Chris Ryan Extreme: Hard Target

Book 1: Chris Ryan Extreme

by Chris Ryan

Genres: War & Military; Thrillers; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

Faster - Grittier - Darker - Deadlier

Former SAS Warrant Officer Joe Gardner has fought the Regiment's deadliest enemies, in some of the most desolate places on earth. And he's always won. Now he's about to face his toughest challenge yet. After losing his hand whilst on a covert operation in Afghanistan, Gardner is forced to stand down from active duty. Now he lives off the grid. But trouble finds him in the shape of a phone call from an old friend. Ex-Regiment legend John Bald is trapped in a bullet-ridden favela in Rio de Janeiro and a violent gang is out to kill him. Unless Gardner helps, Bald is a dead man.

What begins as a simple rescue mission soon descends into a desperate struggle for survival as Gardner finds himself caught up in a conceit that stretches from the slums of Brazil to the frozen steppes of Siberia. Stalked by elusive MI6 agents and ruthless ex-Blades, Gardner must draw on all his training and instincts to hunt down the hardest target of all - before disaster strikes....

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Release date: January 22, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 455

Sample

eight

Hereford, UK. Three weeks later.

The Green Dragon in Hereford was famous for two things: reasonably priced London Pride, and Regiment groupies. It was hidden down a small street away from the town centre, and the lads had spent many an hour by the bar, knocking back pints of Pride and Greene King IPA courtesy of Stacey, the heavily mascaraed barmaid who was six months pregnant. With no idea who the father was, the lads had come up with a uniquely Regiment solution to the problem of fatherhood: they had a whip-round. Stacey now had a grand in cash for the kid, and every operator could breathe a sigh of relief at not having to shack up with the chavviest woman outside of Essex.

Gardner ordered a pint. He’d had to wait a good five minutes to be served by Stacey. Because tonight the Dragon was heaving with operators.

‘Three quid, love,’ Stacey said.

Gardner fished out some pocket shrapnel. A month ago such a simple action wouldn’t have caused him any problems. But now he had a prosthetic limb where his left hand used to be. He had to rest the pint on the bar counter, then root around in his jeans pocket with his right. Finding three coins, he pressed them into Stacey’s tattooed palm.

He did a one-eighty and saw Dave Hands standing right in front of him.

‘Haven’t seen you around in a while,’ Hands said. ‘What’s up?’

‘They call it “recuperation”. Or decompression. Take your pick.’ Gardner shrugged. ‘It’s all the fucking same thing.’

Hands nodded at the prosthetic limb. ‘I heard that snake bite nearly finished you off.’

Gardner said nothing. Losing his left hand to the IED had only been the start of his problems. Medics on the Chinook stabilized his wound before sending him back to Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham. Blood tests revealed a lethal dose of pit-viper venom in his system. He was given an intravenous antidote made from horse serum, which in turn caused serum sickness and knocked him out flat for a fortnight. Gardner was back on his feet again now, but struggling with the hand, the fact that he was on the Regiment scrap heap – and his mates’ endless jokes about horse sperm. They’d got it into their heads that serum and sperm were the same thing.

‘Well,’ said Hands, filling the awkward silence, ‘at least they didn’t get your wanking paddle.’

Gardner sipped his beer. The pub was heaving with Blades both former and current, gathered to raise a glass to John Bald. Gardner spotted the man himself at the other end of the bar, beneath the TV showing the Sky News bulletin. The headline was something about the NHS. Bald was hanging with Major Pete Maston and a bunch of other head sheds that Gardner didn’t recognize. Someone old and important-looking slapped Bald on the back. A young guy in a suit pointed to him and made the universal sign for another round, wrapping his hand around an invisible glass and arcing it to his mouth.

But Joe thought Bald looked uncomfortable. His smile looked more like a grimace and he was drinking unusually slowly while everyone else quickly got down to the important business of getting wrecked. Occasionally he would glance at Gardner for a brief moment before looking away.

