Faraday nodded. Special Ops was a tiny department of the Hantspol intelligence empire that supervised the deployment of u/c officers.
Terry McNaughton would be the handler charged with running Wallace, sharing the debrief with Nick Hayder after each new instalment of the Tumbril story.
'You could help me here,' Faraday said slowly.
'How?'
'By telling me exactly the way it's gone so far. There's no point me trying to snow you. Twenty-four hours ago I was looking at a pretty much empty desk. Now this.'
'No one's briefed you?'
'Willard's handed me the file. I've talked to the team. This isn't a three-day event.'
'You're right.' Wallace appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, then shrugged and lit a small, thin cheroot before settling himself full-length on the bed. 'Where do you want me to start?'
Faraday hesitated. In cases like these, Nick Hayder and Terry McNaughton would deliberately limit the background knowledge shared with the u/c. The last thing they wanted was Wallace in conversation with the target unintentionally revealing more than he should have known.
'Nick and your handler would have sorted a first meeting.'
'That's right. We met in London.'
'When was that?'
'Before Christmas. Second week in December.'
'What did they tell you?'
'They said they were mounting a long-term op against a drugs target, major dealer. Full flag, level three. Bloke called Mackenzie. The way Nick told it, this Mackenzie was into some serious business. Nick said he'd been pouring washed drugs money into all kinds of local investments bars, restaurants, property, hotels, all the usual blinds.
Everything was sweet, ticking away, lots of nice little earners, but there was something missing. Nick called it profile.'
Faraday nodded. He'd heard Imber use the same word. Mackenzie, he'd explained drily, wasn't just interested in owning half of Pompey. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be Mr. Portsmouth, to have his name up there in lights. King of the City.
'So?'
'So my job was to make it hard for him to get that profile. Nick said he was after a particular property, really hot for it, a place that would give him everything he'd ever wanted. According to Nick, he was already halfway there. I'm the bloke that comes in with a counter-bid.'
'And the property?'
'No one's told you?'
'No. That's why I'm asking.'
'Right.' Wallace was studying the end of his cheroot. 'It's Spit Bank Fort.'
'You're serious?'
'Absolutely.'
'It's inhabited?'
'Yes. I've been out there. There's a German woman in charge, Gisela Mendel. She's running some kind of language school.'
'And she's in on this? Or is the place really for sale?'
'I've no idea.'
'That means no.'
'That means I've no idea.'
There was a knock on the door. Faraday got to his feet. A woman gave him a plate of thick-cut tuna sandwiches and told him she'd left the bill at reception. Back in his chair, attacking the sandwiches, Faraday tried to puzzle his way through this latest development.
Spit Bank was one of three Victorian sea forts guarding the approaches to Portsmouth Harbour. Half a mile out to sea from Southsea beach, it had been built to keep the French at arm's length. If Nick was serious about Mackenzie's thirst for profile, it was the perfect choice: a stubby granite thumb the size of a modest castle. Take a walk along the se afront and you couldn't miss it.
'So you've come in as a rival bidder?'
'That's right. As far as I can gather, Mackenzie opened negotiations after Christmas.'
'At what price?'
'I haven't a clue. The asking price is one and a quarter mil and she's definitely been negotiating him up, but I don't know where the bidding stands right now.'
'And you?'
'I came in about a fortnight ago. 900,000 contingent on a full survey.' He smiled. 'Mackenzie can't believe it.'
'How does he know?'
'Gisela told him.'
'And you've talked to Mackenzie?'
'Twice. Both times on the phone.'
'He called you?'
'For sure, straight after he hassled Gisela for my number.' Wallace rolled off the bed a moment, reaching for an ashtray, then lay back again. 'He thought he'd squared the woman away, nice clear run.
Believe me, I'm the last guy he needs around. Nine hundred grand? You must be off your fucking head?
Wallace's take on Mackenzie's Pompey accent was faultless, and Faraday found himself grinning. The dim outlines of Nick Hayder's sting were at last beginning to emerge.
'You think he'll try and take care of you?'
'One way or another.' He nodded. 'Yeah.'
'How?'
'No idea. The perfect end game has him bunging me a kilo or two of charlie but don't hold your breath.'
'How would that work?'
'No one's explained the legend?'
'No.' Once again, Faraday shook his head.
Every undercover officer has a legend, an assumed identity which must take him over. The best of them, Faraday knew, were indivisible from their new personalities. They lived, ate and slept what they'd become.
Graham Wallace was playing a twenty-nine-year-old property developer.
He'd made his fortune with a hefty commission on a 98 million shopping plaza in Oman and was back in the UK to enjoy the spoils. He had an office in Putney, a flat overlooking the river, and a Porsche Carrera for his expeditions out of town. A couple of investments had already caught his eye. One of them was a Tudor manor house in Gloucestershire he planned to turn into a health spa. Spit Bank Fort was another.
'As far as Mackenzie's concerned, I'm thinking five-star hotel — gourmet cooking, de luxe accommodation, helicopter platform on the roof for transfers from Heathrow, the works.'
'That's huge money.'
'You're right. But that's the point. I told him about the Cotswold place, too. It's got fifteen acres. They're asking three mil five.'
'Why the detail?'
'Nick wanted him to check me out. The Cotswold place is part of the legend. The bloke that owns it is on side Nick warned him to expect a call from Mackenzie.'
'And?'
'Mackenzie phoned him a couple of days ago. They had a long conversation and the bloke finally admitted he'd turned my offer down.
Said he'd made calls of his own and the Oman story didn't check out.
Said he thought the money was dodgy.'
'Drugs money?'
