as cameras mounted higher up to capture the street in both directions.

“Got your wheels,” said Kernow as he crossed the threshold.

“Very Day of the Jackal,” Rashid replied.

“It’s a classic,” Jim smiled. “But here’s the deal… this car is perfect for the man-about-town. It doesn’t scream new money, drug money or trust fund. Likewise, it cost under twenty-five grand but looks every bit three times that sort of money. Plus, I thought it would provide a nod to the assassin in the book and film and may strengthen your legend.” He paused. “When I was with the police I worked for five years in serious fraud, and the most successful con-artists were the ones who paid attention to the details. The brand of watch on their wrist, the car they drove, the clothes they wore. It depended on the con. But someone pulling up in a Ferrari wearing a solid gold Rolex with a blue dial and wearing an Armani suit wasn’t fooling anyone but the most naïve. Too flash, too showy. Now, tone down the car, go for a stainless-steel quality watch with a simple design, and wear a modest, tailored suit and you have someone who appreciates the finer things in life, but doesn’t shout about it. They will hook in the mark far more successfully. Now, if the con-artist drove up in a ten-year-old hatchback, wore a suit bought on the high street and flashed a bulky, three-hundred-quid fashion watch, then nobody would part with their money because the act simply isn’t credible. If he could make you money, then he should be able to make more of his own. I once interviewed a con-artist who purchased a genuine eight-grand watch and kicked it down the street. It was scratched and marked, but he said that it indicated long-term wealth without a need to be flash. Credibility, pure and simple.” He tossed the keys to Rashid, who caught them and slipped them into his pocket. Kernow then walked out to the kitchen and placed the messenger bag on the table. Rashid followed him and started to make the man a coffee on the mission control barista machine. “I got you a gun,” he said. “And King has given me this to give to you…” He placed a blank business-style card on the table with a hand-written telephone number. “He’s called ahead, so they’re expecting you.”

“Who?”

Kernow shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a bloke who can get you a rifle and any sniper equipment you need.” He took a pistol out of the bag, along with two magazines and a box of fifty bullets. “Nothing fancy, but that just keeps it real.”

Rashid saw that the weapon was a CZ-75 9mm. It was a simple double-action semi-automatic of metal construction with hardened plastic grips. The advantage of the double action was it could be carried safely with the hammer down, then a slightly longer trigger pull fired the weapon, and all subsequent shots were made with the hammer cocked. This made for a light trigger pull, and he preferred it to the modern Glocks and similar striker-fired weapons. It was also a shock-proof, fool-proof weapon of legendary accuracy and reliability. He made Kernow his coffee and left the gun where it was. To Rashid, there was no fascination with weapons anymore. There once had been when he was a young and impressionable soldier, but those days were long gone. The pistol was a tool, nothing more. Later, he would strip it down to its component parts, inspect and clean it, check the feed and action, then load it and make it ready. He would then leave it alone until he needed it. Hopefully, he would not.

“That’s a bloody nice cuppa… Better than instant, that is. I’ll have to get me one of those. How much do you think it cost?”

“Ten grand?” Rashid replied somewhat uninterestedly.

“That much?” Kernow did not hide his surprise as he sipped his coffee. “Perhaps I’ll give that a miss and stick to the stuff in a jar…” He looked around the room, then said, “Nice gaff you’ve got here.”

“I wish,” Rashid replied. “But I don’t have a spare five million quid, so…” He shrugged. “But the car will be nice to drive.”

“Your profile is live,” Kernow said between sips. “From now on, you could be under surveillance. It depends how big and well-oiled this machine is. They may not even go for it. Or, they could have enough clout to find you and see if they like what they see.”

Rashid nodded. “What sort of back-up have I got?”

“Jack and myself.” Kernow told him. “But we’re there to watch them as much as to help you.”

“Will you both armed?”

Kernow nodded. As Ramsay’s minder and driver, Kernow had had his Metropolitan Police status reactivated and as a trained firearms officer who did a five-year stint in diplomatic protection, he was permitted to carry a weapon. In Kernow’s case, it was a Glock 19, 9mm pistol, and the man had put his skills to good effect on their last mission when he killed the man who wounded Caroline and had been about to kill Neil Ramsay. “We have a surveillance van fitted with parabolic microphones, receivers for wireless cameras, and even have several drones that we can get airborne. Jack has the Jag…” He winced. He loved the XJR and always kept it washed and polished. “But he’s got use of a fast motorcycle and a couple of pool cars as well. Dull, drab and inconspicuous.”

“It’s not a great deal of support,” Rashid mused.

“I know,” Kernow replied, delving into the leather messenger bag. “But you have this,” he said, holding up a syringe.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, as Kernow took out a sealed antiseptic wipe.

“It’s a tracking device,” he replied, taking off the cap. “It’s the size of a grain of rice. It’s like what puppies have when you first take them to the vet. Only this sends out a signal for our receiver. It’s powered by heat. Your body heat, to be precise.”

“Where does it go?”

“Your armpit.”

“What?”

“Straight up. It’s the last place anybody will look. It’s largely made of silicone and only sets off about one in four metal detectors.” Kernow nodded. “Take off your jacket.” Rashid unzipped his leather, retro biker’s jacket and removed it along with his sweater. Kernow wasted no time. He dabbed the man’s armpit with an antiseptic wipe, then jabbed the needle in and depressed the plunger. “All done,” he said as Rashid winced and put his sweater back on. Kernow took a tablet out of the bag with built-in signal and swiped several times to open the app. “There you go, clear as crystal.”

“What’s the range?”

“Depends on the atmospheric pressure, but it uses cell phone masts, so as long as you’re close to one, and as long as we have a good signal or connection to Wi-Fi, then indefinite.”

“How long does it last?”

“It degrades after a month and dissolves harmlessly within six. In the short-term, as long as your heart keeps pumping it keeps working.”

“Great,” he replied sardonically. “We’ll just have to see that it does…”

Chapter Eighteen

50°51'14.8"N 6°45'49.8”W, The Celtic Sea

Peter O’Malley had willingly accepted the money and taken his chances. He had experienced some expensive repairs to his fishing trawler and EU subsidies and fishing quotas had paid him to remain in port rather than fish the seas his father and grandfather had for the past six decades. The fee for this smuggling venture was more money than he would normally make in six months, and he had no qualms about smuggling to Britain. He was a man of the world, and although he had never taken part in paramilitary activities, he wholeheartedly supported a united Ireland and the withdrawal of British influence and governance in Northern Ireland. He knew that the contents of the wooden crates would be used to harm the British, and he was happy to deliver the cargo for the Arabs. As far as he was concerned, the camel jockeys could fight the British by proxy, and it would not derail peace between the two nations. Sooner or later a referendum would decide Ireland’s fate, as it had in Scotland and with Brexit. The people would choose, and they would not let Ireland down.

The sea was angry. Swells of three-metres cast the boat high in the water before sucking it down swallowing the horizon whole. O’Malley was used to such seas, and had made his living in larger, angrier conditions than these. He was always sick when he went to sea, but after he had emptied his stomach over the side, he was never ill again until the next voyage. Right now, he drank strong tea from a thermos cup with a lid and ate a sausage roll, one of a large batch cooked by his wife before leaving harbour. Mickey, the youngest of the three-man crew and resident cook, would have his work cut out today in the galley, so sandwiches and sausage rolls was the only foreseeable food until the swells dropped. According to the weather reports and the satellite display on the screen in front of him, that would not be for another couple of hours. O’Malley was just pleased that there would be no hauling of nets or sorting the catch this trip. His two crew members were down in the hold repairing nets and splicing ropes, earning their keep as well as an extra two-thousand euros for the trip on top of their daily rate. The boys did not know what was in the crates, and they had not seen the two Arabs and their hulking bodyguard. O’Malley had once helped some men of the Cause by taxiing them to a freighter bound for Libya, and his name had stuck with certain people. The Arabs dealing with these people had been given an introduction. The two young men working in the hold didn’t know any of this, and nor did they care. Two-thousand in their back pocket was all they cared about, and the work was dry and clean as they tended to their equipment and joked and smoked and ate down Cilia O’Malley’s sandwiches and sausage rolls.

Chapter Nineteen

London

“I’m not even sure why we’re here,” said King as he closed the door behind them. The windowless room was oak panelled and covered with sporting equipment from the past two centuries. Fencing foils, lacrosse sticks, wooden tennis rackets and cricket bats that all looked like they had been picked up at an antique and memorabilia auction but were indeed trophies with a story behind their inclusion. The gymnasium had a rich history that would never, could never be told.

“I do,” Luger said pointedly. “Caroline thinks that you and I don’t get along.”

“Do you think that?” King stared at him.

“Well, from your look, I’m thinking that she perhaps has a point.”

“My look?”

“Yes.”

King shrugged. “It’s the only one I’ve got…”

Caroline had said that she wanted Luger to get some extra training before watching over Rashid. King had started to protest, he had only just been stitched up – cleanly this time – and did not feel like an unarmed combat session would fit into the doctor’s remit about returning to work for ‘light duties only’. However, with Caroline’s promotion to deputy in Ramsay’s department being so recent, he did not feel like he could complicate things between them. Any refusal would seem like pushback and appear trite. King found himself cursing the fact that she had accepted the promotion, wondering whether things would ever be the same between them.

Luger shrugged. “I don’t dislike you,” he said. “But I’m not sure I particularly like you, either.”

“At least you’re honest.” King paused. “But I’m old enough and ugly enough to no longer give a shit who likes me and who doesn’t.”

Luger nodded. “So, how do you feel about me?”

King scoffed. “What is this? I’m not up for some happy-clappy liberal bullshit where we sit in a circle with a talking stick and express our feminine sides… We haven’t got time for this crap…” He headed for the door, then hesitated with his hand on the tarnished brass door handle. “You’re privileged, that’s all…”

“You know nothing,” Luger said tiresomely. “Let’s just stop wasting time and do this. Whatever this is.”

“My pleasure…” King strode back towards him.

“Well, I suppose this is going to hurt, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

“Train hard, fight easy.”

Luger nodded and started to stretch.

“What are you doing?”

“Stretching,” he replied. “I don’t want to pull a muscle.”

“Are you going to get notice from your opponent?” King asked somewhat incredulously.

“That would be my preference,” Luger grinned. He didn’t see the kick coming, but he felt every bit of King’s fourteen stone behind it before crashing to the wooden floor. “What the hell?” he glared up at him, panting through the sudden winding. “Shit…”

King gestured for him to get up. “We train how we fight,” he said. “No stretching, no bare feet. We train in the clothes we’re standing in.”

Luger got back up, rubbing his stomach. “And no crash mats, evidently,” he commented quietly, glancing at the pile of judo mats stacked beside the old and well-worn oak pommel horse. The gymnasium was a truly old-fashioned affair and had certainly not featured on Instagram in anybody’s workout routine. Located in a building in Whitehall, the gymnasium was used by members of both MI5, MI6 and a few select civil servants, and had been since the First World War. There was a twenty-metre swimming pool in the basement along with a steam room and an icy plunge pool, and on the floor above them the tiny bar and lounge continued to operate having barely been updated since Hitler’s bombs rained down on the capital and the long-disbanded SOE had also had access to the building’s facilities.

“You won’t be lucky enough to fight on crash mats,” said King.

“I suppose not.” He paused. “I have had a few rucks since I came aboard, and I’ve done the unarmed combat course, so I’m not a rank amateur.”

King nodded. “Alright then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Seriously?”

King shrugged. “Seriously is the only way to do this.”

Luger took on a regular boxer’s stance and edged his way towards King, fists up in a rudimentary guard, feet shoulder-width apart. He had adopted a southpaw stance, leading with his right fist and right leg. King already knew how the attack would come. Edge forwards, a couple of right jabs and a left hook. He stood his ground, adopting a similar stance, but as Luger chanced his first tentative jab, King switched up his stance to orthodox and swept the man’s leading right foot with his own. King kept the motion, driving his left leg around and hooking Luger’s ankle with his instep. He spun a full circle, bringing up his right elbow and driving it into the back of the young man’s neck as he fought for balance.

“If a man can’t stand, then he can’t fight,” said King as he watched him get back off the hard parquet floor. “Everyone wants to do Brazilian jiu-jitsu these days. But there’s a lot of bullshit being talked out there. The last thing you want to do in a real street fight is to go down. You need the skills in place should the fight go to the ground, but you should never take the fight to the ground unless your opponent puts you there.” He paused. “And you never want to be wrestling someone on the ground if he has a friend. It’s a sure-fire way to get your head kicked in.”

Luger nodded, but his cheeks were flushed, and he looked shaken. “You’re enjoying this,” he stated flatly.

“No,” King replied shortly.

“I really do get the impression that you don’t like me.”

“You’re the one that said you didn’t like me, not the other way around,” King replied testily. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you.”

“Perhaps you just wanted to kick my arse.”

“I wouldn’t need to come here to do that.” King paused, shaking his head. “We come from different worlds,” he said. “But you do have potential.”

“It’s not all you think, you know.” Luger replied. “You see privilege as something to scorn.”

“Expensive houses, exclusive schools, college, university… It’s all privilege,” said King. “You recently bought a new Bentley on a whim, but you earn a civil servant’s salary.”

“I inherited money from my aunt,” he shrugged. “Anyway, all that so-called privilege growing up, it’s all a façade. A poisoned chalice.”

“I bet you always knew that you’d eat that day when you woke up.”

Luger shrugged. “Yes. Fair enough. But I was shipped off to boarding school at seven years of age, and I only returned home for the holidays. My school did not have half-terms, either. That’s a lot of time away from home when you’re such a young age. My father was away a lot on business and my mother wasn’t exactly what you’d call maternal. As long as she could ride her horses and go fox-hunting or to horse shows, and sit about reading trashy paperbacks, or screw the stable groom, then she was happy.” He paused. “I was barely home as a child. So, it doesn’t really matter how privileged one’s family is, when you’re sleeping in bunkbeds under itchy blankets, six to a room with plaster peeling off the ceiling, you’re not exactly living like royalty.”

King said nothing. He had never thought about that element. There was a class of people where some of the families seemed to breed for bloodline and business, rather than for family values. He had often wondered why on earth his own mother had kids, apart from drink, loose morals and a lack of effective birth control. Perhaps it had been for the benefits system, although he and his siblings had never seen a penny of her welfare cheque.

King stared at Luger and nodded. “Alright, Jack. How about we start again?” He walked up to him and held out his right hand. The young man accepted it. Both grips firm but not exaggerated like an ‘alpha’ businessman or car salesman.

“If a man can’t see, then he can’t fight,” said King. “People will throw fists and take punches to the head, and it is astonishing how much punishment a man can take. Especially if he’s drunk or drugged up. But gouge an eyeball and they will always back down. Or surrender altogether. Not even drink and drugs allow them to ignore that.” King spread the fingers of his right hand and jabbed at the man’s eyes, just stopping short. “Four fingers and a thumb. Five chances of catching an eyeball. Or…” King held up his pointed index finger, then curled it onto a hook. “Drive your finger into the eye socket, then make a hook and pull. Job done. Nobody, and I mean nobody, fights on when their eyeball is on the floor.”

“Jesus Christ…” Luger commented flatly, the colour fading in his cheeks.

“If a man can’t breathe, then a man can’t fight.” King spread his thumb and index finger wide apart, making a U shape. His remaining three fingers formed a fist beneath the U. He jabbed at Luger’s throat, again stopping short. “Nobody can build muscle on their throat. It doesn’t matter how big and strong your opponent is, how many steroids they take or how many hours they spend in the gym, a strike to the throat will stop anyone. If your opponent has a prominent Adam’s apple, then they are even more susceptible to this attack.” King paused. “Attacking a person’s breathing is key, and you control this from each end of the chest. The throat and the diaphragm.” He jabbed a lightning punch at Luger’s solar plexus, his fist snapping against the man’s sweater, but falling short of touching him. “That’s a golden target, right there. Winding your opponent is guaranteed. The same area goes for when using a knife. Beneath the sternum is the aorta. A bleed from there will take mere seconds to incapacitate the enemy. But you don’t always need a knife. Pound on the sternum hard enough and for long enough, and bone splinters will do the job as well as any blade.”

“It’s quite the science,” Luger commented somewhat incredulously. “I mean, barbaric, but a science nonetheless.”

“We haven’t even started yet,” King replied. “Between the eyes and the throat, we have discombobulation.” King swung both arms in unison, his open hands slowing and landing against each ear. Not enough force to hurt him, but enough to deafen him for an instant. “Ten times that force, and you will have valuable seconds to get away from your opponent or follow up with something more permanent. Do it with fists clenched, either side of the neck, and nine out of ten times your opponent will be rendered unconscious. But only for about five seconds. The rush of blood to the brain soon balances out again. But it is, for the first few seconds at least, total.”

“Anything else?”

King swung a sharp left hook under Luger’s ribcage and stood back as the man crumpled on the ground. “That’s your liver, son.” He watched as Luger grimaced, rolling on his back and sucking air through his teeth as he tried to get back up. “That’s the reason so many boxers lead with their left. It keeps the liver out of the way, and the boxer’s right elbow gives it some cover.”

“You bastard!” Luger spat at him as he clambered to his feet.

“No doubt,” King replied. “But you’ll remember that punch, and you’ll do everything you can to avoid another one.”

Luger rested his hands on his thighs, doubled over and breathing heavily. “Can we try some holds and grips now?”

“My mentor used to say, holds and grips are for a bunch of pricks…” King smiled. “You will have learned a few on the unarmed combat course, but just remember, in this game when you have someone in a hold, then you’ve still got to deal with them. We’re not police officers making an arrest and trying to get handcuffs on someone or get them into the back of a car. And we’re not on the mats waiting for our opponent to tap out or a referee to break it up. You strike hard, strike fast and get the hell out of there.” King paused, then said, “If a man can’t stand or walk, then he can’t fight. Karate isn’t really considered relevant by today’s MMA and BJJ fans, but my sweep put you on your arse, and that elbow was right out of a green belt’s grading. King whipped a kick towards Luger’s kneecap, stopping just a hair’s breadth away. “I wouldn’t kick any higher than my opponent’s navel, but here is where you’ll do the most damage. That, and his balls. But a kick to the knee done right will incapacitate your opponent, perhaps keep them out of action for months. A kick to the balls will hurt like hell but is forgotten all about within half an hour.”

“You wouldn’t kick your opponent in their head?”

“Only if he’s already on the ground…”

Luger shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose.”

“My mentor used to use the acronym KISS… Keep It Simple, Stupid,” King said almost reminiscently. “The easiest and most simple action is almost always the most effective. And don’t hesitate in using the things around you to finish an opponent. The ground is the most obvious thing. Why not hit your enemy with the biggest and heaviest thing at your disposal? The entire earth!” King smiled. “If a man’s going to fall, then you can turn this to your advantage by seeing that his head hits a table or a nice, hard step on the way down.”

Luger shook his head in bewilderment. “Your mentor sounds like quite something. I mean, savage, but quite something.”

“He was a bastard, but that’s what it takes in this game.”

“What happened to him?”

King regarded Luger for a moment, then shrugged. “He betrayed me. I had the chance to put a bullet in him, but I couldn’t. Years later and he turned up on an operation working for Six. He was retired but ended up being pulled back in. He later saved me. A three-way, so-called Mexican standoff. He sacrificed himself so I could shoot my way out of it. His actions saved Caroline, too.”

“Why did he betray you?”

“Survival,” replied King. “That’s when even your closest friend will turn on you. Better not to have any.”

Luger frowned. “But you and Rashid are tight. Big Dave, too,” then added. “And Caroline? You guys are in a relationship for heaven’s sake!”

“I find people giving advice freely and unasked to be an arrogant trait,” said King. “But I will say one thing and give you some advice because I think it’s entirely valid. If you intend to stick around in this game, then don’t get too attached to people.”

“That’s pretty cynical.”

“Practical.” King shook his head, then said, “Right, everything except the eyes is fair game…”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, perhaps not my recent gunshot wound.” King gently patted his left side, then quickly shuffled forwards, his knee cannoning into Luger’s thigh, his head ducked and his shoulder barged into Luger’s own. The attack was lightning fast, and the young man stumbled backwards. “Weight transference,” King explained. “Keep your body low, your movements powerful, and strike your opponent both high and low at once. It’s impossible for the person being attacked to maintain their balance because to counter one blow means their weight transference unbalances them and works with the attacker’s force.”

Luger changed his stance, and charged at King, lashing out with a front kick and a flurry of punches. King side-stepped to his left, dropped low and spun his left leg around, his foot still connected with the floor. The sweep took Luger off his feet, and he landed flat on his back. King could have finished him, demonstrating any number of well-practised moves, but he reached a hand down to the young man and he took it, pulling himself up with King’s aid.

“Your aunt meant a lot to you, I can see that,” he said as Luger stood panting before him.

“Everything,” Luger replied. “She was the mother I should have had.” He shrugged, then shook his head. “No, that’s not true. Nobody can say what they should have had. I was certainly luckier than most. But she was the mother I always wanted, at least. There’s something about knowing that you were unloved that tarnishes everything for you.”

King nodded but said nothing. He knew more than most about having the wrong mother, but he’d never had the advantage of a kindly aunt. His own mother had died from a drug overdose leaving King fending for himself and his siblings being taken into care.

“Try the sweep,” King said. “Step left, transfer seventy per cent of your weight to your right foot, then pivot and spin.” He gave no further instruction, just charged at Luger and started to jab and swing for him. He felt the man’s leg drive into his own and take him off his feet. The floor was solid, and the wind was knocked out of him. Luger, to his credit, dropped down and jabbed at King’s eyes, just stopping short, then again at his throat with the lightest of strikes. Both attacks, had they been full contact, would have taken King out of the fight. “Good work,” he said, once he had managed a breath. He could feel the throb in his side from the stitches and suspected that he had overdone it. Luger returned his earlier gesture, helping him to his feet. “Thanks,” said King.

“Don’t mention it,” Luger replied. “I suppose it’s quite easy, really. You just have to think of the worst things someone could do to you, then practice doing them without good conscience, and without delay.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” King replied. “Adrenalin will allow a person to take pain. Just look at men slugging it out outside a city pub at closing time, or those internet videos of American cops pumping a dozen rounds of lead into a perp. Now, if one of those drunks takes a strike to the throat or their eyes, or their balls, then they’re going down. Likewise, if that cop puts a bullet in the perp’s spine or forehead, then they’ll drop like a stone. Accuracy with strikes and punches is as important as accuracy when shooting someone.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“The service runs unarmed combat sessions, but it’s little more than self-defence, really. The police use similar techniques to what field officers learn.”

“You learned all this violent stuff in the SIS?”

King shrugged. “SIS run the same courses we do, but when you are a little more specialist, then yes. This is what I was taught.” He paused. “My trainer, or mentor, was responsible for what his agents learned, and he taught us well. I boxed semi-professionally, and in illegal bouts before joining Six, so I had a good platform to build on.” King left out the two dead Royal Marines on that fateful night in Portsmouth and his subsequent manslaughter charges and time served in HMP Dartmoor. Peter Stewart had given him an out and King had been desperate enough to take it. From then on, he belonged to the aggressive, alcoholic Scot and his penance for previous deeds was to silently serve his country in secret wars and deadly operations all over the globe. King stared at the young man, wondering whether he knew what lay ahead of him, and considering whether he would have done it all again if he knew what life would be like when he had been a man of Luger’s age. The highs and the lows, the doubt and fear and guilt. Would he get through it unscathed? King wasn’t so sure. His own mentor hadn’t – he had turned to drink. King often wondered how he had coped with all he had seen and done without Peter Stewart’s propensity for drinking scotch with his breakfast. King had known fellow agents take their own lives when the dark thoughts crept inside their heads in the early hours, and they could no longer live in persistent conflict. King had taken the conscious decision not to drown out the flak of the job with drink from the start. He had used his fitness training to square away his thoughts and spent time in the countryside, or swimming and sailing between operations. After losing his wife Jane to cancer – how he continued to think of her death despite her suicide – he had thrown himself into his work and accepted near-impossible contracts. As a ‘contract man’ King had always worked on a freelance basis for MI6 so that the service could have full deniability, and after a betrayal and subsequent early retirement, he had been recruited into MI5 by Charles Forrester and had met both Caroline and Rashid on his first mission. He often thought that in making such a good friend as Rashid, and falling in love with Caroline had saved him from himself.

King glanced at his watch. “I don’t think we can get much more done here,” he said. “It’s a mindset thing. You’re strong and fit and capable. Switch up your mindset, incorporate the things I’ve shown you, and go dirty early.”

“Go dirty early?” Luger asked somewhat incredulously. “Sounds like a dodgy porn DVD some chav would try and sell you in a rough pub.”

“I thought you’d only go to gastro pubs,” King grinned. “What I mean is no Queensbury rules. Never wait for your opponent to swing first. Get your retaliation in first. When you’re attacked, then gouge, bite, kick and pound your way out of it.” He paused, then said, “You took an enemy agent out with a knife on the last operation. How was that?”

Luger shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t nice…”

“It’s quite a thing,” King replied. “It’s a kill that makes you feel it. The lack of distance, both emotional and physical.”

“Soundless, too,” Luger said somewhat distantly. “The blade makes no noise, going in or coming back out. The action films always have a sound effect when knives slash or stab.”

“Action films are bullshit,” King agreed. “I barely watch one these days. I much prefer a good book.”

“I think having been with this team for a few operations, I would wholeheartedly agree.” He paused. “I don’t think I could sit through another make-believe version of what we do. It’s too perfect, too sanitised and yet, too gratuitous.”

King nodded. “Get hold of a copy of All-In Fighting by W. E. Fairbairn. He was instrumental in designing the Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger, and his book was a training manual used by SOE and the SAS in the Second World War. It’s brutal and stands up today. In fact, I’d take it over anything else out there.”

“I’ll look for one.”

“I have a copy. It’s a bit dog-eared and I’ve made my own notes and suggestions. I’ll get it to you.”

“Thanks,” Luger said, then added, “I appreciate your pointers. Perhaps one day I could return the favour.”

“Maybe. What are you good at?”

Luger shrugged. “Golf. I play off scratch.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s the handicap rating. It means I generally go around a course on par, sometimes below.”

“Below par always sounds poor.”

“It’s not. The lower the score, the better.”

“I know, I’m just joking.”

“Oh…”

“I played pitch and putt once in Brighton...”

Luger smiled. “I’m a member at Stoke Park. If this spy stuff doesn’t work out, I may think about turning professional,” he laughed, but King sensed that he was quite serious. “Anyway, the offer’s there. Shall we get out of here and get a drink?”

King nodded. “There’s a caff around the corner.”

“I was thinking something a little stronger…”

“I know you were. That’s why a relaxing cup of tea or coffee in a café is going to be lesson number two.”

“You’re mentoring me now?”

“Yes,” King shrugged as he replied. “Like it or not, you’ll thank me one day.”

Chapter Twenty

Ramsay put down the phone and met Caroline’s stare, who had unapologetically eavesdropped the entire conversation. “We’ve got a hit on Rashid’s profile.”

“I heard as much,” she replied. “What have we got?”

“An enquiry,” he said as he opened his laptop and logged in. He looked up as Caroline walked around his desk, then looked back at the screen at the log sent through from GCHQ. “A request on the feasibility of a long-range shot.”

Caroline looked at the chat. “Two-thousand metres. Could just be a fantasist trawling the dark web.” She paused. “I imagine that happens. I once heard about men searching for prostitutes apparently without having any intention of using their services. Just getting off on the thought.”

“I imagine it would only be a matter of time. It sounds as if those men would weaken once they had done it a few times. Curiosity is a curious thing,” Ramsay said indifferently. “But I think this is different though. Notify Rashid that he’s had a hit on his profile, and let’s see how this pans out.”

Chapter Twenty-One

King hated to admit it, but he had overdone the training with Luger so soon after being re-stitched. They had gone to the café that King had recommended and had discussed the merits of a strong, white tea and a black coffee. King had said that the British Empire had been built on tea, and Luger had suggested that too much sitting around drinking tea and eating cakes had been the empire’s downfall. You didn’t go in for tiny finger sandwiches with the crusts removed, or a variety of sweet cakes when you drank a cup of Joe.

The call had stopped King in his tracks. Diverted from a number he had kept in service but not used in years. It had been a blast from the past. The caller did not go in for text messages because that world had passed her by. He had paid for the drinks and called their time short. Best not to overdo it, anyway. The two men had bonded, and that was what Caroline had wanted for them both, and the team. He didn’t want a new best friend.

King pulled his battered Land Rover over at the canal and parked near the towpath. The water was dirty and mirror-smooth. A silky slick of mud and diesel. Two-hundred metres to the north, two narrowboats were moored and a trio of swans glided around them. A hundred years ago the canal would have been a hive of activity transporting goods across the country and fuelling industrial Britain. Now it was a place for nomadic dropouts, and families on holiday bonding over the puzzle of locks, no television, and soggy wellies. As he reached the fork in the towpath, a convoy of narrowboats came into view from around the bend. It was a curious sight. Just a single man at the helm of each. No family taking on the role of crew, no sign of anyone else aboard. Vessel upon vessel with no end in sight. King supposed they were delivering them to businesses or taking them for refurbishment because they all looked tired and in need of some work.

King turned his attention back to the houses beyond the path. He had not been here in years. The last time he had, he had held a gun on his friend and mentor and had been intent on pulling the trigger. Betrayal was quite something. It encouraged revenge, right up until you saw the humanity in somebody’s eyes, the uncertainty, the fear and sorrow. Those raw emotions that burdened the conscience and gave rise to doubt. Doubt that the ultimate solution would really solve the problem. Whether the ends truly justified the means. Not being able to pull the trigger that day had ultimately saved King’s life years later, when Peter Stewart had sacrificed himself so that King could take a shot at the enemy. Life was merely a passage of ripples, eventually touching you. Good, bad or indifferent – there was simply no avoiding fate.

King took the short footpath to the edge of the estate. It was a decent area with bungalows and semi-detached and detached houses, all with driveways and rear gardens. The sort of place where youngsters new to the market and the retired lived side-by-side. No social housing, little crime and a Neighbourhood Watch Scheme. Peter Stewart had bought the bungalow ten years before he retired, ready for a peaceful retirement that he would ultimately despise. He ended up working for Six again within a few years, but as a deniable asset with none of the protection MI6 afforded to its official officers. King circled the house, taking care to note the neighbouring houses and vehicles. There were no cars parked on the road, just on the neat and tidy driveways. He checked the windows, but he was in the heart of net curtain suburbia. He walked up the drive, noting the tiny eco hatchback. Stewart’s old, gold Jaguar XJ6 had gone. Too big and thirsty for his widow to drive. He smiled as he remembered mocking the gold colour and Stewart had replied straight-faced, “That’s Jewish racing yellow, laddie…”

King opened his waxed jacket as he rang the doorbell. In his jacket pocket was the .38 special, Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver he favoured as a compact carry. He had removed the hammer spur with a Dremel and filed it smooth, and he had ground down the front sight, relying on just the guttersnipe channel to sight on his target. As well as these modifications, King had removed the wooden grips and replaced them with thin plastic panels printed on a 3D printer, with chequering for added grip. The tiny pistol was easy to draw without snagging on clothing, and the five, .38 special rounds packed an almighty punch at close range. A figure appeared behind the dimpled three-quarter length glass in the door, and he relaxed as he made out the shape. He still wouldn’t let down his guard until he checked out the house, but he was filled with warmth as Margarett opened the door.

“Alex,” she smiled warmly. “You’ve been a stranger!”

“Sorry, Margarette, busy… you know?”

“I know,” she replied sadly. “Trust me, lovely, I know.”

Margarette was Peter Stewart’s long-suffering widow. She had lived a life almost entirely separate from her husband. Alone when he was in the field, and alone when he was seated at the dinner table lost in the torment of his mind. The man’s work had not made him good company because he could never talk about what he did and had found solace in a bottle instead. King had often wondered whether the woman had known her husband at all. He had been invited to dinner several times and had always felt as if the two were putting on an act in his company. Stewart had always been respectful to Margarette, and they would sit and watch the television together or have people over for dinner, but the Stewart that King knew from assignments was completely at odds with the man who would don a cardigan and mind his Ps and Qs at home. In truth, Stewart was a hard-drinking whoremonger who enjoyed the action, the intrigue – even the killing – that his life doing the dirty work of MI6 and the British government entailed, and had the man not been of a certain generation, King doubted that he would have even married at all. Nevertheless, he supposed that he loved his wife, and he could see that she loved him, and their relationship had always been a reminder to King that relationships were unique, and you never really knew people at all behind closed doors.

King handed her the bunch of flowers and she smiled. Women never really wanted a bunch of flowers that were past their freshness and purchased last minute from a garage forecourt, but few men realised this. Margarette, however, had been quite used to this with Peter, and nobody had bought her flowers in a long time.

“How lovely! Come in, luvvie. I’ll put these in water while the kettle boils.”

King followed her inside. The bungalow was neat and tidy, fastidiously clean and smelled of air freshener and the faint smell of damp retriever. The dog looked up from his basket and took an age to get up and make its way over to greet King. He had aged immeasurably since King had last seen him. Intent on its early evening walk and quite oblivious that a silenced pistol was being aimed at his owner’s head. King bent down and patted the dog, rubbing its ears and when he stood up, he stared right into a picture of himself with Stewart in Central Africa. There were a few faces he recognised – a blast from the past – and he couldn’t remember posing for the photo to be taken. Weapons in hand, leaning against the bonnet of a Land Rover – he was the only person in the photograph still alive. None of the men had made it, and Stewart had died more than a decade later, on a mission in Lapland. The thought sent a shiver down King’s spine. The photograph reminding him how precious life was. And still he had not heeded this. He looked at a few more, then stopped on one of them, his heart racing as he stared into the face of an old enemy. A man he had been sent to kill under Stewart’s orders. Stewart had a hand on the man’s shoulder, and King remembered the day well because he had been behind the camera taking the photograph. Rwanda. Not their finest hour. The man had gone off the rails shortly after the photo had been taken and his actions could not go unpunished. But why would Stewart keep the photo? Surely Margarette could not know the significance of the photograph. King wondered if Stewart had left the photograph on the mantel as a reminder of the heaviness of the decision that he had been forced to take in ordering the man killed, or the fact that the hit had failed, and the man had escaped.

King made his way into the kitchen where Margarette had cut the stems of the £4.99 bunch of flowers and was arranging them in a vase. “So, what’s the problem?” he asked. “I know I should have visited sooner, but…”

“Someone called me asking for Peter,” she said. “And he was surprised to hear that Peter was dead.” She poured tea into a delicate china cup and added milk and sugar before handing it to him, her hand shaking enough to rattle the cup on the saucer. “He hung up, but called back half an hour later,” she said, glancing at the clock. “Which was just over an hour ago.”

“What did he say the second time he called?”

“He said that he worked for Peter in Ulster. Unofficially.”