‘Reckon he’ll be up for a medal or two,’ said Hands, necking his Fosters, then pushing out an amber-nectar belch. ‘No doubt he’ll walk into some cosy security gig. Guarding Saudi princesses in Harrods for ten grand a week. Lucky bastard.’

Maston clinked a fork against his empty pint glass. The chatter subsided. Stacey lowered the volume on the TV. Everyone turned towards Bald. The Scot was still staring at the floor.

‘I hate speeches almost as much as you lot,’ Maston said. ‘So I’ll keep it short. John Bald is what this Regiment is all about. We train you all to be the best of the best. To never back down, to never give up. Thanks to John’s extraordinary courage and sacrifice, the Tehrik-i-Taliban has been decapitated. In the struggle for a peaceful and bright future for the Afghan people, this is a decisive moment.’

Bald rubbed the back of his neck. Gardner thought he now looked pained rather than just uncomfortable in the spotlight. Maston cleared his throat and continued.

‘But that’s not all. As some of you may know, John also risked life and limb to save the life of his fellow soldier. Without his extraordinary courage, Warrant Officer Joe Gardner wouldn’t be with us today. Medals will follow for Sergeant John Bald. But tonight is all about the honour that matters the most: the appreciation and respect of his fellow warriors.’

Maston raised his glass to a chorus of ‘Hear, hear.’

Then Hands nudged Gardner and said, ‘Look!’

Gardner stared up at the TV, along with everyone else in the pub. In response to shouted requests from across the room, Stacey cranked up the volume to full blast. The news report was of an exclusive live interview with the leader of the Pakistani Taliban.

‘Afridi’s been replaced?’ Hands asked. ‘Already?’

Gardner watched as the camera switched from the studio to the news report. The footage was low-res and grainy. The cameraman appeared to be ushered into a cave by a masked figure. Someone was waiting in the mouth of the cave. Torchlight flickered on the face of the new leader.

A pause of silence spread through the pub. Hands was the first to speak.

‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said.

They were looking at Tariq Afridi.

He was alive and well.

Mutterings around the room. Maston’s face turned shades of red. Gardner scanned the pub, trying to pick out Bald. Several other faces were doing the same.

What really happened back there in Mardan? Gardner asked himself. He remembered the diamonds scattered on the floor. He remembered the evil look Bald had shot Shaw when the Bible-bashing SEAL had confronted him. And the bad feeling he’d had.

Gardner and the rest of the crowd realized something at the same time.

Bald was nowhere to be seen.

eighteen

1225 hours.

Weiss guessed they’d go easy on him at first and he was right. The guy with the knuckledusters fucked him up a bit with a right uppercut that sent him flying. Cold steel cracked his jawbone so bad it felt like someone had sewn razor blades into his face. Then it was the turn of the tyre-iron guy, who served up a whupping on both his legs, turning them red raw and swollen. All things considered, not so bad. He’d suffered worse. The big pain was saved for later. He expected nothing less.

They slipped a hessian sack over his head and tore the duster off his back. Then they escorted him through a weave of streets. The sack was dense and Weiss couldn’t see where he was going. They carted him into another house and up a creaking flight of stairs. He listened out for noises, anything that placed him somewhere specific. A TV in the background played the theme tune to 24. He thought he heard boys shouting.

They dumped him on a chair and bound his hands behind his back with plastic cord. Someone lifted the sack off. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, like opening his eyes underwater in a murky swamp. He found himself looking at a broad-shouldered, shredded figure sitting opposite in big round shades, Incredible Hulk T-shirt and sandals. He was sitting backwards on a metal chair and examining one of the syringes from Weiss’s coat.

‘So, you are the one they call the Needle Man.’

‘And since there’s no Xavier,’ Weiss said, ‘that makes you, let me see . . . Roulette. But fuck it. The name doesn’t matter. You’re still a dead man.’

