Black Ops Read online

  Quickly, quietly, he turned the corner.

  He had barely taken a step when light bled from inside the kitchen. The power was back on, and the light exposed what was making the noise: a wet, scraggly mountain sheep, such as Danny had seen more times than he could count, roaming the Brecon Beacons. It was pawing at the ground just below the window. Danny inhaled deeply, calming himself. The sheep gave him a reproachful look and went back to pawing at the hard snowy ground.

  Danny carefully completed a full turn of the house, but the grounds were deserted. Back at the front, he hammered on door. ‘It’s me!’ he shouted.

  Bethany opened up. ‘Trip switch,’ she said. ‘I found it in a cupboard.’

  ‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ Danny said. ‘You should have stayed put like I told you. This isn’t a game, you know!’

  ‘The house is safe, Danny,’ Bethany said, her voice maddeningly calm. ‘Nobody knows we’re here, except Sturrock. Not the colonel, not MI5, no-one else at MI6, and certainly not Ibrahim. You think I’d let my son stay here if there was the remotest chance that he’d be in danger?’

  Danny felt angry. Maybe a little humiliated that the threat he’d identified had been nothing but a mountain sheep. ‘I need to give Frank the all-clear,’ he said, and pushed past her.

  ‘Danny,’ she said when he was halfway to the stairs. He stopped. ‘That thing you saw, before the lights went out . . . Me and Christina . . .’

  ‘Not my business,’ he said.

  Back in the kitchen, having relieved Frank, he found himself looking at the two women through new eyes. Bethany: still capable and smart, but also complex and secretive. Christina: conflicted about Ibrahim Khan, but in thrall to her friend and, maybe, sometime lover, and also to this little boy. ‘I’ll be making us all a cuppa,’ Frank said, clearly oblivious to the dynamics in the room.

  ‘Don’t bother about us,’ Danny said. ‘We have to go.’

  Bethany’s gaze flickered upwards. She obviously didn’t want to leave her son. ‘We’ll be fine,’ Christina said. She put one hand on Bethany’s. ‘I’ll look after him.’

  ‘I know,’ Bethany said. She stood up and nodded to Danny. ‘It’s still snowing,’ she said, ‘and the wind’s getting up. We should be on the road before it starts to drift.’

  Danny shook hands with Frank. ‘Keep your weapon close and don’t let her out of your sight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be without a nine-millimetre if I come up against one of those mountain sheep.’ Frank slapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, lad. Alec and me know what we’re doing. We’ll keep them safe.’

  The two men waited while Bethany and Christina embraced. A couple of minutes later, Danny and his new companion were crawling back through the blizzard, windscreen wipers pumping and the heat on full. They were silent. It was almost eleven o’clock and Brize Norton, from where their flight left at dawn, seemed a long way off.

  7

  Danny found there was always something thrilling about an RAF base before dawn. The glow of lights on the airfield. The camaraderie of men and women reaching the end of their night shift. And for Danny, it invariably meant an operation was looming.

  This morning, though, the thrill was tempered. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours and he was filled with a growing sense of unease. The most likely place for Ibrahim Khan to be was the UK, where his targets were. Danny was heading to Beirut on the back of a hunch. An informed hunch, maybe, but what if it led nowhere? What if it merely alerted Khan? He was distracted as he entered the familiar terminal building with Bethany at his side. ‘Normally,’ she said, ‘it’s BA Business Class for me.’

  ‘Cattle class this morning,’ Danny said. ‘Hope you don’t mind the smell of aviation fuel.’

  The terminal wasn’t as busy as Danny had sometimes known it. A smattering of men and women in camouflage gear, more of them manning the base, it seemed to him, than flying out of Brize. He saw Ray Hammond almost immediately. The Regiment’s ops officer was standing under a departure board. He nodded at Danny, then walked across the concourse and through an unmarked door to the right of a sign indicating the way to the gates. ‘This way,’ Danny told Bethany, following him.

