Red Notice Read Free

matt-black weaponry and the respirator-covered faces of their captors.
    The sergeant in command of the fully bombed-up assault team leaned in close. ‘Sssh. Stop flapping, hen. You’ll not be harmed.’ Known as Jockey to his mates, because of his size, and Nasty Bastard to his enemies, he knew his heavy-duty Gorbals accent and the rasp of the respirator’s filter were about as comforting as Darth Vader reading a bedtime story, so he tightened his grip and gave it to them straight. ‘Both of you – just lie fucking still and keep quiet. Understand?’
    They both gave a hesitant nod.
    He knelt back on his haunches, hit his pressel switch and spoke quietly into his mic. ‘Blue One. Third party secure.’

2
    HALF A MILE away, near the centre of what the locals liked to call the Village, the door of one of Hampstead’s more characterful pubs bore a sign announcing that it was ‘Closed due to illness’. Anyone peering through the leaded windows, between the immaculately sculpted flower baskets, might therefore have been surprised to find that the chairs and high-backed settles in its panelled bar were packed with people.
    The landlord was perched on a stool at one end, staring wistfully through the half-drawn curtains at the procession of potential customers moving down the street.
    His paintings, horse brasses and faux -rustic ornaments had all been taken down and stacked in a corner. In their place were massed ranks of portable flat-screens displaying live CCTV and satellite feeds, local news reports and classified video-conferences. A series of grainy A4 prints was clamped to a magnetic whiteboard, which now held pride of place. Closer inspection would reveal that they were all at least a decade out of date, and of just one man, clean-shaven and with a mop of shoulder-length dark hair, against the backdrop of a busy Moscow street.
    The landlord gave an ostentatious sigh. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’
    Clustered around laptops or hunched over communications equipment, his current clientele – some in street clothes, some in police uniform, others still in black Special Forces party gear – didn’t reward him with a second glance.
    ‘Come on, lads, I’m losing money hand over fist here.’
    One of the soldiers finally raised his head. ‘It’ll take as long as it takes, mate. Maybe an hour, maybe all day. Perhaps even all fucking night. You’ll be well compensated for loss of income, so do yourself a favour, will you? Stop bumping your gums and get us another brew. Oh, and a few sandwiches and biscuits wouldn’t hurt either.’
    At the table in the centre of the room, flanked by two lower-ranking officers, James Woolf of MI5 – or, as he always insisted it was called, the Security Service – sat like stone, listening to the mobile phone pressed to his ear.
    Seated next to Major Ashton was a stocky West Country-born sergeant with a shock of wiry black hair. With eight years’ service in the Regiment, Gavin Marks, the 3i/c, was the same age as the boss, but hadn’t had the privilege of the same education. He’d started out as a Royal Marine, but soon seen the light. At least, that was what everyone who hadn’t joined the Regiment from the Navy kept telling him.
    He spoke into his throat mic. ‘Blue One, roger that. When we get the “Go” the police will come and collect them.’
    The ‘team’ consisted of two sub-teams, Red and Blue, each with an assault group and a sniper group, which meant that they could cover two incidents at once.
    ‘All call-signs, this is Alpha. Radio check. Blue Two?’
    The speakers crackled into life.
    ‘Blue Two.’
    ‘Blue Three?’
    ‘Blue Three.’
    ‘Blue Four?’
    The response this time was a double click as Blue Four squelched his radio button. As he did so, the listeners could hear the faint background noise of yapping dogs and a jet on its final descent into Heathrow.
    ‘Blue Five?’
    Gavin glanced at the notepad in front of him. ‘Blue Five.