Porter browsed through the folder. His assumed name was David Mulryne. Someone had gone to great effort to flesh out a full background for his character. Which told him one thing. The Firm planned on using theses identities for a while. This wasn’t going to be an in-and-out job. They were in it for the long haul.
Porter looked around. ‘Where are the other guys?’
‘They’ll be here shortly,’ said Nealy. ‘They’ve been briefed separately by Keppel so they know what they’re walking into. Oh, before I forget.’
Nealy took out a pair of crumpled white envelopes from his jacket pocket. Handed them over to Porter and Bald.
‘There’s two hundred quid in there. That should cover any essentials. Clothes, food. That kind of stuff. Any belongings you need from your homes, let us know and we’ll have a driver go pick them up.’
Porter took a peek inside the envelope, then pocketed it. Two hundred quid. Now that’s more bloody like it. I could buy half a dozen bottles of Bushmills with that. Or a crate of White Lightning.
‘Right,’ Nealy added. ‘That covers everything. I’ll be off. Lakes will brief you again once your documents are ready. In the meantime, sit tight.’
Then he gave his back to them and left. As soon as the door had shut behind him Porter rummaged through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, hoping that someone had left a bottle of booze somewhere. But Nealy was right. The place was drier than a camel’s armpit. After a while Porter admitted defeat and fixed himself a double shot of espresso from the coffee machine. Then he sat down at the table overlooking the balcony and lit up a Bensons. The smoke flowed through his veins. It wasn’t as good as a slug of Jameson’s, but it was the next best thing. Porter smoked and drank his coffee and flicked through the folder Nealy had given him while Bald sat on the sofa, hopping channels. He eventually settled for Sky News.
The main item on the news was still Friday’s bombing. The reporter managed to spin out a six-minute piece on what they already knew. Which amounted to very little. They regurgitated the same old shots of smoke pouring into the sky above the Brecons, helicopters circling the cordoned-off area around the Storey Arms. With no new angle to cover, the news turned to events in Kosovo. Serbian police had rounded up a bunch of local farmers, taken them to a hill and given them the double-tap. There was a shot of a pile of corpses slumped in a mass grave. Most of them were naked. Their flesh had putrified and their faces were caked in mud. Then the screen cut to a NATO conference with various foreign ministers standing before the cameras. According to the reporter’s voiceover there was talk of Milosevic being indicted on charges of war crimes. There were shots of US fighter planes being scrambled off aircraft carriers, and protests on the streets of Belgrade. Everyone seemed to be gearing up for another round of war.
It never ends, thought Porter. First the Bosnian war a couple of years ago. Now this. It’s like they can’t bloody help themselves.
Roughly an hour later a car pulled up outside. Porter spotted it through the balcony window as he smoked another cigarette. A white Mercedes-Benz E-class sedan, rolling into the parking space directly in front of the block. Two figures clambered out of the back of the Merc and made for the entrance. Less than a minute later Porter heard the click on the front door. He drained the rest of his espresso and stood up to greet the two guys as they strode into the hallway. They dumped their gym bags on the floor and glanced around, giving the place the once-over. Stood together, the two figures looked like opposite ends of a matryoshka doll set. The bigger one finally rested his eyes on Porter and frowned at the sight of his missing fingers.
‘You must be Porter,’ the guy said.
He had a throated, rusty voice that sounded like a car that wouldn’t start. His face was leathery, with prominent crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Like someone had carved his face out of a block of petrified wood. With his lantern jaw and huge physique, he gave the impression of guy who could drink a dozen cans of Fosters and still drop a couple of heavies.
Porter waved a hand at the folder on the table. ‘We were told not to use those names.’
The bigger guy adjusted his crotch and snorted. ‘Ah, sod it, mate. We’re not on the mission. Not yet.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘Mick Devereaux.’
Porter shook it. The guy had a firm grip. Like a boa constrictor tightening around its prey. ‘You’re from Oz?’
‘Darwin born and bred, mate,’ Devereaux replied. ‘Did eight years in the SASR down at Swanbourne.’
