Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World (2 page)

‘The negligence,’ said Gleason, ‘is in your people not storing the weapons securely.’

‘Your man started playing with it!’ insisted Wilson. ‘That’s hardly our fault.’ He sighed. ‘Look,
this doesn’t need to get out of hand.’

Gleason stared at the sidearm in his hand. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t like being on the thin end of this deal. Under-informed and one man down, just because you guys like to feel superior. I got to think to myself: what’s the best way forward for me and my men?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, that’s what I got to think…’

He pulled the trigger and shot Wilson in the head.

‘Door,’ he said, nodding at Mills. He scratched at his grey crewcut as the soldier ran towards the heavy metal door and bolted it shut.

‘What the hell, Colonel?’ Shaeffer shouted.

‘Soldier,’ said Gleason, ‘I hear one more word out of you, you’ll be as dead as him.’ He gestured towards Wilson. ‘It’s down to you that I’m thinking on my goddamned feet here.’

‘How was I supposed to—’

Gleason charged at Shaeffer, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the bulkhead. He forced the barrel of his sidearm into the man’s mouth. ‘I’m serious, soldier!’ he bellowed. ‘Shut up, OK?’

Shaeffer nodded, his teeth clicking against the metal of the gun barrel.

Lieutenant Colonel Mulroney was sat below deck on the American boat, the remaining members of the platoon, Sergeants Joe Leonard and David Ellroy, alongside him.

When his radio crackled, Mulroney grabbed it quickly. ‘Sir?’

‘You’re on,’ said Gleason’s voice. ‘Assume you’re expected and mind the damn hold.’

‘Roger that.’ Mulroney grabbed his rifle and turned to Leonard and Ellroy. ‘OK, boys, we’re ball-deep even quicker than usual, let’s go to the rescue, shall we?’

When Commander Harris heard the gunshot he knew that his instincts not to trust the Americans had been right.

‘Be ready,’ he shouted, raising his rifle. ‘Sounds like our visitors have turned nasty.’

He detailed four of his men below deck while he led the rest of his limited company towards the gangplank adjoining the ships. Damn the security service and it’s bloody secrecy, he thought. I should have a full complement of men and the support of the Navy at my back. Not a handful of young ratings and no idea of what we’re defending.
You’re defending your lives
, came a quiet voice inside his head, just as he saw a small object sail above their heads.
Oh God
…

‘Grenade!’ he shouted, as its metal casing bounced off the side of the boat with a
clang
.

The explosion ripped out a chunk of the bridge and sent several men screaming overboard. Harris had run towards stern the moment he’d seen the grenade, hoping to outdistance the worst of the blast. He felt the heat lift him from his feet and push him through the air. He clutched his rifle tight to his chest and rolled with the momentum as he hit the deck. Skidding against the railings, he lifted his rifle with shaking arms and pointed it
past the fire and smoke to the other boat. His head buzzed, ears whining. He could smell burning hair, probably his own.

A couple of shapes moved beyond the smoke, and a pair of zip-lines snaked across from the Americans’ boat to their own. Yeah, thought Harris, not that bloody clever, are you? Took out the gangway, you stupid, sloppy bastards.

As soon as a shape appeared on the line, he fired at it. His aim was off, his arms shaking, his vision blurred and unreliable. A spray of machine-gunfire came from the American boat. Mopping up, Harris thought. Killing my boys. He tried to aim his rifle again, sure he saw one of the yanks walking towards him. He blacked out for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the setting sun was almost entirely blocked out by a figure standing over him.

‘Any survivors?’ an American voice called from the other end of the boat.

‘No,’ said the man standing over him. For a moment, Harris thought the man had mistaken him for dead. Then, as the shadow raised a handgun towards him and pulled the trigger, he realised the man hadn’t been mistaken at all.

Gleason was sat on the lip of one of the packing crates as the muffled noise of a grenade explosion above them was followed by gunfire. Shaeffer was still standing with his back against the bulkhead, apparently frozen by his commanding officer’s actions.

‘What are we going to do, Colonel?’ asked Mills,
a young kid from the Midwest who was still new enough at this to think he was about God’s work.

From beyond the door came the sound of more gunfire. Three quick bursts then silence.

‘We’re going to take what we came for,’ Gleason replied as his radio crackled in his hand.

‘All clear, sir,’ said Mulroney’s voice. ‘What’s the code?’

‘JF323B,’ Gleason told him.