  Hammond was waiting for them in a plain waiting room with a single table in the middle and strip lighting that flickered and hummed. There were two suitcases on the table, hand-luggage size. A battered-looking British passport lay on each one, and several wodges of notes. ‘You each have a couple of grand in sterling and the same in Lebanese pounds,’ Hammond said. ‘You’ll be travelling as Mr and Mrs Tomlinson if anyone asks. Which they won’t, because we’ve arranged for you to skip passport control both here and in Beirut.’

  There was something stiff about Hammond’s demeanour. He kept glancing at Bethany, and Danny realised the gruff SAS man felt uncomfortable in the presence of this attractive MI6 officer. He forced himself not to smile. Hammond wouldn’t take kindly to that.

  ‘An embassy car will be waiting for you when you land,’ Hammond continued. ‘Danny, are you still carrying?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘If you need any extra hardware while you’re in-country, go directly to the ambassador. He knows what to do. Anything else, Hereford’s your first call. Ask for me, nobody else.’

  ‘Have they filled you in, boss?’

  ‘No,’ Hammond said, and Danny could tell it was still a sore point. It was unusual for him to be reporting directly to the CO, and Hammond didn’t like being kept out of the loop. Danny felt for him. Hammond was a good guy, and clearly didn’t like the implicit suggestion that he couldn’t quite be trusted with certain information.

  Danny pointed at the suitcases. ‘Just clothes?’

  ‘And currency.’

  Another man entered the room. He wore camouflage gear and had a 99 Squadron flash on his arm. ‘Wheels up in fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘If you’d like to follow me, please.’

  Danny and Bethany took their suitcases and passports and turned to leave. ‘Danny?’ Hammond said.

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘If this is something to do with Bullock, Armitage and Moorhouse, make sure you give the bastard one from me and the rest of the lads.’

  ‘Roger that, boss,’ Danny said, and he followed the RAF guy out of the room.

  The aircraft waiting for them was a C-17 Globemaster. Its jets were humming and its tailgate was down. There was still a chill dusting of snow as khaki military vehicles were being loaded up the ramp, directed by guys with ear protectors and glowing hand signals. Their 99 Squadron escort led them to a separate air stair on the Globemaster’s port side. Danny and Bethany boarded the aircraft. There was a single row of eight seats at the front of the cargo bay. The bay itself was packed with armoured vehicles, firmly fixed to rungs along the floor. The air stank of grease and fuel. To Danny, it was as familiar as home. Bethany looked uncomfortable, unsure of what to do with herself. Her nose crinkled against the smell. There was no point Danny trying to talk to her: the high-pitched whine of the jets and the trundle of vehicles being loaded drowned out every other sound, including voices. He guided her by the elbow to one of the hard seats, then stowed both their cases in lockers along the side of the aircraft. As he took his seat next to her, he saw she was clutching the armrests and her knuckles were white. It figured that she was anxious, and he wondered what worried her the most, the military flight or the prospect of their op in Beirut. A bit of both, probably.

  The tailgate closed and the noise subsided a little. ‘Could be worse,’ Danny said now he could be heard. ‘Last time I was in one of these, I had to jump out of it.’

  His attempt at lightening the mood didn’t work. Bethany gave him a slightly sick look, then closed her eyes and ignored him. A couple of loadies took their places along the row of seats. Five minutes later they were airborne. A minute after that, Danny was asleep.

  When he woke, the Globemaster was losing height. Danny had no way of knowing their altitude, so it was a sur
prise when the landing gear touched down after a minute. He was used to grabbing sleep wherever and whenever he could, so he felt reasonably refreshed. Bethany looked exhausted. There were dark rings under her eyes and her face was puffy. When the aircraft came to a halt she had to steady herself as she stood up, but when Danny offered to help she brushed him away.

  Local time, 12.00 hrs. The light flooding into the aircraft as the side door opened was almost a surprise. It was pleasantly warm outside, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. A black Mercedes was waiting for them on the tarmac, windows tinted. It was flanked by two dark Beirut police vehicles. A guy in his early twenties in a chauffeur’s uniform stood by the Merc. When Danny and Bethany had descended the air stair, he wordlessly took their luggage and stowed it in the front, before letting them into the back of the vehicle. There was a man already sitting there. He had chunky glasses and Brylcreemed black hair brushed into a precise parting. He gave them a winning smile as they entered the vehicle. ‘Mr and Mrs Tomlinson!’ he announced. Then, with a slight nod of his head and quieter: ‘Bethany. Lovely to see you again. You haven’t visited in far too long.’

