Authors: Chris Ryan
Skinner’s hand and weapon were covered with blood. He rinsed his fingers briefly under the tap, shook them dry, then walked over to the little cot where the two newly orphaned babies were lying, the pieces of dishcloth still stuffed in their mouths. He raised his gun and pressed the butt of the suppressor against the cheek of one of them. A rectangular smear of their mother’s blood transferred itself to the child’s skin. Both babies lay very still. It was as if they knew their lives were in the balance.
They were hardly worth a bullet. He had another idea. There was enough duct tape left on the roll for him to bind the two of them together, like Siamese twins joined at the belly. They screamed as he did it, but this was the sort of place where the screams of children went unheard. He picked up the monstrously swaddled bundle and carried it over to the little bath. It was stained yellow, and encrusted with limescale around the plughole. He put the plug in, then laid the wailing babies in the bath.
He turned on the taps, leaving the babies to their watery death. He didn’t even glance at their mother’s corpse as he left the bedsit, closing the door silently behind him.
TWO
The MoD policeman at the entrance to RAF Credenhill approached the black car with a neutral expression on his face, neither welcoming nor threatening. He waited while the rear-right passenger window slid silently down, then accepted two identity cards from a hand with neatly trimmed nails and a gold signet ring. He examined the cards, then bent down to peer into the back of the car.
‘Mr Carrington?’ he asked.
The man nearest him nodded. Steel-grey hair, black-rimmed glasses. His face matched his photo.
‘And Mr Buckingham?’ The policeman turned his attention to the man next to him. Much younger, thirty maybe. Absurdly handsome, with a pleasant, open expression, a thick head of black, slightly floppy hair and a healthy tan. Hugo Buckingham nodded respectfully. The MoD policeman handed back the identity cards and waved the vehicle through the gates.
Hugo would never have admitted it to anybody, but he’d been rather looking forward to today. SAS headquarters. Not everyone got to see inside this place. In the five years he’d been with the Foreign Office he’d had to acknowledge privately that, for the most part, intelligence work was dull. Oh, he’d had the opportunity to travel, no doubt about it. There was barely a British embassy in the Middle East he hadn’t set foot inside, and he’d had his share of contact with agents on the ground. In reality, however, he was little more than a glorified secretary, filing the correct bits of information in the correct place in the hope that the analysts back in London could use them to join up some dots. Whenever his old school friends – bankers, most of them, already planning to retire and spend a bit more time with their money – tried to get him drunk in the hope that he could be persuaded into some juicy indiscretion, Hugo Buckingham would always touch the side of his nose slyly and deliver his favourite line: ‘It’s government business, my friend. That’s all you need to know.’ A useful phrase. It sounded at once good-natured and jokey, made it sound as though he might know a great deal, and hid his ignorance of anything remotely resembling a state secret.
But a visit to SAS headquarters? Now
that
was something to dine out on.
The car slid to a halt outside the main Regiment building, which was disappointingly bland and utilitarian. The driver turned off the engine and remained seated, discreet and silent. ‘Shall we?’ Carrington said. These were the first two words the old fart had spoken to Buckingham for the entire journey from London.
‘Righto,’ Buckingham replied. He exited the car, then walked round the back to open the other rear door. Carrington climbed out without a word, removed a leather attaché case from the back seat, dusted the lapels of his suit and walked towards the building, where a simple brass plaque bore the inscription ‘22 SAS HQ’.
As the two visitors reached the door, a couple of soldiers were coming out of the building. Their hair was longer than the average soldier’s, and although they were in camouflage gear, they looked very casual – sleeves rolled up, no berets, unconventional Salomon Quest boots. Like they were wearing uniform but not
really
. Army, but not
really
army. One of them held the door open. Carrington, in one movement, pointed at the soldier, winked and made a friendly clicking noise with the side of his tongue as he entered. Hugo cringed and felt himself offering the soldier an apologetic look that evidently only compounded the offence. He hurried to keep up with Carrington as he walked deeper into the building.
