Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (19 page)

‘What do you mean?’ she asked quickly.

‘You’ve not got any plans to go to London?’

‘No.’

‘Keep it that way. Take my advice and stay home. It’s the safest place right now.’

She blinked, then carefully laid the baby back into her Moses basket.

‘Look . . . I’ve got to go,’ he said. Which was true. He nodded at Clara, then turned and left, closing the front door behind him. And as he started up his motorbike in the street outside the flat, he looked back through the thin curtains into the front room. He could see Clara in silhouette. He had the impression that she was holding the baby to her chest once more and was pacing up and down the room.

As he drove away, Barker couldn’t shake the suspicion that she’d still be pacing when Danny returned home. Whenever that might be.

Tony’s hotel room was bigger than most people’s apartments, and unbelievably opulent. It was littered with comfortable armchairs and rich, embroidered soft furnishings. It had a massive vista, looking out on to the Gulf, where the lights of countless yachts glittered like jewels in the night. His bathroom was marble-clad, with gold-leaf taps, two sinks and a separate jacuzzi. He’d spent the best part of forty-five minutes under the shower. Once he’d got changed into the clean clothes that had been provided for him, leaving the bathroom blood- and dirt-stained, he’d ordered the most expensive meal available on the room service menu, and wolfed it down in the separate dining room suite. He spared a thought for Black, that bitch Caitlin and that fat bastard Spud who was lucky not to have had his bollocks shot off. He didn’t know what shitty little quarters they’d be slumming it in now, but it sure as hell wouldn’t match this.

There was a knock on the door. Tony pushed his plate away, belched loudly, then slowly sauntered over to open it. A thin, pasty-faced man in a black suit was standing there. ‘Are you Tony Wiseman?’ he asked.

Tony looked over his shoulder. ‘Guess I must be,’ he said, ‘as there’s nobody else in here.’

The man offered his hand. ‘Good to meet you, old chap. My name’s Hughes. His Grace is ready for you.’

‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

The flunky blinked at him in astonishment. ‘I’m afraid that when his Grace says he’s ready, you . . .’

Tony didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. He slammed the door in the man’s face and wandered into the bathroom again, treading over the old clothes he’d left on the floor and leaving footprints across the marble. He took a long, leisurely piss, then wandered back out and opened the door again. Hughes – was that his name? – was still there. ‘I’m ready,’ Tony told him.

It was clear that the flunky didn’t quite know how to respond. He turned on his heel and started walking down the plush, carpeted corridor. ‘He’s in the penthouse suite,’ he said. ‘When you first meet him, you should address him as “Your Grace”. After that, a simple “sir” will suffice. Is that clear?’

Tony didn’t reply.

‘A small bow from the neck would be appropriate, but a handshake will do just as well. My advice is to take your lead from him.’

Tony still didn’t reply.

They entered a large, mirrored lift. The flunky had a key card that allowed them to direct it to the penthouse. They stood in silence as the elevator took them up. As the door hissed open on to a large, impressive anteroom with a similar view over the Gulf to Tony’s own room, he clocked two young guys who he immediately identified as Yellow Seven’s CP – probably from SO14, royal protection. They were dressed in casual clothes but Tony noted the bulges in their jackets where they were undoubtedly carrying firearms. They watched him with unconcealed aggression. Typical coppers, hanging round like they’re pop stars or something. They’d have been happy enough to come down to Hereford, spend some time on the range with SAS guys who really knew how to handle a firearm. But as soon as a Regiment man trod on their turf, they bristled at the presence of someone with superior skills.

One of the coppers walked up to Tony. ‘I’ll need to frisk you, mate,’ he said. East End accent. Stupid swagger.

Tony smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’

The copper looked over to his mate. ‘Looks like we’ve got a troublemaker.’

The flunky stepped nervously to one side. ‘Now, look here, gentlemen—’

But Tony interrupted him. ‘Thing is, fellas,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But someone in London’s decided there’s a threat level here that you boys can’t handle. You want to get on the blower to them, talk it through, be my guest. But if you lay a fucking finger on me, you’ll be getting first-hand experience of the Dubai medical system.’

