The Kill Zone (42 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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He felt her go a little bit tense. ‘Was it true?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘What she said, about you and her.’
‘Forget about it.’
Siobhan remained pressed close to him. ‘When this is over,’ she said, ‘when we find Lily, maybe we should . . .’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Give it a go. I mean, another go. For her sake. And for us.’
Jack didn’t reply. He couldn’t find the words. They just sat there quietly for a few more minutes, then he unfurled his arm and stood up. ‘We need to get ready to leave,’ he said.
Siobhan looked away. Soon she got to her feet and started to gather her things. Jack watched from the edge of his vision. She still had that faraway look.
Shell-shocked.
Numb.
Haunted.
He couldn’t help thinking that she looked like a woman for whom both the past and the future held things too terrible even to contemplate. And as she continued to get herself ready, Jack even felt a little guilty that he’d not been quite honest with her.
He knew what his next move was; he just didn’t want Siobhan to find out just yet.
6 JULY
23
04.00 hrs.
On the southern coast of Ireland, dawn was still an hour away. In a shingle-strewn bay, no wider than an articulated lorry and with needle-sharp rocks on two sides, five men stood in the darkness. They wore heavy coats against the early-morning chill, and their cigarettes glowed as they inhaled. None of them spoke. They just looked out to sea where, in the distance, they could see a dot of light.
It approached quickly. They always did, these vessels. Their skippers knew the timings of the coastguard’s patrols. And even if the coastguard changed schedule, by the time they were noticed, the vessels had made anchor, dumped their cargo, then chuntered back off into the night. There was never any trouble. This stretch of the Atlantic off the southern Irish coastline was dotted with sea traffic 24/7. It was impossible to police effectively.
‘Moving faster than most,’ a voice said. Sam Delaney was an old hand. He’d been part of the O’Callaghan crew for as long as there had
been
a crew, and the others looked up to him.
‘Why’s that then?’
Sam glanced over at young Leo Mackay. This was only his second run, and he sounded on edge.
‘No reason, Leo. No reason. One speed’s as good as another. Don’t you worry your head about it, lad.’
They went back to smoking their cigarettes.
Fifteen minutes later, the vessel had stopped. It was about thirty metres out and had hauled anchor. The five men watched as a smaller launch was lowered into the water, and two crew members embarked and headed towards them.
‘Help them in, Leo,’ Sam instructed.
Leo looked at the others, but they clearly weren’t about to get themselves wet to help the new boy; the younger man sighed, dropped his ciggy on the beach, then waded out into the chilly waters as the launch came in to land. He grabbed the boat’s stern and pulled it across the hissing shingle.
‘All yours,’ one of the men in the boat said. ‘And we won’t be sad to see the back of it.’
Leo looked into the boat. It contained nothing but a metal flight case – quite different to the wooden pallet of narcotics he was expecting to see. ‘What the fuck’s this?’ he asked. And then, over his shoulder at his colleagues, ‘
What the fuck’s this?
’
‘Just bring it ashore, lad,’ Sam called out.
Leo did as he was told. The case was heavy, but not so heavy that he couldn’t carry it single-handed. He hauled it to shore as the launch retreated without a word from the crew, then laid it on the beach. The five of them stood around and looked at it.
‘If that’s a shipment of H,’ one of them said, ‘I’m a monkey’s ball sack.’
‘What is it then?’ Leo asked.
‘Not for us to know,’ Sam replied. ‘Get the fucker loaded up.’
They weren’t by nature a mutinous crew, but there was a definite sense of reluctance.
‘Maybe we should open it,’ Leo said. ‘Take a look.’
‘Maybe we should at that,’ another man said.
Sam Delaney wasn’t having it. ‘For fuck’s sake, you lot. Have you forgotten who you damn well work for? Have you forgotten what happened to Mikey Elliott? And he was one of Cormac’s rude boys. You reckon he’d think twice about fucking any of you lot up if you start messing with his shipments? Especially you, Leo Mackay. Carry on with this sort of shit, it’ll be the Paralympics for you, if you’re lucky.’
