Who Dares Wins

TWELVE

Run.

Jacob Redman kept that one thought in his mind. It was difficult, because other thoughts were jostling for attention. The Regiment, out there to kill him. To kill all of them. Sam. Jesus, Sam. When his brother had appeared, Jacob had thought he was seeing a ghost. What other explanation could there have been for Sam randomly turning up in one of the most obscure corners of central Asia? He didn’t know what the noise was that had woken him up; he did know that if he was in charge of a Regiment unit like that, nobody would have been allowed to stir until the job was well and truly underway. And they wouldn’t be stirring afterwards. No, somebody had made a noise to warn him. It must have been his brother.

He put that thought from his head. Just keep running. It’s all you can do.

He followed the course of the road, but kept away from it, choosing instead to run along the edge of the high hemp fields where his khaki jacket at least would give him some manner of protection. What he would have given for one of the digital camouflage suits Sam had been wearing. But that wasn’t an option. He just had to make do with what he had.

A deafening bang.

Jacob threw himself to the floor, his hands instinctively reaching for his weapon. What the hell was that? Explosives of some kind, back towards the camp. The thunderclap echoed across the skies. What were they doing? Blowing the buildings? He shook his head. Why would they do that? They’d just want to be in and out. He was breathing heavily. There was dew on the hemp fields and it soaked his skin.

He pushed himself back up and continued running. He must have put a good mile between himself and the camp. A little slower now: he needed to conserve his energy and by the sound of it he wasn’t being followed, at least not closely. After another five-minute run he even allowed himself to stop and catch his breath again. It was as he was standing there, his back to the hemp field that he saw it. It seemed to come from nowhere, appearing in the sky like a UFO. And as it passed, perhaps thirty metres above Jacob’s head, the animal roared, a huge, mechanical, whining roar that filled his ears and the skies. Jacob watched it pass, his face impassive. He knew what it was, of course. He’d flown in enough C-130s in his time. Who knows, maybe he’d even flown in that one. A curious mixture of emotions washed over him as he stood there, looking in the direction the plane had been heading. He couldn’t see it any more, but he could imagine it turning, its tailgate opening and the men bundling inside. And he knew it would be back. Three minutes? Four?

He was right. The Hercules had barely passed him the first time before its great shadow appeared overhead once more. Jacob looked up as it rose steeply into the sky, ignoring the battering his ears were taking.

‘Well done, Sam,’ he muttered quietly to himself as once more it disappeared from view. ‘Good lad.’

The Regiment had extracted. It meant Jacob was safe. Or at least safer. He certainly didn’t want to be anywhere near the buildings when it was discovered that they contained a couple of dozen murdered corpses. People all over the world were adept at putting two and two together to make five; but in these rural backwaters even more so. The hemp farmers who brought them their supplies in return for fistfuls of notes knew his face. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the camp as possible; and he needed to make sure nobody saw him do it. He continued to run.

Night was beginning to turn into morning. He cursed the arrival of daylight. It made it more difficult to stay hidden. The road was badly kept and potholed; on either side, the endless hemp fields, deep green.

The half light became full light. Still he ran. Early morning became mid-morning. Still he ran. Seven miles, he estimated. Eight. The sun started to become hot. Jacob’s clothes, which had been damp with the dew, were now soaked with sweat. He needed water, but it was almost midday before he came across the thin trickle of a stream. Every ounce of his being shrieked at him take a few mouthfuls, but he held back. Instead, he followed the trickle upstream for several metres, checking there was nothing in its path to foul the water, before finally, hungrily, swallowing mouthfuls of it down his parched throat. His body gratefully accepted the liquid and he felt revived, like a wilted plant that had just been watered.

It was too hot to run now, so he walked. But he still kept away from the road. He hadn’t seen a single vehicle all morning, but it was safer this way. The sooner he could get to a village, the better. To the best of his knowledge the nearest settlement was about thirty klicks along the road from the camp, but he couldn’t tell how far he had come. Twenty klicks, perhaps? Twenty-five?

It was mid-afternoon before the village appeared up ahead, shimmering slightly in the warmth. Jacob stopped at a distance, squinting at the settlement for a while before planning his next move. He couldn’t stop people noticing him walking into town, with his unkempt, sweaty hair and beard and his dirty clothes. But if he came from this direction, and people started asking questions, he might find them difficult to answer. So he turned away from the road into the surrounding fields, and circumvented the village at a distance of about a mile. It took him an hour to rejoin the road on the other side, but it meant he could enter town from the north, putting any inquisitive villagers off the scent.

It was a poor, featureless place. A network of telegraph poles dominated the sky, criss-crossing over the buildings like a cat’s cradle of wires. Below them, the buildings themselves were irregular but simple – breeze-block constructions, most of them, some rendered and painted white, the majority left a bland concrete grey because that was cheaper. They had high-pitched roofs, made mostly of corrugated iron; and shutters, some of which had been painted in bright colours.

The main road bisected the village; in the centre was a junction from which other, smaller roads, little more than dirt tracks, spread out. The ground on the side of the roads and around the buildings was a thick, dusty sand. Aside from a few trees, there was little in the way of greenery.

Jacob attracted plenty of stares as he strode into the village – grizzled male Kazakhstanis mostly, with Mongol-looking faces, weathered skin, old clothes and beaten-up baseball caps embroidered with the names of American cities they would never see. They certainly didn’t look friendly, but that, Jacob knew, was the way of villagers the world over. He ignored their stares as he continued into the centre of the village.

He passed stalls on the side of the street. They were small, rickety things manned by small, rickety stallholders. Some sold watermelons, others sold different kinds of fruit. At one there was a pig roasting on a spit. The smell was almost enough to make Jacob swoon, but the look he received from the owner didn’t encourage his patronage. It wasn’t that Jacob was scared of these people. He just didn’t want to make a scene. As far as he could tell, there was only one actual shop. It was distinguished from the other buildings by virtue of a curved frontage and steps leading up to the entrance. Painted on the white, curved wall in bright yellow letters was a sign, but as he didn’t read the Kazakh language, Jacob couldn’t tell what it said. He stepped inside anyway.

It was gloomy in the shop, and bare. A fat woman sat behind a makeshift counter. She glowered at Jacob as he entered, keeping guard over a tawdry collection of items many of which Jacob could not tell what they were – tins, mostly, with indecipherable writing and pictures of disgusting-looking food. A few wizened vegetables in a couple of crates. Among the junk, however, some familiar packaging jumped out at him: Western chocolate bars and fizzy drinks. He checked in his back pocket – there were a few crumpled notes. Not enough to buy very much, but it would keep him in sugar-rich instant energy for a day or two. He grabbed a couple of handfuls of chocolate and some cans of Coke, then returned to the counter where the woman wordlessly accepted his money.

He was ravenous. On the steps outside he devoured two of the chocolate bars and a can of drink. That made him feel a bit better. The remainder he jammed into the pockets of his trousers and jacket, then he continued to walk around the village.

Still the flat looks came. Flinty and disagreeable. Jacob ignored them. He was busy with other things. Busy looking. There weren’t many vehicles and what there were did not inspire much confidence, being mostly tiny, Russian run-arounds. Towards the western edge of the town, however, he saw a dwelling place on one edge of a square that was bigger than most. It had a low wall topped with spiky railings running around the outside and a set of heavy, metal gates. Beyond the wall was a rare patch of green and, unusually, the building itself was two storeys high. Its shutters were painted electric blue. To the right of the wall, but clearly still part of the same compound, was a small garage.

Jacob pulled another can of Coke from his jacket and loitered. This looked a likely place. He sipped nonchalantly from the drink and started to stake it out. Thirty metres away there were children playing in the street with a football. They didn’t approach; indeed they cast him the same mistrustful looks that he received from everyone else. But a few of them, he noticed, had a game of kicking the ball close to him, a kind of unspoken dare. Pushing the boundaries. Boys will be boys.

Movement at the front of the house. Two men exited. They were big and wore unfashionable denim jackets that bulged in such a way as to suggest they concealed firearms. Behind them was a much smaller man. He had olive skin, a moustache, and tightly wound black hair. He walked behind the bigger men, but it was obvious that he was in charge. In charge of the men and, in his own mind at least, in charge of everything.

One of the bodyguards opened the gate. The kids stopped playing, grabbing their ball and bunching up together on the far side of the road. They jabbered quietly, but Jacob couldn’t understand what they were saying. He just watched as the three men walked towards the garage.

One of the kids, presumably as the result of a dare, took the football and kicked it. The men paid no attention. One of them, though, noticed Jacob, who put his head down and walked quickly away. Only when he reached the corner of the square did he glance round. He saw the garage open to reveal a truck. Nothing fancy, but a sturdy, elderly four-by-four that would suit his purposes perfectly.

He wasn’t followed.

On the outskirts of town, far from the road, he took shelter in a ditch. It was, at least, dry and there was nobody about so he didn’t worry about being seen. The hot afternoon waned slowly. He took the opportunity to rest and plan the rest of the day’s activities. The guy with the two stooges, he surmised, was most probably the local hemp baron. Not the kingpin – his place wasn’t nearly flush enough for that; just some kind of middleman who the real drug lords would stamp on in an instant if it suited them, but who until then was content to swan around the town like he owned the place. Jacob knew his type – he’d seen them in all parts of the world where people made their money harvesting narcotics.

It took an age for night to fall; an age during which Jacob could do nothing but wait. And think. In his mind he replayed the events of earlier that morning a thousand times. There was a weird kind of symmetry to what had happened. All his life it had been Jacob looking out for Sam. That was just the way it was – Sam had been the kind of kid that needed looking out for. Constantly. Now the tables had been turned and it was Sam who had saved Jacob’s neck.

He felt himself getting angry as he always did when he thought about his family.

The silvery moon rose before it was fully dark. It was already bright, though: it often was in this part of the world. He had watched many of these moons rise and fall. With the onset of full darkness came the stars. Heaven was full of them, amazingly bright. There was very little ambient light in the Chu Valley. It made the sky look like a Christmas card.

It was past midnight when Jacob eased his way out of the ditch. He ate some more chocolate and then began tramping his way back into the village.

The streets were deserted, but the moon was so bright it was almost like midday. He found his way with ease. Having memorised the layout of the network of streets, he avoided the road in which the hemp baron’s house was located, coming upon it from a more circuitous route.

In the night air an animal howled.

He stepped gingerly into view of the house. A guard stood at the gates. One of the guys from earlier? Perhaps. From this distance he couldn’t tell. He was leaning lazily against the wall, with a rifle in one hand. Jacob could see the orange spot of a cigarette glowing like a firefly in front of his face. He stepped back into the shadows again and considered his options. If he was to proceed, the guard needed to be out of his way. But how was he going to do that? The guy had a good field of vision. It didn’t matter how quickly he ran towards him, he’d still be able to raise his rifle and have a go…

Jacob retraced his steps. The guard was in position to stop anyone getting into the compound; so the last thing he would expect was for an assailant to be there already. He approached the house from the back. The wall was not high – low enough to scale, certainly. Jacob pulled himself up and held on to the large spiky railings, a little taller than he was, to peer into the compound. All was dark. He heaved himself up. His feet clattered slightly against the metal railings, causing a hidden animal somewhere nearby to scuttle away; but he managed to get one foot in between two of the spikes and push himself over, landing heavily on the ground below.

He kept minutely still for a moment, waiting for the clump of his landing to dissipate and listening for any signal that he might have disturbed someone; but there was nothing, just the recurring howling of the animal in the distance. Jacob got to his feet, grabbed his handgun and crept silently round to the front of the house.

The guard was still there, in front of the gates, and still smoking – Jacob could see the smoke rising above his head. He crept towards the gate, his handgun outstretched. Within seconds he was standing right behind the unsuspecting guard.

He put the gun through the railings and tapped the end of the barrel twice against the man’s skull.

The guard dropped his cigarette and spun round. When he saw Jacob he made to grab his own weapon; but Jacob shook his head sharply and instead the man stepped nervously backwards.

The gates were not locked. The gun still pointing at its target, Jacob opened them and stepped outside. The guard couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon; so when Jacob delivered a sharp, sudden blow with his free hand into the man’s neck, it must have come as a surprise. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Quickly, silently, Jacob closed the gates, strapped the man’s rifle – an old Russian-made AK-47 – over his shoulder and dragged the body towards the garage. These doors were not locked either – why bother when there’s a security guard on duty? – so they were quickly inside.

Jacob worked with haste. He rifled through the security guard’s pockets, finding nothing more useful than a small amount of money, then turned his attention to the truck. There were several canisters of fuel in the garage, so he loaded these into the back along with the AK-47, before taking his place in the driver’s seat. No key. That wouldn’t be problem.

