Killing for the Company

‘Are you taking him into Gaza?’

Luke said nothing.

‘Rather you than me.’

But Luke wasn’t in the mood for small talk. The lift came to a halt, the doors opened and the men filed out.

It was clear which suite was Stratton’s: it was at the far end of the corridor, manned by another two guards in pale khaki uniforms. A lot of muscle for a peace envoy, Luke thought to himself as they approached. A nod from the Israeli intelligence man and one of the guards knocked on the door.

‘Come,’ a voice called from inside. The guard opened the door. Luke and Finn exchanged a look, then the three men walked inside.

As he entered the room, Luke squinted. The far wall was a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the Mediterranean, where the early morning sun was by now blindingly bright. A figure was standing with his back to the window, silhouetted by the sun, so it was impossible to see his face or even the full shape of his body. But Luke knew who it had to be and his skin prickled.

The door shut behind them.

Silence.

It was only when the figure walked to the left, out of the glare of the sunlight, that Luke made out his features. Stratton looked thinner than he did on TV. Smaller. Gaunt. He was wearing a grey business suit with a red tie and he looked unusually relaxed, given what the day ahead held.

He stepped towards Luke and Finn.

‘SAS?’ he asked. His voice was very soft.

Luke and Finn nodded.

‘Are we ready to go?’

‘Ready, sir. Israeli secret service officers will take you as far as the border. We’ll follow as a counter-attack-team escort. Once we cross over into Gaza, you’ll be with us.’

Stratton nodded, then turned his back on them to look out over the sea.

‘We’ll be making a diversion,’ he said.

The three men looked at each other.

‘With respect, sir,’ Luke replied carefully, ‘diversions aren’t a good idea. Our route has been carefully planned.’

A pause, and then Stratton turned round again. He walked straight up to Luke — who was almost a head taller than him — and looked the SAS man up and down. ‘With respect, sir,’ he said, ‘you’re here to escort me. Not advise me.’

The two men stared at each other, while Finn and the Israeli looked on.

‘Where are we diverting to?’ Luke asked finally. ‘ Sir.’

‘Jerusalem.’

Luke recalled the mapping he’d examined. Jerusalem was about twenty-five klicks south-east of Tel Aviv. It would only take them an hour to get there, but it knocked the whole fucking op out of shape. He heard Finn swear under his breath.

‘Can I ask,’ Luke said, his teeth gritted, ‘whereabouts in Jerusalem?’

‘Of course,’ Stratton replied mildly. He smiled a dazzling smile. ‘The Garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives.’ He paused. ‘The name means nothing to you?’

Luke shook his head. ‘Should it?’

‘It certainly should, if you’d listened to the scriptures at school.’ He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps you weren’t the type.’

‘Perhaps I wasn’t.’

‘The Garden of Gethsemane is where Our Lord prayed on the night he was betrayed.’ He turned to look out of the window again. ‘The world,’ he said, ‘is on the brink of war. If my negotiations go well, perhaps it can be avoided. I shall go there for a few moments of quiet reflection before we enter the lion’s den.’ Suddenly the smile was gone and he started walking towards the exit of the room. ‘We leave now.’

Luke, Finn and the Israeli officer gave each other a look. But Stratton had already left the room and they had no option but to follow him.

07.15 hrs.

‘Zero, this is Tango 17.’

‘Tango 17, this is Zero. Send.’

‘The Cardinal’s demanded a diversion. Requesting permission to travel via East Jerusalem, Garden of Gethsemane.’

A pause. ‘What the fuck…?’

Luke scowled at Stratton, who was striding on ahead through the hotel foyer. ‘Tell me about it,’ he muttered. He and Finn followed him through the doors of the hotel and out to where the Land Cruiser was waiting, along with a black Mercedes and two police outriders. ‘You’d better come back with that permission sharpish, buddy,’ he said. ‘Or even better than that, refusal. He looks pretty eager to move.’

‘Roger that,’ said the radio operator, and the connection to the ops room fell silent.

07.18 hrs.

Julian Dawson, OC B Squadron, looked at his radio operator in disbelief. ‘ Diversion? Half the fucking IDF are mobilised to get this wanker into Gaza. What’s he playing at?’

The radio operator could only shrug.

‘Get me London,’ Dawson ordered. ‘Now.’

07.30 hrs.