‘Check,’ came the reply, followed by three electronic bleeps and the clunk of the door unlocking. Mulroney stepped inside. ‘We’re good to go,’ he said.

‘Then let’s get on with it,’ said Gleason. ‘But treat the crates carefully, they’re not secure.’

‘Great,’ Mulroney replied. ‘Hey, where’s Lupé?’

Shaeffer looked nervously towards Gleason. The older man shook his head. ‘God alone knows.’

American Airlines flight AA2010 was two hours out of Fort Worth. Captain Roger Walker turned to his First Officer, Janice Albright, smiled, and imagined the two of them under Cancun sunshine. Then he imagined Janice’s husband sat on a sun-lounger between them, and the mental image turned sour.

‘About half an hour till we land,’ he said, brushing a few crumbs of tuna wrap off his chest. ‘Just catch happy hour.’

‘Every hour’s happy on your salary,’ Janice replied with a smile.

‘I’ll buy the first round then,’ said Roger, pretending not to notice the slight twinge of
discomfort on Janice’s face as he leaned closer. ‘I know how to show a girl a good time.’

He leaned back in his seat and tried to think of something innocuous to fill the awkward silence left by his clumsy flirtation. He had just struck on the idea of mentioning the recent reshuffle of the long-haul roster (as close to verbal paint-drying as he could imagine) when they were both startled by the sudden appearance of Oscar Lupé.

The man was embedded in the flight controls in front of them, a single clenching hand outstretched towards Roger.

‘Inside me,’ the soldier said, his voice cracking. ‘Feel it inside me.’

‘Jesus!’ screamed Roger. ‘Where the hell did he—’

Which was all he managed before the Boeing 747 with its full complement of passengers went into free fall and such questions were pushed far away.

There are many pleasurable things a man can do in Nassau. A lot of them involve oil, sunshine and staring at beautiful people in swimwear. If the pleasure of the sands palls, there are restaurants, bars and a casino where the aforementioned beautiful people go to lose all their money in nice surroundings. One thing you will never find recommended is sitting in the back of a white van surrounded by enough electrical equipment to stock a small branch of Radio Shack. This is because vans, as large metal boxes, are extremely stupid things to sit in while the sun shines. The only people unfortunate enough to do it are pool-cleaning contractors and CIA operatives pretending to be pool-cleaning contractors.

‘What the hell have you been eating in here?’ Rex sniffed again, the need to pin down this odour going beyond self-preservation. ‘Boiled sneakers?’

‘I had a wrap earlier,’ Ted replied.

‘A wrap? What sort of wrap? Fried goat?’ Rex snorted deep. ‘I think I actually bruised my nose,
it’ll bleed in a minute. Seriously, your smell is that bad.’

‘My smell? How do you know it’s me?’

‘Because I’m a civilised son of a bitch and I only just got here.’ Rex shook his head, ‘Unbelievable, like someone stood in a dead guy and tracked it in.’

‘I can’t smell anything.’

‘Burned out your glands. Probably never smell again.’

‘So let me get out, get some fresh air.’

‘OK, but you make it quick and keep out of sight. The Russians see a fat white boy in a cheap suit they’re going to know the CIA’s in town.’

‘Screw you.’

Ted stepped outside, and Rex snatched at the brief guff of fresh air before the doors closed again.

‘Ambrosia,’ he said.

He lifted the headphones and placed one ear to them. There was the second-hand sound of tinny gangsta rap. A weedy Russian voice attempting to sing along.

‘You’re so cool, Dmitri,’ said Rex. ‘If only your friends in St Petersburg could hear you now.’

Dmitri Lakhonin’s ‘friends’ were the Ukrainian Boiko family, major players in the heroin trade. The CIA had decided to groom Lakhonin as a potential source of intelligence. Intelligence in the espionage sense, of course – you only had to hear him sing to realise the word wouldn’t be appropriate any other way.

Rex wrapped the headphones around his neck
and reached for a magazine Ted had discarded. He kept one ear on Dmitri as he flicked through its pages. There was nothing worth reading, movie stars and fashions. He peeled out a sample sachet of aftershave and slipped it into his pocket. He had established that Ted had no interest in improving body odour, so it would be a waste to leave it. There was the sound of knocking from the headphones, and Rex tipped his head slightly to listen. Dmitri switched off the music.

‘Who is it?’ he asked in highly accented English.

