Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

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.

‘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.

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.’

It was not by chance that the Director Special Forces and the Director General SIS were sitting in the same office in the SIS building when the call came through. Today was a major operation for both services. High-profile. If either of them had their way, the Middle East peace envoy would be safely tucked up at home. But they didn’t have their way — it was the politicians who made the decisions, leaving others to live with the consequences. Today it was crucial that their lines of communication stayed open. Both men knew that if it all went to shit today, their actions would be scrutinised minutely. The two men didn’t always see eye to eye, but today they had a common purpose.

And a shared sense of foreboding once they heard what the Regiment representative had to say.

Neither of them had any love for Alistair Stratton. But they knew what was riding on him. They knew how he was the darling of the Israeli administration, and the Americans too.

They knew that what he said went.

They barely needed to discuss it. Within less than a minute the DG had picked up his phone. ‘I need the PM,’ he instructed. ‘And after that the Israeli Defence Minister. Quickly. ’

‘I can’t believe we’re screwing around like this so some bastard can go pray…’

It was the third time Fozzie had said it. The rest of the guys just sat there with scowls on their faces, none of them quite able to accept that the plans they’d been briefed on so carefully were being altered on a whim.

‘Pray, my arse,’ Finn muttered. ‘He’s probably got a bit of skirt hidden away. Wants her to wring him dry before he goes to meet the ragheads.’

Fozzie snorted. ‘He’s not the fucking type.’

They drove in convoy: two police outriders, a black Merc with tinted windows carrying Stratton, and the Land Cruiser at the back. They’d left Tel Aviv forty-five minutes ago and the outskirts of Jerusalem were just coming into view. The moment Luke had returned to the vehicle from the hotel, the unit’s conversation had been a string of expletives. And it was even worse when word came through that Stratton’s demand had been indulged. Even now, local law enforcement were vacating the Garden of Gethsemane area of tourists. Someone somewhere clearly thought enough of Stratton to give him the full VIP. Luke had other ideas. ‘Something’s not right,’ he muttered in the back of the Land Cruiser, his hand resting gently on his 53.

‘What’s that, mucker?’ Fozzie asked, both eyes firmly on the traffic ahead.

‘You not suspicious?’

‘Suspicious of what?’

Luke looked out of the window. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t think this guy’s as holier-than-fucking-thou as he pretends.’

Silence.

‘I just can’t believe,’ said Fozzie, ‘that we’re screwing around like this so some bastard can go and pray…’

08.30 hrs. It was the height of Jerusalem’s rush hour and the convoy moved slowly as they headed east through the network of bland white-grey modern blocks, green open spaces and wide boulevards. There were well-heeled areas and those that were run-down, noisy, fume-filled. It could have been any other sprawling Mediterranean town, if you ignored the unusually high police presence. There seemed to be a blue and white patrol car on every street corner, and Luke noticed a fair sprinkling of uniformed soldiers and khaki military vehicles. He remembered being in London in the days after 9/11, not long before he’d been deployed to Afghanistan for the first time. Jerusalem had the same atmosphere. The same tension. It was a city waiting for something to happen.