Who Dares Wins (32 page)

‘That what you ordered, Doc?’ None of the soldiers appeared remotely surprised that the contents of the crate, whatever they were, were most decidedly
not
humanitarian aid. There were several long, wide-calibre metal cylinders; there were conical warheads and various other intricate bits of machinery. The Doc ticked these items off on his list before asking for the crate to be sealed once more, while the others were opened and checked.

‘Hope
you
know how all this stuff fits together, Doc,’ a voice called from behind him. ‘Looks like a fucking overblown Meccano set to me.’

The Doc didn’t take his eyes from the clipboard. ‘Yes,’ he said vaguely, before turning round and peering at the soldier over his glasses. ‘You might want to put that out,’ he said, indicating the cigarette hanging from the soldier’s lips.

The soldier blinked, then dropped the cigarette on the floor as if it were suddenly red hot. He ground it out with his foot.

The Doc nodded with approval, then turned back to his clipboard with a faint, unnoticed smile. A cigarette, of course, would cause no damage whatsoever to the components that had just been delivered. But the guys were keen enough to take the mickey out of him. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t have a bit of fun of his own.

He continued with his inventory. It took the best part of an hour to check all eight cases, but at the end of that time he was satisfied that everything was present and correct. He cleared his throat and issued his polite instruction.

‘All right,’ he called to the assembled company. ‘Everything’s here. You can load the cases up and move them on. And please, be gentle with them. You might all have the heart and soul of Spanish baggage handlers, but we really don’t want to be throwing these things around too much, now do we?’

*

You’ll be sent a package. It will contain everything you need. Only open it when you’re alone. Don’t let anybody else see what’s in it.
The abrupt instructions of his handler, the dark-featured former soldier who had trained Jamie Spillane and the others in Kazakhstan, had scarcely left his head since he had called a few days ago.

The package had arrived two days later. Jamie Spillane didn’t know who had sent it, but he decided not to think about that too much. The landlady who owned the bedsit where he was staying had been unable to disguise her interest in the box. She brought it up to his room and stood in the doorway for far too long a time after she had placed it in his hands and received a curt word of thanks from Jamie, who had been forced to shut the door in her face. Nosy bitch.

He had looked at the package for a good long time before opening it: half because he was waiting for the landlady to piss off, half because he was nervous. It just sat there on the bed in its tightly wound brown packing tape and neatly typed label. Jamie smoked a cigarette, locked his door from the inside and paced the room before he even attempted to open it.

It took a while. His chewed nails were not up to the task of unpeeling the packing tape. He was forced instead to use a key from the bunch in his pocket to tear into the tape and open up the box. The contents were cushioned in a roll of protective plastic, the type that as a kid he had liked to pop between his fingers. Jamie discarded it without so much as a squeeze and stared for a moment at the contents inside.

He removed the camera first. It was heavy. Chunky. Not a lightweight little gizmo for taking random snaps, but a serious piece of kit. Included in the box was a telephoto lens. It took Jamie a while to work out how to fit it to the body of the camera, but once he had managed it he was pleased with the result. He took the camera to the small window which looked out over the street and into the attic rooms beyond. While he had been looking out the previous night, he could have sworn some chick had been undressing in one of those windows. It was too far to be seen and enjoyed with the naked eye, but now that he had a bit of help . . .

She wasn’t there. He sniffed, then pulled down the blind and dumped the camera on to his bed. Only then did he turn his attention back to the box. It wasn’t as deep as it had looked from the outside and his hands were trembling with excitement as he unpacked the compartment at the bottom. Excitement and a little apprehension. As he pulled out the small, black handgun, his mind flashed back to the training camp.
If you need a weapon, it will be supplied to you. Don’t fuck things up by trying to get hold of one yourself. People will just start asking questions.

He liked the way it felt in his hand. A Colt. He felt pleased with himself for recognising it. He aimed it towards the door and discharged a silent, imaginary bullet. Then another. And then, laying the handgun on the bed next to the camera, he removed the final item from the package: a box of rounds. Only then did he go about choosing a hiding place for his new toys . . .

And now, two days later, he was making use of one of them.

He had arrived in Russell Gardens, West London, at 6.30 a.m., the earliest the Underground would allow. He could have taken a cab, of course, but that would not have been secure.
Don’t let anybody know where you are or what you’re doing.
Much better to take advantage of the anonymity of the Tube. The building he wanted, couched between the relative bustle of Kensington High Street and the Holland Park roundabout, was totally unremarkable. Had it not been for a small plaque by the door which read
Embassy of Georgia to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
it would have been impossible to say what function it served. Jamie loitered, but not too close. He couldn’t
see
any CCTV, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. Anyway, he didn’t need to be too close. That was what the telephoto lens was for, after all.

It was cold in the early morning, so Jamie was pleased with the hooded top he wore underneath his coat. It kept him warm as well as going some way to concealing his face. Even so, he had to stamp his feet as he waited.
They arrive between eight and ten in the morning
. It meant he could be waiting for some time. Jamie didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. He was excited. His fingertips tingled. He was looking forward to executing the first part of his assignment. He thought about the people who were always so quick to think the worst of him. Mum. Dad. Even Kelly. If they could only see him now. His mouth was dry with the thrill of it.

He took a seat on a bench on the opposite side of the road, making sure that he had a clear view of the embassy. Removing his mobile phone, he started fiddling with it to blend into the background. Just some kid obsessed with texting, people would think. He continued to wait. Now and then he would put one hand into his pocket. The Colt was there and he would grip it. It felt good.

No more than twenty-five metres to the main entrance, he calculated. It would be fine.

He waited some more.