The older spook knew where he was going. He strode purposefully along anonymous corridors, past doors indicating RSM, Adjutant, Training Adjutant, Training Officer, Ops Officer. Finally they stopped outside one marked ‘Lieutenant-Colonel J. Cartwright, Commanding Officer’. Carrington knocked three times and entered without waiting for a response. Buckingham followed rather more diffidently, and closed the door behind him. He found himself in a plain room, about five metres by five, furnished with just a desk and three chairs. On one of the walls hung old photographs, some black and white, of men wearing berets bearing the familiar winged dagger. On another was a large, laminated map of the world. Behind the desk sat a man so tall and broad of shoulder that the desk looked comically small. He didn’t stand, but nodded respectfully at Carrington. ‘Oliver,’ he said. He had a rasping voice, as if he was recovering from laryngitis.
‘Johnny. How goes it?’
‘Badly, since you ask.’ He had a posh voice, not unlike Carrington’s. ‘These bloody cuts are hitting us hard. I’m bleeding guys left, right and centre to the private sector, and most of the kids putting themselves up for selection wouldn’t make it round
The Krypton Factor
.’
‘I’m sure your training wing haven’t lost the knack of applying boot to arse, Johnny.’
The CO shrugged, then, looking in Buckingham’s direction, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Who’s this? Hugh Grant?’
‘Hu
g
o Buckingham,’ Carrington said. ‘Buckingham, this is Johnny Cartwright, Commanding Officer of 22 SAS. Johnny, Hugo here’s the chap I told you about. Had a desk at our Saudi station until a couple of weeks ago. Went to the Other Place, I’m afraid, but we try not to hold that against him.’
Cartwright blinked. ‘The Other Place?’
‘Harrow.’ Carrington mouthed it silently like it was a dirty word. Cartwright gave Buckingham an uninterested nod. Buckingham tried to return it with a smile, but flushed when he realised Cartwright’s attention was already back on his senior colleague.
Carrington placed his attaché case on the CO’s desk, opened it and removed four green foolscap files. ‘Sit down, Hugo,’ he said as he did so. ‘This concerns you rather intimately, after all.’ He handed the files to Cartwright. ‘These are the men we’ve selected. Personal vetting has in each case come up positive.’
‘I hope GCHQ haven’t been tapping my men’s phones again?’
‘Your men. Their wives and girlfriends. Their parents. Their bank managers . . .’
The CO held up his palm. ‘I don’t want to know, Oliver,’ he said. Cartwright flicked through the files, reciting the name of the Regiment member to whom each pertained. ‘Jack Dodds . . . Greg Murray – good man, Greg – Spud Glover . . .’
A frown crossed his face as he opened the last file. ‘Danny Black?’ He looked up. ‘You don’t want him, fellas. He’s out of town anyway.’
‘I’m afraid I might have to insist, Johnny.’
Cartwright stared at his MI6 sparring partner, then exhaled with the air of a defeated man. ‘Do me a favour, Oliver. Take someone else. Give Black a break.’ The CO glanced at Buckingham as he said this – not, Buckingham noted, without a hint of resentment. ‘The lad’s been on ops for six months solid. And he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s got a bastard of a homecoming to look forward to. He needs some down time. Compassionate problems to sort out.’
‘What problems, exactly?’ Buckingham asked, careful to keep his voice respectful.
‘You’ve read his file,’ the CO snapped without even looking at the younger man.
Chastened, Buckingham looked at his knees.
‘Hugo has had other matters to occupy him,’ Carrington said.
‘Look,’ Cartwright went on, ‘the lad comes from a military family. Father was in the Parachute Regiment, took a bullet to the head in Northern Ireland from an IRA hit team. Been in a wheelchair ever since. Can’t even answer a call of nature without the help of a nurse, so I’ve heard. Astonishing the kid isn’t messed up himself. His brother certainly is – mental health issues ever since he was a child, in and out of prison since sixteen. Just reaching the end of six months for GBH. Ever heard of a Hereford Spanner?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ Carrington said.
‘Nasty little cocktail of ketamine, MDMA and cocaine.’
‘More of a brandy and soda man myself.’
