Who Dares Wins (25 page)

When his eyes fell upon Sam, he stopped.

The look was piercing. It burned through the crowd of soldiers and picked Sam out like a searchlight. It was a look full of meaning. Not anger. Not blame. But meaning nevertheless.

And in that moment, Sam felt all sorts of things slot into place. Clare’s article. The phone number. The hooded figure at his door.

Porteus
.

It had been him all along. As the CO,
he
would have been in possession of information from the security services that nobody else would have had.
He
would have been in a position to deploy Sam’s squadron. And most importantly of all, Porteus knew Jacob. He would have recognised his picture. This was why, when Sam had returned from Helmand Province, the boss had kept his distance; this was why he had stayed away, out of sight. He’d been trying to warn Sam, without it being seen that this was what he was doing.

Now Porteus looked at Sam, his proud face held high. Sam nodded, gently, almost imperceptibly. If you hadn’t known what that silent exchange meant, you’d most likely not have seen it happen.

As the rest of the squadron looked on in astonishment, Porteus was once more jabbed in the back by an MP7. If it annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. He just allowed himself to be escorted to one of the police vans. Two MOD policemen joined him in the back, the doors were shut and locked and the van was driven away.

The conversation started buzzing again. Still Sam stayed separate from the others. He watched as the younger of the two men on the steps approached Mac.
A word in your ear
, the man’s expression seemed to say; once he had Mac’s attention, he spoke, though Sam couldn’t hear from that distance what he was saying. He’d find out soon enough, he guessed. But before he did, he became uncomfortably aware of somebody watching him. Looking back up the steps, he saw the older man. His grey hair was neatly combed back, his eyebrows were bushy and his face had the deeply lined dignity that only certain old men manage to achieve. He wore a suit and tie and he was looking at Sam with an almost mournful expression.

Sam absorbed that stare, refusing to be intimidated by it. The two men remained locked in a kind of silent conflict until Mac approached.

‘Sam,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘They want to debrief us. The troop, all seven of us that were there.’

Sam didn’t even blink.

‘
Now
, Sam. Kremlin.’

He nodded vaguely, dragged his eyes from the old man who seemed in no way uncomfortable about what had just passed between them, and followed his friend.

Sam walked as if in a dream. Behind him, the sound of the others talking. ‘Wouldn’t have cuffed him if they didn’t think he was going to try to leg it,’ Tyler was saying.

Davenport didn’t agree. ‘That, or they wanted to make an example of him. Why pack him into the police van in front of us when it could have been done on the QT?’ His voice was full of disdain. ‘Chickenshit cuntlickers. Porteus is all right. Have a right scene on their hands if they do the dirty on him.’

A couple of others grunted their agreement.

The two men in suits were waiting for them in the briefing room, as was Jack Whitely. The Ops Officer looked harassed – Sam couldn’t tell if their arrival made him more or less nervous. It didn’t matter either way. A quiet word from the younger of the two suited men and he left the room, a little red-faced perhaps, but slightly relieved to be away from the tension.

The suits sat in silence. Once they were all in, the old man cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘My name is Gabriel Bland.’ He nodded towards the younger man. ‘This is Toby Brookes.’

Brookes sniffed.

‘You’ll be debriefed later in the usual way,’ Bland announced. ‘I just have one question for you.’ He looked at each of them in term. ‘You will have noticed,’ he added, almost apologetically, ‘your commanding officer being, ah, escorted from the premises.’ His tone might have been apologetic, but the implication wasn’t: mess around with me and you’ll get the same treatment. There was silence in the room as Brookes handed each of them an A4 photograph.

Sam didn’t need to look at it. He knew it would be Jacob. Bland appeared to notice his lack of regard for the document and raised an eyebrow. And so Sam glanced at the picture.

It was different to the one he had seen before in this very briefing room. Older, taken when Jacob was still in the Regiment. Sam avoided looking at Mac; no one else in the room said anything.

Bland cleared his throat theatrically. ‘I should like to know,’ he said, ‘if this individual was one of your targets during your recent expedition.’

Silence.

‘Did you kill him?’

Still nothing.

Bland continued to look from one man to the next, a suspicious schoolmaster weeding out the naughty child. But the response remained the same. Nothing but silence.