Roulette laughed in his chest. ‘That’s fucking funny. You know, your name makes a lot of tough guys shit themselves. Me, I don’t give a fuck. When Luis said you were coming here, I could hardly believe my good fortune. Tell me, what’s in this one?’

Weiss screwed up his eyes.

‘Thallium.’

‘And what the fuck is that?’

‘A poison.’

Roulette held out the syringe in his palm. Then Weiss realized they were not alone in the room. He could see two other men, dull-eyed, lean as poles at a strip club and dressed in slack jeans and T-shirts that reached their knees. They were like twins, except one wore a fake gold Rolex and the other had a Los Angeles Lakers basketball shirt. Rolex grabbed the syringe and tossed it to the ground. He crushed it underfoot.

‘Tell me, is it true? What’s it up to now, six hundred victims?’

‘That depends,’ Weiss replied.

‘On what?’

‘Whether you’re counting yourself and your two fucking friends.’

Roulette shot to his feet.

‘Vai toma no cu!’ he barked, grabbing his crotch. ‘There’s only one more death the Needle Man takes part in – and that’s his own.’

‘You’re making a big mistake, my friend. I’m worth more alive than dead.’

Roulette stepped to Weiss, so close he could see the pockmarks on the gangster’s skin.

‘You’re wrong,’ Roulette whispered. ‘See, our leader, Luis, he’s been in touch with some people who would love to see you dead. The Sinaola and Los Negros cartels in Mexico are especially keen to have your head on a plate. They’ve already made a, how do you say, down payment to Luis. It’s over, big guy.’

Lakers removed Weiss’s shoes. He fetched something from a shelf: a cordless orange power drill with a 10mm tungsten bit in the chuck. Weiss gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on his breathing pattern. It was the only way he was going to get through this. If he passed out from the pain, he might never wake up again. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the drill.

‘If you do this,’ Weiss told Lakers, ‘I’ll find you and kill you and your whole family.’

A snakish smile broke out all over his face as he revved up the drill. As it whirred into life it reminded Weiss of trips to the dentist as a child.

‘You won’t get the chance –,’ Roulette backing off, ‘– my friend.’

With Rolex pressing down on Weiss’s foot, the third goon lowered the drill until the tungsten bit was touching the tip of his big toenail.

‘Wait,’ Roulette said. He dug out a clam-style mobile from his jeans pocket. Flicking it open, he pointed its camera directly at Weiss’s toe. ‘Big Teeth said he wants to see this.’

Lakers pressed the trigger. The chuck, rotating at 1100 rpm, began to pierce Weiss’s toe.

The pain was excruciating, like someone ripping off his toenail a million times over. He did everything to shake his foot free, but the other guy was holding it firmly in place and he couldn’t force any leeway. The toenail cracked down the middle as the drill pushed down into his flesh. His foot was covered in nail dust.

As the bit ate into his big toe, Weiss couldn’t fight it any more.

They kept on drilling.

The drill shuddered as it tunnelled into his flexor bone. Lakers revved again and forced the bit deeper into his toe. Weiss fought hard to ride the pain, absorbing each wave of nausea and taking big gulps of air. It was crucial not to vomit.

He felt as if an invisible hand was choking him to death. That he might pass out at any given moment. And he knew that if he fainted he wouldn’t escape with his life.

Dizziness overwhelmed him, like he was drowning in a bathtub. This is it, he thought, the moment of no return, and then a shrill, grinding sound stung his ears.

The bit had struck concrete.

He opened his eyes and peered down at the floor. Where his big toe once was lay a splatter of blood and curls of torn flesh. Dirty-white bone fragments covered in gristle, everything hanging together by a few limp muscle strings. He tried twitching it, but nothing happened. Bile burned his throat.

‘Let’s give him a rest,’ Roulette said, flipping the mobile shut. ‘We don’t want him to miss the best part of the show.’

