TWENTY-SEVEN

The Georgian Embassy, London. May 26.

Kakha Beridze stared across the desk. He was plump and heavy set, with thick, badger-like hair. He had a thick, dense moustache, the kind that always seems so popular amongst dodgy Eastern European men, and his fat fingers were adorned with gold rings. If he truly had any diplomatic skills, they had deserted him: the Georgian ambassador to London was clearly furious to have been woken up at 3 a.m. by two insistent MI6 spooks. He was furious at having been dragged into the distinctly shabby embassy, and furious at the implacable way in which he was being spoken to by Gabriel Bland.

‘Impossible,’ he said in his almost impenetrable accent. ‘The event has been organised for many months now. I am entertaining Georgian nationals from all over this country. I will not cancel it.’

Bland sat at the opposite side of Beridze’s desk. Sam stood behind him, grim and silent. Occasionally, Beridze would glance up at him. His presence clearly made the Georgian nervous. To Beridze’s side stood another man, also plump, but younger. He bent down and whispered something into Beridze’s ear. The ambassador brushed him off and turned his attention back to Bland. ‘Impossible,’ he repeated.

Even though he couldn’t see Bland’s face, Sam could imagine the thin smile on his lips as he spoke. ‘It would be perfectly possible,’ the older man said, ‘for us to be, ah… heavy-handed in order to stop the event from taking place, Mr Beridze. But I thought it would be more politic for us to give you the opportunity to make your excuses.’

Beridze blinked.

‘A security threat, you say? What manner of security threat? I demand not to be kept in the dark about this…’

‘I have no intention of keeping you in the dark, Mr Beridze.’ He paused. ‘We have very good intelligence that an attempt will be made on your life tonight. Not only on your life, but on that of your, ah… assistant.’ He held a hand up to the man standing by the ambassador who gave no reaction – he clearly didn’t understand what was going on.

‘Intelligence?’ the ambassador scoffed. ‘What sort of intelligence?’

‘Good intelligence. From a reliable source.’

Beridze licked his lips. ‘Then we will employ security,’ he announced. ‘Everyone to be searched before they enter. Bags, clothes…’

A silence. ‘Sam?’ Bland addressed him without turning round. ‘Off the top of your head, perhaps you could suggest one way of infiltrating Mr Beridze’s event, despite such, ah… extensive precautions.’

Sam sniffed. ‘Pen gun,’ he said. ‘.22 calibre. Looks like a biro. Realistic. No one would know what it really was until the target was down.’

Beridze shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably.

‘You see, Mr Beridze, Sam is a professional. He has an imaginative way of looking at these things and I’m sure he could come up with any number of, ah… variations on the theme. Of course, the person sent to assassinate you will also be a professional. Have I made my point?’

Beridze scowled. ‘I will not be bullied.’

‘Sam.’ Bland continued almost as if the ambassador had said nothing. ‘Perhaps you could escort Mr Beridze and his assistant off the premises.’

Beridze stood up, his eyes full of fury. ‘I hope I do not need to remind you, Mr Bland, that you are technically on Georgian territory. I will not be spoken to like that in my own embassy.’

Bland stood too. ‘Mr Beridze, if you refuse to listen to what I have to say, then there will be a new ambassador in this embassy very soon. To be quite frank with you, that would be a matter of supreme indifference to me. But if you are the subject of an assassination attempt, the implications would be wider than you could possibly know. Your refusal to do as I ask puts the security of this country at risk. I have a number of legal means at my disposal to force you to do what I’m suggesting, which will be embarrassing for you and awkward for our two countries. I would rather not resort to these, but one way or another you will be going with this man to a place of my choosing. The manner of your departure is up to you.’

Beridze’s heavy eyebrows became furrowed and he tried, without success, to hide his fury. Bland’s words, though, had clearly sunk in. The ambassador turned to his assistant and delivered a curt instruction in his native language before returning his attention to Bland. ‘I am not happy about this,’ he said. ‘You may be sure that complaints will be made to the relevant authorities.’

‘No doubt they will be in touch with me if it seems appropriate,’ Bland murmured, and for a moment Sam felt a creeping respect for him. ‘Sam has a car waiting outside,’ he continued. ‘I suggest we meet you there in, what, ten minutes?’

Beridze gave him a dark look. ‘Ten minutes,’ he agreed.

Together Sam and Bland walked back out on to the street. It was quiet here. Ominously quiet. Sam looked around for a hidden pair of eyes, but the only ones he saw belonged to an urban fox that stared at them from the middle of the road. They stood under the light of a yellow lamp, waiting for the two Georgians to join them. ‘It’s a mistake for me not to have MI6 coordinating this,’ Bland scowled as they stood by the kerb.

‘Forget it, Bland,’ Sam said, just as the MI6 man’s phone rang. He answered it, listened intently, then hung up. ‘Hereford. Your unit is already at the safe house.’

‘Right,’ Sam nodded. He would never have admitted it to Bland, but it felt good to be active again. Good to have something to occupy his mind. Good to forget about the events of the previous day.

The fox sprinted suddenly away. Sam saw Bland jump. The old man was nervous. He had good reason. Sam remained silent.

The Georgians appeared, wearing coats that were too heavy for the time of year. Beridze’s assistant carried his briefcase, but the ambassador carried nothing other than a pair of leather gloves. They wordlessly approached and joined them under the yellow light, where Beridze’s badger-like hair look almost golden.

‘Give me your phones,’ Sam demanded.

‘Absolutely not,’ Beridze replied.

Sam was in no mood to argue. He grabbed the ambassador by the coat and pushed him up against the car. ‘Give me your fucking phone!’ he repeated.

The startled man plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a thin mobile. Sam grabbed it and turned to the assistant. ‘You too,’ he said. The assistant plonked his bags on the ground and quickly relinquished his handset. Once Sam had them both, he bent down and dropped each one through a drain cover in the gutter. ‘Just in case you were thinking of telling anyone where we’re going,’ he told the startled Georgians. ‘Get in the car. Now.’

The two men hurried into the back seat, leaving Sam and Bland alone in the lamplight. They exchanged no words, but the tension between them was drawn on their faces. Sam turned and headed to the driver’s side of the car. He was opening the door when he heard Bland’s voice.

‘Sam.’

‘What?’

‘Keep them alive.’

Sam shot him a look, nodded, then climbed into the car. He started the engine and drove off without even a glance at the two frightened Georgians sitting in the seat behind him, and leaving Gabriel Bland alone in the yellow light of the lamp.

Sam drove carefully through the London night, checking his mirrors as often as he looked at the road ahead. The headlamps of every car, unnaturally bright as they flashed across his vision, were beacons: a potential trail. At the Holland Park roundabout he completed four full circuits, checking that no one was following. It wouldn’t drop a skilful trail – there could be a number of cars following, one waiting at each exit for him; but if he was being followed by more than one vehicle it would stretch their resources.