‘Why’s it called a Hereford Spanner?’ asked Buckingham.
‘Because it looks like you’ve been hit in the face with one. If I had my way, we’d send the little buggers who think that kind of stuff is a good idea on ops to Colombia, let them see exactly where their recreational drugs come from.’ He shrugged. ‘Kyle Black saw fit to beat some kid to a pulp when he was high on one of these cocktails, then knock his dad out of his chair when the old boy tried to calm him down. Poor sod broke his arm – last thing he needed. I want to give Danny time to sort all this out.’ The CO squeezed the bridge of his nose and suddenly looked very tired. ‘Seriously, Oliver, choose someone else. Black’s off limits for now.’
Hugo turned to his colleague and gave an apologetic little cough. ‘Sounds to me like the poor fellow has enough on his plate already,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can find a suitable—’
‘
Let’s
,’ Carrington interrupted, a withering look on his face, ‘speak when we’re spoken to, shall we, Hugo?’ Hugo felt himself flushing for a second time, and fell silent.
Turning his attention back to Cartwright, Carrington asked, ‘Do you know where the lad is now?’
‘I’m his commanding officer. Of course I know where he is.’
‘Good,’ said Carrington, resting his hands on his stomach. ‘Where?’
THREE
Fifty nautical miles north of the Libyan coastline, six billion dollars’ worth of US Navy aircraft carrier stood watch in the failing light. The USS
George Bush
was a long way from home. So was Danny Black.
He checked his watch. 21.45 hrs, Eastern European Time. The green light had come through from COBRA at 17.00 hrs GMT on the dot. Danny had a picture in his mind of the decision-makers hurriedly wrapping up their discussions before the end of working hours. Wouldn’t do for them to be late for their dinner appointments. Gordon Ramsay for the suits, meals ready-to-eat for the troops they were sending into action. Which was just fine by Danny. Thirty minutes from now it would be fully dark, and he and his patrol would be airborne. He glanced up, past the air traffic control radars, at the moon’s state: full, rising from the west, clear sky. There would be light to see by tonight, but also light to be seen by.
The Sea Knight that would ferry them off the aircraft carrier, over the southern Mediterranean and into the Libyan desert, was in a state of readiness. Tailgate down, rotors slowly spinning. Beyond it, parked to the side of the runway, were two F-16s. Beyond them, a whole fleet of aircraft. This
Nimitz
-class supercarrier could portage ninety fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters, and tonight it had a full complement. Danny had been on the
George Bush
for twenty-four hours already, having arrived with his unit from a staging post in Malta. He had spent most of that time below decks in the SF quarters, a spartan collection of rooms that held little more than bunks for the guys to sleep in, an operations room with co-ax points for their radios, mapping areas and satellite comms, and a briefing room where they could plug in their laptops. They only ventured out for meals, taken with the rest of the ship’s crew, at a table set aside for their use. Below decks, only the lull of the ship and the boom of fast air taking off and landing gave any hint that they were at sea. Now though, up here, he was surrounded by sea, a saline mist and the deafening industrial grind of the vessel’s steam turbines and nuclear reactors. It resembled not so much a ship as a floating city.
Like any city, the
George Bush
took a lot of running. With a ship’s company of more than three thousand, just keeping everyone fed – not to mention dealing with their sewage – was a round-the-clock enterprise. The aircraft carrier even had its own naval police force. Crime was far from unheard of. These ships hosted muggings, rapes, even murders – the usual depravities to be found among a population of this size. But the most dangerous place to be, by far, was here on the flight deck. It only took a pilot to misjudge his position by a few metres to turn this seaborne airfield into a disaster area. So the US Navy personnel running the show were strict. Nobody was on deck who didn’t have a legitimate reason to be there. Marshals with different coloured luminous jackets and hand-held signalling beacons conducted their business around the grounded aircraft. Aircraft-handling officers in yellow, ordnancemen in red, fuel handlers in purple, inspectors in black. The flight crew of the Sea Knight were loading up, along with the two US army shooters who would take the roles of door-gunner and rear-gunner for the next three hours.