‘Yeah, fucking see you in a while, man,’ Rolex said. ‘We’re working on your teeth next.’ He made a pliers-wrenching motion.

The three men left, locking the door behind them. Weiss heard the stairs squeal like dying rabbits as they trampled down them, and a woman shouting, Roulette calling her a fucking ass-licker and a whore with a pussy the size of Argentina. Another door slammed, this one further away. The front one, he guessed.

Weiss spat on the ground. His mucous membranes were bright red. Somehow the pain and anger failed to register inside him. Ever since he was a child he had lacked basic empathy. A shrink would probably link it to his abusive upbringing, to the times he witnessed his alcoholic father rape his mum, or the day Padre swung his fists at his little sister, Maria, until she died of a brain haemorrhage. But the whys didn’t interest Weiss. He only knew that he felt no emotion towards anyone else – but, most of all, himself.

So it was that Weiss didn’t pity his situation, or rue his bad luck.

Instead, he focused on escaping.

eighty

London, UK. 1510 hours.

St James’s Park in the autumn was preferable to the summer months, Leo Land reflected as he drew up on a bench and crossed his legs. Summer meant tourists, all manner of unpleasant types with their curry smells and loud voices and cameras clicking. He sat with his hands in his lap and watched the ducks bobbing along the lead-coloured lake, listened to the songbirds chirping in the shrubbery. Up from the lake was a children’s playground. Autumn sun flicked sparks off the metal swing bars and slide. A dozen or so children, newly liberated from school, ran around in circles and screamed notes of excitement that even the songbirds were at a loss to match. Parents looked on, their faces etched with caution. Caution about paedophiles, the fear uppermost in the minds of every parent in the country these days, Land thought. One young girl hung back from the throng and tugged pleadingly at her mother’s leg.

Land realized his hands were shaking. He was used to the shakes. Had them for years. To begin with they’d come and gone. There was no rhyme or reason to them. But for the past two weeks he’d suffered from them every single day. He extended his left hand, palm down. He tried to still his hand. It didn’t work.

Stress, Land told himself. He looked at the children and felt a pang of relief. It did not last for long.

Another man was approaching the bench, a few sad streaks of white hair brushed across his liver-spotted pate. He wore a classic navy-blue single-breasted suit that had Savile Row written all over it. White shirt, conservative-blue tie. As he sat down Land noticed tufts of hair in the man’s ears. He had never studied the man’s profile before.

The man unfolded his copy of the Evening Standard, browsed through the news section and harrumphed. Then he too looked at the children. Seemed a bit preoccupied with them.

‘Leo,’ he said.

‘Milton,’ Leo answered.

Sir Milton Pierce, the Foreign Secretary, went to speak. But somewhere between his throat and his mouth he changed his mind, and there was only a short intake of breath. Then he lowered his head, his brow furrowed, and Land felt the onus was on him to talk first.

‘Someone is mounting a smear campaign against me,’ he said.

Again Pierce said nothing.

‘They’re preparing to spread lies about me, Pierce. Outright, blatant and scandalous lies.’

Pierce said nothing.

‘They have friends in the media. They’ll print these lies and bury me.’

‘Do they have “evidence” to support these rumours?’ Pierce asked.

Land shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘You know how it is. Technology these days means people create whatever truth they damn well please.’

‘Indeed.’ Pierce shook his head. Land suddenly felt sick. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Leo. My hands are fully tied trying to keep our European chums onside. The bomb’s ruffled a few feathers.’

Bastard, Land thought. ‘This isn’t my problem exclusively,’ he said.

Pierce shrugged.

Land stood up from the bench. Pierce continued to stare at the children.

‘I’m not the only person they will spread rumours about,’ Land said.

Cracks appeared at the corners of Pierce’s eyes.

Land said, ‘These people have access to all sorts of nonsense.’ He smiled. ‘All unsubstantiated, of course.’

‘What do you need?’ Pierce said through gritted teeth.