King frowned, his heart starting to race. That would have made the man an asset, or an agent. A fellow MI6 or MI5 officer would by no means be ‘unofficial’. “What else did he say?”

Margarette sipped her tea, then said, “That he was long retired, but he happened upon some information that would be of vital interest, if not to Peter, then to the people he worked with.” She paused. “But I didn’t want to call SIS because most of the people who Peter worked with are retired or dead. All except you, Alex.” She shrugged. “I know you and Peter had some differences in later years, but…” Differences, King thought. Difference in that Peter Stewart sold King out and forced him to eliminate everybody in the chain of command, just stopping short of putting a bullet between her husband’s eyes. “… he loved you like a son. I know that he would trust you with anything,” she said, looking at the clock again.

King stared at her and said, “What is it, Margarette?”

“He’s again ringing at half-past…”

“You told him I’d be here?” King tensed.

“I thought it best that you speak with him.”

“So, whoever this man is, he knows that I’m here now?”

“Well, yes…” Margarette replied innocently. “I had to get you here to speak to him. He wouldn’t ring you and he wouldn’t give me his number, and besides, I wasn’t sure that your number would still be in use.”

King nodded. It made sense. But he couldn’t help feeling that he had lost control of the situation. Suddenly, the negligible weight of the tiny revolver felt comforting in his jacket pocket.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tom Hennessey had been forced to move quickly. He was a plumber now, self-employed and earning a good wage in north London. His political views had mellowed with the somewhat hypocritical move to England for better career opportunities. The Cause seemed a long time ago now to the man in his early sixties from Belfast. But not long ago enough not to be reminded of favours owed and called upon. The upper echelons of the IRA had seen another man take the fall for Hennessey at a time when the troubles were at their peak. That patsy had served ten years in HMP Maze before the release of all Irish political prisoners. Hennessey had enjoyed his freedoms while doing the work of the Cause. That favour was now being called in, and he knew from old that you did not say no to those people. Times may have changed, but favours and debts were never forgotten, and nothing was settled until it was settled right.

The Irishman had been directed to a cache in west London. Two thousand pounds in cash and an old Colt 1911 .45 automatic with two loaded magazines and a handful of extra bullets. Nobody had told him what to do with the money, so he had pocketed the wedge of notes, along with the gun and ammunition. Once back in his van, he had checked the weapon over, having not picked one up in twenty-years or more. He unloaded both magazines and gave the springs a squirt of WD40 from his toolbox. He then stripped the weapon, oiled all the parts and reassembled it before reloading both magazines and inserting one into the weapon. He pulled back the slide, chambering the first round, then flicked the safety up into the ‘safe’ position and put the gun, along with the spare magazine, into the glovebox. He had then battled with the traffic crossing London, heading to the address he had hastily scribbled down. Gripping the wheel tightly stopped his hands from shaking, but Hennessey’s heart was pounding, and he was perspiring profusely, despite the cold outside and the heating being off inside the vehicle. He just hoped that he still had the instincts that had made him such a notorious killer for the IRA back in the day.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Courtmacsherry, Republic of Ireland

“She said he died!” Terry Goodman insisted. “It’s over! It’s all over, just bloody well leave me be!”

“But she said that she knew someone that she would talk to in person who could help, and to ring her back,” Andrea O’Shea said coldly. “That means that there will be an English bastard from Six or Five, or the Sass standing in her fecking kitchen when you call.”

“Jesus Christ, it won’t bring your uncle back, young lady,” Goodman said, shaking his head despondently.

“What do you know about my uncle?” she glared at him.

They were seated in Doherty’s Land Rover Discovery. O’Shea at the wheel and Keith Doherty in the rear, keeping his weapon trained on Terry Goodman in the front passenger seat. It was growing dark. The grey sea merging with the grey sky in a monochrome assault on the senses. Had the Land Rover’s bonnet not been metallic green, the world could have very well switched to black and white around them.

“I know he was killed in an intelligence operation in France. He was fundraising for the Cause in the days before the Peace Agreement.”

“Fundraising?” she asked.

“Aye, on the rob. He knocked off a racecourse before race day. Got away with millions. The whole team ended up dead.” He paused. “Your uncle and a couple of others were rumoured to have kept the money and stashed it someplace as nothing was found with their bodies.”

Andrea slapped him hard across his cheek, the sound of the slap filling the inside of the vehicle. Terry Goodman recoiled, and Doherty struck him on the top of the head with the pistol. The man cried out, then sat almost frozen in shock as blood ran down his brow and into his eyes. He wiped the blood away with his sleeve, shaken and turning pale.

“Liar!” Andrea screamed. “My uncle was a bloody hero! He was murdered by the British while fighting for the Cause!”

“Your uncle was a feckless bastard…” Goodman said quietly, looking at the blood in his hands. “He was killed because of greed. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Andrea went to slap him again, but Goodman caught her hand. He wasn’t so fast with the muzzle of the pistol as he was struck again from behind, just as quickly and just as hard.

“Give me the fecking word, cuz! I’ll blow this fucker’s head clean off!”

Goodman held his head as he groaned. He rocked back and forwards for a while, then said quietly. “You’re just a fecking boy. You don’t blow someone’s bloody head off with a nine-millimetre! I’ve been there, done that. You don’t know a fecking thing.” He had killed in his time. He had first killed an INLA member, and then a British solider before turning informant. He had never confessed to the killing of the soldier, but his handler had known about the liberation army member and had used it against him. Goodman had shot the man in the head. He had later been arrested with the pistol in his possession and after the autopsy, Peter Stewart had kept the bullet for leverage. That had been a 9mm Browning – just like the one that was pressed against his head now –so Terry Goodman knew enough about killing to know that Keith Doherty knew nothing at all.

“It’s time,” Andrea O’Shea said, somewhat more calmly now. “Make the fucking call.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The landline rang making Margarette start, jolting upright at the table. She had been about to take a sip of her tea and spilt a little down her buttoned cardigan. King had been so long without a landline that he found the ring both surprising and somewhat nostalgic. Torn between dabbing the stain with a nearby tea towel and reaching for the phone, she got up and picked up the phone, quite unaware how amusing her indecision looked to King in the situation. Margarette was of an age where she lived in her own world. Whether this had come from living on her own for so long – because even when her husband was alive, she was more often alone – or whether it came from not having family or children, he could not hazard a guess, but it was clear that the woman no longer knew how to prioritise. He suspected she might even pause and offer to freshen his cup on her way to the phone. King finished his tea and got up from his chair. If this was the informant who worked for Peter Stewart, then he would need to speak to him.

“It’s him,” she said, cupping the receiver.

King nodded. He had expected the phone to be cordless, but it was straight out of 1987 with a curled wire and minimal lead. He walked into the hall and took the phone from her. The base of the telephone was on a half-moon Edwardian table, and two silver picture frames displayed a picture of Peter and Margarette together on holiday somewhere warm and at least twenty-years ago, the other was of the old retriever as a puppy. King had only ever known Stewart take a few breaks when he worked with him, and each time he came back the man had been like a caged animal suddenly set free. The most ambitious, bloody and foolhardy missions had always followed Stewart’s forced leave. Previous directors had practically had to threaten the man with the sack to get him to take some leave.

“Yes,” King said.

“Who am I talking to?”

“You first.”

“Terry Goodman,” the man replied. “I worked for yer man during The Troubles.”

“Who?”

“The cantankerous Scottish bastard with the drink and anger management problem.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” King replied. That ought to do it.

Goodman paused, his breathing sounding laboured. Was the man under duress? King certainly hoped not, because that could only mean something was afoot. “He saved my life,” Goodman told him. Again, his breathing was off, and he took a deep breath as if steeling his resolve. Which indeed he was. “There are mortars heading to the Cornish coast right now on a fishing boat from Southern Ireland…!” He was cut off, and King knew the sound of a beating when he heard it as the man grunted against the blows. “Get out of the house!” he shouted desperately. “They have someone coming for you…” The sound of the gunshot left King recoiling, and he dropped the phone and cupped his ear.

King bent down and picked up the phone, then said, “Goodman, are you still there? What’s going on? Where are you?” Nothing. The man had said someone was coming for him, so that was all the time he was going to give the Irishman. He looked at Margarette, who stared back at him in bewilderment from the threshold. The look of concern was quickly punctuated by the bullet that punched out through her skull as the gunshot echoed from outside, and broken shards of glass clattered out of the frame and into the kitchen sink. The retriever leapt up stiffly from its basket and barked incessantly at the window. King drew the revolver, his mind processing both the direction of gunfire, and the sound of the weapon. An automatic because of the displacement of the sound, a large calibre because of the damage it had done to poor Margarette after punching through the double glazing.

King backed against the wall, his weapon ready. He blinked wildly, his eyes filled with blood, and he wiped the blood and brain matter from his face with his left hand, keeping the revolver firmly in his right. Margarette wasn’t dying quickly, her feet and hands twitching, her breathing laboured. There was never a hard and fast rule about death. Some people went out like a light, and some seemed to circle death’s drain for minutes or hours on end. He looked at the woman on the floor, knowing that if she were a horse or a dog then he would have given her another bullet to end the misery and trauma. Certainly, an ambulance and paramedics were not going to bring her back. He ignored her body in its death throes, stepping over her to bypass the kitchen and continue down the hallway to the utility room and back door. The dog was barking wildly behind him and after another gunshot it yelped, and silence ensued. King felt his blood boil, and he was left with a pang of guilt that the assailant killing the dog had triggered such emotion when he had calmly accepted Margarette’s fate. Clearly, he had been in the business too long.

King found the circuit breaker and flicked off the interior light ring. Dusk was falling outside, and he found the exterior light ring and switched off the circuit, then switched the circuit immediately back on again. The exterior lights would now remain on for a few minutes until they reset to motion-activated. King edged back towards the kitchen, catching a glimpse of a heavy-set man passing the broken window as he made his way to the rear of the house. He raised the revolver, but the man passed by before he could get a positive sight picture. King turned around and headed for the back door, stepping to the side and keeping himself pressed up against the wall. The utility room was an add-on. An extension constructed from single block. He remembered trying hard not to look bored as Stewart had told him about the dodgy builder they had used and how another builder had been called to rectify the man’s poor work. A single round from King’s snub-nosed .38 wasn’t going through the block wall, but he suspected that his enemy was armed with a .45 which would make light work of the four-inch concrete block. King carried the .38 as a last resort, up close and personal weapon. He only had the five rounds in the cylinder – his whole mantra for the weapon being that he could toss it away after using it. He certainly wasn’t going to risk being caught with a holster and spare speed-loaders on his person. But right now, he felt woefully ill-prepared.

The door handle moved, but King did not waste his shot. It was highly unlikely that the man would stand directly in front of the door as he tried the handle. He kept his weapon ready, sighting on the door but keeping both eyes open as he took in the wider view. King never closed his left eye when firing a weapon. That was taught to beginners and served no purpose in battle. Experience taught you to isolate your dominant eye, keeping the other open to watch for movement, threats or your team stepping into your own arc of fire. The door was locked. The handle tested again. King kept his aim. The handle twisted, but this time there was some flex in the door, meaning that some weight was behind it. King fired twice his shots placed eight-inches apart. He hit the deck as soon as he fired the second shot, keeping his head up and his weapon aimed at the door. The return gunfire was rapid, seven .45 bullets peppering the door and slamming into the wall where King had been standing just moments before. King fired twice more and heard a grunt. There was a metallic sound as the empty magazine hit the concrete path, the man mid-reload. King leapt to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain from his recent wound, and charged at the door. The eleven bullet holes all concentrated near the lock meant that the door gave easily as King cannoned into it using his right shoulder as a battering ram. The man was knocked aside, fumbling his magazine change, blood running down his right arm. He staggered backwards as King fell, but King got off the last of his five shots as he sailed through the air and clipped the man’s left shoulder. King dropped the revolver and snatched his knife from its horizontally mounted sheath behind his back as he got to his feet. The man slammed the magazine home, dropped the slide and brought the weapon to bear as King charged at him. King knocked the muzzle of the Colt .45 aside and drove his blade deep into the man’s throat, then pulled it out and drove it into the centre of the man’s chest. The man stood stock-still as King snatched the pistol from his grip and withdrew the blade. Blood leaked from the slit in his windpipe, frothy and red, bubbles forming as he breathed. The stab wound to the man’s chest formed into a rose, then spread out quickly soaking his sweatshirt. Then, the man fell backwards, as stiff as a board and landed flat on his back, his head cracking against the concrete.

The sound of sirens filled the early evening air, and King quickly wiped the Colt clean of his own fingerprints using a clean handkerchief and dropped it on top of the body. He checked the man’s pockets and took his wallet, before picking up the revolver and heading back inside and washing his teacup and wiping the telephone receiver. He was back outside and heading down the path to the canal before the two police vehicles pulled into the cul-de-sac, his heart pumping and his side aching from the exertion. He would toss the revolver in the canal a mile of more downstream where it met the Thames. It may get recovered, but the police would not get any DNA or a set of fingerprints off it. Back inside his Land Rover, he checked his watch and took out his phone. Somewhere in the Celtic Sea, an innocuous fishing trawler was bringing weapons into the country via a Cornish beach. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Chapter Twenty-Five

When Rashid closed the lid of the laptop, he had been studying his legend and account details for his ghost bank accounts. He had a current account for operating capital that would be replenished as and when he withdrew funds, and the Swiss bank account for bank transfer payments, which would later be seized and used for service funds. He had also been issued with a credit card with a thirty-thousand-pound limit, and forty gold sovereigns for capital that could be exchanged anywhere. All would have to be accounted for at the end of the mission, and the notion reminded him of a solid gold winged dagger plaque hanging in the bar at Stirling Lines. During the build-up to the Gulf War, each SAS solider had been supplied with gold sovereigns as currency to avoid capture and buy their way out of trouble. Many of these gold coins ‘went missing’ during the rigors of battle and hard routine behind enemy lines, but a solid gold plaque commemorating soldiers who had died in the conflict was put up anonymously, smelted from some of the missing coins. It had happened before Rashid’s time in the Regiment, but he knew from the moment he first saw the plaque that the men around him would have his back.

Ramsay’s text had informed him of the question in his chat box on the site. Andromeda was a website provider on the dark web, and the sites all had a similar format. Each website had a private chat feature visible only to each end user – and in Rashid’s case by GCHQ and Ramsay’s tech people –and it was here that the question had been asked.

At what distance can you make a shot?

Rashid replied: That would depend upon many factors. Altitude, temperature, the target, and the weapon available.

In a perfect world.

If the target is not swallowed by the earth’s curvature, then five kilometres. In the real world, then three to four kilometres.

Is that all?

Rashid did not reply. He simply left the chat. He figured actions would speak louder than words. His phone rang immediately, and he recognised Ramsay’s number, despite the fact that he had not entered any numbers into his address book.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Being credible.”

“Credible?”

“They want the best. Well, that is what the best thinks of bullshit questions and their observations…”

“You may have blown this!”

A new conversation started in the chat box. Are you there?

Rashid hung up on Ramsay without a word and looked at the username. Matthew 538.

Yes.

Where did you go?

Thought your comment was stupid. Are you wasting my time?

Rashid looked at his phone as it rang. Ramsay’s number. He stopped the call and switched the phone off.

Can you make consistent shots at distance?

I have killed at distances unachievable by all but 1% of military-trained snipers. I can put 9 out of 10 rounds through an inch diameter bullseye at 600m.

You’re that good?

I can bend the rules of physics.

I would need a demonstration.

That will cost you.

How much?

If you need to ask, then you can’t afford me. Goodbye.

Rashid ended the chat and stood up and stretched. Strangely, his heart was beating rapidly, despite there being no risk to his life. Perhaps this was what gamblers felt at the races or in a casino? he thought. Playing a game, taking a chance. He had never gambled with money, but he had gambled with his life many times, which was why he had never bothered gambling for money. Surely if it were merely for the thrill, then he had already laid down the ultimate in both stake and odds? He walked to the kitchen and set about grinding the coffee beans and making a flat white with the NASA spec coffee machine, smiling at the thought of how apoplectic Ramsay would be at having his phone switched off. He went back to the laptop, sipping his coffee. When he refreshed the pages there were a thread of messages.

Are you there?

Where are you?

I can afford your price!

I will require a demonstration.

Are you there?

I’m here.

Good. I will pay £5000 for a simple demonstration.

I don’t meet my clients. £5000 is not enough.

How much?

I can afford your price.

£20k. Deducted from my fee if you use my services. Take it or leave it.

That’s a lot of money if we don’t go ahead.

Then see that you do.

Where are you based?

The UK. Demonstration and payment details will follow.

Can you guide me to one of your hits? With proof.

Rashid hesitated. He recalled the file, the trafficker and the trade of young girls who would know only forced prostitution because of him. He typed: Albania. Yet to happen. A known people trafficker. Sit back and enjoy the show…

Rashid ended the chat and closed the website. Matthew 538 would see that the chat was no longer open, and that the website was not being monitored. He switched on his phone and once connected, received a barrage of missed call messages, texts and voicemail indications. He set about deleting all of them without listening and rang Ramsay, who picked up on the first ring.

“My god, man!” Ramsay raged. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Playing them,” he replied. “You don’t catch a fish just by reeling it in.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I have never been fishing in my life. But I do know that GCHQ are incandescent, as am I. You will put them off.”

“Alright. If the fishing metaphor isn’t working, then try this… who do you think an attractive woman is most intrigued by… the man coming on strong, desperate to be with her, or the guy at the bar who seems indifferent, despite her beauty?”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“It’s the second one, Neil,” Rashid said patiently. “People want what they either can’t have, or what they think will be denied to them. The more aloof I am, the more they feel I may pass them by, and the more invested they will become.”

“I didn’t notice a psychology master’s on your file…”

“Did you see the five-time Bisley champion, the NATO International Sniper title and the three years as chief sniper instructor in the SAS, Neil?” he asked tersely. “When I didn’t win, it’s because I was deployed elsewhere and couldn’t enter.”

“It’s a risk.”

“And I’m risking my life being here,” said Rashid. “So, we’ll play it my way, or not at all.”

“Rashid, it’s Caroline here…”

“Hi Caroline.”

“I get it,” she said. “And I’m sure Neil will, too.” She paused, letting it sink in. Rashid could be assured that when the call ended, Caroline would lobby Ramsay until he saw it from his agent’s side. She had undertaken undercover work in The Det, part of 14 Intelligence Company, during her army career, so she knew more than most what it was like to be alone in a hostile environment. “The username, Matthew 538, I think it’s a bible verse. The Book of Matthew, chapter five, verse thirty-eight. ‘An eye for an eye’.”

Rashid wasn’t familiar with the bible, but he remembered a similar verse in the Quran. “Yeah, we have that one, too. It’s found in Surah Al-Ma'idah, I think it’s chapter five, verse forty-five, and it states that ‘a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a nose for a nose, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth, and for wounds is legal retribution.” He paused, then added, “Same bloody chapter, too.” Rashid’s faith had waned when he had started to realise that the Quran and the Bible were practically the same book. The same God, just a few different stories and the prophets used to speak God’s word. Different timelines, as well. Like the Torah. Christians, Muslims and Jews all vying for whose version was the one true faith. A schoolmate had once joked with him that Burger King, McDonalds and Wendy’s were on the same mission for burgers, but without the warring conflicts or suicide bombings. After that flippant comment, Rashid had started to question everything. He had joined the army for the travel and experiences soon afterwards and hadn’t looked back. The thought about the religious similarities brought him back to his mother, and the fact he would unlikely see her again. “Got to go,” he said. “If they want a demonstration, then they can keep an eye on the news. If they still want a demonstration after that, then we’ll know that it’s a trap and we’ll have to be ready for them.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“What are we looking for, specifically?”

“A needle in a bloody haystack,” King replied. “Except that the haystack is the Atlantic Ocean, and the needle is a small to medium-sized fishing vessel.”

“Right. It’s not a lot to go on.”

“It’s literally nothing to go on,” King replied. “But if we find a suitable spot first, we can patrol the coast and wait for it to come in.”

“We won’t have enough fuel for that,” Flymo replied tersely. “This thing goes through fuel like shit through a goose.”

King had commandeered Flymo and the AgustaWestland AW109 that Ramsay had requisitioned for the team’s use. They had flown to Newquay Airport and refuelled, then flown down the north Cornish coast to Portreath Harbour in darkness. King knew from experience that the harbour was only accessible at three-quarter to high tide, as were most small harbours on the north Cornish coast. It was half tide on the push, so they had a window of three hours if the trawler was going to moor up. Going further west to Hayle and St. Ives seemed fruitless because they were busy harbours with harbour master offices and plenty of witnesses. They had then turned and flown over the sea with the land to their right back up the coast to Newquay, which was the next harbour along from Portreath. After Newquay they had flown past Padstow, Port Issac and Boscastle. There were many beaches along the way, but not many suitable harbours. They had then taken the opportunity to refuel once more at Newquay Airport, having used half a tank of fuel. Flymo wore a pair of night vision goggles, while King who knew that the PNG system was notoriously bad for gauging the distance of lights, watched the ocean for the navigation lights of ships and fishing boats. Beside him, he had an FN SCAR assault rifle chambered in 7.62x51mm, with a day/night scope, with tracer rounds staggered at every third round in the thirty-round magazine. Attached to the lower rail, a 40mm grenade launcher showed King’s deadly intent. With unknown weapons heading for the country, he was intent on sinking the vessel at any cost. The only problem they had now was identifying the vessel.

“What if they offload to a smaller craft?” asked Flymo. “A speedboat can beach itself on any number of sandy beaches. Can you think of anywhere a vehicle could drive down across the sand and the weapons could be loaded from a speedboat on the tideline? A four by four could easily do it.”

King shook his head. Not because he couldn’t think of a suitable beach, but because there were simply so many. “Dozens,” he replied. “The tide will be too high for some places. Trevaunance Cove at St. Agnes, for example. It’s a steep drive too, with a busy pub and plenty of nosey parkers. I can’t see them thinking that it would be a suitable location. Perranporth would be tricky, too. Vehicle access would be difficult. Fistral Beach could work. The beaches inside Newquay Bay would be tricky at high tide, plus the town is all around them making retrieval far from unnoticeable. Newquay harbour would be idiotic. Simply too busy, a steep hill and a harbour master. Porthtowan could work. A bit rocky on the foreshore, but a pick-up could manage it. It’s the dead of winter, at the dead of night. Very few people would be aware. There’s a busy bar right next to the beach entrance, but it’s likely to be closed this time of year.”

“You know a lot of beaches.”

“I’ve swum at most of them. Hollywell Bay is my favourite, but no good for this scenario. The access would be too tricky. Soft sand, steep dunes and only one way in and out, which could well be gated against vehicular access at this time of year because no lifeguards will be operating.”

“What about further west?” Flymo asked. “Beyond St. Ives.”

“Lots of tiny, rocky coves and sheer cliffs. There’s a quay at Sennen, but if memory serves me well, there’s no more harbours large enough until you round Land’s End and get to Mousehole, Newlyn and Penzance. That’s a long way in a fishing boat, and most harbours need to be accessed close to high tide.” King paused, his eyes on the lights two miles or more offshore. “My gut says this section of coastline because it’s also a clear run to the dual carriageway which will whisk them out of the county. Once out of Cornwall there’s a myriad of roads to lose themselves on. Let’s check these guys out,” he said, pointing to the lights on his left, as he put on his PNGs. “Swoop in and see what they’re up to.” King’s vision adjusted to the green haze of the primary night-vision goggles. The lights were less visible now, but he could see the hulk of a medium-sized fishing vessel. As Flymo flew them near, King could see men working lobster pots. A steady stream of pots hauled onto the deck, the catch tipped into fish crates for sorting, bait fastened inside once more, and the pots tossed back over the side to sink down into the deep. It was hard work, and King could tell that the fishermen were well-practised. There was certainly no imitating what they were doing, but it was highly likely that the weapons were merely being transported by the captain of the trawler and the terrorists would unlikely be making the trip with them. He checked his watch and said, “Take us to the shore and let’s see if we can find a smaller vessel that could ferry the weapons to the beach.”

Flymo did not reply as he banked hard and skimmed the water’s surface. He kept in the direction of the trawler’s travel as it would not make sense for a smaller craft to chase it down. If the trawler was meeting another craft, then they would intercept each other’s path. “Nothing that I can see,” Flymo commented. “I mean, I can’t imagine that anybody goes out at night in a small craft, so if we see a speedboat or a smaller fishing day boat, then we’ll have them.”

“I reckon so,” King agreed.

“This former asset of the SIS, you said that he blurted out that a fishing vessel was on the way.”

“That’s right. There was a gunshot, so I can only assume that he’s dead.”

“Then I suppose the people who killed him could get in contact with the trawler and let them know that they’ve been compromised.”

“It’s a possibility,” King agreed. “So, they could divert to the Welsh coast, or to Devon. Somerset, even.” King paused. “But I got the impression that it was a last-ditch warning. He knew that he would be killed, but he would also know that if he told me, blurted it out as you say, then he would be getting something over on them. I reckon he did that knowing that they could not warn them. It was sacrifice, pure and simple. He must have felt that he owed my former colleague something. He knew that he wasn’t getting out of the situation, and he simply paid his dues.”

“What a crazy fucking world we work in,” Flymo commented, shaking his head.

King said nothing. Sometimes words just wouldn’t do. He wasn’t ready to think about the IRA after so long. He had only ever had one operation against them. His first mission, right before the Peace Agreement. It hadn’t gone to plan and had left him under a cloud for years. Peace in Northern Ireland had largely been a success, so what were the IRA doing killing one-time informers, and sending contract assassins after British intelligence officers after twenty years? King had not expected something like this to flag-up, and he was worried about what weaponry the cache entailed. Terry Goodman had said that there were mortars being smuggled, and that worried King. Mortar rounds could be constructed to contain a variety of ‘warheads’ from high-explosives to flechettes and ball bearings for maximum personnel damage to gas and chemical delivery systems. What was more, mortars could be fired from virtually anywhere then packed up and whisked away. What would the target be? Downing Street and government? Palaces and royalty? Schools or colleges? A hospital? King shuddered at the thought. He knew that the IRA had failed to declare much of the weaponry that the intelligence and security services had suspected them of possessing. Everyone understood why they wanted to keep weapons caches stockpiled for another day. The amnesties showed that. Old Lee Enfield rifles and Sterling submachine guns and American Armalite AR-10 rifles did not fool the British intelligence services who suspected the IRA had taken huge deliveries of AK-47 and AK-74 rifles from Libya, Russia and Iraq during the height of The Troubles. So, it only made sense that they had kept heavy, destructive weapons like mortars for a rainy day.

“Get us back to that trawler, Flymo,” said King.

“What are you planning?”

King held up a coil of rope, then started to pull on a pair of leather gloves. “I’m going down for a closer look,” he said all too casually. “I’ll get out on the rope with you flying up its chuff, then I’ll fast rope down when you get over the deck. PNGs only, no lights.”

“Alright, you crazy bastard!” Flymo chuckled. “So how the hell are you getting back off the boat again?”

King shrugged. “If the weapons are onboard, then I’ll commandeer the boat and sail her to the nearest harbour,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if there’s nothing there, then I’ll give you a signal and you can pick me up. I doubt I’ll be able to get all the way up the rope and back into the cockpit with my stitches, so I’ll hold on tightly and you get me to the nearest beach and let me down. I’ll then hop aboard, and we’ll search for another boat.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Flymo said under his breath. “Go for it, then…”

King climbed out of the seat and ducked his head to contort his fourteen-stone frame through the narrow gap into the rear cabin. There were freight rings folded flush with the floor, and he prised two of them out with his fingertips, thread the end of the rope through them both and tied the loop off with a clove hitch. Using the two freight rings halved the load on using just one, and the clove hitch would not slip, but would be easy to release when he had finished. King extended the sling on the rifle and hung it from his neck and right arm, tucking the rifle behind him with the muzzle facing downwards. In the rare occurrence of a negligent discharge, he didn’t want to down the helicopter or shoot Flymo with freakishly bad luck. King told Flymo he was ready then ditched the earphones and opened the door, spooling the line out into the night. He donned the leather gloves, gripped the rope tightly, then eased himself out through the door into the downdraft of the rotor blades. The rotor-wash was so turbulent that it felt like stepping out into a cyclone and King wrapped his feet around the rope, threading the rope under his right foot and over his left instep. Squeezing his feet together tightened the rope, his feet acting like brake callipers either side of the rope, and he waited for thirty-seconds while Flymo decreased their altitude and caught up with the trawler. The trawler was a dark, green mass in a sea of light green with the sky an indeterminable colour, lighter than the ocean because of the moonlight and twinkling stars. On deck, King could make out three deckhands who had stopped their work and were looking towards the sound of the helicopter, and its two stationary navigation lights. King waited until they were directly above the transom and released the grip on his feet and lightened his grip on the rope, the leather gloves taking the friction as he plummeted towards the deck. At a height of just two metres above the deck, he squeezed as hard as he could and broke his momentum. The gloves smoked from the friction burn as he took them off and dropped them on the deck, and he had the rifle unslung and shouldered as he started forwards.

“British security services!” King shouted at the top of his voice over the sound of the rotor blades. “Raise your hands and get on your knees!” Just for good measure, he fired several rounds above the men’s heads, the tremendous sound of the rifle drowning out the rotors above as Flymo lifted to avoid snagging the line and banked hard towards the coast. He fired half a dozen more shots, every shot burning through the sky, the strontium compound of the tracer rounds lighting up like red shooting stars in the night sky. “Hands! Let me see those fucking hands!” King screamed at them. He kept the weapon trained on the men as he changed to a new magazine, then pulled off the night vision goggles and blinked as he allowed his eyes to acclimatise to the deck lights. “Stay where you are,” he said as he approached the three men. He aimed the rifle at the wheelhouse where he could make out the shape of a man behind the wheel, dimly lit by the controls in front of him. “Shut down your engine and step outside the wheelhouse!” he shouted.

“Woz on!” the captain shouted as he stepped onto the deck. “Who the fucking hell are you?” King noted the broad Cornish accent and the irritation in the man’s voice.

“What’s your cargo?” King asked, lowering the weapon.

“Lobster and crab,” the captain replied belligerently. “And I asked ‘e who the fuck ‘e woz…”

There were many types of people in Cornwall, but the locals with the broadest of Cornish accents still had a way of being understood, despite ditching most of the consonants in favour of a single vowel. “British security services,” King replied. “I have reason to suspect this craft is carrying illegal contraband from Ireland.”

“Get ‘on! Weez sailed out Sn’ives on highish tide, and only a quarter way through ‘r shift…” The captain paused. “Pullin’ pots alls way up’to Boscastle ‘n back…”

King nodded. “I’ll check the hold first.”

“You’s got a warrunt?”

“Don’t need one,” King replied, raising the rifle. “So, show me the boat and I’ll be on my way.”

The captain showed King down into the hold as the other three men hastily lit cigarettes and leaned over the side for a chat. The galley was a mess of mugs with tar-brown coffee and dirty bowls with the residue of soup in the sink. King got the impression that the dishes were from yesterday’s shift, maybe even the day before. Over-filling ashtrays were jammed into crevices and the galley stank of food and smoke and body odour. The hold was cleaner than the galley, with hygiene best practice notices and colour-coded health and safety instructions. There were tanks of lobsters with their claws bound by elastic bands, and crabs that had undergone the same treatment. Bait fish rotted in barrels, and langoustine had been packed in ice. The hold was clad in stainless steel, and the floor was fitted with non-slip rubber matting and had recently been sluiced clean. A sorting table had been cleaned with disinfectant, and filleting knives were held in place by magnetic holders fixed to the wall.

“We’re on lobsters and crabs at the moment, but we’ll put out the nets when we reach better grounds,” said the captain. “Then this place will be nothing but fish guts and scales…” King looked around, spending more time in the back of the hold where nets and ropes were stacked in great piles and ice fell several handfuls at a time from an ice machine and was caught in a large stainless-steel tray. There was already hundreds of litres of ice mounding into piles, and King imagined a boat of this size needed crates of the stuff to get the fish to market in good condition. “What exactly r’ e’ lookin’ for?”

“It’s weapons,” said King. “I’ll get out of your way now, but I’d really appreciate you not telling anyone about this.”

“I bet e’ do!” the captain chuckled. “Can’t vouch for my crew after they’ve ad’ a few Rattlers down the pub, but I doubt anyone would believe us, anyhow…”

King nodded. He climbed the steps and made his way out onto the deck where the men were finishing their cigarettes. The helicopter was hovering a hundred metres away at a height of around a hundred feet. King raised the rifle and fired a few bursts in front of the nose of the helicopter, the tracer rounds fizzing past the cockpit. Flymo banked and flew back around the stern of the vessel and thirty seconds later, the end of the wet rope touched the transom. King slung the rifle over his shoulder on the sling and donned the damaged leather gloves, before taking the rope in his hands and locking his feet, the rope gripping far more easily for being wet. Flymo lifted smoothly and was sure to clear the deck of any snagging obstructions before flying directly to the shore. King had pulled the rope up through his feet, and he dropped to the sand and released his grip on the rope so that the static could discharge through the rope as it made contact with the sand. He then boarded through the rear doors, unfastened the rope and coiled it tightly. He dropped it on the floor along with the rifle, which he had cleared and made safe.

“I take it you didn’t find anything,” said Flymo.

“Not a thing.”

Flymo nodded. “Remind me to talk through the signal procedure for next time,” he said sardonically. “A flash of a torch, perhaps. Maybe even a flare. I nearly shit myself when the tracer rounds sparked past. I thought I was in Afghanistan.”

“You got a free fireworks display,” King grinned. “What more do you want? How’s the fuel?”

“We need some,” Flymo replied.

“Alright. I could do with a brew, anyway.” King paused. “Get us back to Newquay and we can do another run down towards St. Ives and back, then take it from there. My gut feeling is once we’re three hours off high-tide, then the window of both opportunity and probability will have gone. Not only will many of the small harbours be inaccessible, but unloading and loading, then driving across wet sand beaches will be more difficult for them, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mayfair, London

Driving a surveillance van into Mayfair, however it was disguised, and leaving it parked on the side of the road wasn’t a practical solution. Many of the grand houses that had been turned into luxurious apartments had doormen permanently stationed outside to meet, greet and turn-away. Many of these doormen were ex-military, and still sharp enough to notice things out of the ordinary. Lugar was aware of this and had convinced Ramsay to take a month’s rental on a property across the street to alleviate the chances of arousing suspicion. A small apartment that any British person unbothered by the airs and graces of social climbing would have called a flat. Two box bedrooms, an open-plan kitchen/lounge/diner and a bathroom. To Luger, the place seemed like a crash-pad for country dwellers who let friends borrow it for a weekend of theatre, bars and dining. The building had escaped the luxury development treatment and seemed altogether more authentic for it. Mayfair had always been a hub for the wealthy, but that wealth hadn’t always meant extravagance. Many businesses of distinction had thrived for decades in the postcode, and the restaurants and hotels were a part of British history and culture. Luger liked Mayfair. Certainly, the East End with its markets and industry was the beating heart of the city, but it was Mayfair where the big business was done. Governments and regimes around the world had toppled after conversations in private clubs, politicians did deals here, those same politicians ended their careers here embroiled in scandal, and dignitaries met behind the closed doors of private rooms in even more private clubs. Writers had penned bestsellers here, fortunes had been won and lost here, and the ‘Mayfair Set’ would continue to glide through life as if coated in Teflon, none of the ‘real world’ problems sticking for them long enough even to be a minor irritation. Luger imagined Agatha Christie finding her inspiration here to write about her disaffected, aristocratic families intent on self-destruction, or John Buchan’s character Richard Hannay returning from Rhodesia, taking a room while ‘in search of an opportunity’. No, if the East End was the beating heart of the city, then Mayfair was the brain and central nervous system, and in many ways neither could function or thrive without the other.

