The two men approached Bowman. Studley gestured to the silver-haired ex-officer at his side.
He said: ‘You’ve met John before, haven’t you? He runs the Cell these days. He’s got a few questions.’
Bowman nodded keenly. Almost every lad at Hereford had met Mallet at one time or another. Or at least heard of him. The guy was something of a mystery. A Glaswegian, born and bred in Govan, he had joined the Regiment in the early 1990s, eventually attaining the rank of colonel. He was rarely seen around the camp, always going on obscure postings overseas, working on shady special projects and team jobs. No one knew where he went, or why. There were rumours that he had deep connections to both Five and Six. The older guys in the Regiment claimed that Mallet had been one of the founders of the Cell. He had done the business in Iraq, Bosnia and Sierra Leone, they said. Along with a bunch of other places. A true hero of 22 SAS.
Another thought crossed Bowman’s mind. If Mallet is personally involved, the situation must be serious.
Mallet smiled at him and said, ‘Hello, Josh.’
Christ, Bowman thought. He remembers me. Bowman had only met him once before. Eight years ago. Bowman had collected his first gallantry award, and Mallet had come over to congratulate him. Eight years, and the guy still hasn’t forgotten my name.
‘Hello, boss.’
‘I’ll have to keep this brief,’ Mallet went on in his strong Scottish burr. ‘Our friends from Counter Terrorism will be here in a few minutes. I understand Lang spoke to you, before he fell unconscious.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Bowman.
‘Perhaps you can tell me what Freddie said. Word for word, if possible.’
It wasn’t a direct order, but Mallet’s charm and the attentive look on his face made Bowman want to please him anyway. He had the manners of a career politician. That ability to make you feel as if you were the most important person in the room.
Bowman told him everything. Lang’s dying confession. The president’s body double, the secret meeting in Monte Carlo. His desperate plea to save his brother before the Russians got to him.
‘Did Freddie say anything else about this meeting?’ Mallet asked. ‘What his brother is discussing with the Russians, perhaps?’
‘Nothing like that, no.’
‘You’re sure he said nothing else?’
‘I’ve told you everything. Which is a lot more than anyone has told us.’
Mallet frowned. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘We risked our necks for that body double,’ Bowman growled. Anger flared in his chest. ‘Any one of us could have been shot trying to save him. Someone dropped a bollock on the intelligence for this op, and I want to know who.’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Mallet replied sternly.
‘Sorry, boss, but that’s not good enough.’ Bowman felt the rage simmering in his veins. ‘One of our lads could have died tonight. I want to know what the fuck is going on.’
Mallet showed no sign of irritation. He remained perfectly composed. A teacher patiently dealing with an irate student.
‘I can’t go into specifics,’ he said. ‘All I can tell you is that this business about a body double was nothing to do with us. If we had known anything about it, we would have told your team. You have my word on that.’
Bowman watched him closely, looking for a tell. But Mallet’s expression was utterly unreadable. He might as well try to read a brick wall. Something else occurred to him then.
He said, ‘The Russians must have planned that attack at Westminster Abbey as well. The assassination attempt.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Something that bothered me at the time. That assassination plot was well planned. A few anti-government protestors wouldn’t have the discipline or the resources to mount an attack like that. It’s got to be the Russians.’
Studley scratched his head. ‘Why would the Russians sanction a dummy attack on the president?’
‘To create a distraction. The killers knew we’d be focused on Seguma after the attempt on his life. No one would be looking at Lang. They staged the hit to throw us off the scent.’
Studley puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘The Kremlin must have really wanted this guy dead.’
‘Them, or the Russian mob,’ said Bowman.
‘Isn’t that the same thing these days?’ A knowing smile crept across Mallet’s face.
‘What about David Lang?’ asked Bowman.
‘What about him?’
‘If what Freddie Lang said is true, he’s in trouble.’
Studley contorted his face into a contemptuous sneer. ‘I wouldn’t shed any tears over him, Josh. That fucker is probably out in France fixing a drug deal. If the Russians do get to him, it’ll be one less thick mobster to worry about.’
Bowman shook his head forcefully. ‘David Lang isn’t stupid. He might be a bastard, but he’s clever.’
‘He’s a gangster,’ Studley said. ‘They’re all idiots.’
‘David Lang is different. He’s not like other crime bosses. The bloke has got an IQ of 182. That makes him a genius. He reads philosophy books for fun, studies economics in his spare time. He’s evil, but first and foremost he considers himself a businessman.’
Studley grunted. ‘You sound like you admire the prick.’
‘I’m just telling you how it is. And I’ll tell you something else. Whatever he’s doing in Monte Carlo, it must be big. David isn’t the kind of bloke who spends his time arranging petty drug deals. He’s always been more interested in the big picture, even when he was a kid.’
Mallet narrowed his eyes to razors. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I grew up around the Langs.’
‘A Cockney boy, eh?’
‘Romford born and bred,’ Bowman said. ‘Toughest people in the country, boss.’
Mallet grinned. ‘Except for us Scots, of course.’
‘Maybe. But we’re craftier.’
Mallet laughed. ‘I