‘Room service,’ a voice replied, chuckling.

Rex pulled the headphones on. Since when did room service find itself funny? He heard the sound of a semi-automatic being racked and guessed Dmitri was wondering the same thing. Either that or the turndown service put him on edge.

The bedroom door opened, and Rex heard a Bahamian voice: ‘Here you are, my friend. I bring her safe and sound, yes? You got a nice tip for me?’

Rex sighed. Looked like Dmitri had ordered up some company. If there was one thing worse than listening to the man’s singing… There was a rustle of paper as money was exchanged and the door closed.

‘Hey, honey,’ Dmitri said, now alone with the girl. ‘You got some sugar for Daddy?’

There was no reply, and Rex began to feel uncomfortable. Something about this wasn’t right.

‘You’re beautiful,’ said Dmitri. ‘Really beautiful.
How old are you?’

The answer was quiet, barely even registered by the microphone.

Rex sat there for a moment, a shiver running through him before he yanked off the headphones, opened the back of the van and ran towards the hotel.

Rex forced himself to stop running when he entered the hotel lobby. This was bad enough, without making a public scene. He moved towards the elevators and hit the call button, grinding the toes of his shoes against the marble tiles of the lobby floor. ‘Come on, come on…’

He watched as the counter worked its way down.

The doors opened. A solitary man stood inside. He was well dressed but local. What the hell, Rex thought, I might as well
really
screw this up.

‘You just seen Dmitri in room 1204?’ he asked as the man made to step past him. The surprised look on the man’s face was reflected in the elevator’s mirrored walls and more than enough evidence for Rex.

He smiled his best ‘absolutely not up to anything’ smile, glanced around to make sure nobody was watching, punched the pimp in the throat and stepped after him into the elevator. He pressed the button for the twelfth floor, the pimp clutching at his throat and wheezing. Rex brought his knee up into the man’s face and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to stop him falling to the floor.

‘Stay with me,’ he said. ‘We’re going back upstairs.’

The pimp took a thin breath and reached inside his jacket. Rex thought that was a bad idea, shoving him back against the mirrored wall of the elevator. He stepped in close so the pimp didn’t have room to extend his arms, especially the one that likely now had a weapon at the end of it. Rex grabbed the wrist inside the pimp’s jacket and pulled out the man’s hand.

‘What have we got?’ he asked, glancing at the counter that showed the elevator was nearly at the twelfth floor.

The pimp was holding a small switchblade. Rex pulled a back-handed slap across the man’s face and then reached for the knife, twisting back the man’s little finger to get it. There was a crack and the pimp cried out. Rex slipped the knife, hilt-first, up the left-hand sleeve of his suit jacket, holding it in place with his little finger. With his right hand he yanked the pimp in front of him as the elevator arrived at the twelfth floor.

‘Stand up straight,’ said Rex. ‘If you look nice and presentable when that door opens, I might not kill you.’

The doors opened and a cheerful bell sounded along an empty corridor. Rex looked over the pimp’s shoulder, giving the shaking man a smile.

‘Don’t worry, I could tell you were trying. Back to 1204.’

Rex pushed him out of the elevator, reaching for the handgun that he would avoid using if possible.

‘Knock,’ he told the pimp once they were outside Dmitri’s door. ‘Quickly. Tell him you need to come in.’

The pimp did as he was told.

Inside they could hear Dmitri swearing as he came to answer the door.

‘What?’ he asked, opening the door a crack. Rex shoved the pimp forward so that the door swung open and Dmitri fell backwards, the weight of the pimp knocking him to the floor. Rex kept moving, wanting to overwhelm Dmitri before he could use the loaded gun he knew the man would be holding. He had underestimated Dmitri’s speed – the gun was up and firing before Rex had even cleared the doorway. The pimp took the shot, losing his ear and what remained of his cool.

Rex fired as the pimp started screaming. A small red dot appeared in Dmitri’s forehead, and his rapping skills and sexual preferences splattered over the wall behind him. Rex brought the handle of his revolver down on the back of the pimp’s head, closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed for a second, wondering how best to deal with this.

The sound of crying intruded on his thoughts. In the corner of the room, huddled and afraid, sat a young Bahamian girl.

Rex holstered his gun, and dropped the pimp’s switchblade into his jacket pocket. He yanked a blanket off the bed and walked over to the girl. He draped the blanket around her, wrapping it several times to try and cover her tiny body.