Porter nodded. The SASR was the Australian equivalent of the Regiment. Their lads shared the same training principles and even the same motto. Porter had taken part in a few joint training ops with the SASR guys and they’d proved themselves a bunch of tough hard-drinking bastards. Also more than capable of handling themselves in a fight.
‘How long have you been with Templar?’
‘Couple of years now. Best decision I ever made, handing in my notice. If I hadn’t joined Templar I’d be back in Darwin right now, fixing up old Fords for cents.’
‘Cars?’ Porter asked. ‘That’s your thing?’
‘Anything on four wheels, mate. Or two. If it has an engine, I’m your man. I can fix up any motor there is. When I’m not racing the heck out of ’em, that is. Guess that makes me your transporter.’
Bald cocked his head at the shorter guy standing next to Devereaux. The smaller half of the doll set. ‘What’s your story?’
‘Name’s Davey Coles,’ the guy responded in a distinctive South African accent. ‘You’re Bald, right? They warned us about you, chief.’ He winked at Devereaux. ‘Said you were a bit of a cunt.’
Bald frowned at Coles. ‘Who the fuck said that?’
‘Does it matter, chief? We’re all here now.’
Porter sized Coles up. He was a scruffy bastard. He had tanned skin the colour of mahogany and the lean, angular physique of someone who exercised outdoors rather than in the comfort of an air-conditioned gym. He gave away six inches in height to Devereaux and maybe fifty pounds in muscle. He had a wild look in his eyes, as if he was constantly gunning for a fight. He was the walking definition of small man syndrome.
‘You’re ex-SF too?’ Porter asked.
‘Among other things,’ Coles replied evasively. ‘I started out in the Recces. Back in the days when the darkies knew their place.’
Porter looked at Bald but said nothing. The Recces were South Africa’s Special Forces outfit. Porter had never worked with their guys, but in the SF world the Recces carried a reputation as some of the toughest warriors in the business. They’d fought in nasty local conflicts in Angola and Namibia, operating in some of the most hostile places on the planet.
‘What brought you over here?’
Coles scratched his balls. ‘Not much work for an old Recce in South Africa these days. Not when you’ve got the darkies running the fucking shop. I came over here, spent six months pulling pints in a boozer over in Fulham. Then one day I get a call from a guy at Templar. Saying he wants to make me an offer I can’t refuse. Turns out he was right.’
Bald made a face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The money we’re getting for this job, chief. Half a million large each.’ Coles grinned, revealing a set of small, stained teeth. ‘Can’t argue with that. It’s a hell of a lot better than pulling pints for six quid an hour.’
Porter swapped a look with Bald. Thinking, the mission’s not even started and the Firm is already shafting us. We’re doing the job for peanuts while these two guys and Coles are raking in the big bucks.
‘Once this is over, I’m going to get myself a beach pad in California,’ said Coles. ‘Somewhere in LA. Away from all the darkies, like. Santa Monica, maybe.’ He nodded at Bald. Grinned. ‘Ever been to California, chief?’
Bald clenched his jaws so hard Porter could hear the enamel grate. ‘No.’
‘You should, chief. You fucking should. It’s wild out there. And the women.’ Coles whistled. ‘They’re unreal. I’m talking tits out to
here
.’
Coles cupped his hands and held them about twelve inches in front of his chest to demonstrate. He kept on grinning at Bald. But if the guy was looking for a reaction, he didn’t get one. Bald just pressed his lips shut and said nothing. Neither did Porter. They didn’t want to let on to the other lads that they were being taken for a ride by their Vauxhall paymasters. Besides, Porter told himself, it was too late. Lakes had given them the hard sell. They’d already signed on the dotted line, signed their lives away to Templar. There was nothing they could do about it now.
They were locked in.
TWENTY-THREE
Two days later.
0911 hours.
‘Deeds is still in Puerto Banus,’ Lakes said.
They were sitting around the living room. Bald, Porter, Devereaux and Coles. Lakes was sitting opposite them. Nealy guarded the door. This was it. The final briefing before the team began their mission.
