Читать книгу Cold Black - Alex Shaw - Страница 9

Shoreham-by-Sea, UK

A victim of the credit crunch they would call him, an unavoidable casualty of an unseen enemy: the recession. Paddy Fox swallowed his pint bitterly. He was no one’s victim. He looked at the jobs page for the third time before screwing it up in a ball. The anger he felt towards them hadn’t lessened in the six weeks since it had happened, the rage he had for his former boss. He had nothing to prove. He was James ‘Paddy’ Fox, a twenty-year veteran of the SAS and worth something. If no one saw that, then sod ’em.

Fox’s mobile rang and he grabbed for it. ‘Yes?’ His guttural Scottish hue hadn’t been lessened by years of living in Hereford and then Sussex. There was a pause, which instantly told him it was a company trying to sell him something, before a voice reading from a script spoke.

‘Can I speak to Mr James Fox?’

‘You could.’ He cut the connection.

Take, take, take! The world seemed to want something from him, but not him. He flattened out the paper and circled another job, the ‘Dymex’ logo blurring in front of his eyes. Tracey still worked for them, but why he had kept a corporate ballpoint pen he didn’t know. Was it his sackcloth?

Fox downed his pint of bitter and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Just the two for now; more later when he already knew he’d storm out of the house after arguing with Tracey. It had become an almost daily occurrence since he’d become, as he saw it, ‘redundant’. He looked across the Crown and Anchor’s dingy, deserted bar. Burt, the jowl-heavy landlord, was the only other person in the room, with the exception of ‘old Dave’, who sat in the corner like a fixture, with his paper and pint of Guinness. Fox shook his head; what a miserable pisshole of a pub. It was the only bar in Shoreham that had yet to be ‘neoned’, as he called it, to have a bit of paint slapped on, fancy lights added, and the price of the drinks doubled. As such, it was the only place where the average age of the punters was over twelve – in his mind anyway. He stood, placed his empty on the bar, and nodded at Burt as he left the pub. Outside it was rush hour, cars cutting through the narrow streets of the old town in an attempt to miss the traffic. In a way, the SAS veteran was glad he wasn’t part of the corporate world any more – the ‘rat-run rat race’. Nevertheless, he was still angry at how he had left it.

Summoned to a glass-walled meeting room, Fox had looked across with disgust at the younger man in his designer suit and signature dark-blue shirt. The man spoke as Fox’s stare remained locked onto his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Paddy, I really am, but as you were made aware at the start of the consultation process, cuts have to be made. We’ve been as fair as we can.’

There was a pause as Leo Sawyer waited for Fox’s reply. Unable to bear the awkward silence, Fox’s line manager, Janet Cope, coughed to clear her throat.

‘James, we really are sorry to let you go but it’s been decided we need two sales engineers, not three.’

Fox stared at each of ‘the suits’ in turn. ‘What about the position in Saudi?’ Fox’s voice was loud in the small, glass-walled room.

Cope flinched and Sawyer nervously straightened his tie

‘You weren’t suitable for the role. Sorry,’ Sawyer replied, in what he seemed to think was a sympathetic manner. He felt Fox’s green eyes bore into him.

‘But I speak Arabic! Can any of the other candidates?’ Fox had started to turn a shade redder than normal.

Cope gasped. ‘Now, James, I understand that you’re upset, but we don’t need to shout.’

Fox cast her a contemptuous look. ‘Only my mother calls me James.’

Cope herself turned a shade of pink and looked down.

Sawyer pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Fox. ‘If you have a look at this you’ll see we’re paying you in full for your unused holiday time, three months’ redundancy pay – as per your contract – and an additional bonus for all your hard work over the last five years.’

‘Six years. I’ve been here since 2002.’ Fox picked up the sheet and scanned the thirty-eight lines.

‘Of course, six years. My mistake.’

‘Your redundancy is effective immediately, as of the end of today. That means you can start looking for work from tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to stop you from finding another job. We really are truly sorry.’ Cope smiled that ‘monkey smile’ Fox had hated ever since the day she’d become his boss six months earlier.