The police officer looked a little less sure of himself.

‘Let’s not go down this route, hey lads? Let’s all be friends.’ Tony looked over at the flunky and nodded. Then with a glance at the police officers, he muttered under his breath: ‘Knobs.’

The flunky obviously wanted out of the situation. He knocked on a door at the far side of the room. A muffled voice shouted: ‘Come!’ The flunky entered. Tony stood silently, ignoring the waves of unfriendliness coming at him from the CP guys. The flunky reappeared thirty seconds later. ‘He’s ready for you,’ he said, holding the door open for Tony.

Yellow Seven’s suite made Tony feel like he was slumming it. He found himself in a plush living room, all sofas and fresh-cut flowers. There was a fully stocked cocktail bar on one side, and a TV on the far wall the size of a small cinema screen. But there was no Yellow Seven. A door at the far side was open. Tony wondered if he should go through. He looked over his shoulder towards the flunky for guidance, but there was no sign of him. He’d shut the door.

Tony moved over to the cocktail bar. There were maybe a hundred bottles neatly arranged against a gleaming mirror. The bar itself was made of burnished oak. Tony immediately saw the remnants of a white powder. He dabbed his finger on it, then touched the powder to the tip of his tongue. He immediately felt the familiar numbness, and smiled. Looked like his Grace was living up to his reputation.

He heard footsteps and turned round. A figure appeared in the open doorway. Yellow Seven was wearing a white towelling robe. His black hair was dishevelled and he had bags under his eyes. It was very obvious that he’d only just got up. He peered at Tony with a frown. ‘Who are you again?’ he asked in a cracked voice.

‘Tony Wiseman. From Hereford. I’m with 22.’

Yellow Seven rolled his eyes. ‘My babysitter,’ he muttered. He looked across the room. ‘Where’s that tit Hughes?’

Tony couldn’t stop himself from smiling. ‘Outside,’ he said.

‘Best bloody place for him.’ Yellow Seven pointed to the minibar. ‘Get yourself a drink. I’ll be out in a bit.’ He disappeared back into what Tony assumed was his bedroom.

Tony sauntered back to the bar. He grabbed himself a glass and selected the most expensive-looking bottle of whisky he could find. He poured himself a couple of inches, knocked it back, then replenished his glass, before taking a seat at the bar. Looking back towards Yellow Seven’s room, he saw a quick glimpse of a naked female body passing the doorway. He smiled to himself again. He was warming to this rich bastard. At least he knew how to have a good time. He glanced out of the window over the Gulf, and his mind turned again to Danny Black and the others. Fuck them, he thought. They reckoned they could make him the laughing stock of the Regiment? Well, Tony was going to take a leaf out of the royal family’s book. He was going to enjoy himself.

Yellow Seven appeared ten minutes later, showered and dressed. He was a good-looking bastard, and the Middle Eastern bird tottering along behind him wasn’t too shabby either. She had on heavy make-up, and her tits were almost spilling out of her tight dress. She obviously noticed Tony giving her the once-over, but didn’t seem to mind.

Yellow Seven checked out the bottle of whisky that Tony had left open on the bar. ‘Sweet,’ he said, pouring himself a glass. He looked over at the woman. ‘You can probably run along now,’ he said. ‘Hughes will . . . sort you out.’

The woman gave him a disconsolate pout, but she didn’t argue. Her arse wiggled outrageously as she left the room. Neither Tony nor his companion took their eyes off her until she was gone. ‘Dynamite in the sack,’ Yellow Seven said when the door was closed again. ‘Bloody well should be, the price she charges.’ He took a mouthful of whisky. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re here to make sure I get to Sandringham safely in time for Christmas. You ever been to Sandringham?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘It’s the most boring place in the fucking universe.’ He knocked back the rest of his whisky, then poured himself and Tony another. ‘I was in Afghanistan, you know.’

‘I heard.’

‘I didn’t leave because I wanted to,’ he said earnestly, as though he really wanted Tony to understand this. ‘They said I was a liability to the other troops out there. Too much of a target.’

‘Give me this over the Stan any day,’ Tony said.