There were two ways he could start it. A screwdriver driven deep into the ignition with a hammer then turned with some kind of wrench would work; but there was no screwdriver, no hammer and no wrench, and besides, it would create more noise than he wanted to make. Better to hotwire. He pulled the plastic casing away from under the steering column and located the wiring loom, which he ripped out with a firm tug. There were five or six wires here. It was just a matter of finding which ones were hot. He touched two at a time together, methodically, and before long the truck had coughed into life.

Jacob jumped out and opened the garage doors. Seconds later he was away. He drove slowly through the village streets, sensibly, so as not arouse suspicion. But as soon as he was on the main road, he floored it.

Jacob Redman was happy to be getting the hell out of Dodge.

THIRTEEN

The mood in the Hercules was bleak.

No one spoke. They just sat there, all eyes on Craven’s bloodied body bag. Sam knew what they were all thinking: that it could have been any of them; that in situations like that, survival is just a fluke; that maybe, if one of them had looked another way or been a bit more on the ball, Craven would still be alive, joking with them in the afterglow of a mission successfully completed. But Craven wasn’t going to laugh with anybody ever again. And as they flew south, Sam wondered if the same might be true of himself.

He could feel the tension with Mac. His old friend was avoiding his eye. Sam didn’t really blame him. He didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark. Why then, was Sam doing it?

The plane shuddered. Just turbulence.

He was doing it, he realised, because he, too, was still in the dark. Jacob might be safe, or safer, but Sam had just as many questions and hardly any answers. And when you don’t know what you’re talking about, maybe it’s best to keep your mouth shut.

He thought of Jacob. Where was he now? Running blindly, no doubt. Keeping hidden. Wondering why the Regiment had been sent to kill him and how many others there were with the same aim…

It was fully day by the time the Hercules started losing height. Sam would never have thought it would be a relief to touch down in Afghanistan, but that was exactly how he felt. When the aircraft came to a halt and the tailgate opened once more, sunlight and warmth flooded in. Sam staggered, exhausted, on to the tarmac with his Diemaco slung over his back and the others following in a ragged group.

Members of the squadron were waiting for them. Not everyone, but at least twenty – enough to make it clear that word of Craven’s death had preceded them. They stood grim-faced and respectful, not saying anything to the returning soldiers, because they knew there was nothing to say. Sam avoided their gazes. Craven’s death wasn’t his fault; even if he hadn’t had other plans on that mission, the kid would still have bought it. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Keeping things from your mates like that wasn’t the Regiment way. Now that it was over, it made him feel bad.

By the entrance to the aircraft hangar where they had first arrived was the spook who had briefed them. He showed no signs of having been up all night. His clothes, despite the already uncomfortable heat, were neat. There were no bags under his eyes. He addressed Sam, because Sam was the first to arrive at the hangar.

‘Care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

Sam stopped. He turned slowly to look at the man.

‘What?’

‘I said, care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

Stay calm, Sam told himself. He could feel his blood like lava under his skin. ‘I thought,’ he replied as mildly as he was able, ‘that perhaps you could tell us that. There was a waiting party for us. Russian special forces. A bit of an intelligence fuck-up – I’d say it was you that’s got the explaining to do.’

A voice from behind. Mac. Quiet. ‘Take it easy, Sam.’

But the spook spoke over him. ‘Listen to me, soldier…’

Something snapped in Sam. Blinded by a sudden rage, he stepped towards the spook before he could even finish speaking, grabbing him by his collar and pushing him roughly against the wall. ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘You fucking well listen to me, sunshine…’ The spook weighed nothing; his square glasses fell from his face and his previous look of smug resolve had changed to one of alarm. Sam sneered at him, but as he held the guy up against the wall, the words just seemed to dissolve from his mind, leaving only the anger.

Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. ‘Leave him, Sam.’ Mac’s voice. Not loud, but firm.

Time stood still. Sam felt the spook trembling. With a contemptuous flick of his hands he allowed the guy to fall. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, but he managed to stay standing. Back on terra firma, however, the anger returned to his face. He opened his mouth to deliver some sort of reprimand; but then Mac was there. Like a father hushing a small child, he put one finger to the spook’s lips. ‘Tell you what, pal,’ he said. ‘Do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up, okay?’

The spook looked at Mac, then at Sam, then at the half dozen other burly SAS men that had surrounded him. His face twitched.

‘Your flight back to Brize Norton leaves in half an hour.’

Mac nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good lad,’ he said, making no attempt to avoid being patronising. He turned to Sam. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s get ready.’

Sam looked down at the floor, suddenly embarrassed about the way he’d been with Mac. ‘All right,’ he mumbled.

They walked away together. But as they did, the spook called out from behind them, emboldened perhaps by the fact that they were leaving. ‘Don’t think that’s the end of it!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ His voice sounded ridiculously poncy, like the bully in the playground of a posh school.

It just so happened that as the spook called out to them, Craven’s body was being wheeled off the Hercules. Sam turned back to the man, but this time he knew he could keep himself under control.

‘We already did,’ he spat. ‘We already did.’

And with that he turned, pleased to be leaving Bagram – and that nob-jockey spook – behind him.

He didn’t need a sleeping tablet to knock himself out on the return journey. None of the boys in the troop did. He simply hung his hammock on the other side of the plane to where Craven’s stretcher was attached and within minutes of being airborne he was asleep. A deep and dreamless sleep, despite the hum of the jet engines and the troubles of the night before.

It was around midday when they stepped out onto the tarmac of Brize Norton. The air was misty and damp – a thousand miles from the clear, dry heat of northern Afghanistan. With a sickening lurch, he saw a regular civilian ambulance parked close to the plane, its blue light flashing silently in the misty air, its rear doors open. That was for Craven; the rest of them were to be transported in the same two white buses that had brought them to the RAF base in the first place. Only this time, there was an addition.

At the foot of the steps leading from the aircraft, an MOD policeman stood counting them all off. He wore a white, open-necked shirt, black body armour and a protective helmet. In his fist there was a Heckler and Koch MP7. He didn’t look like he was there to welcome the lads back from holiday.

There were four more of them, all tooled up, all standing in such a formation as to encourage the men straight on to the buses. ‘What’s with the plate hangers?’ one of the guys asked the policeman at the bottom of the stairs as he passed. ‘Worried we’re going to run riot?’

The policeman remained expressionless. ‘Just move on to the bus,’ he ordered.

A silence among the men as they were herded by these armed police on to their transports, and not a happy one. As they took their seats, a discontented murmur arose. Sam and Mac sat together. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They knew something was wrong. They watched through the window as Craven’s body was loaded into the ambulance, then driven out of sight at a funereal speed, the vehicle’s flashing light like some kind of beacon. But it wasn’t the only flashing light they’d be seeing. Once the doors of the buses were closed up, two black police vehicles arrived. Their windows were blacked out, but they, too, had the emergency lights blinking on top. The convoy pulled away, one MOD vehicle at the front, the other at the back.

‘Where are we going?’ one wag shouted from behind. ‘ Hereford or Wormwood bloody Scrubbs?’

A smatter of laughter. Sam didn’t join in; he glanced at Mac, who returned his look with a raised eyebrow. ‘I think our little secret might be out,’ he murmured quietly, so as not to be heard.

Sam looked out of the window. More British Army soldiers congregated glumly outside the main terminal building. The sight of the two white buses being escorted off the airfield supplied a welcome diversion for them: they stared as the squadron passed.

They were on the main road before Sam turned to Mac. ‘Thanks for your help back at Bagram,’ he said quietly. ‘That guy – I don’t know, he just got to me.’

‘Forget about it,’ Mac replied lightly. ‘I know what you Redmans are like when you see the red mist. Bunch of fucking lunatics. Thought you were going to do a J. on him.’

It was an inappropriate joke, but Sam smiled anyway. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘We should probably try to chill a bit.’ He looked around to check nobody else was listening. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know what all this police stuff is about, but when we get back to base, deny everything, okay. This is my problem. I don’t want you taking the rap for it.’

Mac shrugged. ‘Whatever you say,’ he replied.

‘I mean it, Mac.’

‘Yeah,’ Mac replied. ‘I can tell. Look, Sam, I don’t know what’s going on. You don’t want to tell me, fine. But any time you need some extra muscle, you know where to come, right?’

Sam surveyed his friend. ‘Yeah,’ he replied brusquely. ‘Thanks.’

The gates to RAF Credenhill were already open when they arrived – clearly someone had radioed ahead to let them know they were on their way. When they came to a halt in the main courtyard the conversational buzz in Sam’s bus – which had fallen to a silence towards the end of the boring drive – started up again. Something was going on here. There were more police vehicles for a start, and quite a number of MOD officers all carrying their MP7s. One of them approached the back of the bus and opened it.

‘All right, you lot, out you get, but no moving from the courtyard.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ It was Davenport and he sounded like he’d had enough.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Come on, down you get.’

They de-bussed and started hanging around in groups. A few of the guys lit cigarettes. A lot of them grumbled. They were knackered. They just wanted to get back home and didn’t appreciate being treated like a bunch of jailbirds.

Sam stayed to one side. He didn’t chat with the others. He didn’t smoke with them. Something was coming that involved him. He knew that. He supposed he should be apprehensive, but he wasn’t. When you’d faced what he had, it took more than a few MOD coppers to put the wind up you, no matter what sort of hardware they were wielding. But he didn’t expect what happened next. None of them did. It was the talk of Credenhill for months to come.

There were stairs leading up to the main headquarters building. A number of figures appeared at the top: two more MOD policemen – they were swarming round this place like flies around shit; two men in suits, one old, one young, who Sam didn’t recognise; and Mark Porteus. The CO wore camouflage gear, as always; and the hard features of his scarred face were as proud and uncompromising as always. But everyone fell silent as they saw him, because his arms were in front of him, firmly handcuffed. One of the MOD policemen prodded him with his gun. No one did that to Mark Porteus. Not ever. But Porteus didn’t react. He stepped slowly forward, down the stairs. As he walked, his face scanned the crowd, as though he were looking for something or someone in particular. His eyes were narrowed, his forehead creased into a deadly serious expression.

When his eyes fell upon Sam, he stopped.

The look was piercing. It burned through the crowd of soldiers and picked Sam out like a searchlight. It was a look full of meaning. Not anger. Not blame. But meaning nevertheless.

And in that moment, Sam felt all sorts of things slot into place. Clare’s article. The phone number. The hooded figure at his door.

Porteus.

It had been him all along. As the CO, he would have been in possession of information from the security services that nobody else would have had. He would have been in a position to deploy Sam’s squadron. And most importantly of all, Porteus knew Jacob. He would have recognised his picture. This was why, when Sam had returned from Helmand Province, the boss had kept his distance; this was why he had stayed away, out of sight. He’d been trying to warn Sam, without it being seen that this was what he was doing.

Now Porteus looked at Sam, his proud face held high. Sam nodded, gently, almost imperceptibly. If you hadn’t known what that silent exchange meant, you’d most likely not have seen it happen.

As the rest of the squadron looked on in astonishment, Porteus was once more jabbed in the back by an MP7. If it annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. He just allowed himself to be escorted to one of the police vans. Two MOD policemen joined him in the back, the doors were shut and locked and the van was driven away.

The conversation started buzzing again. Still Sam stayed separate from the others. He watched as the younger of the two men on the steps approached Mac. A word in your ear, the man’s expression seemed to say; once he had Mac’s attention, he spoke, though Sam couldn’t hear from that distance what he was saying. He’d find out soon enough, he guessed. But before he did, he became uncomfortably aware of somebody watching him. Looking back up the steps, he saw the older man. His grey hair was neatly combed back, his eyebrows were bushy and his face had the deeply lined dignity that only certain old men manage to achieve. He wore a suit and tie and he was looking at Sam with an almost mournful expression.

Sam absorbed that stare, refusing to be intimidated by it. The two men remained locked in a kind of silent conflict until Mac approached.

‘Sam,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘They want to debrief us. The troop, all seven of us that were there.’

Sam didn’t even blink.

‘Now, Sam. Kremlin.’

He nodded vaguely, dragged his eyes from the old man who seemed in no way uncomfortable about what had just passed between them, and followed his friend.

Sam walked as if in a dream. Behind him, the sound of the others talking. ‘Wouldn’t have cuffed him if they didn’t think he was going to try to leg it,’ Tyler was saying.

Davenport didn’t agree. ‘That, or they wanted to make an example of him. Why pack him into the police van in front of us when it could have been done on the QT?’ His voice was full of disdain. ‘Chickenshit cuntlickers. Porteus is all right. Have a right scene on their hands if they do the dirty on him.’

A couple of others grunted their agreement.

The two men in suits were waiting for them in the briefing room, as was Jack Whitely. The Ops Officer looked harassed – Sam couldn’t tell if their arrival made him more or less nervous. It didn’t matter either way. A quiet word from the younger of the two suited men and he left the room, a little red-faced perhaps, but slightly relieved to be away from the tension.

