Executioner? You’re wasting your focken breath.’
‘That wasn’t very nice, Seamus, tellin’ the man me name,’ said Brennan. ‘You might’ve just signed his death warrant. It could go against him at the tribunal . . . I s’pose you told him about our little package?’
‘Ay.The Yank’s not stupid. He knows he’s as dead as I am.’
This was news to Hank.
‘He may well be, but you’re first, Seamus,’ said Brennan. ‘Are you ready, or shall we play a game first?’
‘Fock you, ye sadistic bastard,’ Seamus said.
‘You’re the one who’s focked, Seamus me ole’ pal . . . Get his hood off.’
The men obeyed. Hank tried to visualise what he heard. Seamus hacked and groaned as they treated him roughly, and then their efforts stopped. The hood was obviously off and they were waiting for the next command. Then he heard a noise he knew very well - the double-de-clutch clunk of a pistol being cocked and then the snap and chink as the return spring threw the top slide forward to pick up a bullet and punch it into the breach where it settled snugly, ready to be exploded out of the barrel.
‘It’s a watery grave for you, Seamus,’ Brennan said. ‘You know what the Bible says goes well with water, don’t you? Fire. Fire goes well with water . . . There’s nothing I hate more’en a tout, Seamus.We’ll have some fun with you before we set you in the water.’
‘You’re focken mental, you know that, don’t you, Brennan.’
‘Take him away. Make sure you give his bollocks a good soaking in petrol before you loit him op.’
There was a great deal of shuffling and moaning as they hauled Seamus to the door. ‘Ya focken bastard, Brennan!’ he cried out. Then they were gone. Hank could hear Seamus’s shouts grow fainter as they carried him down the corridor.
It fell gradually silent as they climbed a stairwell.
Hank clenched his fingers to control the slight tremble in them. Nothing could prepare a person for this. No exercise the military could devise. He played Brennan’s words over in his head, trying to clarify them. Something about a tribunal, and Brennan’s name, and a package, obviously the virus. Hank was no longer confident about his survival.
‘Hank,’ a voice said inches from his face, making him flinch. It was Brennan. ‘Hank the Yank . . . I lied when I said there was nothing I hated more ’en a tout.There is one thing. A Pink. I hate Pinks more ’en anything . . . Rumour has it those were Pinks in Paris.Was it Pinks you were working with, Hank?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Hank said, which was true. He had never heard the term before.
‘Any friend of a Pink is an enemy of moine,’ said Brennan. ‘If I can’t have a Pink, I’ll have his friends.’
Brennan’s shoes creaked as he stood, turned and walked across the room and closed the door.
Hank could feel his heart pounding in his chest above the throb of the engines. He was more scared at that moment than at any other time in his life. Then came a sudden shriek of a human in utter agony. It was far away, up on deck, but so shrill it penetrated the very bowels of the ship. Hank tried to cover his ears and leaned his head into a shoulder to block one at least, but it was not enough. He could still hear Seamus as they set him on fire. It lasted only a few seconds but his mind kept replaying it, pure agony. And then it ended with a single gunshot. Hank realised his hands were aching where he had been squeezing the pole too tightly.
Stratton looked up from his desk at several monitors in the corner of the administration room situated on the top floor of the SBS headquarters building. One of them showed a van pulling into the HQ car park. He watched as the doors opened and out of the back climbed three men, all short haired, well built and fresh faced. He would have guessed they were Americans even if one of them had not paused to pack a handful of chewing tobacco into his mouth between his lower lip and gums.
Stratton made his way out of the room and down a flight of stairs.
He walked across a hall and out through the main entrance, passed a large chunk of rock shipped all the way from Gibraltar - a memorial to fallen SBS operatives - and into the car park. He approached the men as they removed the last of their large kitbags from the van.
‘Lieutenant Stewart,’ Stratton said to the taller of the men, guessing he was the team leader.There was something about officers, Brit or American. Most of them looked like officers no matter what they wore. It took a long tour as an undercover operative to sand off the idiosyncrasies.This one had obviously not yet had that experience.
The man looked at him dryly. ‘You Stratton?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Stratton said, ignoring the sir out of habit, but aware offence might be taken. The Americans were big on rank respect, even in Special Forces.
Stewart let his eyes linger on Stratton’s long enough to convey his displeasure, but it was not just because of Stratton’s omission. The SEALs would have been briefed in detail about Hank’s fate and Stratton’s part in it.
‘Pete ’n’ Jasper,’ Stewart said, indicating the other two men, who reflected their boss’s attitude. Stewart would have offered his hand under other circumstances, being a well-bred Texan, but he wanted to convey his sentiments in no uncertain terms. Jasper released a long, brown streak of spit on to the ground as he stared at Stratton.
Stratton was not intimidated by the display. He understood. He might have felt the same, although personally he wouldn’t have made it so obvious under the circumstances. He had learned the wisdom of keeping his thoughts to himself and his options open, especially with strangers. ‘You have a good trip?’ he asked, acting as if he could not read the signs.
‘Great,’ said Stewart, wondering if Stratton was really that thick skinned.
Stratton took out his cell phone and dialled a number. He listened for a few seconds then answered a prompt. ‘Stratton.The SEALs are here . . . Okay, I’ll bring ’em down.’
He put away the phone. ‘We’re going straight into the brief,’ he said to Stewart, who nodded.
‘You can leave your kit there,’ Stratton continued, about to turn back towards the HQ.
‘We’re just gonna leave it here?’ asked Stewart.
‘The driver will stay with it until you come back.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Stewart said.
Stratton squared to him. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Maybe we’ve got some sensitive equipment with us.’
‘What sensitive equipment?’ Stratton asked.
‘I can’t tell you.’
Stratton looked the officer in the eye and allowed his natural coldness to surface. ‘Three things,’ he said. ‘You can’t bring your equipment into the HQ building for security reasons. Second.You don’t bring anything on to this op that I don’t clear. Third. If you don’t trust us, get your fucking arses back in the van and the driver will take you back to the airport . . . sir.’
The two men stared at each other, weighing temperaments and options. Stewart was not easily rattled. He considered his alternatives in a logical manner and went for the simplest, considering the situation. ‘Lead on, Colour Sergeant,’ he said. Stratton turned on his heels and walked on towards HQ block. Stewart glanced at his men, flicked his eyebrows. ‘Attitude,’ he said for their ears only, and they followed.
In the SBS HQ anteroom an armed receptionist inspected the SEALs’ ID. Stratton led the way across the lobby, the walls of which were covered in memorabilia both old and recent: awards, photographs and plaques from various military related organisations from all over the world. Stratton opened a door leading to a staircase that went underground. The walls either side of the stairs also boasted the display of memorabilia, which the Americans snatched glances of as they passed.
At the foot of the stairs Stratton walked along a short corridor to a heavy steel door but the Americans had stopped to look at the last display. Hanging in a glass case was a pale blue ribbon with five tiny stars staggered along it, two on top, three below. It was the American Congressional Medal of Honour, presented to an SBS operative for valour in Afghanistan.
‘I didn’t know they got this,’ said Jasper.
‘He saved a CIA operative’s life at the prison breakout . . . Does that mean we’re even now?’ asked Pete dryly.
Stratton heard it clearly enough. ‘Don’t bury Hank just yet,’ he said.
