Deception

THIRTY-ONE

Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath was looking every one of his thirty-eight years, with a yellowish tinge to his skin and dark hollows beneath each eye. His white shirt and dark slacks were creased, evidence of a long journey without being able to change, and he looked strung out, eyes searching for a way out like a rat in a box. He’d take some stopping, thought Harry, if he decided to get up and go. Operating with 16 Air Assault Brigade in the hills of Afghanistan had toughened up the Signals NCO in a way that playing with communications equipment never would have.

Harry sat down opposite him and dropped a packet of cigarettes on the table. A pair of large constables were stationed by the door, and one of them, with ginger hair and pale skin, shifted his feet.

‘Can’t do that in here, sir.’

Harry looked at him. ‘Don’t worry, officer, I think he’s got more pressing problems than breaking the smoking ban.’ He took out a cheap Bic lighter and slid it across the surface. ‘You want to smoke, go ahead.’

McCreath shook his head. ‘I’m trying to give up. Who are you?’

‘You can call me Harry. I want to help you get out of here in one piece.’ He sat back. ‘I hear you’ve got Ganic and Zubac on your tail.’

‘You know them?’

‘I’ve seen their handiwork.’

McCreath grunted and looked around the room. ‘Then you know this place won’t stop them. Nor will the two plods on the door.’

‘You think they’ll come inside? Why would they risk it?’

‘Because they’re mental, that’s why. I’ve seen their type before — even served with one or two like them. They get off on proving how tough they are, thinking they can go through anything or anyone. If Deakin sets them on a target, that’s all they need.’

‘And you think he’s set them on you?’ He sounded deliberately sceptical; he wanted McCreath to become unsettled, even angry. It would lead to the truth that much quicker.

McCreath blinked. ‘Of course. I bugged out, didn’t I? Left his cosy hotel and fancy meals and legged it back here. It was saying I didn’t want to play his game or take his money. He wouldn’t like that. If they can’t get me in here, they’ll wait for me to go out. . just like they did Pike.’

Harry ignored that for the moment; he wanted to get McCreath talking about the Protectory. ‘Tell me about Deakin; how you met him.’

‘Will it help my court martial?’

‘I can’t guarantee that, but your cooperation will certainly be taken into account. Did he order Neville Pike killed?’

‘He’s the only one who could have. I’m not sure he’s all there, to be honest; there’s something behind his eyes, know what I mean? I saw the same thing in some of the prisoners taken in Afghanistan, even in some of the subcontractors out there. Like they’re living on a hair-trigger, waiting to blow. But he’s different when he’s talking; then he’s all good ideas and friendly, just like you want to hear when you’re on the run. Then, when I heard about Pike, I just. . I decided it wasn’t for me.’ He shifted in his seat as if embarrassed to admit it. A faint burst of shouting sounded somewhere in the building, muffled and distant. A door slammed followed by another, and the overhead lights flickered.

Harry glanced at the constables, but they hadn’t reacted. In a busy station like this, shouting was the norm, doors slamming a sound everyone learned to live with day and night.

‘How did you get in touch with him in the first place?’

‘I didn’t.’ McCreath’s breathing rate had increased and his fingers were tapping out a rapid staccato rhythm on the table surface. His nails, Harry noted, were bitten down to the quick. ‘I was bunking with an ex-army mate in Antwerp after leaving Selly Oak.’

‘That’s where you had treatment?’

‘Yes. The place got on my wick. . people coming and going like it was a bloody theme park. . charity visitors treating us like a bunch of mental cases, doing their good fucking works. . It finally got to me when one woman spoke louder to me because I’d been wounded — can you believe that? She thought because someone mentioned trauma I was a bleeding cabbage case. Then there were the therapists and psych people, all telling us how we’d soon recover and how we had to stay positive, how it’d be all right in the end and look at how some amputees were even trekking to the North frigging Pole and climbing mountains on their false fucking legs!’

As McCreath started breathing faster, gradually becoming more and more worked up, one of the constables shifted his feet and prepared to step forward. But Harry held up a hand. He had to see where this would lead. McCreath was venting his frustration. If they shut him down now, he might never tell them what they needed to know.

McCreath gradually regained control. He took a deep breath, placing his hands flat on the table and shaking his head. Then he continued in a calmer voice. ‘I’d had enough so I got up and walked out. When I got to Antwerp, my mate said he knew someone who could help me; someone he said was part of a group who helped out guys like me. I thought he was taking the piss. Next thing I know, this guy Deakin’s at the door, saying he was from the Protectory, like it should mean something. I mean, it sounded like some sort of loony religious order to me. I nearly told him to piss off, thinking what could a bunch of bible bashers do to help me?’ His head came up as a dull concussion sounded. ‘What was that?’ This time the two guards looked at each other.

Harry said to them, ‘Can you call the desk from here?’

The ginger-haired constable shook his head. ‘From out in the corridor if we have to. Why?’

Harry stood up and signalled McCreath to get to his feet. ‘I think we’ve got company. That was a stun grenade. The station’s under attack.’

‘What?’ The second officer laughed. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. This is Brixton nick-’

‘He’s right.’ It was the ginger guard. ‘I’ve heard them before. . used them, too. Recognize the sound.’

Suddenly McCreath was coming round the table and nodding animatedly, his face draining of colour. ‘He’s right. It’s Zubac and Ganic. They’ve come for me. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way.’

‘Where does this corridor lead?’ Harry asked, pointing away from the noise.

‘To some stairs, a storage room and more cells. But we can’t leave here.’

‘You want to stay, be my guest.’ Harry walked over and kicked the door. It shook in the frame. Solid but not solid enough to withstand grenades or bullets. ‘They’ll come through that like cheese and they won’t be using stun grenades. We need to get out of here. Now.’

‘There are the cells,’ said the second guard. ‘The doors are reinforced with rolled steel. We’d be safe in there.’

But his colleague shook his head. ‘No way. They’d blast right through them, too. Anyway, we’d be trapped.’

The second guard opened the door and peered out. Two bangs sounded, muffled but closer, followed by another concussion, this one causing a small vibration through the walls. ‘There’s people running,’ he reported. ‘I can see them through the security door at the end.’ He looked pale but calm. ‘Follow me, yeah?’

Harry grabbed McCreath by the arm and hustled him out, and pushed him along the corridor in the wake of the two guards. More bangs and some screaming this time. As they reached a junction in the corridor and the constables disappeared, he felt a ripple effect in the air followed by a blast of sound, and a sliver of wood flew past him and bounced along the floor.