Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

‘ Roger that. Patching you through to Vauxhall. ’

A brief pause. Then another male voice, thin and reedy. ‘ This is Sturrock. What is your status? ’

‘I’ve got a Russky called Poliakov under my boot and another one called Rostropovic who might have tae use his other hand tae tug himself off for a wee bit.’

‘ What do you mean, man? Is Rostropovic hurt? ’

‘I shot him in the shoulder, so it probably stings a little.’ Cunningham didn’t know who Sturrock was, but he didn’t like the sound of his voice. ‘He’ll live,’ he added. ‘But he needs a medic. You want us tae bring Poliakov in?’

‘ Immediately. You know where to go? ’

‘Aye,’ Cunningham said. ‘We know where to go. What about Rostropovic?’

‘ Keep him there for now and await further instructions. ’

Cunningham killed the call and bent over. With one hand on the back of Poliakov’s shirt and the other on his bound wrists, he hauled the Russian to his feet. Poliakov’s hair was dishevelled. The mole on his left cheek was bleeding slightly. He staggered, then started hissing away in Russian again. Cunningham drew his handgun, put it to Poliakov’s head and put one forefinger to his lips to make a shush gesture. Poliakov’s fell silent. ‘Better,’ Cunningham told him. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘You are not from Moscow?’

‘Don’t insult me, I’m from fucking Glasgow, you cunt.’

He guided Poliakov to the exit. The Russian’s eyes bulged when he saw the wound in Rostropovic’s shoulder, but he kept quiet as Cunningham manoeuvred him down the corridor. The door where the woman and kids were being held was half open. One of the police officers was standing there, blocking the view in and out. The woman shouted something in Russian – she sounded distraught – and Poliakov shouted back. ‘I said shut the fuck up,’ Cunningham told him, and he pressed his weapon into the flesh of his neck.

Hunter and Parsons were in the lobby area. Hunter had the manager on his back, two fingers pressed to his neck. The two guards were still on the floor. ‘Medics are on their way,’ Hunter replied to Cunningham’s unasked question. Hunter stood up. The guard with brown hair and the burn mark was face down a couple of metres away. Hunter bent over him, grabbed the hair at the back of his head and smashed his face hard into the floor. ‘Never fucking try it on with me again,’ he said. As he spoke, three more guys entered the room from the direction of the service lift: Cracknell, Finch and Knowles, the remaining men on Hunter’s team who’d being keeping eyes on the building all day. Cracknell glanced at the bullet holes in the wall, the damaged painting and the smears of blood. ‘Been busy?’ he said.

‘Clean up here,’ Cunningham said. ‘Deal with the medics, stick close to Rostropovic while we wait for the head shed to tell us what to do with him, and make sure the family’s okay. Hunter, come with me. We’re taking this fucker in.’

One of the guys must have reset the service lift while Cunningham had been dealing with Poliakov in the dining room. It was in its proper position and the doors were waiting open for them. Cunningham hustled Poliakov into the lift and he and Hunter escorted him back down to the basement. As soon as the lift doors opened, they were flooded with the flashing blue lights of an ambulance screeching down into the basement. More were coming – they could hear the sirens outside. The SAS men didn’t get involved with the medics. They kept their heads averted from the lights that flooded the whole underground car park as they hurried their prisoner to the Amazon van. The engine was already turning over. Hunter opened up the back doors and Cunningham unceremoniously chucked Poliakov into the back. He lost his footing and fell heavily, unable to stop himself because his wrists were still bound. Cunningham and Hunter jumped in after him and slammed the doors shut. Total darkness. As the van pulled away, Cunningham took his Maglite from his pocket and pointed it at the Russian sprawled uncomfortably on the floor of the van. He looked back into the light. To Cunningham’s surprise, he was smiling.

19.30 hrs, Amman.

Bethany and the General were on their third drink. Danny had no way of knowing if her apparent tipsiness was an act, but he knew for damn sure that it was having an effect on the General. O’Brien was becoming a good deal more touchy-feely. His flirtation was becoming more meaningful. He was leading up to something. Danny stood up and walked to the bar where he ordered another glass of water within earshot of Bethany and the General. ‘You know,’ he heard the General say, ‘this is a pretty swell hotel. You seen the rooms?’

‘No,’ Bethany replied. She hesitated. ‘But I’d like to. Do you have a minibar?’

‘Do I have a minibar!’ The General grinned.

Danny took his water back to his seat and carried on watching them. The stroke of Bethany’s arm. The touch of her leg. Each time the General made physical contact with her, she seemed to lean in closer to him. She reciprocated. She gazed outrageously at him over the brim of her champagne glass. And when he leaned in and whispered something in her ear, she did something Danny had never seen her do before: she giggled. It was a masterclass.

The General stood up from his stool. He looked around the bar, absentmindedly correcting the stiff collar of his pink shirt, and caught Danny’s eye. Danny cursed inwardly, but he didn’t make the mistake of looking away. That would be suspicious. He held the General’s gaze – there was absolutely no indication of drunkenness in his demeanour now – and made a cheers gesture with his glass of water. But by then the General had moved on. Danny restarted his pretence with his phone, while keeping an eye on the General. He was obviously looking for somebody. He found them at a table by the main entrance to the bar: it was one of the three army guys he’d walked in with. No words were spoken, but some kind of understanding passed between them. A pre-arranged signal. Danny recalled what Attwood had said about the General. O’Brien will be well guarded in the hotel, but he has a weak spot. It’s about six inches long and hangs between his legs. The soldier at the entrance knew exactly what was going on and what his boss was silently telling him. Let her come. We don’t need any close protection for an hour or two. The soldier inclined his head in acknowledgement. The General turned to Bethany. Said something. She smiled. The General, perhaps unconsciously, rubbed his right brogue against the back of his left leg, keeping it shiny, obviously concerned that he should look as good as possible. Bethany was quite a catch. He turned, walked back along the bar and exited the way he’d entered.

Bethany gave it five minutes. Danny noticed that she didn’t touch the remainder of her drink. She examined herself in the mirror behind the bar and rearranged her hair. If she saw the smirk the soldier by the door gave her, she didn’t show it. Nor did she acknowledge or make any eye contact with Danny. She just sat there, cross legged, straight backed, beautiful but unapproachable.

And then, when the five minutes were up, she stood and followed the General’s path out of the bar.

There are some conversations between the authorities and a suspect that can safely take place in public. The ‘do you know what speed you were doing, sir?’ kind of conversation. Other conversations need the security and focus of a police station. The ‘can you account for your movements on the night of the fifteenth?’ kind of conversation. Sometimes the security arrangements require more heft: the basement cells of a secure central London location, perhaps, for the ‘trust me, pal, right now we’re your best chance of avoiding a rap for terrorism charges’ conversations.