‘If you’re trying to say something,’ Sam whispered, ‘why don’t you just say it?’
‘Treason, Sam,’ Bland announced with sudden force. ‘It’s not a terribly fashionable word, is it? Smacks a bit of the Gunpowder Plot, doesn’t it? But it’s very apt, Sam, for what’s going on at the moment. Very apt indeed. I believe Jacob to be guilty of treason, Sam. And if you don’t help me find him, then you will be guilty of it too.’
Once more a smile spread across the older man’s lined face. Sam shut his eyes and as he did so, his brother’s words echoed in his mind. They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them. And he remembered the red-light runners, butchered in their beds by the Regiment’s weapons, and how easily one of those could have been Jacob.
‘You’re insane,’ he told the old man. ‘You’re totally fucking insane.’
Bland’s gaze flickered over to where Toby was standing. Clearly he didn’t like being spoken to like this in front of a subordinate, but if he was angry he managed to keep a check on it.
‘What if I were to tell you, Sam, that the red-light runners were being trained not by MI5, but by a foreign intelligence agency?’
‘Who?’
‘I, ah, I think I might keep that information to myself for the time being, Sam. Though if you think about it, I’m sure you would come to the same conclusion as me.’
‘Then why did you kill Clare’s contact?’
‘We didn’t, Sam. We didn’t need to. He was, ah, taken care of by the time we reached him.’
‘Who by?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘But he told Clare he was working for Five.’
‘Indeed he did, Sam. Indeed he did. Because that was what he believed.’
Sam’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the implications of what Bland was saying.
‘You see, Sam,’ Bland continued, ‘Miss Corbett’s red-light runners are exactly what she thought they were. With one difference. They thought they were working for MI5. They thought they were patriots. But they weren’t, Sam. They were stooges. They had been duped.’
His words rang around the room.
‘With the red-light runners trained, primed and reinserted into the UK, their handlers had a secret network of operatives willing to do their bidding. We have no idea how many of them there are out there. Tens? Hundreds? Just waiting to be activated. Just waiting to be given the order.’
As he spoke, he did not take his eyes from Sam.
‘Your brother is involved, Sam, in some way. I don’t think I need to tell you what sort of threat this poses to the national security. So if you have any information about Jacob, I recommend that you tell me. Now.’
Bland took a step back and put his hands behind his back. There was an air of finality to his movements. He had said his piece. It was up to Sam now.
Slowly, Sam pulled his backpack towards him. Opening it up at the buckles he fished his hand inside. His fingers brushed against the hard contours of the laptop he’d found. He felt his mouth go dry. The last thing he wanted was for that computer to fall into the Firm’s hands. The pack was staying with him, no matter what. Next to the machine was the small digital camera which he had used to photograph the deceased. He pulled it out and handed it to Gabriel Bland.
‘Pictures,’ he said shortly. ‘Of everyone we killed. They’re your red-light runners. Jacob wasn’t with them. Final answer.’
Bland narrowed his eyes as Sam stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to be excused,’ he demanded brazenly.
Bland appeared to consider that for a moment. You could see the wheels ticking in his mind. Finally, he nodded over at Toby, a short, instructive nod. Returning his attention to Sam, he smiled and held out one arm.
‘Please,’ he murmured politely, as though he were the maître d’ in a fine restaurant ushering his guest to the exit.
Sam gave him an unfriendly look, then turned and left. As he walked back out into the Kremlin he heard, but did not see, Toby closing the door behind him.
There was silence in the briefing room. Toby Brookes knew better than to speak out of turn.
He remained by the door, looking at his boss. Bland was a cold fish, Brookes knew that better than most. Full of fancy words and exquisite manners, but a total shit when he wanted to be, and a temper to match. But he had the ear of the important people – including the chief of the SIS – and was as much a part of the furniture at Legoland as, well, the furniture. As far as Brookes knew, he had no family to speak of. Christ, the bastard never even seemed to go home, and he expected the same of his staff. Brookes had barely seen his wife for two weeks, not since all the business with Clare Corbett erupted. Carry on like this and he wouldn’t have a wife much longer, but there was no point saying that to Gabriel Bland.
Brookes coughed, not because he needed to, but to remind Bland that he was actually still there. One of his boss’s eagle-like eyebrows shot up.
‘What do you think, Toby?’ he asked quietly. ‘I would very much value your opinion.’
Brookes blinked. Bland had never asked his opinion. Never. The old man avoided his eye, and in a flash of intuition Brookes realised that he was unsure of himself.
He stuttered.
‘You think I am foolish, giving any information at all to a man like Sam Redman.’
‘His talents don’t lie between the ears, sir, if you understand my meaning.’ Instantly, Brookes regretted his comment. He should have flattered the boss. That was what he wanted to hear.
‘I most certainly do understand your meaning, Toby. I most certainly do.’ Bland’s eyes became lost in thought once more. ‘Sam Redman is a man who thinks with his emotions, and with his biceps; not his mind, Toby. We’ve given him enough to be going on with. I predict that he will do whatever it takes to locate his brother. And we must locate his brother. That much is clear.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes agreed obligingly.
Bland nodded his head, then looked directly at Brookes. ‘See to it that he is followed. Category one target. Phone taps, trails, the works. Don’t concern yourself with legalities – I’ll clear it all with the chief. I want our best people on it, Toby. And I don’t want them to be seen.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes repeated, before turning to open the door.
‘Toby,’ Bland called. There was a warning in his voice.
He turned.
‘I mean it, Toby. Our best people. This will be the making of you.’ He smiled, a rather sweet, paternal smile. ‘It’s a most important operation, Toby. I just want to make sure you fully appreciate and share my sense of urgency.’
Brookes nodded, not knowing if he was expected to speak.
‘Good,’ Bland said calmly. ‘Good. Now then, I suggest we leave this place. I’ve never liked it much. It smells of men. Most unpleasant. Really most unpleasant.’
And with a sudden speed he walked towards the door. Toby Brookes only just managed to open it in time to let him through.
FOURTEEN
He had driven all day, stopping only to refuel the truck from the canisters of diesel in the back, or to buy fruit from one of the occasional stalls that popped up from nowhere. Whenever he stopped he kept the engine running so that he didn’t have to hotwire it again; and he kept the handgun close to his body in case anyone got any clever ideas.
Now it was evening. He was numb with tiredness. The road stretched out ahead of him, wide and empty. This place seemed to go on for ever and with only his sense of direction to guide him, Jacob Redman experienced many moments of doubt. He knew he needed to travel west and slightly north and, unable to read the road signs and in the absence of maps or any proper navigation gear, he had relied on his reading of the sun during the day and the stars at night. But these were not precise measurements. Distances were long in this part of the world and if he went wrong, he could find himself stranded in an unpopulated part of Kazakhstan with no diesel and a dwindling supply of money. The few notes he had stolen from the guard when he took the truck were enough to buy him a little food, but not nearly enough for fuel. There were a limited number of times he could steal from people before getting caught and he really didn’t want to have to fight his way out of a Kazakh police cell.