The five, now dressed in smart business suits, walk through the small terminal. To say they adopt serious expressions and remark in the manner of business people delayed and frustrated at the chaos going on around them underplays the excellence of their craft. They are business people. The proficiency of their cover is superb in the display of behaviours that show they do not know each other, but realise they are all bound for the same executive meeting. They discuss the dismal pre-tax profits report produced by the fashion chain store, and nod and mutter in the way of people invested in such things who are frustrated at such delays and poor organisation.
The executive cars waiting at the airport take them on to the M3 motorway, first west towards Basingstoke, then south through increasingly narrow country lanes until they arrive at a wooden lodge five miles out from the small town of Alton, where Alpha strides in ahead of his team, already pulling ties from necks.
The large, open-plan lodge is packed with operatives, weapons stacked up, magazines being made ready, medic kits being sorted. Five sets of black combat gear identical to those worn by the five in Berlin wait by the table.
‘I am Alpha. I have control,’ Alpha says clearly, his voice carrying.
The energy in the room changes the instant they arrive. These are the five best agents known in their agency, probably the best in the country, possibly the best in the world. All five are together in one place at the same time. Every man and woman in that lodge making adjustments to kit, clothes and weapons glances over in the hope of gaining eye contact, to nod a greeting or make a show of the connection they may have once had on different operations, jobs and missions, but right now, those operatives are nothing more than cannon fodder.
‘Secure line,’ the operative at the table says, holding out a phone to Alpha.
‘Stand by for briefing,’ Alpha says, pressing the phone to his ear.
‘Go outside,’ Mother says. Alpha does as he is told, striding from the lodge as an army truck comes down the lane. He pauses to stare as the truck comes to a stop and a uniformed soldier jumps down from the front.
‘Where do you want us?’ the soldier calls over.
‘Stand by,’ Alpha replies to the soldier. ‘Clear,’ he says into the phone.
‘We think the device inventor is R’s son,’ Mother says. ‘R is Roland Cavendish. His son is Bertie Cavendish.’
‘I’ve heard that name,’ Alpha says, squeezing his eyes closed to try and sort through his mind.
‘Roland Cavendish walked into the sea in 2046. Body never recovered. Bertie was then in the press a few years later when he gained three Master’s degrees at the age of fourteen . . . applied mathematics, theoretical physics and computer science.’
‘Yes. Yes, I remember,’ Alpha says, thinking back to the national press coverage.
‘M and K worked for R. They died in a car accident in 2052.’
‘Understood,’ Alpha says.
‘Good. Get briefed. We’ll talk in a minute . . . For the purposes of everyone else, we are saying there is a new weapons system capable of mass destruction.’
‘Got it . . . What happened in Berlin?’
‘We will talk in a minute, Alpha. Get briefed.’
‘Sorry, Mother. Why is there an army truck here . . .’ He turns to look, and blinks at the soldiers pouring from the back of it and the row of identical trucks behind it. ‘Sorry, I meant why is the army here?’
‘Ring of steel. Get briefed.’
The line cuts off. Alpha pauses, sensing the size of the operation growing with every passing second. He walks back in as the lodge once again comes to instant silence. His eyes fix on the agent at the main table, which is now covered with maps, files and tablet screens glowing.
‘Are you the briefer?’ Alpha asks.
‘I am,’ the man says curtly.
‘Brief will commence,’ Alpha says, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Go.’ He nods at the man at the table.
‘Target premises is Cavendish Manor.’ The man tasked with briefing fires the words out as he taps a paper map before thumbing the screen of a tablet device that blooms out the hologram 3D image of a stately home. ‘I’ve taken the trouble to map the entire area in order to establish the most accessible route in. This main road here,’ he says, tapping the map while rotating the 3D hologram image of the house for no reason other than to try and impress the five, ‘is the best route in . . .’
‘That’s a main road,’ Charlie says. ‘We cannot attack en masse from a main road . . .’
‘There is a bridleway suitable for vehicles in the woodland to the rear of the target premises,’ a voice calls out from one of the balaclava-wearing operatives gathered in the room.
‘The bridleway does not show on the maps or satellite images,’ the briefer snaps.
‘Stop,’ Alpha says, already irritated by the tone of the man and the lack of structure to the briefing. He turns to look at the operative who spoke out. ‘You know this area?’
‘Yes,’ the voice says.
‘How familiar?’ Bravo asks.
‘This is my patch.’
‘Over here,’ Alpha says, motioning the operative to come forward. ‘You know what’s going on?’
‘Yes, Alpha,’ the operative says politely. ‘New weapons system capable of mass destruction. Snatch mission to secure Roland and Bertram Cavendish.’
‘Mask up,’ Alpha orders.
The woman rolls the black balaclava up to stare at the five. Brown hair tied back. Brown eyes set in a clear, healthy complexion. Slender and athletic. She takes the scrutiny without reaction.
‘Rank?’ Alpha asks.
‘Two,’ the woman says.
‘Do you know this premises?’ Bravo asks her.
‘I know the location from horse riding in that area.’
‘Horse riding?’
‘Yes.’
‘International circuit?’ Alpha asks.
‘Completed. Six offices,’ the woman replies. ‘Israel: combat, surveillance and counter-surveillance. Columbia: drug-trafficking infiltration. Siberia: counter-espionage. Nigeria: combat and advanced medics course. Beijing: surveillance . . .’
‘I worked with her in Beijing,’ Delta says.
‘Final office?’ Bravo asks, having counted five of the worst deployments on the planet, and wondering what the last one is and why anyone with so many deployments is still a Two.
‘London,’ the woman says. ‘Twelve months’ diplomatic surveillance and disruption.’
The five pause. London is the worst of all the offices. Twelve months on that rotation is exceptional.
‘Name?’ Alpha asks.
‘Tango Two.’
‘Why not Tango One?’
‘I’m still Tango One,’ an operative says dully from the crowd of black-clad figures.
The five look at Tango One, then back to Tango Two as Tango One thinks maybe he should have upped his game lately.
‘Can you brief?’ Alpha asks, clocking the filthy look sent to Tango Two from the briefer.
‘I can,’ Tango Two says, ignoring the filthy look.
‘You are the briefer,’ Alpha tells her, then points at the now former briefer. ‘You are on report. Kit up. You’re going in with the main group.’
‘Knee injury,’ the former briefer says with a look of panic at the prospect of deployment on a live mission, then instantly regretting what he just said on remembering he is talking to Alpha.
‘Go away now,’ Charlie tells him.
‘Get familiar,’ Alpha tells Tango Two as the former briefer makes a point of limping away out of sight.
Four
‘You decent?’ Safa asks, tapping on Ben’s door.
‘You’re giving me a flashback saying that,’ he calls out. ‘And yes, I am . . .’ He pauses as she pushes the door open, and stands with his hands out from his body. ‘How do I look?’ he asks with a grin.