Ultimate Weapon (13 page)

‘How do we know when it’s safe to breathe?’ asked Rob.

Sutton coughed. ‘Not very technical, I’m afraid. You take the mask off and give the air a bit of a sniff. At each stage of the operation, you have to nominate someone who is “least mission critical”.’

‘And he tests the air …’ said Rob.

‘You just nominated yourself,’ said Steve. ‘Thanks, mate.’

Sutton ignored the remark, and tapped the map again. ‘We’re putting you in two miles to the east of the perimeter of Baghdad. Mr Bradley knows the place, so if you can get him to stay awake, he might be able to help you find your way into the city.’

Steve, Rob and Matt laughed, and Jed smiled weakly. You had to get used to the Ruperts trying to rile you up. It came with the territory.

Jed glanced up. Laura was standing at the entrance to the room. She looked towards him, but there was nothing he could read into her expression.

‘Good luck,’ said Sutton. ‘If you can come back with the pictures we need of some real WMD, then you’ll probably all get a personal phone call from Tony Blair. Get as much information on the place as you can.
Pictures, files, anything. When you’ve finished, blow it up.’

‘What happens if the war starts when we’re there?’ said Steve.

Sutton shook his head. ‘It’s not going to,’ he replied. ‘The Americans tell us it is going to be at least another three weeks until they’ve got enough troops in the area for the fun and games to begin. And they’re still trying to persuade the Turks to let them come in from the north. So don’t worry. You’ll be well out of the place before the starting gun gets fired.’

‘Is there an evacuation procedure if we get compromised?’ said Steve.

‘No, if that happens you’re buggered,’ said Sutton. ‘You have to fight your way out the best you can. It’s 120 miles down to the Kuwaiti border, and our boys should be punching their way upcountry pretty quick once the kick-off starts, so your best bet is to head south and hope to break through to our lines.’

‘Are there any Iraqis we can turn to for assistance?’ persisted Steve.

‘Apart from the guy who is going to meet you off the Black Hawk, you’re on your own.’

‘I thought the British and Americans had people on the ground working for us.’

‘They might do,’ said Sutton. ‘But we can’t risk compromising any of them by letting you boys get in touch with them.’

Laura stepped into the room. ‘I know this isn’t the most popular mission you’ve been asked to undertake,’
she said. ‘It probably isn’t the most popular war either. Never will be. But we’ve got a job to do. And, trust me, there are dangerous weapons in that country. If you can get in there and get the evidence, you’ll be doing a great service for your country. Probably greater than you can imagine.’

Matt sat back in his chair. ‘Why are we getting pictures?’ he said. ‘If we know it’s WMD, why can’t we just blow the place? It would be a lot easier.’

‘Because that’s the mission,’ growled Sutton. ‘The point of this Regiment is that the mission is meant to make sense,’ said Matt. ‘We’re special forces, not robots.’

‘We need the pictures because we’re in the bloody spin business now,’ said Sutton. ‘We all are. Get used to it.’

The office was in one of the tangle of side streets that ran behind St Pancras Station up towards Camden. It was on the first floor: there was a bookmaker below, and a legal aid solicitor above. Perfect, thought Nick. Somewhere to waste your money after you had made it. And a guy to help you out with whatever trouble you got into after blowing your wad. The army guys who come here looking for work will have everything they need.

He knocked twice on the door. BTM Security was one of hundreds of little outfits that made up the circuit – the network of former Regiment men who rented out their lives by the hour or the day. The name came from the initials of its three founders: Barry Teal, Tim Ruff and Mark Seal. Seal had long since retired to the Costa del Sol – according to the gossip he’d helped out some gangsters with a job, and was putting his feet up on the rewards. Tim, who Nick had served with in the Regiment, had never taken to desk work, spending most of his time out in the field. So it was Barry, the smartest of the three of them, who actually ran the business. Nick had done a couple of jobs for him after he gave up the
ski school, but BTM specialised in the sharp end of the trade – kidnappings, insurgencies and counterterrorism – and Nick soon found he wasn’t cut out for that any more. He preferred quieter protection work on the rigs. Still, they’d always got along fine. It wasn’t the best outfit in the business, Nick thought, but it was the best connected. If anything was going on, Barry would be sure to know about it.