The suits sat in silence. Once they were all in, the old man cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘My name is Gabriel Bland.’ He nodded towards the younger man. ‘This is Toby Brookes.’

Brookes sniffed.

‘You’ll be debriefed later in the usual way,’ Bland announced. ‘I just have one question for you.’ He looked at each of them in term. ‘You will have noticed,’ he added, almost apologetically, ‘your commanding officer being, ah, escorted from the premises.’ His tone might have been apologetic, but the implication wasn’t: mess around with me and you’ll get the same treatment. There was silence in the room as Brookes handed each of them an A4 photograph.

Sam didn’t need to look at it. He knew it would be Jacob. Bland appeared to notice his lack of regard for the document and raised an eyebrow. And so Sam glanced at the picture.

It was different to the one he had seen before in this very briefing room. Older, taken when Jacob was still in the Regiment. Sam avoided looking at Mac; no one else in the room said anything.

Bland cleared his throat theatrically. ‘I should like to know,’ he said, ‘if this individual was one of your targets during your recent expedition.’

Silence.

‘Did you kill him?’

Still nothing.

Bland continued to look from one man to the next, a suspicious schoolmaster weeding out the naughty child. But the response remained the same. Nothing but silence.

And then Mac spoke. ‘I know this person,’ he said. His voice was filled with mock suspicion. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘I’m asking the questions,’ Bland replied peevishly.

‘Then you’d better ask me,’ Sam announced. ‘I photographed the dead. And I’m sure you’ve done your homework and know who this is.’

Sam’s challenge hung in the air. Bland surveyed him calmly. ‘Very well,’ he purred finally. ‘The rest of you may leave. Return the pictures to Toby, please. Sergeant Redman – it is Sergeant Redman, isn’t it? – I wonder if I might ask you to stay here.’

Sam shrugged. The rest of them stood up and quietly left, though there wasn’t one of them that didn’t look over their shoulders as they did so, obviously wondering what the hell this was all about. They didn’t hang around to find out, though, and within a minute Sam was alone with the two spooks.

For a while none of them spoke. Sam remained seated. Bland and Toby were standing; Bland turned and faced the front wall, looking at nothing in particular, while Toby went and stood by the door, out of Sam’s sight.

‘I am just a humble civil servant,’ Bland stated finally, still not looking at Sam, ‘but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that it is the matter of a moment’s work for me to have you court-martialled. A short testimony from Detective Inspector Nicola Ledbury and…’ He turned round and smiled humourlessly. ‘And the fragrant Clare Corbett, and I rather think your illustrious career will be brought short by a stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure. A longish sting, if you get my meaning.’

All of a sudden, Sam’s mind was a rush. Nicola, Clare – how the hell had this guy caught up with them? Sam hadn’t told anyone. He’d been careful.

‘Surprised, Sam?’ Bland asked. ‘Surely not.’ He paused for thought. ‘I don’t want you to think that you’re in any way unappreciated, you and your, ah, friends. You have a, ah…’ He smiled again. ‘A good right fist. But you didn’t honestly imagine…’ Now he allowed a bit of sharpness in his voice. ‘You didn’t honestly imagine that you were going to outthink the Secret Intelligence Service?’

A pause.

‘You didn’t imagine,’ Bland persisted, ‘that you would outmanoeuvre MI6, did you, Sam?’

Sam felt the blood rising to his face as Bland sat down next to him. The MI6 man carried with him the faint whiff of aftershave; Sam was immediately aware that he must stink.

‘If you’re such a bunch of fucking geniuses,’ Sam retorted, ‘then you don’t need to speak to me.’

‘Oh, please, Sam. Let’s, ah, let’s not be unpleasant with each other.’ He stood up again. You’re nervous, Sam thought to himself. You’re trying not to show it, but you are. ‘Miss Corbett told us everything, Sam: that she had foolishly told you the contents of her ill-informed article; about your brother being in the training camp. She was really quite, ah, talkative. So please do me the courtesy of not pretending that you travelled to Kazakhstan without the express intention of compromising the mission. Do me that courtesy, Sam.’

Sam jutted his chin out.

‘Was he there, Sam? Did you see him?’

Sam refused to answer and a shadow of frustration passed over Bland’s face. ‘I would find it quite unpalatable,’ he said ominously quietly, ‘to have to force this out of you, Sam. But your file tells me that your field investigation techniques are quite specialised. So you know the sort of things we might do to, ah, loosen your tongue.’

The threat hung in the air. Sam took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘All right. I recognised Jacob at the briefing. I went out to stop the guys putting a bullet in him.’ He looked directly at Bland. Fiercely. ‘Maybe you’d do the same for your brother. But Jacob wasn’t there. No sign of him. We eliminated the targets and came home. End of fucking story.’

Bland nodded and for a moment he appeared satisfied. He came and sat down again.

‘I’m afraid, Sam, I’m not entirely sure that I believe you.’

‘Well that’s your problem.’

‘It is indeed,’ Bland murmured. ‘It is indeed my problem.’ He stared straight ahead. ‘You do realise, Sam, that Miss Corbett got quite the wrong end of the stick, don’t you?’ As he spoke he looked directly at Sam, who couldn’t help a flicker of interest registering on his face. Bland feigned surprise. ‘Oh,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, dear. Well, she is a most appealing young lady. I can, ah, I can quite understand how you might have fallen for her charms.’

‘She was fucking terrified of you,’ Sam replied hotly. ‘If it was you that put the frighteners on her and bumped off that contact of hers.’

‘Did I frighten her?’ Bland asked. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I might have done. It seems to be an occupational hazard. I would prefer not to. But then I don’t have the advantages of your youth and vigour, Sam. I’m afraid I have to be a little more robust to get what I want.’

Sam ignored him. ‘I think Clare was telling the truth.’

‘No doubt about it,’ Bland replied. Sam blinked. ‘At least there’s no doubt that she believed she was telling the truth. But believing you are right and being right, these are two very different things, are they not?’

‘You tell me,’ Sam replied. His voice was surly, but he couldn’t help it.

‘I am telling you, Sam. Clare Corbett, alas, was misled. It’s not her fault, of course. But she was misled nevertheless by her…’ He struggled to find the phrase. ‘By her “red-light runner”.’

‘You telling me they don’t exist?’ Sam demanded hotly. ‘You telling me that we didn’t just eliminate a load of them in Kazakhstan?’

Bland shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘They exist. Very much so. Intelligence agencies are extremely adept at drawing profiles of people from, oh, an astonishing variety of sources, Sam. It would be an easy job for me to pull up all sorts of information about you, for example, that you wouldn’t even imagine we’d be interested in. Which supermarkets you shop at, your taste in films, your taste in just about everything. Should we be of a mind to, you understand. Clare’s red-light runners fitted a very precise profile. The sort of people that someone at least would have a use for.’

‘So why are you killing them?’ Bland’s wordiness, his roundabout way of talking, was beginning to get on Sam’s nerves.

‘Of course,’ Bland replied enigmatically, ‘you and I both know that we are called upon to do questionable things in the course of our duty.’ As if that explained everything. ‘I’ve learned a lot about your brother in the last few hours, Sam. A very great deal. He had a most distinguished service record, did he not?’

Sam didn’t reply.

‘And then, what can we call it? A moment of madness? You were there, weren’t you? In Baghdad. You saw it all happen.’

‘It was an accident,’ Sam seethed. ‘Jacob stepped in to…’ He stopped himself. What was the point? This guy was going to believe what he was going to believe.

‘A cover-up,’ Bland continued, as though Sam hadn’t even spoken. ‘Jacob Redman was, ah, cut a deal to avoid embarrassment to the MOD. Everything brushed under the carpet to avoid a scandal, but Jacob to be RTU’d. An embarrassment too far, Sam, wouldn’t you say? And so he left the army. Left the country. Cut off all ties. I would say, in circumstances such as this, that a man might become, ah…’ He searched for a word. ‘Bitter?’

‘If you’re trying to say something,’ Sam whispered, ‘why don’t you just say it?’

‘Treason, Sam,’ Bland announced with sudden force. ‘It’s not a terribly fashionable word, is it? Smacks a bit of the Gunpowder Plot, doesn’t it? But it’s very apt, Sam, for what’s going on at the moment. Very apt indeed. I believe Jacob to be guilty of treason, Sam. And if you don’t help me find him, then you will be guilty of it too.’

Once more a smile spread across the older man’s lined face. Sam shut his eyes and as he did so, his brother’s words echoed in his mind. They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them. And he remembered the red-light runners, butchered in their beds by the Regiment’s weapons, and how easily one of those could have been Jacob.

‘You’re insane,’ he told the old man. ‘You’re totally fucking insane.’

Bland’s gaze flickered over to where Toby was standing. Clearly he didn’t like being spoken to like this in front of a subordinate, but if he was angry he managed to keep a check on it.

‘What if I were to tell you, Sam, that the red-light runners were being trained not by MI5, but by a foreign intelligence agency?’

‘Who?’

‘I, ah, I think I might keep that information to myself for the time being, Sam. Though if you think about it, I’m sure you would come to the same conclusion as me.’

‘Then why did you kill Clare’s contact?’

‘We didn’t, Sam. We didn’t need to. He was, ah, taken care of by the time we reached him.’

‘Who by?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But he told Clare he was working for Five.’

‘Indeed he did, Sam. Indeed he did. Because that was what he believed.’

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the implications of what Bland was saying.

‘You see, Sam,’ Bland continued, ‘Miss Corbett’s red-light runners are exactly what she thought they were. With one difference. They thought they were working for MI5. They thought they were patriots. But they weren’t, Sam. They were stooges. They had been duped.’

His words rang around the room.

‘With the red-light runners trained, primed and reinserted into the UK, their handlers had a secret network of operatives willing to do their bidding. We have no idea how many of them there are out there. Tens? Hundreds? Just waiting to be activated. Just waiting to be given the order.’

As he spoke, he did not take his eyes from Sam.

‘Your brother is involved, Sam, in some way. I don’t think I need to tell you what sort of threat this poses to the national security. So if you have any information about Jacob, I recommend that you tell me. Now.’

Bland took a step back and put his hands behind his back. There was an air of finality to his movements. He had said his piece. It was up to Sam now.

Slowly, Sam pulled his backpack towards him. Opening it up at the buckles he fished his hand inside. His fingers brushed against the hard contours of the laptop he’d found. He felt his mouth go dry. The last thing he wanted was for that computer to fall into the Firm’s hands. The pack was staying with him, no matter what. Next to the machine was the small digital camera which he had used to photograph the deceased. He pulled it out and handed it to Gabriel Bland.

‘Pictures,’ he said shortly. ‘Of everyone we killed. They’re your red-light runners. Jacob wasn’t with them. Final answer.’

Bland narrowed his eyes as Sam stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to be excused,’ he demanded brazenly.

Bland appeared to consider that for a moment. You could see the wheels ticking in his mind. Finally, he nodded over at Toby, a short, instructive nod. Returning his attention to Sam, he smiled and held out one arm.

‘Please,’ he murmured politely, as though he were the maître d’ in a fine restaurant ushering his guest to the exit.

Sam gave him an unfriendly look, then turned and left. As he walked back out into the Kremlin he heard, but did not see, Toby closing the door behind him.

There was silence in the briefing room. Toby Brookes knew better than to speak out of turn.

He remained by the door, looking at his boss. Bland was a cold fish, Brookes knew that better than most. Full of fancy words and exquisite manners, but a total shit when he wanted to be, and a temper to match. But he had the ear of the important people – including the chief of the SIS – and was as much a part of the furniture at Legoland as, well, the furniture. As far as Brookes knew, he had no family to speak of. Christ, the bastard never even seemed to go home, and he expected the same of his staff. Brookes had barely seen his wife for two weeks, not since all the business with Clare Corbett erupted. Carry on like this and he wouldn’t have a wife much longer, but there was no point saying that to Gabriel Bland.

Brookes coughed, not because he needed to, but to remind Bland that he was actually still there. One of his boss’s eagle-like eyebrows shot up.

‘What do you think, Toby?’ he asked quietly. ‘I would very much value your opinion.’

Brookes blinked. Bland had never asked his opinion. Never. The old man avoided his eye, and in a flash of intuition Brookes realised that he was unsure of himself.

He stuttered.

‘You think I am foolish, giving any information at all to a man like Sam Redman.’

‘His talents don’t lie between the ears, sir, if you understand my meaning.’ Instantly, Brookes regretted his comment. He should have flattered the boss. That was what he wanted to hear.

‘I most certainly do understand your meaning, Toby. I most certainly do.’ Bland’s eyes became lost in thought once more. ‘Sam Redman is a man who thinks with his emotions, and with his biceps; not his mind, Toby. We’ve given him enough to be going on with. I predict that he will do whatever it takes to locate his brother. And we must locate his brother. That much is clear.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes agreed obligingly.