In the event, it was just after nine when a car pulled up outside the embassy. It was chauffeur driven, but it wasn’t a particularly grand or impressive vehicle – a bog-standard Renault Laguna. Its hazard lights flashed as it double parked, while the chauffeur stepped out and opened the back door. Two men emerged. They were both rather fat, one clearly older than the other. As they squeezed through the parked cars, on to the pavement and up to the steps of the embassy, it was the older man who took the lead, walking with a kind of brusque impatience. The second man followed several steps behind. His gait was a little less ostentatious and he carried in his right hand a quite ordinary-looking briefcase.

Jamie raised his camera, zoomed in and started to snap. He managed to take a substantial burst of photographs before the younger of the two men stopped, turned and looked behind him. Through the zoom of the camera, Jamie saw that the man was staring straight at him.

He felt his blood freeze. He lowered the camera and instinctively pulled his hood down.
If they see you, don’t panic. Just walk away. They’ll assume you’re the Press.
He turned heel and walked to the end of the road. Adrenaline surged through him. Any moment now, he thought to himself, I’m going to feel a hand on my shoulder. They’re following me.

He upped his pace.

Jamie turned the corner, into the busy main street. He ran across the road, ignoring the beeps from the cars, which had to brake and swerve to avoid him. On the opposite pavement he stopped and looked back.

No one.

He grinned as he felt a sudden exhilaration. It had gone well. He put his hand over the screen at the back of the camera and flicked through the images he had taken. They were good. He’d got what he wanted. That evening, having changed his clothes and therefore his appearance, he would repeat his performance, this time outside the Georgian Orthodox Church further west of here, where he had been told these two men worshipped regularly. From a randomly chosen Internet café he would e-mail the best of his photographs to the address he had been given.

And then he would lie low and wait. Wait for another package, and for the opportunity to carry out the second part of his instructions.

*

Dolohov’s wounds were bad. He kept asking for vodka, but Sam refused to give him any. He needed to use the alcohol to keep the stumps disinfected, a rough and ready way of stopping his captive from developing fever, but the best he could come up with. Dolohov managed not to scream when he plunged the wounds into a bowl of vodka, but that was more out of exhaustion, Sam sensed, than bravery. He found codeine in the bathroom cabinet and kept the Russian dosed up on that. It was hardly going to remove the pain, but it would take the edge off for as long as the supply lasted.

They sat in silence, Dolohov still restrained by the electrical flex. It was clear that the Russian knew how close he had come to death. When he had uttered Jacob’s name, a madness had come over Sam. He knew what people looked like when they thought they were about to die. Dolohov had that look.

But Sam had calmed himself at the last moment. And he had done his best to keep calm during the slow hours before morning. Apart from during Sam’s painful makeshift medical attentions, the two of them had sat in silence, Dolohov obviously trying to manage the pain and Sam trying to manage the implications of what he had just learned.

After Bland had collared him and spun him the MI6 line, Sam had simply not believed him. There were too many things that just didn’t add up and Jacob’s parting words had never been far from the front of his mind. But Dolohov had no reason to lie to him. On the contrary, he had every reason to tell the truth. What was more, Dolohov did not know Sam’s name. He did not know his relationship to Jacob. Bland might have been playing mind games; Dolohov almost certainly wasn’t.

And then there was the evidence of the laptop. It was Jacob’s – at least, it had been taken from Jacob’s things – and he
had
e-mailed details of the dead red-light runners to someone. Whichever way he looked at it, Dolohov’s story stacked up.

Except for one thing. If the Russian was telling him the truth, his brother was no longer the man he once knew. He had become someone else.

Sam turned to the big windows at the end of the room and parted the curtains. The low, crisp sun of dawn shot in. Sam winced, but did not move the curtains. The morning sky was red and scudded with lean pink clouds. There was a chorus of birdsong. In Kazakhstan it would be later in the day, but the same sun would be shining down. Shining down on Jacob. What would his brother be doing now?

What the
hell
would his brother be doing?

Treason. It’s not a terribly fashionable word is it?
Bland’s voice was as clear in Sam’s head as if he were actually there.
I would say, in circumstances such as this, that a man might become bitter.

Sam found himself having to control his anger again.

How could he forget that? How could he believe them? Jacob
was
his brother. He deserved the benefit of the doubt. But he also had some explaining to do. For a moment, Sam considered contacting Bland again, telling him what he knew. But he put that thought from his mind. The memory of the Spetsnaz troops in Kazakhstan, of Craven’s death, was still fresh. Nobody had yet explained to him with any degree of satisfaction how the Russians knew they were coming. The Regiment had been expected and in Sam’s book that meant one thing: a tip-off. Go singing to MI6 and the chances were that every word of his conversation would end up on a transcript roll somewhere in Moscow. He shook his head as he continued to look out at the night sky.

Sam needed to see Jacob. Face to face. To ask him the questions that needed asking. His brother deserved that at the very least. And mole or no mole, he needed to do it without the interference of MI6. They would be heavy handed in their questioning. They would more than likely torture him to get the truth. They would do to Jacob what Sam had done to Dolohov, or something like. And he wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

He turned to Dolohov.

‘Can you contact him?’ he asked abruptly.

Dolohov, bleary eyed, raised his head. Jesus, he looked like shit. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

‘Jacob Redman.’

Momentarily, a wily look crossed Dolohov’s face. It disappeared as soon as it had arrived, to be replaced by that sombre expression; it did not, however, go unnoticed by Sam.

‘Yes,’ Dolohov replied. ‘I can contact him.’

‘How?’

‘By e-mail.’

Sam nodded. He thought for a while longer before speaking again. ‘Do you often contact him?’ he asked.

Dolohov gave him a contemptuous look, as though it were a stupid question. ‘It has never happened yet.’

‘But if you asked for a meeting, would he come?’

Dolohov shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He could be anywhere in the world.’ A pause. ‘But yes, I think he would come. I am a man of a certain importance.’