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‘That’s no problem at all, Mr McDonald.’ Edgar twiddled the keys on his finger nervously. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s a nice, quiet street. What brings you to the area?’
‘I’m looking for somewhere nearer to my work.’
Edgar nodded, to show his understanding. ‘Good. Well, it’s a new development, just over three years old, I believe. Shall we go inside?’
‘Let’s.’
The man from Andrews & Son opened the front door and stepped back to let Fox inside. As Fox passed, he swiped the keys from the door.
‘Thanks. I’ll take it.’
Edgar was confused but smiled nevertheless until the door closed and he was locked out. Fox winked at himself in the hall mirror as he made for the kitchen, ignoring the doorbell, which the bemused estate agent now rang. Reaching under the sink he turned the water back on then opened the understairs cupboard and did the same with the electricity supply. The doorbell had stopped ringing. Fox filled the kettle with water. Edgar’s face appeared at the back window; Fox held up the kettle and gave a ‘thumbs up’ before lowering the roller blind.
Tracey had really done a number on him. The house was bare except for the odd items that had been left strategically to ‘sell it’. The kettle in the kitchen, expensive cooking utensils hanging on their pegs, and magazines, of the type they never read, on the coffee table in the lounge. Luckily, both the TV and three-piece suite had also been used for staging.
A thought suddenly occurred to Fox. He moved quickly to the internal garage door and opened it. There she was, his beloved Porsche, stubbornly standing stock-still and refusing to move until she had been fully restored. She was where he had left her but was now surrounded by boxes. Fox opened the nearest one to find it full of clothes – his. He was relieved; at least she hadn’t thrown them away. Picking up the box he made his way upstairs and took a shower, again ignoring the front door, and now his mobile.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Khalid stared at the desert. Was there no greater example of Allah’s greatness? He was doing His work on earth, carrying out His divine will. It was time to start the new jihad against the infidels, who, in league with the corrupt royals, would defile the house of Islam.
Khalid had received a target list from ‘the Chechen’ and some suggestions. He had found them most acceptable. His men had been instructed and soon, Insha’Allah, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia would be cleansed of the infidel plague and become the true house of Islam.
Wellness Fitness Club, Brighton Marina, UK
The three ‘meats’ were in again, pumping themselves up to ridiculous proportions. Fox shook his head. What a trio of tits! Each in their early twenties, one was well over six foot, the second just under, while the third – who Fox had nicknamed ‘mini-meat’ – was scraping five. As they passed, Fox kept his eyes on the monitor in front of his treadmill and the main report on Sky News, some sort of demonstration in Ukraine. Looking down again he saw that the two larger meats were now loading up the leg press machine for ‘mini-meat’, who as usual was making grunting noises as he pushed the plates away from his body under the ever-increasing pressure.
The guy really was comical, thought Fox. He was square. His shoulders were broader than Fox’s and his chest fuller; the sad thing was that this actually made him look shorter. Meat One and Meat Two egged him on and threw him a bottle of water when he had finished his set.
Fox had seen all sorts in his time, from the wiry types who were happy to run all day to the meatheads who thought they were invincible. These were usually Paras, huge, hulking men who ran into bullets like they were rain but died none the less. Strength was a great thing to have but flexibility and speed were just as important. Fox reached the five-mile mark and slowed down the machine before stepping off.
At forty-five he was in as fine a shape as he had been at twenty-five, or so he claimed. Not for him the beer belly and saggy skin. True, his joints ached more now, but he took a perverse pleasure in confronting the pain and battling through it. He drank greedily at the water fountain before heading for the pull-up bar directly in front of the leg press station and ‘the meats’. Resting between sets, they gave the older man sideways glances. Fox knew they were watching so decided to show off. He jumped up for the bar and, pausing only for a second to get his grip, snapped off ten very fast pull-ups. Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.
‘Bit tired today,’ he said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.
Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.
‘Is that a warm-up set?’ Snow looked down at Fox.
It took a second for the old soldier to register the face, then his own creased into a broad smile. ‘Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!’ Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet, extending his hand. It had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.
‘It’s good to see you, Paddy.’ Snow shook the large hand.
‘You too, mate.’ Fox jerked his head and implied they should move.
Snow followed him to the personal trainer area in the corner, away from the other gym users. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.
‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘Well, you see me.’ Fox took a gulp of water.
Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within earshot. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You still Regiment?’
‘Not quite.’
Fox raised his eyebrows; he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. ‘Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?’
Snow nodded.
Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later, he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.
‘You’re a celebrity.’ Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the seafront traffic.