Bland nodded his head, then looked directly at Brookes. ‘See to it that he is followed. Category one target. Phone taps, trails, the works. Don’t concern yourself with legalities – I’ll clear it all with the chief. I want our best people on it, Toby. And I don’t want them to be seen.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes repeated, before turning to open the door.

‘Toby,’ Bland called. There was a warning in his voice.

He turned.

‘I mean it, Toby. Our best people. This will be the making of you.’ He smiled, a rather sweet, paternal smile. ‘It’s a most important operation, Toby. I just want to make sure you fully appreciate and share my sense of urgency.’

Brookes nodded, not knowing if he was expected to speak.

‘Good,’ Bland said calmly. ‘Good. Now then, I suggest we leave this place. I’ve never liked it much. It smells of men. Most unpleasant. Really most unpleasant.’

And with a sudden speed he walked towards the door. Toby Brookes only just managed to open it in time to let him through.

FOURTEEN

He had driven all day, stopping only to refuel the truck from the canisters of diesel in the back, or to buy fruit from one of the occasional stalls that popped up from nowhere. Whenever he stopped he kept the engine running so that he didn’t have to hotwire it again; and he kept the handgun close to his body in case anyone got any clever ideas.

Now it was evening. He was numb with tiredness. The road stretched out ahead of him, wide and empty. This place seemed to go on for ever and with only his sense of direction to guide him, Jacob Redman experienced many moments of doubt. He knew he needed to travel west and slightly north and, unable to read the road signs and in the absence of maps or any proper navigation gear, he had relied on his reading of the sun during the day and the stars at night. But these were not precise measurements. Distances were long in this part of the world and if he went wrong, he could find himself stranded in an unpopulated part of Kazakhstan with no diesel and a dwindling supply of money. The few notes he had stolen from the guard when he took the truck were enough to buy him a little food, but not nearly enough for fuel. There were a limited number of times he could steal from people before getting caught and he really didn’t want to have to fight his way out of a Kazakh police cell.

Not that there were many people to steal from. In this vast country he could drive for an hour without seeing a soul; when he did it was frequently just a peasant tending animals in a field. No police, thank God. No army. Not yet.

He glanced at the fuel gauge. Close on empty. He pulled over and jumped down, walking round to the back and opening up. He had kept hold of the empty fuel canisters – four of them, lying on their sides with only the AK-47 for company – on the off chance that he came across a free supply of diesel. But he hadn’t. Only one of them had any of that precious, pungent liquid inside. He heaved it out of the back, undid the screwtop and started pouring it into the truck’s fuel tank. There was a glugging sound, as though the engine was thirstily drinking the fuel. Before long, the last drops had been squeezed out. The canister clattered as he threw it back into the van; Jacob took his place behind the wheel once more and allowed himself to close his eyes. Just for a minute.

He shook himself awake. ‘Damn it,’ he hissed, angry at his lack of self-control. There was no time for sleep; and he had wasted fuel while the engine ticked over. He shook his head and pulled out into the road once more.

It was growing dark now. The sky, which had been blue but dotted with cotton-wool clouds, grew orange. He had left the hemp fields of the Chu Valley far behind and now the surrounding countryside was far more flat. Fields of grassland extended into the distance. Soon they would be parched by the fierce summer months. Summer. But Jacob could not expect to see the greens and yellows of England. That thought came to him with a pang and not for the first time he found himself hankering after home. You could be an exile for any amount of time, he realised, but you never fully grew used to it. There were always moments when you wanted the comforts of home and for Jacob this was one of them.

He pushed that thought from his mind, as he had so many times before. He wasn’t going home now, or any time soon.

A town up ahead. He trundled through. It was indistinguishable from the one where he had picked up the vehicle. A little bigger if anything. On the far side of the outskirts, he pulled over. It was a risk, but he had to check he was on the right track. An elderly man sat outside his house on a low wooden bench. He had the Mongol-looking face indigenous to the region, deeply lined; he wore a winter jumper, despite the fact that it was a warm evening; and he looked at the new arrival with undisguised mistrust. Beside him, tethered to a splintered old post, was a goat. The animal looked a lot sprightlier than its owner.

Jacob had one note left. He pulled it from his back pocket and handed it to the man. The man looked for a moment as though he was going to take great offence, but at the last minute he stretched out a thin, trembling hand and accepted the offer. He secreted the money in the breast pocket of the shirt he was wearing under the jumper, then turned his attention back to Jacob.

‘Baikonur?’ Jacob asked.

At first the old man appeared not to have heard; at least, if he had heard, he pretended not to. So Jacob repeated himself. ‘Baikonur?’

Slowly, the man started to nod. He turned his head looking in the direction Jacob was travelling, then gradually raised his arm and pointed.

‘Baikonur,’ he said in a grizzled voice. His lips receded in on themselves, in the way only the lips of old men can. He pushed himself heavily to his feet and tottered the couple of metres over to where the goat was tethered. He held out a bony hand and the animal nuzzled his fingertips. Everything about his body language indicated that the conversation was over.

That was fine by Jacob. He’d found out what he wanted. He was on the right track. He rushed back to the truck, took his place once more behind the wheel and drove off. With luck, he would have enough fuel. If not, he’d just have to improvise. That didn’t matter. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

He shook his head again and tried to stop his drowsiness from overcoming him.

Sam’s mind was ablaze.

Everything Bland had said chased its way around his head. Did he believe him? He didn’t know. He certainly didn’t trust him. And he certainly didn’t like the way the bastard spoke about his brother. One thing was for sure: there was no way Sam was going to take Gabriel Bland’s word for anything.

There were unanswered questions, too. Things that just didn’t stack up. As he drove home, he kept reliving those moments in the woods outside the training camp: Craven catching one; the silent corpse of the Spetsnaz soldier. Were they Spetsnaz? Whoever they were, it seemed to Sam that they had been expecting the Regiment. Waiting for them. But how was that possible? The operation was top secret, a quick in-and-out job. The only way anyone would have known about the unit’s arrival was if they had been told. And if they had been told, that could mean only one thing. A leak. A mole.

What if I were to tell you, Sam, that the red-light runners were being trained not by MI5, but by a foreign intelligence agency? Bland’s words popped into Sam’s head. If Spetsnaz were being tipped off, everything pointed to the Russians, but that made no difference to Sam. He was being played by the Firm either way. He remembered Porteus, handcuffed and humiliated. He was being punished for tipping Sam off, that much was clear. But why then had Bland let Sam himself go so easily? He was up to something. Manoeuvring. He didn’t trust Sam any more than Sam trusted him.

He parked outside the flat. It always felt weird, coming home after an op. Like he was coming back from the office. Today it felt weirder than most other times. He took his rucksack from the back seat. It wasn’t regulation to take his gear home with him, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was going to leave the contents of his bag at RAF Credenhill.

Sam locked himself into the flat and closed the curtains of the front room. Only then did he pull out the laptop computer.

He hadn’t had a chance to examine it, so he did so now. It was unremarkable. A little too unremarkable, perhaps: it bore no logo, no brand name. Its metal casing was scuffed and worn: the machine looked like it had received some pretty heavy use. Sam opened it up. Nothing unusual, just a bit of Kazakhstani grit that tumbled from the hinge and fell on to Sam’s lap. Some of the keys were worn away so that you could no longer see which letter they displayed; the delete key had come away completely, displaying its plastic skeleton underneath.

Sam found himself breathing heavily. He knew he should switch it on, but for some reason he felt reluctant. Perhaps, he told himself, he didn’t want to find out what this machine contained.

He scowled and pressed the power button.

For a second there was nothing. Then a whirr, and an electronic chord pinged around the room. The screen flickered and lit up. It was blue. A blank box in the middle, with a flickering cursor. Next to it: PASSWORD.

Sam blinked. He had no idea what to type. He should have expected this, but he hadn’t. Cursing under his breath, he closed the machine down. How was he going to break into it? How the hell was he going to break into it? Take it to a shop? No. He couldn’t just walk in somewhere and demand that someone he didn’t know hack into a computer; especially when he didn’t know what the computer contained. And when he went through his list of friends and acquaintances, people who might know someone who knew someone – well, they were all Regiment. Hereford was a closed shop. Word got around. No doubt tongues would already be wagging about his interview without coffee with the Firm in the Kremlin meeting room. He didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

He sat in silence. Jesus, he stank worse than a hooker on the blob. He needed to shower. Picking up the laptop, he walked into the bedroom to strip. When he went into the bathroom, he carried the computer with him too. He wasn’t going to let it out of his sight. No way.

Half an hour later he was clean and freshly clothed: jeans, a hooded top and his trademark leather jacket replacing the stinking camouflage gear that sat in a heap on the floor. With the laptop under his arm, he left the flat. He realised as he walked outside that he was on tenterhooks, his eyes darting around for anything unexpected. But there was nothing. Sam climbed into his car, put the laptop on the passenger seat and drove off. He didn’t know when he had made the decision. He didn’t even know for sure that he had made it until he hit the motorway heading towards London. His eyes were fixed in the rear-view mirror as much as they were on the road ahead. Sam almost expected to be followed; the fact that he couldn’t pick up any trails did nothing to quell his paranoia.

By the time he was approaching Addington Gardens in Acton, evening was beginning to close in. It was with a sense of déjà vu that he parked up in the same road parallel to Clare Corbett’s street. Hiding the laptop under his jacket, he sauntered to the corner of the road. Sam didn’t feel inclined simply to walk up and knock on the door – that would be making life too easy for anyone performing surveillance on the flat, if indeed that was what they were doing. Instead he loitered on the corner. Clare couldn’t stay at home forever. All he had to do was wait.

He glanced at his watch. 18.00 hrs. Darkness fell. 19.00 hrs. Inhabitants of the street left and returned to their homes. Sam couldn’t see anyone in the road who looked as if they were keeping watch over Clare’s place, but he knew that didn’t mean anything. He knew that if he were snooping, he would probably take up position in an upstairs room of one of the houses opposite.

It was just gone seven-thirty when Clare’s door opened and she stepped outside. She walked briskly, her head down and her arms, clad in a heavy brown coat, wrapped around her body. She looked small. Sam pulled his hood up and started following from a distance. He only increased his pace once they had both turned on to the main road. Clare didn’t dawdle. She wove in and out of the other pedestrians in the half light; Sam had to concentrate so as not to lose her. She came to a halt at a bus stop where a small crowd had congregated. Sam loitered for a few metres behind, keeping well out of sight.

The bus arrived, a long one with a flexible midriff. It was almost full and the windows were steamed up. Sam joined the queue, a couple of places behind Clare; when the moment came to pay his fare he had to scrabble around in his pocket to find change for the impatient driver. By the time he had paid, Clare had taken a seat towards the back. There was a spare place next to it. He put his head down again and approached her.

She was lost in thought, her pale eyes staring through the window, the condensation on which she had wiped away with one hand. She clearly hadn’t noticed Sam; he waited for the doors to close and the bus to move off before speaking.

‘Clare,’ he said softly. ‘It’s me.’

He felt her body jump and put a reassuring hand on her arm. Never had he seen such alarm in someone’s face. Her skin, already limpid, went white; her eyes bulged.

‘Sam!’

She looked around, as though expecting to see someone else there, but then dragged her attention back to him. She looked frightened now. ‘I had to tell them,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry. They threatened me…’

In front of them a drunk started to sing. Most of the other passengers looked at their boots.

‘Forget about it,’ Sam muttered. ‘Look, I need your help.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

She shook her head nervously. ‘I can’t, Sam. I can’t have anything more to do with this.’

One of the passengers in front – an old woman with a hard, nosy face – glanced round at them. Clare bowed her head again. ‘I just can’t,’ she repeated.

The bus came to a halt; a few passengers left, others embarked. A harassed woman with two kids jostled towards Sam, staring at him in a way that suggested he give up his seat. He didn’t. They sat in silence.

‘We need to get off,’ Sam said. ‘We can’t talk here.’

‘I can’t talk anywhere.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘You’ve got to leave me alone.’

His hand was still on her arm. He squeezed it. ‘No one’s followed me,’ he reassured her. ‘I took care.’

Clare looked around again. ‘How do you know nobody’s following me?’ she demanded.

He couldn’t answer that. Instead, he stood up and pulled on her arm. There was a little resistance, but she gave way in the end – not through enthusiasm, he realised, but because she knew she didn’t have much choice. They shuffled, arm in arm, to the double doors. Sam could feel her trembling with anxiety.

When the doors opened next, only a couple of people got out. Sam waited, choosing his moment carefully. Only when he heard the hiss of the doors about to close did he move. He tugged Clare sharply – so sharply that she tripped slightly. The closing doors caught his arm, but they made it on to the street and if anybody had been intending to follow them, they wouldn’t be able to now.

The bus drove off just as Clare angrily pulled her arm from Sam’s wrist. ‘What are you playing at?’ she raged.