  ‘It’s only been six months, Larry,’ Bethany said.

  ‘A day without you, my dear, is like a day without sunshine.’ An oily sentiment, but charmingly delivered, and Bethany didn’t look displeased to have been on the receiving end. He looked at Danny and offered his hand. ‘Larry Baker,’ he said. ‘Personal assistant to the ambassador. Welcome to Beirut. Is this your first time?’

  ‘Do me a favour, mate? Give the two police cars their marching orders.’

  Baker frowned. ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Seriously, mate. We’re skipping passport control to keep under the radar. Last thing we need is a police escort.’

  Baker looked uncertainly at Bethany. She nodded. Baker got out of the car and went to speak to the police officers. ‘Like a day without sunshine?’ Danny asked.

  Bethany gave him a withering look, but didn’t say anything.

  Baker returned. ‘They’ll escort us off the airport, that’s non-negotiable I’m afraid. Then we’ll go our separate ways,’ he said. Danny nodded. Baker continued to chat with ambassadorial ease. Danny had met his type before, and knew he could jabber on about nothing in particular for hours, if he needed to. ‘Not the place people think it is, Beirut. Oh, sure, we have Syria in one direction and the Golan Heights in another, but that’s really only half the story. Fascinating country. Fascinating. Lovely people, so welcoming. Beirut? Thriving! On the up! You’ll see some scars from the war in the eighties, certainly, but I urge you to look beyond those.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Danny said. He was quite certain the assistant to the ambassador hadn’t seen the half of what Beirut had to offer.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive Mr Tomlinson,’ said Bethany. ‘He’s a man of few words. I take it we’re heading straight for the embassy?’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like, my dear. We have your usual room set aside in the compound.’ He looked from Danny to Bethany. ‘Made up for two,’ he added, as though asking a question which remained unanswered.

  ‘Is there a private entrance?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Of course. We’ll be using that.’

  Bethany and the assistant engaged in small talk. Danny zoned out and stared through the window. They were leaving the airport – a Lebanese police officer was waving them through a security checkpoint. The driver accelerated up a ramp and on to a busy main road that took them away from the airport and towards the centre of Beirut.

  The signs of the city’s violent past were impossible to overlook. Concrete walls on either side of the road, graffitied and semi-demolished. Dilapidated, derelict buildings peppered with gunshot scars from a conflict that ended thirty years previously but whose wounds still felt peculiarly fresh. There were signs of reconstruction, too: many cranes on the skyline and, the further they headed into the centre, a higher concentration of more modern buildings. And also, Westernisation: the golden arches of McDonald’s, its name written in both English and Arabic. Billboards everywhere, advertising Volkswagen, Ikea and Victoria’s Secret. It looked like what it was: a busy metropolis, skirting the Middle East but leaning to the West.

  As the car pulled off the highway and into the heavy traffic of central Beirut, Danny found himself looking at people in the street. They were as varied as the architecture. Bearded hipsters and fashionable young women walked side by side with older men and women in sober, sometimes traditional, clothes. The capital clearly had its share of poverty too. Beggars were abundant on the streets, sometimes what looked like whole families of them. Danny zoned back in to the assistant’s voice. ‘Of course, Lebanon has accepted well over two million Syrian refugees. A sticky old situation, especially as Hezbollah has supported the Syrian regime during the recent troubles. The refugees have increased the country’s population by more than half. But when a humanitarian catastrophe unfolds on your doorstep, what else can you do?’

  The British Embassy was a modern, glass-fronted building facing on to a broad, busy road. The Mercedes drove past it and hooked a left down the next side street. Here there was a high wall, topped with razor wire, and a solid steel gate where the Mercedes stopped while the driver phoned through for access. A minute later, the gate slid open and the Mercedes entered the perimeter of the embassy compound. They approached another barrier, manned by three British soldiers carrying MP5s. One of them pressed his face up against the tinted window of the Merc. He recognised Baker, and ushered them through the barrier. ‘Welcome,’ Baker said. He opened the car door and they all stepped outside.

