They hit Middle Temple and scudded east along the Embankment. The city blurred past them. Bowman saw grandiose Victorian buildings and brutalist concrete offices, gleaming glass-and-steel towers and cranes slanted against the skyline, like the masts of sailing ships in a crowded port. All of it illuminated by the glow from a million street lamps and apartment windows. Buzzcut took the Blackfriars underpass and carried on east, through Cannon Street and Monument. At two in the morning, the roads were quiet apart from the trickle of black cabs and night buses.
Buzzcut kept the BMW purring along, sticking to a steady thirty miles per hour as they headed towards Whitechapel. Ripper country. He wondered, again, where the heavies were taking him. He thought about the pills, too. If Henderson and his mates had knocked on his door sixty seconds later, he would have had time to snort the pill. Instead, he’d have to wait until after his meeting with Mallet. However long that took . . .
They passed the Tower of London, hit a junction the size of a great lake and then Buzzcut steered into an empty taxi bay in front of the old Royal Mint. He slit the throat of the engine.
‘What’s going on?’ Bowman demanded. ‘Where’s Mallet?’
‘Patience, sunshine,’ Williams said, blandly.
Henderson’s eyes shot forward. Bowman looked in the same direction and descried a figure standing in front of the southern gatehouse, smoking a cigarette.
Mallet.
He took a final drag on his cancer stick, dashed the butt and circled round to the rear of the vehicle, then knocked twice on the passenger window. Henderson buzzed down the glass. Mallet leaned through the opening and glanced briefly at Bowman before he nodded at the heavies.
‘Right, you lot,’ he said. ‘Get out. Stretch your legs. Give us a few minutes.’
The heavies obeyed without question. Partly because they were lower down the food chain than Mallet. But also because the guy talking to them wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to piss off. Mallet stood back while Henderson and his mates removed themselves to a spot two metres from the BMW. Then he dropped into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind him. The hubbub of London reduced to a faint hum. Bowman waited anxiously.
Here it comes, he thought.
The end of my career.
Mallet stared out of the window at the old Royal Mint.
‘Shame about this place,’ he said in a low mutter, as if talking to himself. ‘This building is a big part of our history. They moved the Mint here from the Tower, two hundred years ago. Back when our ancestors were busy slogging it out with Napoleon. Two years ago, we sold it off to the Chinese. Beijing will use it for their new embassy.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We used to keep the enemy at the gates. Now we welcome them with open arms. All we care about is whether they’ve got deep pockets.’
Bowman looked at the ex-SAS man in puzzled silence. Is this why Mallet dragged me out of my hotel room? To give me a history lesson at two thirty in the morning?
‘Why am I here?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want with me?’
Mallet stared levelly at him.
‘I’ll cut right to it,’ he said. ‘I’m here to give you an opportunity, Josh. The kind that doesn’t come around very often.’
‘Opportunity for what?’
‘To fight mobsters.’ A crafty grin played out on Mallet’s face. ‘I’m offering you the chance to come and work for the Cell.’
The words hung in the air between them, like apples from a tree. Bowman felt a surge of relief sweep through him. Mallet didn’t call me here to give me the boot.
This is a job interview.
‘Why me?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain everything in a moment. But first, let me remind you that what I’m about to say is strictly confidential. You are not to repeat this conversation to anyone. Not your mates, your OC, not even your own mother. What I’m about to tell you stays between us. Clear?’
Bowman nodded. ‘Crystal, boss.’
A hot feeling of excitement swelled up inside him. A few minutes ago, I thought I was about to get booted out of the Wing. Now I’m being offered the chance to join the inner sanctum of the Regiment.
‘Tell me,’ Mallet said. ‘How much do you know about what we do?’
‘Not much. The same as the other guys at Hereford, I suppose. You’re part of the Wing. You work closely with the police, Five and Six. Something to do with organised crime.’
‘That’s true. But we do a lot more than that.’
He gestured past his window at the Tower of London. The Shard rose above it on the far side of the Thames, the spire illuminated like some ancient beacon warning of an imminent invasion.
‘Our real job is to protect all of this. The state. Which, in this day and age, means defending British business interests.’
‘From what?’ asked Bowman.
‘From whatever hostile forces threaten it,’ Mallet explained. ‘Mostly, it’s organised crime groups working within or alongside foreign governments. These groups aren’t seeking to engage us militarily, do you see? Their main point of attack is on British businesses, at home or abroad. We’re talking about some of the world’s biggest companies. Huge deals. Billions of pounds at stake.
‘The spooks don’t like to admit it, but British business is what keeps our place at the top table in world affairs. Not nuclear subs or foreign aid, but cold, hard cash. Our task is to protect these interests at all costs, at home and abroad.’
‘Isn’t that Six’s job?’
Mallet’s smile played out across his face. ‘It used to be. But Vauxhall can’t handle the new threats we’re facing. Not alone, anyway. They don’t have the skills for the task. They’re smart people, with their Oxbridge degrees and City contacts, but they’re not good at the rough stuff. They need guys like