They were in a busy, suburban street just outside a rough-looking pub. A couple of passers-by glanced at them, clearly thinking they were having some kind of domestic. Clare stomped off, but Sam kept with her. They walked in silence for at least a hundred metres. In the end, though, as he knew it would, Clare’s curiosity got the better of her. She stopped in the middle of the pavement and looked angrily at him.

‘Did you find it? The training camp?’

He nodded.

‘And did you… the red-light runners… did you…?’ She seemed unable to formulate the words ‘kill them’.

‘I found my brother.’ Sam sidestepped the question.

Her lips thinned. ‘Is he okay?’ she asked, a bit calmer now, her Irish lilt a bit softer.

Sam shrugged. ‘He got away, if that’s what you mean.’ He pulled the laptop from under his jacket. ‘He left this. I can’t get into it, but I think it might have some answers. Seeing as you’re looking for some answers too, I thought you might help me with it.’

Clare hesitated. Her eyes narrowed. ‘That bastard came to my flat again, Sam. Just waltzed right in. He knew you’d been to see me. God knows how, but I couldn’t deny it. How did he know, Sam? Was someone watching you that night?’

‘I don’t really know. Look, do you know someone who can help us with this?’ He grinned. ‘Most of my friends would try to open it with an MP5.’

‘A what?’

‘Never mind. Are you going to help me?’

Clare glanced around, as though searching for a way out. But she didn’t run. She looked at him helplessly. ‘My sister,’ she said in a defeated kind of voice. ‘Her son, he’s a kind of… whizzkid. Nerd, actually. Sits in his room all day with the curtains closed. He could probably…’

Her voice trailed off.

‘Where do they live?’ Sam demanded.

‘Not too far from here. We could get a bus.’

‘We’ll get a cab,’ Sam said shortly. ‘Come on.’

It was a scant twenty minutes later that Sam was putting a ten-pound note into the hand of a cabbie. They were in a residential street that was almost indistinguishable from the one where Clare lived. Only once the cab driver had driven away did Clare lead Sam towards one of the houses. It was a gentrified-looking place: two stories and an elegant pathway with black and white tiles in a chequer pattern. Clare turned to him. ‘His name’s Patrick,’ she said. ‘He’s sweet, but he’s a bit of a… a teenager, if you know what I mean. A bit… Just go easy on him, that’s all.’

‘I’ll be good as gold,’ Sam murmured.

Clare led him up the path and rang on the doorbell, while Sam lurked a metre or two behind her.

It took a minute for anyone to answer. When the door opened, a kid stood in the frame. He was thirteen, maybe a bit older – Sam had no talent for judging such things. His hair was lank and he had whiteheads on his forehead and cheeks. Fuck, the kid had a face like a pepperoni pizza. He stank of BO and sly wanks. He was probably in the middle of a crafty hand-shandy when they had arrived. That was probably why he was in such a foul mood. He looked at Clare about as enthusiastically as he might look at a door-to-door salesman.

‘Hi, Patch,’ Clare said brightly.

‘It’s Patrick,’ the teenager replied.

‘Mum in? Dad?’

He shook his head.

‘Mind if we come in?’

Patrick looked over her shoulder at Sam, appearing to measure him up. ‘He your boyfriend?’

An awkward pause. From behind, Sam saw her put her fingers lightly to her hair. ‘This is Sam,’ she replied. ‘Can we come in please, Patrick?’

The kid shrugged and stepped aside.

It was warm in the house. Warm and quiet. The kid shut the door and then loitered uncomfortably in the hallway, too gawky to look directly at his aunt or her guest. ‘Actually, Patrick,’ Clare said, delicately, like she was tiptoeing, ‘it’s you we came to see. We need some help. Sort of a computer thing.’

Patrick did his best to pretend not to be interested.

From under his jacket, Sam pulled the laptop. ‘Forgot the password,’ he said. His voice sounded a bit clumsy in his ears. He wasn’t used to talking with children.

Patrick looked at the laptop, then up at Sam. ‘No one forgets their password,’ he said.

‘Please, Patrick,’ Clare interrupted quickly. ‘It would be a real help. Can you get into it?’

Patrick shrugged again. It looked to Sam like this was a default action for him.

‘Yeah,’ he droned grumpily. ‘Probably. Just load the BIOS and repartition the…’

‘Tell you what, mate,’ Sam interrupted him. ‘Why don’t you just do it?’

‘Sam!’ Clare whispered; at the same time Patrick, looking offended, spoke.

‘I’m busy,’ he retorted. He turned petulantly and headed towards the stairs.

Clare gave Sam an annoyed look, but he ignored it. He strode towards the teenager and put a firm hand on his bony shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Clare,’ he announced. ‘Why don’t you give me and Patrick a couple of minutes?’ Clare looked unsure of herself, but with a meaningful glance from Sam she disappeared along the hallway and into the kitchen. Sam spoke to Patrick in a low whisper. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘Either I go up into your bedroom and make a quick list of all the websites you’ve looked at in the past few hours and show them to your aunt, or you stop acting like a twat and help us out.’

Patrick blushed. He looked as though he was searching for a response, but his angry, embarrassed expression got in the way. ‘Deal?’ Sam asked.

Patrick managed to look, if anything, more surly. ‘Deal,’ he replied.

Minutes later, the three of them were in his bedroom. It was quite a big room, but still managed to be dingy by virtue of the musty, unwashed smell. Two computers sat next to each other, both of them whirring; Patrick glanced guiltily at them, then up at Sam who had to stop himself from smiling. He and Clare took a seat on the kid’s unmade bed, while he took the laptop from them and sat on the floor to open it up.

Patrick’s pallid face glowed in the light of the computer screen as his fingers tapped the keyboard deftly and speedily. There was no sound in the room; just the faint clack of the keys. Sam found himself holding his breath. A nervousness at the pit of his stomach.

Time seemed to stand still. He could feel Clare occasionally looking at him. He ignored her.

The clacking stopped. The glow on Patrick’s face dimmed and a confused expression came over him.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sam demanded.

Patrick pretended not to hear. He just stared intently at the screen.

And then the light returned, illuminating his acne-ridden face just as it had done before. He smiled, then turned to the two adults sitting on his bed.

‘Done it,’ he announced.

He tried very hard not to look pleased with himself as he stood up and nonchalantly handed the laptop back to Sam.

FIFTEEN

The screen was blue. A couple of familiar icons shone in the top left-hand corner. One of them was yellow and shaped like a folder. Underneath, in rounded white letters, were the words RED LIGHT RUNNERS.

The two adults exchanged a look.

‘What was the password?’ Sam asked distractedly.

‘“Max”,’ the kid replied.

Sam’s stomach knotted.

‘Not a very good password. Should be longer, have a few numbers in it…’ Patrick looked offended that nobody seemed to be listening to him.

‘Let’s go,’ Sam said, closing down the computer and standing up. As he walked to the door, he was aware of Clare fishing in her bag and pulling out a tenner.

‘Give my love to your mum,’ she said, handing the note to her nephew. Patrick grunted. He didn’t show them out.

Sam didn’t speak until they were on the street. ‘We need somewhere private,’ he said. ‘Somewhere to read this. Is there a hotel near?’

Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

They hit the pavement, Clare having to trot in order to keep up with Sam. It didn’t take them long to find a hotel – the Abbey Court in a residential road called St James’s Gardens, a shabby, converted house with rooms to rent which reeked of curry. They were eyed suspiciously by an immensely fat Pakistani woman who demanded payment for the night in advance and clearly didn’t believe the pseudonym that Sam gave off the top of his head. The room itself was far from comfortable. A TV in one corner, a lumpy bed with a floral bedspread in the middle. As a hotel room, it was the pits. For their purposes, it was absolutely fine. They sat together on the edge of the bed as Sam cranked up the computer. Using a single finger he entered the password to be greeted once more by the blue screen. He directed the cursor on to the folder, then double-clicked.

A window opened. It contained more icons, perhaps twenty. Each one was labelled with a name. Sam stared blankly at it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, more to himself than to Clare.

Her hand brushed against his as her fingers searched out the mouse. She directed the cursor to one of the icons at random, then clicked it. A short pause and a grinding from the laptop’s innards. Then a document appeared.

There was a photo at the top, a young man with shoulder-length blonde hair. Beneath the photograph, laid out neatly and stretching far beyond the bottom of the screen so that Clare had to scroll down to see it all, was a startling array of personal information. His name, of course – Paul Harrison – and his address. But also his sexual orientation and a list of known previous girlfriends. His parents’ address and telephone number. His national insurance number. A list of three official police cautions. Parking fines. His Tesco Clubcard number. His likes and dislikes. Every car he had ever owned. Every job he had ever had, and the wage he had been paid. A graphic of his signature. His closest acquaintances – their names and addresses. A link to his Facebook profile and a list of all his ‘friends’. His credit card numbers and certain purchases that he had made. His bank account numbers and security details. Three e-mail addresses and their passwords. The IP address of his computer and the most popular websites visited from that address. Films he had seen, TV programmes he had watched. Music he listened to.

The list went on. Sam and Clare read it in silence. Neither of them commented out loud on the one word that had screamed out to them more than any other. It was written in brackets just beside the subject’s name. It read ‘DECEASED’.

Clare got to the end of the document long before Sam and impatiently closed down the window, immediately opening another. A different picture, different details. Still the same ominous label after the name: ‘DECEASED’. She browsed through more of them, spending less and less time on each one, until finally she brought up a document that made her catch her breath.

‘Bill,’ she whispered in shock. ‘It’s Bill.’

The photograph of Clare’s contact stared out at her. He had black skin with patchy, tightly curled stubble and a gappy smile. Like all the others, he was deceased. But they already knew that.

Sam stood up. He didn’t know what to say or what to think. Jacob was something to do with these red-light runners, he accepted that. But what? And if they were dead, what did that have to do with his brother?

They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.

But he didn’t know what he should believe. He stared out of the window. It was beginning to rain and the drops slid down the pane, lit up by the streetlamps beyond.

‘Sam.’ Clare’s voice was unsure of itself. ‘I’ve found something else.’

He turned and approached her.

‘Look at this,’ she continued, spinning the computer around on her lap so he could see it. ‘His e-mails. He’s only sent them to one address, each time with one of these documents. There’s only one contact here – the person he’s sent them to.’

‘What’s his name?’ Sam demanded.

‘Alexander Dolohov.’

Sam’s brow furrowed. He had never heard the name before. ‘Any more details on him?’

She turned the computer back towards her and started fiddling, but as she did she shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she murmured. ‘His name and his e-mail address. That’s all.’ She looked up, bright eyed. ‘You could e-mail him!’

Sam shook his head. ‘No way. If I want to talk to this guy, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to talk to you?’

Sam sniffed. ‘I guess I’ll just have to turn on the charm.’ Clare clearly heard the tone in his voice and didn’t reply. Sam looked at her with his eyes narrowed. ‘Can you get someone to track him down?’ he asked. ‘Someone from your paper?’

‘I could do it myself,’ she said.

Sam shook his head. ‘The Firm are on to both of us,’ he said. ‘If we start sniffing around we’ll alert them. Nobody but us knows about this laptop. Let’s keep it that way.’

‘I could ask someone, I suppose…’ She sounded uncertain as she pulled out her mobile.

‘Not with that. There’s a phone downstairs, in reception. If you’ve got someone you can phone, do it from there.’

Clare appeared to think for a minute. ‘All right,’ she decided finally and with a heavy sigh. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Wait there.’

‘No,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘I’m not going to do a runner you know.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

They were eyed by the suspicious receptionist as Clare made her call. Sam hovered nearby, just out of earshot as she mumbled privately into the phone to some faceless colleague, then left the number of the hotel. The receptionist was clearly trying hard to listen to the conversation, but Clare was talking too discretely for that. ‘It’ll take an hour or so,’ she told him as she hung up.

Sam nodded. He turned to the receptionist. ‘Let us know if we have a call,’ he instructed and was repaid with a nondescript gesture. Sam considered being more forceful, but decided against it. ‘We’ll be in our room,’ he said brusquely.

He and Clare left the reception and climbed the stairs back to their room.

Neither of them noticed the man on the other side of the street, an umbrella protecting him from the rain, his eyes firmly fixed on the door of their hotel.

They say that the darkest hour comes just before dawn. For the young Kazakh man in a small village in the southern part of that huge country, it came a lot earlier than that. He lay in his bed, fast asleep, blithely unaware that his snoring could have woken the dead. Or even that he was only a squeeze of a trigger away from joining them. The trigger in question belonged to a fully loaded AK-47 and, at that precise moment, the cold steel of the weapon was about to be pressed into the fleshy part of his cheek.

His eyes shot open. He gasped. In the darkness, silhouetted against the silver moon that beamed through his open window, stood a man. He couldn’t fully see his face, but he could tell he was big; and he could tell that the man was holding the weapon in one hand. The other was up towards his face, one finger pressed to his lips.

