Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

The package was still not empty. There was one item left. He closed up the box and slid it under his bed. Then, after a few moments reflection, he pulled it out again. There would be something slightly uncomfortable, he decided, about sleeping above a stash of high explosive. He stashed it in the corner of his room, draped a jumper over it, then stowed the mobile phone and lock picks in the briefcase and placed it back in its box.

Jamie Spillane often wondered where these items came from. Don’t worry about that , he’d been told. It’s better you don’t know . Still, he did wonder. It was lonely work, doing this by himself. But if the job went well and MI5 saw that he was a good asset for them, maybe they’d find more for him to do. He smiled at the thought.

Three days now. May 26. It had to be that day. Jamie didn’t know why, but his instructions had been quite specific. Before then he still had things to do. Preparations to make. They weren’t straightforward, but he was trained for this. Everything had gone well so far and he saw no reason to think that it wouldn’t continue to do so.

Jamie found his mouth going dry with excitement at the very thought.

Evening fell. Jacob Redman looked out on to the streets of North London.

He had bought himself jeans and a couple of shirts from a charity shop in a bland town somewhere on the south coast. From a greetings card shop he had bought a roll of bright red ribbon, the kind used for wrapping gifts – though Jacob had something very different in mind. By now he had stashed the weapons in his rucksack, which he didn’t let go of as he travelled by train into Victoria. He checked into a Travelodge near the station, where he stowed the rucksack under his bed and allowed himself a couple of hours’ sleep. His body ached from the strains of the night crossing; but when he awoke and showered he felt invigorated. Leaving the weapons where they were, he headed out of the hotel and into the Underground. Victoria line to Green Park; Piccadilly Line to Manor House. Then a 20 minute walk. Now, as the light was failing, he found himself at the seedier end of Stamford Hill. He was stalking something and he knew this would be a fertile hunting ground.

He sat in the warmth of a café on the corner of a huge crossroads. The roads were busy – commuters coming home from work – but he knew they would soon calm down. That was when he would take to the streets. He sipped on his coffee slowly, closing his eyes as the caffeine surged through his veins, and carefully going through in his mind everything that was supposed to happen in the next twenty-four hours. It had to go smoothly. It had to. He had seen the suspicion in Surov’s eyes. He knew that if anything went wrong, he’d be dodging the FSB’s hitmen for the rest of his life.

He continued to wait.

Jacob was kicked out of the café just before 9 p.m. He didn’t make a fuss. Instead he took to the streets again. He walked down a main road that headed west from the crossroads, then left into a network of residential streets. A number of them were dead ends, with signs declaring them to be NO ENTRY between the hours of ten and six. To enable the residents to get a decent night’s sleep without the noise of cars? Jacob knew better. The NO ENTRY signs were intended to dissuade kerb crawlers. Hookers were rife in this part of town. Get rid of the punters and you get rid of the problem – that was the theory. It didn’t work. As the clock ticked towards 10 p.m., the women started to appear, as though drawn to the moon and the stars.

Their attention was attracted by Jacob – a lone man, clearly giving them the eye. ‘Looking for a bit of business?’ one of them asked – a hefty girl, perhaps in her late twenties, the veins on her legs visible beneath her short skirt. Jacob bowed his head and walked on. She wouldn’t do. Not nearly. It didn’t seem to bother her – she took a bored drag on her cigarette and waited for another fish to bite.

Jacob wouldn’t be rushed. Each hooker he passed, standing sentry on their own street corners, he eyed up. He looked lascivious, no doubt, but he didn’t care. They were too old, too small, too fat, too thin. But after about half an hour of searching, he saw one girl who looked like she might fit the bill. She was tall – about as tall as Jacob – and had short dark hair. She was comfortably in her forties and nobody could say she was pretty. As Jacob eyed her up and down, she addressed him. ‘Looking for a trick, darling?’

Jacob looked around, checking that he wasn’t being watched. He moved closer to the girl. She stank of cigarettes, but her eyes seemed sharp enough; sharp enough to make him believe she wasn’t a junkie.

‘Yeah,’ Jacob replied. ‘Kind of.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘Something a bit different.’

That didn’t seem to surprise her. ‘Different is more expensive, love. Money up front, too.’

Jacob pulled out his wallet. As the hooker looked greedily on, he pulled out four fifty-pound notes and put them firmly into her outstretched hands. ‘Must be proper different,’ she muttered as she tucked the money away into her clothes. ‘Where we going?’

Jacob shook his head. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Be here tomorrow, you’ll get the same again, plus a decent tip if you do well.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What exactly you got in mind, love? Us girls have got to be careful, you know.’

Jacob smiled again. Friendly. Reassuring. ‘Just an appointment with a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Nothing kinky. Likes a bit of dressing up. Bit of role play. You don’t mind that, do you?’

The hooker shrugged. ‘Four hundred smackers,’ she said, ‘I’ll dress up like Orville the bleedin’ duck. What time you want me?’

‘Eight o’clock,’ Jacob replied. ‘Don’t be late. If you’re late, I’ll have to get one of your friends to join us.’

And with that he turned away, leaving the girl to reflect on her good luck, and hoping she’d stay sober enough to keep their rendezvous the following evening. In the meantime he had another job to do. He felt in his jacket for the roll of red ribbon, then started heading back towards the Underground where he jumped on a train for Piccadilly.

There were preparations to be made, and he had to make them well in advance.

May 24.

Sam hadn’t been able to stay in Hereford for any longer than was necessary. It wasn’t safe there. Too many eyes. The Firm would have his house under surveillance, that much was sure; and Credenhill was out of bounds. Much better to get out of the city and back up to London. Even there he would attract the attention of passers-by with his cut-up face. He had suppressed the desire to go and see Clare – no doubt they’d be scoping her place out too – so he’d bought himself a hooded top to conceal his features as best he could, then laid low in the small room of the Heathrow Holiday Inn, where he hoped he’d be able to merge into the background.

Mac arrived at 12.30. One look at him told Sam he hadn’t slept. He dumped a bag on the bed. It contained two Browning Hi-Power pistols with a box of 9 mm rounds and a couple of ops waistcoats to conceal the weapons and ammo. ‘Best I could do,’ he said shortly. Sam didn’t know where he’d got the gear and he didn’t bother to ask. He strapped on the waistcoat and loaded the Browning. It made him feel a lot better.

‘What time’s the RV?’ Mac asked when they were tooled up.

‘22.00,’ Sam replied. ‘The Firm will have shooters in place already, though.’

‘Damn right,’ Mac agreed. He looked serious. ‘The place is going to be crawling with them, Sam. If they get their sights on J. before we can pick him up…’