For the past two days Porter had settled into a decent routine. In the mornings he worked on his phys down at the gym, pounding the treadmill and hitting the weight machines, doing all the compound exercises. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses. In the afternoons Porter and the other guys on the strike team committed their identities to memory and studied maps of Puerto Banus and the surrounding terrain. In the evenings, Porter drank.
There was no booze in the flat but on the first evening he’d found a corner shop two minutes away from the block where you could get a bottle of cheap vodka for under a tenner. The bloke behind the counter gave him a brown paper bag without Porter even asking. He must get a dozen blokes like me in here every day, thought Porter. Alcoholics. Blokes slowly drinking themselves into an early grave. There was a park behind the block of flats with a burial garden and a few benches. Porter sat there drinking his vodka. Then he’d head back to the safe house and sit in front of the TV, smoking and flicking between Sky News and BBC News 24. With no new developments on the Selection attack the media was beginning to lose interest in the story. Their attention was turning to the imminent war in Kosovo.
On the third morning Porter returned from his gym session to find Lakes in the living room. She was pacing up and down, a cigarette dangling from her lips and a cup of coffee in her right hand. Porter had quickly towelled the sweat off his face then pulled up a pew as Lakes had dug a folder out of her tote bag. Nealy stood in the hallway while Lakes spread a dozen photographs across the coffee table. The snaps were slightly out of focus, as if they’d been taken with a long-range camera lens. Each one showed Deeds entering or leaving various bars and establishments.
‘These pictures were taken twenty-four hours ago,’ Lakes continued. ‘Deeds is staying at the Romano Hotel on the Golden Mile, five kilometres to the north of Puerto Banus. According to our guy on the inside, Deeds has a fairly regular routine. During the day he sticks to the hotel. He hangs by the pool, working on his tan and drinking cocktails.’
‘So we lift the prick from his hotel room,’ said Devereaux. ‘Easy.’
Lakes shook her head. ‘The Romano is a five-star hotel with its own security detail. Plus security cameras in the lobby and lifts. You wouldn’t stand a chance of getting to Deeds there. Not without the hotel’s security staff knowing about it. Even if you did lift Deeds, there’s still the security footage. Your faces would be all over the news before you could get out of the country.’
‘Doesn’t he ever leave the hotel?’ Porter asked.
‘Only in the evenings,’ said Lakes. ‘Around seven o’clock he heads over to Jimmy’s, an Irish joint where all the expats meet to talk shop over Guinness. Deeds usually sticks around til closing time. Sometimes he stops off for a few drinks at Hollywood’s, a trendy bar down by the marina. One of those places where all the local celebrities and footballers hang out.’ She tapped her finger at another photograph, showing Deeds slipping out of a dingy doorway with a glitzy neon sign above it. ‘Later, he heads to a nearby strip club, the Pony Lounge.’
‘Same routine?’ Devereaux enquired, stroking his chin. ‘Every day?’
‘Deeds is a creature of habit. He doesn’t go anywhere he doesn’t know. Far as we can tell, his tastes are pretty narrow. He likes a full English, a pint of Stella and a stripper called Brandy.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Bald said.
Lakes shot him a look. A thought took hold of Porter. He leaned forward and pointed to one of the photographs. ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’
Lakes sucked on her cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Deeds has just slotted a load of British soldiers, right? If I was in his boots, I’d be trying to keep a low profile. I’d keep my head down as much as possible. I wouldn’t come up for air unless I had to. And I sure as shit wouldn’t be strolling around the Costa del Sol without a care in the world.’
There was a pause. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in front of Lake’s face. Like a veil. ‘Deeds doesn’t need to hide. He’s being protected.’
‘By who?’
‘Scarsdale.’
Bald and Porter exchanged a look. Bald turned back to Lakes. Frowned. ‘Scarsdale wants to protect Deeds? Why?’
‘Two reasons. First, because Scarsdale and Deeds go way back. Deeds did a few favours for Scarsdale back in the day. Now he’s calling them in. Plus Scarsdale comes from the old school of British criminals. He’s from that generation that hates snitches. He’s not the type to rat on an associate.’