John Carr. James Deegan
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was alternating with looped footage from Whitehall, showing people climbing into cars after the Civil Contingencies Committee meeting in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room.
Truth was, that wasn’t much more than theatre: the media loved COBRA, but the real work was being done elsewhere.
He looked at his watch.
Nicholls had developed the ability to work for long stretches without sleep, but he was also long past any macho need to prove himself by staying longer, working harder, sticking at it.
There would be days ahead when he needed to pull longer hours, and he had to save his strength for those.
He switched his work station off, pulled on his jacket, and left the office.
JOHN CARR WOKE with a start in the cool morning light, feeling damp and gritty-eyed.
It took him a moment to realise that he’d fallen asleep outside, on one of Konstantin’s sun loungers.
He looked at his watch.
05:45 hrs.
He rubbed his eyes, stood up from the lounger, and padded into the villa through the open glass doors.
A security guy was asleep on the sofa.
Carr walked past him into the kitchen.
Made himself a cup of tea, and walked back out to the poolside with that in one hand and a stale chocolate brioche in the other.
Thought for a second, went back inside and prodded the security guard with his foot.
The man awoke with a start and a gasp.
‘Morning, pal,’ said Carr, cheerily. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Yuri,’ said the guard, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in shock. ‘I…’
‘You report to Oleg, right?’
Oleg Kovalev was Konstantin Avilov’s head of security, a former Russian Foreign Intelligence Service spook and a good friend to Carr.
‘Yes.’
Carr bit into the brioche, started chewing.
He wiped a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and looked down at the Russian.
Early fifties, he guessed, and thickset, with that hard, Eastern European look about him.
‘Spetznaz?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Yuri. ‘VDV.’
‘Airborne,’ said Carr, with an appreciative nod. ‘Me too. Afghanistan?’
‘Yes, for two year,’ said Yuri, proudly. ‘Also, First Chechen War.’
‘That’s some bad ju-ju,’ said Carr, with a grin.
He took another bite of the brioche.
The Russian security man relaxed, and smiled back at him.
‘You know my wee daughter’s asleep upstairs?’ said Carr.
The smile faded slightly, shading into confusion.
‘So answer me this, Yuri,’ said Carr. ‘When you were on stag – you know, sentry duty – in Afghanistan, or Chechnya, did you fall asleep?’
Now the smile well and truly fell from the Russian’s face. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Carr. ‘I bet you didn’t. Because the Muj didn’t fuck about, did they?’
Yuri said nothing, but Carr knew he’d understood. On more than a few occasions, Soviet sentries had dozed off, and had awoken to find their camp overrun, and themselves and their muckers about to be skinned alive by gleeful mujahideen.
Carr finished off the sweet bread, and washed it down with a mouthful of too-hot tea.
He paused.
Trying to decide whether to bollock the fucker, or punch him.
The look of contrition in the Russian’s face softened Carr a little.
‘Listen, Yuri,’ he said, ‘I’m going to let it go this time, but if you let me down again you and me are away round the back of the block, and then Oleg’s going to have a go, and then when you get out of hospital you’re looking for another fucking job. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Yuri. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Good man,’ said Carr. ‘Don’t worry about it. But it doesn’t happen again, understood?’
The Russian nodded.
‘Go and make yourself a strong black coffee, splash some water on your face, and keep alert.’
Carr took his tea outside and drank it while watching the sun rise over the hills to the east.
Felt the humid air warm a degree or two.
Another day in paradise, for some.
He finished the tea, threw the dregs into a flowerbed, and went back inside.
Had a piss, and a quick shower, and then padded along the cold tiles to the study.
He booked a pair of lunchtime flights back to Heathrow for himself and Alice, and then went to pack his kit.
JOHN CARR HAD just loaded Alice’s suitcase into the boot of the villa’s Range Rover, when his mobile rang.
Number withheld.
He tended not to answer unknown callers, but under the circumstances this could be a friend or a relative.
He clicked green, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the engine on to get the AC kicked in.
‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his daughter.
The expression on her face, he’d seen it many times: it was the vacant look of a young squaddie who’s just gone through his first real firefight.
He couldn’t help smiling, slightly.
‘John, it’s Justin Nicholls,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.
Carr said nothing.
‘We met at your flat a while back?’ said Nicholls. ‘You, me, and Guy de Vere.’
A mental image of Justin Nicholls appeared in Carr’s head: nicely cut pin-stripe suit, expensive shirt, pinkie ring, discreet silver watch.
Black shoes with a mirror shine.
Sitting, uncomfortably, in Carr’s place in Primrose Hill.
With Guy de Vere, Carr’s old platoon commander from 3 Para, turned 22 SAS CO, then DSF, and now Commander Field Army.
A meeting to offer Carr a role in a new outfit being set up, strictly on the QT, by certain people at MI6, in the British Army, and various other interested parties.
For various unspecified tasks.
‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘I remember you.’
‘I understand you’re in Marbella,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’m sorry to hear that your daughter got caught up in it.’
Carr didn’t even bother asking how he knew.
‘She’s fine,’ he said.
‘And I’ve been reading with interest of your exploits.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes. First thing I saw this morning. We have pretty good sources in the Spanish police. Mind you, we’re not the only ones with