Who Dares Wins (46 page)

‘They’re sending someone,’ he continued. ‘Tonight, we think.’ He looked them each in the eye. ‘Someone good. I asked for you lot because I knew you’d want this chance.’

A thick silence in the room. The two Georgians shuffled nervously.

‘Who knows we’re here?’ Davenport asked.

‘The Firm,’ Sam replied. ‘No one else.’

Davenport glanced over at the Georgians. ‘Our friends didn’t tell anyone?’

Sam shook his head.

‘Then the chances are we’ve sidestepped the hit, that no one’ll come.’

Sam was about to answer, but Tyler got there first. ‘Unless the same person who tipped off Spetsnaz decides to shoot his mouth off about where we are. That what you’re thinking, Sam?’

Sam didn’t know what he was thinking. Bland’s words kept coming back to him.
There’s no mole, Sam. You’re seeing shadows.
Jesus, he thought to himself. I probably am. It would make sense for Spetsnaz to have been guarding the FSB’s little secret in Kazakhstan. With a flash of insight he suspected he’d been wrong. But mole or no mole, one thing was sure: if this hit had Jacob’s fingerprints on it, things would be complicated. Very fucking complicated. It was a dark thought, but Sam couldn’t shake it.

‘Someone will come,’ he said, somehow very sure that he was right. One glance at the men and he knew they took him at his word. And one look at the Georgians did the same. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Back to your positions and keep your fucking eyes open. These bastards have already nailed two of ours. Let’s make sure they don’t make it a third, hey?’

Daylight came, and with it the ability to walk around the house without alerting anyone outside to their presence. Sam was glad to leave Beridze and his assistant under Davenport’s protection to check the place out. It ticked all the boxes. Exits at the front and the back in case they needed to leave in a hurry – there was a gate at the bottom of the garden and from behind the net curtains in the top-floor toilet he could see an alleyway winding back round on to the street. All the exits could be clearly surveyed from the watch points where the men stood guard with their sniper rifles pointing directly at the windows. Sam’s pep talk had done the trick – they were alert and watchful. Even Tyler’s previous sarcasm had been replaced by a crisp tension. These men were like loaded weapons, ready to be discharged at any second.

Back in the main room, Beridze was sitting on the bare floor while his assistant propped his abundant backside on his briefcase. ‘I demand that you find me a chair,’ Beridze instructed when Sam walked back in.

‘I’m not a furniture removal man.’

‘
I am the Georgian ambassador
 . . .’ Beridze flared, but he was interrupted by Sam.

‘If tonight’s festivities don’t go the way we want them to, Beridze, you won’t need a chair. You’ll need a box. Now shut the fuck up and let us get on with our job of keeping you alive.’

Beridze scowled at him, but he fell silent.

10.00 hrs. They ate chocolate and drank sugary Coke from the stores the unit had brought with them – and which Beridze, from the look on his face, found distasteful – and waited. Sam attached his own comms, then continued to wait. Long stretches of silence filled the house, broken only by the occasional cough from one of the guys over the comms and the incessant barking of a dog nearby. Sam knew that the buildings on either side of the safe house would be empty, so whenever the silence was disturbed by some indistinguishable noise, everyone jumped. As morning became afternoon, even Beridze had stopped his brusque comments. Something had changed in him. Tiredness? Or had the fear notched up a level as evening approached?

Sam looked over at the ambassador. It was probably a bit of both.

He crouched opposite the two Georgians, his back leaning against the wall as he turned the Sig round in his fingers. The fear, he realised, was rising in him too. Not fear of a fight. Far from it. But a different kind of fear. He felt there was something on the periphery of his vision. Off to one side. And when he tried to turn his mind to see it, it slipped away again. He closed his eyes and tried to zero in.

‘Something wrong, Sam?’ Davenport asked. Sam opened his eyes to see his colleague checking him out.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

But it wasn’t true. The shadow on the edge of his vision was there. He knew he should be able to see it, but he couldn’t.