He looked at each of them in turn. A flat, flinty look that wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit. ‘Get it loaded up,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Leo did what he had to do. He bent over, picked up the case, and with the rest of them trailing behind, carried it off the beach, up a small winding track and into the back of a waiting Ford Transit. He and two of the others accompanied it in the back, while Sam and the remaining man went up front.
Sam checked his watch. 04.17. He’d be over the border by midday and at Larne Harbour on the east coast of Northern Ireland by early afternoon. They’d hand the consignment over – whatever the fuck it was – and it would be on its way to the mainland without anybody being the wiser.
He shook his head. The sooner Cormac stopped these nonstandard deliveries, the happier he’d be. This was the second one in the last week and the guys were getting suspicious. Hell,
he
was getting suspicious. Packages of heroin off the boat were two a penny for the guys, but if these curious shipments continued, his threats regarding Cormac’s retribution wouldn’t be enough to stop them poking their noses in.
He turned to the man behind the wheel. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Don’t drive too quickly. We don’t want to be picked up.’
His colleague looked at him. ‘Sure, Sam, you talk as if I’ve never done this before.’ And with that, he turned the ignition key and drove steadily off into the early morning.
‘Gentlemen, let’s see your imagery.’
Brad Joseph was clean-cut and sharp-suited, his hair slicked back and his ever-present shades hanging by a cord around his neck. He’d flown in from Washington three days earlier, heading up the sixteen-man advance team from the President’s Secret Service detail. He sensed that the two Brits sitting with him in the slightly shabby ground-floor office of Scotland Yard resented his presence, even if they were too professional to say anything. But that didn’t matter one little bit to Brad Joseph. He was well used to it.
Bill Oliver, i/c the British Police’s Diplomatic Protection Group, was a quietly spoken man in his mid-fifties with a receding hairline and the remnants of a Cockney accent. He clicked a button on the laptop in front of him – Brad couldn’t help noticing that it was a lot older and clunkier than the machines they were used to in Washington. Up on the wall appeared a large satellite image of the Greater London area. Superimposed in red was a dotted line leading from a point on the western part of the map, directly to a central location.
‘As we agreed,’ Bill Oliver said, ‘RAF Northolt is the most secure location for Air Force One to fly in to. We can seal it off and, unlike at the commercial airports, we can divert all other incoming flights elsewhere.’
‘And,’ Brad stepped in, ‘it’s nearby, in case of emergency.’
Bill Oliver scratched his bald patch, raised an eyebrow at the interruption, then nodded. ‘That too,’ he said. ‘This shows the most direct flightline from RAF Northolt in to the helipad at Buckingham Palace.’
Brad interrupted again. ‘You understand that Marine One flies with two decoy choppers and they’ll choose their own flight path in to the palace?’
Bill nodded. He pressed the button on the laptop and another image appeared – the same map, but with a different route marked – this time a solid red line. It led from Buckingham Palace, along Birdcage Walk, round Parliament Square and into the Houses of Parliament. ‘And this is the most direct route from Buck House to Westminster.’
‘Buck House?’
Bill smiled. ‘Buckingham Palace, Brad.’
‘I take it your teams have secured the route?’
Oliver pressed another button and the image changed: the bottom panel of a lamp post, with a plastic cord tied round it. ‘We’ve sealed all the lamp posts and manholes, emptied and sealed all bins and postboxes. Parking restrictions are in force from today until you leave – any unauthorised stopping along these routes and the vehicles get towed away immediately. We also have four teams of Metropolitan Police outriders ready to escort the President wherever he goes.’
