Kitabı oku: «Cold Black»
About Alex Shaw
ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.
Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.
Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman or find him on Facebook.
Also by Alex Shaw
Cold Blood
Cold East
Cold Black
ALEX SHAW
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
This edition first published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © Alex Shaw 2018 ISBN: 9780008306335
Version: 2018-07-17
Table of Contents
Cover
About Alex Shaw
Also by Alex Shaw
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Keep Reading …
Dear Reader,
Dear Reader,
About the Publisher
To my wife, Galia, and my sons, Alexander & Jonathan.
To family in England and Ukraine.
Prologue
Harley Street, London, England
Aidan Snow sat on the examination table wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. Dr Durrani poked Snow’s left leg with a gloved index finger, his large, bright eyes focusing intently.
‘Hmm. The incision seems to have healed nicely; the reduction in scar tissue is what we would have hoped for.’ Turning his attention to the right leg, Durrani continued. ‘I’m not as happy with this one, but then you did leave it rather a long time before coming to see me.’
Snow nodded. It hadn’t been his idea to visit the doctor, but a direct command from Jack Patchem, his handler at SIS. Patchem’s view was that no undercover operative could ‘blend in’ if he was riddled with scars. Snow saw no reason to complain.
‘Now the shoulder. Hmm. If you would just raise your arm for me… that will do fine. Any pain at all? Any discomfort?’
‘No.’
‘None?’
‘None,’ Snow lied. He got the occasional twinge from all his old injuries, especially those caused by bullets, but letting the SIS-contracted doctor know that wouldn’t help with his operational status.
Snow was fit – above average, even by army standards – but by the ripe old age of thirty-six, he’d had one leg crushed in a car crash and the other punctured with a round from an AK74. This was in addition to a recent bullet to the right shoulder. Ten years separated the first and second set of injuries, but they had been caused by the same ruthless former Spetsnaz member.
The first injury had led to Snow prematurely leaving the SAS and the second set had caused him to be recruited by Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), or as it was more widely but inaccurately known, ‘MI6’. After rehabilitation of his injuries and a refresher course in the Welsh mountains, competing against the newest SAS Selection hopefuls, he had been passed fit for service.
‘Medical over. You can get dressed now.’ Durrani walked to the sink, removed his gloves, and unnecessarily washed his hands. He straightened his blood-red bow tie. ‘How’s Jack these days?’
The question took Snow by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Jack who?’
‘Good, good, just checking – “loose lips sink ships” as they used to say.’
‘They also make for very bad saxophonists,’ Snow replied as he quickly dressed.
‘What? Oh, very good. Mind if I use that one?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Thank you.’ Durrani smiled and opened the door. ‘Well, all being “well”, I’ll see you this time next year. Goodbye.’
Snow knew better than to shake the doctor’s hand. For a plastic surgeon, Durrani had a strange phobia of ‘personal contact’.
Snow exited Durrani’s examination room and couldn’t help but glance at the pretty receptionist, dressed in her pure white uniform; he could make out the line of a black bra beneath. She smiled at him as he self-consciously looked away and left the building.
Harley Street was busy with lunchtime traffic, businesspeople and a few lost tourists being given directions by a pair of Metropolitan Police officers. Snow headed north towards Regent’s Park and the nearest tube station; he had a meeting with Patchem at their Vauxhall Cross headquarters. Snow cared little for London, although living there was a necessity. It was too noisy and too scruffy, especially compared to some other capital cities. But not Paris. Snow remembered his friend, Arnaud, half-French and always defending the homeland of his mother.
Arnaud had argued that Paris was the ‘capital of Europe’ with its grand architecture. Snow had retorted that the ‘grand architecture’ didn’t make up for the pavements littered with dog shit and the stench of cheap cigarettes. He still blamed himself for what had happened. The events of eighteen months before, in Ukraine, had hit him harder than he had thought possible. Snow’s mental scars, too, had been ‘cosmetically repaired’. Involuntarily he touched his shoulder and felt for the bullet wound, now almost invisible but still aching. Snow had tried to save the life of a friend and failed.