‘You keeping well?’ said Teal, stepping forward to shake his hand. ‘How are the rigs?’

Nick nodded. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘The food is pretty miserable, but the pay is OK.’

‘And nothing ever happens, does it?’ said Teal. ‘The Algerians always think that someone is going to have a pop at their oil installations but nobody ever does. I don’t think any of those al-Qaeda nutters or the rest of the ragheads even know where the bloody place is.’

‘Quiet, and that’s the way we like it,’ said Nick.

He had travelled down to London that morning on the early-morning train. From Paddington, he’d taken the tube to King’s Cross St Pancras. After spending the night in the cottage, he felt certain that it wasn’t being watched any more, but he couldn’t be certain: when a professional was tracking you, they did their best to make sure the target was not aware of them. He’d searched the field at dawn, but found nothing. As he drove towards Hereford to pick up the train, he’d seen nobody on the road. Even so, in London he switched tube trains four times, tracking back on himself, to see if there was anyone on his trail.

But he’d seen nothing.

That doesn’t mean anything, he reminded himself.
Just because you couldn’t see them, it doesn’t mean they weren’t there.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Nick. ‘A bloke who might be on the circuit.’

His reasoning was simple enough. He had the guy’s name, Keith Merton, but he had no idea who he was, or who he might be working for. Chances were he was a circuit guy, however. He had the bearing, manner and discipline of a solider: he knew when to fight, and when to run, the first distinction they taught you on any kind of military training. If he had been hired out of the army, then someone in the network of private contactors would know who he was. And who he was working for.

‘His name’s Keith Merton,’ said Nick. ‘Irish guy. Big.’

Teal looked at him closely. There was a mass of papers on his desk, left in random piles. Next to it was a pair of coffee cups and a half-eaten bacon sandwich. How the guy had survived military cleanliness and order, Nick couldn’t imagine.

‘It’s not a grudge, is it, Nick?’ said Teal.

Nick knew at once what he was driving at. The circuit was a small and often vicious world. The men on it were constantly clashing with one another. The missions were often dangerous, and usually badly led. There were plenty of incidents of guys coming back with scores to settle with the men they’d been fighting with just a few weeks earlier: those debts were invariably settled with violence.

‘Family business,’ said Nick flatly. ‘I’ve nothing against
the guy, I just want to get hold of him.’ He looked straight at Teal. Whether he believed him or not he neither knew nor cared.
Just give me the lead …

Teal was tapping the keyboard of the computer on his desk. ‘There’s a couple of Keith Mertons on the list,’ he said. ‘How old is this bloke?’

‘Maybe forty,’ said Nick. ‘Could be a bit younger.’

Teal nodded. ‘He’s done work for an outfit called Energy Protection down in Chatham,’ he said.

Nick rested his arms on the desk. He could feel the sweat on his palms. ‘That rings a bell,’ he said.

‘It should, with all the time you spend on oil rigs,’ said Teal. ‘Not a bad little outfit, but very rough. They specialise in working for the big oil companies. All the nasty little jobs that have to get done but you wouldn’t want put in the annual report.’

‘Protecting rigs, that kind of thing?’

Teal shook his head. ‘More upmarket than that. Toppling regimes in Africa, rescuing hostages, and a bit of industrial espionage as well from what I hear. Small scale and very expensive.’

‘Who runs it?’

‘Bloke called Danny Stonehill.’

‘Regiment?’

Teal shook his head again. ‘Irish Guards, a colonel. There was some kind of scandal, and he bailed out about five years ago and set up this business. Cruel bastard by reputation.’

‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ said Nick as he stood up and headed for the door.

Teal laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll collect,’ he said. ‘I always do.’