Land sat down again and leaned towards Pierce. ‘A Europe-wide alert on these individuals. A man and a woman. Domestic forces on high alert too. I know that’s not technically your ground, but you have the Home Secretary’s ear.’

Pierce said nothing more. Spent two minutes looking at the playground, sharing the silence with Land. Then he stood up and left the bench. No goodbye or even a look. Land didn’t care if they never spoke again.

He checked his watch. Three-thirty. In less than eighteen hours the Middle East would be thrown into conflict once more.

eighty-five

London. 0839 hours.

Leo Land paced up and down the Foreign Secretary’s office. The room was a tasteless clash of the old and new. Fusty portraits on the walls, antique timepieces and ergonomic sofas, glass coffee tables and an HD TV. Pierce sat in his executive leather chair. The more relaxed he seemed the more Land’s mood darkened.

‘Try again,’ Land said, stopping in front of an antique floor-standing globe carved from solid beechwood. As he ran his eyes over the exotic place names – Niger, Mauritania, Algeria, Egypt, Sudan – he could feel the opportunity slipping away from him. ‘I said, why don’t you try them again?’

Pierce sighed. ‘Because the answer will be the same. If the police had found them, we’d be the first to know about it, and . . . for God’s sake, Leo, you can’t smoke in here!’

Land left the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

Land didn’t reply. He was turning over scenarios in his head. If they come out with the truth now, he thought, I’m done for. I’ll be fed to the bloody dogs.

Think, man, he told himself. There’s got to be a way out of this.

‘We should talk to the Israelis,’ he said.

Pierce raised one of his unruly eyebrows and the liver spots on his forehead were pushed together in a sort of polka-dot pattern. ‘Oh, and do tell, Leo, what good would that serve?’

‘We could encourage them to strike early. Before these idiots have a chance to sabotage all the hard work.’

‘And you really think the Israelis aren’t going to suspect foul play, when we come knocking on their door and asking if they wouldn’t terribly mind getting stuck into the Iranians?’ Pierce tut-tutted.

Land took a deep breath. The smell of polished mahogany filled his nostrils.

‘Wherever they are, they can’t go far. If they’d made it to the UK, we would’ve picked them up by now.’

Pierce somehow frowned and smiled at the same time. ‘The Border Agency’s under dreadful pressure,’ he said. ‘Thousands of people arrive undetected in Britain every week, you know. And if this chap is ex-Regiment . . . What the hell—?’ Pierce was staring out of his window at the street below. The Secretary’s Office backed on to Parliament Street and the Cenotaph. Land paced to the window and cast an eye over proceedings. A media scrum was making its way down Parliament Street heading south, towards the House of Lords, the Treasury and Parliament Square. Land counted satellite vans from all the major news outlets, some reporters in cars, others on foot. They seemed to be in a frightful hurry. Sound booms and video cameras and digital recorders weaved amid the scrum.

‘Bloody hundreds of the buggers.’

‘I wonder what they’re here for?’ said Pierce.

‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ said Land. The trembling in his hands had returned.

Pierce called in his assistant and asked him to operate the forty-two-inch flatscreen TV which stood on a stand next to the coffee table. The assistant flicked to Sky News. The feed was live. From Parliament Square. Land saw the figures on screen. He vomited a little in his mouth. Swallowed it. He scooped up his jacket.

‘Where the hell are you going, man?’

Land stopped, turned, stared daggers at Pierce. ‘I won’t let them do this, Milton. There’s too much at stake here. For you as well as me.’ Pierce’s eyes sank to the floor, but he said nothing.

Land stormed out of the room.

eighty-one

Rotterdam. 1757 hours.

They spent forty minutes working their way through the streets before reaching Rotterdam Centraal. There Gardner took to patrolling the station’s platforms and exits, looking out for anything suspicious, while Aimée spent the last of their euros in the public phone box. On his third circuit Gardner grabbed a Mars Duo and a Diet Coke from a vendor. The soft drink and the chocolate woke him up a little.