Fox folded the letter, placed it in his shirt pocket, and stood. He stared again at both suits. Sawyer was about to speak but Fox held up his hand.

‘Thank you for your sincerity.’

Heads turned as Fox crossed the open-plan office to his desk; some tried not to make eye contact, others tried to look sympathetic. Either way, to him they were just pathetic. His two sales colleagues, those that weren’t being pushed out, were, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen. He reached his desk and started to empty its drawers into his pilot case. Fox had always disliked Sawyer. Ever since the last Christmas do, when Tracey had let slip he’d been in ‘Desert Storm’, the man had constantly quizzed him about his past. Sawyer – a member, he claimed, of the ‘territorials’ – had then tried to take the whole of sales and marketing on a team-building paintballing weekend. As marketing director, Tracey had gone and according to her Leo was ‘such a laugh’. At the next work event, Fox had caught him staring at her and given him the nickname ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’. In fact, the only real action Fox could envisage Sawyer getting was from behind at the local gay bar.

Looking up, Fox saw the security guard leave the MD’s office with a clipboard in his hand. He bore the man no ill will.

‘Hi, Mick. Are you going to march me off the premises? ‘

‘Sorry.’ He put the clipboard on Fox’s desk. ‘I’m going to need the car keys and your signature here.’

Shaking his head, Fox took the keys to his BMW three series and dropped them into Mick’s outstretched palm. ‘Of course you are, and I’m going to walk three miles to the train station.’

‘Thanks.’ Mick cast a glance around before saying, almost in a whisper, ‘I don’t suppose Mr Sawyer has offered to drive you in his Z4?’

‘I’m not queer.’

Mick suppressed a smile. ‘It’s my break in ten minutes – I’ll take you to the station.’

‘That would be good pal, thanks.’

It was the way of the world. Mick had more decency than all of them. He patted Fox on the shoulder and left him to finish his bags. Fox continued to shove his personal papers into the pockets of his case. Sawyer and Cope remained cocooned in the meeting room, eyes glued to documents, pretending to look busy and hoping he would leave. Fox closed the case and walked towards the stairs. As he passed the meeting room he tapped on the window, causing both occupants to snap their necks to the right. Fox smiled and held up his middle finger.

Fox tried to forget that awful day as he crossed the road towards the river and used the pedestrian bridge to make his way home. The tide was out as usual and the river had turned into a thick, muddy smudge. Bloody awful if you asked him, but then Tracey hadn’t when she’d bought the house that overlooked it. As he reached the opposite side he could hear them already, the local kids from the flats out again on their ‘mini motos’, zipping between cars. Jim would be outraged. Jim was always outraged.

‘Get off the bloody road! I’ll call the police!’ Jim Reynolds, retired decorator and moral voice of the street, yelled after the miniature motorbikes.

Fox laughed. ‘Good evening, Jim.’ He liked his neighbour, even if he made fun of him.

‘Is it? I’ve had them effing kids tormenting me for the last hour! Shouldn’t they be at school?’ He waved his hedge scissors.

‘Jim, it’s almost six.’

‘Oh, well, at work then, or doing their homework. At their age, I was painting houses.’

‘So are they, with spray cans.’

The area had been touted as the latest urban development for professional people with two point four children and a BMW. The truth, however, was that the kids from the local council flats saw the quiet, pothole-free roads of Shoreham beach as their private racetrack.

The old man removed his gardening gloves and scratched his head. ‘Any more news on the job front?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Who wants to employ an old soldier like me?’

‘That’s the problem – no gratitude. They should have given you a medal.’

Reynolds knew that, as a member of the SAS, Fox had been sent into Iraq. Fox hadn’t been a member of Bravo Two Zero, as all those who knew the truth of his past seemed to think, but a deep-penetration mission which had never been publicised. It had been their job to recce the approach to Baghdad in advance of the coalition’s arrival, an arrival which hadn’t come, at least not for ten years. This mission, he never talked about. Reynolds, himself a veteran of Suez, had great respect for Fox.