‘Shhh…’ he said quietly.

The young Kazakh man started to tremble. He tugged his thin sheets a bit further up his body, but his assailant pulled them away again revealing him to be naked apart from a pair of rather unfashionable underpants. The stranger bent over, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him out of bed.

He did not dare shout out. The weapon was pressed into his back now; it hurt his knobbly spine. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered in Kazakh, but the man did not appear to understand him. They moved swiftly out of the bedroom, into the only other room of the small house. Through the window he saw – on the forecourt of his small petrol filling station – an old four-by-four truck. The lights were off, but it sounded like the engine was turning over. It was parked right by his single, solitary pump and just beyond the small booth where he took his customers’ money near the controls for the pump.

He turned to the gunman. In here he could see his face better. He had dark hair and a scraggly beard. His eyes were narrow and hard. The gunman pointed towards the booth. ‘We’re going there,’ he said. ‘You’re going to turn the pump on.’

The Kazakh didn’t understand his foreign-sounding words. ‘I have no money,’ he replied in his own language. ‘No money here!’

His assailant pointed to the booth again. Then, letting go of him for a moment, he mimed the turning of a key. The man nodded quickly, then ran back into his room. He pulled on his trousers and shirt while the gunman surveyed him from the doorway, then removed a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket and held them up. The gunman nodded in satisfaction. ‘Open up,’ he said, then stepped aside to let him pass.

He was marched, at gunpoint, outside. The gritty ground was painful against the soles of his feet, but he was hurried quickly to the booth anyway. His hands shook and it took a couple of goes to insert the key into the door; but once he managed it, the booth opened easily. Inside he headed straight for the till and flicked it open. ‘Look,’ he said, indicating the empty tray, ‘nothing!’

The gunman shook his head darkly, then pointed out towards the pump. Only then did he understand. The guy wanted fuel. For a brief instant he wondered why someone would go to such trouble – such danger – simply for diesel, but he didn’t let it worry him for long. Under the counter there was another keyhole. He inserted the relevant key and switched it on. On the forecourt, the faint humming of the pump started up.

The gunman, still pointing the weapon in his direction, urged him outside. They approached the vehicle and, without having to be asked, he started filling the tank. Meanwhile, the gunman opened up the back and dragged out four empty fuel canisters. When the vehicle was full, he moved on to these. The dial on the pump whizzed around and somewhere at the back of his mind the young Kazakh had a vision of simply stuffing hard currency into the canisters. But he said nothing. The presence of the wicked-looking weapon was enough to keep his mind on the job.

His whole body was trembling by the time the fourth canister was filled and returned to the back of the truck.

The gunman raised his weapon. He aimed it at the young man’s forehead.

A terrible cold numbness spread through his body. He closed his eyes. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘I have done as you asked.’

He waited for the sound of the shot.

A bang. It seemed to go straight through him. But it wasn’t the gun. He opened his eyes. The gunman was not there. The noise had been only the sound of an exhaust backfiring. He collapsed to his knees in relief, watching, shivering, as the vehicle disappeared into the darkness.

Sam and Clare sat in their room, surrounded by a bubble of tense silence. The night they had spent together was all but forgotten. They were not two lovers in a hotel room; just two people with a common interest, and common fears.

‘There could be more than one Alexander Dolohov, you know,’ Clare said.

‘Then I’ll visit them all.’

‘How will you find out which is the right one?’

Sam didn’t answer. There were some things she didn’t need to know.

Clare stared at him. ‘You’ve found out things that I don’t know, haven’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘Your friendly granddad from MI6 paid me a visit.’ He saw Clare shudder slightly. ‘They’ve got a theory.’

‘Care to share?’

Sam hesitated. His instinct was to keep everything to himself, but it seemed a bit ridiculous keeping Clare in the dark. ‘The red-light runners,’ he said. ‘The Firm claims they’re nothing to do with MI5. That they’re being trained up by some foreign agency and led to believe they’re working for Five.’

Clare’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Your man wouldn’t say. My guess is the Russians.’ His voice went quieter. ‘Remind me to ask Dolohov when I catch up with him.’

Clare looked at him intently. ‘But Sam, maybe you should just tell MI6 what you found on this laptop. I mean, it could be serious.’

Sam shook his head. ‘No way.’

‘Why not?’

He considered telling her – about the Spetsnaz soldiers surrounding the camp and his suspicions that someone in the Firm had tipped them off about the Regiment’s arrival – but he kept quiet. ‘It’s just not safe,’ he muttered inadequately. ‘Trust me.’

At that precise moment, there was a knock on the door. Sam and Clare exchanged a look just as a voice called from the other side. ‘Phone!’

They hurried downstairs.

Clare took the call almost in silence, the telephone nestled in the crook of her neck as she made notes in a speedy shorthand. She nodded occasionally – pointlessly – and when the conversation was over she uttered a brief word of thanks before replacing the handset. A short nod at Sam and they returned to the privacy of their room.

‘Well?’

‘Two Alexander Dolohovs,’ she said. ‘One in Manchester, one in London.’

‘Shit,’ Sam cursed.

‘Not really,’ Clare replied. Despite the stress, there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The one in Manchester is three years old.’ She scribbled an address on a piece of paper from her notebook, tore it out and handed it to Sam. ‘I’d say that was your man.’

Sam read the address. A road in Maida Vale. Flat 3.

‘My friend couldn’t get much on him. He teaches Russian at a university college in Bloomsbury. I, er, I also asked her to look into a couple of other things.’

Sam raised an eyebrow. She indicated the laptop. ‘The red-light runners. I gave her the names of the two latest, er… the two who died most recently.’

‘And?’

‘Accidents. Both of them. A car crash and a, er…’ She blushed. ‘A sort of sex game gone wrong. No suggestion of foul play.’ She said this last part brightly, as if it were good news.

‘Of course not,’ Sam murmured.

They sat in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Rain pattered hard on the window. Sam tried to connect this new information in his mind, but he still felt like he was doing a crossword without the clues.

‘How is your brother involved in all this, Sam?’ Clare asked quietly. She was looking wide-eyed at him, as though scared of the answer.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Maybe he was on to them. Jacob always thought he could do everything by himself.’ He set his jaw. ‘I’m going to go and see Dolohov.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah. Now.’

‘I’ll come.’ She sounded plucky, but nervous.

‘No you won’t.’

‘You can’t keep doing this to me, Sam. Bringing me in when it suits you, then discarding me when I’ve given you everything you want. It’s not fair. I’m coming with you.’

Sam felt his face twitch. He stood up and looked out of the window. When he turned round again, his face was in shadow. ‘Go home, Clare,’ he said softly.

She sat obstinately on the bed. Sam looked back out of the window. ‘You asked me earlier if I killed the red-light runners. Do you want to know the truth? They were sleeping when we arrived. I shot them in the neck. I would have aimed for the head, but we were ordered to take their photographs. It’s not very easy to recognise someone who’s had their face blown away. Take it from me – it happened to some of them.’ He turned once more and stepped into the light. Clare was looking at him in horror. ‘Shocked, Clare? That’s fine. Be shocked. It stopped worrying me a long time ago. But let me tell you this. I don’t know who this Dolohov guy is. If he’s got something to do with your dead red-light runners, though, he’s not going to want to talk about it. So it’s going to be up to me to persuade him. Still think you want to be part of the party?’

It took a moment for Clare to reply. ‘Holy Mother of God, Sam. What are you going to do to him?’

Sam looked at her seriously. ‘Do to him? Hopefully nothing. Hopefully he’ll sing like a canary.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘If he doesn’t, I’ve been trained to make people talk.’

‘You’re going to hurt him?’

Sam continued with his dead-eyed stare. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. He looked at the door. ‘We should leave. There’s no point waiting and I don’t suppose you fancy spending the night in this shit hole any more than I do.’

SIXTEEN

Sam looked at his watch. 11 p.m. The rain had not let up; in fact it was worse. He was soaked to the skin as he walked along the Maida Vale street lined high with mansion blocks. At this hour and in this weather there was nobody else around. Cars had parked double on the road and lights shone out of those flats whose occupants had not yet gone to bed.

Dolohov’s mansion block was just like all the others along this part of the road: rather grand, imposing buildings with elaborately tiled entrances and ornate doors. He walked past the building several times, looking up for any likely entry points. Each floor had a small balcony protruding from the front, but without any equipment they were impossible to scale. He walked to both ends of the terraces, looking for fire stairs that he could use to get up to the roofs; but there were none. With grappling irons and the regular resources of the Regiment, gaining entry would be child’s play. By himself it was going to be much more difficult. He cursed under his breath as the rain swelled intensively. There was only one way he could get access to this place and that was through the front door.

The mansion block had a state-of-the-art intercom, which Sam viewed from the pavement. He quickly dismissed the idea of simply ringing Dolohov’s flat – he wanted to retain the element of surprise – and so he was left with only one option.

He scoured the pavement for a twig – just a small one. Then he bent down and undid his shoelace. And then he lurked under a nearby tree, and waited.

The rain continued to pour, but it made no difference to Sam. He couldn’t get any wetter. He could get colder, though, and he did. He started to shiver. He had been waiting for the best part of an hour when a taxi arrived, its yellow beams lighting up the rain and the road as it stopped right outside the mansion block. A woman emerged; she paid the driver, erected her umbrella and walked briskly up to the mansion block. Sam hurried after her. They reached the door at about the same time.

The woman – she was perhaps in her late fifties and had striking, once-beautiful features – looked at him nervously as she held her key fob up to a panel on the intercom. Around her neck she wore an expensive-looking fox fur, the stuffed paws of the animal still attached. The door clicked open and she pushed it.

‘Thanks,’ Sam said, filling his voice with gratitude. ‘Lousy weather, eh.’ He looked down and pretended to see that his bootlace was undone. The woman was inside now; Sam crouched down on the doorstep to do up his lace; as he did so, he dropped the twig against the frame of the door. It went unnoticed by the woman who was shaking down her umbrella. Sam stood up again and smiled at her. She looked uncertainly back at him and cleared her throat.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but do you have a key?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Staying with a friend,’ he explained.

The woman looked unsure of herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s just, we have this agreement, all of us. Would you mind buzzing up? Can’t be too careful…’

Sam stepped back immediately and held up his hands. ‘Of course,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Very sensible. No problem.’

The woman let go of the door. It started swinging slowly closed. ‘Thank you!’ she called. ‘So sorry!’

She disappeared from sight.

Sam waited. He didn’t want to walk in while she could still see him. The door closed, but did not click shut. The twig had done its work.

He gave it a minute before entering. His clothes dripped on the marble floor of the small lobby. To his right was a metal post cabinet with a locked box for each flat. Flat three bore the words Professor Alexander Dolohov in a neat, rounded hand. Sam started to climb the stairs.

The stairwell, warmly carpeted and with a smooth banister, was dark. At each landing was a glowing light button, but Sam didn’t press them, so his natural night vision became adjusted to the darkness. There was just one flat on each level. As he approached the third floor, he found his heart was pumping fast. Was it nerves, or was he getting out of condition?

Flat 3. The door was like all the others. Glossy black paint, a shiny brass number and a brass bell. Sam looked at the bottom of the door. A thin strip of light escaped. There was somebody there. He took a deep breath. It would be easy enough to shoot the lock and force his way in, but that would cause alarm in the mansion block. Much better to do it the easy way. He rang the bell.

There was silence. Sam couldn’t even tell if the bell had sounded. He rang it again and for a slightly longer time. Still silence.

And then a man’s voice, slightly high pitched and with the trace of an accent. ‘Who is it?’

Sam sniffed. ‘Delivery for Dolohov,’ he called. ‘They let me in down the bottom.’

A pause. No reply. Sam thought he heard footsteps on the other side of the door and without any warning, the strip of light at the bottom of the door disappeared. The darkness in which Sam stood became a little bit more impenetrable. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he stepped to one side of the door and pressed his back against the wall, feeling for his weapon. His hands were steady, but his breathing was deep and slow. All his senses were on high alert.

Suddenly, silently, the door clicked open, just a few inches. Inside was dark.

Sam’s sopping clothes were clammy against his skin as he stood in the blackness, carefully selecting his next move. Whoever was inside, whoever this Dolohov character was, he clearly didn’t believe that someone had just turned up to deliver him pizza. But the opening of the door was an invitation of some kind. He just didn’t know what to. Edging towards the gap, he held the gun firmly in his right hand, while gently pushing the door further open and peering inside.

It was difficult to make much out in the darkness. There was an entrance hall of sorts, a circular table in the middle and an ornate mirror on the wall, which reflected some kind of ambient light seeping in from a room off to his right. He could see nothing to his left because the door was in the way. The walls were filled with bookshelves.

‘Alexander Dolohov?’ he called.

No reply.

