Red Notice Read Free Page A

Confirm the sizes on those charges.’
    ‘Blue Five. Two by one metres.’

3
    UP ON THE Heath, the captive couple had hardly drawn breath, unable to tear their eyes away from the four-man SAS assault team and their welter of weapons and equipment.
    Screened by the bushes, Blue One peered through their weapon optics at the target house. The Heath was lined with mansions like this. Wealthy Victorian industrialists had built them, not just to live in but to make the kind of statement about their position in the world that their current owners – the new aristocracy of film stars, footballers and foreign multimillionaires – were happy to broadcast.
    A nondescript Transit van was parked up on the higher ground at the edge of the Heath. Behind its darkened rear window, Keenan Marshall, a tanned Cornishman, whose newly disciplined hair did nothing to camouflage the surf-dude he used to be, trained the optic sight of his AWSM (Arctic Warfare Super Magnum) sniper rifle with suppressed barrel on the front elevation of the target house.
    Keenan caught a flicker of movement from the upper floor and called in. ‘Stand by, stand by. Sierra One has a possible X-ray [target] on white three-six. Green on blue.’
    Green on blue signalled the colour of the potential hostile’s clothing.
    Gavin’s response was immediate: ‘Armed or unarmed?’
    ‘Can’t confirm. Wooden shutters obscuring.’
    ‘Roger that. Give us what you’ve got.’
    ‘Sash windows. Double-glazed. Wooden frames. Recommend medium ladders. Can’t confirm downstairs windows.’
    ‘Roger that. Blue One, acknowledge.’
    The Scotsman came back. ‘Blue One. Roger that. Possible X-ray now unsighted. Downstairs: no signs of life. No condensation. No shutters. White curtains. Front-door security gates are locked.’ They might have been no more than seconds from launching the assault, but his voice betrayed less emotion than that of a Scandinavian newsreader.
    A fresh voice broke in: ‘Stand by. Stand by. Sierra Four has a possible Yankee [hostage]. Female, coming out of Green . . . wait . . . wait . . .’ Sierra Four was telling them he had more to say: everyone else should stay off the net. ‘She looks pregnant.’
    A woman who looked like she was in her twenties, with blonde hair and a maternity dress so short that it showed almost every inch of her endless legs, had appeared at the side of the house and was walking down the garden. One hand cradled her bump, the other held a plastic spray with which she was squirting the flowers as she strolled along.
    Jockey sparked back into life: ‘Blue One. Confirm she’s pregnant.’
    Gavin’s voice, still controlled but now with a note of urgency: ‘All stations, cancel gas. Do – not – use – gas. Out.’
    The jury was out about chemicals affecting a foetus’s development. But no one was here to kill or deform unborn children.
    ‘Stand by, stand by. Blue One has Posh Lad in the cordon approaching the female.’

4
    TOM ‘POSH LAD’ Buckingham adjusted his earpiece and stepped out from behind the tree he’d been using as cover. He saw the blonde’s face register surprise as he began walking across the garden towards her. He reckoned she was in her early thirties, roughly his age, though the clothes he was wearing – tweed jacket, Viyella shirt and cavalry-twill trousers – made him look much older.
    He’d chosen the sort of outfit some upper-crust Englishmen wear when they’re trying – unsuccessfully – for a casual look, topped off on this occasion with an expensive leather satchel slung over the shoulder. Gavin had given it the serious thumbs-up as Tom had changed for the op that morning. ‘To the manor born, mate. You look like Prince Charles getting ready to head down to Highgrove for a chat with his plants.’
    ‘It’s just a matter of having the right gear for the occasion, Gav, you know that. Like when you slip into the velvet hot pants, nipple clamps and Spandex thong combo for a big night