"I'm doing stuff for Tony."
"He seemed to think you need a break. Something different from teaching corporates."
"Like what?"
"I notice you didn't say he was wrong."
Josh rubbed his chin with his thumb, and stared up at the sky. It was empty of inspiration.
"I got something," Haresh went on, "from our Epsilon Force pal in there."
"You mean Captain Implant?"
"Yeah. They don't travel commercial, not those guys."
Joining the SAS had been a huge challenge of physicality and mental toughness; joining Ghost Force, the Service-inside-the-Regiment, had stretched his intellect in unexpected ways; and their missions lay within MI6 as much as Army territory. Josh, along with Haresh and the rest, had worked espionage/sabotage ops, looking like civilians, sometimes just sitting in a coffee shop or railway station, running infiltration code from a covert phone.
The Americans had travelled a different route, and Epsilon Force owed as much to the Marine Corps as to their parent Delta Force, their troops armed with as much implanted tech as they could operate. Storming military installations guarded with smart weapons was their forte, and they could take down enemy AI-drones in the field; but subtle they were not. This Matt Klugmann might be able to crash the systems at Heathrow, but to walk through the airport scanners like an ordinary person would be impossible.
"So what, is this a job in the States?"
"No." Haresh nodded back toward the lounge. "Our friend has a cousin, lived here for ages. She asked Matt about a missing person job, and he put her onto Geordie Biggs."
"Geordie's got guys who can do that."
"Sure, and he'd like you to be one of them. Freelance basis, like your training gig with Tony." Haresh raised his glass. "You know Geordie. Always looking out for new opportunities."
"I wouldn't know where to start."
"Missing kid in London? It's a systems problem."
"The police might have official access to surveillance, but I don't. And won't they be looking for the kid?"
"Like they say in movies, you can work the case fulltime, the cops can't. Also, you're better. Plus, you remember Andy's sister? Petra Osbourne?"
"Er, yeah."
He hadn't seen Petra since Andy's memorial service. There'd been no funeral, on the basis that Andy's body had been vaporised during a hostage rescue on the Ivory Coast, with nothing left to bury. Not unless you shipped a few tonnes of soil and rubble home, for whatever organic traces remained mixed up inside.
"She's still with the Met. Always seemed to have a thing for you."
"As I recall, she's a lesbian."
"So what does that say about your girlish charms, mate? Anyway, she's bound to help, provided you ask nicely."
"Fuck."
"Uh-huh." Haresh held up his phone. "Is that 'fuck' as in 'loadsa-fuckin-thanks-to-all-my-mates-for-doingme-a-good-turn'? The kind of thanks I can pass on to Geordie?"
Josh rolled his shoulder muscles as if loosening up for a fight. Then he blew out a breath.
"Yeah. That kind. Thank you."
"Any time."
[TEN]
From the time he parked in front of the gate and waved to the camera, to sitting down in a leather armchair in what the maid – yes, a maid – called the drawing room, he felt out of his depth. But taking in the cream and pale-yellow walls, polished wooden floor and expensive fittings, it felt more and more impersonal, like a hotel, not a home. And for all that Philip Broomhall might be rich, he commanded fewer resources than senior military officers, the best of whom were always approachable.
He waited, something he was good at, comparing this to the cramped, messy flat in Brixton where Mum and Dad had raised him: overflowing with cushions and tattered books, housework readily put aside in favour of a chat or reading. The military had drilled neatness into him; otherwise Josh was his parents' son, and they had raised him in a warmer place than this.
"Mr Cumberland? Josh? I'm Philip."
"Sir." Josh controlled his grip as they shook. "Good to meet you."
"What I want is simple. My son is missing and I need him back."
"Understood. Clearly the police haven't got anywhere, or I wouldn't be here."
"I'm told you're an expert."
"I can construct specific searches, use profiling, and talk to people who might avoid the police." ELINT and HUMINT, electronic intelligence and human intelligence, were grist to the mill; and he had access to algorithms and bots undreamt of by Scotland Yard's Serious Systems Crimes Unit. "Is there any specific person who'd want to do you harm?"
"No, and there's not been any kind of ransom demand. Richard slipped out of the car by himself, you know."
"I'd like to speak to the driver."
"Lexa's here. You'll be able to talk to her."
"Thank you. I don't suppose there were cameras in the car?"
"Absolutely not. I'm often on the phone discussing confidential matters, or riding with business partners I'm negotiating with. No recordings permitted, ever."
Broomhall headed for a cabinet, picked up a whisky glass, and raised an eyebrow.
"Not for me, thanks," said Josh. "I'll read the file, but are there any friends of Richard's that spring to mind?"
"He was in the chess club at school." Broomhall poured dark rum. "Dropped the science club because he preferred just to read by himself, he said."
Clubs, not individuals.
"It would help if I can go through his room. Have the police done that?"
"No, they bloody well have not."
"You're worried about him. About Richard."
"He's soft." Broomhall's left hand rested on his own heavy abdomen. "Not tough like… I work to keep my family. Since his mother… I'm a widower, you see." Swirling rum in his glass, he stared into the liquid. "He's important to me. Understand that. I'm not sure Richard does."
"I get it. Was there anything troubling Richard particularly?"
If there had been, Broomhall probably hadn't noticed.
"He was normal, except for going to see that bloody shrink, and then he didn't even make it home. What do you make of that? Bitch is still practicing, still screwing other patients' minds."
"I'll need details of that as well."
"So I hope you're a damn sight better than she turned out to be."
"Why do you say that?"
"Obviously because-Well, because the same person recommended you both, but in your case he checked more carefully. So he's assured me."
"Who's that, if you don't mind me asking?"
"More of a second opinion. I came up with the idea originally, got the name of Biggs' company from someone. But I passed your name to a friend who works in the DTI, and he tells me you're good."
"Me personally?"
"That's what I mean."
There were civil servants who could check special forces records, but not in the Department of Trade and Industry. Broomhall knew less about his friend than he realised.
"Is there anyone I should be talking to besides the driver, Lexa?"
"The rest of the staff, I guess. Lexa can show you round." Broomhall took his phone from his pocket, and said into it: "Mr Cumberland is ready."
"Thank you. What about Richard's school? I don't know for sure yet, but a visit might help."
"I'll let the headmaster know. He should be helpful, the amount we pay each year. I pay."
Then a broad-shouldered woman walked through an archway, and nodded to Josh.
"Where would you like to start?" She had a Birmingham accent.
"Richard's room, I guess."
"I'll see you later." Broomhall gestured with his phone, and intricate tables and graphs of data lit up on the wallscreens. "Let me know if there's a problem."
But his attention was already lost in the world of corporate finance.
In the hallway, Josh shook hands with Lexa. Her grip was stronger than Broomhall's. Then she led the way upstairs, along a corridor with panelled walls and ugly expensive paintings, to a door that opened onto a massive tidy bedroom.