Hard Landing

Praise for Stephen Leather

‘Stephen Leather should be nestling in your bookshelves alongside Frederick Forsyth and Jack Higgins’
Daily Mail

‘Exciting stuff with plenty of heart-palpitating action gingered up by mystery and intrigue . . . Leather is an intelligent thriller writer’
Daily Mail
on
The Tunnel Rats

‘As high-tech and as world-class as the thriller genre gets’
Express
on
Sunday
on
The Bombmaker

‘A whirlwind of action, suspense and vivid excitement’
Irish Times
on
The Birthday Girl

‘Atmospheric suspense’
Daily Mirror
on
The Eyewitness

‘Stephen Leather’s novel manages to put a contemporary spin on a timeless tale of revenge and retribution . . . Leather’s experience as a journalist brings a sturdy, gritty element to a tale of horror . . . which makes
The Eyewitness
a compelling read’
Evening Herald
, Dublin

Pay Off

The Fireman

Hungry Ghost

The Chinaman

The Vets

The Long Shot

The Birthday Girl

The Double Tap

The Solitary Man

The Tunnel Rats

The Bombmaker

The Stretch

Tango One

The Eyewitness

Hard Landing

Soft Target

Cold Kill

Hot Blood

Dead Men

Live Fire

Rough Justice

Fair Game (July 2011)

Nightfall

Midnight

To find out about these and future titles, visit
www.stephenleather.com
.

Stephen Leather was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as
The Times
, the
Daily Mail
and the
South China Morning Post
in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shovelled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue. He began writing full-time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as
London’s Burning, The Knock
and the BBC’s
Murder in Mind
series.

Stephen Leather

HODDER & STOUGHTON

Copyright © 2004 by Stephen Leather

The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978 1 84456 857 4
Book ISBN 0 340 73411 6

Hodder and Stoughton Ltd
A division of Hodder Headline
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

For Barbara

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Ian West and John Newman who helped me to understand what it’s like to work in the prison system and I am grateful for their help and advice. Any errors of fact are mine, not theirs.

Alistair Cumming was invaluable for guidance on police matters and Sam Jenner gave me his expert advice on matters military.

I was lucky enough to have Denis O’Donoghue on hand to cast his professional eye over the manuscript and to have Hazel Orme’s editing skills on the case.

It was a pleasure to work with Carolyn Mays at Hodder and Stoughton again and
Hard Landing
is a better book for her creative input and unwavering support.

Trish Elliott ran her hand across her stomach for the hundredth time since she’d left the doctor’s surgery. It didn’t feel as if there was a new life growing inside her – it was far too early for any movement or kicks, for the baby to make its presence felt. But Trish had known straight away this time, after years of trying, she was pregnant. The third pregnancy test had confirmed what her body had been telling her.

She hadn’t said anything to her husband and she’d left it another month before seeing her doctor, but now there was no doubt. ‘Pregnant’. She whispered the word to herself as she parked the car at the side of the road, relishing the sound of it. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said softly. ‘I am having a baby.’ She wanted to run down the street and tell everybody, shout it to the sky, phone every friend and relative she had. But she also enjoyed having such a delicious secret. She knew. The doctor knew. And that was all. For a while, at least, the baby belonged solely to her.

She switched off the engine and shuffled across to sit in the passenger seat. Her husband loved to drive. It wasn’t a macho thing, or that he didn’t trust her at the wheel, it was just that he enjoyed it so much that she was happy to let him do it. Trish thought that she was probably the better driver. She took more care, followed the
Highway Code
religiously, checked her mirrors constantly, and was always happy to let other motorists get ahead of her. Jonathon – well, Jonathon drove like a man, there was no getting away from it. She sat in the passenger seat and waited for him to leave the office.

That was something else that would change, she thought, with a smile. Jonathon had promised that when they had a family he’d get a desk job. No more late nights, no more weeks away from home, no more putting his life on the line. He’d take a regular job, with regular hours, and he’d be there for her when she needed him. Someone else could take the risks and have the glory. He’d be a husband and father. A family man. He’d promised, and she would keep him to it.

She saw her husband walking along the pavement towards the car and waved. Jonathon got in and kissed her cheek. Trish slipped her hand round his neck and pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply. He kissed her back, with passion, and slid his hand down to cup her breast. ‘That was nice,’ he said, as she released him.

You deserve it,’ she said.

‘For what?’ He started the engine and revved the accelerator, as he always did, boy-racer style.

