Deathlist (14 page)

So why does the CO want to see me now?

Porter arrived at the door of Lieutenant-Colonel Graydon Ruck. He straightened his back and knocked on the door. There was a slight pause. Then a booming voice carried through the wood.

‘Enter.’

Porter stepped inside a small, sparsely-furnished room. The Commanding Officer of 22 SAS sat behind a metal desk piled high with manila folders and printed-out documents. Graydon Ruck was a tall man, pencil-thin, with eyes the colour of stainless steel knives and lips that were pressed tight, like he was trying to crack nuts with them. Ruck was one of the new breed of officers in the Regiment. The guy looked more like a manager at a branch of Barclays, or maybe a regional head of sales for an office supplies company. He was political, corporate. Safe. Ten years from now Ruck would probably be making six figures in a cosy position as head of security for an oil firm, living with his trophy wife in a Buckinghamshire mansion while Porter rooted around for loose change down the back of the sofa.

There were two chairs opposite Ruck. The one on the left was empty.

Sitting in the chair on the right was John Bald.

‘Glad you could join us.’ Ruck fixed a smile at Porter. ‘Please, John. Take a seat.’

Porter hesitated for a moment. The fact that Bald was here confirmed his earlier suspicions. This definitely wasn’t anything to do with the Training Wing. He figured maybe the CO wanted to run over their statements before they spoke to the police. Make sure they were singing from the same hymn sheet. He shrugged casually, dropped into his chair and turned to Ruck. The guy had heavy bags under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Which probably wasn’t far from the truth.

‘I’ll make this quick,’ Ruck began impatiently. ‘I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through, as you might well imagine. Whitehall’s been on my case every hour since the attack. On top of that, trying to manage this media blackout is a bloody nightmare.’

Porter saw something in Ruck’s eyes. Something he’d never seen before. It was fear, he realised. The Regiment found itself in unchartered territory. The loss of a few Blades during an op would have been bad enough. But to have so many of their own slotted a few miles from the Regiment headquarter, was a shock that everyone was struggling to deal with. Including Ruck.

‘You’re being seconded to MI6,’ Ruck went on. ‘Both of you. Effective immediately.’

He leaned forward and planted his hands on the desk, waiting for a response. Porter frowned. Bald stared at Ruck, puzzled.

‘What for, boss?’

Ruck rolled his eyes. ‘Take a wild guess.’

‘The attack?’

Ruck nodded. ‘I’m not privy to the ins-and-outs. Vauxhall wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the particulars, as you can probably imagine. But reading between the lines, it looks like they’re putting together a covert team. Downing Street wants action, gentlemen. Apparently the chaps over at Vauxhall are being given carte blanche to get the bastards who did this. It seems they’ve requested you two to help out on the ground.’

‘Why us?’ Porter asked.

Ruck shrugged. ‘Frankly, your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, they asked for you two specifically.’ He added bitterly, ‘They must have their reasons, I suppose.’

Porter said nothing. From the look on Ruck’s face he guessed that the suits at Vauxhall had kept the CO out of the loop as far as possible. Nothing would have pissed him off more, Porter realised with an inward smile. Ruck was comfortable kissing Whitehall arse and ingratiating himself with the Westminster set. Being kept in the dark on a top-secret op involving two of his men must have really been eating away at the guy.

‘Military transport’s sending a car down at 1300 hours. They’ll pick you up from the gates out front and drive you down to London.’

‘Where’s the RV?’ Bald asked.

‘The Wainwright Hotel in Marylebone. An MI6 liaison will meet you at the Piano Bar at 1700 hours.’ Ruck leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers on the desk. ‘That’s as much as I know and as much as they were willing to tell me. Questions?’

Porter pursed his lips. There were a million questions pinballing around inside his head, but there was no point asking Ruck any of them. Clearly whoever was running things over at Vauxhall wanted to share as little as possible with the CO. Which suggested that whatever the suits wanted from Bald and Porter, they wanted it to be strictly off the books. If that was how the Firm wanted to play it then fine, thought Porter. They’d get their answers soon enough.

