Bowman nodded. He’d worked on plenty of similar ops in the past. He could imagine how the planning would have taken shape. First the Cell would have devised an immediate response. A crude plan, simple but effective. Like a guy walking into a bar and punching someone in the face. The plan would have been adapted and honed each day as new information came to light, allowing the team to put together a planned response. Which would be more sophisticated than the emergency plan. They would keep on working on it each day, fine-tuning the details until the team got the go-ahead.
His eyes focused on another photo on the board, next to Seguma’s family members and advisers. A sun-bleached face, long and lean, with long dark hair and a bushy beard. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt and stood next to a couple of soldiers in combat fatigues.
‘I know that face,’ Bowman said. ‘That’s Mike Gregory. He was my old OC in B Squadron. I served under him in Iraq.’
‘He had less facial hair back then,’ Mallet said with a grin. ‘He’s hairier than Bigfoot these days.’
‘What’s he doing mixed up in all of this?’
‘Mike is the chief security adviser to the president. He’s been in the job for the past three years. I assumed you knew.’
Bowman shook his head. ‘I’d heard he was operational in Karatandu, doing jobs on the Circuit. But I didn’t know he was working directly for the president.’
‘Mike had a contract to protect one of the big mines. When the job ended, Seguma kept him on. He’s one of a handful of confidantes the president trusts. Maybe the only one, outside his immediate family. Seguma doesn’t take a dump without consulting him first.’
‘He’s done well for himself. Good for him.’
‘You’re a fan of his?’
‘Mike’s one of the good guys. Best officer I ever had. Saved my arse on Selection.’
Mallet knitted his brow. ‘How’s that?’
‘He was with Training Wing at the time. I got into a fight one night in a pub in Hereford. It wasn’t my fault, I was minding my own business, but some drunken idiot wanted to have a go. One thing led to another and the police showed up and arrested me. I could have been RTU’d for that, but Mike stepped in and defended me.’ Bowman frowned. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’
‘We don’t think so. Mike is on the fringes of this thing. He’s holding the fort while his boss is in Monte Carlo.’
‘How did you find out about the meeting in Antibes?’
‘We’ve had Davey Boy under surveillance for months. The guys at Six have infiltrated every corner of his business empire. They’ve hacked his computer, his phones. His properties have been rigged up with mics. They’ve flipped his accountant, his PA, even his cleaner.’
Bowman kept his face composed but felt a twitch of anxiety. For a moment he wondered if Six had discovered the truth about his addiction when they’d ripped Lang’s life apart. But he immediately dismissed the fear. No. There was no way Mallet would have invited him to join the Cell if he knew about his opioid dependency.
At least there was no chance of David Lang recognising his face, Bowman reassured himself. Unlike his twin brother, David had always maintained his distance from street-level crime and violence. He didn’t associate with thugs or drug dealers, he ran legitimate businesses. He didn’t hang out at the club in Romford.
My secret is safe. For now.
He said, ‘Where’s Lang now?’
‘His apartment,’ Mallet replied. ‘Overlooking the beach in Monte Carlo. That’s where we’ll make the arrest. Then we’ll give him a choice. He can come back with us and go into protective custody, or he can come back to something a lot less pleasant. But either way, that scumbag is coming back to the UK.’
‘What if he refuses?’
‘He won’t. Trust me.’
Bowman returned his gaze to the pinboard and sucked air between his teeth. ‘It’s not gonna be easy to isolate him. The principality will be crawling with police and cameras.’
‘We’ve got a way inside,’ Mallet said.
‘How?’
Mallet frowned at his Breitling. ‘There’s no time to go into the details right now. The other guys will bring you up to speed later. Fill in any blanks.’
‘But why bring me on now? You’ve been planning this thing for days.’
‘We had two other guys due to take part in the operation. An advance party from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. They were brought in specifically for this mission. We’ve had them on the ground in Monte Carlo for the past forty-eight hours, keeping an eye on Lang. They’re out of the picture.’
‘What happened?’
‘They were arrested late this evening in Monte Carlo. A car accident. That leaves us two short, and we can’t do the mission with three guys. It’s not enough. We need someone to make up the numbers. That’s you.’
Bowman nodded guardedly. It wasn’t unheard of for a Regiment man to be recruited for a mission at the eleventh hour. A guy on a team might suffer a freak injury during training, and someone else would be brought in as a last-minute replacement. Accidents happened. But it wasn’t ideal. There wouldn’t be much time to go through everything: the plan, his job, the SOPs.
‘When do we leave?’ he asked.
‘Straight after the briefing. Our contact at Six will explain more.’
Mallet straightened his back and marched over to the door.
‘Everyone inside the Shed!’ he ordered. ‘Team briefing in five.’
From outside, Bowman heard the scraping of metal against concrete, the shuffling of papers, the clicking shut of laptop screens. Mallet circled round the table, took a place close to the speakerphone and waved a hand at the empty chair next to him.
‘Sit down, Josh. You’ve got questions. That’s understandable. Everything will be clear soon.’
Bowman sat and stared at the board, questions cycling through his head. He thought about the meeting in Monaco.
