Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

The shouting grew louder. Half of Sam wanted to shake his dying brother; the other half wanted to hug him. ‘ Who? ’

A pause. It lasted forever. When Jacob spoke again, his voice was so weak Sam had to strain to hear it. ‘Beridze…’ he said.

He heaved again.

‘Kakha Beridze.’ Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The words were meaningless to him. A deep breath from his brother. Jacob gained control of his vision and stared him straight in the eye. ‘His assistant… tomorrow night…’ His body jerked, as though an electric shock had passed through it. On the edge of his consciousness, Sam became aware that he was surrounded. A harsh voice shouted at him. ‘ Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head. ’ Sam ignored them. He grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘Don’t tell him,’ Jacob whispered, and Sam knew what he meant. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, don’t tell him…’

Jacob struggled to draw another breath, but it stopped suddenly. There was a horrific silence. And then, with a gruesome, aching slowness, the sound of his lungs deflating. Jacob’s eyes glazed over; his body stopped shaking and relaxed on to the grass like ice beginning to melt.

Sam stared at him in lone shock.

‘ Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head. You’re surrounded by armed police. ’

He was numb. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother’s tombstone. He felt as though her eyes were upon him.

‘ This is your last warning. Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head. If you do not drop your weapon, we will shoot.’

Slowly, Sam laid the Browning on Jacob’s chest. He raised his arms in the air and placed them, fingers clasped together, on his head. Before he knew it, he became aware of three flak-jacketed police officers with MP5s trained directly at him. He barely gave them a second glance; Sam could not take his eyes off the body of the brother he had just killed.

He spoke. His voice sounded separate from his body. Monotone. Emotionless.

‘You need to contact MI6,’ he said. ‘Gabriel Bland. Tell him that Sam Redman has some information for him.’

The armed response unit closed in. With their black body armour and grim faces, they looked for all the world like an army of shadows gathering round his brother’s corpse.

The cell in the basement of the Hereford police station was tiny. A single bunk with a thin mattress and a yellow-and-brown-stained toilet without any seat were all the comfort it offered, but that didn’t matter to Sam Redman. There were no comforts that would ease what he felt inside.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the yellowing wall opposite. How long he had been in there he couldn’t have said. An hour? A day? They were both equally likely. His head was filled with ghosts. Memories of his brother when they were kids, which were unavoidably chased away by the one image that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. The image of Jacob, motionless on that cemetery ground, dead by Sam’s hand. It didn’t feel like it could possibly be true.

A policeman brought in some food. Sam didn’t even look at it. ‘Where’s Bland?’ Sam demanded. The policeman – a young guy – gave him a look of contempt. He didn’t answer.

Sam continued to stare. Continued to think. He supposed he should weep, but tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps he didn’t deserve them. Every now and then his guilt would be replaced by something else. Anger. Anger at his brother. Anger so deep and so hot that it felt as if it would consume him. And with it a desire – no, a need – to put everything right. He couldn’t undo everything Jacob had done, but if he could stop things getting worse, maybe the anger would go. Or at least subside.

The peephole of the cell door opened. ‘I’m not talking to you,’ he called. ‘I’ll only speak to Gabriel Bland.’

The peephole slid shut, then the door opened. A familiar voice. ‘Leave us alone.’

Sam turned to look at his visitor. He was accompanied by the young police officer. ‘I should stay, sir. He’s dangerous…’

‘I shan’t repeat myself,’ Bland said. He stared at the policeman.

‘No, sir,’ the young officer said, withering under the heat of his gaze. Bland stepped inside and waited for the sound of the door locking.

‘Hello, Sam,’ he said when they were alone.

‘Where is he?’ Sam demanded. Bland raised an eyebrow. ‘Jacob. His body. What have you done with it?’

‘It’s, ah… It’s dealt with. I’m sure you can understand that we don’t want any more dead bodies cropping up in public places.’ A pause. ‘You’ve, ah… You’ve been busy since we last met, Sam.’

Sam ignored his visitor’s obtuse comment. ‘Dolohov told you about the hit?’

Bland’s face gave nothing away. ‘Mr Dolohov told us lots of things, Sam. He was extraordinarily talkative. It, ah… It seems that a few hours with you can loosen a man’s tongue.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Either that, or silence it forever.’

Sam looked away.

‘I, ah… I understand you have some information for me,’ Bland continued. ‘I trust this is true and isn’t just a way of trying to wriggle your way out of…’

‘Shut up, Bland!’ Sam snapped. ‘Just shut up and listen to me!’ He rose to his feet and noticed that the MI6 man flinched slightly. ‘Jacob gave me a name before he died.’

Bland nodded slowly, his sharp eyes wary. ‘And?’

‘And before I tell you who it is, I want some assurances.’

An insincere smile spread across Bland’s face. ‘I hardly think you’re in a position…’

Sam gave him a stony look. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Throw the book at me.’

An awkward silence filled the cell. It was broken by Bland.

‘What would these assurances be?’

Sam sniffed. ‘Number one, Mark Porteus back in charge. Number two, your heavies leave Clare Corbett the fuck alone. Number three, Mac Howden’s family get properly looked after – no bullshit with the insurances, they get the full payout. And number four…’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Number four, not a word about my brother’s death leaks to anyone.’

‘Ashamed, Sam?’ Bland asked mildly.

‘No,’ Sam lied. ‘I don’t give a shit what you or anyone else thinks. But if my father finds out that Jacob’s dead…’ He hesitated. ‘And how…’ His voice trailed away.

Bland surveyed him with dead, emotionless eyes. ‘I’m sure those things could be arranged,’ he said quietly.

Sam scowled. He didn’t trust the Firm and he didn’t trust Bland. But at some point he was going to have to trust someone and he’d run out of options. ‘Kakha Beridze,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know who the hell he is, but Jacob mentioned his assistant. And the words “tomorrow night”.’

Bland nodded, absorbing the information. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘It’s all I know.’

Bland turned and knocked on the inside of the door.

‘Wait,’ Sam said, and the MI6 man turned. ‘In Kazakhstan, at the training camp. Spetsnaz were waiting for us. They could only have known we were there if one of your lot tipped them off.’

The door opened and the young policeman appeared. Bland looked as if he was going to say something, but instead he marched out. ‘Be careful who you tell!’ Sam shouted after him. And then, even though the door was shut and locked, he repeated himself. ‘You’ve got a mole! Be careful who you tell!’

His voice echoed around the cell. He kicked the bed in frustration, then sat down to wonder if he’d done the right thing.

Somehow, Sam slept. It wasn’t a refreshing sleep. The bunk was hard and his dreams were haunted. When he awoke in that windowless room he was confused. No sense of time or place. He pissed in the rank bog, then scowled when it wouldn’t flush. Then he went back to sitting on the bed. Waiting. He didn’t know what for.