And then Mac spoke. ‘I know this person,’ he said. His voice was filled with mock suspicion. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘I’m asking the questions,’ Bland replied peevishly.

‘Then you’d better ask me,’ Sam announced. ‘I photographed the dead. And I’m sure you’ve done your homework and know who this is.’

Sam’s challenge hung in the air. Bland surveyed him calmly. ‘Very well,’ he purred finally. ‘The rest of you may leave. Return the pictures to Toby, please. Sergeant Redman – it
is
Sergeant Redman, isn’t it? – I wonder if I might ask you to stay here.’

Sam shrugged. The rest of them stood up and quietly left, though there wasn’t one of them that didn’t look over their shoulders as they did so, obviously wondering what the hell this was all about. They didn’t hang around to find out, though, and within a minute Sam was alone with the two spooks.

For a while none of them spoke. Sam remained seated. Bland and Toby were standing; Bland turned and faced the front wall, looking at nothing in particular, while Toby went and stood by the door, out of Sam’s sight.

‘I am just a humble civil servant,’ Bland stated finally, still not looking at Sam, ‘but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that it is the matter of a moment’s work for me to have you court-martialled. A short testimony from Detective Inspector Nicola Ledbury and . . .’ He turned round and smiled humourlessly. ‘And the fragrant Clare Corbett, and I rather think your illustrious career will be brought short by a stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure. A
longish
sting, if you get my meaning.’

All of a sudden, Sam’s mind was a rush. Nicola, Clare – how the
hell
had this guy caught up with them? Sam hadn’t told anyone. He’d been careful.

‘Surprised, Sam?’ Bland asked. ‘Surely not.’ He paused for thought. ‘I don’t want you to think that you’re in any way unappreciated, you and your, ah, friends. You have a, ah . . .’ He smiled again. ‘A
good right fist
. But you didn’t honestly imagine . . .’ Now he allowed a bit of sharpness in his voice. ‘You didn’t honestly imagine that you were going to out
think
the Secret Intelligence Service?’

A pause.

‘You didn’t imagine,’ Bland persisted, ‘that you would outmanoeuvre MI6, did you, Sam?’

Sam felt the blood rising to his face as Bland sat down next to him. The MI6 man carried with him the faint whiff of aftershave; Sam was immediately aware that he must stink.

‘If you’re such a bunch of fucking geniuses,’ Sam retorted, ‘then you don’t need to speak to me.’

‘Oh, please, Sam. Let’s, ah, let’s not be unpleasant with each other.’ He stood up again.
You’re nervous
, Sam thought to himself.
You’re trying not to show it, but you are
. ‘Miss Corbett told us everything, Sam: that she had foolishly told you the contents of her ill-informed article; about your brother being in the training camp. She was really quite, ah, talkative. So please do me the courtesy of not pretending that you travelled to Kazakhstan without the express intention of compromising the mission. Do me that courtesy, Sam.’

Sam jutted his chin out.

‘Was he there, Sam? Did you see him?’

Sam refused to answer and a shadow of frustration passed over Bland’s face. ‘I would find it quite unpalatable,’ he said ominously quietly, ‘to have to force this out of you, Sam. But your file tells me that your field investigation techniques are quite specialised. So you know the sort of things we might do to, ah, loosen your tongue.’

The threat hung in the air. Sam took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘All right. I recognised Jacob at the briefing. I went out to stop the guys putting a bullet in him.’ He looked directly at Bland. Fiercely. ‘Maybe you’d do the same for
your
brother. But Jacob wasn’t there. No sign of him. We eliminated the targets and came home. End of fucking story.’

Bland nodded and for a moment he appeared satisfied. He came and sat down again.

‘I’m afraid, Sam, I’m not entirely sure that I believe you.’

‘Well that’s your problem.’

‘It is indeed,’ Bland murmured. ‘It is indeed my problem.’ He stared straight ahead. ‘You do realise, Sam, that Miss Corbett got quite the wrong end of the stick, don’t you?’ As he spoke he looked directly at Sam, who couldn’t help a flicker of interest registering on his face. Bland feigned surprise. ‘Oh,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, dear. Well, she is a most appealing young lady. I can, ah, I can
quite
understand how you might have fallen for her charms.’