A noise from behind broke his train of thought. A scream. Snow turned. A figure was standing outside Durrani’s building, Middle Eastern or Asian. A voice inside his head tried to tell him something. Snow retraced his steps back towards the doctor’s surgery, his eyes on the entrance. Another scream. Snow broke into a jog. Two men left the building in a hurry; one had his face obscured by bandages. They joined the first, who had now moved from the building and was holding open the door to a waiting Ford Mondeo. There was an object in the hand of the last man to exit the surgery: a handgun.
The gunman looked directly at Snow, who was still running towards him, and pulled the trigger. There was a ‘thud’ as a suppressed 9mm round left the weapon and raced towards the SIS operative. Snow instinctively dived left, down the basement steps of the nearest building, crashing into several bins.
A car door slammed. Winded, Snow raised his head. The Mondeo was now ‘four up’ and pulling away south into traffic. Snow sprinted to the surgery, straining his eyes to see the registration number of the Ford. He had a decision to make: follow the X-rays or check the building.
Snow took the steps up, two at a time. The door to the communal hall was open, as was that to the surgery. He’d hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t find what he did. The receptionist lay sprawled back on her chair, her dress ripped open to expose her breasts. There was a neat bullet hole in her forehead and an explosion of blood on the cream wall behind. Snow swore, fury rising within. He kicked open the doctor’s door and found that Durrani had also been executed. Lying at an acute angle across his desk, he had been double-tapped in the chest then shot once through the skull for good measure.
In a flash, Snow was back out on the street, mobile phone to his ear as he waited for the emergency services to connect him. There was a loud honking from further up the street. The Mondeo was still there, caught up at the traffic lights at New Cavendish Street. Snow had to reach it. He ran faster than before, switching his phone to video-capture mode. Snow heard raised voices from behind and turned. The two Metropolitan Police officers. One saw the open door and went up to investigate, the other followed Snow.
‘Excuse me, sir… sir, excuse me,’ the officer shouted.
Snow continued to intercept the car, while the policeman quickened his pace, one hand on his helmet in what looked like a scene from the ‘Keystone Cops’. Snow drew level with the Mondeo and looked in. Four men, Middle Eastern. The one with the bandages was now removing them; another held a handgun. As Snow aimed his cameraphone at them, a hand grabbed Snow’s shoulder. Snow pivoted and flung his unknown attacker to the ground, his phone dangling by its carry cord. The police officer hit the pavement with force, his helmet spinning off into the traffic.
‘Security Services,’ was all Snow managed to get out, before a round zipped past his face. He fell to the pavement, the lights changed, and the Mondeo moved off. Snow tried to get to his feet but was forcefully pushed flat by the second officer, who had now caught up.
‘Secret Intelligent Service. You’re stopping the wrong person.’
The second officer attempted to place his knee on Snow’s chest. ‘Stay still!’
‘For the love of God…’ Snow twisted and, using his right leg, swept the officer’s legs out from under him. He sprang to his feet. The first officer, now standing, had extended his folding truncheon and was holding it in his right hand.
‘Get down… down!’
‘Get out of the bloody way!’ Snow lurched forward and ducked inside the officer’s advancing arm. He kicked the man in the back of the knee before ripping the truncheon from his hand and hurling it into the street.
Snow sprinted to the end of the road and at the junction reacquired the Mondeo, fifty metres ahead on Wigmore Street, stopped this time by a taxi. He heard sirens now, from Harley Street behind him, an armed response unit arriving on the scene given the sensitive Central London location. As Snow watched, the target vehicle raced off, mounting the pavement and breaking the speed limit. Snow turned and was met with a cloud of CS gas…
‘You… sodding… idiots!’
Hands again tried to clamp him. Eyes streaming, Snow fought back, kicking out at the blurred shapes. One officer went down swearing, the other landed a punch. Snow lost control completely and shoulder-barged the second officer before delivering an uppercut to his unprotected jaw. Both officers were down, hurt.
‘Listen to me!’ Snow yelled. ‘There’s a kill team out there getting away. We need to call it in!’
‘Armed police! Drop your weapon and lie on the floor, facedown.’
Snow shut his still-streaming eyes in disbelief. He slowly placed his phone on the pavement and lay down beside it. A black tactical boot kicked the phone into the gutter.
