Red Notice

13

‘Laszlo’s gone.’ Gavin tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes. ‘And he’s left a bloody great IED as a farewell present. Days like this make me wish I was a Frog…’

Ashton nodded. ‘Or a Russian.’

The Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité (CRS) were specially trained to deal with riots and other circumstances that fell awkwardly between the maintenance of law and order and outright war. The Interior Ministry of the Russian Federation had its own armed troops to deal with major riots, terrorism and low-level insurrection.

‘Fuck it.’ Gavin brought his fist down on the table. ‘We’d have had him if that lot —’ he jerked his head in the vague direction of central London ‘— had got their shit together.’

‘Some you win.’ Ashton got to his feet and stretched his arms above his head. ‘OK, wrap it up. We need to be out of here before the media circus hits town.’

Woolf continued to bark instructions into his phone. ‘That’s what I said, and that’s what I want: a nationwide lockdown. Every airport, seaport and railway station. Get it done now.’

He broke the connection and met the 3i/c’s stare.

‘We waited too fucking long,’ Gavin said.

‘Bollocks. You messed up, pure and simple. And now we’re going to have to go and find him all over again.’

Gavin gave a snort. ‘Unless he grows wings, how hard can it be? It’s a fucking island, isn’t it?’

‘It took three years to track him down the first time. He may be a mass-murdering psychopath to us, but he’s the number-one poster boy in South Ossetia. You just saw how men — and even women, for heaven’s sake — are prepared to die for him. Laszlo is like a god to them. If he goes underground again, the Russian network will make damn sure we don’t get anywhere near him.’

‘You’d better crack on before he does, then.’

‘Crack on? Of course we’re going to bloody crack on.’ Woolf was close to blowing a fuse. ‘Because while you Special Forces “blades” are diving for cover, we’ll have every toe-rag reporter in our faces, every paper in the world printing pictures of Laszlo’s victims and demanding to know why we — we, not you — failed them.’ He grabbed his papers and stormed out of the room, but rather spoiled the effect when he realized he had left his mobile behind and had to retrace his steps, avoiding Gavin’s eye, to collect it.

Gavin packed up his kit as sirens wailed and the beat of TV-network helicopters filled the air. He grinned at the landlord. ‘Mate, you can have your pub back now. It’s been a real pleasure. Next time, why don’t you come over to ours?’

‘And my pictures and ornaments? Who’s going to put those back?’

‘I’ll give you a clue,’ Gavin said. ‘Three letters, starts with y and rhymes with “screw”. Have a nice day now.’