Sam stared him down, his breath short and angry.
‘I need to get inside the head of this assassin,’ the older man continued. ‘You’re the only person I know who can do it. Work with me and I’ll put you in charge of the operation. But I’m telling you, Sam – if Beridze gets killed tomorrow night, I’ll do all those things and more.’
Silence. Sam felt nothing but hatred and frustration. Yet he knew when he was in a corner. He closed his eyes and did his best to calm down. Only then did he speak.
‘Cancel the event,’ he said. ‘You could put an entire fucking squadron in there – Jacob would know how to get past them.’
Bland nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Put him in a safe house. Regiment guard. His assistant too.’ He looked over at the glass. ‘Nobody in the Firm’s to know where it is.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Bland demanded.
‘I told you,’ Sam said. ‘When we hit the training camp, we were expected. Spetsnaz. Where else would the information have come from other than inside the Firm? For all I know, the mole could be you.’
Bland’s lips thinned. ‘There’s no mole, Sam. You’re seeing shadows. Spetsnaz were there as a precautionary measure, not because they’d been tipped off.’
But Sam didn’t want to hear it. ‘You want to do this my way, then we’ll do it my way. If not, you might as well put me back in that police van. I’ve lost a brother, a friend and a colleague in the last few days and I’m not going to lose any more. Truth is I don’t even know if I can trust you, but I don’t really have much choice.’ He jutted out his chin. ‘I want the same team that hit the training camp. What’s left of them, at least.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Tyler, Cullen, Andrews, Davenport and Webb. They were there when Craven died.’
‘I didn’t have you down as the sentimental type, Sam.’
‘I’m not. If this hit is connected to Craven’s death, they’ll want to make sure it doesn’t happen. That makes them the best men for the job. That’s my bottom line, Bland. Take it or leave it.’
Bland fell silent. He looked at Sam for what felt like an age, his head nodding gently and his body swaying slightly like a snake.
‘All right, Sam,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal. But please don’t think I’m bluffing. If Kakha Beridze dies, you’re going down. And I promise you – you’ll take the people you care about down with you.’
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.’