‘Maybe when we’re both dead they’ll put plaques on our houses?’ Fox smiled.

There was the sound of bass-heavy music from behind them and Tracey Fox, his wife of five years, raced up the road in her convertible Saab.

‘Here she comes, Ghetto Gertrude!’

Reynolds chuckled as Tracey pulled up onto the drive. ‘Hello, love.’

‘Hi, Jim.’ She smiled warmly then changed her face when she spoke to Fox. ‘The sooner you move that old heap of yours out of the garage the better. I don’t know why you keep it!’

‘It’s a classic, love.’ It was the conversation they had each evening when she was forced to park her new car on the drive.

‘Help me with my bags then.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Fox winked at Reynolds and made for the car.

Reynolds picked up his hedge scissors and continued to trim his already perfect shrubs.

Fox followed his wife inside with her laptop bag, which she complained was too heavy to carry. He found her looking through the mail.

‘So, tell me, what have you been up to today while I’ve been out at work?’ It was a daily question, thrown at him with growing disdain.

Fox placed the bag on the floor and took a breath. ‘I went online, put my CV on Monster, checked my email, and fixed the tap in the kitchen.’

Tracey nodded. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Did you call any of those agents I gave you details of?’ Her hands were now on her hips.

He looked at the gap between her blouse buttons and the red of her bra. She had a great pair of tits. ‘No. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Her expression grew sour. ‘You’ve been saying that for the past week, Paddy!’

‘I know, love, I know.’ Here came the lecture.

‘You’re not going to get a new job sitting on your arse all day long.’

‘Then how can I use the computer?’

She ignored his attempt at levity. ‘It’s been almost two months now.’

‘It’s been six weeks.’

‘Exactly. When the redundancy money runs out, what then?’ Her eyes narrowed.

Fox sighed. They had met at Dymex, where she at least still worked. ‘I’ve got enough saved and, besides, you earn twice as much as I did.’

‘What? You want to live off me; you, a man, want to live off me?’ The argument wasn’t new and their lines were well rehearsed.

‘Don’t be sexist.’ He loved to goad his oh so PC wife. ‘I’m not going to “ponce” off you. I’ll find something.’

She turned and headed upstairs. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’

Fox watched her arse twitch beneath her tight skirt; even when she was angry he still fancied her. He spoke beneath his breath. ‘Hi, dear, how are you? Have a nice day? Don’t worry…’ He smirked to himself. Right, he’d bung a risotto into the microwave and uncork a bottle of the Chilean Merlot she liked, that’d calm her down for a bit.

Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London

Snow signed for his belongings at the front desk. ‘Should I be honoured you came in person?’

‘Yes,’ Patchem said flatly.

The desk officer gave Snow a stern look. ‘You’re free to go.’

‘Much obliged.’

‘In future, for heaven’s sake, if someone says they’re an SIS officer, call us to ask.’

‘Very well, sir.’ The desk officer showed no sign of accepting Patchem’s reprimand. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

Outside they got into Patchem’s Lexus and drove away.

‘Thanks, Jack. So why did you come?’

The Secret Intelligence Service section head looked over his shoulder as they pulled into traffic. ‘I didn’t want to waste any more time. Something is happening, Aidan. GCHQ has picked up increased chatter referring to some sort of attack and soon. MI5 have been going through possible targets but as yet with no success. According to my counterpart at Five, it’s like looking for a grain of salt in the desert.’

‘So why is Six interested?’

‘We’re interested because most of the chatter is emanating from Saudi Arabia. This impacts us because, in addition to my role at the “Russian Desk”, I’ve just been assigned caretaker of the “Arab Desk” until the boss appoints a permanent replacement.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I don’t need your congratulations, I need your help.’ Patchem paused as they exited a roundabout. ‘Look, I’m a Russian specialist; our Director General knows this but she insisted. Aidan, to be candid, I know bugger all about the Middle East, that’s why I need operatives I can rely on. I brought you into Six because I was impressed by what you did in Kyiv and how you did it.’

‘Thanks, Jack, but I’m no Middle East expert either.’

