He boosted up from his chair, signalled the end of the meeting.
‘Hurry up and get your kit sorted,’ he barked. ‘We’re out of the door in eighteen.’ Everyone stood to leave.
‘A word, Josh,’ Mallet added.
Bowman stayed put while the others trooped out of the room. Mallet rooted around in his pockets and chucked another stick of nicotine gum into his mouth. ‘You’ve got your ghost ID on you?’
‘In my pocket,’ Bowman said, recalling the two UKNs banging on his hotel door in the dead hours, ordering him to bring his Wing-issued passport with him to the meeting at Tower Bridge.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘We’ll give you a new cover story in the next few days,’ Mallet said. ‘In the meantime, you’ll have to go with the cover you used in the Wing. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do.’
‘What about my phone?’
‘You’ll be using your existing encrypted handset for the mission. You can stick the battery on charge during the flight.’ He paused. ‘We’ll need to sort you out with a uniform as well.’
Bowman frowned. ‘What’s my role in all of this, John?’
‘You’re going in as part of a two-man team disguised as couriers,’ Mallet said. ‘That’s how we’ll gain entry to Lang’s apartment. You’re one of the couriers.’
‘Who’s the other?’
‘Patrick. You’ll pretend to have legal documents that need to be countersigned by Lang. It’s the only way we can sneak in and out of the block without anyone spotting us.’
‘I’m playing catch-up, John. I need to know what the plan is.’
Mallet glared at him. ‘There’s no time to discuss this right now. It’ll have to wait until we’re en route to France.’
Bowman hesitated. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Dressing up as couriers?’
‘Bringing me on the op.’ He pointed to the pinboard. ‘I’m coming on to this thing late in the day. I still don’t know the ins and outs of the op, any of the SOPs, none of it.’
‘What’s the problem? I thought you wanted to fight mobsters.’
‘I do. But I didn’t expect to be going in half-cocked.’
‘You won’t be. We’ll go over every inch of the plan on the jet. By the time we land, you’ll be fully in the loop.’
‘That’s all I needed to know.’
Mallet straightened up.
‘You can leave your Wing-issued weapon here,’ he said. ‘Along with any spare clips, radio, your SIS ID. Someone will be along later to collect it all. Did you leave anything in your room?’
Bowman thought of the crushed pill he’d flushed down the toilet. ‘No, boss—I mean, John.’
‘Someone from Six will give it the once-over anyway. Leave the card with the rest of your Wing kit.’ He hesitated. ‘One more thing. This business with the nerve agent. Since you’re not foaming at the mouth, I reckon you’re in the clear. But Six wants a bit more reassurance. Risk of transmission and so on. You’ll have to get tested once we’re back home.’
‘Fine,’ Bowman said. Then he remembered something else. ‘Any news on that CCTV footage from the ballroom?’
‘Five has looked into it,’ Mallet said flatly. ‘It’s a dead end. The cameras weren’t working.’
‘All of them?’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘Can’t they trace the suspects through their mobile phone signals?’
‘The Russians only carry burners with them on these ops. They’re professionals. They’re probably on their way to Moscow by now.’ He glanced at his Breitling. ‘We’ve wasted enough time. Go and find Casey. She’ll get a uniform for you.’
They left the Shed. Mallet marched over to his makeshift office near to the computer terminals. There was a flurry of activity around the basement as the rest of the team hastily snatched up maps, documents, laptops. All the items they would be taking with them on the op. Bowman found Casey at the vanity table, packing a blonde wig into her rucksack.
‘I need a uniform,’ he said.
Casey tilted her head to one side as she cast an eye over the hard figure standing in front of him. She took in his impressive shoulders and honed biceps, his eyes as grey as stones.
‘What size are you?’ she asked. Bowman started to reply but Casey quickly shook her head and said, ‘Forget that. Stupid question. You’re definitely a large.’
She hurried over to the wardrobe, fetched one of the courier outfits. The logo of a well-known international delivery firm was stitched onto the breast pocket of the shirt and the front of the baseball cap. She held the uniform up alongside Bowman, judging cut and length and shape. Nodded.
‘There. That ought to fit. Pack that in your bag.’
Bowman draped the uniform over his forearm. Casey bit her lower lip, deep in thought. ‘Are you sterile?’ she asked.
‘I bloody hope not.’ Bowman grinned. ‘Not at my age.’
Casey gave him a disapproving look. ‘Let’s pretend to be adults and dispense with the sexual innuendo for a minute. I mean, do you have anything identifiable on you? Jewellery, engraved rings, bracelets, anything like that?’
‘I’ve come straight from a job with the Wing. I’m clean.’
She smiled sympathetically. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a rough day.’
‘I’ve had better.’ He pointed his head at Webb. He was standing over his bunk bed, methodically checking the kit in his holdall, packing a load of paperback books. ‘What’s his deal? He doesn’t say much.’
‘That’s just Patrick for you.’
‘Has he got a problem with me?’
‘Don’t take it personally. I’ve spent three years in the same unit and I hardly know a thing about him.’
‘Is he good?’
‘The best I’ve worked with,’ said Casey. ‘He once spent three weeks outside an apartment in Jordan, dressed as a beggar, observing a target, and no one rumbled him.’
Bowman grunted. ‘As long as there’s no problem between us.’
‘There isn’t. Believe me. He’s the same with everyone. But he knows his stuff.’ She paused. ‘They say he used to roll with a gang, you know. In Birmingham. Before he joined the army.’
‘Jesus. How did he get out?’
‘I’m not familiar with the details.
