TWENTY

Time was passing painfully slowly. Sam had kept the curtains shut everywhere in the flat, so when day turned into night it was barely noticeable.

Dolohov was crucial to Sam’s plans. But he was fading on account of his wounded hands, so Sam did his best to patch the Russian up. The codeine tablets had run out, but he found clean gauze and tape; he tied Dolohov to the chair once more before applying it, and he allowed the Russian a little alcohol at regular intervals to keep the shock and the pain at bay. He found bread in the kitchen, and cold meat. There was tinned food too – stews and soups, thick Eastern European stuff. Sam didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to, but he needed to wait for a response and he was prepared to dig in for as long as that took.

Dolohov slept sitting down. Sam allowed himself the occasional bout of shut-eye too – he hadn’t slept since the flight back from Bagram and was feeling it – but not before checking that the Russian was firmly tied to the chair. He kept both handguns on him at all times. Dolohov was exhausted and in pain, but he was a sneaky little bastard and Sam didn’t trust him not to have a go.

Every hour, he checked Dolohov’s computer. And every hour he came away disappointed.

Dawn arrived. Sam awoke from a half-drowse with a shock. His hands automatically reached for his weapons and he looked around him, momentarily confused. Then he saw Dolohov, bound and nodding, and he remembered where he was. The tension he had been living with over the past few days returned. He stood up and walked to the bedroom where he checked the computer. His heart gave a little lurch.

A message had come through.

For a moment something stopped him clicking on it. An unwillingness to receive yet more confirmation that Jacob was involved in things Sam didn’t understand. But the moment passed. He was grim-faced and suddenly alert as he brought the message up on to the screen.

There was no greeting. No pleasantries. Just a time and a place.

WEDNESDAY. 22.00 HRS. EROS. PICCADILLY.

Sam absorbed the information. Then, unwilling to leave Dolohov alone for more than a few minutes at a time, he returned to the main room.

The Russian stirred as he entered. He looked blearily up at Sam, distaste and contempt carved into the lines of his face. His eyes followed Sam across the room as he sat opposite Dolohov, grabbed the vodka bottle and gave the Russian a swig.

‘Any plans for Wednesday night?’ he asked once his captive had taken a mouthful of alcohol.

Dolohov looked confused.

‘Statue of Eros, 10 p.m. You and Jacob Redman. Looks like you’ve got a date, my friend. Looks like you’ve got a date.’

Gabriel Bland paced. He didn’t want to seem on edge in front of Toby Brookes, his subordinate, but he couldn’t help it.

Brookes looked tired. As though he hadn’t slept in days, which was probably true. Running a surveillance team was often as arduous for the pen-pushers as it was for the men on the ground. But that didn’t make Bland inclined to go easy on him. Quite the contrary. He needed to know that the heat was on. ‘How long have they been in there?’ he demanded.

Brookes repeated the information he had given Bland on an almost hourly basis over the past day or so. ‘Redman arrived there about midnight on Saturday, May 21. Our man followed him there from the Abbey Court Hotel in Hanwell, where he’d holed up with Clare Corbett for two hours.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s 9 a.m. now, May 22. So I make it thirty-three hours.’

‘And you’re sure he’s still in there?’

‘We have an SBS team monitoring every exit to the building, just as you ordered, sir. Unless he can walk through walls, Redman hasn’t moved out of that place.’

‘Clare Corbett?’

‘Back home, sir. Hasn’t left. Three telephone calls, all from her mother.’

‘And this Dolohov individual in Maida Vale?’ Bland pressed. ‘Have they come up with anything at all about him? Any reason why Redman might suddenly find him such captivating company?’

‘Nothing, sir. He teaches Russian at a London University college in Bloomsbury; been living here for thirty years and keeps himself to himself. Lily white, sir. Penchant for Tolstoy, if his library record’s anything to go by. Not even a parking ticket to his name.’

Bland scowled. ‘Nobody’s that clean,’ he said. Toby nodded politely in agreement.

The older man turned and look out of his office window over the skyline of London. What was Redman playing at? This long period of silence, of disappearance, was disconcerting. Redman was up to something; Bland just didn’t know what.

‘The SBS unit. They’re on standby? Ready to go in?’

‘We just have to give them the word, sir. We can have Redman and Dolohov in custody in minutes.’

Bland breathed out deeply. In the absence of the SAS – he’d learned his lesson in terms of sending them in after their own – their sister regiment was the next best thing. But it was a hard call to make. He had to keep his eye on the most important things. Strip away what was not relevant. He was gambling on Redman making contact with his brother. It was crucial that Bland got his hands on Jacob, to turn him upside down, shake him and see what fell out. Maybe he should just stick to his instinct that, eventually, Sam Redman would lead them to Jacob.

He closed his eyes. In this job, he had learned, there were two kinds of doubts. The big ones, about the rights and wrongs of what he had to do. They were the ones to ignore. But the little doubts, the little nagging ones… Something was going on in that Maida Vale flat. Something was afoot. Gabriel Bland needed to know – he decided at that moment – what it was. And he needed to know now.

He turned to Toby.

‘Send them in,’ he said. ‘Immediately. I want to sweat them both today. I want to know what’s going on.’

Toby nodded and made for the door.

‘And Toby?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Make sure they know who Sam Redman is. Make sure they know he’s SAS. He’s not going to come quietly.’

Toby nodded his head, as quiet and unflappable as always. ‘We’ll bring them in safely, sir. I’ll see to it personally.’

The younger man left. Gabriel Bland continued to pace the office, those little doubts darting around his mind.

09.30 hrs. Sam had rummaged through Dolohov’s cupboards and found a shoulder bag which he had filled with the remainder of the food from the fridge, another bottle of vodka and some more gauze for the wounds. Now that they had an RV time and place, there was no reason to stay here. In fact, it would be stupid to do so. Anybody could come knocking – innocently or otherwise – and that could be a disaster. They needed to stay anonymous.

‘We’re leaving,’ he announced once the bag was packed.

‘Where?’ Dolohov breathed.

‘Somewhere safe.’

‘Safe for you, or safe for me?’

‘Just safe,’ Sam muttered. He would find a hotel, pay for it with cash. Sit it out with Dolohov until the RV time. ‘You got a car?’ he asked.

Dolohov nodded.

‘Where are the keys?’

‘In the kitchen. There is a…’

A sound.

‘Shut up!’ Sam hissed. He pulled his gun just as his eyes flickered to the closed curtains. ‘Did you hear that?’

Dolohov scowled at him. ‘I heard nothing.’

But all Sam’s senses were suddenly alive: his eyes were narrowed and his hearing acute. He backed away from Dolohov, towards the fireplace, then started edging over to the window. It was probably nothing – a bird fluttering against the glass – but he wasn’t going to take the risk.

Silence. Unnatural silence. It seemed to ring in Sam’s head. His mouth went dry.