Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

took one of the middle seats and dumped his bag at his feet. Casey jumped in after him, then Webb squeezed into one of the bench seats in the rear of the van.

As Bowman shaped to follow him, Mallet reached out and grabbed his arm.

‘Are you fully focused, lad?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Sure. Why?’

‘I need you razor sharp on this one,’ Mallet said quietly. ‘I can’t have any of my guys getting sloppy on the job.’ Before Bowman could protest, he added, ‘I know you’ve had a long day and no kip. That’s why I’m asking, you understand.’

His expression was kindly, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. Bowman started to suspect that Mallet knew more about him than he was letting on.

‘It’s all good,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’m ready.’

‘OK then.’

He released his grip on Bowman’s bicep. Bowman ducked into the van and took the bench seat beside Webb, the holdall resting between his feet. Mallet boarded last, dropping into the empty seat next to Bowman.

The side door whirred shut, and the driver glanced round to check on his five passengers. Bowman was surprised to see a familiar face looking back at him. Buzzcut. One of the three UKNs who had collected him from his dingy hotel room earlier that night. A little over two hours ago, but it felt more like two days.

‘We’re ready,’ Mallet said. ‘Let’s move.’

Twelve

The guys kept to themselves as the Caravelle cruised west out of the city. They spent the time rechecking bits of kit or gazing out of the window. Casey swiped and tapped at her phone screen, getting live updates from Six on Lang’s current position. Mallet chewed his nicotine gum. Loader showed Webb pictures of one of his kids in a Swansea City kit. Webb pretended to look interested. As they skated west, Bowman tried to ignore the cravings. They had been getting worse since they’d left the police station, nibbling away at him. It wouldn’t be long before the shakes started again. A few hours at most. Maybe sooner.

I’ll need a few pills to get through the op, he told himself. He remembered what Mallet had told him when he’d offered him the job with the Cell.

This is a temporary posting. There are no guarantees that you’ll be kept on once the mission is over.

If I’m struggling with opioid withdrawal, Bowman thought, there’s no way I’ll be able to perform today. My career in the Cell will be over before it’s begun.

The first hint of dawn tinged the horizon as they neared the airfield. A guard in a high-vis jacket stepped out of the guardroom as Buzzcut drove up to the front gate. Buzzcut lowered his window and flashed his security pass. The guard studied it closely, cross-checking the details against the flight manifest on his clipboard. He handed the pass back to the driver and gave him a set of directions, thrusting his arm towards a row of buildings on the south side of the airfield.

The Caravelle coasted past the guardroom and down the access road for a quarter of a mile, passing maintenance buildings and a fuel dump and a half-empty car park. They raced past the terminal, turned left and hit another checkpoint. There was a short pause, then the boom barrier lifted and the Caravelle drove on, and suddenly they hit the pan: a lake of smooth asphalt two hundred metres due south of the runway. Further to the north, on the other side of the aerodrome, Bowman could just about see the lights coming from the RAF base.

They sheared off to the left and approached a Gulfstream business jet resting on the pan. The airstairs were in the lowered position. A long-legged woman in a bright pink flight attendant’s uniform and black pumps stood at the bottom of the steps, a pink scarf wrapped like a collar around her neck.

‘Remember the story,’ said Mallet. ‘Six rented this jet through a private company. The one we’re supposed to be working for. As far as this lot is concerned, we’re five high-powered execs going on a luxury trip to the French Riviera to enjoy some fine dining.’

Bowman nodded his understanding. He’d flown on deniable ops before with the Wing. The security services didn’t own private planes. They were too expensive to operate and spent too much time idle on the ground to justify the taxpayer expense. Far cheaper, and more convenient, to lease them privately through one of the dozens of front businesses MI6 operated. The companies themselves were untraceable, their ownership structures hidden behind a web of offshore shell companies.

The Caravelle pulled up alongside the Gulfstream, the side door flew open and the team snatched their bags and scrambled out. The attendant stepped forward from the stairs and flashed a pearly white smile at the team as she greeted them. She had the enthusiasm of a make-up counter assistant and the perfumed scent to match.

‘My name is Calypso,’ she said. ‘I’ll be looking after you today.’

Loader winked at her. ‘You can look after me any time you want, sweetheart.’

She smiled politely. ‘Do you have any special requests for your flight?’

‘Not today,’ Mallet said brusquely.

‘This way, sir.’

They ascended the steps, passed the galley and entered a main cabin divided into three salons. There was a lot of soft leather on display, a lot of polished wood and luxury furnishings. Enough seating to accommodate a dozen passengers. A flat-screen TV mounted on a credenza in the middle section of the cabin. A conference table, a minibar stocked with bottled water and soft drinks. There was a separate office at the front of the cabin equipped with a printer, fax machine, shredder and ultra-fast Wi-Fi, the attendant said. Everything a business executive needed.

If this op does go pear-shaped, thought Bowman, at least Six is sending us off in style.

They stowed their bags and buckled up. Nine minutes later, the Gulfstream was climbing through the low clouds. As soon as the jet levelled out, the team relocated to