All the entrances and exits were covered. He had the cream of the crop guarding the Georgians. But despite all that, despite everything, Sam Redman couldn’t help thinking he was missing something.

*

14.20 hrs.

Jamie Spillane wasn’t far away. He paced the streets, the faint nausea of excitement churning inside. He kept one hand in his pocket and, with his fingertips, turned the fifty-pence piece that he was carrying over and over. It was stupid, he knew, but like a kid making sure he had his lunch money, Jamie had been holding on to this coin for the last two days. He liked to know that everything was arranged as it should be.

As he walked, his mind replayed his instructions.
21.00 hrs. Do nothing till then.

How many times had he performed the calculation in his head, just to be sure? 21.00 hrs: that was nine o’clock in the evening. He looked at his watch. Half-past two. The intervening hours seemed like days, an impossible bridge to cross before he could finally complete his operation.

‘Roger that,’ Jamie had replied, attempting to sound military.

Jamie had known his route for days. An anxious father-to-be, plotting the fastest way to the hospital, couldn’t have been more fastidious.

He walked faster. On the other side of the street he heard somebody shout at him: ‘Wanker!’ He ignored it. He didn’t need a kerbside brawl to get his kicks any more. He had something else. Something better.

Looking at his watch again, he saw that it was only two thirty-five. He bit his lip, turned and then headed back to his bedsit, where he would wait out the remaining hours. His fingertips continued to roll the fifty-pence piece round in his pocket. Faster and faster. It dug into his skin.

How amazing, he thought to himself, that you can kill a man using just a coin . . .

18.30 hrs.

It grew dark. Sam visited each of the observation posts. The men had reattached their NV goggles. They were like statues in the gloom and about as talkative as they watched out of their windows.

‘It could happen at any time,’ Sam told each of them. And from each of them he got only a brief nod in return.

Back in the main room, Beridze was pacing. He gave Sam an irritated look as he entered, then muttered something under his breath. His wide-eyed assistant remained crouched on the floor.

Silence in the room. The incessant barking of the dog outside.

And at the edge of Sam’s mind, the shadows that wouldn’t go away.

He tried to concentrate. To remain professional. But his mind wandered, no matter how much he tried to steer it back on course. He thought of his father. At that very moment Max would be lying frail in his bed, perhaps reliving old glories in his head, perhaps rejoicing in the son that had come back to life.
Jacob was a real soldier
, he heard the old man saying.
If it wasn’t for your brother, God knows where you’d have ended up.

‘Movement!’ Hill’s voice on the comms. Sam stood up quickly, pointing his gun towards the door. He sensed Davenport training his M16 at the black tarpaulin that covered the window.

‘What is it?’ Beridze whispered. Sam heard the two men shuffle into a corner. ‘
What is it?
’

Neither SAS man moved.

A breathless few seconds. And then, over comms: ‘It’s nothing.’

Sam lowered his gun, but only slowly. ‘False alarm,’ he stated. He looked at his watch. 18.56. Beridze spat something in his own language. Sam felt like doing the same. The shadow on the edge of his mind grew darker, but no more distinct.

*

20.15 hrs.

Jamie Spillane had put his hooded top on fifteen minutes ago and spent the intervening time looking at himself in the cloudy mirror. The hood hung over the top of his face by a good couple of inches. In the dark, he satisfied himself, it would be almost impossible to make out his features.

He walked over to his bed. From under the mattress he pulled one of the boxes that had been supplied to him. Inside was the small, black handgun. He placed it in the pocket of his hooded top. Back in front of the mirror, he noticed that it bulged slightly; but no one would know what it was. He smiled to himself. It felt good carrying a weapon. He liked it.

20.19. Forty-one minutes to go. It would only take him ten to get there, but he didn’t want to be late. He tugged the hood one final time down over his face, then left his tiny bedsit, making very sure to lock the door behind him as he went.

*

Sam paced.

He’d lost count of the times he had walked through the darkness of the safe house, checking each observation point and receiving nothing but curt responses from the watchful guys. They could sense he was on edge. That much was clear.