Brad interrupted again. ‘It’s fully understood, I hope, that the President will have his own close protection and counter-attack team at all times.’ He set his face into a look of implacability. It was amazing how often foreign police teams got rubbed up the wrong way about this. Most figures of any kind of diplomatic importance could expect local bodyguarding teams; but not the President of the United States. Secret Service wouldn’t be letting anybody else close to him. And while most foreign security teams knew they had to surrender their weapons when they arrived in-country, the President’s close protection would keep their Glocks, Berettas and MP5 Kurzs firmly on their persons, no matter what; while the CAT’s armour-plated 4 x 4s, MP5s, G3s and UMPs had already been airlifted into Northolt ready for the President’s arrival.
Bill Oliver nodded. ‘Understood,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave everything else to the President’s close protection and CAT team. Our outriders will just make sure that the path of traffic is cleared for the, er . . .’ The policeman’s eyes sparkled for the first time, and a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.
‘The Beast,’ Brad said in a voice devoid of irony. The British could laugh all they wanted, but there was no doubting that the Secret Service felt a hell of sight more comfortable now that the President was able to travel in the world’s most secure armoured car. The Beast – Cadillac One to Brad and his colleagues – was an awesome machine. It could take hits from small arms fire, the tyres worked even when they were flat, and the vehicle could be completely sealed with its own oxygen supply in the event of a chemical attack. It wasn’t so much a car as a moving fortress, and even as they spoke a C-17 Globemaster was transporting that fortress across the Atlantic so that it could be waiting for the President at Buckingham Palace when he arrived.
‘Oh yeah,’ murmured Oliver. ‘The Beast.’ He brought up another picture on the screen. London again, this time with two locations marked: the residence of the American ambassador, Nathaniel Gresham, in Regent’s Park, where the President would be staying the night; and Buckingham Palace again, where he would be having a lunchtime audience with the Queen on 8 July, before Marine One returned him to RAF Northolt. There Air Force One would be waiting to transport him back to Washington. Brad Joseph would never have admitted it in front of his British counterparts, but that moment couldn’t come soon enough. Back home, it was easy to keep him safe; the moment he went walkabout, every goddamn eventuality had to be accounted for.
‘Routes to and from the Embassy and Buckingham Palace secured?’
Oliver nodded.
‘And do we have alternative evacuation routes from all the President’s locations back to Marine One at Buckingham Palace?’
Again the policeman nodded, and over the course of several more pictures he explained the emergency extraction routes. ‘We’ll leave your people to decide which priority to give the evacuation routes. Just let us know which ones you’re likely to use for preference.’
‘Negative,’ Brad stated, and he ignored the widening of Bill Oliver’s eyes. ‘Secret Service will keep the evacuation route priority classified.’ And before the police officer could make any complaint, he turned to the other man sitting in the room.
David Colley hadn’t said a word. He’d just sat there, expressionless, in his grey suit and sober tie. As a representative of MI5, the nitty-gritty of the President’s movements were not his immediate concern. He was here to give Brad an intelligence briefing. Even though the Security Service and the CIA were constantly liaising over the President’s visit, it was important that the guys on the ground should have some face time. Brad knew Dave Colley from previous assignments. For a spook, he was OK. Brad kind of liked him, and trusted his judgement.
‘So, Dave. No alarm bells ringing over at Thames House?’
Colley inclined his head. ‘There’s always alarm bells,’ he said soberly. ‘The skill’s in judging which ones to listen to and which ones to ignore.’
Brad smiled for the first time in the whole meeting. ‘My line of work, Dave, you react to every goddamn alarm bell you hear.’
Colley shrugged. ‘In that case, Brad, you should call the whole thing off. Anniversary of the London bombings, your man should be safely tucked up in the Oval Office.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Brad agreed. ‘Look, we know the score. This is party time for every wannabe Al Qaeda nut in the UK. We get the same shit on 9/11. But you get even a sniff of anything we need to take seriously—’
‘You’ll be the first to know, Brad. Meantime. . .’ He slid a thin file across the table. ‘That’s a precis of any relevant intelligence. It won’t take you long to read.’

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