Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target: Mission Two: The Rock Read online

  Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target

  Mission Two: The Rock

  Also by Chris Ryan

  Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target

  Mission One: Redeemer

  Mission Two: The Rock

  Mission Three: Die Trying

  Mission Four: Fallout

  Non-fiction

  The One That Got Away

  Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book

  Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide

  Fight to Win

  Fiction

  Stand By, Stand By

  Zero Option

  The Kremlin Device

  Tenth Man Down

  Hit List

  The Watchman

  Land of Fire

  Greed

  The Increment

  Blackout

  Ultimate Weapon

  Strike Back

  Firefight

  Who Dares Wins

  The Kill Zone

  Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target

  Mission Two: The Rock

  Chris Ryan

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Coronet

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  1

  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2010

  The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781444708547

  Hodder & Stoughton policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Chris Ryan

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  ‘If you wish for peace, prepare for war.’

  Vegetius

  1

  Marriott Hotel, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. 1920 hours.

  The shadow wore a suit, and the suit had a name.

  ‘Leo Land,’ the shadow said in an accent so posh it deserved a night at the opera. ‘And you must be Joe Gardner. Don’t forget my name, there’s a good chap. I might be the last friend you ever have.’

  Gardner squinted, shaken that the guy in the all-white linen suit knew his name. Land offered his hand. He looked younger than his accent. Land was classical posh: blond hair pushed back in a wave, right-angled jaw. He had a way about him, as if he owned the world and everyone in it, and his face stared out at Gardner from a thousand colonial photos.

  Land helped Gardner to his feet and evidently caught a whiff of eau de sewer.

  ‘I’ve told you my name,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you can guess my paymasters.’

  ‘Foreign Office?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Land replied, shaking his head.

  ‘You’re definitely government.’

  ‘Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 to the layman. Counter-Proliferation Section… Good God, that smell is rather strong.’

  ‘Took the scenic route.’

  ‘Well, it’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it? Walk with me.’

  ‘Buy a fucking dog.’

  Land’s face tightened. ‘You’re in hot water, Mr Gardner, and I’m the only person who can help you. So why don’t you park that great big chip of yours by the door and come with me.’ He smiled at Gardner. ‘I hear the promenade’s very pleasant at dusk.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Of course,’ Land said. But Gardner knew that if he blanked Land now, they’d find another way of cornering him. That was the Firm’s style. Pretend to give you a choice, when you didn’t really have any fucking choice at all.

  They strolled up to the promenade. Wave patterns were carved into the black-and-white limestone. A dozen girls breezed past, scent of factor fifty and sex in their wake. Lamps lit up the Atlantic Ocean like a floodlit football pitch.

  ‘Do you believe in second chances, Mr Gardner?’

  ‘I believe in first chances. After that, it’s in the lap of the gods.’

  ‘Interesting… Personally, I think we all deserve a second bite at the cherry. But I’m getting ahead of myself.’

  Land plucked a cigarette from a pack of red Pall Malls. Gardner clocked the Cartier watch on his wrist. The Firm must’ve given their boys a pay rise, he thought.

  ‘Your little adventure in the favela is all over the news. Twenty-six killed, a further forty wounded. Bloodiest day in recent history, they’re saying. No thanks to you.’

  ‘In my defence, the other guys started it.’

  ‘We need to talk in private,’ Land said. He sucked greedily on his tab and the fumes wafted across Gardner’s face.

  ‘I’d love to, mate, but I got a plane to catch.’

  Gardner paced away from the promenade.

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t get very far,’ Land called after him. ‘Dead men aren’t usually allowed on planes.’

  Gardner froze. His eyes rested on the bustling pavement in front of him. Cars drew tracer rounds in the gloom. People went about their evenings, giggling and holding hands while he reeked of seawater and shit, and an MI6 agent played mind games.

  ‘You’ll be curious to know,’ Land went on, ‘that one of the bodies BOPE recovered from Barbosa matches the photo on your passport. According to the paperwork, his name is Joe Gardner. In fact a surgeon is operating on the body even as we speak. He’s attaching a prosthetic hand to the corpse, identical to the one you have.’

  Land crushed the Pall Mall stub under his suede Oxford.

  ‘You’re officially dead.’

  Gardner flipped like a burger. Felt a rush of steam in his veins. Suddenly he was in Land’s face, so close he could taste the nicotine on his skin. Land tilted his head back.

  ‘If you weren’t in the Firm,’ Gardner said, ‘I wouldn’t be the only dead guy on this promenade.’

  ‘I’m staying at the Marriott. Come and have a drink and we’ll talk some more.’

  ‘Why the fuck should I trust you?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, my dear man, you won’t make it to the end of the street.’