‘I need to speak to you. I’m armed. You might as well show yourself. It’ll stop things getting messy.’

Silence.

Sam stepped inside. His eyes flitted around, but he couldn’t see anyone. He could make a pretty good guess as to where his target was hiding, though: behind the open door. They always chose the most obvious places. Sam momentarily readjusted the gun in his hand and then, in one swift movement, hooked his left foot around the edge of the door, slammed it shut and pointed his weapon into the space that had just been revealed.

No one was there.

It was at that precise moment that he heard the footsteps again. Swifter this time, and behind him. He turned around quickly, just in time to see the silhouette of a man approaching, some kind of cosh held above his head, ready to use. The man was smaller than Sam, smaller and fatter. But fast. Sam just had time to see the thick, square-rimmed glasses that covered his eyes, before the cosh was brought down on his head with a sudden, brutal crack. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He tried to aim his gun again, but he could feel his knees going. Vaguely, he was aware of the cosh being raised once more; he felt it slam against the side of his face.

And then he fell to the ground. He felt sick, but only for a moment as the darkness seemed to close in on him, and he passed out.

When Sam awoke, his head felt crushed and his skin was stinging. A light – a bright one – shone into his face, blinding him and making him squint so hard his eyes were almost shut. How long had he been out? He couldn’t tell, but as he touched his fingers to his cheek and felt the wetness of his own blood he realised it couldn’t have been that long. His clothes were still soggy.

He was sitting on a hard wooden chair at the end of a long table. The lamp was situated at the other end of the table and behind it sat Sam’s attacker. In front of him, lying on the table, was Sam’s gun; in the man’s podgy hand was another weapon – a GSh-18 pistol. Smaller than more modern handguns, but a firm favourite of the Russians. Including the Commie cunt in front of Sam.

‘Dolohov?’ Sam demanded. His voice was little more than a croak and as he spoke a wave of nausea passed through him.

A pause. Sam wished he could see the guy’s face properly.

‘I think it would be wiser,’ Dolohov replied with the elegant precision of man for whom English is not a native language, ‘if we concentrate first on who you are.’

Sam didn’t reply. His mind was working overtime.

‘A few…’ Dolohov sounded like he was searching for the right words. ‘A few ground rules. I haven’t tied you up, but if you move from that seat, I will shoot you without hesitation. I’m sure I don’t need to repeat myself. Do I need to repeat myself?’

‘Your gaff,’ Sam replied, peering harder into the light. ‘You do what you want.’

‘I intend to.’ Dolohov stood up and stepped away from the light, revealing more of his features. He was a small, dumpy little man with a jowly face behind unfashionable spectacles. His thin hair was Brylcreemed and combed into a severe parting. He wore slacks and an open collar under his jumper. The small gun in his hand remained firmly pointed in Sam’s direction.

‘I consider it unlikely,’ Dolohov mused, ‘that a man such as yourself, armed with a weapon such as that, is a mere delivery boy. A common thief perhaps, here to rob me for drug money?’ An unpleasant smile spread across his face as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Sam refused to let any expression cross his face. ‘A university professor,’ he countered, ‘armed and coshing anyone who turns up at his flat late at night. Doesn’t quite add up.’

Dolohov gave him an icy look. ‘Self-defence,’ he stated.

‘Sure.’ Sam shrugged. ‘But against what?’

‘Against interfering idiots like you.’ Dolohov took a step closer and Sam could sense his anger. ‘I recommend that you tell me who you are and what you want, otherwise our conversation will be very short.’

Dolohov’s glasses were slightly crooked on his face. If he wasn’t carrying a weapon, he’d look faintly ridiculous. He took another step towards Sam, as if to underline his seriousness.

Keep coming, Sam thought to himself. Just keep coming. His face still hurt, but the nausea was passing. ‘I thought we might have a chat,’ he goaded his assailant.

‘About what?’

‘About some e-mails.’

Dolohov’s lips thinned. ‘What e-mails?’

Sam smiled at him, an intentionally arrogant and infuriating smile. He said nothing.

‘What e-mails?’ Dolohov straightened his arm and took another stride towards Sam.

That was all he needed.

Sam moved quickly. With one hand he grabbed Dolohov’s podgy wrist in a crunching grip, pulled himself to his feet and circled his other arm tightly round the man’s fat neck. Dolohov fired his gun; the bullet slammed into the back of the chair, knocking it a metre along the floor before it rocked and upturned. Sam squeezed Dolohov’s neck, while firmly gripping his gun hand.

‘Drop the weapon!’ he hissed.

A gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat, but the gun stayed where it was. There was a fireplace to Sam’s right, surrounded by marble and with a shelf above that housed delicate china figurines. Sam twisted Dolohov’s body round, then slammed his wrist against the fireplace. One of the figurines toppled and smashed; the gun, too, fell from Dolohov’s hand as he gasped in pain. Sam continued to squeeze his neck. The flesh bulged and the gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat grew weaker. Sam had to concentrate. Keep the stranglehold for too long and he’d kill the man, but he just wanted him to lose consciousness. It would give Sam a few precious minutes to prepare for what had to happen next.

Dolohov’s body started to go limp. Sam held firm. The struggling ceased, so he relaxed his grip; as the man fell to the ground he manoeuvred his arms under Dolohov’s armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. Two fingers against his neck. A pulse. Sam nodded with satisfaction.

He had to move quickly. Violence like that affected different people in different ways. He could be out for five minutes or thirty seconds. Sam had to restrain his prisoner before he woke.

Running to the entrance of the room he switched the main light on and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the room that he had seen leading off the entrance hallway. It was plush. Next to the fire there was a comfortable, intricately upholstered armchair and on the opposite wall an antique chaise longue. At one end of the room were big windows looking out over a long garden far below and the roofs and towers of London beyond. Thick, corded curtains hung on either side. There was art on the walls, rich rugs on the floor and books seemingly everywhere.

Sam approached the long table in the middle of the room. He disconnected the light from its socket, then, with a sharp tug, pulled the flex from the lamp. Returning to the body on the floor, he bent down and pulled Dolohov up, plonking him on the chair which had been positioned behind the lamp. He took the flex and wound it tightly round the man’s body, arms and around the back of the chair, before tying it tightly. Dolohov could wake up any second, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. It gave Sam a chance to explore the house a bit.

To find the tools he needed.

He drew the curtains first, then made sure the front door was locked from the inside. The little kitchen, which was reached by a thin corridor that led off the main hallway, was modern and scrupulously tidy. An unopened bottle of vodka sat on the side. Sam grabbed it, twisted the top open and took a gulp. The fierce alcohol warmed him immediately as he started to rummage through the kitchen drawers. There were plenty of knives, good sharp ones, but it was the sturdy set of poultry shears that caught his attention. He added them to his stash, then helped himself to a few tea towels that were neatly piled up. Rummaging though a cupboard he found a small culinary blowtorch. His man obviously fancied himself as a chef, but he wouldn’t be making brûlées tonight. He found a drawer containing a set of DIY tools for odd jobs – pliers, a hammer, two standard-sized screwdrivers. Sam took the pliers. Walking back into the main room, he placed everything on the table. Then he turned back and surveyed Dolohov, whose head was drooping onto his chest.

In the Regiment they called it field interrogation. Torture by any other name, of course. Earnest politicians denounced it in public, but their special forces were well trained in extracting information by whatever means necessary. Sam had long since lost any squeamishness about the Regiment’s methods and he wasn’t in the mood to mess about. Was he going to torture an innocent man? He shook his head. The guy in front of him oozed many things. Innocence wasn’t one of them. Once you’d done this enough times, you got a feel for these things.

Dolohov stirred. He raised his pale face and looked at Sam with the confused expression of someone waking from a long sleep. It took a few seconds for him to remember what was happening; when he did, he stared at Sam with undisguised hate. His eyes flickered towards the gun on the table, but there was no way he could reach it.

Sam took the bottle of vodka, then approached his captive, raising the bottle to Dolohov’s lips.

‘Drink?’ he offered.

Dolohov turned his head away and muttered something. It sounded like Russian. It also didn’t sound very polite.

Sam inclined his head, took a swig, then replaced the bottle on the table. He walked round to the back of Dolohov’s chair, bent down and spoke just inches from his ear. ‘I’m going to give you one chance,’ he whispered, ‘to tell me absolutely everything you know. Who you are. What you do. Believe me, Dolohov, you don’t want to fuck around.’

A pause. And then Dolohov spoke. ‘I teach in a university,’ he said. His English accent had slipped. ‘And you,’ he continued, ‘you can go to hell.’

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He straightened up and walked back round to Dolohov’s front. Taking one of the tea towels, he approached the Russian.

‘Open your mouth.’

Dolohov kept his lips clenched firmly shut. Sam raised an eyebrow and, without warning, dealt a massive blow to his ample stomach. The Russian gasped loudly, winded by the punch; his eyes bulged as Sam stuffed the tea towel into his mouth. Dolohov’s body seemed to go into spasm as he tried to bend over and gasp for air; but the flex and the cloth in his mouth meant he could do neither.

Sam watched as the Russian gradually got control of his breathing and his body. Then he looked around. In one corner of the room was a stereo system. He switched it on and pressed a button on the CD player. Classical music swelled into the room. Sam adjusted the volume: not so loud that it would disturb the neighbours, but loud enough to muffle any sounds that came from the room.

And only then did he take the poultry shears from the table.

By now, Dolohov’s glasses had slipped down his nose. He looked over them, noticing the shears for the first time. Instinctively he shuffled his chair back a few inches, shaking his head. Sam ignored him and approached.

There was no point making threats. The first rule of field interrogation was to let the person you’re questioning know that you’re serious. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which hand was it you were holding that gun in? Left or right?’ He furrowed his brow theatrically. ‘Left, I think. We’ll start with the left.’

Dolohov made some kind of noise and shook his head more vigorously. He was sweating like an altar boy in church. Sam walked round to his left-hand side and felt for the Russian’s fingers. They were clenched shut, but it was no great problem to unfurl his trigger finger. More noises – squeals, almost. Sam ignored them. He opened up the blade of the shears before clasping them round the base of Dolohov’s fat finger.

And then he squeezed.

The sharp blades slipped easily through the layers of skin and fat, like a warm knife cutting into jelly. Only when they hit the bone did he have to squeeze harder. The blades crunched through, more on account of Sam’s force than their sharpness. The finger came away and blood flowed copiously from the fresh wound.

Dolohov’s body had started convulsing, his muffled squeals more constant. Sam walked casually to the table, placed the amputated finger in full view of its former owner, then picked up the blowtorch. ‘We don’t want you bleeding to death,’ he told the Russian.

It wouldn’t take much to cauterise the wound. The cigarette lighter from a car would do it, but Sam had to use the tools at his disposal. The flame from the blowtorch was a pale blue – you could barely see it – but it would do the job nicely. He approached the still-squealing Dolohov and touched the flame to the bleeding stump of his finger. The wet blood dried brown and a foul, acrid smell hit Sam’s nose. Dolohov’s arm stiffened with the pain, but the blood stopped flowing.

He stayed out of Dolohov’s sight for a few moments before removing and cauterising a second finger – the little finger, this time, on the right hand. The bone was smaller here; the shears made short work of it. It had the same effect on Dolohov, however. The muffled squeals seemed to go into overdrive and he shook so much Sam thought for a moment that his chair might topple over. He walked round to Dolohov’s front, switched the blowtorch off for a second time, then stepped back, before pushing the Russian’s glasses back on to his face, opening his mouth as if to say something, then making a pretence of deciding against it.

He took the pliers, grabbed the thumb on the Russian’s right hand and held it firm. Sam clasped the thumbnail between the jaws of the plier and squeezed, tightly clamping the nail. Then he pulled. He watched with near total detachment as Dolohov squealed like a pig. Sam had to pull hard to tear the nail off, but after several tugs it was loose and he was finally able to drag it out of its roots, like a dentist loosening a tooth.

Sam walked out of the room and back into the kitchen. He’d give Dolohov a few minutes to sweat it out and worry about what was coming next before going back. In the meantime, he turned on the tap and started washing off the blood that had smeared all over his hands. Pink water ran into the basin. His hands were perfectly steady.

Sam rummaged in a cupboard and found a deep saucepan. He filled it with water, then returned to the main room. Dolohov had passed out. Good. He’d hit his pain barrier and he wouldn’t want to do that again. Sam stood in front of him, then threw the cold water over his head. The Russian awoke with a shock. He stared at Sam in horror as Sam picked up the wooden chair that had previously been shot down, then placed it opposite his victim before sitting only inches away from him.

