you’re out. Got it?’
Doyle eyed the older man impassively for a moment. ‘Does this mean you’re offering me a job?’ he wanted to know.
‘Look on it as a trial. If you do well on the first one, there’ll be others. I know it’s not what you want but what choice do you have?’
‘Not much by the look of it.’
Cartwright looked at him. ‘Have you got a suit?’ he asked.
‘I did have. I don’t know whether it still fits.’
Then get a new one. I want you at number twenty-six Upper Brook Street at twelve tomorrow.’
‘So I’ve got the job.’
‘Yes you have. Don’t mess it up. For your sake.’
‘Am I supposed to say thanks?’
‘You’re not supposed to say anything, Doyle.’
There was a heavy silence, finally broken by the former counter terrorist.
‘What about weapons?’ he asked. ‘Do I carry them?’
‘It depends on the job. You’ll be informed by me or by other operatives working with you.’
‘Who’s working with me tomorrow?’
Two of my best people. They’ve been on this job for the last month. One’s a driver.The other’s a personal bodyguard.’
‘Who’s the client?’
‘Sheikh Karim El Roustam and his family. You might have heard of him. He’s a Saudi prince. One of the richest men in the world and paranoid about assassination. He’s over here for talks with the owners of Aspreys, the jewellers. He wants to buy the company for his wife.’
Doyle smiled. ‘Who’s guarding him?’
‘Melissa Blake and Joe Hendry. They’ve both been with me for over six years.
They’re two of my best. You’ll take your instructions from them. You’ve got no problem working with a woman have you?’
Doyle shook his head.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Stay in the background,’ continued Cartwright.‘Do as you’re told. And, Doyle, try not to shoot anybody. Especially the Sheikh.’
Doyle nodded.‘I’ve never done security work in my life and you’re ready to let me walk into a situation like this?’ he asked.
‘You’ve got to learn somehow.AII my operatives had to. Now go and get yourself a suit, some decent shirts and shoes and a bloody tie. Try Burberry’s.’
Doyle got to his feet.
‘You might want to get your hair cut too,’ Cartwright added.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Doyle told him.
Cartwright stood too and extended his right hand. Doyle shook it.
‘Don’t disappoint me, Doyle,’ said Cartwright.‘You’ve been given another chance. Not many people get that. Take it.’
Doyle turned and walked out.
‘Remember,’ Cartwright called after him. Twenty-six Upper Brook Street. Twelve o’clock. Don’t be late.’
He heard Doyle’s footsteps receding down the stairs.
Cartwright crossed to the window, wincing slightly from a recurring stiffness in his back and leg. He looked out into the street where he could see the former counter terrorist heading away from the building.
After a moment or two he turned back to his desk and reached for the phone.
DUNDALK.THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:
The woman who ran the guest house was a cheerful individual in her mid-forties. She had offered to help Declan Leary carry his two holdalls up to his room, shrugging her shoulders when he declined.
As he followed her up the stairs he supposed he could have allowed her to carry the sports bag with his clothes in.The plain black one he preferred to carry himself. He didn’t want her asking what was in it even though he had the lie ready on his tongue. Just as he’d been ready to give her a false name and tell her what he supposedly did for a living.
She’d told him that there were two other permanent guests in the house. The other two rooms she kept for those passers-by who found themselves in need of rest and shelter for the night.
Leary listened dutifully as she led him on to the landing and pointed out the two toilets, the other guest rooms and her own room.
Her husband, she informed him, had died of a heart attack two years ago. She had one son who visited her with his wife and small baby every Sunday.
Leary smiled and nodded efficiently in all the right places.
She pushed open the door to his room and stepped aside to allow him in.
It was a reasonable size with a double bed (although she told him that she would prefer it if he didn’t bring young women back with him), a dressing table, a wardrobe and a wash basin close to the large window that looked out on to a small garden. Beyond it was a field.
Beyond that lay the main road leading from the Republic into the Six Counties.
Leary could make the drive to Belfast in under two hours if the conditions were right.
In and out quickly.
The guest house would be an ideal operations base for him. If the main road was closed or too congested then there were innumerable other routes by which he could find his way into the North.
He thanked the woman and reached for his wallet.
She told him she would take a deposit, if that was all right, and the week’s rent would be payable in full every Friday night. No notice was needed should he want to move out but, she told him with a smile, she hoped that he would treat the place as a home and not want to move out too quickly. Dinner would be served at seven-thirty. She hoped he would enjoy meeting the other residents of the house.
Leary thanked her and held the door open for her as she finally left him alone.
He waited a moment then quietly turned the lock and began unpacking his clothes, sliding Tshirts and
underwear into drawers, hanging shirts and jackets in the wardrobe.
Leary left the black holdall on the bed until he was ready then he unzipped it and reached inside. He laid each of the weapons on the bed and regarded them
impassively.
The Glock 17 automatic. The Smith and Wesson M459 9mm automatic. The Scorpion CZ65 9mm machine pistol.
And the knives. One an 8-inch-long double-edged blade sharpened to lethal degrees on both sides. The other his ever-reliable flick knife.
He replaced all but the flick knife and the Glock in the holdall then stashed it carefully at the back of the wardrobe and laid a dark-blue fleece over it, happy that it was concealed.
As he left the room, he locked the door behind him.
Outside it had begun to rain.
Leary climbed into the Ford and started the engine, glancing at the dashboard clock. He switched on the radio, found some traffic news. No major delays anywhere. He should be in Belfast before dark.
LONDON:
Doyle felt as if he was being strangled. He pulled at the tie as he clambered out of the taxi, attempting to loosen it slightly. He tried to remember the last time he’d worn one.
Georgie’s funeral? How long ago had that been? Ten, twelve years?
He looked around at the houses in Upper Brook Street You could almost smell the money.
He glanced at his watch then at the door of number 26.
Plenty of time to spare.