The building was smarter than Nick had expected. Most of the security firms he’d dealt with over the years spent about as much on their offices as they did on their mother-in-laws’ Christmas presents. The guys who organised his work on the Algerian rigs had a couple of rooms above a kebab shop in Kilburn. ‘Good to have your own canteen,’ Dave who ran the accounts would always say on the rare occasions Nick went into the place.

Energy Protection was different. It was sited above a smart-looking dental surgery on the London Road in Chatham. The nameplate was picked out in brass, and looked as if it was polished once a week. Nick rang the bell. ‘I’m here to see Danny Stonehill,’ he said, and the buzzer was pressed.

There was just one guy inside when Nick pushed open the door that led into the office. He was wearing brown cords and a yellow and brown checked shirt, open at the neck. His hair was sandy blond, with flecks of grey around the edges, but he looked in good shape. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Are you Danny Stonehill?’

The man nodded.

Nick paused. He’d thought about how he would question Stonehill. All the private firms on the circuit were fiercely protective of their clients. There weren’t many rules in the industry, but the one everyone stuck
to was this: Don’t stitch up the guys who are paying the bills. If Merton was working for Energy Protection, then Stonehill wouldn’t want to tell Nick about it.
At least not willingly.

‘I’m looking for a man called Keith Merton. I heard he works for you sometimes.’

Stonehill shrugged, glancing at the door. Nick could see straight away what he was thinking. It was written into every muscle on his face.
How little can I get away with telling this guy?

‘And you are … ?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nick. ‘Just some guy who wants to find Merton.’

No good telling him who I am, thought Nick. If he set Merton on to me, then as soon as he knows who I am, he’s going to clam up completely.

‘Have I seen you before somewhere?’ said Stonehill. He took a step forward, examining Nick the way he probably used to examine men on the parade ground. ‘I was in the army,’ said Nick. ‘From ’75 to ’95. Same years you served.’

‘Which regiment?’

‘There only is one.’

Stonehill nodded. An army man himself, thought Nick, he would know precisely how tough you had to be to get into the SAS, and how hard it was to survive there. He wouldn’t underestimate his strength, or challenge it lightly.

‘And who says I know who Merton is?’

Nick glanced around the office. The room they were
standing in was a reception area, but it didn’t look like it was ever staffed. There was a desk and a chair, but no computer or phone. Behind it were two offices, one with the door opened. Nick stepped towards it.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ snapped Stonehill.

‘We need to talk in private.’

It was Stonehill’s office, Nick could tell that instantly. It had ‘the boss’ stamped all over it. There was an antique desk, with an Apple laptop resting on it. Next to that a landline phone, and two mobiles. Clearly a man who likes to have lots of different conversations at once, thought Nick. On the floor was a Persian rug, and there was a fine piece of African wood-carving in one corner. Up on the walls were two paintings, both of hunts, and one photograph: a stylish brunette, and two boys, aged around two and three. The family, thought Nick.
Every man’s weak point.

Nick stood with his back to the desk. ‘I’ll give you a chance to deal with me straight before this turns nasty,’ he said, his tone hard and edgy. ‘Two guys have been following me and my phone has been tapped. I got into a scrap with them a couple of nights ago. I don’t know why they were following me, but my daughter has disappeared, and I’ve got a pretty good idea they’ve got something to do with it.’ He looked straight at Stonehill, clenching his fists as he did so. ‘One of them was Keith Merton. The guy works for you. Now, save yourself a lot of trouble and tell me who hired Merton, and what the hell he was doing following me.’

‘Get the fuck out of my office,’ spat Stonehill.

He was leaning against the edge of the door frame. Nick edged forward. Stonehill was a big man, over six foot two, and weighing around two hundred pounds. He may look in good shape, but he was management now, decided Nick, sitting around on his arse all day making phone calls and playing with his spreadsheets. In a scrap, a man who still worked with his muscles was always going to have the edge: he was fitter, sharper, and he knew how to take a punch as well as dish one out. ‘I’ve given you a fair warning,’ he growled.