‘That’s HM Government property. You’ll get a bill!’
‘Be quiet now, please, sir.’
Gloved hands grabbed Snow’s and pulled them behind his back.
His hands secured, Snow was searched before being hoisted to his feet. The tight plasticuffs bit into his wrists. The two ‘beat bobbies’ were looking none too happy.
‘My name is Aidan Snow, I’m an SIS operative. Call Vauxhall Cross – they’ll confirm who I am.’
‘I’m sure we’ll do that at the station,’ the CO19 member mocked.
‘Come along, please, sir,’ a second added.
‘An SIS officer is down and the shooter is getting away. Call it in!’
‘Move!’ The friendly tone evaporated.
Arriving at the secure police station, Snow was led to the front desk for processing. The duty desk officer looked up, unimpressed. The CO19 officer placed a clear plastic bag on the desk. It contained the contents of Snow’s pockets, wallet and phone.
‘Name?’
‘I’m an operative for SIS. Call them.’
‘Your name?’
Snow took a deep breath; they were only doing their jobs, all of them, if badly. ‘Aidan Snow.’
‘Right then, Mr Snow, if you’ll just press your fingers there for me, we’ll scan your prints.’
There was little point in resisting. Snow put his fingers on the scanner. He wasn’t a fan of anyone having his personal information, let alone his fingerprints.
The desk officer looked at the screen and frowned. ‘OK, we’re going to put you in a holding cell until we can confirm your identity.’
Snow shrugged. He had no idea what had been on the scanner screen or even which database had flagged up, but he knew either way he’d be in for a wait.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Sure. How do you take it, shaken not stirred?’
Chapter 1
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.
Chapter 2
Presidential Dacha, Minsk Region, Belarus
Dark hair patted down, burgundy tie, crisp white shirt and dark-blue suit. Sverov admired himself in the mirror. It was important he make the right impression; he was, after all, going to be the first ever head of the Belarusian Intelligence Service – the KGB – to be interviewed by the BBC.
When the BBC had contacted him via the embassy, his initial reaction had been to refuse the journalist an entry visa into the country. However, after a moment’s thought, he’d decided that the potential positive publicity would greatly help the image of Belarus. So he’d replied yes and got his hands on the most recent reports filed by the same journalist to check his credibility.
It was going to be a full half-hour interview for the BBC World programme HARDtalk Extra. Sverov had read with much interest the list of former interviewees, some of whom he greatly admired, while others he would have shot on sight if they ever entered his country. He had advised the President of the benefits this interview would bring and then made him believe it had been his own idea all along. Megalomaniacs like the President, although he never would have admitted to anyone that he thought his leader was one, were easy to manipulate.
Sverov exited the bathroom in the presidential dacha and took his seat in the study. The BBC make-up girl had already applied his, something he found effeminate, but a necessary evil. The sound recordist clipped a microphone to his lapel, a ‘backup’, he had said, to the furry grey sound boom suspended out of shot above his head. The BBC journalist, Simon White, lived up to his name. He was possibly the pastiest individual Sverov had ever met. His thin frame actually looked bigger onscreen but his eyes had a dark intensity.
Sverov had demanded a list of questions a month in advance and made it clear he wouldn’t answer any new ones unless they’d been faxed and agreed. Sverov spoke, in his own opinion, ‘good English’, but had said that, for the actual interview, he would feel more ‘comfortable’ speaking in Belarusian. The producer, however, had asked if the interview could be in English, as this was the style of the HARDtalk series. Sverov accepted his reasoning that, to ‘woo the West’, one must speak their language. For the past month he had been practising with the KGB language instructors. His English was more than ‘good’ – he was in fact fluent – but he wouldn’t have passed for a native speaker. He still had an accent and sometimes paused to find the most appropriate words.
As the crew readied themselves, Sverov noted White’s professionalism, a trait lacking in all Belarusian journalists. This was with the exception of those, of course, who worked for the state-owned Golas Radzimy (Voice of the Motherland) and Narodnaja Volya (The People’s Will). The BBC crew were ready, he was told, to start taping the interview. Sverov nodded and composed himself. He knew in which order the questions were to be asked and had already rehearsed his replies, but he was still sweating and not because of the harsh TV lights. The director gave the cue and White started with his piece to camera.