With the last of the euros gone, they were out of cash and in need of a way home. Land would have blocked the credit card, and Aimée didn’t have a penny on her. Gardner ran through options for getting hold of some quick cash.

Aimée hung up the phone and returned.

‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Parliament Square. Everyone’s going to be there.’

Gardner wasn’t listening. He was staring past Aimée at a giant TV screen next to the live timetable. A photofit of a man and then one of a woman filled the screen. The woman’s face was like a blown-up version of Aimée’s. There was no sound from the TV, but the breaking news along the bottom of the screen read, in English: ‘MURDERS IN ROTTERDAM: MAN AND WOMAN WANTED FOR QUESTIONING BY INTERPOL.’

‘Joe?’

Aimée noticed the screen. She put a hand to her gaping mouth.

‘Land,’ Gardner said. He grabbed Aimée and they took a less busy side exit out of the station, emerging into a narrow street.

‘They’re going to arrest us,’ Aimée said.

‘No they’re not. We’re still going to make it to London.’

‘But how? The news said the police are looking for us. We can’t take a plane or a ferry. Maybe we can drive?’

Gardner shook his head. ‘Land’s a cunning fucker. He’ll have thought of that. The minute we give our details to the rental company, he’ll know about it.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Snakehead,’ said Gardner.

‘Sorry?’

‘Smuggling people to England’s big business here. The Chinese and the Africans are all at it. We find a snakehead, pay them and hitch a ride back home.’

‘And where do you find . . . snakeheads?’

‘They’ll have friends and family working on the inside of the port, giving them the heads-up.’

‘So we just turn up and say, Hi, can you get us to London?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And what if they report us to the police?’

‘These are human traffickers. They don’t speak to the cops.’

They took a roundabout route to the port, sticking to backstreets. The port was a bewildering network of piers, red and yellow and green shipping containers stacked like giant metal bricks. Ships of all shapes and sizes chugged in and out of each pier. Cargo ships, tankers, fishing trawlers, barges and lighter vessels jostled for space. It took Gardner forty-five minutes to find the right person.

A group of five Chinese workers were huddling from the wind in a semicircle, smoking roll-ups and wearing sombre faces. Gardner approached the guy he took to be the ringleader. He was taller than the others and a little older and podgier. He was hostile at first. Gardner explained his predicament. The guy listened impassively, brushing greasy black hair away from his face. When Gardner was done, the guy turned away and conferred with the others.

‘My brother say he see you on TV,’ the guy said, making a throat-slitting gesture. It was difficult to understand whether he disapproved.

‘Then you know I’m not bullshitting,’ Gardner replied.

‘Pay first, then ride later.’

‘I lost my credit card. I’ll sort you out when we get there,’ Gardner said.

The guy snorted. ‘Very funny. You funny man. You fucking pay now, or you no go.’

That’s us screwed, Gardner thought.

Then Aimée stepped forward. She was holding a plastic baggie filled with pills. In fact the baggie was stuffed. Gardner reckoned there must have been 1000 pills in the bag, street value £6000. The Chinese guy eyed the bag hungrily.

‘This enough?’

He nodded and snatched the bag in the same instant. Gardner looked on, stunned.

‘Come back here nine o’clock,’ the guy said. The others leaned in for a closer look at the bag’s contents. He waved their prying faces away.

‘You don’t understand,’ Gardner said. ‘We need somewhere to hide out. Otherwise we’ll never survive that long.’

The guy finished his roll-up and blew smoke into the air. ‘Come with me.’

They followed him into a warehouse. It was big and cold and mostly empty, though a few containers were scattered about the place. The smell of industrial chemicals soured the air. The guy led Gardner and Aimée to an empty container; the doors were shut, a crowbar shoved through the handles. He removed the crowbar and pulled the doors open, the scrape of metal against concrete echoing through the cavernous warehouse. Dull light penetrated the container and Gardner counted nine pairs of desperate eyes attached to nine grubby, pale faces.

