Bowman ignored the question.
‘How long have you been with the Cell?’ he asked.
‘Six months. Why?’
‘Does Six always brief us over the mic?’
‘As far as I can remember.’
‘You don’t think that’s strange?’
‘I think lots of things are strange. Right-wing conspiracy theories. People who have never shopped online. Male banter.’
‘You know what I mean, Alex.’
Casey gave a slight shrug. ‘Who knows what they think over at Vauxhall? They’re an entirely different species from the rest of us. Perhaps they don’t fancy slumming it in a basement in Aldgate. Not their scene, I imagine.’
‘Maybe,’ Bowman said, uncertainly.
‘You think there’s another reason?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bowman muttered.
Something doesn’t feel right, he thought. The suits at Vauxhall were going to a lot of trouble to insulate themselves from this unit. Cleary, they didn’t want anything to connect them to the Cell or its operations. But why? Bowman wondered.
Casey took a band of euros from the vanity table and handed it to Bowman. ‘Here. You’ll need this as well.’
‘What for?’
‘In case we get separated. Keep receipts, won’t you. Six hates it when we don’t keep receipts.’
Bowman hastened over to the bunk beds. He unzipped his holdall and stuffed his uniform, cap and the bundle of notes inside. Bowman had packed his go-bag before leaving Hereford two days ago. The bag contained all the essential items: his washbag, a spare T-shirt, jeans, underwear and socks, a pair of trainers, a basic medical pack, a pen and notebook, a small HD camera. Everything an operator needed to function for forty-eight hours.
He zipped up the bag and joined Loader and Webb at the breakout area. Casey hurried over to them a short time later. Mallet hovered next to the landline, waiting for the call from Six to let them know the Caravelle had arrived.
The others watched the news. The rolling coverage of the poisoning in Mayfair. A red-headed reporter summarised what they knew so far. Which wasn’t much. Three people had been hospitalised, she said. One of them was in a critical condition. The others were seriously ill but stable. The police were in the process of notifying the families of the victims. The police were appealing to any witnesses to come forward. A Cobra meeting had been called. Buckingham Palace had issued a tersely worded statement condemning the attack.
There was nothing in the report about Lang, or Moscow, or nerve agents.
Loader shook his head. ‘You’ve got to hand it to the Russians. They’ve got some brass balls on them, staging an attack at a royal wedding. Bloody cheek of it.’
Casey said, ‘I didn’t know you were a fan of the royal family, Keith.’
‘I’m not. I couldn’t give two hoots about them. But my Mary, bless her, she loves them. She’ll be upset, watching this with the kids.’
‘What do you think they’re discussing at this meeting?’ Webb said.
‘It’s obvious, ain’t it, Brummie?’ Loader replied. ‘They’re gonna apply the pressure to the president. Get him to change teams. Make him see the light and pledge his allegiance to Moscow.’
Bowman scratched his grizzled jaw. ‘Whatever they’re planning, Lang doesn’t want anyone to know about it.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘They sent a body double to London. That was a risky move. Could have easily backfired. If the royals had found out the truth, it would have created a big stink. Why bother doing that unless they wanted to keep this meeting secret?’
‘But if this is about changing sides,’ said Casey, ‘why would Seguma turn his back on London? We’ve kept him in power for twenty-four years. He owes us everything.’
‘Money,’ said Loader. ‘It’s always about the readies, love.’
Casey shook her head slowly. ‘There must be more to it than that. Seguma wouldn’t risk everything for the sake of a few million.’
‘I would, if I was in his boots.’
‘You have eight mouths to feed on Special Forces pay.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Seguma is already very rich. He’s pilfered millions from the oil profits. He doesn’t need the cash.’
‘Perhaps Lang has changed his mind,’ Bowman offered. ‘Maybe he stands to gain from the arrangement somehow.’
‘Greedy, is he?’ asked Loader.
Bowman laughed cynically. ‘That bastard would crawl over his crippled sister and shag his own mother for the sake of a few quid.’
Four minutes later, a phone rang across the floor space. Mallet grabbed the receiver, listened for several beats, then hung up again without replying. He snatched up his luggage and marched over to the breakout area.
‘Everyone ready?’
They nodded.
‘Let’s go, then. The wagon’s waiting.’
*
They left through the service yard, at the rear of the building. The same entrance once used to securely transfer prisoners to and from the adjacent cell block, back when the building had been a public-facing station. It was still fully dark as they swept outside. Four o’clock in the morning in late March. Technically spring, but the experience on the ground was somewhat different. The night was cold and dank. The air was so crisp you could almost snap it. Bowman followed the rest of the team across a litter-strewn yard towards a sliding metal gate flanked by a high fence topped with anti-climb spikes. There was a pedestrian door built into the panel to the left of the gate. An external keypad was fixed to the brickwork. A security light affixed to the metal lintel flickered intermittently.
Mallet halted in front of the door. He kicked aside the mountain of takeaway cartons, energy drink cans and cigarette packets at the foot of the door and pressed the release button on the keypad. The entrance unlocked with a whirring buzz. Mallet yanked it open and led the team down a sloping ramp towards a narrow side street. They walked past a line of cars and approached a jet-black Volkswagen Caravelle, headlamps burning in the semi-darkness of the street.
Mallet knocked twice on the passenger window. The side door sucked open, and then Loader got in. He
