Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

Sam ignored him. ‘I think Clare was telling the truth.’

‘No doubt about it,’ Bland replied. Sam blinked. ‘At least there’s no doubt that she believed she was telling the truth. But believing you are right and being right, these are two very different things, are they not?’

‘You tell me,’ Sam replied. His voice was surly, but he couldn’t help it.

‘I am telling you, Sam. Clare Corbett, alas, was misled. It’s not her fault, of course. But she was misled nevertheless by her…’ He struggled to find the phrase. ‘By her “red-light runner”.’

‘You telling me they don’t exist?’ Sam demanded hotly. ‘You telling me that we didn’t just eliminate a load of them in Kazakhstan?’

Bland shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘They exist. Very much so. Intelligence agencies are extremely adept at drawing profiles of people from, oh, an astonishing variety of sources, Sam. It would be an easy job for me to pull up all sorts of information about you, for example, that you wouldn’t even imagine we’d be interested in. Which supermarkets you shop at, your taste in films, your taste in just about everything. Should we be of a mind to, you understand. Clare’s red-light runners fitted a very precise profile. The sort of people that someone at least would have a use for.’

‘So why are you killing them?’ Bland’s wordiness, his roundabout way of talking, was beginning to get on Sam’s nerves.

‘Of course,’ Bland replied enigmatically, ‘you and I both know that we are called upon to do questionable things in the course of our duty.’ As if that explained everything. ‘I’ve learned a lot about your brother in the last few hours, Sam. A very great deal. He had a most distinguished service record, did he not?’

Sam didn’t reply.

‘And then, what can we call it? A moment of madness? You were there, weren’t you? In Baghdad. You saw it all happen.’

‘It was an accident,’ Sam seethed. ‘Jacob stepped in to…’ He stopped himself. What was the point? This guy was going to believe what he was going to believe.

‘A cover-up,’ Bland continued, as though Sam hadn’t even spoken. ‘Jacob Redman was, ah, cut a deal to avoid embarrassment to the MOD. Everything brushed under the carpet to avoid a scandal, but Jacob to be RTU’d. An embarrassment too far, Sam, wouldn’t you say? And so he left the army. Left the country. Cut off all ties. I would say, in circumstances such as this, that a man might become, ah…’ He searched for a word. ‘Bitter?’

‘If you’re trying to say something,’ Sam whispered, ‘why don’t you just say it?’

‘Treason, Sam,’ Bland announced with sudden force. ‘It’s not a terribly fashionable word, is it? Smacks a bit of the Gunpowder Plot, doesn’t it? But it’s very apt, Sam, for what’s going on at the moment. Very apt indeed. I believe Jacob to be guilty of treason, Sam. And if you don’t help me find him, then you will be guilty of it too.’

Once more a smile spread across the older man’s lined face. Sam shut his eyes and as he did so, his brother’s words echoed in his mind. They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them. And he remembered the red-light runners, butchered in their beds by the Regiment’s weapons, and how easily one of those could have been Jacob.

‘You’re insane,’ he told the old man. ‘You’re totally fucking insane.’

Bland’s gaze flickered over to where Toby was standing. Clearly he didn’t like being spoken to like this in front of a subordinate, but if he was angry he managed to keep a check on it.

‘What if I were to tell you, Sam, that the red-light runners were being trained not by MI5, but by a foreign intelligence agency?’

‘Who?’

‘I, ah, I think I might keep that information to myself for the time being, Sam. Though if you think about it, I’m sure you would come to the same conclusion as me.’

‘Then why did you kill Clare’s contact?’

‘We didn’t, Sam. We didn’t need to. He was, ah, taken care of by the time we reached him.’

‘Who by?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But he told Clare he was working for Five.’

‘Indeed he did, Sam. Indeed he did. Because that was what he believed.’

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the implications of what Bland was saying.

‘You see, Sam,’ Bland continued, ‘Miss Corbett’s red-light runners are exactly what she thought they were. With one difference. They thought they were working for MI5. They thought they were patriots. But they weren’t, Sam. They were stooges. They had been duped.’

His words rang around the room.

‘With the red-light runners trained, primed and reinserted into the UK, their handlers had a secret network of operatives willing to do their bidding. We have no idea how many of them there are out there. Tens? Hundreds? Just waiting to be activated. Just waiting to be given the order.’

As he spoke, he did not take his eyes from Sam.

‘Your brother is involved, Sam, in some way. I don’t think I need to tell you what sort of threat this poses to the national security. So if you have any information about Jacob, I recommend that you tell me. Now.’

Bland took a step back and put his hands behind his back. There was an air of finality to his movements. He had said his piece. It was up to Sam now.

Slowly, Sam pulled his backpack towards him. Opening it up at the buckles he fished his hand inside. His fingers brushed against the hard contours of the laptop he’d found. He felt his mouth go dry. The last thing he wanted was for that computer to fall into the Firm’s hands. The pack was staying with him, no matter what. Next to the machine was the small digital camera which he had used to photograph the deceased. He pulled it out and handed it to Gabriel Bland.

‘Pictures,’ he said shortly. ‘Of everyone we killed. They’re your red-light runners. Jacob wasn’t with them. Final answer.’

Bland narrowed his eyes as Sam stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to be excused,’ he demanded brazenly.

Bland appeared to consider that for a moment. You could see the wheels ticking in his mind. Finally, he nodded over at Toby, a short, instructive nod. Returning his attention to Sam, he smiled and held out one arm.

‘Please,’ he murmured politely, as though he were the maître d’ in a fine restaurant ushering his guest to the exit.

Sam gave him an unfriendly look, then turned and left. As he walked back out into the Kremlin he heard, but did not see, Toby closing the door behind him.

There was silence in the briefing room. Toby Brookes knew better than to speak out of turn.

He remained by the door, looking at his boss. Bland was a cold fish, Brookes knew that better than most. Full of fancy words and exquisite manners, but a total shit when he wanted to be, and a temper to match. But he had the ear of the important people – including the chief of the SIS – and was as much a part of the furniture at Legoland as, well, the furniture. As far as Brookes knew, he had no family to speak of. Christ, the bastard never even seemed to go home, and he expected the same of his staff. Brookes had barely seen his wife for two weeks, not since all the business with Clare Corbett erupted. Carry on like this and he wouldn’t have a wife much longer, but there was no point saying that to Gabriel Bland.

Brookes coughed, not because he needed to, but to remind Bland that he was actually still there. One of his boss’s eagle-like eyebrows shot up.

‘What do you think, Toby?’ he asked quietly. ‘I would very much value your opinion.’