‘The “Arab Desk” is in a mess and I don’t know who I can trust there.’ Patchem had yet to fully assess the desk staff. ‘I need my own team.’

They arrived at Snow’s flat. ‘So what’s my assignment?’

‘There isn’t one, yet.’

Patchem brought the Lexus to a halt. There was a silence. He stared into the distance.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Durrani was a friend.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What? Oh, I see. Yes. It’s been a trying day.’

‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘Thanks for listening.’

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Want, yes. Allowed, no. Jacquelyn is expecting me home.’

Riyadh. Saudi Arabia

There was a strange noise in the air and a familiar smell in his nostrils he couldn’t quite place. Burning oil! The Saudi whipped off his thin bedsheet and rushed to the window.

Flames were leaping from his garage; worse still, they were moving towards his Rolls Royce Phantom! Struck dumb, he was unable to call out to his security guard as the flickering flames reflected hypnotically off his bedroom window. He opened completely the French windows and nervously moved onto the balcony, the heat like an oven on his face.

Finding his voice, Al Kabir yelled for his guard. Two shadows darted beyond the perimeter wall towards a pick-up truck. Without lights, the truck moved away into the darkness of the desert. There was a rushing sound and suddenly an explosion from the garage, quickly followed by another. A wall of flames raced towards Al Kabir’s newest car. His hands gripped the railings on his balcony but before he could move or utter another word the Rolls Royce was engulfed.

Fouad Al Kabir awoke from his mid-morning snooze with a start. It hadn’t been a dream. The fire had caused over a million dollars’ worth of damage. In addition to the Phantom, two much more expensive vintage Rolls Royces had been destroyed. The oldest had wooden wheels and had belonged to his grandfather. He stood. They were irreplaceable; this was why Prince Fouad Al Kabir was so angered and saddened. He had already ordered a new Phantom, but the others! Fouad kicked the remaining wall to the garage in despair. This was terrible on a personal level but an outrage on a national level. He, Prince Fouad Al Kabir of the House of Saud, had been attacked! It was unprecedented. He wasn’t fearful – the concept had never entered his head – but he was upset.

Twenty more members of the Saudi Arabian Royal Guard Regiment, the unit with the task of protecting the Royal House of Saud, now patrolled his ‘palace’. His brother had said he’d been foolish to stay at his small place in the desert, but security wasn’t a concept Fouad could fully understand. He was royalty, so why should he be in any danger? Unlike his brothers – especially Umar – Fouad didn’t like to leave the Kingdom. He was happy to stay within its borders and play at being a businessman and scholar…

There was a buzzing from under his robes. Puzzled, he retrieved his Vertu and answered. ‘Yes?’

‘Your Highness, peace be upon you. I hope you are well?’ the voice asked in classical Arabic.

‘And you. Who is this?’ Fouad noted the number was withheld.

‘I am a humble servant of God.’ The voice had a lyricism.

‘As I am. And?’ Every Muslim was a servant of God; the caller was stating the obvious.

‘He instructed me to burn your English cars.’

‘What?’ Fouad couldn’t have heard correctly. ‘You burnt my cars?’

‘That is correct, Your Highness.’

Fouad was incensed. ‘Then you will be punished.’

‘If it is “His” will.’ The caller paused; he could hear the prince breathing heavily on the other end. ‘Burning your precious cars was a way to get your attention. Now, do I have it?’

Fouad held onto a palm tree to steady himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening. ‘What do you want?’

‘You sit on the board of directors of Saudico, the world’s largest supplier of oil.’ The caller paused again.

Fouad didn’t know how to react; here was a stranger, speaking to him in a very impertinent manner. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You must order the company to immediately cease supplying oil to the infidels.’

Fouad paused then started to laugh heartily. ‘If you were not going to die for destroying royal property, I would find you a very funny man.’

The caller grew angry. ‘Do not mock me, you fool.’

‘What!’ Fouad ended the call. He had never been so insulted in all his life.

Fouad walked towards the terrace and snapped his fingers as a signal that he wanted a cold drink. Could he have the call traced? He would ask the police chief. Just as he was about to sit, the phone vibrated again.

