Chris Ryan: Who Dares Wins

The door opened. Two police officers entered and cuffed his hands behind his back. Sam didn’t bother to struggle. He could sense their hatred – the hatred of a policeman for a murderer – but he could also tell they had been instructed not to talk to him about the events of the past few hours. ‘What time is it?’ he demanded.

‘Time for you to fuck off out of it,’ one of the officers replied.

He was roughly led out of the cell, along an institutional corridor and up some steps. At the main entrance to the police station he drew stares from members of the public: whether that was to do with the cuts on his face, the handcuffs or the armoured police van with flashing siren that was parked just outside, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. On the wall there was a clock that told the time and date: 18.38, May 25. Sam was wordlessly escorted into the back of the van, then left alone as the doors were shut. He was encased in steel and there was no way to get out, even if he wanted to.

The journey was long and uncomfortable. Sam endured it sitting in the corner of the van, ignoring the bruising jolts that bumped through his body, and brooding on everything that had happened. An idle corner of his mind wondered where he was being taken, but he didn’t really care much about that either. He’d find out soon enough.

Having driven at speed for a couple of hours, the van began to stop and start. City driving. He felt it going down a long ramp, then coming to a halt. The doors opened and an armed escort of four men awaited him.

‘Where am I?’ he demanded, but he received no reply. Just a flick of an MP5 telling him to get out. He was in some sort of subterranean car park, the kind that echoed when you walked. He was taken through a guarded door, along a network of corridors and finally into a room. It was sparse: a table, chairs bolted to the floor, strip lighting and a black window – one-way glass, he presumed. The door was locked and once more he was left alone.

This time, however, he didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and two men marched in. One of them was Gabriel Bland. He looked tired. Much more tired than he had been earlier that day. Haggard, almost. With him was a small man. Thick glasses. Dumpy. He was short of breath, had sweat on his wide forehead and carried a thick file. The door was locked behind them and the two men sat down opposite Sam.

‘Thank you for joining us, Sam,’ Bland said without a hint of irony. He closed his eyes and smoothed his eyebrows with one hand. As he did so, he continued to speak. ‘This is Julien Batten. One of our analysts.’

‘Where am I?’ Sam asked.

Bland’s eyes popped open. ‘Didn’t they tell you? MI6 headquarters. You didn’t think we were going to leave you in a Hereford police station, did you?’

Sam shrugged.

‘Julien’s been processing the, ah… the information you gave us. I wanted you to hear his conclusions directly from him.’

Sam couldn’t understand what was going on. Bland sounded worried, but he was talking to him like an old and trusted friend. He kept quiet.

‘Carry on, Julien,’ Bland instructed.

The bespectacled man cleared his throat. ‘I hardly need say this falls under the auspices of the Official Secrets…’

‘Just get on with it,’ snapped Bland.

The analyst readjusted his glasses before carrying on. ‘Kakha Beridze,’ he said, pulling a photograph from his file. ‘Georgian ambassador to London. His personal assistant, Gigo Tsiklauri. Beridze’s been two years in the job. Hardline anti-Russian, but a good relationship with Number 10.’

‘I’m very happy for him,’ Sam retorted, before turning to Bland. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Just listen,’ Bland told him.

‘Ordinarily, we would have put Beridze low on anyone’s list of assassination targets,’ Batten continued. ‘But the information we have about the FSB’s activities in Kazakhstan puts a rather different light on things.’

The memory of Kazakhstan forced Sam’s stomach into a knot. He kept listening.

‘We’ve constructed a scenario,’ the analyst continued. He waved one hand in the air. ‘Just a theory, you understand. Beridze is assassinated by a young man who believes he is working for MI5. The Russians feed this information to the Georgians. Maybe they even deliver the assassin. Clearly it will create a major diplomatic incident between the UK and Georgia.’

Sam scowled. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘Nothing the men in suits can’t sort out.’

Bland interrupted. ‘I’m, ah… I’m afraid it’s a little bit more complicated than that, Sam.’ He stood up and, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had asked the sweating analyst to explain what was going on, continued talking. ‘For the past nine months,’ he said, ‘the British military has been constructing a missile launch facility on Georgian territory. The materials are covertly flown in under the guise of humanitarian aid for those Georgian nationals displaced by Russia’s military intervention in their country. The Georgian government is happy to help us. With the Russians on their doorstep, they, ah… they need all the friends they can get. As for us…’ He looked sharply at Sam. ‘As for us, we really need that missile base.’

Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. You’re never going to launch a missile strike on Russia.’ He ignored the analyst, who was frowning impatiently.

‘No, Sam. Not the Russians. Our conflict with them remains strictly, ah… cold.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Iran.’

Sam blinked. He didn’t understand.

‘We’ve known for some time that their nuclear enrichment programme has been ongoing, despite their occasional claims to have halted it. They’re a long way down the line to becoming a nuclear power.’

‘Weeks away,’ the analyst butted in, and this time he received no reprimand from Bland.

‘The Americans know this, of course,’ Bland continued. ‘They talk a good line about peaceful diplomatic relations with Iran, but believe me, the moment the Iranians become a threat, we’ll see a US military surge in that part of the world.’ He paused. ‘Where the Americans go, the British follow. But we can’t afford another war in the Middle East. Georgia is the closest, safest friendly territory we have to Iranian soil. It’s only the threat of our missile launch capabilities in that area that’s keeping the Iranians at bay. If the Georgians think that MI5 have assassinated their top man in the UK, we can kiss goodbye to the facility.’

Bland paused, then sat down again. ‘If that happens, Sam, the Iranians will complete their nuclear programme. The Americans will invade and we will be dragged into it.’ Beside him, the analyst was nodding in agreement, his skin even sweatier now than when he had entered. ‘We don’t need another war in the Middle East, Sam. But if your brother’s little plan comes to fruition, that’s what we’re going to end up with.’

At the mention of Jacob, the familiar conflict of emotions burned through Sam’s blood. ‘Jacob wouldn’t…’

Bland interrupted. ‘I, ah… I rather doubt Jacob Redman was even aware of the wider implications of his actions, Sam. The FSB have put a lot of time and effort into this. I think it unlikely that they would have entrusted him with any more information than he needed.’

A silence fell over the room. It was Sam that broke it. ‘I still don’t understand why the Russians would want another war in the Middle East.’

The analyst replied. ‘The Russians want to avoid a British military facility on their doorstep. War in the Middle East is a happy sideline for them. It keeps the West’s hands full, while they pursue aggressive military policies on their own doorstep.’