Jim Kernow had set up a secure Wi-Fi network and a large monitor to receive the images that a series of CCTV cameras now recorded of the street and rear of Rashid’s building. With Rashid out of the premises and with Luger tailing him, Kernow had entered Rashid’s luxury apartment and installed some covert cameras to add another tier to the protection level.

Nobody was paying the building any attention, but that was to be expected. Rashid had not shown himself yet. Quite how this would play out was completely unknown, and he doubted that even Ramsay would have worked out the moves in the mental chessboard that was the inner workings of the man’s mind. Luger sipped some more of his strong, black coffee. It was a Blue Mountain blend that he had been recommended by a friend after her travels to Jamaica, but he wasn’t quite feeling it. He preferred Colombian or Indonesian. He opened the locked pistol case as he watched the front and rear camera displays on the monitor in front of him. He had been issued the Glock 19 pistol on his first mission with the team. Stella Fox had seen the direction that their small outfit needed to take, and each member had been issued one. The boxes could be carried overseas in the diplomatic bag. Ramsay had been against the idea, but despite the late director’s murder and his appointment to director of special operations, he had not asked for the weapons back. An oversight perhaps? Luger wasn’t so sure. He suspected the man had just let the matter ride for the greater good. Many of the team members no longer being in possession of their pistols, Luger’s box had not left the country and had remained unopened. He unlocked the box with his thumbprint and opened the lid to reveal the 9mm pistol and two loaded magazines with fifteen rounds in each. He checked the chamber, then thumbed the bullets out of both magazines to ease the tension on the springs. Jack Luger wasn’t a gun enthusiast, but he had undergone weapons training in the Royal Navy and taken the Security Service’s overseas weapons training for intelligence officers and diplomats who found themselves in a hostile environment. He figured some range time would be a good thing when he had the opportunity, but in the meantime, he checked the brand-new weapon over, dropped the slide and aimed at a spot on the wall. He tracked the sights across the wall, then racked back the slide and inserted an empty magazine to test the trigger pull. It was firm and crisp, and a shallow click indicated the internal striker driving the firing pin forwards on the empty breech. He ejected the magazine, then set about loading them both again before making the weapon ready and clipping the spare to his belt in a lightweight plastic pouch, and holstering the pistol in a matching plastic holster, tucked inside his waistband and held firm by a plastic clip. He checked himself in the mirror, the weapon unnoticeable under his cashmere zip-neck sweater. Jim Kernow had given Luger a Sig Sauer P226, but he had left it in the Jaguar. It was an illegal gun from a previous operation, and he had been given instructions to dispose of it if he ever needed to use it. That day may well come, but it would not be today. If there was any shooting to be done, he would do it with the weapon issued to him by his aunt. Former director Stella Fox.

Luger watched Rashid head from the bathroom to the bedroom with just a towel wrapped around his lean, toned frame. Jim Kernow had omitted to set cameras in the man’s bedroom and bathroom to afford him some privacy. Neither room posed a security risk as the bathroom only had a small window that looked down into a shared courtyard, and the bedroom window could be seen clearly from the street. As Luger leaned back in the chair, checking the street either side of the building, he wondered how Rashid was feeling about going undercover and having to assume another identity, his cover legend. One slip-up could cost the man his life, for as simple as it could be to pose as an assassin and accept a contract keeping both distance and anonymity from the client, he needed to get close enough to intercept them and keep the target out of harm’s way. It would take a cool individual with nerves of steel to pull it off, and he supposed that in the relatively brief time that he had known Rashid, he would agree that would sum-up the man. Anyone who was an expert sniper would have to possess those attributes, along with the ability to work alone, endure extreme conditions and discomfort, and make tough, life changing decisions. He wondered whether he could do the same, but he knew he had crossed further over the line than he had ever expected or ever been willing to. His first kill had been in a melee of gunfire as he fought his way out from being abducted, with Rashid and Big Dave providing a chaotic rescue. The second man had been a Russian double agent, and he had been delivering Luger to the police when he should have been taking him to meet an informant. The third, well that had been kill or be killed and it had been a bloody knife fight aboard a ship with a saboteur. In his naval days he had programmed and armed missiles, and he was pragmatic enough to know that he had been part of the chain of death, but he had never witnessed the death and destruction being delivered on behalf of the British Government. But it hadn’t felt real. Hand to hand, up close and personal, death and the business of killing was something different entirely.

Rashid emerged from the bedroom, tucking his 9mm pistol into his waistband before pulling on a long, dark woollen coat over his sweater. He gathered up the bunch of keys and headed for the door. It was still early. Not light yet. Luger stood up and followed suit, with no idea where he was going or why.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

St. Mawgan, Cornwall

“Is this King?”

King frowned and checked his watch. Seven-am. Only Ramsay could have given the gruff-sounding man his name and number. He had slept heavily, finally giving up on the search at two hours from low tide, at around two-thirty. No harbour would have been accessible, and searching for a vehicle on the beaches without its headlights on had been a fruitless task. Two rooms had been booked for them at the hotel opposite Newquay Airport, and they had checked in at around three-thirty a.m. much to the consternation of the night manager. “Yes,” King replied sleepily, but he was already sitting up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, his feet grateful for the warm, thick carpet. “Who the hell is this?”

“DI Grant,” the man replied in a South London accent. King knew, because he had grown up there. “Devon and Cornwall CID.”

“It wasn’t me…”

“Very funny,” the detective inspector replied without a trace of humour. “No, it’s just that I’m twenty-minutes into an investigation and the Security Service have stuck a great big size-twelve brogue into my crime scene. I don’t know how you lot know so much about this already, but a bloke called Ramsay was adamant that I couldn’t carry on until I’d spoken to you.” He paused. “So, hurry the fuck up because I’ve got a case-load as long as my dick and could do without the secret service, or whatever the hell you lot call themselves holding the end of it.”

“That few cases, eh?” King replied, standing up and heading for the shower. “Text me where and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No, you won’t,” DI Grant replied. “You can’t get anywhere in Cornwall in twenty bloody minutes.”

“We’ll see…”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Constantine Bay, Cornwall

They were cutting it fine. Getting the cargo off the trawler and onto the speedboat had been tricky, even in the light swell. Richard Collins checked his watch, the sun now well over the horizon ahead of him as they drove away from the coast. They had met the trawler a mile offshore and had killed the crew and unloaded the cargo within half an hour. Inexperienced in handling boats and working on water, they had allowed the trawler to drift as they had failed to drop anchor. Perilously close to the breakers and the shoreline, they had run the speedboat onto the semi-submerged trailer and transferred the cargo to the Toyota Landcruiser, then struggled to make it back up the wet sand and off the beach, even with one of the best four-by-four vehicles ever made. By the time they had left the beach, Collins had seen the trawler run aground and smash on the rocks. There was already a nosey parker on the scene with his dog. It had been a near-run thing, but they had got up the track and driven into the dunes without having to kill the dogwalker on the beach.

Collins no longer needed the boat, and a mile from the beach, he jammed on the brakes and pulled into an open field gateway. “Let’s dump the boat here,” he said gruffly.

Jan leapt out of the vehicle and unhitched the trailer as Collins pulled clear, not waiting for the man to disconnect the electric towing plug. He nodded to the rifle on the back seat. “We can’t take a chance getting caught,” he said to the former South African soldier. “Take the AK, stay off the roads and tracks, use the golf course and dunes to get back to the beach and cut any police presence short.” He paused. “Create a diversion. Create some chaos. Create a fucking bloodbath for them to worry about.”

The big man frowned. “And how do I exfil, boss?”

“I don’t fucking care,” he said harshly. “This is Cornwall, not Angola. Once you’re clear, then you’re as safe as houses. Ditch the weapon, hitch-hike to the train station and get on a train someplace. Don’t take a straight route, make sure you make it hard for CCTV to get a good image of you. Then, contact me when you’re back in London.”

Jan shrugged. It wasn’t the worst order he’d ever be given, and nor the most difficult. He would head off the police and allow the Zimbabwean to get the cargo in place. There was no pay-check until the successful execution of the operation, and he couldn’t live on the expenses they had been paid in advance. “Okay, bro, you got it.” He picked up the rifle and swapped out the magazine. Taking off his jacket, he swung it over his shoulder and let it hang on the sling. Putting his jacket back on, only a few inches of the barrel was exposed hanging down beside his right leg. He pocketed the last magazine and closed the door on his boss. “See you later, bro.”

Collins watched the man walk out of the field as he turned the vehicle around. Jan was a good man to have with him. They had worked together in Angola, the Congo and the Central African Republic, and had met again many years later in Syria and Ukraine on the mercenary circuit. Jan would buy him crucial time, shutting down any early investigation into what had happened to the vessel, and creating a separate crime and subsequent investigation.

Chapter Thirty

DI Grant watched the AgustaWestland helicopter come in both fast and steep, banking hard and at the last minute dropping its tail for the nose to rear-up in front of him like a spitting cobra, before levelling gently to the ground and settling on its nose wheel. He wondered whether the pilot had landed on the fairway on purpose. Just short of the fourth green, overlooking the bay. He could easily have touched down on the beach. The man was out of the aircraft and striding towards him before the pilot shut the engines down and the rotors changed in pitch. Broad shouldered and trim waisted, he was shorter than Grant at a shade under six-foot and heavy at what he guessed would be fourteen or fifteen stone. Certainly, a man who knew all about push-ups and pull-ups. Grant recognised a killer when he saw one, because he looked at one every time he shaved. He wondered whether the man’s own dark deeds had been as justified as his own.

“Bollocks!” he shouted as the man drew near. “Bollocks!”

King stopped and stared at the detective with a look somewhere between incredulity and anger, settling finally on bemused. “What?”

“My dog,” DI Grant he explained. “He’s taking a piss on your helicopter’s wheels.”

“You called your dog Bollocks,” King mused, somewhat incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Why would you call your dog…” He followed the man’s stare where a stocky dog with a brachycephalic face was cocking his leg on the tyre. “Oh, never mind, I get it.”

“They’re quite something, aren’t they?” Grant stepped forwards and shook King’s hand. “They stick out like a bulldog’s bollocks, quite literally.”

“I think he’s a boxer though.” King said of the dog with an extremely flat face and short head.

“Yeah, well, that’s not the saying, so…” Grant paused. “Really? I thought he was a bulldog. Are you a dog expert?”

“Never had one,” King replied.

“Well, I’ll ignore what you just said, then.” He looked up as Flymo drew near. “That was quite some flying.”

“Don’t fucking encourage him,” said King. “He’ll loop the fucking loop when we leave here if he thinks he’s got an audience.”

“DI Grant,” he said, ignoring King.

“Leroy, most people call me Flymo.”

“Like the lawnmower?”

“Yeah man.”

“Nice.” Grant turned to King and said, “Right, follow me. We’ve got two dead men. All appear to be fishermen because of the state of their hands, as well as their clothing. Your boss asked if they could have been posing as fishermen, but having arrested a few, I would say no way. Fishermen have hands like sandpaper. Most are missing a finger, all of them have scars.”

“Were they shipwrecked?” asked King as they walked down a steep incline that wasn’t quite cliff but was steep enough to be ready with their hands in case they slipped.

“No.” DI Grant did not offer more.

“I’m interested in cargo, not bodies,” said King. “If you’ve received a cease and desist from my department, then they would have told you something about why we are here.”

“Weapons,” DI Grant replied. “Bollocks!”

“Has this guy got Tourette’s or something?” Flymo asked King quietly.

“It’s the name of his dog.”

“That’s his dog?”

“Yeah, it just pissed all over your front wheel.”

“Bollocks…” Flymo said dejectedly.

“That’s right,” King replied. “Like the saying a bulldog’s bollocks.”

“But it’s a boxer, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“He’s not a boxer, he’s a fucking bulldog,” DI Grant told them as they caught him up at the bottom of the slope.

“You need to get your money back,” said King.

“He was a stray,” the detective inspector replied testily. “Besides, he saved my daughter’s life, so he’s here to stay.”

“Saved her life?” Flymo asked incredulously. “How?”

“Long story,” DI Grant replied. “Too long for today. I need you two to have a look at this and tick off or whatever for your boss, so I can get back to running a murder investigation.”

“Murder?” asked King.

“Yes,” the detective replied with a scoff. “Very much so…”

King looked out across the water. The clouds had cleared, making the sea a deep blue, and the swells were clean and small, peeling into waist-high waves on the sandy shore. “Constantine,” he said quietly. “I’d forgotten all about this one.”

“Forgotten what?” asked DI Grant as they walked across the sand towards the beached fishing vessel.

“I was trying to think of suitable beaches to either moor in harbour or ferry the weapons to shore in a smaller craft.” He paused. “Our beach needed to have a sandy shoreline to land, and vehicle access without being overlooked. This one passed me by.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Cornwall has over three-hundred beaches. You were looking for a needle in a haystack,” DI Grant mused. “The most coastline of any county in Britain, with much of it hazardous to navigate at night at best, and many beaches difficult to access with a vehicle.”

King said nothing. The fishing vessel rested on its side, the prow and exposed beam damaged from hitting the rocks. He looked to the western end of the beach and the rocks he presumed she had struck. The beach was largely sandy with patches of shingle and a savage sprawl of rocks at each end hemming it in. Around the western point another, narrower bay could well have been a contender for unloading as King remembered it having a ramp down to the beach. “Have you tracked ownership of the vessel?” he asked.

Grant nodded as they reached the vessel. “Peter O’Malley, owner-operator. Moored in major fishing port called Courtmacsherry, Southern Ireland. That’s where O’Malley lives, as well. Or lived, that is.”

King walked around the prow to the starboard side, which lay close to the sand, the gunwale resting just a few feet above the sand. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to an area of sand that had been cordoned off, beyond which three forensic technicians waited impatiently.

“Vomit,” DI Grant replied. “Typical body discovery. Dog walker out at dawn, investigates and chucks his guts up when he gets more than he bargained for.” He paused. “Are you okay with gruesome things, blood and the like?”

“I’ll be alright,” King replied neutrally. He glanced at Flymo. “Wait here, mate. No need to interrupt your sweet dreams of flying.” He clambered into the bridge and saw immediately why the dog walker had taken a turn for the worse.

“Lot of bullets, eh?” Grant mused. “A Kalashnikov or one of its many copies, would be my bet, given the seven-six-two-short casings.”

King nodded. An AK-47 would have been his bet, too. He could clearly tell that this wasn’t the detective’s first rodeo. King assumed that the body in the bridge belonged to the captain, but it would be a DNA test only. Most of the man’s teeth had been blown out of the back of his head. The rest of his face and head was splattered against the wall. King studied the brass shell cases piled into the lower reaches of the wheelhouse, where they had rolled since the boat had run aground and listed onto its starboard side. “More bodies down in the hold?”

“One,” Grant replied. “Which begs the question; where is the third because the Garda at the port of Courtmacsherry informed us that O’Malley’s crew consisted of two men. Dave Riley and a Polish blow-in name of Samuel Kowalski.”

“Any idea which one of them is down there?”

“No. My DC is contacting the Garda for details of tattoos, or any other identifying marks. Haven’t heard back yet. The Garda are like our continental brethren, in that they’re a fucking lazy bunch who don’t like requests from the British Empire.” Grant smirked.

King said nothing as he took on the stairs which were now off-set by forty-five-degrees. It wasn’t the easiest of obstacles to negotiate, but when he reached the bottom, it was evident that the gunman had gone Machinegun Kelly on the poor crewman, too. King ignored the body. He wasn’t trained in forensics, and he wasn’t going to learn anything from the bloody crime scene. He just wanted to get into the hold and check that a small miracle could have been bestowed in the form of crates of mortars failing to be extracted.

“Empty down here,” said DI Grant. “Just nets and fishing crap.” He paused. “So, as far as I can see, you’ve got one hell of a case on your hands, and I get my crime scene back.”

King nodded. “Will you forward me everything you get on this? Photographs of the crime scene, the bodies and anything you deem pertinent?” He could well demand it of the detective, but he had always found it paid to be courteous, especially to people who gave off a certain vibe. He could already tell that DI Grant was a straightforward policeman and was probably the type to dig in his heels when he butted heads with people.

“Of course. Likewise, I’ll issue an all points on your mortars. I imagine they’re packed in wooden crates, and that we’re looking for a four-by-four if the fishing boat was met by a smaller craft. So, we’re looking for a smaller boat on a trailer, most likely left someplace while they transport the mortars by road.” He shrugged. “They won’t exactly make a clean getaway with a boat in tow…” the sound of machinegun fire cut the detective off mid-sentence. King instinctively ducked for cover and drew the 9mm Makarov pistol that he had rearmed with after ditching the .38 revolver in the Thames. Grant glanced at the weapon before taking cover behind the bulkhead. “What the hell?”

“That would be the Kalashnikov you were talking about,” said King.

Grant did not reply, as he got up and climbed the tilted stairs and peered out through the broken glass of the wheelhouse. “Oh my god!” he exclaimed. “The forensic team are down!”

“Shit, Flymo!” King followed the man up the stairs, then ducked as a volley of bullets peppered the deck in front of them. King ducked his head instinctively, then craned his neck to catch sight of Flymo scrabbling up the face of a steep dune. “Run, mate, run…” he said quietly, willing him on. King edged himself out further to draw the gunman’s fire away from Flymo, then ducked back inside when another rattle of gunfire peppered the roof of the wheelhouse, splintering the ceiling above them and punching ragged holes in the deck around them. “Your forensic people are dead,” he said. “They’re not moving, and I can see the blood on them from here. So, no heroics, just sit tight.”

DI Grant dialled quickly on his phone, then cursed loudly. “Fucking Cornwall!” he raged. “Never a bloody signal when you want one!” He turned to King and said, “If you’re going to shoot anyone with that peashooter, then it better be now.”

“Not a chance,” King replied. “No eyes on the shooter, and at least two-hundred metres of ground to the closest cover. I’d just be making a noise from here.”

Another volley of bullets struck the deck.

“We can’t just sit here!”

“We don’t have to,” said King. “Our gunman has just broken cover.”

King watched as the man casually made his way down the sand dune and changed magazines as he walked, but he couldn’t decide if this was worse somehow. The closer the man got to them, then the more chance he would have of killing him with the Makarov. However, the closer the gunman came; the more effective his own considerable firepower would be. King always remembered what his old mentor Peter Stewart said of combat, “Son, the day you need a pistol is the day you wish you had a rifle…” Well, the closer the man came to them, the more this advice rang true. The man was getting within range, but King had eight bullets to the man’s thirty, and the unique 9.2x18mm bullets of the Soviet-era pistol would leave the approximately three-and-a-half-inch barrel with a muzzle energy of 279ft/lbs while the AK-47 topped almost seven times that figure.

“What the hell?” DI Grant climbed higher in the wheelhouse, peering at the new sound. The reverberation of twin Pratt & Witney engines and a helicopter coming in low and fast.

The gunman stopped in his tracks. He aimed at the helicopter dive-bombing him and got off a short burst before diving for cover and sprawling on the sand. As the helicopter climbed again, the man picked up the rifle and fired a burst at the wreck, then turned and bolted for the dunes. The helicopter came in again, this time buzzing the gunman as he struggled in the deep, dry sand at the foot of the dunes. Flymo banked hard to port and flew out over the ocean. The gunman did not bother wasting bullets and struggled up the steep dune, as Flymo came back to shore and hovered above the wreck. The gunman turned and fired and there was a distinct metallic clatter as bullets hit the fuselage. King clambered out and slid down the deck, as Flymo pitched the SCAR battle rifle out of his door, then pirouetted and headed for the gunman, skimming the sand and climbing for the dune.

“Ever used a pistol?” he asked Grant as he followed.

“Armed response trained.”

“Take this in case it goes pear shaped, check on the forensic guys and call the bloody calvary,” he said, tossing the detective the chunky little Makarov. King sprinted for the rifle without looking back. He snatched it up, removed the magazine and checked for sand blockages as he ran. By the time he reached the foot of the dunes he had the weapon made ready.

Another burst of fire from the top of the dunes, and the AgustaWestland pitched into view, black smoke billowing from the engine housing and a dramatic change in pitch to the engines. The normal whump-whump of the rotor blades sounded like a bucket full of bolts rotating in a washing machine. King didn’t look back as the helicopter hit the beach. He had the rifle shouldered and was scanning the dunes and sea grass in his sights, his finger hovering near the trigger. A flash of movement, and King dropped to one knee as he sighted on the hillcrest and a large tuft of seagrass. There was a muzzle flash and a clatter of gunfire, and King fired six rounds at the muzzle flash, three double-taps in quick succession. King didn’t just remember his training – he was his training. Evolved. Instinctive. It came to him as easily as breathing, which was why and how he had lived so long doing what he did. He had rolled to his right the instant the last of the six rounds had left the barrel. A change in direction, a change in height, and as the gunman showed himself and took aim where King had last been standing, King fired another six rounds, this time in steady, rapid succession. The man fell backwards, and King bolted to his right, circumventing the dune. With the man’s original position at King’s twelve o’clock, he was now at three o’clock as he climbed the incline, his weapon close to his shoulder, the muzzle pointing slightly downwards to keep his view unobstructed, but ever-ready to engage. He took the last few steps tentatively, and with the chances of being ambushed, or engaged at close quarters, he lowered the rifle, ready to fire from the hip if necessary. Lucky Thirteen was nestled in the horizontal sheath near the small of his back. Razor-sharp and within his grasp.

The man was dying. Nothing would change that. Two 7.62x51mm rounds had grouped closely in the man’s stomach. Another had clipped his left shoulder and a fourth had taken most of the man’s left hip away. King could have done better, but the range was the range and real was the deal, and the man was lying dying in the sand, and King was not.

“Who are you working for?” King asked, picking up the AK-47 by its sling.

“Piss off…”

King smiled. “Looks nasty. Does it hurt?”

The man sucked through his teeth. “What the fuck do you think?”

King pressed the tread of his size eleven desert boot against the open wound, the sand from his tread grinding into the man’s raw flesh.

“Argh, Jesus Fucking Bastard Christ!”

“Who are you working for?”

“Fuck you!”

King pressed again. Half his weight this time. There was a crunching sound like wet sand and pea gravel in a bag, and his foot gave as the hip bone sheared off. The man’s cry was maniacal, resonating from the pit of his stomach and faded in a gargle in his throat. “Who are you working for?”

“Collins! Richard Collins!” the man screamed. “Freelance… a mercenary, like me!”

King stared at the man incredulously. The name hitting him like a punch in the guts. The sight of the man in the photograph with Stewart still smarting. “Who’s paying the bills?”

The man choked back tears, his body shaking, almost convulsing with the pain. “Tarik Kamal… a Saudi… banker for freedom fighters…”

“You mean terrorists.”

“It’s the fucking same!” the man raged at him. “Just depends on which side of the fence you’re on!”

“Who pays the banker?” King asked, quite unsympathetic to the man’s pain and vulnerability. He had gunned down three unarmed people and had been banking on both King and Grant being numbers four and five. “Who’s the man at the top?”

“Get me a fucking ambulance…”

“Come on, big man,” King said, staring directly in the eyes. “They aren’t going to be fixing this anytime soon.” He waited for the understanding to dawn on the man’s expression, and it did so in a wave of sobering sadness. King pressed his tread into the man’s shattered hip again then waited while the man’s screams died down. “Who pays Kamal?”

“Habib! Habib! That’s all I know! A squat little Saudi with a fuck-you face!” He trailed off, the colour completely drained from his face, and he started to shiver.

King nodded. He flicked the selector of the AK-47 up two notches to safe, then tossed it into the man’s lap. The man stared up at him, but their eyes did not meet, as he looked directly into the muzzle of King’s own rifle. He did not see the muzzle flash, and nor did he hear the gunshot as King shot him squarely between the eyes. Using the toe of his other boot to avoid getting blood where it would be difficult to explain, King eased the selector down a notch making the weapon live once more.

With his back to the body King started down the dunes to the beach. Thankfully, he could see Flymo standing with DI Grant beside the downed helicopter. Ramsay wasn’t going to be pleased with this. To his right, the golf course was basked in a cold winter’s sun. The greens were perfectly mown, the fairways lush and short, the rough covered in the same seagrass at King’s feet. The course looked a good place to spend a morning, away from worries and time and routine. Perhaps he would have that game with Luger sometime.

Chapter Thirty-One

London

King had spoken about ‘The Man’ before. A former soldier who had lost a leg in an IED explosion in Afghanistan, The Man had found himself in the world of selling arms when he had used some of his contacts to shift captured Kalashnikovs from Afghanistan to various African governments. MI6 had been involved in brokering the deal, seeing that the weapons stayed out of the Taliban’s hands and went to factions and governments that could best support Britain’s interests instead. He had maintained an association with them ever since. Export permits were not turned down and in return, he would help the intelligence service out with procuring weapons in parts of the world where it was difficult for intelligence officers or assets to make headway. After the withdrawal of British and American troops from Iraq and Afghanistan MI6 had used people like The Man to shift tonnes of weaponry and equipment before it fell to rebels and the Taliban. Huge stockpiles did find its way into the Taliban’s hands, but independent arms dealers managed to get the bulk out of the hardware out. Much of this was done from behind laptops and with copious amounts of paperwork, and without the weaponry deviating from its route. Airports and flights, ports and sea routes and land routes to get the weapons from one warring continent to another. The Man had concentrated on bringing back the junk to his warehouse in London and fastidiously sorting the weapons into categories from good to go, to requiring maintenance, to being stripped and rebuilt from the mass of parts. As a former armourer, he took pride in his work and had been a valuable contact for King over the years.

Rashid had pulled his car into the side street and instantly noticed just how quiet it was. He locked the tiny sportscar and studied the CCTV cameras covering every possible angle. King had told Rashid about The Man’s set up. The group of buildings were former mills and breweries that backed onto the Thames and would have been superbly expensive property conversions had The Man not procured the three buildings with the aid of MI6. Two of the properties served as a buffer for the main business, and yellow lines and hefty penalty parking-fine and wheel-clamping signs created a safe area in the street as drivers seldom risked it and parked elsewhere. As briefed, Rashid ignored the parking measures and made his way to the metal door. He pressed a buzzer and waited for the door to unlock. Stepping inside, he saw that the walls were lined with thick stainless steel, and that they were badly pockmarked. What had done this became evident when he noticed the muzzles of three, double-barrelled shotguns sticking just a few inches out from each wall. The door clicked ominously shut. He was at the mercy of The Man, the six barrels capable of cutting him in half. Thankfully, the internal door soon clicked open, and he stepped hastily inside.

The inside of the building was cavernous. There were armoured cars, Land Rovers, Humvees, tanks and mobile guns parked mere inches apart, and helicopter parts stacked in piles. Rashid could see loading doors at the far end, and suspected that way led to the Thames. He recognised crates of ordnance and ammunition boxes, and as he took the metal staircase, he got a bird’s eye view of mountains of kit and packing equipment.

Rashid could hear somebody working and headed towards the sound.

The Man was stripping a nineteen-forties era German MG42 machinegun. Beside him, a large monitor showed CCTV footage of eight split screens. He looked up as Rashid walked in. “Last made in nineteen-forty-four, and still being used in at least six warzones as we speak. Including Ukraine. These are from Syria.” He paused, sweeping his hand towards a pile of metal. “They just need some TLC, and they’ll go on for another eighty years. Most of these won’t even see war again, just dumb tourists in Las Vegas or compounds for anarchy fantasists in Idaho or Montana. That’s where the next war will be fought when America tears itself apart. Still, we make money while we can. You must be Pascale,” he said, only knowing of Rashid’s cover name.

“That’s right. A mutual friend told me to look you up.”

The Man nodded, putting down the belt-fed machinegun. For all either man knew, the weapon could have been used against the allies in Normandy. It would have been a thoroughly British thing to have sold it on to any number of warring countries after the big one and still be selling it on today. He stared at Rashid for a moment or two more than was comfortable. “Something for you to reach out with,” he said. “A long, long way. You’ve got the look.”

“The look?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to take that.”

“I know the look,” The Man replied. “I may be wrong, but I seldom am.”

Rashid shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

“What distance are we talking about?”

“Far.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Really far.”

The Man nodded. “Conditions?”

“North European climate.” Rashid paused. “Minus-two to ten degrees Celsius.”

“Altitude?”

“Sea level to a thousand feet.”

“And the target? Material or something altogether more… meaty?”

“Meaty.”

“Two-legged? We’re not talking Alpine ibex or deer, are we?”

“No. Definitely the two-legged variety.”

“Body armour?”

“Possibly Kevlar, but certainly no ceramic trauma plates. It will be in a domestic setting, not hostile.”

“What do you think about the Barrett fifty?” he asked of the Barrett M82

“Too big and bulky, and not accurate enough,” Rashid replied. “I think it’s more suited to use as an anti-material rifle. Its accuracy is two MOA at best in real-world conditions.”

“You’re right. There are fantasists on rifle ranges claiming the longest shots and thinking they’re the next Chris Kyle, but it’s not a precision tool with practical applications for human targets. Not if you want to make the shot and get out undetected.”

“You’re testing me?” Rashid asked incredulously.

The Man laughed as he made his way to a crate and jemmied off the lid with a crowbar. He moved packing straw aside and lifted out a paper-wrapped rifle. The paper smelled of wax and gun oil and it reminded Rashid of the thrill – and fear – of deployment. The Man unwrapped the rifle and held it out for him. “This is the Accuracy International AXSR. Bolt action, point-three-hundred Winchester Magnum cartridge, fully folding stock for transportation, but also adjustable for length and cheek height, and comes with a double-stack ten-round magazine which maintains its profile low. There’s an integrated bipod, a standard AR pistol grip, and a threaded muzzle to use with a muzzle brake or suppressor.” He paused, watching Rashid examine the weapon. “Both of which come with this beautiful example. Now, I always recommend Schmidt and Bender when it comes to optics, no doubt you’ll have your favourites too, but I have a five-point-nine by sixty-five with dual mode night and day operating system ready to attach.”

“Sounds ideal,” Rashid commented as he worked the fluted bolt. The action was silky-smooth and well-oiled. He had only been out of the SAS a few years, but already he could see that things were moving on. The rifle was an exquisite piece of kit, if firearms were your thing. To Rashid, it was just another tool in the toolkit, but he could not help admiring the craftmanship. It looked futuristic with cues from both assault rifles and Olympic competition target rifles.

“Here’s the unique thing with this rifle,” said The Man. “It comes with two more barrels, bolts and magazines. All just drop seamlessly into the action. So, you can change calibres to suit the… er… situation.”

“That is handy,” Rashid replied. “What are the other calibres?”

“Six-point-five Creedmoor. It’s a smaller round with less recoil and a flatter trajectory, and good for eight-hundred metres for the game that you’re hunting…” he said without looking at him. The Man was used to discretion. “And point-three-three-eight Lapua Magnum. That gives you mid two-thousand metres range, more if you’re a world class shot. The .338 is a good choice as an anti-material calibre as well, making light work of vehicles and concrete walls.”

“I’ll take it,” Rashid replied.

“Great. It’s a ten-grand set up, twelve with the extra barrels, mags and bolts.” The Man paused. “But that’s retail. If you had a firearms licence with a vacant slot to purchase and keep one of these, and if I was a registered firearms dealer,” he grinned. “Which I’m not. So, it will be twenty-thousand-pounds, and I’ll see that you have the best match-grade ammunition money can buy, with some armour-piercing rounds for the three-three-eight set-up.”

Rashid remembered what King had told him about haggling. He just didn’t do it. Not for services like these, not with people who could be valuable in the future. “Cash or bank transfer?” Rashid asked. “Or gold?”

“What gold have you got?”

“Sovereigns,” Rashid replied.

“Very acceptable.”

Rashid nodded. “Can you arrange for something for me to use in Albania?”

“It’s possible,” The Man replied. “Range and parameters?”

Rashid had memorised the file. Pierre Sauvage was a Frenchman with blood on his hands. Operating out of the small Albanian riviera town of Dhërmi, his small but ruthless gang had preyed upon young women backpackers on the beautiful beaches or the cafés and bars and sold them into the sex trade to places like Romania, Bulgaria and the Middle East. Ramsay had got the details from Caroline after she had worked on sabbatical with Interpol. Sauvage was a killer, a rapist and a human trafficker. Rashid had only to read half the file to pique his interest, and had put down the file knowing that he would perform the task without remorse. “Up to six-hundred metres, but ideally between one and three-hundred metres, from second floor elevation. Several armed bodyguards, so I’d prefer semi-auto over bolt-action if it escalates quickly.”

“Which it always seems to do,” The Man smiled wryly. “I can have a military weapon system, a suitable optic, two magazines and a hundred rounds of quality ammunition on scene before you get there. That’ll give you plenty of rounds to zero the scope,” he said. He took out his phone and scrolled for a minute or more while Rashid looked about the piles of weapons and crates. “Vlorë, would seem to be the best location,” he said finally. “It’s a busy port. There’s an import-export company called Vandervalk Freight which I have used before. It will be left in their luggage claim office under the name Kell.” He paused. “Three thousand pounds payable now and I’ll give you the cargo claim number.” Rashid nodded, and The Man spent another minute on his phone. “It’ll be there in twenty-four hours. Now, let’s talk gold. How many sovereigns have you got?”

“Forty. Today’s market value for one is five-hundred and thirty pounds each. That’s around a grand and a half over what you’re asking for the weapon system. But I bought these a while ago and they don’t stand me that much, so we both win. I can pay cash for the Albanian package. Do we have a deal?”

“Because of the run on gold, I’ll do Albania for a grand. That gives me some walking around paper.” The Man said, smiling as he watched Rashid take two small cardboard tubes out from his jacket pocket, each containing a stack of twenty gold sovereigns. Gold gave someone the chance of increasing their wealth. The price could drop, but it always went back up eventually. “Yes, we have a deal.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“You lost them…” Ramsay said quietly, speaking with his back to them with his eyes on the Thames and the silky, smooth brown waters passing as steadily and as constantly past them as a missed opportunity.

“I got a photograph of one of them,” King replied.

“With a hole where the bridge of his nose should be!” Ramsay retorted.