‘Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jazeera.’
‘So what happened?’ Snow wanted to hear it firsthand.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Just me, Paddy.’
Fox folded his arms and leant back in the seat. It was a relief to recount the story to someone without fear of either prosecution or publication. He trusted Snow. As they headed towards Shoreham, Fox gave a full account of his actions on that eventful afternoon.
‘Did you see it was Sawyer before you pulled the trigger?’
Fox kept his eyes on the road. ‘He was in my line of sight.’
‘But did you see it was him?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’ Fox gripped the leather armrest. ‘He was shagging my wife.’
Snow slowed as they reached the outskirts of Shoreham. ‘You didn’t get the job then?’
‘What?’ Fox chuckled. ‘No, I did not.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Take the next on the right; you should be able to park at the Co-op.’
Snow turned and within a minute eased the car into a space.
‘So, who are you working for?’ Fox was blunt.
‘Six.’ Snow had no need to hide the fact.
Fox nodded knowingly. ‘I could tell.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘Has this got machineguns and rotating number plates?’
‘No, but it’s got an ejector seat especially for passengers of the Scottish persuasion.’
Fox held up his middle finger in reply as they exited the car.
Snow followed Fox out of the car park and onto the narrow high street. Both men stayed quiet until they’d reached the pub and were sitting with a pint. As usual, the Crown and Anchor was empty except for Burt and Dave. Burt pointed to the newspaper in his hand and gave a thumbs up.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Fox had an idea what his old comrade in arms had been sent to ask.
‘I heard you got offered a big job?’
Fox nodded. ‘Aye, I did that.’
‘I think you should take it.’ Snow sipped his lager.
‘You mean “Six” thinks I should take it?’
‘Yep.’ Patchem had known all along about Snow’s operational relationship with Fox, which was why he had chosen him to make the approach.
Fox downed his pint. ‘Training makes me thirsty. You’ll have to persuade me.’
Snow took the hint and got Fox another pint of bitter and a Diet Coke for himself.
‘What, you become bent or something? Where’s yours?’
‘I’m driving.’
‘You are not. I said you’ll have to persuade me. Now get yourself another. You’re staying the night at mine.’
Snow returned to the bar; he hadn’t needed much encouragement. This time, in addition to his pint, he plonked two double whiskys on the table. ‘If we’re drinking, we’re drinking.’
Fox lifted the spirit glass. ‘Up the arse, no bebies!’
‘You’d know.’
Fox narrowed his eyes. Not many could get away with saying that to him. They both downed the whisky. Dave looked up from his newspaper but said nothing. Fox sipped his pint. ‘So what’ve you been doing for the last decade and a bit?’
Snow recounted his own story, from his return to the Regiment after his assignment with The Det, to assisting the Ukrainian SBU, getting shot, and then ‘joining’ Six.
Fox whistled. ‘Me? After the Regiment I worked for a bunch of tossers for six years, got made redundant, and then, I nearly forgot, killed three bad guys and saved a princess.’
Neither story was the usual ‘reacquainting yourself with your mate’ chat, but then neither man was a normal ‘mate’. Although of different generations, they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they’d been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and, by reputation, hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father from whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’, had played the local trump and claimed to be from another cell. He had knocked Snow about with blow after blow to give his story credibility, while using his best Ulster accent.
After McKracken’s men finished planting the roadside bomb, Fox and Snow were taken back to a farmhouse, where, in a world before mass mobile phones, the IRA cell leader wanted to corroborate Fox’s story. Snow was thrown – bruised, head covered in a Hessian sack – into the barn, while Fox was marched to the kitchen. Neither man knew where the other was but both acted as one.
Snow pretended to be more injured than he was and, just as his IRA guard was removing his sack, he lunged out with his leg, sweeping the man to the floor. The young Irishman was winded and dropped his handgun. Snow rolled on top of him and using his head as a weapon, broke the Irishman’s nose before clamping his still-bound hands around the youth’s neck. He had only meant to render him unconscious but the adrenaline of the situation meant he’d pressed too hard.
This was Snow’s first kill, a hard kill, but he had had no time for remorse. Using the volunteer’s knife, he cut through his bonds, collected the gun, and made, as stealthily as possible, for the farmhouse.
In the kitchen, Fox wasn’t tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, while McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who hadn’t lived far away, Fox was regaling his watchers with stories when one of them sensed movement outside. Fox sprang to his feet and kicked the nearest man in the groin. The first terrorist crumpled and Fox grabbed his assault rifle. As he did, Snow sent two 9mm rounds through the window and into the skull of the second. Fox ventured further into the house, as Snow moved through the door, pistol trained on number one, lying on the floor clutching his groin.