  Gardner scanned the hotels and inns lined up along the Avenida Atlántica. The yellows, pinks and whites were bathed in a platinum glow from the streetlights and the traffic. The Marriott towered above the other buildings in a fuck-you gesture. Somewhere further down the road, Land’s friends were waiting to kick Gardner’s arse.

&
nbsp; ‘Here,’ said Land, tossing him a key card. ‘Room 307. There’s a fresh shirt and pair of jeans in the wardrobe. And for God’s sake have a shower while you’re at it. See you in the bar in twenty minutes.’

  He showered and changed. Gardner swapped his Timberlands for black leather slip-ons and nabbed a pair of Ralph Lauren shades. He checked himself in the mirror. Looked as if he belonged in a reality show searching for his dream home.

  The Terráneo lounge bar filled up with the pre-dinner crowd. Everyone was moneyed up. It didn’t take Gardner long to find Land. The Firm’s man in Brazil occupied a window table, admiring the view while swirling a glass of red in his hand. His jacket was draped tastefully over the back of the chair. The sleeves on his creased white shirt were rolled up to the elbow.

  ‘Caipirinha?’ Land asked as a waiter loitered.

  ‘I’ll take a beer,’ Gardner said.

  ‘Now that you’ve rejoined civilization,’ said the MI6 man, ‘I’m guessing you have lots of questions. Please, permit me to shed some light.’ The waiter returned with a bottle of something called Antarctica.

  Land folded his hands in his lap. ‘It’s very simple. From the moment you landed in Rio, the Firm has been watching you closely.’

  Gardner gave his screw-face. Took a hit of Antarctica. The beer juiced his bloodstream.

  ‘We intercepted Bald’s phone call to you. No doubt he realized that BOPE monitor all calls and chatter coming in and out of the favela, which is why he spoke in code. But he neglected to consider who might be listening in at the other end of the line. It wasn’t a very hard code for us to crack, of course, and we were delighted he reached out to you. John’s been very quiet of late, you see.’

  A smell of lemon and chilli greeted Gardner as a second waiter rocked up and carefully arranged plates of boiled mandioc, potato fritters, sautéed chicken livers and smoked red sausages seasoned with mixed herbs.

  ‘I do hope you’re hungry. Everything’s delicious, but I strongly recommend the stewed cow’s tongue.’

  ‘Lost my appetite,’ Gardner said, pushing the plates to one side. ‘You knew about John from the start?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Land, popping a fried cod ball into his mouth. ‘His cocaine plot’s been on the Firm’s watchlist for the past six months, give or take. Seriously, you’ve no idea how much hassle you spared us by agreeing to help your friend.’

  ‘Not any more he ain’t. To me he’s a stranger. Was,’ said Gardner, correcting himself.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, old chap. The fact is, Bald escaped from that hellish favela and is currently winging his way down the Atlantic on a rented Hacker-Craft piloted by an undercover agent. If we had a pair of binoculars we might even spot him passing by.’

  Gardner steamed, as if he’d swallowed hot coals. ‘John’s alive, and you just let him waltz right out of there?’

  ‘We had to. If we’re to penetrate his drug-trafficking ring.’

  He took another swig of beer. Three gulps and the bottle was half empty.

  ‘John told me the plan was to transport the bricks to Santos by boat, and then a friend of Dave Hands was going to rendezvous with them and move it on. That’s the ring you’re talking about?’

  Land nodded quickly. ‘They’re employing a rather unusual shipment route. The cocaine is due to be smuggled out on a Royal Navy frigate. The HMS Lizard. Our sources indicate that Bald has befriended a Wren by the name of Petty Officer Stephanie Wright. We suspect Hands may have acted as the go-between. The Lizard’s next port of call is Gibraltar, from where Bald will unload the cocaine and, presumably, sell it on—’

  ‘To the next link in the chain.’

  ‘Exactly. You see, Mr Gardner, why we don’t want to pull the plug on Bald’s grand plan just yet?’

  Gardner stared out of the window. The bar’s speakers gurgled Latin jazz. Hundreds of other voices in the background seemed to rise in volume, until they swelled inside his ear, as if he was standing next to a turbine engine.

  ‘Where do I come into all of this?’

  ‘Now we’re getting to the nitty-gritty.’ Land licked his fingers. ‘We want you to follow Bald to Gibraltar. Once the exchange has been made with Wright, your orders are to take Bald by force. We need him alive. He knows the various links in the chain, and we’ll have to break him to stand any chance of destroying the ring.’

  Gardner thought about what Land said.

  ‘You faked my death because otherwise John would think his deal had been compromised?’

  ‘Just so. As for his accomplices, the BOPE captain is dead and Mr Hands is currently lying in a coma at the Copa d’Or hospital around the corner. At taxpayers’ expense. I’m led to believe he has a nice view of the sea – if he ever wakes up.’