“It’s good enough for an ID,” King replied tersely. “And we’ve got a name for the man running the operation, and the name of the person behind it, and his banker.” King put down his mug of tea and said, “If that’s not enough for you, Neil, then you’re in the wrong fucking game, pal.”

“Alex!” Caroline snapped from behind her desk.

“That goes for you, too,” he said, glaring at her. He held up his left hand, fingers spread, and he ticked each one off with his right index finger. “Photograph of a heavy… the name of the man running the field operation… the name of the man behind it all… the man paying the fucking bills…” He left just one finger in the air. It was his middle finger, and Big Dave tried and failed to suppress a snigger. King turned the middle finger from Caroline to Ramsay. “Just the target left to identify, that’s all. If you can manage that from behind a desk.”

“Thank you for the disquisition,” an unamused Ramsay said quite pretentiously. “And a target is nothing without a date.”

“What do you want? A written invitation with flowers on it?” King scoffed.

“And thank you, both, for destroying the helicopter,” Ramsay told them curtly.

Flymo shrugged. “My bad…”

Caroline’s expression softened a little with King when she said, “Margarette Stewart has no next of kin. I thought, under the circumstances, that you would like to arrange the funeral. I can help, if you like?”

King nodded, his expression conciliatory. “Of course. Thanks.”

“Thames House has some leads,” she said of MI5’s official headquarters. “GCHQ, as well. The person who presided over the sale of the mortars is a woman called Andrea O’Shea. She’s the niece of an old IRA heavy hitter, who was killed in a Secret Intelligence Service operation in France. Probably right around the start of your career with the SIS. Does the name ring a bell?”

“No,” King lied. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he had killed the man who had. Ian Forsyth was an MI6 officer who had gone rogue and decided to keep the money that the IRA men had stolen from a racetrack. King’s career had taken a downward turn when the money disappeared and the London criminal that the IRA had used to crack the safe had disappeared along with it.

“When it was clear that Stewart’s former asset had information for him, and someone from the intelligence service would be at Margarette’s house waiting to speak to him, Andrea O’Shea wasted no time in getting an asset in place, however long-retired or out of the game he may have been.” Caroline paused. “That’s a woman with a great deal of hate left inside her.”

King said nothing. The statement was true. So, what was he going to do about it? Wait for the woman to come after him again?

There was a knock on the door immediately before it opened, and Mae appeared with a tray of cups and mugs. “Thought I’d renew and remove,” she said. “This looks like a two-cuppa meeting.”

“Very good, Mae,” said Caroline.

Ramsay wheeled himself back to his desk and rested his elbows on the leather blotter, the silver pen between his fingers rotating like a child’s fidget toy. “Rashid is in play, Luger and Jim are playing bodyguard. However, Rashid has a job to do, something that will strengthen his cover.” He paused as Mae silently slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. “I can’t see how these two cases are connected. Not yet at least.”

“They aren’t,” said King.

“We cannot discount anything,” Ramsay replied curtly.

“We can,” King sipped his tea and shrugged. “If we have mortars on British soil, then your analysts need to work quick smart to ascertain the most probable target.”

“Obviously,” Caroline frowned. “Alex, they didn’t lose the mortars…”

“Nor did I. To lose something, you need to have possessed it in the first place.” He paused, his expression about as cold as anyone had ever witnessed. “All I had was a boat leaving a harbour in one country and landing somewhere in another. At night, somewhere on the county with the most coastline!”

“Guys, settle down,” said Big Dave. “And we have a lot more to go on than we did five minutes ago. And King’s right. These two cases aren’t connected. No way, no how.”

“Explain, please,” Ramsay said sounding quite detached, but everyone knew he was concentrating on a thousand thoughts at once.

“Before working for you, er, officially that is, you know that I was on the mercenary circuit.” He paused. “That’s how I came aboard. Working for Simon Mereweather on a deniable operation.” He shrugged. “I’m not proud of my mercenary days, but when your government cuts you loose in military restructuring with not so much as a thank you or a pot to piss in, then needs must…”

Caroline nodded. She had entered MI5 under Charles Forrester after her department in the intelligence company was deemed surplus to requirements after peace in Northern Ireland and the direction that Middle-East conflicts were taking. Governments never chose to keep or bin individuals, they simply crossed out regiments and units with a red-pen and a flourish, and without any real idea of the consequences.

“I knew Collins,” he said. “At least, I knew a Richard Collins and judging from what King has said about the overkill down in Cornwall on those unfortunate fishermen, then I believe we are talking about the same man.”

Ramsay stared at him, dropping his pen with a clatter. “You know this man?”

The big Fijian nodded, but his expression was distant, and his eyes lacked their usual warm lustre. “He’s South African, or Zimbabwean, or something like that. White, but a generational African. He was around six-foot-two, slim and wiry. He served in the Australian SAS. I don’t know how he managed that – whether he claimed citizenship or forged his identity, I don’t know – but he did a few years, served in Afghanistan and took part in a few secret battles. The Australian SAS is the same as our own, and they train with the boys at Hereford as well. He was apparently dishonourably discharged after an incident in Afghanistan. Their government went a bit heavy on the SASR as they call them, but in Collins’ case, I doubt there was any ambiguity. He worked as a mercenary in Africa for years before he joined the Australian territorial army reserves, so he was experienced enough to surge through training and the ranks. I don’t know why he quit the mercenary circuit the first time round, but he got into the SAS through a backdoor created in the reserves. Word on the circuit, his second time on it, was that he did not need the money. Didn’t need it before joining the SAS, even. He just loved the life, and boy did he like the killing…”

“So, why are you convinced that these two cases are not connected?” Caroline asked.

“Collins is a sniper. Not just a sniper, but a world class sniper.” He shrugged. “If there was a job for a marksman and Collins was involved, then he wouldn’t be looking for a trigger man. He’d be only too happy to do the job, and utterly competent in doing so.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Moscow

The apartment was cold and sparse. Not much to show for twenty-years in the military and GRU. He was out of vodka, too. His career had ended overnight. In the drawer beside the single-paned window that did little to keep out the freezing air, a Makarov pistol was loaded with a bullet in the chamber. It had been his father’s service pistol, and then his, and now it was just a potential way out of feeling anguish, and sorrow and despair. The empty vodka bottle on the table was the reason he had not slipped the cold metal into his mouth and blown out the back of his skull. He had thought about it, but the bottle had emptied too soon. Another two or three shots, and he may well have taken the final shot. But today was another day. He would buy two bottles today, and he may taste the cold steel before the burnt gunpowder when he was drunk enough to have the courage, but not too drunk to lack the thought and dexterity.

Zukovsky picked up his phone and studied the message again. Usually when things seemed too good to be true, they generally were. Why would she try to help him? People needed help. They didn’t give help without either being asked for it or benefitting from it. That’s why communism hadn’t worked. He did not know the woman, but they had mutual friends. Or at least they had before he had been humiliated. Before the British intelligence services had humiliated him. As a soldier, he was naturally wary of the FSB. Merely the KGB by another name, reorganised after the break-up of the Soviet Union, the FSB played a different game than that of the GRU, and with the immediate backing and loyalty from the president, was an entirely untouchable entity. The SVR was the organisation for foreign espionage, with the FSB being responsible for domestic security. By contrast, Zukovsky’s time in the GRU – Russia’s military intelligence service – had been a life far less of smoke and mirrors, and more of being the spearpoint of Russia’s military might. In his experience, when the FSB became involved, they ran the show and answered to nobody. Blame, though, was easily transferable to whomever was close at hand.

Katerina Baskakov was a link in the chain to the demise of his career. Zukovsky had been responsible for the security of one of Russia’s most important military innovations, and Katerina Baskakov had been the agent who used his project as bait in an intricate plot to lure in British intelligence and leave them utterly disgraced. Only it hadn’t worked out that way. The project had been destroyed and both Katerina Baskakov and Zukovsky had taken the fall. Zukovsky had lost his career, his privileges and been utterly disgraced, while Baskakov had been черная метка, or black marked by her service. And to be black marked by the FSB meant that sooner or later, a tough man in a trench coat and trilby hat, and wearing dark glasses, was going to put a bullet in the back of your neck or leave Novichok on your door handle.

Zukovsky looked at the photograph on the wall. The colour almost faded to monochrome over the years. Along with the hopes and aspirations that the photograph had captured. His passing out picture, with his brother and father either side of them. His brother Uri had reached the rank of major in the GRU but had been killed by British agents. His father had been captured on that same mission, but both had been disgraced as the regime and allegiances changed. Years later his father’s body had been discovered in Russia, in the Republic of Karelia, after a British intelligence operation. What the hell had his father been doing there? Helping the British? Trying to stop them? Vladamir Zukovsky had spent years in secret prisons in America under the CIA and in the United Kingdom under MI5 and MI6. He wouldn’t have defected. Couldn’t have defected. And now, like his brother and father before him, Niko Zukovsky was an outcast. There were two ends, as far as he could see. One with a clear path and destination; the other unknown. One path would lead to a swift end and would come after vodka and his Makarov 9mm. The other would come by simply returning a text message. It was time to choose.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dhërmi, Albania

For a man so blatantly breaking the law Pierre Sauvage moved around with impunity and thought nothing of following patterns. But this wasn’t just breaking the law, this was utterly going beyond it. Sauvage had paid off local police and politicians, but he had also blackmailed them with their own indiscretions. He was a giant weight to which they were all tethered and if Sauvage fell, then many would follow. And there would be no escaping that fall, no clambering from the depths. If Sauvage’s two-step dance of buying and blackmailing was not enough, then he made no secret of offering a third, inescapable option. He had an adeptness in making people disappear, be it trafficking them across borders, or dropping them weighted to the depths of the Adriatic and Ionian Seas to feed the sharks and crustaceans. One of his favourite methods of blackmailing someone was to take them far out to sea fishing and drinking, laying on splendid buffets, cocaine and prostitutes for his esteemed guest. Then one of his enemies would be dragged up from the hold, bound and gagged. He would have his men weigh the unfortunate victim down with chains and dropped over the side as their guest watched uncomfortably. Sauvage would make nothing of the scene, casually dropping into the conversation that the victim’s crime was slight, but that he let nothing go unpunished when it came to loyalty. When his guest was delivered back to port, he knew he had their unwavering attention and never needed to question their loyalty.

Sauvage took a walk on the beach each morning and drank two espressos at a café on the beachfront. He was always accompanied by two bodyguards and a driver. To Rashid the bodyguards looked like regular bullet catchers. Over six feet tall and almost as wide having spent half their life in the gym and the other half injecting steroids. The driver parked the Maybach nose-first into the space directly outside the café and that told Rashid everything he needed to know about the man’s security awareness and evasive driving skills. Rashid had played it over in his head as he had read the file and studied the images from the Interpol report as well as his own overview of the area from Google Earth, and the detailed map showing the roads in and out of the town. The shot could be taken from the adjacent building easily enough, but exfiltration would be difficult. Ideally Rashid wanted a single shot. Not a bloodbath in the street, and unless he took down Sauvage’s entire team, then he would not get out of the building without a firefight. That would mean innocent bystanders getting caught in the crossfire. No, from the moment he had decided that the café would be the perfect location, he had started to think outside the box.

Rashid had six-hundred metres to play with. The rifle that The Man had sent to the import/export company was a Heckler and Koch G3 chambered in 7.62x51mm. Normally, he would give the weapon more rein but that would be on a range in ideal conditions and on paper targets. Rashid wanted the bullet to retain devastation energy at the point of impact, and besides, this shot was unprecedented because he was taking it from almost six-hundred metres away completely level with the target. From sea level. Literally.

The speedboat had cost Rashid nothing. He had stolen it from a marina five miles to the north. Furnished with twin three-hundred horsepower Mercury outboards, it was fast, agile and smooth on the plane. The gyroscopic camera stabiliser had cost over a thousand pounds, and he now wore the harness with the rifle attached and his iPhone clamped to the scope. He had first zeroed the rifle in the mountains and with the set-up had achieved tight grouping inside a three-inch circle at three-hundred metres and inside a five-inch circle at six-hundred. On the water may prove different entirely, but the sea was flat-calm and beautifully clear. There was little wind, and what there was blew gently onshore. Rashid watched through the powerful Zeiss binoculars as Sauvage finished his morning walk. He had contemplated taking his shot while the man was on the beach, but there were too many variables. The bullet could be fired, and the Frenchman could start walking again, pick up a shell, take out his phone – even turn around and walk the other way. No. Once seated at the café table, the first of his two morning coffees in his hand, the man wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Rashid steadied the rifle and on his iPhone screen he could see the crosshairs of the scope centred on the man’s face. The gyroscope corrected the gentle movements of the ocean, keeping the crosshairs centred. As Pierre Sauvage sipped his espresso Rashid fired. The recoil was corrected with imperceivable movement from the gyroscope and for the first time ever, Rashid was afforded the sight of impact without losing a moment. It was uncanny and in a way despite the man’s crimes, harrowing to see in full colour HD on his phone. The bullet hit the man in the philtrum and exited through the base of the skull, severing the vertebrae with complete synapse shutdown. A follow-up shot would not be required and would only give away his position. Rashid removed his iPhone from the scope, unclipped the rifle and dropped it overboard along with the spare magazine. After unfastening the gyroscopic camera mount, he sent it the same way into the depths. He had the engines started and was pulling away before the bodyguards realised what had happened and was heading for the beach two miles away where he had parked the hire car three hours previously. Rashid would be at the airport within an hour and in the air within three.

Chapter Thirty-Five

London

“I can’t be in this job and not hold you to account when the time arises.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything to be held to account for.”

“We lost our helicopter,” Caroline reminded him. “That was an invaluable asset, that allowed us flexibility in our investigations.”

“You may need to blame the pilot for that one. It’s a little difficult to blame someone for crashing a helicopter when they weren’t even in the bloody thing.”

“Semantics. You were there, and you were in charge.”

King stared at the river, a bitter chill running down his spine. Perhaps it was the cold, but he feared it was something else. That feeling you get when your subconscious knows that something is not quite right. He had learned to listen to these warnings over the years, but for the life of him could not fathom what this warning could be. In his mind’s eye, he saw the crosshairs of a scope on his own forehead, and it sent another chill down his spine. There was nothing you could do about that, and thinking about it would make you lose your mind, so he simply pushed himself off the railings and started to walk. Caroline got the impression it was a ‘follow if you want the conversation to continue’ kind of moment. “I’m with Big Dave on this,” he said when she caught up with him. The embankment was virtually empty, a fleeting moment to be savoured in London if one lived there. “I know this guy Collins, too,” he said, picturing the man in the photograph at Margarette Stewart’s home.

“What?” she asked incredulously. “Why on earth didn’t you say something?”

“I’m saying it now.”

“You can’t hold things back, Alex!”

King shrugged. “Some things are better not shared with your boss and colleagues.”

“Like what?”

King walked to the granite wall, leaning beside a bronze statue of a lion as he watched the Thames once more. “Collins was a triggerman. One hell of a good sniper. I agree with Big Dave that if a sniper were to be used on a contract, then it would be Collins behind the scope. His ego would not allow for an interloper to pull the trigger.”

“I still don’t get why you would hold back.”

“It’s personal.”

“We share in this game,” she replied. “Trust is everything.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course I trust you!” she snapped, somewhat exasperated. “I bloody well love you!”

“I know.” King sighed, still staring at the brown, slick waters.

“It’s generally accepted that when someone says they love you, then it’s usually reciprocated.”

“I know.”

Caroline frowned as she stepped closer to him. “What’s the problem?”

“I trained him.”

“What?”

“I trained Collins,” he replied. “He was recruited by Peter Stewart a few years after I was. I don’t think Six had a clue that they paid for his services, but he carried out missions for the Secret Intelligence Service, and the UK government all the same.”

Caroline shook her head incredulously. “But he joined the Australian army reserves, got into the SAS through the back door. He can’t have been working for SIS at the same time.”

“He wasn’t,” King replied. “We cut him loose after a job in Rwanda. He did the circuit both before and after his time with SIS.”

“Why did you cut him loose?”

King scoffed. “Because he was a raging, fucking psychopath! Stewart looked the other way time and time again. Because he was a bloody psychopath, too! But this one time, well, enough was enough. Collins had to go.”

“And you trained him?”

King shrugged. “Stewart recruited and trained him. I polished him, refined him.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Without a doubt,” King nodded. “The kind of overkill he displayed down in Cornwall, well, you don’t see that too often in this world. Collins enjoyed killing. He got off on it. We went into battle on operations, but he never wanted to leave. He put us all at risk once too often.” He paused. “And then when he went too far one day, well that was it.”

“What did he do?”

King shook his head. “I’m not going there,” he said. “But if Collins is being hired to oversee an operation, then you can bet it will be a dramatic affair.”

“So, Collins was fired?”

King scoffed. “Firing Collins wasn’t an option.”

Caroline nodded. “I never knew Stewart. Although, I will never forget meeting him in Lapland.” She paused. Stewart’s actions meant that they both stood there in front of the river, while he occupied a grave in a plot owned by MI5 and MI6 at a quiet village churchyard. “But he seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t think twice about putting someone down who got in his way or made life too awkward for him.”

King knew this all too well. Stewart had turned on King when his back had been against the wall. King had known since then that friends and loyalty meant very little in the murky world of intelligence. “That’s what happened,” said King. “But he sent me.”

“Oh,” Caroline said somewhat dejectedly. “Then what happened?”

King lifted his shirt, showing her the three neat little scars from three savage little bullets. She knew the scars well. She had traced her fingertip around them post coital, asking about them as she touched his damp skin but never getting an answer. And now she knew why. “Collins got the better of me,” said King. “Months later when Stewart discovered that he had fled to Australia and joined the military, he let the matter go. He was their problem, not ours.”

“Then what now?” Caroline shuddered as she was either touched by the bitter cold or something far less tangible. “He’s out there, planning something…”

“I’m going to kill him,” King replied. “He beat me not because I underestimated his skill, but his cunning. He taught me not to trust, and I won’t be caught out that easily again.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gorky Park, Moscow

Situated on the bank of the Moskva River, Gorky Park stands as a sprawling green oasis within the heart of Moscow, a place where the shadows of espionage and the whispers of clandestine meetings intertwine with history and modernity. Officially named the Gorky Central Park of Culture and Leisure, it has long been a hotspot for covert operatives and secret liaisons, offering an ideal cover with its diverse array of recreational activities, cultural events, and natural beauty. Established in 1928, Gorky Park was designed by the noted Soviet architect Konstantin Melnikov. Named after the famous Russian writer Maxim Gorky, it was intended to be a showcase of socialist leisure. The park’s creation was a significant departure from traditional park designs, emphasising organised recreation over mere relaxation. It featured amusement rides, sports facilities, and pavilions that hosted art exhibitions and cultural events, embodying the Soviet ideal of collective enjoyment. However, beneath its cheerful exterior, the park has always harboured secrets, serving as a backdrop for countless covert operations during the Cold War. During the Soviet era, Gorky Park became a symbol of modernity and progress, but also a venue for grand parades, concerts, and public gatherings, often used to mask the movements of spies and informants. In the post-Soviet period, while the park experienced neglect and decline, it continued to be a place where secrets were exchanged, and alliances forged in the shadows.

Nico Zukovsky thought the meeting place to be a cliché. He had once run an operation and his informant at the US embassy had used a series of park benches near the fun park for dead drops. Zukovsky’s men had arranged for a carpenter to chisel out the underside of the benches and insert magnetic wooden panels into which the US embassy worker placed NATO secrets in return for Gold Krugerrands. Yet however clichéd he thought the meeting place to be, Katerina Baskakov was a professional, highly regarded by the Kremlin and the FSB until her most recent operation had put a price on her head. The same operation that had cost Zukovsky his career and retirement security. If the former FSB officer had decided to use the famous park as their first meeting place, then she would have had good reason.

“Stop drinking, or it will take you…” Zukovsky turned and stared into the woman’s face. Cascading brunette hair with a tinge of red as it caught the cold winter sun, flawless porcelain skin and hazel eyes with the purest sclera he’d ever seen. Whiter than white, which defined the colour in absolute purity. “A drink is fine, but you are looking washed up. A hollow man.”

“Fuck you,” Zukovsky replied, quite unnerved by the silence in which she had approached him, as well as her cutting observation.

“Tasted the gun oil on the barrel of your Makarov yet?” Zukovsky did not reply. “Walk with me,” she told him.

Zukovsky found himself following her, catching her up and walking alongside. The park was cold. The river frozen, and a foot of snow on the grass, but the paths and walkways had been cleared. “What do you want?”

The woman smiled. “The British fucked our careers,” she said acidly. “You were lucky not to be incarcerated in a gulag or executed for losing The Eagle’s Talon.”

“I did not lose it! You gambled it away!”

“Wake up, Nico. You fucking lost it.” She stopped walking and stared at him; her stare intense, accentuated by the pure whiteness of her eyes. “I gambled, and you failed to protect it. But you are the lucky one. You have lost your career. I have a death sentence hovering over my head like the Sword of Damocles.”

Zukovsky smiled mirthlessly. “If I were to march you into the Kremlin now, then my life would get back on track.”

“Indeed, it would,” she agreed. She glanced down and smiled as the man followed her gaze. The muzzle of the pistol protruded just an inch from the sleeve of her heavy woollen coat. “Tokarev seven-point-six-two millimetre. You don’t want to chance a bullet from that, do you?”

The Tokarev had been the Soviet Union’s answer to the Colt .45. By simply cutting down a 7.62mm rifle cartridge the result was a powerful high-velocity bottle-necked round that like the .45, was eventually downgraded for practical reasons. Zukovsky could see that the woman’s grip was steady, and that he would be well advised not to attempt to disarm her. His own Makarov nestled in his pocket, but with gloved hands wasn’t going to come into play before she could empty her magazine into him. He cursed himself for being caught so unawares. “What do you want from me?” he asked with resignation in his voice.

“I read your report,” she said as she started to walk once more. “Operatsiya Orlinyy kogot’.” She paused, shaking her head. “The Eagle’s Talon. The operation I commanded using our newest and most important military development as bait,” she scoffed. “How foolish I was…”

Zukovsky shrugged. “It was an audacious plan,” he conceded. “Quite brilliant. But you had that chess genius feeding his own ego. And yours too, I imagine?”

Katerina knew that he was right, despite the chord his insinuation struck. Sokolov, the Russian chess grandmaster had predicted the British response to the information they had fed them. In many ways, the man had been quite accurate in his predictions. What the man couldn’t have predicted was the audacity, resolve and ruthlessness of their uptake. Even with a brigade of spetsnaz elite commandos at his disposal, Zukovsky’s security had been out-manoeuvred, and the British agents had left with the prize.

“Your report stated that one of the British saboteurs was gravely injured but nevertheless captured alive. This would have been a win for our propaganda machine. Hauled in front of the world’s media, this man would have provided proof that Britain carried out an illegal operation, and that they are in the habit of doing so. We have worked hard to influence the American political system, to garner empathy and even support where once we would only have had an enemy. This could have been pivotal in dividing America and Britain further. Their relationship is not so special these days.”

“They killed their own man,” Zukovsky said quietly. “He was ours. He was wounded but we could have saved him long enough to serve our purposes. I did not know… nothing I have been taught about the British… would have prepared me for what they did.” He paused, shaking his head at the memory. “We later found the sniper’s hide. Three-thousand, two-hundred metres and from ground level. Zero elevation.” There was something about his tone, a wobble, that surprised Baskakov. An emotion she would not have thought detectable in a man of such experience, such pedigree. Zukovsky was born into a military family and service, ruthlessness and determination was in his bones. His marrow. Perhaps it was the cold that had made the man shiver involuntarily. But she thought it far more than that. “A bullet the size of my thumb passed my ear by less than a centimetre. It killed the enemy soldier instantly. But I cannot help thinking that the bullet was meant to pass through my head first…”

Katerina Baskakov nodded. It was true. The British had a world-class sniper in their service. Maybe even the best man ever to look through a rifle scope. “I have put the wheels in motion,” she said. “I have searched the dark web for a sniper of pure genius ability. From our hacking programme several years ago, I have identified GCHQ activity surrounding my internet searches.” She paused. “The British cannot resist a challenge. It is in their DNA. Someone has tentatively made contact with me, but it’s perfect. Too perfect an opportunity to miss.”

“They’ve swallowed the bait?”

“So it would seem,” she replied. “So much so, that they had their man perform an assassination in Albania. This is not something the British usually do. They are invested in this, they want to know what we are doing, what we intend. Insofar, that they believe that our threat is real, a clear and present danger to their society. That means that they have swallowed the bait.”

“And where do I come in?”

“I need a man on the ground.”

“For what?”

“Because I believe that the only man who they will use in response will be the same man who stole our careers,” she replied confidently. “Had that enemy soldier lived, then perhaps we could have both salvaged something from the affair.” She shrugged. “The Eagle’s Talon was just a helicopter brought a few decades up to date. The operation was about propaganda, nothing more. Sokolov was right on that count.”

“And what will be required of me?”

“An assassination needs a target. And a target gives us a location. And the location of a target gives us the location of the sniper.” Baskakov paused, something in her detached coldness made Zukovsky shiver. This woman was dangerous. His father used to use an expression frequently when he did not fully trust somebody. It is better to have them inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in… Nico knew that he should not trust Katerina Baskakov, but he could not afford to ignore her either. “But it may not even need an assassination. I have asked for a demonstration, and with that we will have a location. And with the location of the sniper, we will have the means to kill him.”

Zukovsky looked at her incredulously. Could it really be that simple? They could determine the target and location, the time – everything needed to put the man where they wanted him. Killing the operative would not only strike a blow to their enemy but would show them that they were no longer untouchable. Zukovsky liked the idea of that. Perhaps Katerina Baskakov could be the one to bring down the enemy agents who had killed his brother and his father, who had left him disgraced and without intervention, just a few months from eviction from a small, grubby apartment in an impoverished part of the city. With this success, they would both get their lives back.

“Okay,” he said decisively. “Tell me what you want me to do…”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Duke’s Cut, Connecting the Oxford Canal with the River Thames

The scene was a serenity of frosty stillness. The Oxford Canal, the historic waterway meandering through the heart of England, had been transformed into a picture of wintry elegance. The temperature had dropped, and the surrounding fields were thick with frost. Fallow deer picked their way along the hedgerows and moorhens dipped in and out of the brittle reeds, thin patches of ice still holding on to the banks of the canal. There were no human footprints on the frosty towpath, but Collins could see that foxes and waterfowl had been busy exploring the opportunities for food, their tracks weaving wonderfully curved patterns in the frost.

The canal, which stretched from the bustling city of Oxford to the tranquil countryside of Warwickshire, had once been an artery for commerce and industry. Now, it was a tourist haven and a way of life for people who had opted out of conventional living. These barges and narrowboats were easy to spot, as away from the sterile design of holiday barges, the make-do and mend mentality had transformed many of these craft into unconventional floating gypsy caravans, with patched buckets, makeshift planters and recycled items repurposed for practicality, not ergonomic or artistic design. Like allotments, these vessels were a sight to behold, a demonstration in make-do-and-mend ingenuity. Untidy at best, more often eyesores.

The convoy of boats had been an unmitigated disaster. Setting off from Banbury with one or two men per boat, it had soon become evident that despite many of the men having boating experience, nothing prepared someone for the narrowness, or indeed, dimensions of a canal loch. Steering with a tiller instead of a wheel was one thing, but with fifty to seventy feet of boat between the tiller and the bow, and loch openings mere inches wider than the beam meant that the men had bounced and scraped their way through. With most lochs only capable of taking one vessel at a time, thankfully the convoy had spread out, but they had become noticed and, in many cases, scrutinised by walkers and other boaters alike. Collins had driven over, left the Landcruiser in a pub car park and taken the helm of one of the struggling men to lead by example. Only it had become a fiasco, and he had pushed ahead and got several locks between him and the next barge. He had been leading this shambles but he was now out in front and could distance himself from the rest of the vessels, and the idiots at the tiller. Many of these men were from land-locked nations through the Middle East and Asia Minor, and the first boats that they had seen were the rubber ones bringing them to Britain’s shores. They were not natural at the controls, even if the waterways were less than thirty-feet wide between the lochs. Certainly, there were not many places to turn a narrowboat or barge around, with limited widened turning points that allowed for a manoeuvre.

Collins checked his phone again. He could not imagine a scenario that Jan could not fight his way out of, especially against the British police who were almost always unarmed, but it was clear by now that his comrade had come unstuck. No word. Nothing. News of a helicopter crash and a shooting at Constantine Bay. Well, Collins could vouch for the shooting and the wonderful way in which he had sent the two fishermen to their graves. Closed caskets, of course. He smiled at the thought. There was something so wonderful in sharing a person’s death, of instigating it, of watching the life leave that person’s eyes. Not that he had the chance to witness that this time. He had emptied most of a magazine into their faces. The captain knowing what was about to happen to him after he had seen the grizzly death of his crewmate. But could the report have meant another shooting? Jan gunning down the investigation team. Perhaps that information had not been made public. Either way, the helicopter crash was a coincidence too many. Jan had run into trouble. Either he had been captured or wounded, or he had been killed. But the South African had failed to make contact, failed to meet Collins in London, so he would have no alternative but to write the man off. Take stock and move on. He would not continue to scour the newsfeeds on his phone or tune into news networks on the TV or radio. Jan was a good soldier, but if he was gone, then he was gone. Collins had made the decision to move on without him.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The New Forest, Hampshire

Rashid had partaken in survival training in the area. Still a teenager with a teenager’s aspirations despite the British Army’s best efforts to knock all of that out of him. He had been taught how to light fires, build shelter and forage for food. He remembered catching an adder and the directing staff swapping it for a dead chicken with the feathers still on because of the snake’s protected status. His group had made a mess of plucking it and they had spat out tiny feather quills and eaten undercooked drumsticks over a smoking fire. The smoke had remained with them for days despite several showers at the end of the training exercise. He had smiled at the memory. Simpler days. Another lifetime ago. He found himself thinking of his mother, his phone switched off and handed over to Caroline, he was contactless and the feeling of not knowing whether she was alive or dead ached in the pit of his stomach. He should have been there for his father and sister, and the thought that he had left the house almost relieved that he would not watch his mother die felt like an extra shovelful of guilt heaped onto his shoulders. There was, he decided, no playbook for death and how you dealt with it. No right or wrong, although others would always decide and judge for themselves.

The firebreak had been cut through the forest a full hundred metres wide and even with the undulating ground Rashid could see that he had a full three-thousand metres to play with. He had set up targets at various distances and had noted those distances down in a tiny pocketbook. At first light, deer had stepped cautiously between the rotting tree stumps, their muzzles raised as they sniffed the air. When they stepped back into the forest, the creatures disappeared with an eerie efficiency. Rashid watched them as he spread out his mat and affixed the bipod to the rifle. He had chosen the .338 Lapua Magnum barrel and set the box of ammunition beside the rifle. The sights would need re-zeroing with each removable barrel, so it was vital that he took notes and recorded the settings in his pocketbook. The first target was two-hundred metres distant, and he always zeroed his long-distance rifles at two-hundred metres as a starting point. He did this with a method called bore-sighting. By simply removing the bolt and looking through the rifle barrel, he could see the target. Once completely centred, he adjusted the crosshairs to mark the centre of the target, then check that what he saw through the bore reflected what the crosshairs centred on. At one-hundred metres, he had tied a strip of material to a branch to gauge the wind strength and direction. He had tied two larger strips at one-thousand and two-thousand metres, and on each white cardboard target he had drawn a black cross thirty centimetres by thirty. There were three identical targets at each distance stop, so that he could study the trajectory performance, and behind each sheet of white cardboard a sheet of one-centimetre steel would allow him to draw conclusions as to each calibre’s ballistic performance, too.

Rashid settled down for the first shot, which he sent into a pile of cut wood on the edge of the clearing. He wasn’t bothered about a cold bore shot – he’d never put much stock in that and thought it an old timer’s tale – but a surplus of oil in a barrel created a rise in the bullet, so he always tried to dry the barrel with a wad of cloth then simply burn it up with a shot before attempting to zero the sights. He worked the bolt and chambered another round. As predicted, using the bore-sighting method put the bullet dead centre at two-hundred metres. He fired several more, to ascertain whether the rifle was firing an acceptable grouping, which it was to MOA – or minute of angle – of less than half an inch. The rifle was a supreme piece of engineering and satisfied that he could have done no better than The Man’s choice of weapon, he settled in for the task ahead, which was as much about steadying his adrenalin, controlling his breathing and entering a mediative state where nothing in life mattered apart from the target.

* * *

Four hundred metres away Jack Luger lay prone surveying Rashid through a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars as he started zeroing the rifle. He had followed Rashid from London using both the tracker on his car and the chip below the surface of the skin under the man’s armpit, and once he had turned off the road and followed a track, Luger had checked the interactive map on his laptop and launched a drone. The drone was a lightweight, micro model equipped with a high-resolution camera and from it he could see if anyone else was following his colleague while maintaining a safe distance to avoid being seen. Satisfied that they were alone in the forest, at least in the thousand-acre segment between common and farmland, Luger had docked the drone and set out on foot so that he could get close enough to Rashid to observe and potentially protect him from anyone from nosey dogwalkers and ramblers, to the very people Rashid was attempting to infiltrate.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Canary Wharf, London

The Genus Financial Institute had offices in Beijing, Toronto, New York and Sidney. However, the suite of offices on the forty-seventh floor of One Canada Square, the second tallest building in the United Kingdom at a dizzying height of seven-hundred and seventy-one feet, was the company’s flagship office, and where the decisions of the actuaries within could cause ripples around the world financial markets. But ripples were not good enough for Tarik Kamal. He wanted waves. No. Not waves. He wanted tsunamis.

Kamal had made a name for himself as a man with vision. He had made his clients millions, put billions through his company and become an anomaly in that he was an actuary with a client waiting list. But clients did not last long. Investors knew that his USP was hit and run, in and out investments. If Genus Financial brought up your shares, then you knew that your company was in for a ride. And the ride went both ways. To the top or to the bottom, with little stability in between. An article in the Financial Times had said, Tarik Kamal is comparable to a bold gambler making last-ditch spread bets on a roulette table. It’s way past midnight, high on cocaine or emboldened by drink the bets are placed with a cheering crowd inflating the ego. The winnings are high. The trick now, is to walk away having taken the casino to the bank… The journalist had been successfully sued, as was the newspaper, and support for Genus Financial grew exponentially. Secretly, Tarik Kamal had liked the image that the article had painted of him. A cool individual, already so unrelatable that people could only view him as a caricature of himself. High on cocaine or emboldened by drink… as if no man could take such chances or have such a run of luck merely by skill or knowledge or education. Kamal had won his court costs, and the publication had settled for five-million pounds.