‘Yes?’

‘That was unwise, to end the call in such a way.’

Fouad’s thumb hovered over the cancel button. ‘Any leniency I may have shown towards you has just been withdrawn. You will be executed for both your actions and your remarks.’ That would surely make this unknown person repent.

The caller was again calm. ‘Stop supplying oil to the West or your daughter will be the one to be executed.’

Fouad dropped his glass. It smashed on the tiled floor. Immediately a servant hurried to clean it up, but the prince pushed him away. ‘What did you say?’

‘Princess Jinan…’

‘Don’t you dare mention her name…’ He was redder than he had ever been before.

‘Princess Jinan is no longer at her school. We have her.’

Fouad felt dizzy. He spluttered with rage and waved his arms to attract the attention of his guards. ‘You lie.’

The line went dead; the caller had disconnected at his end. The prince’s brain tried to process the information. He had several people to call but didn’t know who to contact first. The commander of the guards arrived and bowed.

‘Call your men who protect my daughter! Immediately!’

The man bowed again and vanished into the house. Fouad dialled his brother’s number from memory and held the phone to his ear. As he did so the military officer reappeared holding a different handset.

‘Your Highness.’

Fouad snatched the Nokia and looked at the screen. What he saw made his heart stop. It was a picture of his daughter with a gun to her head. The prince could feel his heart racing; he clutched his right hand to his podgy chest… he couldn’t breathe. He slumped into a chair. His Vertu had now connected with his brother in England, who was calling his name. Panic set in as the prince’s entourage rushed to revive him.

‘Your Royal Highness.’ The voice of the commander of the guards was clear and precise as he spoke to Fouad’s brother, on the other end of the line in London. ‘Prince Fouad is unwell.’

‘How?’ Prince Umar was concerned for his favourite younger brother.

‘He has fainted, Your Highness, from learning of some bad news.’

‘Which is?’

Major Hammar didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Someone has kidnapped the princess.’

‘Kidnapped? But she is in Brighton, at Roedean.’ The prince in the Saudi Embassy was suddenly anxious.

Shoreham-by-Sea, UK

Fox checked his watch. The job interview in Central London had been a complete waste of time, in and out in less than an hour. The interviewer – some hair-gelled kid in his twenties – had attempted to grill Fox about his suitability for the job. A job he was overqualified for. The boy had seemed offended when Fox had refused point-blank to elaborate on his military career. His CV mentioned only his parent unit, the Gordon Highlanders, and not ‘the Regiment’.

On Fox’s way out he’d seen the other applicants, ten years younger and twenty pounds fatter. He had no chance and didn’t give a… He turned into his street and saw a familiar car. The dark-red BMW Z4 of his former boss, Leo Sawyer, parked four houses away on the bend – complete with a number plate that did indeed confirm he was a wanker: LE07 SAW. Fox frowned. Why would the jumped-up salesman be here? A dark thought struck him, and an anger of the type he hadn’t felt for years, deep inside. Fox stopped and retrieved his mobile. Dialling Tracey’s number, he continued up the street then saw her car in the drive. A mini moto buzzed past him from behind, making him flinch. Silly old git, getting jumpy.

‘Where are you?’ she answered.

‘Just getting on the train at Victoria,’ he lied, eyeing her car in the drive. ‘And you?’

‘Still in the office. Should be home when you are, though. I’m just seeing to something.’

Fox almost threw the phone but managed to control himself. He snapped it shut. ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’ was shagging his wife. He walked down the path, dropping his jacket and briefcase on o the grass, then tried to open the door. It was closed from the inside – the key still in the lock. He could feel the anger rising as he pressed the bell. There was no answer. He started to bang, then pound with his fists. ‘Open the door!’

There was movement inside, a twitch from a curtain. Fox took a step back and was about to shout again when another mini moto shot past. He turned in the direction of the noise just as two saloon cars swept into the road. Both were going too fast for the bend.

