Bowman followed Mallet as he started across the road, towards a drab grey building sandwiched between a gastropub and an accountancy firm. Blinds covered the windows on every floor of the building. There was a canopied entrance, but no company sign. Nothing to indicate what sort of business went on inside.
‘What is this place?’ asked Bowman.
‘Used to be a police station,’ Mallet said. ‘Back in the seventies. Before your time. It closed down a few decades ago. Been empty ever since. There’s a range in the basement. The lads in SO19 use it for shooting practice, but no other fucker knows about it.’
‘This is where you lot are based?’
‘For now. Some day, it’ll be sold off to a property developer for big bucks,’ he grumbled. ‘But for now, this is our HQ.’
Bowman gazed up at the six-storey building. In his head, he’d imagined the Cell would be based somewhere remote, far from the public eye. A disused industrial estate in Hertfordshire or Essex, maybe. Not a few minutes’ walk from the bustle of the City.
‘Isn’t this a bit conspicuous?’ he asked.
‘The Regiment hid in plain sight in Ulster,’ Mallet reminded him. ‘We’re simply doing the same thing. And it gives us the chance to keep an eye on those pricks in the City.’
Bowman followed him up the steps. They stopped in front of the intercom panel fixed to the wall. Signs either side of the door warned that security cameras were in operation. Mallet pressed a large button and glanced up at the camera above the door, identifying himself to whoever was watching. Several moments passed. Then the door buzzed, and Mallet ushered Bowman into a sparsely furnished enquiry office. The decor was horribly dated: worn carpet, nicotine-stained walls, panel lighting. Every surface was thickly covered in dust. A fat, bored-looking security guard sat behind the glass partition, staring at a bank of computer screens.
Mallet held up his security pass. The podgy guard glanced briefly at it then waved the two men through and went back to screen-watching. Mallet led Bowman down a bland corridor until they reached a bank of lifts. He punched the call button, the scuffed metal doors scraped open, and they stepped inside. Mallet swiped his card against the reader, pushed another button on the panel and the doors thunked shut again.
The lift creaked and clanked as they descended into the bowels of the building.
‘We’re on the lower basement,’ Mallet explained. ‘The range is on the floor above. The lads from SO19 know not to bother us. If we ever want to use the range, we make a call and it’s booked out.’
‘Who else knows we’re here?’
‘Just the top brass at Vauxhall and Thames House. One or two figures in the Foreign Office. The police chiefs. Nobody else. We’re the best kept secret in London.’
Bowman suddenly understood why the Cell had chosen this place as their headquarters. It was fully secure, anonymous and within easy distance of Whitehall, Scotland Yard, the City. No one would ever bother to find out what was going on inside the building, and if they did, the guards would take care of them. The Cell could go about its business in complete secrecy.
The doors scraped open, and then Mallet guided him down another short corridor. They came to a halt in front of a thick steel door secured with a biometric lock.
‘Access is via fingerprint recognition,’ Mallet said. ‘We’ll get your prints into the system as soon as the briefing is over. You’ll be given a security pass, too.’
He pressed his index finger against the sensor panel. The door unlocked with a cheerful beep. Mallet levered the door handle, took a step inside, then paused in the doorway.
‘This is it. Once you step inside this room, there’s no turning back.’
Bowman eased out a breath. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
‘Good lad.’
He crossed the threshold and entered a cavernous, brightly lit space with ductwork on the ceiling and exposed brick walls. The room was huge. The size of half a football pitch. There was an armoury at one end of the space, secured behind a separate steel door. Nearby was a row of computer terminals, a stack of handheld radios and mobile phones on charge. In another corner he saw an open wardrobe. Suits and athleisure gear and dresses hung from a clothes rack, along with four sets of courier overalls: bright-blue shirts with orange trim, matching baseball caps and dark trousers. Next to the wardrobe was a make-up station with a vanity mirror surrounded by LED lights, a wig stand, a make-up case with powders and liners and brushes. Bowman saw shoe racks filled with high heels, trainers, walking boots, leather brogues. There was a kitchen countertop to one side of the entrance, with a microwave, kettle, drip coffee maker, toaster, sink. Further along, there was a breakout area with a flat-screen TV, two sofas, a few armchairs. Bowman saw a snooker table, a dartboard. Lockers. A row of bunk beds with bags scattered across the floor.
Across the room, two figures in plain civvies stood hunched over a map. One of the guys was very short. Five-four or maybe five. The man next to him was at least six inches taller and dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair, like a black leather skullcap. They paid no attention to Bowman. As he looked on, a slightly built woman hurried over to her two colleagues. She was dressed in a pair of tight black jeans, blouse and dark blazer. She had a plain face, short dark hair and lips the colour of strawberries.
‘The rest of the team,’ Mallet said. ‘You’ll be introduced to them in a few minutes. In there.’
He pointed to a large structure in the middle of the floor space. At first glance