Yellow Seven looked round the room as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Novelty wears off after a while.’

Tony pressed his fingertip into the remnants of white powder on the bar. ‘Not much of this behind enemy lines,’ he said.

Yellow Seven’s eyes narrowed.

‘You want to be careful,’ Tony continued. ‘They come down hard on the old marching powder in these parts.’

Yellow Seven gave a dismissive little laugh. ‘Not if you’re me they don’t.’ He watched as Tony tasted the powder again. ‘Do you partake?’ he asked.

‘It’s been known.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Lock the door then. Those close protection idiots are such nobbers . . .’

Tony eyed him for a moment. Then he shrugged. Fuck it, he thought. He walked over to the main door and locked it from the inside. When he turned to walk back to the cocktail bar, his Grace had already emptied the contents of a small sachet on to the bar. ‘Do the honours,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t carry credit cards.’

Tony took his military ID card from his wallet and approached the counter, ready to chop.

Ten

2147 hours.

‘This is Turkish airspace, about ten miles north of the Syrian border, approximately 200 miles from the northern Iraqi border. That puts us about thirty minutes out. Repeat, thirty minutes out. Plug in to the aircraft’s oxygen systems, we’ll be decompressing in five minutes.’ The loadie’s voice was hoarse as he shouted above the persistent grind of the aircraft’s engines.

Danny gave him a thumbs-up. He and Spud both had their freefall rigs attached to their bodies. On their left arm, each had a glowing altimeter. On their right arms, a GPS device. They both had a bottle of compressed oxygen strapped to their chest, and an oxygen mask, although these were not yet fitted to their faces. They wore the matt-black HALO helmets, visors up.

Caitlin also wore the oxygen bottle, mask and helmet, but no freefall rig. Instead, she had a full harness, since she would be falling in tandem with Danny. Now wasn’t the time for a rookie to perform their first HALO jump. There were too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong. Caitlin was keeping a lid on her nerves. Danny respected her for that.

‘We need to get on to the aircraft’s oxygen system,’ he shouted at her over the noise of the aircraft. ‘We have to breathe pure oxygen for a while before we jump. Prevents hypoxia. Helps us to avoid losing consciousness before we deploy the chute.’

She gave him a sick look. ‘How likely is that?’

‘I’ve seen it happen, but normally only when someone loses their oxygen mask in freefall.’

‘What happens then?’

‘You’ll probably lose consciousness. Then you’ll have to rely on the automatic chute deployment.’

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

‘It’s important to fall stable. We need to be careful none of our equipment shifts. If we start spinning, we’ll have problems. I’ve seen guys get to the ground with burst blood capillaries in their eyes because of it. Not pretty. And if there’s a packing error, and the chute doesn’t deploy properly, I’ll need to cut it away before deploying the emergency chute.’ He winked at her. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only ever happened once.’

They moved to a bench along the side of the aircraft where the oxygen masks were hanging, and where their bergens and weapons were waiting on the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see Hammond manoeuvring what resembled a 45-gallon drum. In fact it was a freefall container, made of heavy-duty compressed cardboard. It contained the weapons and radio equipment that they would be offering up to the Kurds as a gesture of goodwill. It had its own freefall rig attached. The unit sat on the bench and started strapping their bergens and weapons to the backs of their legs.

‘It’ll be very cold when we leave the aircraft,’ Danny continued explaining. ‘But we’ll be falling very fast and we’ll get to a more comfortable altitude in less than a minute. We’re aiming to fall in formation with Spud and the drum of weapons, but the wind speeds can be quite high up here and you need to be prepared for buffeting. Do everything you can to keep your body rigid. I’ll deploy a little drone chute as soon as we’re out of the aircraft – it’ll slow us down a little and help us keep steady.’ He tapped the altimeter on his wrist. ‘We’re currently cruising at about 32,000 feet – that’s about the altitude of a commercial airliner. You can expect me to deploy the main chute at 4,000 feet. I’ll tap you on the shoulder before I do that – it’ll be too noisy for us to speak. If anything goes wrong and I lose consciousness, I’ve got the automatic chute deployment system set to engage at 3,500 feet. Is that clear?’