‘Speaking in 2005, the then United States Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, identified six “outposts of tyranny” around the world. These were Cuba, Iran, Burma, North Korea, Zimbabwe, and Belarus. My guest today is someone who was not at all happy with this statement. Ivan Sverov, Director of the Belarusian State Security Service, the KGB. Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to speak to HARDtalk.’
Sverov nodded. He wasn’t happy with the introduction, either, but had his prepared response to it – the Americans would turn red.
‘Thank you for the opportunity to let me correct the lies perpetuated about my country by the former Bush administration.’
The reply was what White expected. ‘If I may start with what has been said about your President. He has been accused, allegedly, of crushing dissent, persecuting the independent media, political opposition, and rigging elections.’
Sverov frowned. ‘By whom? Certainly not credible governments. President Lukachev has led Belarus for more than fifteen years. He has given us more than fifteen years of stability. Can any of our former Soviet neighbours boast that? Indeed, President Lukachev came to power on his promise to “stop the Mafia”, to root out corruption in the former government. To make accusations of illegal activity against the President is a nonsense!’
Although impressed by the formality of his interviewee’s English, White cut in. ‘What about Secretary of State Rice’s comment labelling Belarus an outpost of tyranny?’
‘Secretary Rice’s assessment was very far from reality. We invited her to see our country for herself. These completely false stereotypes and prejudices were a poor basis for the formation of effective policy in the sphere of foreign relations. On behalf of my government I would like to invite her successor, Mrs Clinton, to visit. Now let us look at the word “tyrant”. What is a tyrant? A tyrant is an individual holding power through a state, a ruler who places the interests of a small group over the interests of others. In this context, President Lukachev has placed the interests of the Belarusian people above the interests of the rest of the world. Let us look at the original meaning of tyrant. In ancient Greece, tyrants were those who had gained power by getting the support of the poor by giving them land and freeing them from servitude or slavery. The word “tyrant” simply referred to those who overturned the established government through the use of popular support. President Lukachev has the popular support. Secretary Rice did not choose her words with care. Perhaps she did not fully understand them?’ Sverov folded his arms. He was very pleased with that reply, especially the wordplay.
White was not perturbed. ‘If I may? The 2007 referendum, which the President won, allowing him to run for a third term, was criticised for being rigged.’
Sverov shook his head in disbelief. ‘Observers were present and they say to the contrary.’
Sverov continued to set out the policies of the Belarusian government and their hopes for wider cooperation with Europe.
White nodded. He was no fool. He had seen the information on the subsequent demonstrations in Minsk, which had been violently dispersed by heavy-handed riot police. ‘Why did the Committee to Protect Journalists describe Belarus as one of the ten worst places to be a journalist?
‘Again, this is based on lies. Let us look at the facts. Since 1994 the President has doubled the minimum wage and combated inflation by reintroducing state control of prices. Is this a bad place to be?’
‘Freedom of the press, is that not important?’
‘All freedom is important. My purpose is to preserve freedom. The state security services exist to preserve freedom.’
White didn’t give up. ‘So why is there no independent press or media in Belarus?’
Sverov tried not to show his anger; the journalist was attempting to lead the interview away from the agreed parameters. Perhaps he had been too hasty to judge White as different from the activists who attempted to attack his government and their achievements? He calmed himself and answered the question.
‘We welcome the media in Belarus; you are evidence of this. Our book-publishing industry is another example of this; it is thriving and we export many Russian-language books to other CIS states.’
White looked at his notes for a moment; the answer had been as expected – evasive. No mention had been made of the many independent newspapers forced to close due to ‘bureaucratic irregularities’, including failure to keep to regular publication dates. He tried a different tack. ‘Is it not true that the problem in Belarus…’
‘Problem!’ Sverov had started to lose his composure.
‘If I may continue? The “problem” is not official censorship, which is explicitly forbidden by your national constitution, but the volume of legislation used to curtail freedom of expression and silence internal dissent?’
Sverov fixed the journalist in the eye, a move the camera did not miss. ‘Such as?’