What the Financial Times did not know was that Tarik Kamal did hedge his bets. When an investor bought stock, they became a shareholder and owned a piece of that company. Stocks are traded on stock exchanges, and their prices fluctuate based on supply and demand, company performance, and broader economic factors. This is where Kamal levered his investments. There are two main types of stocks –common and preferred. Common stocks gave their shareholders voting rights and potential dividends, but they come with higher risk. Preferred stocks offer fixed dividends and have priority over common stocks in the event of a company’s liquidation, but they typically do not come with voting rights. The stock market indices like the FT100, S&P 500, Dow Jones Industrial Average, and NASDAQ Composite tracked the performance of a group of stocks, providing a snapshot of the overall market. These indices are useful for investors to gauge market trends and compare the performance of their investments. The key to successful investment was diversification, and that involved spreading your investments across various asset classes, industries, and geographic regions to reduce risk. By not putting all your eggs in one basket, you could mitigate the impact of poor performance in any single investment. Tarik Kamal had guided countless investors through the process of wealth management, and he had been paid handsomely in commissions. He had invested his own money in the markets for ten years, too. However, it wasn’t until the Russian invasion of Ukraine that he realised how easily manipulated stocks could be if a person could stay ahead of the curve. One of his investment clients had it on good authority that Russia would invade, when the world seemed to think Russia was merely demonstrating aggression. Tarik Kamal had borrowed shares of over a hundred Ukrainian-owned companies, or companies with heavy Ukrainian investment from a dozen brokers, then sold them on the open market. Three days later, Russia crossed the border and the bombing, aerial and ground war began. The stocks fell like a stone, and Genus Financial purchased more stock in the companies, making a fortune on paper. Eighteen months later, with Ukraine still holding firm after Russia said they would win in three days, those stocks had climbed back to almost pre-war levels, because most people had not realised just how much the world relied on Ukrainian agriculture and minerals. When Genus Financial steadily sold off those same shares, the company had made hundreds of millions for their investors. Shorting stock was illegal, but it was a difficult thing to prove if it was done right. This had got Kamal and his backers thinking just how easy money could be made if they knew what would happen next. But nobody knew that. Tips like his Russian oligarch would only come once in a lifetime. What if they could make the future happen? Topple a regime? Fake an assassination attempt at a political rally? Get a president elected? Align that president with historic enemies to shake the world order? It was possible to manipulate anything and everything with enough money and influence.

Tarik Kamal liked his view. He could see for miles on a clear day, and he enjoyed looking down on people scurrying around on the ground like desperate ants programmed only to work and to serve. He doubted that a single one of them would earn more in a year than he could make before lunch. But that was the way of it all. Life was a puzzle that too few worked out, and only then at the very end. His office made him feel God-like. All powerful. The truth was, he did not need his company or work for the money it gave him. He needed it for the power. He had manipulated elections in Germany and Italy, and had made a fortune from his actions, but not enough. This would be different. This would be in the heart of London, and he could see four of the intended targets from his desk. The Saudi had put up the money and the manpower, and Kamal’s Russian government contact had provided the name of a mercenary who could oversee the operation. The mercenary was an experienced soldier and had worked with the Wagner Group and Blackwater. They had been told that the man was as good as it gets. Tarik Kamal had followed a lead to Ireland with the Saudi, but he was glad to be back in his ivory tower. Part of the untouchable elite. Collins had assured him that they had run into problems off-loading the smuggled weapons but were still on track. Kamal had experienced the thrill of being part of the operation but would remain where he was now. Others could risk their lives to make him rich and powerful. That was what they were for.

Chapter Forty

Dublin, Ireland

King had travelled on a fake passport in the name of an assassin he had killed last year. He had access to the man’s bank account with one-hundred-thousand pounds sitting in it at three per cent interest. He had used this account, and other paperwork to procure a passport in the man’s name. It had been a project, something for a rainy day to have another identity if he needed it. One that not even Caroline –and certainly not Ramsay –knew about. He had hired a car at the airport and used the debit card and passport at the desk.

“Thank you, Mr Duggan,” the woman at the desk smiled as she handed him the key; the paperwork completed. She told him where to find the vehicle and looked over King’s shoulder at the next customer in the queue.

King reached the car park when his phone rang.

“King, it’s DI Grant…”

“Am I under arrest?” King joked, but like most jokes it could have been so close to the truth.

“You probably should be, but you’re fine with me. You clearly have friends in high places, so you can rest easy. The Chief Constable isn’t pleased, but from my experience working down here, they like the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed, and don’t like gunfire on their patch – no matter which side is pulling the trigger.” He paused, and King could tell that the man had experience being the wrong side of the fence when it came to his career. “We’ve got the third fisherman. He took a bullet in the back as he leapt over the side. Polish guy named Samuel Kowalski. That sort of helps, what with waiting for the other body’s DNA sample to come back. The captain was identifiable by his tattoos. Without a face or teeth, it was unclear who the other body on the boat belonged to. Anyway, Kowalski used to be in the Polish army and was an army reservist back home.”

“Well, maybe that sharpened him up a bit,” King replied. “He most likely moved fast and leapt clear because of his training.”

“He was found on the rocks off Treyarnon, which is the next beach over from Constantine Bay. There’s a sea pool in the jagged rocks, and he was found washed into a rocky crag beside this. He’s in a bad way and has lost a great deal of blood and is being treated for hyperthermia.” DI Grant paused. “However, he managed to tell the constable who attended the shout that the men who did the killing are targeting London. The men were talking openly as they unloaded the crates. The captain and the other deckhand were both Irish, so they may or may not have cared, but Kowalski harbours no ill will towards anybody. He has family in London, friends he has made who are still living there and he only moved to Ireland so he could remain in the European Union with his Polish passport post-Brexit. His girlfriend is from Surrey and lives, or lived, with him in Southern Ireland. After the men had bragged about attacking London, he said that things became tense and uneasy, and that’s when one of the men, a South African he believes, went psycho on them.”

Close enough, thought King. Collins was from Zimbabwe and spent some time in neighbouring South Africa. “How did Kowalski get away?” King asked.

“He said that he swum like hell. Under the water mainly. The dawn half-light, the waves and choppy surface, and luck… all helped. He remembers feeling like he was about to pass out, and the next thing he knows he’s being given CPR by paramedics, and the police officer who attended the shout. Some local surfers who were all gathered around him had covered him with towels which went a long way to saving the man’s life.”

“When was this?” King asked, trying to get a timeline from killing the gunman to DI Grant giving him the news.

“I reckon he was out for seven or eight hours. Another hour receiving first aid and getting to the hospital in Truro, a couple of hours in theatre having the gunshot wound stitched and being treated for hypothermia. To be honest, I don’t know how the guy made it. The sea is presently around thirteen-degrees-centigrade, and the air-temperature is hovering below ten. One of the surfers was a lifeguard and reckoned that being sheltered from the wind-chill in the rocky crevice, and with seaweed partially covering him saved his life.”

“Can you find out anything else?”

“Undoubtedly,” Grant replied. “But hyperthermia is difficult to treat, and we’re not allowed near him until he’s in the clear. I’ll go personally and get what I can, when I can.”

“Thanks,” said King. He liked the detective. Thought him to be a straight shooter. “I won’t chase. Just call me when you’ve got something.” King ended the call and found his car in the bay. He always chose a large car if he could. A full-size saloon or an SUV. He had chosen the BMW 5 Series because the model had a sizeable fuel tank, a good turn of speed and a large boot. Stopping off at a large garden centre, lifestyle and DIY store he bought some rope, a pick and shovel, some plastic sheeting, a pair of wellington boots and gloves, then at a filling station he bought a detailed map with grid references.

There was a layer of frost covering the ground like a freshly laundered cotton sheet, that was showing little signs of clearing as it reached midday, and the sky was blue with high scudding white clouds. It was the first time that King had been on the island of Ireland without grey skies, rain or sleet, and as he drove northwest the skies looked equally clear. King found that weather could lift his spirits and bolster his mood, despite what he was here to do.

He paused for lunch at what he thought to be a traditional Irish village pub. Like most of the pubs in Ireland the establishment featured wooden floors and historical photos on the walls, along with images of local patrons enjoying ‘the craic’. There were horse brasses and agricultural curiosities bolted in place, and the tables had a sticky feel to them that no amount of cleaner or elbow grease seemed to be able to remove. The barmaid was in her forties and friendly. Friendly enough to look King up and down and not hide the fact that she liked what she saw. He ordered a pint of Guinness for the hell of it, and picked the most traditional Irish dish that he could see on the chalkboard menu, which was Irish stew. Stew was the sort of food many people hankered for because it reminded them of childhood and times of family and simplicity. Some yearned for the taste of their childhood, but King and his siblings had eaten out of bins for some of their childhood, and he stole something most days to feed them all, so perhaps he just wanted the wholesome taste of something he had missed out on entirely.

“What’s that?” he asked when the barmaid placed the plate in front of him. “I ordered the Irish stew.”

“Oh, that is, my lovely… that’s our award-winning Irish stew, so it its…” she replied, her high-pitched southern drawl spoken about as fast as the English language could be. King stared at the pile of lamb, the glossy carrots and slices of potato and frowned. “Ah, trust me, it’s wonderful. You’ve got twenty-four hour braised lamb shank poached sous vid, honey and coriander glazed carrots, fondant potato and caramelised onions.” She pointed to a pile of something that looked like gnocchi. “And chef’s wee little steamed dumplings.”

“What’s that?” King asked, pointing the tip of his knife at a pile of perfectly round beige orbs.

“Pearl barley cooked in chicken stock with white truffle,” she beamed. “That’s what makes a real Irish stew.”

“Truffles?” King asked incredulously.

“No, silly!” she laughed, touching King on the shoulder. “That’s just a chef thing, no, pearl barley makes an Irish stew.”

“Why is it so round?”

“Ah, that’s molecular gastronomy,” she replied. “Chef starts with a chilled bath of calcium chloride,” she told him, appearing to be well-practised in her delivery. “He then stews the pearl barely with onions and purees the mixture, then mixes in sodium alginate in the blender then passes it through a sieve into the ice-cold calcium chloride bath, then transfers the spheres into iced water to remove any chloride. It takes him hours, so it does. You’re left with those wonderfully round balls of pearl barley with a crazy soft texture like…”

“Stewed pearl barley?” King proffered.

“Ah, I see what yer did there!” she laughed.

“What do they taste like?”

“Pearl barley of course,” she replied matter-of-factly, and without any hint of irony. King stared at the plate, then removed the two rectangles of soda bread and picked up the jug of gravy. “Bone marrow jus…” she told him. King nodded, then tipped the gravy over everything and mixed it all up with his fork. “Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph that’s not how yer supposed to do it!” She paused, tilting her head to one side and regarding him as if he was out of his comfort zone with something as complicated as lunch. “It’s deconstructed cuisine…”

“It’s a bloody stew,” he replied without looking up at her. “And I’ve just reconstructed it.” He took a mouthful and chewed slowly. When he looked up, the woman was back at the bar talking to a young man in chef whites who tried to remain out of sight behind the doorway to the kitchen. He could hear them laughing and guessed he was being judged for not ‘getting’ the concept. The only thing King regretted was being so careless as to become so memorable in a quiet village. The stew tasted like stew, and King would have loved to have told the chef that he could have saved himself time, and the business a lot of money if he had just tossed the ingredients into a deep saucepan and cooked it slowly for four hours. He would have liked to have seen the look on the chef’s face, but he had made himself memorable enough.

King ate the stew, drank the Guinness and slipped out without a word leaving a ten per cent tip. Non-tippers and large tippers were also remembered, but nobody remembered the generosity of someone tipping a perfectly acceptable ten per cent. Hospitality was a fickle industry. He travelled the thirty miles to Ballykeeran, County Westmeath and parked up on the verge overlooking a small lake that was one of many small bodies of water that joined Lough Ree, one of three major lakes on the River Shannon, a mecca for trout and coarse fishermen, and lovers of fine whiskey from one of the many distilleries on its banks.

It was a little under twenty-years since King had last been here. A lot of water under the bridge since then, not to mention a few grey hairs and many lost comrades since he had kept watch with Stewart in the dead of night, while Richard Collins had dug the hole. King remembered watching the man toil with both shovel and soil, pleased with himself that Stewart had held him back, given the new recruit the thankless task of manual labour. King had remembered being buoyed with pride, especially as his first mission with MI6 had ended badly. King had been pulled back and partnered up with Stewart and had felt like he had lost the man’s respect. By simply watching another man dig, he had silently climbed back up the unofficial ranks and once more into the inner sanctum.

King had the coordinates in his head, but he wouldn’t need them. The old oak tree was still standing proud and firm in the corner of the field, fifty metres beyond which the tiny lake shimmered in the rare winter sunshine. Lough Ree had several branch lakes which filled when the lough was overcome by heavy rains, and these branch lakes could all but dry up in the summer months. He parked the BMW on the verge and stepped out, surveying the fields in all directions. There was a tractor driving down the hedgerow of a large field some six or seven hundred metres away, and two fly fishermen were standing in the small lake wearing full chest waders and casting in unison. King could hear their voices carry, but they were at least a quarter of a mile distant and if King could hear their voices carried on the wind, then the sound of him digging wouldn’t be likely to reach them. He had always thought of fly fishing as a summer pastime, the air thick with midges or dragonflies and the fishermen replicating the swarms with their handtied flies. The two fishermen appeared to be enjoying themselves and evidently possessed more knowledge about fly fishing than King.

After retrieving the pick and shovel he walked down the hedgerow with all the care of a poacher. He had donned the wellington boots and gloves, as he remembered the soil being largely peat and that had a way of sticking to everything like a snowball rolled downhill. A clod of the stuff on your boots would soon weigh several pounds. He found the spot easily enough, using the distant church spire and the far bank of the lake for reference. It had rained here last time, like every time before. His memories of working in the Republic of Ireland and Ulster were dark. Death and subterfuge, with a backdrop of grey skies casting monochrome on the landscape, the air filled with rain, wind and sleet. Today would be no less deadly, but the weather had lifted his mood and made him appreciate the country for its beauty.

Once beside the oak tree, King could not see the fishermen, and nor could he see his car. He was close to the hedge and confident that he would not be seen from the road. He swung the pick several times to loosen the earth, then cut out a section with the shovel, alternating between loosening the ground and digging a rectangular hole. After a few minutes, the pick hit the metal ammunition box and he carefully excavated with the blade of the shovel, until he had cleared the earth away from the lid. He tossed the shovel aside, then spread out the plastic sheeting to protect the knees of his cargoes and knelt beside the hole. He remembered packing the Beretta 9mm pistol and Sterling sub-machinegun in oil-soaked cloth and wrapping them both in newspaper, before tossing in some silicone pads, along with the two boxes of 9mm full metal jacketed ammunition. Wrapping the weapons in paper rather than plastic would stop them sweating in warmer weather, and the silicone pads would keep the moisture levels down. He remembered arguing that they should padlock the box, but Stewart had insisted that being buried was all the security they needed, and a padlock may well slow them down in desperate times.

King caught hold of the lid of the container, a thin smile pursed on his lips as he thought about Collins being told to dig while both Stewart and King watched. It was such a minor point, but it had meant everything to King. Later, when Collins had gone truly off the rails, being sent to kill the man had confirmed that he had Peter Stewart’s complete trust. But then it had all changed. King had taken three bullets and Collins had escaped. Higher echelons withing MI6 had voiced that King had engineered it so, and he had spent many years out in the cold, operating alone in the most inhospitable geographical and sociopolitical environments, never quite sure if he had his mentor’s trust again. Of course, the accusations were ridiculous. Nobody took a bullet to the torso on purpose, let alone three. However, in the twisted world of intelligence and subterfuge, mud always had the habit of sticking when it was thrown.

King gripped the lid and lifted, then froze. Collins was a rat. No, a snake. He served his own agenda, and he killed because he enjoyed it, not because he realised that the unfortunate action of killing was merely part of an elaborate, though necessary equation. The shiver that ran up King’s spine was as cold as ice. His fingers remained clamped to the lid, but he lay down in the mud, ignoring the plastic sheeting as he hesitantly removed his right hand, reached for his pocket and took out the Leatherman multi-tool. Essentially a Swiss Army knife on steroids, the Leatherman folded out to reveal a pair of pliers and integrated wire cutters, a razor-edged blade and an assortment of screwdrivers and tools. King had recently made a vow that if he could not tackle a DIY task that required more than his Leatherman and a hammer, then he would call in a tradesman.

King opened the blade awkwardly with one hand, then slipped it into the lid and twisted the tool so he could peer inside. His heart, beating quickly, started to hammer when he saw the wire hanging from the underside of the lid on the internal riveted plate that held the external fold-down handle. He jemmied the blade around the wire, untwisting it until it dropped freely. He then eased the lid upwards, catching sight of the grenade that had been wedged in place. As the lid opened further and daylight flooded inside, he could see that the grenade was linked to another by a length of wire, and both were in fact nestled between small rocks. King’s heart rate started to subside as he breathed a long sigh. “Collins, you’re a filthy bastard…” he said quietly. The pistol, sub-machinegun and ammunition were no longer there, but Collins had tipped a packet of sharp decking screws on top of the rocks for good measure. King snipped the wire with the cutter and wrapped it around the spoon of the nearest grenade, securely fixing it in place. He repeated the process with the other grenade, then carefully lifted the pair out of the box. Collins had pulled the pin on both pieces of ordnance and cunningly attached the spoon of the second grenade to the first. King didn’t know why he was surprised – Collins had received the same training as himself – and he had fallen foul to the man before. There were any number of reasons why Collins would have gone back to the cache. A pistol could be sold for as much as two-thousand pounds on the streets, and a machinegun could reach five figures. 9mm bullets could go for ten-pounds each if today’s crime reports were accurate. Collins might even have fulfilled a contract using the weapons. However, that did not explain the vindictiveness of boobytrapping the empty box. Or it did? Collins was a piece of work. A rat or a snake, it didn’t matter which. King would not rest until he fulfilled the task given to him by Stewart all those years ago. To put a bullet between the man’s eyes.

Chapter Forty-One

Gatwick Airport, London

Nico Zukovsky had taken a devious route from Moscow, flying to Bucharest and then from Bucharest to Turkey on a fake passport. From Turkey he had flown to Madrid and then to Gatwick. He had chosen countries still accepting Russians with the travel restrictions in place as part of Ukraine sanctions, then switched to a fake Estonian passport in Turkey. Once in Spain, he had been able to travel through EU channels and was lost amongst the tourists returning from Spain for some much-needed winter sun.

Zukovsky was to meet a contact at arrivals. The name the man was holding up on a sheet of white card matched his Estonian passport. Andres Krull. Zukovsky regarded the man hesitantly, and the man turned around and led the way without a word. Zukovsky noted that the man had a severe limp. A recent wound, because he looked in pain as he moved. Inside the car, which to Zukovsky’s annoyance the man had parked in a no-waiting zone, he took the front seat while the man got behind the wheel of the ten-year-old Mercedes E350 saloon.

“That was reckless parking in the restricted zone,” Zukovsky said sharply.

“Which shows I have nothing to hide,” the man replied. Zukovsky thought the man’s accent to be Bulgarian or Romanian. He didn’t care which, because he despised both equally. His father had always called the Bulgarians whores. They worked for money, not ideals and they were prepared to do anything for that money. The Arab states had a similar regard and use for the Palestinians and tended to use them for cheap labour or the metaphorical cannon fodder in conflicts and terrorist attacks. “The secret to surviving deep cover is never to be too clean, too perfect.” He paused. “I have a lot of experience working undercover, it’s all I’ve done for twenty-years.”

“I know a thing or two about deep cover as well,” Zukovsky replied, although if what the man had said was true, he could only learn from him. “What do they call you?”

“I am Jenko,” the man replied.

“No first name?”

“Not that you’d want to use,” he replied. “In certain circles, I am known as The Blade…”

Zukovsky bristled. He had heard of The Blade. Jenko The Blade was a legendary freelance hitman used by the FSB and Russian mafia alike. A butcher. No, a surgeon. He could find the arteries, the organs, the lungs… just a slash or a stab and the victim was done for.

“What happened to your leg?” Zukovsky asked as Jenko pulled out into the traffic. The car was powerful and smooth and dealt with the speedbumps comfortably. “Will it affect your performance?”

“No. It will not,” Jenko replied tersely. “And I was shot. By one of the bastards that we are here to kill.”

“Who?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know his name, but he is tough and resourceful and has the coldest eyes imaginable.”

“I know the man,” Zukovsky replied. And he did. Or at least he knew of him. Knew that the man killed his brother on an operation in Britain, and suspected that he had killed his father on an operation in Russia. A huge question mark still hung over Vladamir Zukovsky’s loyalty to the motherland. He had been acting for Russia, but when the political landscape switched overnight, his father had been seen as a traitor. When policy changed again, he had been viewed as a maverick or a dissident, depending on which side of the fence the old men in the Kremlin sat, but at least a trailblazing general taking matters into his own hands was better than a traitor. “I want to get to him, too.”

Jenko shrugged as he left the slip road and joined the dual carriageway. “Our orders are to kill the sniper,” he said. “We set the target, and he takes the bait.” He paused. “Then, we kill him, and you and Katerina Baskakov get some payback for your shit-show.”

“And what do you get?”

“Money,” Jenko replied matter-of-factly. “That’s all I ever want from this game.”

“You don’t want anything more substantial than that?”

“Like what? What could be more substantial than a briefcase full of paper money?”

“Like getting even with the man who gave you that limp?”

“That’s not the mission.”

Zukovsky shrugged. “Call it mission creep,” he replied. “Every war starts off with one intention, one objective and ends with ten things the generals did not bargain for. Our Soviet forebears and the Americans in Afghanistan, the Russian Federation’s time in Ukraine… the landscape of war changes from the moment of the first gunshot.”

“We are not at war.”

“Oh, we are Jenko. Very much so.” He paused. “Do you have a gun?”

“No,” he replied. “I have some knives. I prefer knives.”

“Do you have a gun for me?”

He nodded towards the glovebox. “In there…” Zukovsky opened the glovebox. Jenko had procured him a Walther P88, 9mm. Zukovsky had not used one before, but he knew that it held fifteen rounds and was a double action semi-automatic. A good, reliable weapon that ran its course in the early nineties because of the advent of modern materials, not because of reliability or accuracy issues. He checked the breech and magazine, then tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. “The envelope is for you, too,” said Jenko. Zukovsky opened it and found a wad of twenty-pound notes. Operating capital. “If you need more, then ask me and I’ll make it happen.”

“I think the man who shot you also killed my brother and father,” Zukovsky said. “I have dreamed of having my vengeance upon this bastard of a whore.”

“Our orders are to kill the sniper,” Jenko said tersely. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Zukovsky shrugged. “If we capture the sniper, the chances are they will send the man with the cold eyes, the man who has wronged us both.” He paused. “Two birds with one bullet.”

“Stone,” Jenko corrected him. “The English saying is two birds with one stone.”

Zukovsky smiled as he tapped his left side, and the Walther underneath his coat. “But I am not armed with a stone…”

Chapter Forty-Two

County Mayo, Republic of Ireland

King didn’t have a gun. But when life gave you lemons, you made lemonade. King had never made lemonade in his life, but he had two hand grenades. He had fashioned his own safety pins with loop handles from two short lengths of wire to keep the spring-loaded spoons from releasing and had one nestled in each of his jacket pockets as he watched Andrea O’Shea leave the nursery and get into her old Vauxhall Corsa. He found it strange that a woman who still had links with terrorism, and who would love to force agenda, would work with pre-school children as a nursery manager. It did not seem fitting for someone with such extreme views, who would willingly court violence. In essence, with her family links, the woman was IRA royalty, although he did not suppose the Fenians would be happy with that term.

GCHQ’s information made it easy for King to find O’Shea’s place of work, and he followed her from a distance and did not use his indicators in case it made him noticeable in her mirrors. He always kept her in sight, which was difficult on the country roads – little more than tarmacked lanes barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two – and when she eventually stopped at a secluded country pub called The Harp, he drove on past looking straight ahead as she got out of her vehicle and stared at him. King resisted the urge to look at her. After a hundred metres, he performed a U-turn and drove back to the pub, parking in the rear car park. He waited a full ten minutes behind the wheel, then got out and walked to the rear entrance. Tall stacks of empty beer crates were stacked high either side of the door, and cigarette butts were scattered all around the ground. He looked about himself, then pulled one of the grenades out of his pocket and pulled the pin. King removed an empty beer bottle from one of the return crates, then carefully replaced the space with the grenade. The spring-loaded spoon eased out a touch before being restrained by the edge of the square compartment, but not enough to worry him.

King backed away and walked around to the front of the pub. There was a tourist information shelf in the open foyer with faded and peeling information booklets and flyers poking out messily. Evidently, not many tourists came here looking for something to do. King removed the pin and slipped the second grenade behind some of the flyers wedging it in place between the unit and the stone wall, then he opened the door and was greeted by the kind of smells that came with a drinking den rather than a gastro-pub. Spilled beer, tobacco and cigarette smoke, which despite the no-smoking ban, clung firmly to the patrons and soft furnishings alike. The place smelled musty, unventilated, and there was the distinct smell of old cooking oil that seemed to go hand in hand with establishments that provided a limited menu.

The landlord stared at him from behind the bar, then asked quite amiably in his southern lilt, “What can I get yer, fella...?”

“A pint of Guinness please,” King replied. He had a tough, somewhat gravelly timbre to his voice, and despite for the most part sounding neutrally English, still had traces of his south London upbringing. It was more than enough to sound out of place here. He dropped a ten-euro note on the counter and watched the man pour. In his periphery, he could see Andrea O’Shea watching him, and he turned and said, “Alright, luv…?”

“Fine,” she replied, visibly flustered. She had been aware that she was being followed and that had been the point. Subtle, but visible. Not blatantly obvious. Not until he had slowed down outside the pub and stared stoically ahead. He had looked so staunchly ahead, unwavering. He had looked like he was trying not to look at her.

King waited silently. Guinness always took an age to pour when done right, and the landlord did things right. When the stout had settled, the landlord topped it and placed it in front of King, the opaque cloud gradually settling to black. King took the pint and his change in coins and made his way over to a booth. There were three other patrons and a dog. The dog was a whippet, both skinny and mangy, but it looked more intelligent than the other three, who nursed their drinks with such auspices that they clearly did not have the money for many more and needed to savour the moment.

King watched Andrea O’Shea as she sipped a Bacardi and coke at the bar, spoke infrequently with the landlord, but almost constantly checked her phone. King studied his surroundings, sipped his drink and was surprised that it had taken a full twenty minutes. But he knew that the man was with O’Shea the moment he came through the door. He looked around the saloon, discounted the three men and the whippet, stared momentarily at King, then made his way to the bar and stood beside O’Shea. King knew it was on when the young man ignored the landlord when he asked what he wanted to drink. King put the man somewhere around his mid-twenties. He was thin and looked physically fit, suffered from poor skin through a poor diet and couldn’t have paid more than five-euros for his haircut. In fact, King decided that his mother did it for free. He watched the pair, noting that the woman was cool, calm and collected. The young man was agitated. King recognised him as the one to watch in a group. The one who would sucker punch someone or stab you in the back. He appeared weaselly to King, and he had grown up around plenty like him. A volcano waiting to erupt.

O’Shea slid off her barstool and the pair walked over and sat down at King’s table.

“Is this the Irish hospitality I’ve heard so much about?” King asked, then took a sip of his Guinness.

“Nothing fecking like it…” the man whispered menacingly. He looked around him, but the three men and the whippet weren’t bothered. Then he allowed his tracksuit jacket to fall open, exposing the butt of the Browning 9mm. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you.”

“The gun is still in your pants,” King smirked. “You’ve got to get it out before I smash my pint glass in your eyes, sonny.”

“Want to see how fast I can draw?”

“Calm down, Tex,” King smirked and looked at O’Shea and said, “So, with a bloke this dumb, armed and almost dangerous, I bet it’s safe to say that you’re the brains of the outfit.”

“Hey!” the man protested. “Almost dangerous? How about I show you how fecking dangerous I can be?”

O’Shea placed her hand over his right hand and whispered, “Calm down, Keithy Boy. There’ll be time enough.”

“I thought so,” said King. “So, Andrea O’Shea…”

She frowned. “How do you know my name?” she tried to act casual, but her tone belied her feelings. “I knew it. You’re Sass. That or the intelligence services,” she said, looking King up and down. “You’re certainly not a cop.”

“What the feck is this?” Keith Doherty growled, his hand slowly reaching for the pistol. His fingers wrapped around the butt, but he resisted drawing it from his waistband.

“Ah, like a child and their security blanket,” King smirked. “Does that feel good, Keithy Boy?”

“Don’t!” Andrea hissed at her cousin. She stared at King and said, “We’ll do this somewhere quiet. Something’s not right about you.”

King smiled. “Full circle,” he said.

“What?”

“Well, perhaps not quite full circle, but at least it’s sort of like closing something down. Snipping the loose ends.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I met your uncle,” said King. “We… bumped into each other in France.”

“I fucking knew it,” she said quietly. “You killed him?”

“Yes,” King lied. He would have. That was the job he had been sent to do. Only a corrupt MI6 officer had got there first. There had been a great deal of money involved, and money did the strangest thing to people. It corrupted them. It was never a matter of if or when, just how much.

“Enough of this shit, cuz!” Doherty hissed. He looked at one of the men nursing his whiskey, and the man just looked away. “Hey, Seamus! Get everyone another drink on my tab.”

“You haven’t paid your fecking tab, Keith my boy!” the landlord replied jovially.

“Well, I fecking well will!”

“I want to know a few things,” said King.

“You’re not in a position to request anything,” Andrea O’Shea said acidly.

“Well, you joined me at my table. You came to me.”

“To fecking well killer yer!” Keith snapped.

“But you’re buying me a drink.”

“I’m not buying you shit!”

“You ordered a round for everyone,” said King.

“Not you!”

King smiled. “Well, the landlord doesn’t seem to think so. He’s pouring a pint when everybody else is on shorts. Except you,” he said to O’Shea. “Something lightweight to go with the coke. White rum? You look like a Bacardi and coke kind of girl. Perhaps Malibu, even. Cheap, crass and with no imagination.”

“You get that from a drinks order?”

“No, I suppose not,” King replied. “Just by looking at you, really. You still drink what was available to you in your early teens, and you never progressed to wines at ten-euros a glass like most women of your age.”

“What happened to my uncle?” she asked, ignoring his attempts to unsettle her.

King shrugged. “No, luv. You can rub mine first.”

“Filthy fucker…”

King frowned. “Your mind’s in the gutter, luv. Just like it was in your early teens, I guess. I meant my back.” He paused, enjoying her blush. “You sold mortars. I want to know to whom.”

“How do you know that?” she baulked, grateful for the distraction as the landlord brought over the drinks. King smiled as the man put down another Guinness for him, and Keith tutted.

“Cheers,” King said to Doherty as he picked up his fresh pint. “Very generous to buy me this out of your mum’s pocket money. Oh, and pay the landlord what you owe on your tab.” King sipped the top off his Guiness and said, “Dead men can’t pay their bills.”

“Feck off! And we’re not telling you shit!” Keith looked around the bar. He was the only one without a drink. He looked flustered, his tough guy act not landing as he had hoped.

“I don’t want any trouble in here,” said the landlord. “And yes, I’ll have that money now, Keithy Boy.”

“Feck…” Doherty took out a wedge of tens and counted them off to sixty. The landlord snatched them out of his hand like he thought he’d never see the day and walked back to the bar with the empty tray.

“You know what happened to my uncle?” Andrea asked quietly.

“Cuz!” Doherty snapped. “If he knows what happened to him, then we’ll cut and fecking burn it out of him. We’re in charge here!”

“No Keithy Boy, you’re not,” said King, taking a sip of his Guinness. He looked at Andrea and said, “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Big boy’s games; big boy’s rules,” said King.

“He was a good man, so he was.”

“No. He was a piece of shit,” King replied coldly.

Keith tugged at the pistol, then stopped himself in time. “Let’s get him out of here, cuz.”

“It was the game. The politics. The job I was both told and paid to do.”

“Did he suffer?” she asked, her eyes not meeting his.

“Who bought the mortars?”

“She asked you a question!” Keith Doherty seethed, trying to assert himself, but also trying to keep his voice down.

“It’s interesting that when you had the chance to kill a British intelligence operative, you had some strings pulled. Called a favour in from one of the boyos.” King paused. “He’s dead, by the way.”

“You killed him?” Andrea asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s it, cuz! We take this English fucker out into the bog and we fucking waste him!” Keith had the pistol out now, aiming at King underneath the table. King sipped his Guinness, quite unbothered. The fact seemed to annoy the young man further, but he merely showed it in his reddening face. There was little he could do with the landlord, the three locals and the whippet in the saloon. “Cosy up to him, cuz. Check that he’s not armed.”

O’Shea slid across and sat beside King. She felt his pockets and retrieved his wallet, passport and the Leatherman, then sat back on her chair. She went through the worn, leather wallet, kept the cash and tossed the wallet back at King. There had only been one card and a hundred euros in twenties inside the wallet. “Jack Duggan,” she said. “That’s not your real name, is it?” King shrugged. “So, why are you here, Mr Duggan?”

“Your boyo killed my friend,” he said. Margarette Stewart had always shown King kindness. Cooking his favourite food for dinner when her husband had used their home for planning missions. Stewart never trusted anybody, least of all the people he had worked with, and their twisted agendas at the River House, and Century House before that. “And her fucking dog. So, I’m not only here for some good old-fashioned retribution, but also to snip the thread. The fact that you thought you could kill a British intelligence officer on a whim means that you’re dangerous. We have peace and the British government made some huge concessions for that peace. I intend to maintain that peace at all costs.”

“We made four hundred years of fucking concessions!” she snapped.

“And now you have peace. But people like you, young people growing up on stories of past glories, people who are so dissatisfied with their meagre lives, that they still blame old enemies for their situation. Well, we can’t have people like you ruining things for everyone. I’m not going back to the days of your lot bombing department stores on the mainland at Christmas. And nor will you.”

“So, you turned up with a fecking penknife and thought you could send us both to the fecking grave?” Keith laughed. “Think again you fecking amateur!” King said nothing. The young man would learn soon enough. “I know just where to take this fucker,” he said to his cousin.

“Did you kill the informant?” King asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think you did,” King replied. “And I think you got off on it. Probably been spoiling for the chance for years.” He stared at the young man, smiling when he couldn’t hold his stare. Few people could. “But you’re not in the same league as your fathers and uncles. They were properly tough men taking on a formidable enemy. Men who ideals aside, were to be respected as an enemy. Whereas you’re just a scrawny little shit who’s living in a past he never knew, and spoiling for a fight that’s no longer there, when all the men with real fight in them have either died or moved on.”

“I’ve had enough of this English bastard.” Keith turned to Andrea and said, “Let’s take him to the bog.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a piss right now.”

“Not the fecking bog, a fecking bog!” Doherty raged, quite perplexed.

Andrea nodded and stood up. “Come on then, Mr Duggan…”

Keith stood up and stepped back a pace, the Browning in his hand shielded enough by his dirty tracksuit jacket for the three men and the whippet not to notice. King’s heart rate quickened. The man was displaying good drills putting some distance between them. Had he not covered both bases, then he would have been a damned sight more worried.