Back in the main room, the two Georgians were arguing. About what, Sam didn’t know. Their voices sounded harsh and guttural. Davenport was looking at them like they were mad; when they saw Sam, however, they quietened down.

‘Anything?’ Davenport asked.

Sam shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ the ambassador announced. ‘Nobody knows where we are. How can
anybody
find us?’

Neither of the SAS men replied. But Sam could tell from the look Davenport gave him that he was thinking a similar thing.

And maybe he was right.

Sam looked at his watch. 20.36. Damn it, he didn’t even know what he was waiting for.

Thoughts collided in his brain. He tried to organise them. Jacob had told him to stay away.
You can’t stop it. It’s in motion.

Think, Sam
, he told himself.
Just think.

Davenport was looking at him again. So were the Georgians.

His brother wouldn’t let this fail. Sam knew him too well. He was clever. Just because he was dead – and the very thought twisted inside him – it didn’t mean he hadn’t trained his red-light runners to think like him.

Sam tried to think what he himself would do. But as he stood in that room, his mind was suddenly flooded with other things: images of his brother. As a kid, playing. As a young man, joining up and persuading Sam to do the same.

A fizzing sound. Davenport had opened a can of Coke. He downed it, looking at Sam over the can as he did so.

Sam blinked. Then he stared. Not at Davenport, but at the can of Coke.

The shadow on the edge of his memory had suddenly grown more distinct.

He saw Jacob again; but this time it was in Iraq, six years ago. The day when it all went wrong.

Suddenly Sam was in the Al-Mansour district of Baghdad again. He, Jacob and Mac were preparing to storm a house, to apprehend a wanted Ba’athist. Their tout had dropped a tracking device outside the house in question, hidden in an old fizzy drink can, so they knew where it was. But they needed a diversion. Something to distract the guards while they raided the building.

Standing in that room, with Davenport and the Georgians, Sam heard his dead brother’s voice as clearly as if he was right there with them. Tense. A bit self-satisfied. The very words he had spoken that day so long ago.

They’d needed a diversion outside the house. Thanks to Jacob’s forward planning, there was an improvised explosive device already there.

‘Jesus,’ he breathed. ‘We’re fucking sitting on it.’

Davenport looked alarmed. ‘What’s wrong, Sam?’ But Sam didn’t answer. His eyes had fallen on Beridze’s assistant, Gigo. Jacob had mentioned him, but why? Bland’s analyst had assumed he was a target, like the ambassador. But he was a nobody. Why would they target him?

Like a balloon being burst, the shadow on the edge of his vision disappeared and Sam saw clearly.
His assistant.
Jacob had been trying to tell Sam something. At the moment of his death, he’d been trying to warn him.
The assistant was the shooter.
He strode over to the younger of the two Georgians and with one tug of his clothes yanked him to his feet before pressing him against the wall.

‘Where is it?’ he shouted. ‘Where’s your fucking weapon?’ He pressed the gun up against the man’s head.

Gigo’s eyes bulged. He tried to speak, but was mute with fear.

From behind him, Davenport’s voice. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sam, what are you doing?’

Sam hurled the assistant into the middle of the room. ‘Take your clothes off,’ he said. Then, over his shoulder at the boss, ‘
Tell him to take his fucking clothes off!
’

Davenport started to say something, but Sam waved his handgun in his colleague’s direction. ‘Shut up,’ he said.

Commotion over the comms. ‘What’s going on?’ Sam didn’t answer.

Gigo was stripping, slowly because of his shaking body. ‘Hurry up,’ Sam barked at him. He went a bit faster, then stood wearing nothing but his underpants, a pair of gartered socks and a humiliated, incensed expression. He was fat, with a hairy stomach. But there was no concealed weapon.

‘What the hell’s going on, Sam?’ Davenport demanded. Sam’s breath came in short, nervous gasps. He looked around. He was missing something.
Damn it, he was missing something.