‘She was fucking terrified of you,’ Sam replied hotly. ‘If it
was
you that put the frighteners on her and bumped off that contact of hers.’

‘Did I frighten her?’ Bland asked. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I might have done. It seems to be an occupational hazard. I would prefer not to. But then I don’t have the advantages of your youth and vigour, Sam. I’m afraid I have to be a little more robust to get what I want.’

Sam ignored him. ‘I think Clare was telling the truth.’

‘No doubt about it,’ Bland replied. Sam blinked. ‘At least there’s no doubt that she believed she was telling the truth. But believing you are right and
being
right, these are two very different things, are they not?’

‘You tell me,’ Sam replied. His voice was surly, but he couldn’t help it.

‘I
am
telling you, Sam. Clare Corbett, alas, was misled. It’s not her fault, of course. But she was misled nevertheless by her . . .’ He struggled to find the phrase. ‘By her “red-light runner”.’

‘You telling me they don’t exist?’ Sam demanded hotly. ‘You telling me that we didn’t just eliminate a load of them in Kazakhstan?’

Bland shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘They exist. Very much so. Intelligence agencies are extremely adept at drawing profiles of people from, oh, an astonishing variety of sources, Sam. It would be an easy job for me to pull up all sorts of information about you, for example, that you wouldn’t even imagine we’d be interested in. Which supermarkets you shop at, your taste in films, your taste in just about everything. Should we be of a mind to, you understand. Clare’s red-light runners fitted a very precise profile. The sort of people that someone at least would have a use for.’

‘So why are you killing them?’ Bland’s wordiness, his roundabout way of talking, was beginning to get on Sam’s nerves.

‘Of course,’ Bland replied enigmatically, ‘you and I both know that we are called upon to do questionable things in the course of our duty.’ As if that explained everything. ‘I’ve learned a lot about your brother in the last few hours, Sam. A very great deal. He had a most distinguished service record, did he not?’

Sam didn’t reply.

‘And then, what can we call it? A moment of madness? You were there, weren’t you? In Baghdad. You saw it all happen.’

‘It was an accident,’ Sam seethed. ‘Jacob stepped in to . . .’ He stopped himself. What was the point? This guy was going to believe what he was going to believe.

‘A cover-up,’ Bland continued, as though Sam hadn’t even spoken. ‘Jacob Redman was, ah, cut a deal to avoid embarrassment to the MOD. Everything brushed under the carpet to avoid a scandal, but Jacob to be RTU’d. An embarrassment too far, Sam, wouldn’t you say? And so he left the army. Left the country. Cut off all ties. I would say, in circumstances such as this, that a man might become, ah . . .’ He searched for a word. ‘Bitter?’

‘If you’re trying to say something,’ Sam whispered, ‘why don’t you just say it?’

‘Treason, Sam,’ Bland announced with sudden force. ‘It’s not a terribly fashionable word, is it? Smacks a bit of the Gunpowder Plot, doesn’t it? But it’s very apt, Sam, for what’s going on at the moment. Very apt indeed. I believe Jacob to be guilty of treason, Sam. And if you don’t help me find him, then you will be guilty of it too.’

Once more a smile spread across the older man’s lined face. Sam shut his eyes and as he did so, his brother’s words echoed in his mind.
They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.
And he remembered the red-light runners, butchered in their beds by the Regiment’s weapons, and how easily one of those could have been Jacob.

‘You’re insane,’ he told the old man. ‘You’re totally fucking insane.’

Bland’s gaze flickered over to where Toby was standing. Clearly he didn’t like being spoken to like this in front of a subordinate, but if he was angry he managed to keep a check on it.

‘What if I were to tell you, Sam, that the red-light runners were being trained not by MI5, but by a foreign intelligence agency?’

‘Who?’

‘I, ah, I think I might keep that information to myself for the time being, Sam. Though if you think about it, I’m sure you would come to the same conclusion as me.’

‘Then why did you kill Clare’s contact?’

‘We didn’t, Sam. We didn’t need to. He was, ah, taken care of by the time we reached him.’

‘Who by?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But he told Clare he was working for Five.’