A voice from the other side.

‘Oui?’ A man. Gruff. Unfriendly.

‘Edward Rucker,’ Jacob called. ‘Vous m’attendez. Je veux acheter quelques trucs.’

Another pause. The door clicked open slightly. Jacob gave it a moment, then used his foot to open the door further. He peered in. Gloom. No noise from inside.

He stepped over the threshold.

As his eyes grew used to the dimness, he saw there was someone standing in another doorway at the end of the corridor. Black skin. Patchy stubble and a scarred face. As soon as their eyes met the man disappeared into the room, leaving Jacob to shut the door behind him and follow.

It stank in the flat, a mixture of marijuana and sweat. As Jacob entered, his mind instantly catalogued what was there. Thin, frayed curtains against the windows. Yellowing walls. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a flex and a woman, mixed race, crouched in the corner. Asleep? High? Impossible to say. Upturned milk crates – chairs, Jacob supposed. A sofa, threadbare. Several flight cases. None of them open. The man stood in front of them. He wore a brightly coloured woollen top, but his face was a lot less friendly. He scowled at Jacob.

‘English?’ he asked in a heavily accented voice before taking a drag on a roughly rolled cigarette.

Jacob nodded.

‘What is it you want?’

Jacob looked at the flight cases. ‘Open them,’ he instructed.

The man’s lip curled. He raised one finger and shook it. ‘Show me your money first, mon ami.’

Jacob gave him a flat look. ‘Forget it,’ he said, before turning to leave. Instantly the man was all over him, pulling him back into the room. He stank intensely of body odour. Jacob swatted him away, but stayed. The man, suddenly faintly obsequious, scurried back to the flight cases without another word.

Even Jacob was impressed by their contents. Assault rifles, sub-machine guns, handguns. Rocket-launcher attachments, tear-gas canisters and grenades. One of the flight cases was filled with boxes of rounds of all types. As weapons stashes went, it was a good one.

‘Who do you get this shit from?’ Jacob asked. The man just smiled, revealing an incomplete set of teeth. He didn’t answer. He did, however, step aside to let Jacob examine the merchandise. Jacob knew what he was after and it was no surprise that his attention was immediately caught by one weapon in particular. It was a suppressed Armalite AR30, a sleek bolt-action weapon with a twenty-six-inch barrel. ‘Serial numbers ground off?’ he demanded.

‘Of course,’ the man replied, as if slightly insulted. ‘I show you how to use it?’ He sounded excited by the prospect.

Jacob shook his head and rested the weapon carefully on the floor. ‘Shut up and let me look.’

From another case he selected a bipod and a telescopic sight, before turning his attention to the handguns. There were eight or nine to choose from; he felt most comfortable with a Sig 226, a Regiment stalwart. He added this to his stash, then examined the rounds. 7.82s for the Armalite. Enough to go through body armour and still make a fucking big hole. They came in sleek boxes of ten, about twice the size of a cigarette packet. The AR30 had a five-round magazine. Jacob took two boxes. Twenty rounds. Enough for a test fire to zero the weapon in; and enough for the op. ‘Match rounds,’ the dealer said. ‘Very good, very…’ He fished for a word. ‘Accurate.’

A box of.357s for the Sig and Jacob was done. He turned round to the seedy arms dealer. ‘How much?’

The guy looked like he was plucking a figure out of thin air. ‘Three thousand,’ he rasped, before flashing another of his unpleasant grins. He folded his arms.

Jacob knew he was being ripped off, but he didn’t care. He pulled out his wallet, peeled off the notes and threw them dismissively on to the couch. ‘I need a bag,’ he said.

The dealer scooped up the money. In the corner the woman stirred. She looked over at them, bored, before seeming to notice Jacob. Something lit up in her face. ‘Salut…’ she said, pathetically trying to make her rasping, addled voice sound seductive. She patted down her clothes and found a cigarette. ‘As-tu du feu?’

Jacob turned away. ‘The bag,’ he repeated. He didn’t want to stay in this dump any longer than he had to. The dealer disappeared to find something, while Jacob stripped down the Armalite. Minutes later he was walking back down the stairwell, the dealer’s insincere ‘Enchanté’ ringing in his ears and the weapons stashed in an old canvas holdall. On the ground floor, some youths had congregated. They had a lairiness about them, and gave Jacob the eye; but they soon noticed the canvas bag and backed off. Clearly they knew why strangers arrived in this building, and what they were carrying when they left.

Jacob stowed the weapons in the boot of the Laguna, climbed into the driving seat and got the hell out of there. He had a long journey ahead of him and he needed to get started.

Gabriel Bland walked quickly, Toby Brookes trotting behind.

Bland had never been to this interrogation centre, a deserted farmhouse in the middle of the Hampshire countryside. It had a well-protected basement where matters were discussed that would never make it on to The Archers. Better all round for him not to visit, though he had made use of plenty of the information that had been extracted here by various means – some of them legal, others decidedly not. Today, however, he had no time for coyness.

‘I want to know everything he’s said,’ Bland told Brookes as they walked through the farmyard, past a faceless security guard and into the house proper. ‘Miss nothing out, Toby.’

‘Redman broke into his house, sir. Tortured him.’

Bland stopped and looked at Brookes, his eyes flashing dangerously. When he spoke, it was in an emphatic whisper. ‘How, Toby?’

Brookes glanced at the security guard, clearly embarrassed by his boss’s rebuke. ‘Removed his fingers, sir. Two of them.’

Bland showed no sign of shock.

‘Seems like Dolohov sang like a canary, sir. Still singing. I guess he doesn’t have the stomach for any more interrogation. That and the fact that we’ve hinted that if he plays ball, we won’t send him back to Moscow.’

Bland didn’t bother to remark on how unlikely that was. ‘Go on,’ he instructed, allowing Brookes to lead the way through the farmhouse kitchen and down a set of cellar steps into the basement. He listened as Brookes detailed what he knew about Dolohov, an intricate story of assassinations and intrigue, with Jacob Redman at the heart of things. The meeting at Piccadilly Circus two days from now.

They walked down a long corridor with a concrete floor and uniform doors on either side. ‘One other thing, sir,’ said Brookes. ‘Dolohov told Sam Redman that he thinks one of the red-light runners has been activated to carry out a hit. Major political figure. No details on who or when, but we’ll get our inquisitors to sweat it out of him.’

Bland stopped in his tracks for a second time. He blinked and looked at Brookes – who sensed that he had once again said the wrong thing – with evident exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

Brookes kept quiet, like a schoolboy receiving a telling off.

‘Listen carefully.’ Bland pronounced his words slowly, as if to a child. ‘I want increased security for all members of the Cabinet. Special forces bodyguard assigned to the PM. Alert COBRA and tell them we take this threat extremely seriously. Level 1. Cross reference this information with any other intelligence chatter. Have you got that, Toby, or do I need to repeat myself?’

‘No, sir. Now, sir?’

‘Show me where he is first.’

They walked to the end of the corridor, then turned right. On their left-hand side a pane of glass looked into a room. Next to it was a door above which a red light was illuminated. ‘One-way glass, sir. He can’t see you.’