Exit wound

Julian put down his mug. His expression was sympathetic, but his body language was confident and assured. On the phone, he sounded like he’d shared a school desk with Dex. Maybe he had. If I hadn’t had to keep this job from the others, I might have asked old Biggles if they’d ever run the 100 metres together.

I got the brew in both hands and did the squaddie trick of testing my tongue against the mug. Gulp straight from a metal mug and you could peel the roof off your mouth. It was too hot. That was a good sign. It meant I was trusted with scalding liquids.

He looked at me with concern. ‘It wasn’t us who wanted you lifted, Nick. I hope you know that.’

I held up the cuffs. ‘What about these, mate?’

‘In case you misunderstood why you’re here.’

‘You got any water? I’m gagging here.’

He looked over my shoulder and nodded.

I shifted on the hard seat. ‘They’re both dead – so’s Spag.’

For a moment, he looked defeated. I knew he wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Why would he have compromised the job before the end?

‘I guess it made sense for them to drop the four of us after we delivered. The three bar they paid us in advance is peanuts compared to what they’ve got now.’

I stopped talking shop as the door opened and Ginger delivered two bottles of Tesco’s own sparkling and a couple of white plastic cups. Fuck knows why – everything was being recorded and there were plenty of people listening in. ‘Where am I, Julian?’

He gave Ginger a nod. He seemed a bit confused, having a white guy in these cells. ‘Paddington.’

That made sense. Out came the keys as Ginger was given the go-ahead to unlock.

Julian had recruited me immediately after Tenny’s death. Up until then, Tenny had been Julian’s man on the crew. He’d applied to join the Security Service when he’d finished his time. This was to have been his early entry job. Red Ken and Dex hadn’t had a clue what was going on. All they knew was that they were getting fronted by Spag, and it was a commercial job for their own slice of the world’s best steak. Then Tenny’d got zapped, and that was why I was here.

I’d accepted the job on the same condition that Tenny had: Red Ken and Dex would never be prosecuted, and they – we – would lose in the Isle of Man whatever cash was left. I had a document tucked away to prove it, signed by the prime minister himself. As I’d told Red Ken at the mall, I was looking out for them both. Mates have to cover each other’s back, because no one else will. I just wished I’d done a better job of it.

My task had been simple: follow the gold, find out who handled it, find out what it bought and from whom. Then follow the weapons, drugs, trafficked women or whatever, and find out who planned to use them. Only then would the job be compromised – once Julian could be sure of hitting everybody in the chain. There’d be a terrorist connection somewhere along the line. This job had one for sure – it was just that Julian didn’t know who, where, when or how.

Julian had been on Spag’s case from the moment he’d come into the UK to recruit Red Ken, who had brought in Dex and Tenny. That was what the Security Service did: they protected the UK. Spag had been making hay while the war on terror’s sun was shining. The problem was, since binning the CIA he’d been doing it for the wrong side. No one could claim he wasn’t loyal: he’d had a long-running love affair with the greenback.

I’d been part of HMG’s revised Counter-terrorism Strategy, CONTEST. It felt strange to be part of a strategy. Its four strands, known as the four Ps, were:

Pursue terrorists wherever they are and stop terrorist attacks;

Prevent people from becoming terrorists or supporting violent extremism;

Protect the UK by strengthening our defence against terrorism; and

Prepare to respond to an attack to lessen its impact.

The first P was where I came in.

Ginger left the room, still looking a bit perplexed. The last time the high-security cells at Paddington Green had played host to white faces, they’d had Irish accents.

With some Tesco’s own tipped into the brew I could start getting the muddy liquid down my neck.

Julian sat there, watched and waited. I liked and trusted him, and you didn’t get many of those to the pound. In all the dealings I’d had with him so far, he’d played it absolutely straight. He was the one who’d pushed for the MOU, the memorandum of understanding covering their immunity from prosecution. He might just have been an excellent conman who’d fuck me over like the rest of these people always had – but my instincts told me he was a good guy in a world full of bottom-feeders.

I knew what he was waiting for. ‘It was a French-built Dassault Falcon. The reg was RF89702.’

He didn’t have to write anything down. He had people to do that for him.

‘I had to be careful not to piss off Spag or the lads by banging on and asking too much.’ I took another sip. ‘But, Jules, I saw a face.’

Go on.