As Fox watched, it felt as though he were seeing everything in slow motion. The first car swerved to avoid the youth on the mini moto. The bike bounced up onto the kerb and carried on, but the car hit the opposite kerb and the wall to the garage compound.

There was a heavy crunch and shrieking of metal as the Ford Mondeo hit the wall. The second car, some fifteen metres behind, slammed on its brakes and stopped sideways on. At the same time, there were noises and movement from his house. Fox ran across the road to the Ford; joyriders or not, they needed help. The driver’s side had hit first and what was left of the screen was covered in blood. Fox’s eyes scanned the vehicle; the driver was dead, he was sure of that, but the passenger was moving. He was reaching down to pull at the door when he saw a weapon in the footwell. There was a whimpering from the back.

Fox peered in. Lying half on the seat was a girl, an Arab-looking girl, with duct-tape over her mouth and arms fastened behind her back. A man was lying under her; he tried to push her off. Fox saw the second weapon, this one a semi-automatic. The girl locked eyes with him and Fox recognised the pleading look of fear.

Without hesitating, Fox grabbed the handgun from the front of the car, took a step back, and shot the passenger though the ear. The sound was like thunder in the enclosed space. Momentarily deafened, he pulled the rear door and the girl half-fell out. The second male passenger opened his eyes and reached for his weapon. Fox dragged the girl clear and put a double tap directly into his temple. His head exploded.

Shots from behind. Fox threw himself over the girl and pulled the door in front of him. It was the only protection they had. More rounds and now shouts. Fox sprang to his feet, weapon held in both hands, instantly acquiring a target. A passenger from the second car was running at full sprint towards him, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. Fox fired the first round, hitting the assaulter in the chest, and then a second, aimed at the head. The man span sideways and crashed to the ground.

Movement from his right. Another X-ray, this one using the houses for cover, was heading his way. Both men fired. Fox ducked again and looked at the girl. She was shaking beneath him. He took a breath and sprang back up. He let off a single shot at the target. The man was moving now, back towards the car as the driver shouted at him wildly. Another target came into view, blocking Fox’s line of fire to the retreating car; this figure was wearing a dark-blue shirt and was racing directly towards the Z4. Taking a millisecond to decide, Fox fired a round into the man’s back.

The second car spun its wheels in a ‘J-turn’ and screeched away. Fox, out of rounds, had no time to grab another weapon as he tried to catch the number plate. All around he saw curtains twitching. Two teenagers wearing hoodies were standing stunned, next to their mini motos, holding up mobile phones, videoing the whole event. On seeing Fox staring at them, they both legged it, carrying their toy bikes.

Fox bent down and pulled the girl to her feet; he spoke to her in Arabic. ‘You’re safe now. I’m going to take the tape off.’

The girl let out a moan of pain as the tape was removed, then started to sob as he undid her bonds. She was about seventeen and beautiful. She held her hands to her face.

‘Come with me.’ Fox reached out gently and took her by the arm. He walked her up his neighbour’s path. Reynolds opened the door, a shocked expression on his face. Fox pushed the girl at him.

‘Jim, look after her.’

Without waiting for a reply Fox moved back to the street and, bending down, checked the nearest X-ray for a pulse. There was none. He kicked the assault weapon away to the side of the road and then moved towards the man with the dark-blue shirt, his former boss, Leo Sawyer. The sales director lay on his back, eyes open, breathing laboured. Fox’s single round had ripped through him, puncturing a lung. Fox aimed the empty weapon at Sawyer’s head and let him hear the ‘dead man’s click’.

Fox felt no remorse; the man had tried to screw him and had screwed his wife. It had been a split-second but conscious decision, his anger and the urge for revenge manifesting itself in the single bullet. He didn’t care if Sawyer lived or died.

Fox didn’t need to check on the two X-rays in the car – he had drilled them at point-blank range; half their skulls were missing. He knew they were dead. Fox took out his mobile and dialled 999. The operator confirmed his mobile number and asked him which service he required, then transferred him. Before he could speak he heard sirens nearing. Fox sat on the kerb and waited to be arrested. He had once again demonstrated to the world that he was only good at one thing – killing.