Studley pulled a face. ‘Bollocks. Says who?’
‘Lang.’
A deep frown creased Studley’s face. ‘Half a mo. You spoke with him?’
Bowman nodded. ‘Right after it happened. He wanted to talk.’
‘Why would Seguma send a body double here?’ Studley asked.
‘Lang reckoned the real Seguma is in Monte Carlo,’ Bowman said. ‘With Lang’s twin brother, David. He said they’re out there to meet with some Russians.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t go into specifics. Lang mentioned something about a deal. But they’re walking into a trap. He says the Russians are going to betray them.’
‘You think he was telling the truth?’
‘Lang knew he was dying,’ Bowman said. ‘He knew the Russians had got to him. He wanted to confess.’
‘Fuck me.’ Studley ran a hand through his hair. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘No one.’ Kember had gone outside to raise the alarm. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘We need to talk to those two BGs,’ said Bowman. ‘The ones I told you about.’
‘What for?’ Studley snarled. ‘I told you already, them lads checked out.’
‘They were involved, Bill.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Bowman said, ‘One of them had something hanging out of his jacket pocket. I didn’t know what it was at the time. Or at least, I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it before. It’s a respirator strap.’
‘Why would a couple of BGs be carrying respirators?’
‘To protect them from the nerve agent,’ Bowman explained. ‘They would have needed gloves too, probably. They must have followed Lang into the toilets, put an out-of-order sign outside and then jumped him. That’s how I would have done it.’
Studley puckered his brow. ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re suspicious, because of some fucking strap you glimpsed for half a second?’
‘Why else would they be carrying masks around?’ He pointed to the corridor. ‘We’ve got a witness who says Lang told him he was mugged in the toilets. We need to get hold of the CCTV footage. That’ll show us what those BGs were up to.’
‘But we can’t be sure he was attacked here,’ said Studley. ‘How do you know he didn’t drink it in his morning tea?’
Bowman shook his head. ‘The BGs had something to do with this. I’m sure of it. We need to find them.’
Studley said, ‘I’ll ask the suits at Five and Six to look into it. But if they are involved, they’ll be long gone by now.’
‘We should notify the other guys,’ Bowman said. ‘Tell them they’re not needed at the hotel anymore. Now that we know that this guy isn’t the principal.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
Studley’s phone hummed. He moved away to take the call, barked a few words down the line before he hung up again.
‘Officers from Counter Terrorism Command are on their way,’ he said to Bowman. ‘They’ll want a word with you, I imagine. Someone from the Cell is heading over as well.’
‘The Cell?’ Bowman frowned. ‘What’s their involvement?’
‘How would I know?’ Studley replied moodily. ‘No one ever tells us anything about them.’
Bowman looked away, his mind racing ahead of him. Every SAS man had heard of the Cell. It was a covert unit within the Wing, a small inner circle of veteran SAS men tasked with carrying out clandestine operations at home and abroad. The guys in the Cell kept a low profile: no one outside the unit knew anything about their activities, except that they worked closely with the security services and the police. In a world of shadow warfare, fought between non-state actors, the Cell was the ultimate deniable force.
And now they wanted to speak with Bowman.
What was their interest in this op? Why would they care about a hit on Freddie Lang?
And what do they want with me?
‘Wait here,’ Studley said. ‘Don’t say anything or speak to anyone until the others show up. Then you can tell them exactly what Lang said.’
Seven
The first paramedics arrived on the scene six minutes later. Half a dozen of them, jogging along either side of a gurney. Like soldiers at a siege, lugging a battering ram towards the enemy’s gate. They huddled around Lang, checking his vitals. One of the medics shone a pen torch into his eyes. Another swabbed the inside of his mouth. A third asked Lang if he could hear them. Lang didn’t respond. There was a big discussion amongst the medics interspersed with radio chatter, messages bouncing back and forth. Decisions being made. Then a complicated operation to lift Lang onto the gurney. Bowman looked on as they wheeled him away to the waiting ambulance. He felt no remorse for Lang. The guy was a sadistic psychopath. He’d inflicted untold misery in his life. He didn’t deserve a happy ending.
And if he dies, thought Bowman, my secret is safe.
After fifteen minutes the last of the VIPs had been driven away from the hotel. By that point the police had managed to evacuate the remaining civilians from the building. A steady stream of staff, security officials and caterers traipsed through the emergency exits to a cordoned-off area across the road. Another team of paramedics treated guests for minor injuries. Some were in shock. Others had fallen or hurt themselves in the crush to escape the ballroom.
A short while later, a smartly dressed figure stepped in from the cold.
He was in his mid-fifties, though his weathered face suggested someone at least a decade older. His greying hair was swept back in a silver wave. His eyes gleamed with menace, like knife tips catching the sun. He had the lean greyhound physique of a Regiment veteran, a body built for endurance and hardship and killing, rather than grunt work. But he was dressed more like a partner at a City law firm on casual Friday: dark blazer, light blue shirt, black trousers and tobacco-brown suede shoes, a stainless-steel Breitling watch clamped around his wrist. Bowman recognised him at once.
John Mallet. A former legend of 22 SAS.
The leader of the Cell.
Studley tucked away his phone and greeted the ex-Regiment