Andrea stepped aside and said, “After you, Mr Duggan…” King took a pace towards the glass door and she stopped him, “No, the back way!” she said sharply, pointing to the side of the bar where an arrow sign pointed to the direction of the toilets.

King shrugged and walked unhurriedly out into a cold, slate-floored area between the kitchen and the toilets. Ahead of him, the back door led out to the courtyard. Out of view of the patrons, Keith jabbed the muzzle of the pistol hard into King’s right kidney, and he let out a gasp as the pain shot through him. Andrea stepped past and opened the door, held it open for King, then walked ahead of them. King stepped out into the bright sunshine, his left hand beside the stack of beer crates. As Keith stepped outside, King tipped the crates over and bottles scattered and rolled on the ground, a few of them smashing.

“Nice try, yer fucker!” Keith Doherty jeered from behind.

King had counted from the moment the crate had toppled. When he reached three, he dived onto Andrea tackling her to the ground, then rolling onto his side and positioning her in front of him as a human shield. Keith aimed the pistol, unable to get a clear sight picture on King for fear of hitting his cousin. King had not tried to run, had not attempted to snatch his gun, and the whole action seemed futile. The grenade detonated with a concussive ‘whump’. There was no flame, but Keith was blown off his feet and into the doorjamb. The bottles were destroyed in the blast and shrapnel, glass and shreds of plastic bottle crates were blown out three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees. Andrea screamed, clutching her face which had been struck by debris, shards of glass and shrapnel from the fragmented grenade. She writhed in pain as King pushed her off him and trudged across the debris to where Keith Doherty lay. He was staring up at him, breathing erratically and bleeding from the shrapnel. Most of the man’s right leg had been blown away, but for tatters of skin and bone. He was bleeding like a tap and his face had turned pale. King found the Browning on the ground and checked it over before shooting Doherty in the head. Andrea screamed as her cousin’s body arched and rested still on the ground, and King caught hold of her by her collar and dragged her across the courtyard, her legs scrabbling wildly as she fought in vain. When her legs finally gained traction and she got to her feet, King heaved her in front of him and threw her across the boot of the BMW. The alarm sounded upon impact, and he tucked the pistol into his waistband and unlocked the vehicle, deactivating the alarm. He ignored her protests and screams as he threw her inside the boot on top of the muddy shovel and plastic sheeting. “Big boy’s games, luv…” he said coldly into her ear, then slammed the boot shut, drowning out her screams.

Chapter Forty-Three

Canary Wharf, London

Richard Collins stood in front of the window, the winter sun on his face, the street over seven-hundred feet below him. He could see four of the targets from here. There were another thirty-one in all. The chances of failure to hit all the targets was high. He figured on a seventy-five per cent success rate, but that wasn’t good enough for the investors, and wholly unsatisfactory for the financier seated opposite Tarik Kamal. This was the first time he had met the Saudi, Habib. The short, fat man who was putting up the capital for the operation and hoping to increase his wealth by hundreds of millions of pounds if Tarik Kamal made the right moves both before and after Collins commenced the attack.

“… I said, failure is not an option, Mr Collins…” Habib said for the second time in as many minutes. “It is all or nothing. All the targets must be hit, or we will not have enough traction for financial gain.”

“You will show respect to Mr Habib and face him when he talks to you,” the bodyguard said menacingly.

“It’s a long way to the ground, mate,” Collins replied, still taking in the view.

“Meaning?” the bodyguard snapped, taking a step towards him.

Habib held up a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Abdul.”

“No, Abdul. Me throwing your arse to the street won’t be necessary,” Collins said coldly. “But take another step and you’ll go through that fucking window.”

“Idle threats do not scare me. You are not strong enough to break the toughened glass,” Abdul sneered.

“No, perhaps not. Although this will…” Collins turned around, showing the fragmentation grenade in his right hand, his thumb inside the loop of the pin. “But this’ll ventilate this office nicely, and we’ll all be able to hear your screams on your way down.” He paused, enjoying the look that rested somewhere between terror and surprise on the three men’s faces. “Actually, I’ve thrown a few people off buildings in my time, and they never so much as make a sound!” He laughed coldly. “I think it’s reflex, or something, to hold your breath on the way down. Like jumping off a diving board into a swimming pool, I imagine.” He pocketed the hand grenade and pulled the left lapel of his suit jacket open to reveal the compact Heckler & Koch P7 pistol resting in its soft, leather shoulder holster. “What are you packing besides your biceps, Abdul?”

The bodyguard stared at Collins, but he was thoroughly impotent in the situation. Unarmed and in a stand-off with a man whom he not only suspected was crazy, but who was heavily armed and held all the cards. Abdul had been around the block enough to know when a man was willing to use a weapon, and he knew that he was staring at that man right now. He was unarmed, but he would find a weapon on the London streets, and he would deal with this foul-mouthed African when their business was concluded. He glanced at Habib before backing up a few paces then standing at his boss’ shoulder.

“I won’t fail, Mr Habib,” Collins said matter-of-factly. “We have the men and the ordnance in place.”

“I want every, single target destroyed…” Tarik Kamal said, taking the heat off his paymaster.

“That is all we ask,” Habib concurred.

“You don’t ask much,” Collins replied sardonically.

“You assured us that you could complete the task,” Habib countered.

“And you have been paid handsomely,” Tarik Kamal added. “But the other half of your fee will only be paid upon successful completion of our project.”

“I’ll need some more boats then,” said Collins. “If you can’t accept that the targeting may be off for some of the targets, that shit happens in war, then I will need more boats and more men.”

“It’s done,” Habib replied. “Our organisation has contacts with people smugglers in France, they know some Palestinians who are waiting to come over. They fought with Hamas but got out of Gaza a year ago.” He paused, turning to his bodyguard. “Abdul, make the call. Provide them with boats for the crossing and have them met by Mustafa and his men on the Kent coast. They can do this one job to work off their debt.” He clapped his hands and said, “Go! Make the call! And get this man some more boats!” he clapped his hands twice and shouted, “Eajal! Eajal!”

Chapter Forty-Four

“He’s not being followed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Jack Luger replied curtly, staring at Ramsay a little harder than he had intended. He knew that the man needed to know everything in the minutest detail and often spoke out of turn when he was processing information. His expression softened when he added, “I wouldn’t say something so important if I wasn’t one-hundred per cent sure. Jim concurs. We can’t spot a tail, and we’ve engaged electronic, aerial and boots-on-the-ground surveillance.”

Caroline closed the lid of her laptop, got up from her desk adjacent from Ramsay’s, and sat down beside Luger. “They will make contact shortly,” she said. “I think they are perhaps extending the leash before they pull back on it. It’s crucial now for us not to let down our guard.”

Luger nodded. He knew that Caroline was an expert in surveillance, although he did not know the finer details of her career with army intelligence before joining MI5 and would never have guessed what she had done for her country. He looked at her, then glanced away awkwardly. She was attractive, that was for sure. Slim and athletic with curves in all the right places. Her dark blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she often switched her hairstyle up depending on her role. Ten years older than him, he was certainly attracted to her, but that came with a risk nobody would be willing to take. King. Somehow, that made her even more appealing. Forbidden fruit or a poisoned chalice. A lethal dose, he imagined.

“Back at it, then,” Ramsay said without looking up from his papers.

Caroline shrugged and stood up, waiting for Luger to drain the remnants of his coffee. “You need some help,” she said. “I’ve sent Big Dave to meet Jim.”

“Great,” he replied. “Six four and eighteen stone of inconspicuous Fijian...” He looked up as the oak door was flung inwards and crashed into the wall. King stood there, clearly with fire in his belly and his eyes as cold and hard as Luger had ever seen. He felt a pang of guilt at having found himself so attracted to Caroline, a shiver running down his spine.

“Alex!” Caroline exclaimed, then her professionalism taking over as she said, “Where have you been? I’ve tried calling you.”

“What on earth?” Ramsay looked up incredulously from his papers.

“Whatever you’ve got going on, you need to put it on hold,” said King.

“Where the hell have you been?” Caroline repeated herself, quite perplexed. “You haven’t been picking up my messages!”

“The source,” King replied.

“Cornwall?” Ramsay frowned.

“Ireland,” said King. “The Republic of Ireland.”

“I didn’t sanction…” Ramsay started but was cut off by King.

“I went to see Andrea O’Shea and her cousin, Keith Doherty.”

“You said that you didn’t know her!” Ramsay raged.

King shrugged. “I didn’t know her.”

“But you knew her uncle, clearly.”

“It rang a bell,” King lied. “It sounded like a firm lead from GCHQ, so I just thought I’d go and check it out.”

“And?” Ramsay prompted him. “You clearly have news, or you have taken the plaster off my office wall for nothing.”

Mae walked in with a steaming mug of tea and handed it to King, quickly defusing the situation. “There you go, my dear. I saw you coming up on the monitor and got the kettle on. Here’s a nice cup of tea for you. I used your extra-large mug.”

King thanked her and waited for her to leave, closing the door behind her to reveal a handle-shaped hole in the wall. “Sorry about that. I’ll have a look at that when all this is over.”

“No, you won’t,” Caroline chided. “Your DIY skills are not required. Anywhere where a good fit and finish is preferable, that is.”

“Nice,” King commented flatly.

“If you two are quite finished,” Ramsay said tersely. “What have you found out?”

“Thirty-five mortars and more than twice as many shells. The shipment left on two boats from different harbours. One landed in Cornwall, and the other in Wales.”

Ramsay pummelled his desk with his fist. Not prone to physical outburst, the action got their attention, but he had hurt his hand and each of them looked awkwardly away. “Damn it!” he snapped. “We are spread too thin. If Charlotte was here, then I would have more time to…” he stopped himself and stared out of the window forlornly. “How could we have missed this?”

“I think…” Luger started.

“It’s a rhetorical question, son,” King interrupted him. He looked back at Ramsay and said, “You won’t want to know how I know, and it’s better for everyone if you don’t ask any more about Andrea O’Shea and her cousin Keith Doherty. The deal was made with an old IRA quartermaster through a currently serving Sinn Fein politician called Mary Finney. Cash was exchanged. O’Shea and Doherty were given the coordinates of weapons caches and told when to meet a Saudi called Habib. With him was a financier called Tarik Kamal. There is some sort of stocks and shares con riding on this whole affair.”

“Stock shorting?” Ramsay asked, looking at Caroline who was scribbling down everything that King had said on a pad. She had double underscored the name Mary Finney. “A London financier?”

King nodded. “Apparently he’s in the big leagues.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult to track down,” Caroline said without looking up from her notepad. “Anything else?”

“They had a bodyguard with them. Tall and broad and Middle-Eastern. There were some other men with them who remained with the vehicles.”

“And this Collins fellow?” Ramsay asked.

“No idea,” said King. “But he’s been back to Ireland since he was cut loose from my department at ‘Six.” King shrugged. “He helped himself to a weapons stash and left a little surprise for whoever came to retrieve it.” After King had left the pub, he had stopped at a rare public phone box and left an anonymous message with the Guarda informing them of a live grenade behind the tourist information board at the pub. He had extracted the information from Andrea O’Shea, and he would never tell a living soul what he had done to get it, or where he had left her body. She was a loose end, and he never left those to trip up on later. He had learned his lesson the hard way. When he caught up with Richard Collins, he would do the same as he had done in that cold, remote Irish bog. King sipped his tea. He didn’t know what Mae did, but she always did it right. He had thought about asking her what blend or brand she used, but that would mean that he would not find her brew such a treat. “Where’s Rashid?” he asked as he put down his mug.

“He’s in situ. Posing as a sniper for hire,” said Caroline, her pen poised. “He’s waiting for them to make contact again.”

“What for?”

“A demonstration.”

“Bullshit,” said King gruffly. “It’s a trap. You want someone killed; you hire a guy. If they fail, you don’t pay the other half. That’s how it’s always worked. If they want a demonstration, then that means that they will be within a thousand metres of him, and he’ll be a sitting duck. Get him out of there.”

“It’s not that simple,” Ramsay replied.

“It is. Pull him out.”

“We have Jim Kernow watching him now, and Jack will be returning to watch over him when we are done here,” Ramsay insisted. “Lomu is now en route to lend assistance.”

“Oh great. Six-four and eighteen stone of big, Black Fijian isn’t going to be discreet.”

“That’s what I said,” Luger said quietly. “Well, without the Black element being mentioned unnecessarily.”

King shrugged and picked up his mug of tea. “Forget it. Let GCHQ catch this person digitally, then they can call the police when they have a lead. This is happening now. Big Dave can be useful finding this financier. He could even front up to the man, get him nervous. Nervous people make mistakes.” King paused. “Where’s Flymo?”

“Surplus to requirements on account of this department no longer having a helicopter to fly…” Ramsay said sarcastically. King raised an eyebrow at the comment. It was curious how Ramsay could be sarcastic to people but never really got sarcasm when it was directed at him.

“Utilise him, then.”

“Alex…” Caroline said quietly.

King put down his tea and stood up. “I’m out of here,” he said. “Rashid’s lead is a bust. We need him here.”

“Stop! Where are you going?” Ramsay asked as King walked to the door.

“We need to put a watch on this man Habib.”

“But we don’t know who he is, or what his agenda is!” Ramsay paused. “Let alone where to find him!”

“Not yet, we don’t,” King replied. “Which is why I’m going to find him through this Kamal character…”

Chapter Forty-Five

Hampshire

Zukovsky stared out of the window at the fields as they zipped by at sixty-miles-per-hour. The fields reminded him of Ukraine before the war, when agriculture was key, and the landscape changed with every mile you drove. He imagined the spring and summer months would be awash with colour and the fields would look like a patchwork quilt of lush grass for hay or silage, cereals, oil seed rape, and brassica, but right now the fields were a hundred shades of green. The hedgerows were sparse, and the trees were bare. He had received an update from Katerina Baskakov. Their sniper had recently made a hit on a known sex trafficker in Albania. The news did not sit well with Zukovsky because he had always assumed that MI5 were putting their agent into this as a play. Could it be possible that she had the wrong man? That they were luring in someone who had no rules to play by, no link to the intelligence services? They were playing with fire, and yet he was so out of options that he could not simply back away.

“Why here?” he asked, edging the doubt out of his mind where it had been enjoying company with both paranoia and regret.

“There are many large fields in this county,” Jenko replied. “Good for both your practice with the rifle, and for this agent to demonstrate his skills on our terms. Katerina Baskakov’s plan was to have a sniper in place when the time came. You are that sniper.”

“Capturing the man gives us more leverage,” Zukovsky said, his eyes still on the scenery as Jenko drove them. “With that leverage, we get closer to the people at the top.” He paused, his mind conjuring up the scene in the far north of Russia. The flames from the explosions lighting up the night sky, the top-secret project in tatters and the cutting-edge helicopter taking to the air. What if he used his role as counter-sniper to wound their specialist? A powerful, high-velocity round to the leg would put their man out of action and that would leave him at the mercy of their interrogation. He could do it. He didn’t have to run it by Jenko, and the situation would evolve to a point where Baskakov would see the value of his plan. He looked at Jenko as the man drove. “And what’s more, we will have a chance to get to the man with the cold eyes. The author of your pain, and mine.”

Jenko did not say anything at first. He concentrated on the sweeping bend towards Hursley, with the market town of Winchester a few miles behind them. “That would be a good outcome,” he mused. “But Baskakov had clear instructions. She is paying me well, so I see no reason to adapt her plan.”

“I think it would suit us both better to use her instructions merely as guidelines,” Zukovsky replied. Jenko slowed and drove down a track, the Mercedes grounding on the rutted surface. “Where are we?”

“You can sight the rifle in this field,” he replied. “There is a clear, uninterrupted one-thousand metre stretch running along the hedgerow.”

Zukovsky nodded. He had once been rated expert with the SVD rifle chambered in powerful 7.62x54mm. The semi-automatic rifle fitted with a PSO-1 scope was a formidable weapon suitable for a range up to eight-hundred metres, but Zukovsky had taken the range to a thousand metres in practice. But that was what it had been. Practice. Zukovsky had never been deployed as a sniper. His promotional arc had stood in the way of that. However, he had fifty-rounds to practice with, and he had grown up hunting in the Urals. Using a rifle and practising concealment was second nature to the former GRU Colonel. With the location playing to their advantage, then no matter how skilled this sniper was, he could better him.

Chapter Forty-Six

London

“You’re off the rails.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m right on bloody track,” King replied tersely. “Someone had to take the initiative. I’m telling you now, we are working on two different matters entirely. Collins would not use a sniper. Big Dave had dealings with the man, too. He agrees. I don’t know what else Ramsay needs to hear.”

“Ramsay sees connections in things. That’s his thing.”

“So much so, that he’s looking for something that isn’t there. Rashid is at risk with this operation. He can’t be somewhere at their instigation. He needs to call the shots.” King paused. “And if Rashid is at risk, then so are Luger and Jim.”

“We are working hard with GCHQ and the team of analysts downstairs,” Caroline replied measuredly. “There are many ways to crack a nut, and some of them don’t even involve a sledgehammer,” she smiled, but King did not respond. The traffic was heavy, and the old Land Rover was a pig to drive in traffic with its heavy clutch and lack of power-assisted steering. Using the gearstick was akin to stirring a bucket of nails with a metal spoon until the oil heated sufficiently, which didn’t help matters in the slightest right now. “Christ, why do you insist on keeping this thing?” she sighed. “And the congestion charge is crippling.”

“I like it. It’s simple.”

“It’s unreliable.”

“No, it’s temperamental. There’s a difference. I can mend almost anything that goes wrong on this with spanners, screwdrivers and a hammer.” King paused, scaring the life out of a cyclist who had just played chicken with him. “Besides, this thing has soul.”

“It’s an inanimate object. It can’t have soul.”

“Oh, it can. Glock gen-five or a Browning thirty-five?”

“The Glock, obviously.”

“Nope. The Glock has no soul.”

“It’s about ten times better though.”

“True, but that ain’t soul.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, shaking her head. “What else have you got?”

King shrugged. “My watch. It’s vintage. It has soul. I’ve had it for twenty years. If it could talk, it could tell a hell of a story. An Apple Watch, by contrast, has no soul.”

“It doesn’t need servicing, and it doesn’t lose time. What does that lose? A few seconds a month, a few minutes a year?”

“So do we all.”

“So, inefficiency has soul and perfection has none?”

“Not inefficiency, more like slight imperfection.” He paused. “Like art over an AI image, or theatre over green screen blockbuster movies. Or, a beauty spot, or small scar on a beautiful woman. It’s the slight imperfections that make the person.”

“Well, if scars can do that, then you’re just about perfect,” she chided, before glancing around the interior of the Land Rover with its exposed wiring and sagging head lining. “This thing is slightly less reliable and practical than slight imperfection, though,” she scoffed. “It’s a bloody heap!”

King ignored her jibe. “Perfection in our profession is the theory of strategising and planning. Imperfection is taking that plan into the field where the enemy’s reaction can never truly be predicted. We aren’t perfect, but we get the job done.”

Caroline did not respond. She knew how matters changed in the field. Had she forgotten what it could be like after such a short time at a desk? No. She would never forget. But she could see the other side of it, and for people like King and the rest of the team, there were matters that they would never see, never know what it was like to work with. She worried that King was taking too simplistic a view of what needed to be done. She checked her phone when she heard the text. “You were right to head to Canary Wharf,” she said. “Tarik Kamal is a legitimate financier with offices in One Canada Square. Here’s a picture of him that featured in the Financial Times.” She tilted the phone for King to see. “How did you know that he would be at Canary Wharf?”

King shrugged. “That’s where the shakers and movers operate. They walk amongst us. The greatest villains in the world are the people running the economy.” He paused. “Along with big pharmaceutical companies and politicians. Christ, I’ve had enough of this game.”

“Really?”

King sighed. “It’s a flip of a coin who the bad guys are.” He paused. “It used to be cowboys and Indians. Black and white. Good versus bad. Now, it’s so grey, so damned complicated.”

“I think it was always complicated. Perhaps it was you who wasn’t complicated, and now you are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re older and wiser,” she said, placing a hand on his thigh. They had not spent much time together lately and it showed. Just the faint touch felt like so much more than the gesture of tenderness. Caroline’s heart raced as she could hear his breathing quicken. She withdrew her hand and said, “Let’s save that for later.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he grinned.

“Stop it!” she chided playfully.

King mounted the kerb and killed the engine. He reached across and pulled a laminate card out from the loose tray that would have been a glove box in anything more sophisticated. He slipped the card in the window and reached for the doorhandle. “Let’s go.”

“We’re parked?” she asked, staring at the paved space and the pedestrians who were parting around the Land Rover like a river around a boulder. “And what’s with the card?” she asked, picking it up and studying it closely. “The registered keeper and/or driver of this vehicle is subject to diplomatic immunity… Are you kidding?”

“It’s handy in the city.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I might have stolen Jim Kernow’s. The one for the Jaguar and Range Rover when Ramsay visits Westminster and Whitehall.”

“Jesus, I can’t unhear that,” she said, shaking her head. “So, what’s the plan here?”

King shrugged. He reached underneath the seat and retrieved a Makarov pistol, which he tucked into his inside jacket pocket. He glanced at Caroline expecting condemnation, but she merely took a small, nickel finished .38 Derringer out from her handbag and slipped it into her trouser pocket, giving him a wink. King had taken the little double-barrelled pistol off an Iranian agent, and after he had given it to her, she had carried it ever since. “I have another Makarov under the seat, if you want more bang for your buck.”

She shook her head as she said, “Where the hell are you getting these from?”

“Our enemies are getting careless.” He paused. “They just keep dying, and I just keep picking them up.”

Caroline followed him, jogging a few paces to catch him up. “I still haven’t heard the plan.”

“I’ll tell you it as soon as I have one figured out,” King said. He pushed his way through one of the multitudes of revolving glass doors and stopped as he took in his surroundings. Light marble floors, plenty of chrome and glass. The high ceilings made the foyer light and airy and gave a distinctive feel of wealth and opulence. Wearing a black trouser suit with a cream satin blouse, Caroline looked right at home, but in his desert boots, dark jeans and vintage tan leather motorcycle jacket over his grey T-shirt, King stood out like a sore thumb. He walked to the central reception desk and said, “I have a meeting with Tarik Kamal of Genius Financial.”

The receptionist, who had been talking to her colleague, looked up, surprised at the interruption and not hiding her annoyance. “There is no company of that name here, sir.” She paused, adjusting her discreet telephone headset. “There is a Genus Financial on the forty-seventh floor.”

King ignored her pedantry and said, “Good. Call him and tell him I’m on the way.”

“I don’t see anything scheduled,” the receptionist replied. “No visitors expected. With whom did you make the meeting?”

“Nobody,” said King. “I’m meeting Mr Kamal, he just doesn’t know anything about it yet.”

“Wait!” she exclaimed as King turned and headed for the bank of lifts. “Security! Security!”

King strode towards the lifts when a uniformed guard jogged across the marble floor to head him off. King held up his index finger. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he growled, his eyes cold and hard. “I’m getting in the lift whether or not your arm gets broken.” The guard had twenty-five pounds on King, but it was all gained through donuts and biscuits, and he wasn’t going to cause King any trouble. The man was the wrong side of fifty, too. Unperturbed, the guard went to grab King and was met by a lightning jab to the solar plexus. The wind left the guard in a gush, and the man’s face turned red. King caught hold of both shoulders and pressed the man to the floor without any protest. “That’s it,” King said. “Have a sit down and take some deep breaths…”

“That was quite reserved, for you,” Caroline said as she followed King into the lift. “Kamal will know that we’re on the way up by now.” King said nothing. The lift was rapid, the numbers ticking off insanely quick as the lift rocketed skywards. When the lift eased to a halt and the doors slid open, Caroline said, “Wait, this is the forty-fifth floor…”

King stepped out giving her no choice but to follow as he headed for the stairwell. A slim Middle-Eastern looking man in his late thirties with stylish and expensive-looking horn-rimmed glasses was starting down the stairs. “Mr Kamal!” King said loudly. “Thank you for coming down to meet us. You shouldn’t have bothered, but now that you’re here…”

Kamal froze. “I… I…” He paused, looking them both up and down. They seemed a mismatched pair. Caroline about to go to court, and King about to go to court with her representing him. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of one of your associates,” King said as he walked up to him.

“You’ll have to narrow that down a bit, Mr…?”

“King.”

“And who is this associate of mine?”

“Collins, Richard Collins. Tall, tough-looking, trained killer, bit of a psychopath…” He eyed the man closely, saw his tell instantly. A flicker of the eye, his tongue whipping between his dry lips. So swiftly, it was almost imperceivable. Almost. “That’s right. I believe he’s handling some importing for you. From Ireland. Military hardware. Do you have a section-five firearms dealers’ licence and a standard individual export licence? That will help validate and identify the named consignee and end-user.” King paused. “No? I didn’t think so.”

“Who the hell are you?” Kamal asked again, this time tersely as he took out his phone and scrolled through his address book. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Is that Mr Habib?” Caroline asked.

“No, I, er…” Kamal paused. “Really, who are you?”

“I’m with the Security Service, Mr Kamal,” Caroline said, taking out her identity card.

“And I’m the help. As in, I’ll help find out what we want to know by promising to throw you off the top floor of this building if you don’t cooperate,” King told him.

“You’re threatening me?” Kamal fumbled with his phone, flustered and afraid.

“No, not at all,” King replied, taking the man’s phone and slipping it into his pocket. “You can have that back once we’ve had a look at your call history.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I just did.”

“I have rights! You need to have a warrant!” Kamal paused, looking around him for help, but there was nobody else in the stairwell. “That sounded a lot like a threat to me.”

“No, it was a promise,” said King. “If you want to know the difference between a threat and a promise, then I can show you. A threat is exactly that. A promise is something made good upon. If I promise to throw you off the building, then that’s exactly what will happen.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr King,” Kamal said defiantly. This was the second person in a day who had stood in this building and threatened to throw somebody off it. It hadn’t been so bad when Collins had threatened Habib’s bodyguard, but now that it was Kamal who was being threatened, he was regretting ever becoming involved in this venture. He sighed, steadying his resolve. “And I don’t recall a man by the name of Collins involved in any of my dealings, and we do not import and export. Genus Financial is a trading company in stocks, shares and stock options. We are fully digitalised and answerable to the Financial Conduct Authority and the Prudential Regulation Authority, which is part of the Bank of England.”

“So, you haven’t ordered thirty-five Soviet-made mortars?” King asked casually, studying the man for his tell. It wasn’t so pronounced this time, but if he was playing the man at cards, then he would be confident that he was bluffing. “Because we’re going to have a real problem if you have.”

“Of course not!”

“I think you’re lying, Kamal,” King persisted. He caught hold of the man’s arm, squeezing his bicep with a vice-like grip, and ignoring his protests, walked him towards the lift. “Let’s go for a little walk, shall we? How about to the top of the building?”

“Alex,” Caroline said sternly. “We’ve got company.”

Four security guards walked towards them from the direction of the maintenance lift, and three more approached from the second bank of lifts. “The police have been called!” one of the guards called from behind them. King took stock. He wasn’t about to gun them down, and even if he could fend them all off physically, there would be little stock in fighting it out. They had made their point. King had wanted the man rattled to see what he did next. He released his grip on Kamal, feeling his blood boil when he caught the man smirking at him.

“Goodbye, Mr King,” Kamal said smugly.

King said nothing as he turned and walked towards the four security guards blocking his path. “Get out of my way,” he said, pulling back his leather jacket just enough for them to see the butt of the Makarov. It had the desired effect, as the men parted like theatre curtains, shocked that he had a gun, grateful that he wasn’t about to use it.

“Well, that went well,” Caroline said sardonically as the lift doors closed behind them.

“I think so.”

“You do? Anyway, that phone stunt is going to bite us in the arse. He’s right. We can’t take his phone without a warrant, so anything we discover on that phone will now be inadmissible in court.”

“Let’s not pretend to have ever got anybody in front of a judge, Caroline. It’s not really what we do,” King replied. “Have you got anything yet?”

Caroline glanced at her phone. “Not yet.”

Before leaving, Caroline had requested that the team below Ramsay’s office perform a digital wiretap on the phones in the Genus Financial offices. It was a task that required the specialised software that GCHQ had written and shared with both MI5 and MI6. If Kamal made a call after they left, then they would soon know.

The doors opened onto the foyer and two armed police officers stood at the reception desk talking to the security guard that King had winded. Caroline wasted no time, striding confidently towards the two officers with her credentials on show. King held back, feeling the heat. He just hoped that Caroline could talk them down before he was caught carrying an illegal firearm. Otherwise, this was going to get awkward. He milled around looking bored, but once he was behind a large, gravel-filled planter containing a rubber plant, he slipped the Makarov into the plant and scrolled on his phone as he waited a tense few minutes. He used the time to search Kamal and was met with three pages of articles, social media and profiles on the man. Strange, then, that he would put himself out there and involve himself in the procurement of the mortars. King thought that it showed a side to the man’s character that was both reckless and egotistical. It was behaviour akin to wealthy people who shoplifted for the thrill. Had this man peaked? Was he in need of excitement that he could never hope to get at a desk? Or was whatever he had become embroiled in so vital, so critical for success that he had to micro-manage in every conceivable aspect?

King’s aspersions were cut short as Caroline approached. Her face said it all. They were in the clear. No harm, no foul. It would not be in Kamal’s interest to put in a complaint, and the two, armed police officers had better things to do than start an investigation against MI5. “The security guard has been advised to let it go,” she said.

“Is he ok?”

“Pride,” she said. “It was an expert winding, so I don’t even imagine he’ll bruise.”

King nodded. Just a man doing his job. But so was he. He casually pocketed the Makarov and followed Caroline out of the foyer. The two police officers walked ahead of them, and the guard followed them all, keen to get everyone out of his building and save face in front of the two receptionists behind the desk.

The machinegun fire rattled in short, expert bursts. Both armed police officers went down but took the brunt of the salvo in their bulletproof vests. King grabbed Caroline by the shoulder and pulled her behind him as he drew the Makarov. He was aware of another burst of gunfire, the paving chipping in front of the two downed officers as the bullets closed in on their heads until puffs of blood and brain matter signalled a change in the arc of fire. King fired at the figure, the man having the audacity to take cover behind King’s battered Land Rover. There was something about the man’s build and frame, his movements. He had a woollen jacket buttoned high on his neck, and was wearing dark sunglasses, but King knew it was Collins. He would recognise him anywhere, and he did not need to look the man in the eyes to confirm who he was up against. He changed magazines as Caroline rolled beside a concrete planter for cover, the two-shot Derringer in her hand. Though she lacked firepower, she covered King with two well-aimed shots, forcing the gunman to switch positions. As she fired, King sprinted to the two bodies and unhitched the harnessed Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle from one of the dead police officers. He went for the Glock 17 in the holster on the man’s belt, but it was attached to a plastic-coated wire lanyard that he would not be able to remove with his bare hands and did not have time to tackle with the wire-cutter on his Leatherman. King rolled over, slid the Makarov across the ground towards Caroline, who snatched it up and continued to provide King with covering fire as he sprinted to a nearby concrete planter. When he opened fire, he peppered his own vehicle with 5.56mm bullets, forcing Collins to break cover and sprint to the road. King steadied his aim. Finally, he had Collins in his sights, but there were dozens of people behind him, some running for their lives, terrified by the sound of gunfire, others standing and filming on their phones, their survival instinct long given over to curiosity, vanity or ego, or perhaps a combination of all three. It was the sight of the young mother frantically pushing her pram to safety that took King’s finger off the trigger, and he held fire a moment too long allowing Collins to dart behind a row of parked cars.

King sprinted for the Land Rover and despite being pockmarked with bullet holes, it started first time, and he swung off the pavement, reaching for the other Makarov underneath his seat as he bounced onto the road. He accelerated and entered the bend in the road just in time to see Collins getting into a black Porsche 911. King knew that unless the traffic was gridlocked then he was about to get left behind and he hammered the gearstick into third as the Porsche swung out into the road, its rear wheels smoking on the tarmac before the traction control cut in and the sports car lurched forwards at a tremendous pace. King swerved and aimed the pistol out of the window, firing four rapid shots that blew out the rear window. Ahead of the Porsche a black cab pulled out oblivious to the pursuit behind him and blocked Collins’ escape. King knew what would happen ahead of time. He had seen what the man had been capable of in Rwanda, and he shuddered not only at the thought, but at what Collins was about to do. The Porsche swerved onto the pavement and accelerated hard. The inevitable happened, and people were flung in all directions as they were mown down. With the engine mounted in the rear of the vehicle and the twin radiators mounted laterally in front of each front wheel, there was little risk of damaging anything either mechanical or electrical that would impede the vehicle’s progress, and it ran through the pedestrians as easily as a snowplough in a heavy snowdrift. Behind the Porsche, a scene of bloody and unimaginable carnage was left in its wake.

King stopped. Every fibre of him wanted to pursue, but along with the body parts and dead bodies, countless pedestrians were left reeling injured or dying. There was no way King could follow without driving over them, and he reached into the rear of the Land Rover and pulled out some blankets and the comprehensive first aid kit that he always kept there and walked into the nightmare that Collins had created, and that King knew the man would not lose a second’s sleep over.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Mayfair, London

Rashid stared at the screen. A demonstration. As if killing a man wasn’t enough. Ramsay’s team had made Pierre Sauvage’s assassination link directly to Rashid’s site, linking details that only the Albanian police would know, and because of its corruption, and if the terrorists were suitably connected, they would soon know about the hit. But now they wanted a demonstration of their own. A job interview at a distance. And what a distance. Three-thousand metres. They had given him a location and a time. It would take him an hour or more to get there. Further details to follow. Not good. Rashid knew that Jack Luger would see this email, knew that the man would have his back. He glanced at his watch, the glance becoming a stare as he lost himself in the hour and minute hands. Eighteen hours. Barely enough time if he was going to come out of this alive. He pushed himself off the chair and closed the lid of the laptop. He would receive further emails on his phone, and he couldn’t waste precious time waiting when he could be doing. The rifle was ready, and he had left it in the .338 Lapua Magnum set up with the barrel fitted with a suppressor and integrated muzzle brake, and the ten-shot magazine already inserted and safely stowed in the gun-slip with the bolt removed. The .338 cartridge would be ideal for three-thousand metres, but if all went well, he would not be firing at anywhere near that distance.

Rashid laid the rifle carefully in the boot of the Alfa Romeo, along with his kit bag, then got behind the wheel and called Luger’s number from memory.

“Did you get that?”

“On it.”

“You’re en route?”

“Of course,” Luger replied.

“OK, stay in touch.”

“Will do. And good luck.”

“We make our own luck in this life.”

“Well, I hope you’re right.”