‘None, boss,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Ruck straightened his back and gestured to the door. ‘Then I suggest you both get a bloody move on.’

TWENTY

1300 hours.

The car was waiting for them at the camp gates. A Rover 400. Possibly green, although it was hard to tell beneath the six inches of dust and bird shit. Which made it perfect for transporting a couple of Regiment men down to London. Bald climbed into the back. Porter folded himself into the front passenger seat. After the briefing with the CO he’d returned home and taken a hot shower and then shaved and changed into his civvies. Now he wore a pair of dark-blue jeans and a grey leather jacket over a wrinkled flannel shirt and t-shirt combo, as well as a scuffed pair of Merrell boots. He felt vaguely more human than a few hours earlier.

The driver was a prematurely balding guy in a crumpled suit who introduced himself as Glover. He didn’t say much, and Porter didn’t bother pressing him for details. If Ruck knew the sum total of fuck-all, Glover was likely to know even less. The three men were silent as they headed south out of Hereford and hit the A40 just outside of Gloucester. Every few miles Glover checked the rear-view mirror, no doubt to make sure they weren’t being tailed. They weren’t, as far as Porter could tell.

He tuned out and watched the landscape ticker-taping by. He found his thoughts drifting back to the meeting with Ruck. What the fuck did the Firm want with a couple of outcast Regiment men? Whatever it was, it had to be questionable, Porter decided. If the spooks had wanted the SAS for an above-the-board op, they would have fully briefed Ruck rather than keeping him in the dark. They would have asked the CO for his best men, and they would have asked for more than two of them. So whatever the Firm had in mind for Bald and Porter, it wasn’t going to be a regular security detail. Porter found his curiosity building as they raced towards London.

After maybe a hundred miles the landscape shifted to a palette of greys and dirty browns. They were heading into Porter’s old neighbourhood now. Glover turned off Western Avenue and steered the Rover onto the Westway, rolling past Wembley Stadium. They motored down a three-lane stretch of worn blacktop flanked by rows of council houses that looked like a set of rotten brown teeth. Everything was instantly familiar to Porter. The drab industrial estates and halal food shops, the neglected parks half-filled with teenagers pushing prams and migrants clutching plastic shopping bags. They shuttled along the flyover past Shepherd’s Bush and White City and a bunch of other places choked with traffic until they emerged onto the sprawling intersection at Edgware Road. Then Glover took a road that funnelled them down towards Marylebone.

It was like moving from one city to another. All the tower blocks and council estates disappeared from view, replaced with a neatly-arranged grid of elegant red-brick townhouses interspersed with gleaming glass-and-steel towers. The streets were lined with quaint trees, and scrubbed clean of bird shit and gum. The cars were all Maseratis and Bentleys and Mercedes CLK coupés. The only black face Porter saw was the guy sweeping the steps of the old Marylebone Town Hall. All the people wore tailored suits and carried leather briefcases. They walked quickly, like they had somewhere important to be.

Eight minutes later, Glover pulled up outside the Wainwright.

Porter was light-blinded as he stepped out of the Rover. He stretched his legs and gave the hotel the once-over. It was a great big red-brick place the size of a medieval castle. It looked like something out of a Harry Potter film. A row of trees screened the entrance from the main road. There was a tower mounted in the middle of the rooftop with a clock face on the front, like a miniature Big Ben. The ageing doorman cast a long look at Porter, as if weighing up whether he should admit the trampish-looking Blade. With a doubtful expression the doorman opened the grand mahogany door and Bald and Porter stepped inside a lobby full of suited-up rich types speaking in busy voices. Porter glanced around. To his right stood a bank of lifts, with the main reception desk in front of them. To the left was the Piano Bar.

The RV.