‘“Discrediting Belarus abroad” and “insulting the President”. These are criminal offences punishable by up to two and five years in jail, respectively.’
‘Yes, they are.’ The KGB Director nodded. ‘These laws protect the reputation and good standing of our country.’
White tried to come in. ‘But…’
Sverov held up his hand. ‘If I may finish? Let me cite one of your own UK laws, “Incitement to racial hatred”. This law makes it illegal to “deliberately provoke hatred of a racial group by distributing racist material to the public or making inflammatory public speeches, creating racist websites, inciting inflammatory rumours about an individual or an ethnic group, for the purpose of spreading racial discontent”.’
There was a pause. Sverov was happy he had remembered the lines word for word. ‘This is exactly what our laws protect against. Inciting racial hatred, against Belarus and its President.’
‘But these laws are being interpreted in a very sweeping manner. Take, for instance, the case of Mikolai Markevich, the editor of the Den newspaper. He was sentenced to eighteen months forced labour in 2002 for allegedly insulting President Lukachev…’
Sverov leaned forward in his seat. ‘Our laws dictate that, for national security reasons, I cannot comment on individual cases.’
‘But would you like to hear what Mr Markevich himself had to say on the matter?’
‘I do not think your audience would want to hear the ranting of a convicted criminal.’
Sverov was on the brink of cancelling the interview but feared the repercussions from the President. He had started well, made some good, persuasive points, and now had to ensure he continued in the same manner. White wasn’t going to make him look small or weak.
White pursed his lips before continuing. ‘The EU has shut its doors to you. Are you not the lonely man of Europe?’
‘Since 1998 we have been an active member of the Non-Aligned Movement, which has some 116 member states. This is the majority of the world community. Belarus, as a NAM member state, is not alone. Belarus has an active economy. We export more than 55% of our gross national product and 80% of our industrial production. There are not many countries in the world with the same coefficients of the export share. By “shutting the door”, the EU is losing a huge amount of trade with us. Therefore, while I would favour Belarus working more closely with EU member states, I believe we would not have much to gain by becoming a member – rather that the EU would gain more.’
‘Surely you can’t mean that?’ White was surprised. This response had been tantamount to Belarus turning her back on the EU.
‘Belarus is fortunate. We have old friends, such as Russia and Ukraine, new friends, such as the other NAM member states, and those whom we are not averse to becoming acquainted with, the EU and the US. However, we are perfectly happy at the moment and certainly not “lonely”. “Our dance card is full,” as you would say.’
‘What about the standard of living in Belarus? Is it not lower than in the West?’
‘By what measure? The number of US-imported goods?’ Sverov shook his head and smiled in what he thought was a scholarly manner. ‘Let us look at the findings of the “Save the Children” report, which compared 167 countries. Belarus has the highest rating for quality of life for women and children among all countries in the former Soviet Union. This is higher even than the new EU member states. Belarus is the leader, in the post-Soviet era, in the production and supply of agricultural goods per person, the GNP share for education, and the share of students of further education among the population. Belarus exceeds all CIS states in the generalised index of human development calculated by the UN. How can we have a “lower standard of living”? Is the UN incorrect?’
White nodded. The Belarusian had an answer for everything, which would make for amusing, if not politically astute, television. He wanted to move the interview on. He would ask about tourism next, then bring up the government ban on certain ‘rock groups’ performing in Belarus.
The interview over, the sound man removed the mic and thanked the Belarusian. Sverov stared at White, who was exchanging words with his unit director. They had far more people than he would have thought necessary recording this programme, but then they were the BBC and, he surmised, must be experts at what they did.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Fouad Al Kabir held his diamond-encrusted Vertu mobile phone in his right hand and counted his worry beads with his left. The call had come directly from his brother, the Saudi ambassador in London. His eldest daughter, Jinan, was safe! Al Kabir gazed out over the city from his high office window and thanked Allah for his daughter’s deliverance.
‘But what of those who took her?’ They had to be punished.
‘Two escaped, the rest are dead,’ replied Umar Al Kabir.
‘You are certain she is not in danger?’ The younger brother wanted the elder’s reassurance.
‘Fouad, it was Jinan who called me herself.’
