‘I shan’t repeat myself,’ Bland said. He stared at the policeman.
‘No, sir,’ the young officer said, withering under the heat of his gaze. Bland stepped inside and waited for the sound of the door locking.
‘Hello, Sam,’ he said when they were alone.
‘Where is he?’ Sam demanded. Bland raised an eyebrow. ‘Jacob. His body. What have you done with it?’
‘It’s, ah… It’s dealt with. I’m sure you can understand that we don’t want any more dead bodies cropping up in public places.’ A pause. ‘You’ve, ah… You’ve been busy since we last met, Sam.’
Sam ignored his visitor’s obtuse comment. ‘Dolohov told you about the hit?’
Bland’s face gave nothing away. ‘Mr Dolohov told us lots of things, Sam. He was extraordinarily talkative. It, ah… It seems that a few hours with you can loosen a man’s tongue.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Either that, or silence it forever.’
Sam looked away.
‘I, ah… I understand you have some information for me,’ Bland continued. ‘I trust this is true and isn’t just a way of trying to wriggle your way out of…’
‘Shut up, Bland!’ Sam snapped. ‘Just shut up and listen to me!’ He rose to his feet and noticed that the MI6 man flinched slightly. ‘Jacob gave me a name before he died.’
Bland nodded slowly, his sharp eyes wary. ‘And?’
‘And before I tell you who it is, I want some assurances.’
An insincere smile spread across Bland’s face. ‘I hardly think you’re in a position…’
Sam gave him a stony look. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Throw the book at me.’
An awkward silence filled the cell. It was broken by Bland.
‘What would these assurances be?’
Sam sniffed. ‘Number one, Mark Porteus back in charge. Number two, your heavies leave Clare Corbett the fuck alone. Number three, Mac Howden’s family get properly looked after – no bullshit with the insurances, they get the full payout. And number four…’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Number four, not a word about my brother’s death leaks to anyone.’
‘Ashamed, Sam?’ Bland asked mildly.
‘No,’ Sam lied. ‘I don’t give a shit what you or anyone else thinks. But if my father finds out that Jacob’s dead…’ He hesitated. ‘And how…’ His voice trailed away.
Bland surveyed him with dead, emotionless eyes. ‘I’m sure those things could be arranged,’ he said quietly.
Sam scowled. He didn’t trust the Firm and he didn’t trust Bland. But at some point he was going to have to trust someone and he’d run out of options. ‘Kakha Beridze,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know who the hell he is, but Jacob mentioned his assistant. And the words “tomorrow night”.’
Bland nodded, absorbing the information. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘It’s all I know.’
Bland turned and knocked on the inside of the door.
‘Wait,’ Sam said, and the MI6 man turned. ‘In Kazakhstan, at the training camp. Spetsnaz were waiting for us. They could only have known we were there if one of your lot tipped them off.’
The door opened and the young policeman appeared. Bland looked as if he was going to say something, but instead he marched out. ‘Be careful who you tell!’ Sam shouted after him. And then, even though the door was shut and locked, he repeated himself. ‘You’ve got a mole! Be careful who you tell!’
His voice echoed around the cell. He kicked the bed in frustration, then sat down to wonder if he’d done the right thing.
Somehow, Sam slept. It wasn’t a refreshing sleep. The bunk was hard and his dreams were haunted. When he awoke in that windowless room he was confused. No sense of time or place. He pissed in the rank bog, then scowled when it wouldn’t flush. Then he went back to sitting on the bed. Waiting. He didn’t know what for.
The door opened. Two police officers entered and cuffed his hands behind his back. Sam didn’t bother to struggle. He could sense their hatred – the hatred of a policeman for a murderer – but he could also tell they had been instructed not to talk to him about the events of the past few hours. ‘What time is it?’ he demanded.
‘Time for you to fuck off out of it,’ one of the officers replied.
He was roughly led out of the cell, along an institutional corridor and up some steps. At the main entrance to the police station he drew stares from members of the public: whether that was to do with the cuts on his face, the handcuffs or the armoured police van with flashing siren that was parked just outside, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care. On the wall there was a clock that told the time and date: 18.38, May 25. Sam was wordlessly escorted into the back of the van, then left alone as the doors were shut. He was encased in steel and there was no way to get out, even if he wanted to.
The journey was long and uncomfortable. Sam endured it sitting in the corner of the van, ignoring the bruising jolts that bumped through his body, and brooding on everything that had happened. An idle corner of his mind wondered where he was being taken, but he didn’t really care much about that either. He’d find out soon enough.
Having driven at speed for a couple of hours, the van began to stop and start. City driving. He felt it going down a long ramp, then coming to a halt. The doors opened and an armed escort of four men awaited him.
‘Where am I?’ he demanded, but he received no reply. Just a flick of an MP5 telling him to get out. He was in some sort of subterranean car park, the kind that echoed when you walked. He was taken through a guarded door, along a network of corridors and finally into a room. It was sparse: a table, chairs bolted to the floor, strip lighting and a black window – one-way glass, he presumed. The door was locked and once more he was left alone.
This time, however, he didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and two men marched in. One of them was Gabriel Bland. He looked tired. Much more tired than he had been earlier that day. Haggard, almost. With him was a small man. Thick glasses. Dumpy. He was short of breath, had sweat on his wide forehead and carried a thick file. The door was locked behind them and the two men sat down opposite Sam.
‘Thank you for joining us, Sam,’ Bland said without a hint of irony. He closed his eyes and smoothed his eyebrows with one hand. As he did so, he continued to speak. ‘This is Julien Batten. One of our analysts.’
‘Where am I?’ Sam asked.
Bland’s eyes popped open. ‘Didn’t they tell you? MI6 headquarters. You didn’t think we were going to leave you in a Hereford police station, did you?’
Sam shrugged.
‘Julien’s been processing the, ah… the information you gave us. I wanted you to hear his conclusions directly from him.’
Sam couldn’t understand what was going on. Bland sounded worried, but he was talking to him like an old and trusted friend. He kept quiet.
‘Carry on, Julien,’ Bland instructed.
The bespectacled man cleared his throat. ‘I hardly need say this falls under the auspices of the Official Secrets…’
‘Just get on with it,’ snapped Bland.
The analyst readjusted his glasses before carrying on. ‘Kakha Beridze,’ he said, pulling a photograph from his file. ‘Georgian ambassador to London. His personal assistant, Gigo Tsiklauri. Beridze’s been two years in the job. Hardline anti-Russian, but a good relationship with Number 10.’
‘I’m very happy for him,’ Sam retorted, before turning to Bland. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Just listen,’ Bland told him.
‘Ordinarily, we would have put Beridze low on anyone’s list of assassination targets,’ Batten continued. ‘But the information we have about the FSB’s activities in Kazakhstan puts a rather different light on things.’
The memory of Kazakhstan forced Sam’s stomach into a knot. He kept listening.
‘We’ve constructed a scenario,’ the analyst continued. He waved one hand in the air. ‘Just a theory, you understand. Beridze is assassinated by a young man who believes he is working for MI5. The Russians feed this information to the Georgians. Maybe they even deliver the assassin. Clearly it will create a major diplomatic incident between the UK and Georgia.’