Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

‘Oh sure, I’ve seen my share of those.’ He winked at her like a kindly uncle. Bethany had to stop herself cringing. ‘But there have to be a few privileges of rank, don’t you think?’

‘Were you going to offer me a drink?’ she said.

‘Name it. Uncle Sam’s paying.’

‘He sounds like a very generous uncle.’

‘Well, like lots of uncles, he has his good traits and his bad.’

There were tumblers, highball glasses and champagne flutes behind the bar. The tumblers looked sturdiest. ‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ she said.

‘A girl after my own heart,’ said the General. He poured two whiskies and handed one to Bethany. She was right. The tumbler felt solid in her hand. If she smashed it against the counter, it would provide a sharp, heavy duty shard. Clumsy, but useable in the absence of any other weapon.

She took a sip of her whisky. Take it slowly, she told herself. Let him make the first move. The more he thinks he’s in control, the less he is. ‘You’ve a busy few days coming up,’ she said.

‘The peace talks? Lots of the heavy lifting has already been done, truth to tell. That’s what all these meetings have been over the last couple of days. Hopefully we’ll get some ink on paper at the main conference tomorrow. If I manage to stop the Turks and the Kurds shooting each other across the conference table, it’ll be a goddamn result. Those are some crazy sons of bitches.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘But they seem to listen to me, so I do what I can. And then back to DC. You ever been?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘It’s a bear pit, Sophia. And it’s about to get a helluva sight uglier, mark my words.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Oh yeah. With yours truly in the middle of it.’

‘Sounds to me like you could do with relaxing before it all kicks off.’

He held up his whisky glass, winked at her again and took a sip. ‘Hey, I don’t normally do this kind of thing, you know.’

‘Liar,’ Bethany said archly. ‘Mind if I freshen up?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

She pointed enquiringly to one of the doors.

‘That’s the bedroom,’ the General said.

‘Well we don’t want to jump the gun,’ Bethany said, and she headed through the other door. She locked herself in the bathroom. A marble surround to the bath. Bright downlighters. The smell of aftershave. She stood for a moment with her back to the door, eyes closed, breathing deeply, calming herself, trying to keep her focus. She thought of her little boy and wondered what he was doing now. That thought got her focused again. The sooner she left this place, the sooner she could see him again. She made a quick audit of the General’s toiletries. Hotel shampoo and shower gel. A tube of shaving cream. A bottle of Aramis. A packet of Viagra hidden behind a box of paracetamol. She had been prepared to crack open the plastic housing of a safety razor, but it seemed like the General favoured the old-fashioned way. There was a traditional razor on the glass shelf in front of the mirror, and a small white plastic box of spare blades. She slid one of the blades out and took off her shoe. She lifted the inner sole, hid the blade underneath it, then she put the shoe back on. She flushed the toilet and ran the tap for thirty seconds. Then she fixed herself in the mirror and returned to the main room.

The General had finished his whisky and was leaning against the bar. His kimono had slipped a little, revealing more of his chest hair. He appreciatively eyed Bethany up and down and there was an expectant silence. Bethany walked up to him, taking her time, her lips slightly parted, fixing him with the kind of stare that she knew made men helpless. There was something quietly pathetic about his puppy-dog eyes and the way his breath trembled as he exhaled. She approached him, and as she walked her mind was making tiny calculations. The General was at least half a head height taller than her. And though he had thirty years on her, he still had a powerful frame. There was simply no way she could overpower him physically. Even if she managed to attack him with the razor blade, he would likely still have the opportunity to call for help. It was essential, therefore, that he was entirely disabled before she made her move.

She stood just inches away from him. She could smell the booze on his breath, a mixture of the martinis and the whisky, neither of them masked by his aftershave. He started to say something, but she put one finger to his lips. With her other hand, she pulled the cord of his kimono. It fell open. He was completely naked underneath. Naked and grotesquely ready for action. His body was fit, but ageing. She slid her forefinger from his lips, down along his chin to his neck, along the centre of his chest, stopping just where his stomach protruded tightly. ‘Which door was the bedroom again?’ she said.

The hotel bar continued to fill up. It was busy now, but Danny had chosen his position wisely and could still see both exits: the one to his left by which he’d entered, and the one at the far end of the bar. He ordered another drink and waited. The General’s guy was still sitting at the main table by the bar. Like Danny, he was sipping from a glass of mineral water, but now lacked the military stiffness that had been evident when the General was present.

He picked up his phone from the table. He pretended to scroll through it again while surveying the room and trying to work out how long he would need to sit there. Bethany had left ten minutes ago. How long would she need? Half an hour? Longer? He found himself thinking of the photographs he’d examined back in Hereford of her previous handiwork. He wished he’d told her not to get creative. The General just needed to be dead. There was nothing to be gained from putting on a show.

His phone buzzed silently in his hand. Number withheld. He frowned. Who the hell would be calling him? Only Hereford had this number, which answered the question. He took the call. ‘Yeah?’

‘ Black? ’ He recognised the CO’s voice and knew it was important for Williamson to be making the call himself.

‘Go ahead.’

‘ Abort. Immediately. ’

A beat.

‘What do you mean?’

‘ What the hell do you think I mean? Six have got it wrong. They’re being manipulated. You need to get the General safely out of there. Whatever it takes. ’

‘It might be too late.’

‘ Make sure it isn’t. Tell him that we know about Poliakov and the deepfakes. And Black, you can expect interference. Most likely Russian, possibly Wagner Group. They might be on site to finish the General off in the event that you’re unsuccessful. ’

At the mention of the Wagner Group, Danny clenched his jaw. He glanced over at the two Russian men at the nearby table, and he flashbacked to the final moments of the Zero 22 op. ‘Roger that,’ he said.

The line went dead.

The alarm clock by the General’s bed read eight o’clock.

There were two kimonos in the bedroom. There was the one that had slid from the General’s shoulders to the floor as Bethany had undressed him. And there was the one hanging on the back of the door. Bethany had identified it the moment they had entered the bedroom, and her strategy for the next few minutes had formed itself.

The bedroom was large and comfortable. There was a dressing table and a writing desk and two deep armchairs. The curtains were closed. There was dusky pink mood lighting. His clothes were folded with military neatness on a high-backed chair. The shiny brown brogues were next to them on the floor, precisely square to the chair. The bed dominated the room. Emperor size, a modern four-poster frame without drapes. Plump pillows and embroidered cushions. Complementary chocolates on the pillows. The General was naked, apart from the military ID tags around his neck. He stood between Bethany and the bed, a schoolboy grin on his old face.