  The waiter reappeared and cleared away the plates of half-eaten tapas. He gestured to the drained bottle of Antarctica. Another? Gardner shook his head and asked for a glass of water.

  ‘I understand what you get out of busting the ring, but what’s in it for me?’

  Land wiped his lips with his napkin, and Gardner could have sworn he was hiding a smile beneath it. ‘Spoken like a true opportunist. God, we train you chaps well, don’t we? Name your price, Mr Gardner. I have mine, you no doubt have yours, and I’m sure we can meet somewhere in the middle.’

  ‘I’m not interested in money.’

  Land frowned. ‘What, then?’

  ‘I want a way back in.’

  ‘To the Regiment?’

  Gardner nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. We carry a lot of clout around Whitehall, as you know, but breaking the rules on entry to the world’s most elite unit is not in our gift. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a problem, but that hand of yours, well—’ He shrugged the rest of the excuse.

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s the Regiment or nothing.’

  Land was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting over his wine glass.

  ‘Possibly we could arrange something else. Not on the frontline. I mean as a grey man. Working in the shadows. Eliminating national security threats in countries under the radar. Strictly deniable, of course. You’d officially be in Regiment colours and rank, but answerable to the Firm. If I could wangle that, do we have a deal?’

  A year on the sidelines had hardened Gardner, made him more cynical about the world and its workings. But fuck, the offer was tempting. A voice scratching at the base of his skull told him that he’d trusted the Firm before – and had got his fingers burned. Land’s proposal sounded too good to be true.

  ‘I’ve skimmed your file,’ Land went on. ‘Being a Blade, it’s all you’ve ever known. I’m offering you a way back into the magic circle.’

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘Then you’ll leave me with no option but to green-light your immediate termination. I speak of no idle threat. At this very moment dozens of agents are in Rio. Indeed, eight of them are based in this very hotel. As I said to you before, Bald cannot afford to think his plan has been put in jeopardy. Letting you walk away scot-free is not an option.’

  Gardner hated to admit it, but Land had him by the bollocks. Even if he did evade the Firm in Rio, where would he go? They’d put the squeeze on him. With their vast resources and without a passport or access to funds, they’d slot him sooner or later.

  Besides, he missed life in the Regiment. The camaraderie and sense of purpose. Adjusting to the outside world had proved difficult, which is why he’d become a drifter. Look what’s on the table, he told himself. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go back to doing what you do best.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I’m in.’

  ‘A wise choice. Welcome aboard.’

  Land gestured over Gardner’s shoulder for the bill.

  ‘Now, I cannot overstate how crucial it is that Bald is captured alive – and after he’s exchanged the cocaine. Nab him too early and we run the risk of granting him wriggle room in a court of law. He has to be caught red-handed.’

  ‘No p
roblem,’ Gardner said. ‘Just tell me where and when.’

  ‘Go down to the Copinha bar on Rua Bolívar. Ask the owner for a lady called Carlotta. She’ll be expecting you. Carlotta will hand you a package. New passport, sterling to exchange at the bureau and the keys to a hotel room on the Rock. There’s also a mobile phone, secure line. You know the drill: don’t call me, I’ll call you. Understood? Good.’

  Land stood up and casually dropped a black AmEx card on the table.

  ‘Life is all about second chances, Mr Gardner,’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘And you’ve just got yours.’

  2

  Gibraltar. Seven days later. 1122 hours.

  Winston Churchill Avenue was closed for business. Traffic on the road connecting Gibraltar to the Spanish mainland honked its horns as red-and-white barricades lowered, cutting off the intersection between both ends of the road and the airport. A British Airways plane touched down and taxied along the runway, wingtips several metres from the lines of impatient cars. The plane’s tail dipped behind a line of low buildings. The barricades lifted, the lights blazed green.

  Shai Golan cruised on a bus to La Linea de la Concepción and walked the final kilometre or so to the border. He flashed his passport to the border guard, announcing himself as Alain Robbe. The guard nodded, took a quick peek inside his Nike gym bag and waved him through.

  Had the guard stopped to quiz him, Golan was prepared. He looked the part; spoke it too. He was fluent in French, in addition to English, Mandarin, Russian and his native Hebrew. Golan was six foot five tall. His face was ninety percent hair and his eyes black as pitted olives, as if they were permanently dilated. He could carry off the look of a dozen Mediterranean countries.

  A policeman with a starch-white face monitored the expats and locals flooding in from La Concepción. Golan was glad he’d entered on foot rather than by car: the traffic was gridlocked, caused by a runway shorter than a Jap’s dick. Each time a plane landed or took off, the road was shut off in both directions.

  He trekked south along Winston Churchill Avenue, past the Victoria Stadium. After four hundred metres he reached the central roundabout and paced down Smith Dorrien Avenue for ten minutes, then took the first left, to join Main Street.