  They found themselves in an enclosed square with high buildings on three sides and the razor-wired wall on the fourth. Most of the square was taken up with a lawned garden, neatly manicured, though its effect was somewhat spoiled by the presence of the barrier and the armed guards on its perimeter. To their left was the rear of the embassy itself, where three embassy staff loitered, smoking cigarettes and gazing incuriously at the new arrivals. Bethany pointed at the building covering the side of the square opposite the barrier. Two more soldiers guarded the entrance. ‘Ambassador’s residence,’ she said. ‘Back entrance, obviously. We’ll be quartered over here with the rest of the embassy staff.’ She pointed to the building on their right, opposite the embassy itself.

  ‘I can leave you to get settled in, my dear?’ Baker said.

  ‘Of course, Larry. Thank you.’ Bethany seemed genuinely fond of this slightly patronising embassy official.

  He handed them both an ID card in a plastic housing on a red lanyard. ‘This will get you access to anywhere in the compound, with the exception of the ambassadorial residence. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate. Perhaps you’d both like to join me for supper this evening?’

  ‘We’ll be busy,’ Danny said. ‘But thanks.’

  Baker politely inclined his head and walked in the direction of the embassy.

  ‘That man,’ Bethany said, ‘sets my teeth on edge.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I pretend to.’

  ‘You’re a good actress.’

  ‘First rule of embassy work: butter up the pompous men to get what you want.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘First rule of any work, for that matter.’

  The driver of the Merc gave them their luggage. Danny followed Bethany towards the embassy staff quarters. From the outside, the building was grey and austere. Inside, it reminded Danny of a cheap hotel. They walked across a deserted, air-conditioned communal area, all sofas and pot plants, and Bethany used her ID card to open a door that led into a tidy, brightly lit kitchen area that smelled of cleaning products. There were two doors leading off it. She led them through one of them. ‘This is us,’ she said.

  They were in a comfortable living area. Sofa. Armchair. TV. Coffee table. Three pictures on the wall, one of the Tower of London, the second of the Beirut coast, the Med a deep, attractive blue. The third was a satellite
image of central Lebanon, from Beirut to the Syrian border, presented in a mahogany frame like a piece of art. ‘My bedroom,’ Bethany said, pointing at a door. ‘The bathroom’s through there too, en-suite. Couch. That’ll be yours, as long as we’re here.’ She said it with a raised eyebrow, as though expecting Danny to protest. Was it his imagination, or did she seem a little disappointed when he failed to comment?

  Mind on the job, Danny, he told himself. Mind on the job.

  ‘Where are your handling notes on our guy?’ He made a special point of not saying his name out loud. Anybody could be listening.

  ‘There’s a secure MI6 office in the main embassy building.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and get them?’

  ‘You want to come?’

  ‘No,’ Danny said. ‘The less people see of me, the better. I’ll wait here.’

  It was in Danny’s nature to search every room where he was likely to stay for any period of time. When Bethany left, he did just that. This self-contained apartment was not to his liking. The only exit was the one that led to the shared kitchen area. There were no windows in Bethany’s bedroom or the adjoining en-suite bathroom. He quickly unscrewed the bulbs in each of the five lights he found dotted around the place, searching for concealed listening devices. Nothing. In the en-suite, he pulled out the recessed lights and felt behind the mirror over the sink and in the cistern of the toilet. By the time Bethany returned, he’d satisfied himself that the apartment was secure. He switched on the TV in the main room just in case, found a noisy Arabic music channel, and led her into the bathroom. He closed the door behind them.

  ‘Well,’ Bethany said. She was clutching a bundle of Moleskine notebooks bound with an elastic band. ‘This is all very intimate.’

  ‘Don’t mention our guy’s name,’ Danny said. ‘If he’s as influential as you say, he could have ears inside the embassy. I’m pretty sure this bathroom’s secure, though.’ He indicated that she should sit on the toilet while he perched on the edge of the bath. ‘What have you got?’