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.
Gun at the ready, he held his breath and waited. Waited for the silence to settle down. Waited for his paranoia to pass.
It didn’t.
Far from it.
The noises seemed to come from all directions at once. An explosion from the door; a thumping from the bedroom. And here, the room in which they were standing, the shattering of glass. Dolohov shouted in sudden surprise and fear; there was movement behind the curtains. Sam fell to a crouching position, pointing his gun in the direction of the curtains and waiting for a figure to show itself.
Voices. Muffled. ‘Hit the ground! Hit the fucking ground! NOW!’
An object flying through the air. A sudden bang and a blinding white light. Sam had discharged enough flashbangs in his time, so it was hardly a fresh experience; but they were always a shock when you weren’t expecting them. He cursed and shook his head, trying to reorientate himself after his senses had gone to pot.
But by that time it was too late.
A boot against the side of his face. He fell to the floor and felt another boot pressed heavily against the wrist of his gun hand, grinding it into the rug. He struggled blindly, scrambling to stand, but at that very moment he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the side of his head. His vision returned. He was being held at gunpoint by a balaclava’d man with an ops waistcoat and an M16.
‘Don’t… make… a… fucking… mistake,’ a low voice growled, pronouncing each word clearly. ‘We know you’re Regiment. We’ve got you covered.’
Sam froze. He counted two other guys with their M16s trained on him. A third was untying Dolohov, and he knew there would be more in other parts of the flat, checking there was nobody else there, securing the entrances and exits. Multi-room entry. Textbook stuff.
‘Drop your weapon.’
Sam released his fingers and allowed the gun to fall from his hand.
‘Flat on the floor,’ he was ordered. ‘Hands behind your back. You know the drill. Do it. Now. Do it fucking now!’
Sam had no option. These guys weren’t trained to fuck around, they were wound up like tightly coiled springs and they’d nail him if he so much as put a fingertip out of place. He did as he was told – slowly, so they wouldn’t think he was making any sudden movements.
‘Flat’s clear,’ another voice announced. ‘Cuff them both.’
His head against the floor, Sam could see nothing but the feet of the unit. A moment later, he felt a set of Plasticuffs being firmly attached around his wrists, tight so that they dug into his skin.
‘Jesus.’ A muffled voice from near where Dolohov was sitting. ‘What the fuck’s this sicko been doing?’
Sam was pulled roughly to his feet. M16s all around pointing at him. Two of the guys were looking at Dolohov’s hands.
Dolohov spoke. Desperation in his voice. ‘He has held me captive for two nights. He has tortured me. He is insane. You have to take me to a hosp-’
‘Shut up, Boris, or we’ll finish the fucking job for him.’
‘Just cuff him and get them both in the van.’ The instruction came from a guy with a Geordie accent, standing in the entrance to the room, clearly the unit leader. He pointed at Sam. ‘Any shit from you, my friend, and we’ll start making holes. Got it?’
Sam jutted his chin out and didn’t reply. A fist in his stomach. He doubled over, winded. ‘Got it?’
‘Got it,’ he gasped. He nodded and glanced over at Dolohov, who was having his own wrists bound behind his back. The Russian gave him an evil look, as though he was enjoying seeing Sam get a dose of his own medicine. He didn’t get much chance to enjoy it: he was pushed by one of the unit towards the hallway. Dolohov almost fell; at the last minute he regained his balance, but he looked a mess as he staggered towards the door.
Sam was nudged by the barrel of a gun in the same direction. He walked.
‘Regiment?’ he asked grimly.
‘You taking the piss?’ a voice hissed. ‘Now shut the fuck up and keep walking.’ He sounded insulted. Sam guessed it was the SBS. Always walking round with a chip on their shoulders about the SAS, always feeling they’re somehow the superior service and angered by the glory the Regiment boys got.
‘Who the fuck sent you?’ No reply. Sam was bundled down the stairs. Every synapse in his brain hunted for a way out; but four men had their guns trained on him and there was nothing he could do. As they stepped out of the mansion block, he saw a woman and recognised the fox fur round her neck. To say she looked shocked was an understatement. ‘What on earth…?’ she started to say; but she was ignored as the unit pushed Sam past her and on to the pavement.
Two plain white Ford Transits awaited them, the stock-in-trade of a special forces pick-up team, double parked against the other residential traffic in the street. Sam was forced into the back of one of them. All the seats had been ripped out to make a big open space in the rear. Two men were already up front and as Sam was pushed onto the hard metal floor of the van, he heard the engine rev.