‘What shall we do next, Professor Dolohov? Same fingers on the other hands? Or maybe…’

He smiled, as if a good idea had just struck him, then looked down at Dolohov’s crotch. Dolohov shook his head violently – even more violently than before. An odour drifted towards Sam’s nostrils. In a situation like this, guys would often piss or cack themselves. It smelled as though Dolohov, the pussy, had done both.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave that till last. After all, it’s only a small one isn’t it? Drink?’ He reached for the bottle, then yanked the tea towel from Dolohov’s mouth. This time Dolohov accepted the drink, a good mouthful of it. It didn’t stop his heavy breath from shaking and trembling, though. Not a bit of it. He whispered something in Russian, then addressed Sam.

‘You are an animal!’ he spat.

‘’Course I’m not,’ Sam replied calmly. ‘If I was an animal, I’d have started with your thumbs.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Have you got any idea how difficult it is trying to take your underpants off without any thumbs?’

Dolohov gave him a monstrous look.

‘But we’ll move on to the thumbs next,’ Sam continued, ‘unless I get what I want.’

‘Untie me.’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Dolohov. I want to know who you are and what you do. And believe me, my friend, if you say the word “university” again, this is going to be a long fucking night for you.’

SEVENTEEN

‘Ja russkii.’

Dolohov spoke first in his native language. His eyes were closed, perhaps because of the pain, perhaps because he was scared or perhaps in resignation, because telling the truth was a trial for him. He opened them, then reverted to English. ‘I am Russian.’

‘I’d got that far.’

The Russian pursed his lips with loathing. ‘If you know so much, then I will remain quiet.’

Sam just gave him a steady look. Dolohov couldn’t withstand it for long. His flabby face was pale and sweating.

‘I work for the Russian government.’

‘Spetsnaz?’ Sam was almost asking himself.

Dolohov sneered. ‘Do I look like a Spetsnaz dog?’ he demanded, before shaking his head. ‘Federalvoi Sluzhbe Bezopasnosti. The FSB. My country’s security service.’ Every word he spoke sounded like an effort, as though he was forcing himself against his better judgement. ‘Though when I first came to London, it was known by a different name.’

‘Ah… the KGB.’

Dolohov looked meaningfully at the bottle of vodka. ‘I would like…’ he started to say.

‘Just keep talking, Dolohov.’

The Russian breathed deeply. ‘I am a professional,’ he whispered. ‘You are a professional too, I think.’

‘We’re not talking about me. Keep going.’ The smell of burnt flesh still hung in the air.

‘I receive orders from Moscow. There are people who need removing. Terrorists. My job is to remove them.’

He closed his eyes again and appeared to be trying to master the pain. A silence fell across the room. Sam slotted this new information into the jigsaw of his mind. The details of the red-light runners. The word DECEASED ominously printed above them. ‘You’re a hitman.’

Dolohov didn’t open his eyes. ‘And what are you?’ he replied. ‘A church warden?’

‘The last two hits you made,’ Sam demanded. ‘Tell me who they were?’

Only then did Dolohov open his eyes again. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and, although his face was still racked with pain, Sam thought he noticed a glint in his eye. Enthusiasm? He couldn’t tell. ‘They are dead,’ he said.

Sam stood and picked up the shears. Dolohov shook his head violently. ‘Young men,’ he started gabbling. ‘My job is to make their deaths appear accidental. To stop anyone from investigating them further. The last hit was a car crash. I doctored the engine and made it happen when he was speeding on the motorway. Before that…’ His cheek twitched. ‘Before that, what your doctors call auto-erotic asphyxiation. I made it appear as if my target had…’

Dolohov continued to talk, but for a moment Sam lost his concentration. The words matched the information Clare had given him. He knew the Russian was telling the truth. ‘So you’re the guy that’s been bumping off the red-light runners,’ he said.

‘The what?’ Dolohov asked. He managed a half-smile. ‘That is what you call them? I call them fools.’

An image flashed through Sam’s brain. Kazakhstan. The training camp. The bullets pumping into the bodies of the slumbering kids. The photos of their corpses.

‘Talk to me,’ Sam demanded. ‘Everything you know.’

Dolohov’s face reverted to its look of hate. ‘You work for the British security services?’

‘I work for myself. Spit it out, Dolohov. Now.’

The Russian paused before speaking, almost as if gathering his thoughts. Sam listened in silence to the monologue that followed.

‘You call them red-light runners. Perhaps they call themselves red-light runners? I do not know why. The truth is that they are just foolish young men, targeted by the FSB. A very particular type of person. A type of person that would be attracted by a particular… A particular lifestyle. A type of person that enjoys danger. A type of person that is easily misled. As I have already told you: fools. They are approached – I do not know how or by whom – and told that they have been selected for a certain purpose: to work undercover for your MI5.’

‘Only they’re not working for Five at all,’ Sam interrupted thoughtfully. ‘They’re working for the Russians. But they don’t know it.’

Dolohov inclined his head. ‘They are taken to a training camp where they are given instruction. Surveillance techniques, the construction of improvised explosive devices, weapons training. When they are returned to this country, my government has a sleeping army. If one of them is caught, they do not know who they are really receiving their instructions from. They will always tell the same story – that they are working for MI5.’ He gave Sam a piercing look. ‘No matter how many of their fingers you cut off.’

‘None of this explains why you’ve been slotting them, Dolohov. You’d better start sounding convincing.’

A wave of pain passed across the Russian’s face again. He spoke with difficulty. ‘They are told to keep silent, to tell no one. It is…’ He searched once more for the correct words. ‘It is drummed into them. But to be silent is not in their nature. We know, sooner or later, that they will speak. They are weak and impulsive. They cannot help it. For a year, perhaps, they are able to keep their own counsel. But after that, they start to get sloppy. They are not professionals, like us.’ Sloppiness, Sam deduced, was something he could not abide. ‘That is when I am called in. They are given twelve months. In that time they may or may not have been useful to our cause, but they are eliminated anyway, then replaced by fresh recruits.’

‘Jesus,’ Sam whispered. The Russian’s casual disrespect for the lives of his victims impressed even him. What Dolohov was telling him had begun to fill in some of the gaps; but there were more questions springing into his mind. Some of them he wanted answers to. Others he wasn’t sure he did. Dolohov, though, was flagging. It was obvious. His body had taken punishment and his head was starting to droop. Even so, Sam wasn’t in the mood to mollycoddle him.

He reached for the bottle of vodka and held it to Dolohov’s lips. The Russian took a gulp, then winced slightly as the alcohol burned his throat. Sam stood then turned and faced the fireplace. A thick silence descended. He contemplated his next question.

‘I’m afraid,’ Sam said finally, ‘that I don’t really believe you.’

He turned once more, strode quickly to the table and before Dolohov knew what was happening he had grabbed the shears and was already unfurling one of the Russian’s thumbs. Dolohov tried to shout out, but his breathlessness stopped him for a moment. When he eventually managed to speak, it was with more of a sense of terrified urgency than Sam had ever heard before.

‘There’s more. I can tell you more. Do not do it again!’

Sam paused. Dolohov was almost weeping now. Through gritted teeth, the ultimate humiliation. His good English failed him. ‘I begging you not do again.’

‘Start talking.’ Sam kept the blades of the shears resting against the skin of the Russian’s thumb.

Dolohov spoke quickly. ‘I do not know everything. They do not tell me everything. It is better that way. But I know some things. One of them is to be activated. Maybe he already has. A major hit. Political. It will happen soon.’

‘Who?’

‘I do not know.’

‘I don’t believe you, Dolohov.’ He allowed the blade to slice gently the skin on his thumb.

‘I do not know! I would tell you if I did…’ And again his voice collapsed into sobs of helpless terror.

‘What’s the name of the red-light runner?’

But Dolohov couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, desperately, while the sounds of animal fear emerged from his throat.

Sam found himself breathing deeply and sharply. He let the Russian’s hand fall, ignoring the trickle of blood that seeped from the small flesh wound. Without a word he walked out of the room. He felt the sudden need to be alone, away from Dolohov. The need to collect his thoughts. The need to decide if he really wanted to ask the question that was on his lips. There was a fire in his blood. Anger. His head was spinning. In some corner of his brain he knew that Dolohov’s life was hanging by a thread. Sam Redman was on the edge, barely able to control himself. A nudge in the wrong direction and he would do to the Russian what both of them had done to any number of red-light runners.

He calmed himself. His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. He walked back into the room feeling numb, but somehow purposeful at the same time. Dolohov was slumped, corpse-like. Sam had seen it before – the shock that drained all colour from someone’s face. Even his lips were grey. He stood in front of the man and gave him a thunderous look.

‘Who gives you the orders?’ he asked. ‘Who tells you to kill the red-light runners? Who gives you the details?’

Dolohov raised his head and paused as he summoned up the last dregs of his arrogance.

‘You really know nothing,’ he observed in a weak voice. ‘Is our system really so difficult for you to work out?’

Sam didn’t hesitate. His body under the control of some force other than his thoughts, he grabbed his handgun from the table and pressed it hard against Dolohov’s head.

‘Who?’

‘The same man who trains them,’ Dolohov whispered. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. ‘British. We never meet.’

‘Damn it, Dolohov. What’s his name?’

They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.

It was like a dream. Sam heard the words and they were like a trigger firing a weapon. Out of control, he raised his gun hand and slammed his fist against the side of Dolohov’s face. The Russian’s glasses cracked and flew across the room; the chair in which he was sitting tottered back and fell to the ground, taking its occupant with it.

Sam knelt down and once more pressed the gun against the Russian, this time into the flesh of his neck. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he hissed. ‘Tell me the truth. What’s his name?’

But Dolohov was past lying. He repeated himself slowly and in an exhausted tone of voice. ‘His name is Jacob Redman,’ he croaked. ‘Now I have nothing more to tell you. And if you are going to kill me, I ask that you do it now and you do it quickly.’

A bright orange sun rose slowly above the horizon of southern Kazakhstan. The countryside through which Jacob Redman drove his truck was bland. Flat and featureless. Every few miles he would drive past a settlement, but he saw only the occasional shepherd. Now, though, up ahead and in the distance, he saw the bleak sight of Communist-era tower blocks emerging above the horizon – concrete monuments to a time long gone, but they were still inhabited, no doubt. There were cars here on the outskirts, as well as the ever-present goats. Jacob just kept his eyes on the road ahead.

He was getting close now. His journey was nearly at an end.

The road took him past the town and further into the flat landscape. In his rear-view mirror he watched as a military vehicle approached from behind, clad in green and brown camouflage webbing and carrying God only knows what. Jacob allowed the truck to overtake him, but then kept the vehicle in his sights. After all, the chances were that they were heading for the same place.

Gradually, he began to see landmarks, sights that he knew indicated he was indeed on the right path. A control tower in the distance with a satellite receiver spinning slowly on the top. More vehicles – articulated lorries as well as military ones. Brown-grey concrete buildings, austere, unwelcoming constructions that again spoke of this country’s Soviet past.

Jacob was tired. He had been driving non-stop, allowing himself ten minutes shut-eye every few hours just so that he could keep going. Now that he was nearing the end, however, he felt a surge of adrenaline. It was no longer a struggle to keep awake. His mind was alert.

A fork in the road. The military vehicle up ahead bore left. Jacob followed. They continued through the drab countryside for several miles before he saw a high, wire boundary fence emerging from the distance. The military truck began slowing down. There were signposts now along the side of the road. Jacob couldn’t decode them because they were in Russian, but he could tell that they were warnings to stay away. He continued driving nevertheless.

They were only metres from the boundary now. A large panel announced their location in austere black letters.

Космодром Байконур

Jacob’s Russian was good enough for that. Baikonur Cosmodrome. Built by the Soviets in the mid-Fifties, it was the largest operational space launch facility in the world. The truck ground to a halt. The military vehicle ahead was allowed in, giving Jacob a plain view of the entrance as the truck disappeared into the vast expanse of the cosmodrome. There was a barrier marked with red and white stripes. The boundary fence had rolls of barbed wire on the top that made it look like some kind of concentration camp. There was a lookout post, but it was old and didn’t give Jacob the impression of being much used. By the barrier were a number of guards. They wore military uniform and carried the ubiquitous AK-47s. Jacob, in his non-military truck, had clearly raised their suspicions. Two guards approached, their weapons raised.

Jacob put his hands on his head.

The driver’s side door was opened. Chatter from the soldiers. Russian. It made no sense to Jacob. A few of them swarmed round the back. It wouldn’t take them long to find Jacob’s own AK stashed away with the fuel canisters. He needed to be careful not to make any sudden moves. With his hands still on his head he stepped out of the car. There were two AK-47s pointing right at him, and they were just the ones he could see.

And then he spoke. Not in his own language, but using the small amount of Russian at his disposal, the words that he had been practising in preparation for this moment over the past twenty-four hours.

‘Menya zovut Jacob Redman. Ya rabotayu v Federalnoi Sluzhbe Bezopasnosti. Ya hocu vstretit s nachalnikom etogo faculteta.’

‘My name is Jacob Redman,’ he said. ‘I am working with the FSB. Take me to the head of this facility.’