Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

‘Very fetching,’ Cunningham said. ‘Okay everyone, listen up. This is what we’re going tae do. You three –’ he pointed at the police officers – ‘stay down here. Once we’ve secured our targets, we’ll call you in tae process any family members. You –’ he pointed at the manager – ‘escort Hunter and Parsons tae the penthouse in the service lift. When the guards meet you there, tell them the guys are from BT and they need tae investigate a fault on the line in the penthouse.’

‘Sir, they will not believe that. They know I would have made such an appointment well in advance.’

‘Then you’d better be convincing when you’re up there, laddie. In my experience, oligarch bodyguards are a short-tempered bunch. You don’t want them using those secret weapons on you.’

‘But I would normally ring in advance, at the very least.’

‘We can’t risk it. They might tell us not to come, then they’ll be suspicious when we turn up anyway.’

‘Where . . . where will you be?’

‘Close behind. Everything goes according to plan, you won’t notice us until it’s too late. As soon as things go noisy, I want you to get face down on the ground and put your hands over your head. You think you can do that?’

‘Please, sir, what do you mean by “go noisy”?’

‘You’ll work it out, laddie,’ Cunningham said. He looked over at Hunter. ‘You know what tae do?’

Hunter nodded.

‘Alright then.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘I’m going tae call Hereford. As soon as we get the green light, we move in. While we wait, we’ll examine the plans of the building so we know what’s waiting for us up there.’

He dialled.

It was twelve thirty. Alice was tired and for the first time since working at MI6, she found herself wishing she was more soberly dressed. She was still wearing the casual gear she’d thrown on the night before. But now she was sitting at a boardroom table on the fifth floor not only with her boss, Maxwell Stark, but also with Alan Sturrock, head of the service. Stark was opening a fresh packet of extra strong mints. The boardroom was heavy with the smell of peppermint, but somehow Alice didn’t mind that. Sturrock repelled her: the oily hair, the way he regularly rubbed moisturising lotion into his hands with a repulsive, slimy sound. But these were serious men, seriously dressed on serious business. It was a big deal that she had a seat at the table.

There were two tablets in front of them. One had an open line to SAS headquarters in Hereford, the other to Number 10. Alice had been with Stark when he explained to Sturrock her deduction that Poliakov was being sheltered by Rostropovic, and she sincerely thought the chief’s eyes might fall out of his head. Apparently Rostropovic was a no-go area, at least without the say-so of the PM. Alice could only imagine what kind of messy political deal she had stumbled across, but she was certain that Sturrock was not the type to take action that might be detrimental to his career.

A voice came over the Hereford line. ‘ We have confirmation from our team on the ground that they’re ready to make the arrest. ’

‘Not until I give the instruction,’ said Sturrock. He tapped a button on the tablet connected to Number 10. ‘We’re ready. Do we have approval?’

A pause.

‘ Approval withheld. Repeat, approval withheld. ’

Sturrock’s lips thinned. He looked at Alice as if the lack of approval was her fault. Then he spoke again. ‘Hereford, this is Sturrock. You have no green light. Repeat, you have no green light.’ Sturrock turned to Alice. ‘Let’s hope your intelligence is good, young lady,’ he said. ‘This could be an embarrassment for us all if you’ve made a mistake.’

‘Does this mean the operation is over?’ she asked.

Sturrock didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he continued his communication with Hereford. ‘Keep your men on the ground, is that understood?’

‘ Understood. ’

Alice glanced at Stark. Her boss gave her a reassuring smile, as if to say: ‘Wait and see how this plays out.’ Then he leaned across the table and offered her a peppermint.

Alice declined.

Five o’clock, Amman. Danny and Bethany’s suitcases were in the boot. Their press passes were in their shoulder bags. Danny’s handgun was stowed in the glove compartment. He had the wheel and was once again negotiating the city traffic. The GPS unit was set to take them to the Hotel Grand, but the route it chose was not direct. Amman is a city built on hills. Although there were broad, tree-lined thoroughfares heading through central parts of the city, these main arterial routes were clogged with traffic. And so they found themselves winding carefully through narrow side streets and over cobbled, semi-pedestrianised areas bustling with people. Almost all the women they saw wore headscarves. A very few wore a more concealing niqab. The men seemed more westernised in jeans and T-shirts, though some, mainly the older ones, wore traditional dishdash. Danny had his window down to get some airflow going in the intense afternoon heat. It let in the sounds and smells of the city. Exhaust fumes. Street-food stalls deep-frying falafal. Market traders bellowing outside covered bazaars. Loud Arabic pop blaring from cars and first-floor windows. The buildings were a colourful mixture of browns and mustard yellows. Danny had the impression of a busy but friendly place.

‘Amman was originally built on seven hills,’ Bethany said as the vehicle laboured up a particularly steep incline, reminding Danny that she was a Middle East specialist. ‘Nineteen hills now, they say, with the urban sprawl. Lots of refugees. Palestinians originally, after the Arab–Israeli war. More recently, Syrians.’

‘I didn’t realise I’d booked a tour guide,’ Danny said. He was less interested in the geography of the city than in getting to their destination without incident. As they passed some kind of ancient monument – sand-coloured pillars and a tiered, half-circle arena – he paid it barely any attention. They drove on in silence, through various sprawling districts of the city, up and down hills, until finally the GPS unit returned them to one of the main arterial routes where the traffic had eased and Danny was able to up his speed. Five minutes later, the Hotel Grand appeared.

It was a long building, four storeys high with an elegant roof turreted and tiled. It took up the entire side of a pleasant square, in the middle of which was a flower garden. A couple of palm trees grew by the entrance, their leaves motionless in the still air. Between them, three flags drooped pathetically on flagpoles. The road around the square was fairly busy with traffic, but it was the military vehicles parked right in front of the hotel that drew Danny’s attention. There were three khaki-coloured, open-topped trucks parked in a row directly in front of the main entrance, noses pointing outwards. There were at least fifteen soldiers surrounding the vehicles, all armed with assault rifles. ‘Looks like our general’s got a quite a retinue,’ he said.

Bethany didn’t reply. She was eyeing the soldiers steadily.

Danny allowed himself to drive a single circuit of the square. He knew there was a good chance that someone was observing the traffic to identify suspicious patterns of behaviour. Any more than twice round, they were likely to be observed and possibly trailed. As they drove past the front of the hotel, he noted the two armed guys at the main door checking the ID of three Middle Eastern men entering the hotel. He glanced upwards and saw an open window on the top floor where another armed man was looking down on to the square. There was no getting away from it: the Yanks in this hotel were on high alert.