‘For being such a good husband.’ She stroked his thigh. She wasn’t going to tell him yet, not until the time was absolutely right. The food was in the boot, all the ingredients for his favourite meal, and a bottle of wine. She’d only have a sip to celebrate and that would be the last alcohol she’d touch until the baby was born. She wasn’t going to do anything that might remotely jeopardise the health of her child. Their child. The child they’d been waiting for for almost three years. Their doctor had insisted there was no medical reason for her inability to conceive. She was fine. Jonathon was fine. There was no need yet for intervention, they just had to keep trying. They were young, fit and healthy. Jonathon’s job meant he was under a lot of stress, but other than that all they needed was lots of sex and a bit of luck. They’d had lots of sex, all right, thought Trish, with a smile. It had always been great, from the very beginning.

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jonathon, putting the car in gear and driving away from the kerb. He pushed his way into the traffic without indicating, and waved a careless thanks to a BMW that had had to brake sharply to let him in.

‘Nothing,’ she said. She wanted to tell him there and then, but she wanted it to be perfect. She wanted it to be a moment they’d both remember for ever.

‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Jonathon. There was a set of traffic lights ahead. Jonathon groaned as they turned red. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘Now we’re stuck here.’

‘There’s no rush,’ she said. She looked across at him. He was so good-looking. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mop of black hair that kept falling across his face. Perfect teeth– a toothpaste-advert smile.

He grinned at her, the grin of a mischievous schoolboy who had never grown up. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘You. You’re smiling like the cat that got the cream.’

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to grab him and kiss him and hug him and tell him he was going to be a father. But she shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

A large black motorcycle pulled up next to them. The pillion passenger leaned down so that he could look into the car. For a moment Trish thought he wanted to ask directions. Then she saw the gun, and frowned. It was so unexpected that for a few seconds it didn’t register. Then time seemed to stop and she saw everything clearly. The gun was a dull grey automatic in a brown-gloved hand. The pillion passenger wore a bright red full-face helmet with a black visor. The driver had a black helmet, his visor also impenetrable. Men without faces. The driver revved the engine. The passenger held the gun with both hands.

Jonathon turned to follow her gaze. As he moved, the gun kicked, the window exploded and cubes of glass splattered across Trish’s face.

The explosion was so loud that it deafened her and she felt rather than heard the next two shots. Her face was wet and she thought she’d been cut, but then she realised it wasn’t her blood: her face and chest were soaked with her husband’s and she screamed as he toppled forward on to the steering wheel.

There were eight of them in the minibus, all wearing blue overalls, training shoes and baseball caps with the logo of the pest-control company above the peak. As the minibus stopped at the gate a bored security guard with a clipboard waited until the driver wound down the window, then peered at the plastic ID card clipped to his overall pocket. He did a head count and made a note.

‘No one off sick tonight, then?’ On a bad night there’d only be four in the squad. Eight was a full complement and, with the company barely paying above minimum wage, they were usually at least one man short. No women. The work was unpleasant and physically demanding, and while sex-discrimination laws meant that women couldn’t be refused a job, few made it beyond the first night.

‘New blood,’ said the driver. ‘Still keen.’

The security guard shrugged. ‘Yeah, I remember keen,’ he said wearily. He was in his late twenties but looked older, with hair greying at the temples and a spreading waistline. ‘Okay, gentlemen, hold your ID cards where I can see them, please.’

The men did as they were asked and the security guard shone his torch at the cards one by one. He was too far away to check that the faces of the men matched those on the cards, but even if he had studied them he would have seen nothing wrong. Time had been taken to ensure that the ID cards were faultless. The van was genuine, as were the overalls and baseball caps, but its original occupants were in their underwear in a disused factory in east London, gagged, bound and guarded by another member of the gang. He would stay with them until he was told that the job was done.

The faces that looked back at the security guard showed the bored resignation of men about to start eight hours of tedious night work. Three were West Indian, including the driver. The rest were white, all aged under forty. One of the youngest yawned, showing a mouthful of bad teeth.

The security guard stepped back from the minibus. He waved across at his colleague and the white pole barrier with its
STOP
sign rose. Two uniformed policemen, wearing bullet-proof vests and cradling black Heckler and Koch automatics, were standing at the gatehouse. They watched the minibus drive by, their fingers inside the trigger-guards of their weapons. The driver gave them a friendly wave and drove towards the warehouses. Overhead, a British Airways 747 swooped low, its landing gear down, wheels ready to bite into the runway, engines roaring in the night sky.

The man with bad teeth ducked involuntarily and one of the West Indians laughed and slapped him on the back.

‘Don’t fuck around,’ said the man sitting next to the driver. He was wide-shouldered, in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair cropped close to his skull. He scanned the darkness between the warehouses. He wasn’t expecting trouble: virtually all the security was at the perimeter of the airport.