Rashid ended the call and concentrated on checking whether he had a tail. He knew that Kernow and Luger had kept up surveillance, and that included his vehicle. Whoever was testing him had not had the opportunity to put a tracker on his vehicle. He had an uneasy feeling that they had not tried to put him under surveillance at all, which meant that it would all be down to this test. This was their chance. If King was right, if they were doing this merely to harm the British intelligence services, then they would be holding all the cards. So, he would have to make sure that the game changed, and their cards did not matter.

Chapter Forty-Eight

He had missed King for a second time. He would not miss again. Collins had received the call from Habib after Tarik Kamal had panicked. To Collins, it was clear that King and the woman from MI5 had been firing a shot over the bow. Now they would have monitored Kamal’s phone and identified Habib, possibly have the man’s location by now. Kamal was a fool. An accountant unsuited to his chosen deviance. MI5 did not have enough on Kamal, and it was just like King to go and stir things up and see what rose to the top. The man had always been a blunt instrument, and it had always irked him how Peter Stewart had taken him under his wing, how King had become the man’s pet project. Cosy pie and mash at Stewart’s home while they planned an operation. Reading lists to further King’s education. That bloody Dickens tome that accompanied the man all over the African continent. Getting the man into painting. King had it all, and all Collins seemed to get was the lackey work, or the dirty ops. And all because King had it tough as a kid. Well, didn’t they all? The misfits in the special operations wing of MI6 were the antithesis of the Cambridge and Oxford boys and girls upstairs. They were cannon fodder to their festooned officers. Those university toffs with their Savile Row suits and expensive watches, and their trust funds and weekends at the family estate. Collins had grown up in Zimbabwe and South Africa at a time when whites had it tough, when emboldened kaffirs thought they could take back everything after Mandella walked the long road to freedom. Only they did it with machetes and guns, and not with stoicism and wise words.

Collins winced as he unbuttoned his shirt, rolled it up and tossed it into the bin. He looked at his arm in the mirror, blood trickling down his elbow from the wound. King’s bullet had clipped him. A graze, nothing more. Thankfully, it had been from the pistol, and not from the dead police officer’s rifle. A graze from that would have opened his arm to the bone. All Collins had to do was scrub some antiseptic into the wound, dab it dry and affix some butterfly stitches. A large plaster, and he was done. He made short work of patching himself up. He had had enough practice over the years. He had patched King and Stewart, and they had patched him up, too. He thought about the day they had come for him, all those years ago. How King had been sent to do a man’s job and been found wanting. No, that probably wasn’t fair, but Collins had known after the mission that Stewart would think he had gone too far. War crimes was the term he had used. When he saw King, he knew what the man had been sent to do. After all, they weren’t friends. Merely colleagues. King had made his move, but Collins already had a pistol behind his back and had pumped three bullets into the man’s chest. He had been about to put a fourth in the man’s head when King’s back-up had opened fire. Collins had taken him out and fled the scene. He had cursed himself later, when he had called the hospitals and discovered two gunshot admissions – one DOA and the other critical. Collins had worked below the radar as a mercenary before going to Australia and changing enough details to enlist in the army, and then the SAS. He had spent the first few years expecting King to show up, but as the years went by, he thought about it less and less, then after he was dishonourably discharged, he went back to work as a gun for hire on the mercenary circuit, half expecting to bump into King or Stewart as they toppled dictators or started uprisings to suit Britain’s political agenda. After a while, he forgot all about his former employer and assumed he had been forgotten also. But fate had thrown them together after so many years. He would end it now, once and for all.

Chapter Forty-Nine

King closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of the tourists and the warmth of the sun on his face. In the shadows it was dark and as cold as ice, but out in the open it was bright and warm. A metaphor, if there could ever have been a better one, for the life he had lived. He operated in the shadows, and with that came isolation and detachment. When he opened his eyes again, the Thames looked cold and brown and as uninviting as a body of water could be.

“Tea, hot and sweet,” Caroline said as she returned from the fashionable barista van and stood next to him, handing him a cardboard go-cup. “I got myself a cappuccino with an extra dusting of cocoa and a shot of syrup, because… well, why the hell not?” She smiled as a young child walked past singing, and she felt a pang for what might have been had she not suffered a horrendous accident that had caused her to miscarry, as well as getting sucked back into this life. She doubted that she would ever be a mother now. “I used to love nursery rhymes as a child,” she mused, looking at the little girl in her gloves and matching woolly hat.

“I never knew any,” King replied sardonically and sipped his tea.

“Genus Financial has started to sell some stocks,” she said. “Ramsay texted me while I was getting the drinks. We’d better get back to the office and work out what the hell we should do next.”

“Then whatever they have planned, it’s already started.”

“And we don’t know what the target is,” she replied. King dropped his tea and ran towards the mother and the little girl. “Wait, what are you doing?” she called after him, but knew that she wasn’t going to get a reply, so she ditched the cappuccino and sprinted after him.

“Hey!” King said as he drew near, the woman looking terrified as he crouched down to the girl’s level. “Hello, sweetie…” he said to her, trying to soften his intense-looking eyes and remember to smile. “What was that song you were singing? Fair lady, what?”

“What is this? Get away from my child!” the woman shouted, pulling her child closer to her and looking for help in an unsympathetic crowd intent on looking the other way.

“It’s alright,” Caroline said, holding up her MI5 identity card. “Please, don’t be alarmed.”

“The song,” King reiterated. “Gold and silver, we’ve not got… my fair lady?”

“It’s London Bridge, silly!” the little girl chuckled, then started into her chorus, delighted to have an audience. “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady… Build it up with gold and silver…” She did a little dance, hanging onto her mother’s hand. “Gold and silver, we’ve not got, we’ve not got…!”

King left her dancing and Caroline followed him, unsure what on earth was going on. “It’s the bridges,” King said. “Thirty-five mortars for thirty-five bridges.”

“But how would they hope to hit them all first time?”

King watched a barge heading past them down the river. He looked back at Caroline and said, “They’re going to launch from the river. Right underneath the bloody bridges!”

Chapter Fifty

Hursley, Hampshire

A demonstration. That was what was required of him, and he would give them a demonstration, the likes of which they would never see again. The brief was three-thousand metres. The target was a shop mannequin seated at a bench. The firing point was from high ground two fields away and firing over a small copse of birch. Rashid had moved into position and was now waiting for the contractor to arrive. He checked the digital watch that he had strapped to the butt of the Accuracy International rifle so he could check the time without moving his head or left arm. It was time. He had followed their instructions. From the firing position that they had specified, to the target which he had found eerily waiting for him. A minute after the agreed time, a Mercedes saloon pulled off the track and struggled across the wet grass. It parked twenty-five metres from the bench with the mannequin strapped to it. A man got out and paced around, checking his mobile phone before rubbing his shoulders in protest at the cold. It was barely above freezing, and the .338 Lapua Magnum bullet was colder than Rashid would have preferred. Even keeping the bullet in one’s pocket before a shot could increase its ballistic performance immeasurably. But the bullet was chambered, the rifle made ready. Just two millimetres of trigger travel stood between the bullet leaving the barrel at three-thousand feet per second.

* * *

Zukovsky had waited since dawn. The butt of the rifle was nestled into his shoulder and the sights were misted because of the cold glass meeting his warm skin. He moved slowly to clean the reticle, his movements all that stood between him being seen, although he was confident that the prone figure with the rifle did not have back-up, and from his angle, would never even know what hit him. He thought about the SAS soldier who had been gravely wounded and captured, the one propaganda tool that could have worked for the regime, but after the sniper’s well-placed bullet, was just useless, anonymous flesh and bone and who had died as swiftly as his own chances of redemption. The prototype helicopter had been lost, and with it, Zukovsky’s career and life as he had known it.

The 7.62x54mm rifle was well within its capabilities, even with the sudden cold snap lowering temperatures to just above freezing. The wind was negligible, although the air-pressure could be a factor. Zukovsky had lost the target, the man’s camouflage clothing blending in with the sparse winter landscape. His heart raced as he adjusted focus and scanned the area, but he soon relaxed when he made out the solid form of the man’s boots. From there, he gently moved the rifle until he found the man’s weapon, and his head which rested up close to the scope. A mistake that he would not have made. A black rifle scope atop a rifle furnished with a polished wooden stock. Solid colours, and besides, there was no black in nature apart from charcoal, coal and the corvid species of bird. A mistake that would cost this British intelligence agent, this saboteur against the motherland, his life.

* * *

Jenko waited, knowing that he was at risk, but confident that Zukovsky would make the shot. He knew that the man had been here since before dawn. They had kept in contact through text messaging, and Zukovsky had confirmed the target. He stared out across the fields, the copse of silver birch trees and the high ground beyond, his heart racing as he realised that he could be the target, but ever-hopeful that the man would demonstrate his skills on the mannequin beside him, giving his position away once and for all. But that would not be necessary. Zukovsky had found him, would be taking his shot any second. The gunshot, when it came, made him flinch. He looked at the mannequin, but it was still, and certainly no bullet had struck it. He checked his phone.

“Target hit…”

Jenko smiled, but the second gunshot made him start. Louder. Its echo far closer than that of Zukovsky’s shot.

* * *

Zukovsky had resighted after his shot. He had put the bullet firmly in the man’s right calf muscle from a distance of five-hundred metres. There had been no blood or the so called ‘pink mist’ – the spotter’s or sniper’s confirmation of a hit, but this was his first live target in a discipline in which he had been well-practised in both theory and on the range. He knew enough from his military experience that things never went down as the theory prescribed. From tactical deployment to strategic objectives, there was always a difference when classroom met battlefield. He found his target again after the jolt of the weapon’s heavy recoil but was surprised that the man had not moved. He must have hit, because no earth or debris had been displaced, which would have showered the man and at least caused him to move, and the heavy bullet punching through the man’s calf muscle would have sent the man into writhing convulsions of pain. He had aimed for the man’s leg, so that he could direct Jenko towards him to take him prisoner. But the miss simply made no sense at all. No, he would have to take another shot. He resighted the rifle, this time aiming for the man’s thigh.

Zukovsky did not hear the gunshot that killed him. Was not aware of anything apart from a fraction of a second’s confusion, and that all he could see was the ground as his head slumped limply into the grass. The .338 Lapua Magnum bullet had taken the top of his head clean off, from where Rashid had lain since midnight after Flymo had dropped both himself and Luger off in an adjacent field in the Robinson R44 helicopter which Caroline had hired directly after the enemy’s email.

Zukovsky had settled into a firing position three hundred metres adjacent to where Rashid had placed a dummy of clothes stuffed with towels and part of a mannequin head, beside an old Lee Enfield .303 rifle that Jim Kernow had procured for him. The secret to the ruse proving successful had been to test Zukovsky’s skill, to make the dummy look as well concealed as it was possible to be before becoming invisible to even the most skilled eye. Rashid would have to acknowledge the man’s skill in both infiltration and execution of his shot. He had displayed good technique, but there was a difference between technique and experience. Rashid had lain up for over twelve hours, while Zukovsky had arrived shortly before dawn. Rashid had dug a hide, used the foliage and camouflage netting to obscure the entrance, and chicken wire and slabs of turf to blend the roof into the landscape. Not even the muzzle of his rifle protruded from the hide, making him completely invisible to scrutiny. Installing the dummy at the most desirable line of sight had been the bait. Rashid did not have to have a good position on the mannequin seated at the bench, because his target would be the counter-sniper. He had no intention of showcasing his skills on the mannequin, only the man they sent to kill him.

* * *

Jenko checked his phone. There had been no response to his text message. Two shots. Different from one another and clearly at different ranges. Then silence. He wandered closer to the mannequin, his eyes on the fields and the copse of trees beyond. Glancing again at the mannequin, he could see that it had not been struck by a bullet. Had the sniper missed? Had Zukovsky killed the sniper? Had the sniper killed Zukovsky? He shuddered at that last thought because it would mean that he was a target, and he suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. He shielded his eyes against the sun, blinking to see if there was movement, or perhaps the glare of the sun reflecting off a lens. When he looked back at the mannequin again, his heart leapt and he caught his breath, the mannequin had turned and was looking at him. A hand went to its face and the mask was pulled clear. The front section of the mannequin’s head, just the facial features. The young man stared at him, then raised a pistol as he slid off the bench, the ropes that he had personally tied securing the apparent mannequin in place, dropping limply to the ground.

“Jenko the Blade…” Luger said with a smugness he seldom realised. “You killed four brave SBS soldiers last month in Japan.”

The man squinted at him, and then it dawned on him. “I followed you…” he said quietly. “I was told to leave you alone,” he smiled. “Lucky for you…”

“So that your partner could infiltrate my team.” Luger scowled. He had been fooled, and it had cost lives, and very nearly the entire mission. He still had sleepless nights because of his own stupidity. He stood up and took a few paces towards him, slipping his free hand under his jacket and retrieving a commando dagger. “This belonged to one of the men that you killed. I thought it would be fitting to kill you with it.” Jenko stared at him and smiled, his hand slowly slipping under his jacket and coming out with an Arab khanjar with a wickedly curved and sharp-looking blade. The sight of Luger’s knife bolstered his confidence. In a knife fight, nobody could better him. “You shot and wounded my colleague in Prague a week ago, as well.”

“Your friends aren’t having much luck.” Jenko paused, his smile sickening. “What makes you think your luck will be any better?”

Luger smiled. “Because sentimentality and poetic justice is one thing, but efficiency and ruthlessness is quite another…” He raised the pistol and fired, the bullet entering Jenko’s left eye and blowing out the back of his skull.

Chapter Fifty-One

London

“And this is just a hunch?” Ramsay mused. “Because you heard a little girl singing a nursery rhyme?”

“And there are thirty-five bridges, and Andrea O’Shea and Keith Doherty sold thirty-five mortars to Habib,” King replied. “We know that Tarik Kamal has a dirty little habit of shorting stocks, coincidence until now. But if all the bridges are destroyed, London will come to a standstill. Investment will suffer, the city will be gridlocked for months, perhaps even years. A clever investor will make millions, possibly billions out of that situation… if he is forewarned.”

“We still don’t know how the hunt for a sniper is to be utilised,” Ramsay replied.

“For Christ’s sake, man! I said it’s a trap, nothing else!” King snapped. “Richard Collins would not be behind anything that required a sniper, because he is one of the best in the business.”

“I agree,” Big Dave interjected. “It’s not his MO to hire what he believes he could do better. Snipers are vain. It’s an incredible skill to master. You join the army and are taught to fire a weapon competently, but that’s just a thousandth of what a sniper masters.”

“It’s all we’ve got to go on, Neil,” Caroline appealed. “We have to scoop up Habib and Kamal while we can, and hope that we can find Richard Collins, too.”

“We won’t,” said King. “Collins will make himself visible when he chooses to, not before.”

“You make him sound invincible!” Ramsay scoffed.

“Collins got the same training that I did. He operated in the same places. What sets him apart, what makes him so bloody dangerous is the fact that he doesn’t care who gets hurt. Look at the carnage in the Docklands this morning. Collins killed men, women and children and he won’t lose a moment’s sleep over it,” said King. “I’ve gone up against him twice, and he’s still in the wind. That concerns me.”

The telephone next to Ramsay sounded loudly and broke the tension. Ramsay didn’t speak for long and didn’t thank the caller. “Habib is at The Savoy Hotel. Kamal called him after your meeting. Habib called someone else, but there are no details on that call.”

“He called Collins, who was waiting for us when we hit the street,” said King. “He must be close…”

Both Caroline’s and Ramsay’s phones sounded as they received a text message. Ramsay read the message, concentrating and not looking at anyone. He placed the phone back on the desk and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Caroline said, “Kamal has just dumped over a million share options for company’s totalling a billion pounds,” she said, still looking at the text message from their contact inside Scotland Yard’s fiscal fraud squad, apparently with hope that it wasn’t true. “It must be happening imminently. After he’s brought London to a standstill and the stock market tumbles, he will buy the options back and make hundreds of millions for his investors, not to mention the loan interest on borrowing against the share capital.”

“Which means Habib and the terrorist organisations he is affiliated with will raise millions for their cause overnight,” Ramsay shook his head. “Strengthening them even further.” He turned to Big Dave and said, “Go and head off Tarik Kamal. The markets are in turmoil, and he will want to keep a low profile. I don’t want him getting away.”

The big Fijian stood up. “Where am I taking him?”

“Scotland Yard,” said Ramsay. “I didn’t want it thus, but we’ll have to bring Special Branch in now. And make sure that when Kamal is booked in, that he’s arrested on terrorism offences. I suppose in lieu of him taking a plunge from his window, Black Monday style, then we could make use of the maximum time interviewing him without charge.”

“OK, I’m on it.” Big Dave nodded and left the room without further word.

“Did you make the arrangements with Wing Commander Toksvig over at RAF Benson?” King asked. “Now’s the time to make the call.”

“I did,” Ramsay replied. “She’s still not your biggest fan.”

King shrugged as he got to his feet. He couldn’t have cared less. He wasn’t in this business to make friends. “Caroline, get one of the police choppers to fly me and Flymo to Helicopter Command in Oxfordshire.” He paused, looking at Ramsay. “This is late in the day. We’re going to need the police standing by at the bridges, and we’ll need a complete cell phone blackout. Get GCHQ to pull the plug. Collins can’t know we’re coming.”

“Police, yes. Blackout, no,” Ramsay replied. “We’ll be awash with human rights protests and labelled a police state.” He picked up his phone as King started to protest, then held up his hand. “No blackouts, so if you’re going, then go now!”

King cursed as he stormed out of the office. Caroline was making calls beside him as they marched past Mae’s desk and down the corridor towards the stairs. They were not about to waste time on the lift for just five floors. “That’s a mistake,” he said to her as she finished her call to RAF Benson. “We need to cut all comms for the next hour. Once we intercept the first bridge, then Collins, Habib and Kamal will know that we’re coming for them.”

“Ramsay’s hands are tied. We need to work with what we’ve got.”

King cursed loudly, then took a deep breath. “Whatever. Where’s the police chopper meeting us?”

“St. James’ Park.” She stopped as they stepped outside where Jim Kernow was waiting for her parked beside the kerb in the super-charged Jaguar and pulled him close kissing him on the lips. “Be careful, Alex,” she said as she pulled away.

“You too,” he said quietly, watching the vehicle accelerate fiercely.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Hursley, Hampshire

The Soviet Union had trained and deployed female snipers during the siege of Leningrad. Since then, the Red Army had seen a woman’s attributes of patience and critical thinking, and some would say downright cunning – and had utilised it ever since. The Russian federation was no different, and the military had invested much in female snipers, and as Russia did not have conscription for women, the women who made it through training did so because they wanted to be there. Katerina Baskakov was no different. She had come up through the military ranks and into the GRU, then transferred to the FSB. She was a committed individual, who had seen the role as sniper as entry to the Russian world of special forces and intelligence. After all, snipers gathered intelligence behind enemy lines every bit as much as they trained for the killer shot.

Nico Zukovsky had served a purpose. She had recruited him for the task, but he had unravelled at the opportunity to go on a vendetta. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. She had hoped that they could work together for the time being, because she had an agenda that needed specialist help. And she wasn’t going to get that degree of specialism from Jenko ‘The Blade’, because he was merely a cold-blooded butcher, and he had created a loose end in failing to kill the British agent in Prague on Christmas Eve. However, crisis could become opportunity if one knew how to play it, and the two fools who had insisted upon a demonstration from the British agent answering the dark web call for an expert marksman had served their purpose. The British, who treated everything as a challenge, had not disappointed. Monitoring both Jenko and Zukovsky’s communications, she knew where to be and when. She also knew that the British would not have been fools enough to stumble into their trap. And that would serve her well. She would use the two fools as bait, and strike when their trap was turned against them. She had got there before them, and she had observed everything. The range that Jenko and Zukovsky had made the day before, the mannequin sitting eerily atop the bench and Zukovsky’s infiltration through the trees to his vantage-point where he planned to kill the British sniper. Only the former colonel, hell-bent on revenge, had arrived more than an hour too late. She had observed the young man remove the mannequin and cut the face off the dummy before depositing it over the hedge and into a stream. He had then started his vigil, apparently strapped in place, the face of the dummy covering his own face in an eerie mask. She had watched as the British sniper had expertly concealed a dummy and rifle in the area that she would have chosen to take the shot at the mannequin. He had paid great attention to detail to cover the dummy over, because no sniper worth their salt would fall into the trap if they observed the ‘apparent’ sniper too easily. Katerina Baskakov had then lost sight of the sniper, and try as she might, she could not locate him again. However, she had surveyed the area thoroughly and deemed that there was simply only one area where the sniper could kill Zukovsky from. Otherwise, it would be a shot straight uphill from over a thousand metres away, and with the path of trajectory working to the negative, it would be a fool’s shot. Any shooter would have to make incredible calculations to account for the loss in bullet height and still have enough trajectory to send the bullet on target.

She watched as the young man tore off the coat that had once concealed the mannequin and checked on Jenko’s body. Should she risk a shot? No doubt, she could take the man’s own face off from here. No. If she gunned the young man down, then it would be doubtful that she could work the bolt of the Sako .270 rifle before the British sniper would locate her. No, patience was key. All she could do was wait. She had missed the sniper’s shot at Zukovsky, but with both men down, then he would surely show himself before long.

Katerina Baskakov prided herself on her stealth. She had the high ground, as her Spetsnaz instructors had taught her, and she had the advantage of being well concealed. She eased the rifle from left to right, taking in the ridge – the only place where the British sniper could be. There was a flicker of movement, and she rested rock-steady, as she watched. A pair of rabbit ears poked up, then rested back down as the animal grazed. Then an incredible thing happened – a tiny bird, she thought a blue tit, perched on the very tip of her rifle’s muzzle. Her sight-picture became a blur, the magnification too powerful to allow her to see the creature, but she could identify the bird when she opened her left eye just a little. She moved the rifle a touch, but the little bird gripped firmly, oblivious that it was so close to a human. She moved the rifle again, cursing quietly to herself as the bird remained on the tip of the cold barrel. Again, she moved the rifle, taking her aim downhill towards the far hedgerow. Then, she hissed through her teeth loudly and the bird took flight, its wings beating so quickly that the air was displaced and the flutter sounded like a pack of cards being thumbed through by a croupier. She closed her left eye again, then frowned as she saw a flash, and then the sight of a person behind a rifle scope some thousand metres away, at the bottom of the valley. An impossible shot.

Except that it wasn’t.

Chapter Fifty-Three

“Just like the last mission!” Flymo screamed as he levelled the dive, the Apache gunship righting just feet above the river. “I was born for this shit!”

King wasn’t. He would have gripped something for dear life had there been something to hold onto. The last time he had flown like this it had been over Russia in the stolen prototype. Even with his limited knowledge, he could see that the Apache Longbow was decades behind the Eagle’s Talon, which now rested at the bottom of the Barents Sea. He checked the sights of the gatling gun in front of him, knowing that Flymo would be on the cannons, rockets and missiles, all alternated and activated by the switches on his control.

“That’s the first barge,” King said as Hampton Court bridge loomed up on them.

“Missile away,” Flymo announced casually.

“Oh, shit, we’re doing this then,” said King. “No recce first?”

“No time, brother!” The Hellfire whooshed ahead of them in a cloud of acrid smoke, and they were buffeted by the missile’s backwash. The bright flame of the exhaust streaked, the missile lurching at the last minute to hit the barge broadside. The explosion was a vivid yellow and covered the width of the river before dispersing, leaving both halves of the vessel in flames, before they started to sink. There were two survivors, both leaping into the river in flames and floundering in the icy water. “What about survivors?” Flymo asked.

“Leave them. Launch platforms only,” said King. “The police are en route to each bridge. They can arrest any survivors, if they live that long in the freezing water.” Flymo pulled hard on the controls, and they climbed over the bridge before dropping back, skimming the water’s surface. “Kingston Bridge and Kingston Railway Bridge in quick succession,” he told him.

“On it,” Flymo replied. “I’ll get us some height for these two. Unless they’re already underneath them, that is…”

With the altitude came a wider view and as the helicopter dived, Flymo released another missile, then switched to guns. The explosion detonated much like the first, and the 30mm cannon rattled, streaking tracer rounds ahead of them like fireworks, the bullets peppering the small day boat with the mortar pointing skywards. The men had not had time to anchor beneath the bridge and disembark where they would launch remotely. Both vessels were sinking, and King realised how in tune Flymo was – as all combat pilots were – to the threat and surroundings. He had not identified the second vessel by the time it had been hit and started to sink. The ability of combat pilots to make multiple decisions and calculations was awe-inspiring, and Flymo seemed to have an otherworldly ability to do this.

Three bridges. Three threats neutralised. Teddington Lock Footbridge was next. King could see the barge broadside, directly underneath. “I’m on it,” King said as he fired the .50 calibre gatling gun, plumes of water a metre high erupting like geysers as the bullets tracked towards the vessel, which when hit, was split almost in two. Flymo climbed above the bridge, and they continued flying on their course from west to east towards Richmond Bridge. King checked his watch. They were cutting it fine. Could they make all thirty-five bridges? King wouldn’t like to bet on it, but he would die trying and thought that if Flymo continued to fly as erratically, then that could be a distinct possibility. “Richmond Bridge and Richmond Railway Bridge coming up in quick succession,” he said, but Flymo was already climbing to get a better field of view. Flymo pulled the aircraft into his signature cobra manoeuvre to halt them mid-air, the nose bowing back down as they entered a hover so that they could better survey the battleground ahead. The narrowboat was already beneath the railway bridge, and two men were clambering out into a rowing boat. Their intention would be to detonate the mortar remotely from the riverbank. Flymo engaged a Hellfire missile, and the craft erupted into matchwood. The 30mm cannon destroyed the boat underneath the railway bridge, the bullets striking a mortar round and blowing the craft and crew to pieces. “We’re not even in the city yet,” King commented flatly, checking his watch for the second time in thirty seconds. “Can we get ahead?”

“We can, but we’re against the clock.” Flymo’s voice echoed in King’s headset. “We risk alerting the terrorists between us and the city bridges. If the attack truly is synchronised, then I can make it…”

“Really?”

Flymo strafed the next craft with rockets as they drew near Twickenham Bridge, then climbed higher. “I can do it!”

King nodded. The man hadn’t let him down yet, and there was nobody he would have trusted at the controls more than the ex-Army Air Corps pilot. “I’ve got this one,” he said, this time closing the bullets with more accuracy as he strafed the vessel just under the waterline. “Got him!” he exclaimed excitedly as the narrowboat lurched to starboard and started to sink. King just had time to observe the exposed mortar tube pointing way off target from the bridge.

The boats underneath Richmond Lock and Footbridge, Kew Bridge, Kew Railway Bridge, Chiswick Bridge were all dealt with in the same manner, all sinking after rockets and either .50 calibre or 30mm bullets tore them to shreds. There was a police presence at the bridges now, uniformed officers cordoning off the area, dispersing the public and after the boats were destroyed, arresting the crew who were lucky enough to make it to shore. Fire Service and Ambulance Service vehicles were waiting, lights strobing as the police cleared the area. Camera phones were filming their progress, and the internet and social media being what it was, people were waiting at each successive bridge hoping to catch the show. The public now knew that something was happening, that a helicopter was flying along the river and destroying boats. Was it terrorism? Had someone from the military gone rogue? All King knew when he noticed the growing presence was that if the public knew what was happening, then so would Collins and his paymasters. He just hoped that the team could take care of that end while he continued to put down the threat and stop the attack in its tracks.

The radio chirped into life. “Alex, we’ve lost the Hammersmith and Waterloo Bridges,” Caroline said sombrely. “Armed police have intercepted the threat to Vauxhall Bridge and Westminster Bridge…” Her voice crackled over King’s headset. “There’s a standoff at Lambeth… heavy gunfire between armed police and the terrorists… Collins has brought it all forwards. There was too much social media attention… it’s tipped his hand…”

King cursed loudly as he watched the volley of rockets sink another barge that had been close to anchoring underneath Chiswick Bridge. The helicopter climbed steeply then went into a dive and as Barnes Railway Bridge loomed upon them, they could see the smouldering hulk of Hammersmith Bridge in the background lying across the river in two. Caroline cut out, and King knew that it would be down to GCHQ finally shutting down the cell towers in reaction to the social media posts. Fifteen minutes too late. King felt validated in wanting a cell blackout but took no pleasure in it. They had failed. Now it was damage limitation. He turned to Flymo and said, “Get us to Tower Bridge, now!”

“Plenty of bridges between us and Tower Bridge, brother…”

“Do it now!” King snapped. “It’s all about high-value targets for the terrorists now. Tower Bridge is the bridge literally everyone in the world thinks of when they picture London. And if Collins is going to be anywhere near the bridges, then it will be at the ultimate target.”

Ahead of them an explosion blew debris and smoke into the air. King could see bridges between their position and the explosion, and he thought that it was Battersea Railway Bridge. Between them, blue strobes flashed at each end of the remaining bridges. The police were getting to the locations, he just hoped that enough of them were armed response units. The city lay before them, with the Thames winding and widening into the distance. Below them, Blackfriars Bridge was engulfed in smoke and debris and the shrapnel of stone and render peppered the underside of the helicopter like birdshot from a shotgun. Flymo ducked instinctively and the Apache lurched to the side as a mortar round streaked past them. When he righted the aircraft, they watched in horror as the projectile landed in the middle of a busy crossroads. Vehicles were blown onto their sides and bodies catapulted in the air amid smoke, debris and shrapnel.

“Jesus Christ…” Flymo said incredulously. “If I didn’t flinch at the controls just then, that would have killed us for sure.”

King said nothing. If it had hit them, then the poor souls at the crossroads wouldn’t have been killed or maimed. But it hadn’t, and both King and Flymo were still alive. He’d take that result anytime, but he wasn’t about to gloat over it. “Just get us to Tower Bridge, mate.”

“Ordnance is running low, King. You’ve got about five seconds’ burst on that gatling gun, and I have around the same on the cannon. One Hellfire missile remaining, and just six rockets.” He dropped into a steep dive, and when he levelled out, he engaged the rockets on a narrowboat anchored underneath Southwark Bridge with two men setting up the mortar. One of the men was holding a shell, about to drop it into the mortar tube. The narrowboat was blown to pieces, both men obliterated before they could fire. “That’s the rockets out,” he said calmly as he started to climb away from the river surface. “Tower Bridge in sight.”

King nodded. “Then you’d better make that last Hellfire count…”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Hampshire

Nature was perfect. Once you understood nature, then it was possible to look at it differently and interpret the meaning. The language of nature. Colour, shape and movement – its patterns were endless. In many ways, the art – and he would always consider his skill an art form – of a sniper was aided by nature. Or hampered, depending on the skills of the individual. A true marksman would use all of nature to become a part of the landscape. Colour, shape, shadow – even temperature, air-pressure and wind – all of these were factors to be considered with every shot. It was no more than hunting. Something our ancestors had done for millennia.

Rashid understood his surroundings and he was attuned to its anomalies. He had taken the low ground because he knew that it would be a position discounted by all but a few of the best marksmen in the world. Bullet trajectory was key to the discipline, and that trajectory was aided immeasurably by elevation. Confident that his position would be overlooked by an enemy sniper, Rashid had settled in and waited. He had spotted the Russian male, who had been sucked in by the ruse. Rashid had hidden the dummy well, leaving just the rifle and black army boots exposed. On the spectrum of every conceivable colour in nature, black was a rarity. The sniper had spotted the tell-tale signs and taken his shot. Rashid had nailed the man through the head with a .338 bullet less than two seconds later. He had switched his attention back to the female sniper, but to his annoyance he had lost her in the thick grass of the hedgerow that had escaped the farmer’s cutters at the end of the summer. Now dormant and lop-sided, the grass was still thick enough to conceal his enemy. Until that was, the tiny colourful blue-tit had perched and flapped its wings as it preened itself between feeding. Too early in the year to nest or breed, the little bird had one thing on its mind and that was to feed enough to survive the winter. It was the height of the bird that drew Rashid’s attention. The grass was lolling sideways, not producing enough sugar through photosynthesis in the dull light of winter which made it limp and brown. The bird, however, looked to be fully supported. There was no fallen branch, no sapling – nothing to give it a perch within the grass. Rashid noticed the amount of movement. The fluttering of its wings, the beak preening its feathered breast, then it looked around itself for its next feed, its body steady. Rashid adjusted the reticle on the scope and the bird grew in his lens as it was magnified. The barrel of the rifle was black. Not the old-fashioned ‘gun blue’ of decades previous, but a solid, matt black. He could see the rifle scope beyond the barrel, and from there he moved his crosshairs onto the woman’s temple. She had been concentrating her search for him on the high ground, then tracked the rifle down the hill to the low ground as she searched in desperation for her target, and as Rashid took up the tension on the two-stage trigger, he wondered whether she would hear the shot that would kill her.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Tower Bridge, London

They were onto them. That much was clear. Social media had done what it did best, and the world knew that London was under attack. First had come the reports of a rogue military helicopter on the rampage, and then it had become clear that the military was countering an offensive. Collins had flown into a rage. The British intelligence or military was countering an offensive just minutes before it had been set to attack. Collins now knew that many of the barges had been destroyed, but it wasn’t going all their own way. He had sent out a group text – just minutes before the cell tower blackout – for the men to attack at will. Bridges had been destroyed, hundreds of people killed or injured as they crossed the bridges by rail, public transport, car and foot. It was still a win for Habib and Kamal – even for himself – but not as terrific as it could have been. It could have been a statement, another 9/11 where the attack was total, and the military, police and intelligence services had known nothing but defeat. He shrugged it off. He had still made his mark, and despite the agreement between himself and both Kamal and Habib stipulating that he would only get the remainder of his fee if all thirty-five bridges were destroyed, it wasn’t as if their agreement would stand up in court. Richard Collins knew enough about both men, their family, business and friendship circles to change their mind. A finger here, a fire there… perhaps a life or two… men like Kamal and Habib were soon swayed when they saw the bigger picture.

Collins had wanted Tower Bridge most of all. He had placed himself there, had made sure that the barge was equipped with four mortar rounds. Many of the bridges had only required one. A shot to the centre, detonated remotely was all it had taken. Some of the bridges were deemed by Collins’ structural engineering expert to require two. These floating platforms had been off-set to allow for a follow-up shot, loaded manually by the team of two men required to operate the system. Many of these men were illegal immigrants with experience fighting in Afghanistan, South Sudan and Syria. For the required four mortar rounds destined for Tower Bridge, the barge had been anchored one-hundred metres upriver. The ordinance would not detonate into the underside of the bridge as others had done, and he had his two most experienced men ready, the calculations meticulously made for four aerial volleys.