The sun reflected heavily off the window as it set in the desert sky, a mixture of reds and gold filling the room. Fouad finally let himself relax as Umar relayed what Jinan had told him about how she had been snatched from school and how a man had come from nowhere and saved her.
‘This is a man of honour, brother. He must be rewarded.’
‘I agree,’ replied the ambassador.
‘Where is my daughter now?’
‘She is safe. I will personally collect her, brother; as her uncle I will not leave that to another. I will be with her in an hour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me, brother. We are family.’
Flanked by two large bodyguards on each side, Umar Al Kabir entered his diplomatic Mercedes and ordered the driver to head for Brighton as fast as he could. They would pay no heed to speed limits, enforcement cameras, or traffic police. There had been an attempted kidnapping of a member of the Saudi royal family! Sitting comfortably in his leather seat, Umar Al Kabir dialled a Whitehall number very few people had, and was immediately connected to the British Foreign Secretary.
‘Robert, this is Umar. I have some strange and worrying news to tell you. Someone has tried to kidnap my niece.’
Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London
Left alone in the cell while his details were checked, Fox tried to make sense of the day’s events. He had killed three men, wounded a fourth, saved a child, and ended his marriage, all in the space of a minute. The police had arrived and cordoned off the street, forming a barrier. Arms raised above his head, Fox had approached them and given a description of the remaining X-rays and the Mondeo; however, they seemed more concerned with arresting him, the man responsible for the bodies on the ground. Now, three hours later, he sat in the secure police station being treated like a criminal.
His thoughts again wandered to Sawyer as he relived the scene in his head. Fox had seen the man’s face, had recognised him, and in that moment all his anger, all his frustration, had shot down his arm to his trigger finger. It wasn’t an accident; it had been a conscious decision. However, that would be difficult to prove. Sawyer had been in the way – in his line of sight during a firefight – and was an unfortunate victim of crossfire.
What about the kids’ videos? The fact that Sawyer had decided to run, to leave Tracey, proved he wasn’t a real man. What of his Tracey? This, he regretted – losing her. He could never be with her again, not now she had betrayed him, even if she forgave him for shooting her lover. It was his code: loyalty. Fox wasn’t a man to forgive betrayal; he hadn’t done in the past and he wouldn’t now. Shooting Sawyer was rough justice but in his mind was just that – ‘just’. Tracey would have to accept this and move on.
Fox shook his head and chuckled to himself demonically. Shit, he had felt more alive in that minute than at any other time since leaving the Regiment. Like a boxer making a successful comeback for the world title, he had felt elated. He had killed but more importantly he had saved. Saved the life of an innocent schoolgirl. In the Almighty’s book of ‘good and bad deeds’, he was sure saving her cancelled out ending the life of a terrorist or even a philanderer. Sawyer, a pathetic little man who hadn’t only cheated on his own wife, but taken another’s?
Fox felt bad for Sawyer’s wife, that was all; the man had no children. Fox wasn’t religious but in situations like this, after he had killed, he would sit and reason it out. This, however, had been the first time he had shot a man who wasn’t endangering his own life, an unarmed civilian. His first attempted murder? Perhaps Sawyer was dead; he had been told nothing.
The cell door opened, breaking his train of thought. A uniformed police officer, with greying temples, pointed at Fox. ‘Get up and follow me.’
Fox rose and walked out of the cell; the door was shut behind him by a second officer. The three men walked down a harshly lit corridor to an interview room. The door opened and he was ushered inside. A further two officers were sitting at the metal table.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Fox.’ DCI Mincer was fifty-five and had a round face that tended to put those he questioned at ease. These were enviable traits in a member of the anti-terrorist squad. Fox sat and Mincer started the tape recorder.
‘Interview with James Celtic Fox. Officers present, DC Flynn and DCI Mincer.’
Fox smirked at the second name; Mincer gave him a look that said, ‘I’ve heard it all before’.
‘Interviewee has declined the offer of counsel.’ Mincer started the interview. ‘Mr Fox. Can I call you James?’
‘Only my mother calls me James. My name’s Paddy.’
‘Can I call you Paddy?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Paddy, we’ve checked the information you gave to our desk sergeant and I have a couple of questions.’
‘Fire away.’
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