A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him that he shouldn’t trust Mallet. This guy might be a Regiment legend, but he’s also a world-class manipulator. But at that moment he didn’t really care.
‘And if I say yes?’ he asked. ‘What then?’
Mallet stared at him. ‘Let me be very clear. This is a temporary posting. There are no guarantees that you’ll be kept on once the mission is over. If you screw up, you’ll be straight back to the Wing.’
‘I’ll take the chance. What about Hereford?’
‘Everything’s been cleared with the CO,’ Mallet said. ‘I’ve spoken with Studley as well. It’s all sorted. You’re with the Wing, so you’ve already been positively vetted. In terms of processing – fake passports and ID, cover story – all of that stuff will be sorted later.’
‘I’ll need accommodation,’ Bowman said. ‘Somewhere to kip, while I’m based up here with you lot.’
‘We’ll sort out something for you,’ Mallet assured him. ‘But it won’t be glamorous. A bedsit in Acton, that’s the best we can offer.’
‘I grew up in worse,’ Bowman said, recalling the dilapidated terrace from his childhood. ‘Where’s your base of operations?’
‘I’ll explain that in a bit,’ Mallet replied. ‘But before we go any further, we need to establish a few ground rules.’
Bowman listened as Mallet counted them off on his fingers.
‘One. Our work in the Cell is top secret and absolutely deniable. That means you don’t ever speak about anything you do, see or hear to anyone on the outside. Working for us is like going on a bender in Vegas. What goes on in the Cell, stays in the Cell.’
‘Fine,’ said Bowman. ‘What else?’
‘There’s no need to call me “boss”. You can call me John from now on. The nature of our work means that we’ll sometimes find ourselves in the company of people outside the Regiment. People who won’t know who we are, or what we do. I don’t want you dropping a bollock in that type of situation.’
‘I can manage that . . . John.’
Mallet paused and gave him a long hard look. ‘One more thing. Your brother-in-law. Carter Grant.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s a criminal. No point denying it. It was flagged up when you joined the Wing. The head shed decided to overlook it at the time, but you’ll need to stay away from him now. You can’t be seen in the presence of organised crime figures . . . however hard that may be for you personally.’
Bowman felt a stab of anxiety. He recalled the vetting process he’d undergone when joining the Wing. They had listened to his phone calls, read his text messages, emails and social media posts. They had even dived into his bank accounts to search for dodgy transactions. At the time, he had assumed he was in the clear. But now he started to wonder what else they might have uncovered. He mentally reviewed the trips he’d made to Freddie Lang’s club in Romford over the past few months, the pills he’d scored from Lenny Scavell.
Does Mallet know about my addiction? If so, why is he offering me a job with the Cell?
‘I understand it will be difficult not seeing your sister and your niece,’ Mallet went on. ‘But that’s the sacrifice you’ll have to make if you want to join the Cell.’
Bowman sighed inwardly with relief. He doesn’t know.
‘Well?’ Mallet spread his hands. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I’m in.’
‘Good.’
Mallet turned and rapped his knuckles on the glass twice. Through the tinted glass, Bowman saw the heavies turn round and yank open the car doors before they folded themselves back inside the BMW. Henderson rode shotgun. Buzzcut took the wheel. Williams squashed in the back, next to Bowman and Mallet. The latter signalled to the driver in the rear-view mirror.
‘OK, guys. Let’s go.’
Buzzcut met his eyes in the rear-view and fired up the engine. He steered smoothly away from the taxi bay, glanced over his shoulder and pulled out into the main road. They cantered on past the old Royal Mint and headed east, beyond Tower Bridge.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Bowman.
‘Headquarters,’ Mallet said. ‘There’s a team briefing in half an hour. Then we’ll tell you all about the mission.’
Nine
They drove east and then north, away from the river. Bowman sat in the back, fighting off a wave of exhaustion. Things were moving fast. Faster than he’d expected. Bowman had assumed that the UKNs would ferry him back to his hotel after the meeting with Mallet. He could pop a couple of pills, get his head down and grab a few hours of kip, before getting a full briefing the next morning.
Instead, they were going straight to work.
Push through it. There’ll be plenty of time to rest later.
Buzzcut kept the BMW ticking along as they motored through Aldgate. They passed a chaotic mishmash of ancient churches, newbuild apartment blocks and fried chicken shops. Fragments of the old city poked through the clutter: an old-school boozer named after a long-dead admiral, a greasy spoon, a curry house that looked as if it had been doing business since the Gordon Riots. Buzzcut made several quick turns, and then they rolled down a wide street flanked by steel-and-glass apartment blocks and trendy co-working spaces. At two forty in the morning, the streets were empty. After three hundred metres Mallet motioned for him to pull over.
‘OK,’ Mallet said. ‘This is fine.’
Buzzcut parked the BMW at the side of the road but kept the motor running. Bowman looked enquiringly at Mallet. They had been driving for about six minutes since setting off from the old Royal Mint.
‘The Cell is here?’
‘Get out,’ Mallet said. ‘Follow me.’
They slid out