‘You stay here,’ the guy said, spitting on the ground. ‘I call you when time is come.’

eighty-six

London. 0856 hours.

They stood on a sodden patch of earth at the eastern tip of Parliament Square. The ground was mulch from the peace protesters whose tents and placards had occupied the square for years.

Gardner and Aimée were side by side and felt their hands brush against each other. The morning was overcast, the sky a patchwork of dirty white sheets. To Gardner’s right was the grand fortress of HM Treasury, and to his left the Purbeck marble and flying buttresses of Westminster Abbey. The two buildings stood on opposite sides of the square, like chess pieces on a board. Gardner and Aimée were poised to make their move.

Aimée was back in her comfort zone. She’d spent the two-hour train ride from Felixstowe planning her address. It was short, simple and to the point. She waited for the scrum to settle down, gave time for the photographers to set themselves up and then she spoke.

When she mentioned the involvement of foreign agents in the nuclear disaster at Istanbul, the reporters shouted questions at her ten at a time, left, right and centre. She paused. The voices simmered down.

‘We have evidence,’ she said, her tone measured and confident, ‘that a person within the British establishment was aware of collusion between the Russian and Israeli authorities to detonate the suitcase nuke during its transit to Iran.’

This girl knows how to play a crowd, Gardner thought. He scanned the rooftops and the slow-moving traffic encircling Parliament Square. They were in an area that afforded no protection, and Gardner had to remain vigilant. He had three fears. One was that the police would arrive at the scene and detain Aimée before the truth could out.

The morning was ugly and brought with it a blustery wind that stabbed his cheeks and made his eyes water. When this is over, he thought, maybe I’ll move abroad. Maybe with Aimée. Somewhere warm and sunny.

‘This person may or may not have been acting alone. What we can say is that he not only neglected to inform the government of the plan, but he actively encouraged that plan to succeed. This man’s name is Leo Land.’

His second fear was that one of the reporters might be an undercover agent doing Land’s dirty work. He ran his eyes constantly over the journalists. They didn’t necessarily have to be carrying a gun on their body. He’d heard of pistols being concealed inside the hollowed-out frames of video cameras.

His third fear was Land himself.

‘He is responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands—’

Aimée cut herself short. A group of reporters were shouting at somebody deep in the scrum. Gardner stepped forward. Someone was trying to push to the front.

‘Out of my way!’

The voice was unmistakable. Gardner’s third fear was being realized.

Leo Land barged through the crowd. He looked flustered. Crumpled shirt, his normally immaculate head of hair ruffled. He cast withering looks at the reporters, smoothed out his tie and pointed a finger at Aimée.

‘Stop this nonsense at once,’ he said.

Aimée had a look in her eyes that Gardner couldn’t place. Somewhere on the road between pity and loathing. ‘We have the evidence,’ she replied in a flat voice.

Land walked right up to Aimée. Gardner put a hand between them. Land lashed out at him. ‘Get the hell away from me!’

Gardner held his position and said, ‘If I were you, I’d be on the phone to a lawyer.’

‘You’re the one who needs a lawyer.’

Gardner stepped towards Land until he was almost in his face.

‘Get the fuck out of here. You’re history.’

Land chuckled. ‘Who are they going to believe, old boy?’

Land gave Gardner his back and marched to a spot just in front of Aimée, facing the massed cameras and microphones. He tended to his hair, then folded his hands in front of him in a pose of sincerity. ‘These two are wanted by Interpol in connection with two murders in Rotterdam,’ he said.

‘You framed us,’ Aimée shouted.

Land toyed with her, half-turning his head. ‘Oh, you’re innocent, are you? If you didn’t kill them, why are you on the run?’ He turned back to the reporters. Fucking unbelievable, thought Gardner. They’re actually listening to this prick.

‘We have the documents to prov