Collins watched as a series of explosions mid-river meant that another of the barges had been destroyed before it could fire upon the bridge. He saw the Apache Longbow fire a burst of bullets into the water, before levelling up and flying straight towards the prize. Tower Bridge. Old, resplendent and steeped in history. The bridge that a wealthy American thought he had bought and shipped to Arizona, only to discover that he had bought the infamous, but architecturally inferior London Bridge. Collins checked his phone, but there was still no signal. He watched as the helicopter flew just metres from the surface of the river, coming ever closer into view. All around him, police sirens wailed, and the blue strobes bounced off the windows of the surrounding buildings. The two men should have fired a round by now, and Collins’ heart sunk as he saw the two men dive into the water as a stream of bullets pummelled the surface before peppering their vessel. A missile snaked from the aircraft in a puff of smoke and tail fire and struck the barge blowing it instantly to smithereens.

Collins cursed as people all around him cheered. It was now evident to the onlookers that the helicopter was countering an attack, and they seemed to be doing a fine job of it. He walked back to his vehicle and reached inside, removing a coat that was covering his weapons on the rear bucket seats. He took out the Sterling sub-machinegun, loaded it and slung it around his neck on its webbing sling. Then he picked up the M16 rifle with its M203 40mm grenade launcher which was fixed underneath the fore-end. He slung it over his shoulder and made his way to the bridge. Two armed police officers were covering a group of uniformed police officers who were throwing ropes out to the two stricken men in the water. Collins cut both officers down with the Sterling and as he walked past them, he snatched up a Heckler & Koch G36 and casually emptied the magazine into the two men struggling in the water, then sent a burst into the police officers before tossing it over the side of the bridge. He fired upon more officers at the other end of the bridge, downing two and sending the crowd running, then when the Sterling was empty, he tossed it into the river. He was now standing in the middle of the bridge and slowly shouldering the M16.

“I know that’s you up there, King…” he said quietly. “Who the fuck else would do something like this…?” He steadied his aim, then fired single, well-aimed shots at the cockpit.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Canary Wharf, London

Big Dave knew where he was going and walked right past reception. He paused at the barrier only to swipe the security pass that King had taken off the guard on his previous visit and headed for one of the thirty-two high speed lifts. Tarik Kamal’s offices were on the forty-seventh floor and the ride in the lift was swift and slightly unnerving when the big Fijian worked out just how fast the lift would be going as the floors streaked by one-by-one, and he arrived in under forty seconds. He stepped out onto the floor and was met by a hub of activity as people moved about in a state of unease, and he could see why. The view over the city showed vast plumes of smoke at several locations, and the cell coverage had gone down creating panic amongst a workforce who practically lived with a phone in their hand. Without stopping, Big Dave elbowed a fire alarm, and the panic only increased as files were dropped, doors were closed and people headed for the stairwells en mass. Fearing another 9/11 as the city was clearly under attack, nobody seemed keen to remain at their post.

Big Dave knew Tarik Kamal’s face. Not only had he memorised the man’s photo but now had his phone in his hand ready to identify the man amidst the chaos. He elbowed another fire alarm for good measure but needn’t have bothered as the general alarm was now sounding. He recognised the man’s stature first, his expensive and fashionable horn-rimmed glasses next. Finally, he settled on the man’s face. It was him. No doubt about it. He caught hold of the man by his bicep as he hurried past, his fingers digging in and anchoring him to the spot.

“Tarik Kamal?” he asked, but he could already see the flicker in the man’s eyes as he looked up at him. No amount of denying the fact would get the Saudi out of this.

“Who are you? And let go, you’re hurting me!”

“We need to talk,” Big Dave told him and led him towards the terrace.

The forty-seventh floor of One Canada Square had a stylish terrace and bar area, and not only was it closed to the public, but it was the highest terrace in the United Kingdom. Somewhere for the great and the good to conduct their business. Or not so great and not so good, as it turned out. As they stepped through the glass and chrome doors and into the chilled air, the sounds of chaos and sirens met them, punctuated somewhat soberly by explosions. An Apache Longbow helicopter gunship hovered over Tower Bridge in the distance, and small arms fire echoed around the buildings below them, and in the river far below there were bodies floating with the current.

“Quite the shit-storm you’ve whipped up,” Big Dave said, pushing him onto the terrace and releasing his grip.

“I want my lawyer!”

“You won’t be rebuying the shares on options anytime soon.”

“You can’t stop me! I have the right to buy and sell. It’s what my clients pay me handsomely to do!”

“Not when those clients are terrorists, and not when you’ve instigated an attack to make a financial killing.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“People have died, Kamal.” Big Dave paused as an explosion sounded in the distance. “People are dying right now!”

“I want my lawyer…” the man persisted.

“Habib should be under arrest right about now.”

“So?”

“So, he’ll talk. They always do. And he’ll point the finger at you. Your legitimate clients will vote with their feet. Genus Financial will be bankrupt within the week.”

“Not if I can buy back the stock options,” Kamal said. “I’ll cut you a deal. Let me go, and I’ll transfer five-million. Anywhere in the world. I’ll do it right now.” He paused, shaking his head in bemusement. “You know how government works, right? People die. That’s just a sad fact of life. Gaza, Ukraine… it’s all business! Who gives a fuck, right? So, I run my business like a government. What’s the big deal? Business is interrupted. A few people die before their time. But we don’t know them, why should we care? There’s hundreds of millions, perhaps a billion or more coming off this venture. I can cut you a deal. You’ll never need to worry about money again!”

“I don’t worry about it now,” the Big Fijian shrugged. “I don’t have any, so I’m not worried about it.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Kamal scoffed. “Look, let me go and I’ll make you a multi-millionaire before we walk out of here. Before that damned fire bell stops ringing.” He shrugged. “A six-figure sort-code and an eight-digit account number. That’s it. Give me that, and you’ll be set for life.”

“And all those deaths don’t matter to you?”

“Not one little bit. And it shouldn’t bother you, either. They’re just commodities. And I trade in commodities.”

Big Dave stared at him, but then he looked at the six-foot-high glass panel surrounding the terrace. It must have been an inch thick. He imagined that it would stop a 9mm bullet. The architects could not afford to take any chances when the terrace was on the forty-seventh floor. “How much do you weigh, Mr Kamal?”

The Saudi frowned at him. “Sixty-five kilos, why?”

Big Dave heard another explosion followed by several bursts of automatic gunfire. He caught sight of his own reflection in the man’s spectacles. The man who had caused all this death and destruction merely to strengthen his company’s portfolio and increase his personal wealth. The man who saw human lives – the innocent lives men, women and children as they floated in the Thames below them – as stock to be traded. Big Dave walked up to him. Sixty-five kilos was around ten and a half stone in old money. He grabbed the man by his throat with his left hand, choking him and feeling him go limp in his clasp. With his right hand, he caught hold of the man’s belt and in one swift motion lifted Kamal clean off his feet and pressed him to his chest like a barbell. Barely giving himself time to recover, he powered his arms upwards completing the ‘clean and jerk’ lift and sent Kamal over the top of the glass screen and out into the fresh air.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Savoy Hotel, London

She had been transported back in time. Not just because the moment you stepped into The Savoy Hotel’s foyer, you were transported into a world of timeless elegance and opulence, but because she had been fortunate enough to stay here once, and had also attended two ridiculous debutante balls, thankfully not as a debutante, but rather as one of the ensemble ladies. It had been the curse of attending first-class public school and ladies’ college. She had smiled at the thought of how horrified her school chums had been when she had gone up to Sandhurst and started an army career. She wondered how the lives of those debutantes had turned out, and whether they had been fulfilled by shoots, fox-hunting and fitting in charitable pursuits of enrichment between their affairs, and then she realised that she simply didn’t care.

The hotel’s grand entrance exuded sophistication, with its marble floors that glistened under the soft glow of the chandeliers. These magnificent chandeliers, adorned with sparkling crystals, cast a warm, inviting light that danced across the room, creating an aura of luxury and refinement. The walls of the foyer were adorned with exquisite artwork, each piece carefully selected to reflect the rich history and cultural heritage of this iconic hotel. She glanced at Jim Kernow beside her, hoping that if they had to draw their weapons, then they wouldn’t get any blood splatter on these wonderful pictures.

“Ramsay’s contact here said that they were checking out at two,” Kernow said as he surveyed the foyer. “Don’t they know that check in is at three and checkout is at eleven? Always was on my family hols.”

“Yes, but a three-star all-inclusive in Benidorm is a bit different to The Savoy,” she chided. “Didn’t you know, dahling…?” she mocked in her best throwback accent to her ladies’ college days.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that we went to La Palma, not Benidorm. We were practically the international set,” he chuckled.

Caroline caught his arm and held him back. “This looks promising,” she said, as a tall, heavy-set man of clearly Middle Eastern ethnicity approached the desk. “Habib wouldn’t check out. That would be his PA’s job, and in lieu of that, and wishing to keep a low profile, I guess it’s his minder’s job today.”

Kernow drew his weapon, keeping it down by his side.

“We can’t go guns-in,” Caroline told him.

“The hell we can’t,” the Cornishman replied. “I’m not playing games and testing my quick-draw skills against a professional bodyguard.”

“We need Habib,” she said. “Keep your eyes on the bodyguard while I take a wander…”

She did not have to wander far. Habib was tipping the concierge, who in turn made a call. A private car to the airport was Caroline’s guess. A last-minute arrangement that would not have left a trail. She had learned her lesson from Canary Wharf and although she still had the Derringer on her, she had requisitioned a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm pistol. Their job now was to make a hard arrest, then hand over both Habib and his bodyguard to Special Branch police officers, where MI5 would then have official access to them, and along with the arrest being on terrorism charges, then they would have fourteen days to question them before charging them, compared to the standard twenty-four hours. However, Ramsay had insisted that they did not make the call until both men were in their custody. There was to be no trail, no chance of communication interception. Ironically, MI5 still did not have the power of arrest, so they would be making a citizen’s arrest just like the average person on the street could utilise if necessary.

Caroline glanced back across the foyer. She did not have the opportunity to warn Kernow, so she was going to have to confront Habib without him, and hope that he would be able to arrest the hulking bodyguard on his own. She started towards Habib, but the concierge looked at her as she approached, and it was enough to make the Saudi turn around. Wasting no time, she drew the pistol and shouted, “British security forces! Put your hands in the air and get down on the ground!” Habib stared at her defiantly. The confused concierge had hit the ground, spread-eagled and terrified at the sight of the gun. Habib looked at him and smiled, then he looked back at Caroline and slowly slipped his hand inside his jacket. “Don’t do it!” Caroline screamed at him. “Hands where I can see them!” She heard a commotion behind her, but she could not take her eyes off the man in front of her. His hand, so dangerously placed where she could not see what it was reaching for, nor indeed what it was holding. “Get on the floor!”

There was a momentary flicker of acceptance upon his face, then a steely resolve. Habib snatched out his hand and pointed it towards her. Caroline fired two shots. A double tap. Both rounds hit, as she had been trained to do so, in the centre body mass. Habib slumped, dropping his phone. Caroline kept her weapon trained on him, but there was no gun. Just a black mobile phone that had clattered on the marble floor and now rested still. Habib stared at her defiantly, his breathing ragged, blood forming at his lips as he smiled.

“He wasn’t armed…” a voice echoed around the foyer.

“She gunned him down and he didn’t even have a gun…”

“Call the police, she killed him for nothing…”

“Hello… yes, police please… Where? Yes, The Savoy Hotel… Yes, someone has been shot. Murdered in cold blood… Please hurry…”

Habib’s smile was fixed firmly, his eyes cast to the floor as he died. Caroline saw the moment his life left them, the eerie way they became animated in death. Dry and opaque. It could not be faked. Could not be acted out on the screen. Caroline bent down to protests of “Leave him alone!” and “She’s got a gun!” She ignored the shouts as she checked Habib’s pockets, but aside from his wallet, there was nothing else in them. She stood up and turned to Jim Kernow across the foyer, who was standing over the hulking bodyguard. The man was out cold and Kernow was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. Police sirens filled the air, flashing blue strobes dancing off the walls and the expensive oil portraits and watercolour scenes.

“Habib wasn’t armed,” she said numbly as she walked over to him.

“This fella was,” Kernow said, nodding towards the Ruger LLP compact .380 pistol. He had removed the magazine and cleared the weapon and left it on the ground beside his feet. It did not look like the bodyguard was going anywhere soon, and he had been rolled over into the recovery position.

“He knew I would fire… he gave me no choice.” She paused. “He used me to commit suicide.”

“Suicide by cop,” Kernow said quietly, then added, “Or something like that.” He looked up as Commander Bridger, the Special Branch detective who had been assigned the handover stepped into the foyer.

“I’m in the shit, Jim…” Caroline said tearfully. “He was unarmed.”

“He didn’t give you a choice.”

Bridger, flanked by uniformed police officers and plain-clothed detectives was met by the duty manager and a phalanx of witnesses. He looked at Caroline across the foyer and started walking towards her.

“Caroline Darby, I am arresting you on suspicion of causing death by misadventure while performing your duties within the Security Service,” Kernow told her. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“What are you doing?” Commander Bridger asked, his tone both short and hostile. “You can’t arrest my suspect! You know full well what you’re doing! You’re keeping her out of the system… she needs to be charged or released within twenty-four hours!”

“I am Chief Superintendent James Kernow, Diplomatic Protection,” he said calmly as he took Caroline’s weapon from her. “This woman has been arrested on a non-terrorism related offence.”

“This is my crime scene!” Bridger protested.

“The arrest was made before you approached the suspect,” Kernow replied. “Your arrest is a known ISIS terrorist, and his weapon is at my feet,” he said, nodding towards the Ruger on the floor.

“De-arrest that woman at once!”

“No, I am not willing to do that. The woman in question was acting from intelligence gathered by the Security Service and was in the process of making a citizen’s arrest. I have no reason to believe that this is a terrorist-related charge, and you are here for the arrest of two known terrorists with links to Isis and Al-Qaeda.”

“Let me see your ID.”

Kernow flashed his MI5 identity card, and his police warrant card, which had been re-instated after his retirement when he had come to work for Ramsay as his personal protection officer.

“I out-rank you,” Commander Bridger protested.

“You know as well as I do that the rank of commander in Special Branch is level with the Metropolitan Police Service’s chief superintendent.” Kernow turned to Caroline and held out his hand. “Hand me your weapon.” Caroline obliged and Kernow pocketed it. “My prisoner, Commander. I’ll be sure to let you know which station processes her…” He led Caroline across the foyer. “Has Ramsay got a team of good lawyers on his books?”

“No idea.”

“Well, you’re going to need a bloody good one,” Kernow replied.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Tower Bridge, London

Bullets impacted on the cockpit plexiglass, chipping and cracking the hardened plastic, the flattened copper and lead making spider’s web patterns. Both men flinched initially, surprised by the incoming fire. However, their experience told them it was small-arms fire, unlikely to breach the glass. Flymo countered by making small adjustments to both altitude and attitude and the bullets whizzed past, tracer rounds being visible in both directions. Which was always a risk for the shooter, because Flymo now knew where to direct his fire. He rattled off a short burst on the 30mm cannon, but after a few rounds the trigger control went slack.

“Shit, I’m out of lead!”

King fired the .50 calibre gatling gun, and a stream of tracer lit up the dull sky like lasers in a sci-fi movie. Again, the trigger went slack, and the gatling gun whirred harmlessly powered by its electric motor. “Me too…”

Flymo lifted the helicopter, and they could see a figure running across the bridge firing at them as he ran, the bullets peppering the fuselage and pilot’s side of the cockpit. “Damn it!”

“That’s Collins!” King shouted through the comms. “Put me down there!” King was already unbuckling his harness and taking off his helmet. He had the SCAR battle rifle in his lap, but the cockpit was tight on space. He lost sight of the man as Flymo touched down on the south bank. King scrambled out and darted across the tarmac. He could see Collins take cover beside one of many abandoned vehicles on the bridge. He fired a short burst, and the man ducked for cover. Flymo was back in the air and heading the man off on the north bank. King understood what Flymo was doing and in lieu of weapons he could still harass the man and get the rotors frighteningly close to him. King found cover beside a stone buttress – far more favourable than a vehicle – which King aimed at and turned into Swiss cheese with a burst of automatic fire. He changed to his only spare magazine and moved forwards to another buttress. Collins fired wildly at him, then ducked back down. King sprinted to another buttress, closing the distance between them to less than a hundred metres. He watched as the Apache flew low over the water, its rotors at eye-level and less than a hundred metres from them. He aimed at the vehicle, waiting for Collins to chance a look. Instead, he heard the hollow ‘whump’ and saw the 40mm grenade arc and land directly on the spinning blades. The explosion was all smoke with barely a glimmer of flame, but that was how grenades worked, and the Apache spun wildly before crashing down into the water on its belly. King watched aghast as Flymo opened the door, then was forced to duck back inside the sinking hulk as Collins emptied his magazine at the helicopter. King fired two short bursts and Collins sprinted clear of the damaged vehicle and dived behind another. King sprinted hard in pursuit and emptied his weapon at Collins as the man chanced a shot. Collins stood up, fired three shots, then cursed and ditched his weapon. King dropped his own rifle to the ground and drew the Makarov. As Collins darted out from cover, King skidded to a halt and fired three shots. King caught sight of a puff of blood and the man went over the side of the bridge. When he got to the spot where Collins had gone over, he saw blood on the ground and the guard rail. King took a breath before peering over the guard rail. He could see the ever-decreasing circles from where Collins had splashed into the water. King turned his attention to the helicopter and could see Flymo sculling on his back the short distance to the southern bank. He turned back to the point where Collins had gone in and steadied his aim, waiting for the man to surface. When he did, he would empty the rest of the magazine into him without remorse. But he never did. No sign of a body, no swirls as the man swam for his life beneath the surface. Nothing. Not a trace. King waited, scouring the surface for a sign of movement. He then turned his attention to the banks of the river. There were few places where someone could exit the water, and as he watched he had a sinking feeling that would not permit him to acknowledge his victory. Without a body, he could not confirm the kill. And there was nothing. No sign. Not a damned thing.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Palace of Westminster, London

Jim Kernow waited outside as Ramsay wheeled himself into the Prime Minister’s office. Ramsay had not told the man of his suspicions, but he could tell that the stocky Cornishman knew a bad situation when he saw one. This was the Prime Minister’s informal office above the House of Commons in parliament. No cameras or prying eyes like in Downing Street.

“Come in, sit down…” the Prime Minister looked at Ramsay as he directed his wheelchair towards his desk, apparently not realising his faux pas, or indeed caring.

“I’m always sitting down these days, Prime Minister.”

“Indeed,” he replied, but he wasn’t going to linger. “That was an unmitigated disaster.”

“We had little to go on, and we saved seventy per cent of the bridges. Considering that we only identified the target, or targets earlier that day, I think it was a resounding success.” He paused, somewhat irritated that the man in the highest position of UK office could not look at him as he signed his papers. “We have to get lucky every time. The terrorists only have to get lucky once.”

“I understand,” replied the Prime Minister. “But to be honest, I don’t much like this special department that you’re heading. My predecessor may have been a bit of a maverick and fall for such specialist remits. I, however, am a human rights lawyer at heart and do not think that anybody is above the law. Departments of my intelligence and security services included. In fact, even more so. For successful convictions and sentences to be upheld, the services that bring these people to justice must be whiter than white and held to a higher account.”

Ramsay smiled thinly and said, “I once thought that, too, Prime Minister. I was always opposed to breaking the law, using force and disregarding protocols. However, as I moved up the chain of command, finally reaching the position where the buck stopped with me, I realised that you simply could not apply the rule of law to an enemy who cares not one jot for the lives of the innocent. We are not the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. We cannot just remove the rats with a pretty little tune. We need a big stick and people who are willing to use it.”

“And there you have it,” he replied. “Because you are under the impression that the buck stops with you, when really it stops with me. And I will not have people working under me who have delusions of grandeur, and a propensity for violence. Humanity comes in many forms. We are all human after all. It is not only immoral to become judge, jury and executioner. It is utterly inhumane.” He paused. “And it will no longer stand while I am in Number Ten.”

“You’re shutting us down?”

“You have a female officer who has been charged with murder. Expect a manslaughter conviction at best, and some serious prison time. She is now on remand, at His Majesty’s pleasure…”

“An absolute travesty,” Ramsay seethed. “She was doing her job, and Habib’s bodyguard was armed with an illegal weapon, a prohibited one at that, and without possessing a firearm’s licence. Habib baited my officer, left her no choice.”

“And she will be judged by a jury.”

“No doubt, but she should never have been incarcerated. If it was to go to trial, then she should have been bailed!”

“Tarik Kamal’s death is suspicious,” the Prime Minister continued without commenting on Caroline’s fate. “But not as suspicious as the CCTV footage being wiped.”

“I’m not sure what you are implying, Prime Minister.”

“Oh, you are, Neil.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree. Tarik Kamal committed suicide. His operation failed.”

“Tell that to the one-hundred and ninety-two mourning families.” The Prime Minister paused. “I wouldn’t call that a failure in terms of a terrorist attack. And what about the bodies in Hampshire?”

“That was a separate mission in tandem with the attack.”

“Connected in any way?”

“No. However, the woman who was killed was one of the brains behind the Eagle’s Talon operation.”

“Another failure by your department!”

“No, sir. The prototype was taken from the Russians, the other prototypes destroyed on the ground and in the air.” Ramsay paused. “My agents saw an escalation in the Barent’s Sea becoming imminent, one that could have meant a naval engagement between our two countries, so they sent the last prototype to the bottom of the ocean. We don’t have it, but the Russians no longer have it. It relaxed tensions, disarmed the situation altogether. That’s the very definition of détente, Prime Minister.”

“The Hampshire police report makes for fantastical reading.”

“Russian agents hunting down British intelligence officers. If not terrorism, then an act of war, Prime Minister.”

“The Russians deny their employment. Ex-service personnel with their own agendas,” the Prime Minister spread his hands. “The country has national conscription. Every man and his dog is ex-service personnel. It’s simply a headline, nothing more.”

“It was a legitimate operation, brought to my department by GCHQ. We ran with it, and we neutralised an enemy threat.”

“I’m not hearing reason, I’m hearing rhetoric. Well-practised rhetoric. I knew it was too soon for you to return to work. You suffered a terrible injury, was tragically paralysed…”

“I don’t need reminding of that fact!”

“You were injured during your service,” the Prime Minister conceded. “And I am grateful for your exemplary service, thus far. However, people feel…”

“Which people?”

“People who hold both high position, and high regard within government and the intelligence services, feel, as do I, that your judgement has been affected lately. Since your… accident.”

“Since my paralysis after an assassination attempt, let’s call it what it was.”

“Indeed,” the Prime Minister said, his tone conciliatory. “Let’s be honest, the police could have handled the situation in London, Neil. You used your clearance status to requisition a military helicopter and wage war inside our capital. This recklessness cannot stand.” He shook his head, his expression somewhere between exasperation and revelation, as if suddenly justifying something he had been in a quandary about. But no more. Ramsay could see it in his eyes. “Your department no longer stands apart from the Secret Intelligence Service and the Security Service. Your position has become untenable. You will not return to your offices. Your second in command will receive instructions on closing your investigations, relinquishing your files and letting your employees go.”

“My second in command is currently on remand in Bronzefield prison,” Ramsay replied curtly.

“Very well, then someone will be appointed to transition the closure.”

“My officer is facing a murder charge. She is entitled to both unwavering support and the very best legal representation. Closing my department puts her trial, moreover, her chances of a fair trial in jeopardy. My officer is not going to be a scapegoat or made an example of for someone else’s socio-political agenda.”

“With respect, Neil, I don’t see that there’s much you can do about it. I have faith in the British legal system, so should you.” He pressed a button on his desk and the door opened moments later, two aids standing in the doorway. The Prime Minister returned his eyes to his desk and continued to sign his papers.

“If I may, Prime Minister…”

“No, you may not. Good day, Mr Ramsay. These gentlemen will escort you out.”

Chapter Sixty

HM Prison Bronzefield, Surrey

Prison had a smell all of its own. Unique. Damp, cleaning chemicals, urine and sweat – all punctuated with the heady aroma of food that was unique to hospitals, prisons and schools. How food with fundamentally such little flavour could smell so damned intense, King would never know. And he knew. He had spent time in several prisons, in and out of the system as a young man. That yo-yoing had ended with HMP Dartmoor. A place so stark, cold and damp that he never once felt warm during his incarceration. When he had stepped foot in that place, he had promised himself that he would never return, but he was in for life and would have been an old man if he ever made parole had Peter Stewart not thrown him a lifeline.

HMP Bronzefield was no different than the prisons he knew all those years ago, despite being exclusively for female prisoners. Prison was an assault on the senses. Doors slamming, shouts and screams and profanities, and that was just the guards. King was seated at a table that must have been bought off the same company with school contracts. There were both male and female prison guards at each end of the room, and women sat opposite their visitors, with gaggles of children. King could tell that seventy per cent of the prisoners were repeat offenders or soon would be. Their partners all looked as if they knew what it was like to do time themselves, and he suspected that many of the children would experience it in years to come, too. Vending machines provided chocolate bars and cans of soft drinks, and some people nursed stewed teas or weak coffees in cardboard cups as they talked. Some of the women were allowed to cuddle their children and bounce them on their knees. King noticed that these women were heavily scrutinised by the guards. Sad, that a child could be a mule for smuggling drugs and illegal contraband.

Caroline walked in, her hair tied back in a ponytail, the prison issue jeans, grey polo shirt and grey sweatshirt looking two sizes too big. She smiled thinly when she met King’s gaze and sat down opposite him. She wanted to throw herself at him, but two guards were watching her closely.

“I’d ask how it was, but I know it’s shit,” King said quietly.

“I’ve been through much worse,” she replied.

“I know.” He paused, looking at her intently. “I miss you.”

Caroline shrugged but managed a smile. “I imagine I’ll see more of you now than if we were working together.”

King nodded. “Not much chance of that,” he said heavily. “We’ve been shut down. Ramsay’s had the boot and we’re all in limbo. To be honest, I can’t see a way out of this.”

Caroline stared at him. “Well, that’s that, then. I’ll get sold down the river…”

“It’ll be alright,” he said.

“Based on what?” she scoffed.

“I’ll think of something.”

“You’ll bust me out, you mean? Guns blazing, Flymo landing a helicopter in the exercise yard, Rashid on overwatch with a sniper rifle…” She shook her head. “It’s over, Alex…”

“I mean it,” he said. “I have assets. We’ll get the best lawyers in the country.”

“What, you’ll stop by Alaska first and raise some gold off the seabed to pay them with?” She sighed, reached a hand towards him and he took it in his own. One of the guards shouted and they ignored her. She came over and read them the riot act, then strutted back to her colleague after they reluctantly complied. “I’m sorry, it’s just difficult,” she said. “Out there, overseas and up against enemies, it seems easier somehow than being tied up in our own legal system. It all feels so…”

“Real?”

“Exactly. There’s no rescue, no getting out of this.” She looked tearful but took a deep breath and kept herself together. “If the department is gone, and if we’ve lost our affiliation with the Security Service, then it feels like I have been abandoned.”

“Never…” he said quietly.

“We’ll see.” She paused. “What about Collins?”

“No body.” King shrugged. “And if there’s no body, then I’ll never be convinced.”

“He took a bullet and went into the river,” she replied. “The chances of survival are slim.”

“But not impossible.” He paused. “I’ve been checking out choke-points down river. Tiny creeks and inlets, beaches and quays. There are teams of officers, river police and the RNLI still hauling out bodies. Collins hasn’t been amongst them. Yet.”

“Let it go,” Caroline said almost soothingly. “You can’t keep looking, and you can’t keep living looking over your shoulder.”

“If he survived, then I will always be looking over my shoulder. You don’t know him. He won’t rest until he’s on top.”

Caroline nodded, let out a deep sigh. “If that’s the case, then do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t come back here. Don’t expect a call from me, because it won’t happen. You do you, and I’ll do me.” She stood up, looking down at him, her expression determined, resolute. King went to stand, and she held up a hand to stop him. “Track down this bastard and put a bullet in him. Don’t get distracted by my situation. It is what it is. Find Collins and finish what you started all those years ago…” Then she left without further word, or even looking back at him.

Chapter Sixty-One

The Special Forces Club, Knightsbridge, London

“I’ll stay for one drink,” Ramsay said begrudgingly.

“You’ll stay until you pull a wheelie in that thing with your Y-fronts on your head,” Big Dave laughed. He raised his glass and toasted, “To days gone by, absent friends and the ones who didn’t make it…”

Rashid raised his glass. For him, it was Marnie. He had fallen hard and out of all of them, she didn’t deserve to die. She had never hurt anybody and had been the voice of reason from behind her laptop. He shook his head, images of Jo Blythe coming to him. He had started to fall for her, too. Never again. Never again would he fall for somebody he worked with. But their loss seemed to pale into insignificance, because his greatest loss of all had happened while he was working. His mother had passed, and he had not told a soul around the table. His father had not hidden his anger at his only son not being present when the time had come, and his sister had needed her big brother to get her through. He would have told Caroline, hugged it out with her. A hug from Caroline meant everything because it was filled with a warmth, love and understanding that he would have found difficult to explain. He looked at his colleagues, his friends around the table, and still he could not find the strength to tell them of his loss, and that he was not coping well with it. He took another sip of his drink, willing for it to start numbing the pain.

Oblivious to his friend’s anguish beside him, Big Dave toasted his drink to Sally-Anne Thorpe. He could only picture her face as she died, now. Holding the ex-detective’s hand, telling her it would be alright. There were others to remember, too. But her death had left a lasting impression on him. The sadness in her eyes as she knew that he was lying to her, telling her that it was going to be ok.

For Luger, it was his aunt. Stella Fox had recruited him, and she had been assassinated by the same enemy agent who had put Neil Ramsay in his wheelchair.

There were too many fallen for Ramsay to think of without a tear forming. Normally emotionless, devoid of either empathy or rage, he had been knocked sideways by the death of his only real friend, Charlotte, with whom he had shared a special bond since their recruitment into MI5. Before that, the death of MI5 director, Simon Mereweather had felt surreal and had hit the team hard. Had he been worthy of stepping into the man’s shoes? Ramsay certainly hoped so.

Jim Kernow and Flymo sat on the periphery, nursing their drinks. Jim was still relatively new, but had felt the loss of Charlotte, because he had arrived mere seconds too late to change the outcome. Flymo felt loss, too. But wondering whether he would ever fly again was somehow even more difficult to live with, and his quietness was due to his selfishness, and the guilt he felt at losing something that was neither sentient nor tangible. He couldn’t imagine not taking a helicopter to the limits, arriving in the nick of time to extract the team. He sipped his drink quietly, wondering whether he had an addiction to flying, or to the action he had been through behind the controls for so many years.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” said Rashid.

“Nor can I,” Big Dave added.

“Well, it is,” Ramsay said fatalistically.

“I wish Caroline could be here,” Big Dave added sombrely. “King is visiting her. Didn’t want to come here, said it wouldn’t solve anything. He won’t rest now. Not until Collins is on a slab some place. Either drowned and fished out of the Thames or put there by King in the future…” he trailed off, looking at Ramsay and frowning. “What the bloody hell are you drinking, Neil?”

“Port and lemon,” Ramsay replied.

“Jesus…” the Big Fijian shook his head and took out his wallet. “You drink like an eighty-year-old maiden aunt… Right, let’s get the hard spirits in! Who’s for a bottle of Jamesons to get us started?”

“I’d rather like that…”

They all looked up at the tall, lean man in a double-breasted navy-blue pinstripe suit. It looked expensive and well-tailored, so well-tailored in fact that the man looked like he had been melted and poured into it. He had sharp eyes, close together over an even sharper nose, giving him a hawk-like quality. His greying hair was combed immaculately, but looked like a brisk wind would cause it to go all to hell.

“This is a private party, mate,” said Rashid. “So, with the best will in the world, piss off…”

The man sat down unperturbed, placing his whisky on the table.

“You heard him…” Big Dave said coldly.

The man smiled. “The Prime Minister is a right prick, isn’t he?”

“No argument from me,” said Luger.

“We tend not to take too much notice of Prime Ministers. They’re not around for long these days. I mean, one of the tabloid newspapers photographed a lettuce on a shelf daily, and it lasted longer than that odious woman and her chancellor,” the man smiled, draining his whisky with the ease and measure of someone well used to it. “No, the times of holding the highest political office in the country is less auspicious since we have seen the nefarious and the incompetent at the helm of this great nation. Or perhaps I should say, once great nation…”

“You’re in the wrong bar to knock it, pal,” Big Dave growled, turning towards him, his shoulders twice the width of the man. Twice the width of anyone at the table, in fact.

“No, you’re right. But whether we have a government on the right, the left or one safely holding the middle ground, it doesn’t really matter. The only thing it does is appease half the population… give them a chance to stop moaning about the government and condemn the opposition. Then the pendulum swings and the country switches again and a new government makes all the same mistakes and fails on their promises.” The man paused, looking at them in turn. “There’s been a lot of floundering in government, and already the new lot are falling short on their promises. So, it does seem about time to get the wheels back on the tracks.”

“Meaning?” Rashid asked defensively.

“Well, it seems that no matter what the intelligence services do, they are always behest to someone else’s agenda. Left or right, old-school or woke… nothing is straightforward. And nothing is secret anymore. Take that little excursion down the Thames. The cell tower blackout was stalled because of the potential public outcry over human rights, or data protection and freedom. Sometimes, a spade is just a bloody spade, and matters should be addressed head-on.”

Ramsay regarded the man for a moment, then asked. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

The man smiled. “I’m the answer to the country’s problems, its shortcomings and its future.”

“Fuck me,” said Big Dave. “Here we are having a little farewell drink, and we get the fucking second-coming.” He looked around him and said loudly, “Look everyone, it’s the bloody Messiah!”

“How do you know what went on?” Ramsay asked incredulously. “We’ve never met, and I know everyone who matters in British intelligence. Everyone at the top, that is.”

“And therein lies the problem,” the man quipped. “People aren’t meant to know who Batman really is. Zorro wore a mask; Superman had his glasses when he was the reporter chap…”

“I think you’ve had enough of that,” Jim Kernow said, pointing at the man’s glass.

Rashid laughed, then looked at the man and said, “Seriously, who the hell are you?”

“My name is Arthur Wilber-Scott,” he said, taking out a business card with a coat of arms on one side and a mobile phone number on the other. No name, no address. Ramsay leaned forwards and Luger slid the card towards him. Upon closer scrutiny Luger could see that it was a gold shield bearing the colours and emblems of the Royal Standard. Wilber-Scott looked at them all in turn, then smiled thinly. “And I have a proposition for you…”

Author’s Note

Hi - Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my story! It’s fair to say that without you reading, then I wouldn’t be able to do the job I love. So, thank you. If you feel inclined to review or rate this story on Amazon, then you would make this author extremely happy.

I’m hard at work on my next thriller and can’t wait for you to read it. Alex King’s next adventure is Old Scores which you can order now. Want to know more? You can find me on social media and hear about new releases, or sign up to my mailing list here: www.apbateman.com

If you enjoyed King’s interaction with DI Grant in Cornwall, then you are in for a treat because he has two of his own gritty thrillers Vice and Taken.

I hope to entertain you again soon,

A P Bateman

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