Fox heard shots but McKracken hadn’t stayed to fight. He had taken his Cavalier and was making good his escape. The night had been a success. The bomb was defused and the remaining IRA cell member turned ‘grass’, delivering valuable intelligence. Fox and Snow had made an effective team.
Fox stood. ‘Come on, let’s get some grub.’
‘What about here?’ Snow fancied the homemade steak and kidney pudding.
Fox looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Do you enjoy living?’
Dave, who was collecting the glasses, stared at Fox. ‘Think about me. You get to walk away, but the missus insists on cooking for me every bloody day!’
They exited the pub and moved down the high street. ‘You wanna move the car?’
Snow shook his head. ‘No, it’s a pool car. If it gets towed I’ll get another.’
‘“MI6 takes on clampers” – that’d look good in the Evening Argus.’ Fox enjoyed his own quip. ‘Right, I fancy an Indian.’
Fox marched the pair of them around the corner to the Indian Cottage restaurant, a sixteenth-century cottage converted to become Shoreham’s best Indian. The fact that, like most Indian restaurants, it was owned and staffed by Bangladeshis was lost on the two former soldiers.
*
The noise of a seagull outside the bedroom window woke Snow with a start. Head throbbing, he unzipped the ‘maggot’ Fox had lent him and rolled off the mattress. Wearing only his boxers and T-shirt, he walked to the window and looked out. The house had a view of the street opposite and, if he craned his neck to the left, Shoreham beach and the English Channel. The early morning sunlight danced on the surface of the sea. Snow pulled on his jeans and made his way downstairs in search of ibuprofen, aspirin, or paracetamol – anything to avert the hangover which would soon fully manifest itself.
The sound of a kettle boiling and the smell of bacon met him halfway. As he reached the bottom Fox greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Have a nice lie-in? You must be getting soft in your old age.’
Snow checked the time on the microwave: it read 7:15. Fox grabbed the kettle and poured the scalding water into a pair of mugs. ‘Here, regulation brew. Milk’s in the fridge.’
‘Cheers.’ Snow poured a measure then handed it to Fox. ‘You got any…’
Fox cut him off. ‘Second cupboard. Still got some horse tablets they gave Tracey for her back.’
Snow took two painkillers and gulped them down with hot tea. ‘How are you feeling?’
Fox cracked an egg. ‘Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunnyside up?’
‘Yeah,’ Snow nodded, although truth be told he was still full from the previous night’s curry.
‘What time are they expecting you back at spy central?’
‘It’s flexible.’ Snow took another swig of tea. ‘So?’
Fox spread his arms. ‘You want me to give up all this for a fistful of sand?’ Snow remained silent as a smile spread across Fox’s creased face. ‘Did you think I’d actually say no?’
‘No.’
‘Eat.’ Fox slapped two eggs, three rashers of bacon, and a pair of sausages onto a plate. ‘For tomorrow we may die.’
Arizona Bar and Grill, Kyiv, Ukraine
Gennady Dudka was looking forward to seeing his oldest friend, Leonid Sukhoi. He crossed his arms and smiled, reminiscing about times long ago. They had been conscripts together in the Red Army before being selected for the KGB Border Guards, where they had both stayed and risen through the ranks until Sukhoi transferred back to his native Belarus and Dudka returned to his homeland of Ukraine. They had met up as frequently as work would allow over the years and had enabled as much collaboration as possible between their two KGB divisions.
Then, however, 1991 happened and the mighty Soviet Union imploded. The two friends found themselves working for different countries, Sukhoi now employed by the Belarusian KGB and Dudka by the Ukrainian SBU, Ukraine having dropped the Soviet name but not much else. As the Nineties and the new millennium passed, Ukraine had gradually stepped out of the shadows of the former Soviet Union and was walking, if slowly, towards the West and the EU. Belarus, on the other hand, had tried to rebuild the Union and sought to create, first, a ‘Belarusian and Russian Union’ and then a ‘Greater Slavic State’ with Russia, Yugoslavia – as was – and Ukraine. Yugoslavia had crumbled into civil war before they had a chance to sign up, and Ukraine hadn’t answered the door to their neighbour; they were busy entertaining their new visitor – the West. Now isolated by all but the infamous ‘Axis of Evil’ and Russia, Belarus was alone and mainly ignored, a remnant of the Soviet Union that neither fitted into the past nor the new democratic future of Europe.