Porter led the way. They strode into the bar and sank into a couple of leather armchairs and casually scanned the joint. It was a dimly-lit room with retro furnishings and a big mirror behind the bar with a rack of luxury Scottish single-malts arranged on a shelf in front of it. Most of the punters were red-faced men in pin-striped suits. Their throated laughs filled the air, drawing out the classical music. There was a young woman sitting on her own in the far corner of the bar, next to a door leading to the toilets. Porter noticed her because she was the only one sitting by herself, and because she looked a little cheap compared to her surroundings. Her hair was dyed peroxide blonde, and she wore tight jeans and high heels. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking through a glossy magazine. In the corner of his eye Porter noticed Bald casting a dirty look at the blonde.

‘Any sign of our man?’ Bald asked, looking away.

Porter checked his watch. It said 1647 hours. He shook his head. ‘We’re early.’

‘Best get a round in, then. Don’t want to stand out next to all these sloppy Herberts.’

A bored-looking waitress with a thick eastern European accent wandered over to the table and took their order. Bald went for a bottle of Yank lager. Porter settled on a double measure of Bushmill. The waitress came back with their drinks, and the bill. Bald made to reach inside his jacket. Then a frown creased his face and he looked to Porter, clicking his tongue.

‘Shit. Left my wallet at home, mate. Do us a favour and pick up the tab.’

Porter grudgingly reached for the bill. He looked down at the total and did a spit-take. Jesus, he thought. Twenty quid. You could buy a crate of Special Brew for less than that. The waitress tapped her foot and waited. Porter dug out his wallet and handed over his last crumpled twenty-pound note. The waitress almost looked sorry for him as she handed back a few coins in change.

As soon as she had moved away, Bald got up from his seat.

‘Need a slash,’ he said. ‘Been busting for a piss ever since we left Hereford.’

Porter nodded. He watched Bald as the guy threaded his way towards the toilets at the rear of the bar. He took a detour, hooking around the edge of the bar and swinging directly past the blonde. The woman looked up, saw Bald and quickly stubbed out her cigarette. Then she grabbed her leather handbag and moved towards Bald as he approached the toilets. Bald stopped by the entrance and said something to her. The blonde glanced nervously around, then reached into her handbag. Porter’s view was partially blocked by the crowd of Hooray Henrys but for a split second he thought he saw the blonde passing something to Bald. A package of some kind. Before he could get a better look the blonde had turned away and was moving at a brisk pace towards the second exit at the rear. At the same time Bald disappeared inside the toilets. Five minutes later he strolled out, puffed out his cheeks and swaggered back over to the table wearing a big grin.

‘What was all that about?’ Porter asked.

Bald clenched his brow. ‘What do you mean, mate?’

‘That blonde bit. The one you were chatting to just now.’

‘Her? That’s nothing, that. Just some tight bird trying it on. Happens all the time.’ Bald winked at him. The grin widened. ‘You know what they say. Them posh birds love a bit of rough.’

Porter smiled and took a sip of his drink. Thought about pressing Bald over the blonde. But he couldn’t be sure what he’d seen. He parked the thought. Necked the rest of his Bushmills in a single gulp.

‘Jesus, mate,’ said Bald. ‘And I thought the Scots could fucking drink. The rate you’re going, you could drink half of Glasgow under the table.’

Porter put down the glass. ‘What’d you mean by that, Jock?’

‘Nothing. Just saying.’

But the look in his eyes gave Bald away. Porter knew what he was thinking.
The guy’s a full-blown alcoholic. How the fuck is he supposed to perform?
Porter knew, because he was thinking the exact same thing. He was at the fag end of his career in the Regiment, and whatever the Firm had lined up for them he would need to be sharp. If he didn’t stop boozing, he wouldn’t be much use in the field.

Six minutes later their liaison walked into the bar.

Porter clocked the guy straightaway. He looked almost as out of place as the blonde. But for different reasons. He had a six-quid haircut and cheap-looking shoes, and his brown suit looked like it came straight off the discount rack at Burtons. He sported the tiniest amount of bumfluff on his chin in some pitiful attempt to make himself look older than he really was. But it was the eyes that gave him away. They swept across the room in that way that only suits working for the Firm did. Scanning, they called it. Taking in everything in sight at a moment’s notice. The liaison’s gaze quickly settled on Bald and Porter. He strode over to their table and greeted them with a slight nod.