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  The only other occupant of the marina – still floating, at least – is a massively built old steel ketch, with a bow that looks designed to cleave icebergs. It’s an imposing boat in a fetching royal blue, but its lines have been spoiled by a retrofitted wheelhouse with rebar cages welded across mean little windows, and what could be a World War Two anti-aircraft gun bolted to the foredeck. He wonders how any foresail they might use up front could avoid getting fouled by it, and where its owner gets ammunition. Assuming there is ammunition, and the thing isn’t for show: a harmless snake mimicking one with venom. Lights in the cabin have been on at night, but he’s seen nothing of the owner or crew in the four days he’s been here, and the boat’s forbidding aspect doesn’t encourage curiosity.

  Turning pointedly away from the approaching vehicle, he flips the sonar display on to check it’s working and jumps below deck. Amidst the Spartan rack of switches and comms and navigation equipment by the chart desk, an LCD tells him the batteries are charging. Enough watery light is filtering through the clouds to top them up via the solar panels forward of the hatch, and the breeze is turning the blades of the little wind generator at a respectable rate. The batteries use thoroughly prehistoric lead-acid technology, but are refurbished and reliable. Like the boat itself. A Sadler 34 sloop from the time of Margaret Thatcher, Otter’s Pocket might be of almost pensionable age, but she’s bomb-proof, well-behaved – and also surprisingly quick.

  He wouldn’t have swapped her for anything.

  Faint sounds of tyres on gravel. There are still a couple of provisions boxes sitting on the pontoon, he realises.

  So much for slipping away quietly.

  He grabs the handles either side of the hatch and hauls himself back up the steps to the cockpit. He’s in time to see three figures approaching along the bobbing planks of the pontoon. They’re sombrely dressed, the woman’s emerald headscarf being their only concession to colour. Behind the car’s dark glass he can just make out the driver. The prat is wearing what looks like a ghillie’s tweed cap and sunglasses.

  Oh look. It’s the Highland Mafia.

  One of the three, a leather-jacketed young man with a head like a Malteser, stops and hooks a heel insouciantly over the top of one of the pontoon’s anchoring piles. His build is lean, but there’s a confident efficiency to his movements. He fidgets and looks about as though desperate to be elsewhere.

  The pale woman pulls off her own tinted glasses as she approaches. Squinting despite the thin light, she cleans them on a cloth from the breast pocket of her woollen skirt-suit and stops a metre from the stern. Standing slightly behind her with his hands in the pockets of a Barbour jacket, her companion has the physique of a lapsed prop forward. Like the woman, he could be in his late fifties. His gaze is very direct.

  ‘You look like you could do with a holiday, dear,’ says the woman.

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’ Turning as he drops on to the pontoon, partially to hide his sneer, Alistair picks up a box of food. For an awful moment he thinks the bottom will burst, spilling provisions on his feet. Putting a supporting arm under it, he ventures: ‘Why the entourage?’

  For a few heartbeats there is just the burble of small waves, the whirr of the wind turbine, and the clang of rigging in the breeze. A seagull squawks close overhead. A splatter of white and grey appears on the boards centimetres from his feet. The man looks amused.

  ‘Well, we worry, dear.’

  The woman’s accent is not dissimilar to his own, perhaps with more emphasis on the RP English. Makes sense, he supposes. She wasn’t born a teuchter, though she spent more of her life in the Highlands than he has. He hops up through the gap in the guardrail and back into the cabin, calling over his shoulder: ‘I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.’

  ‘Oh, I know that.’ From her voice, it’s her turn to feign amusement. ‘We just thought … it would be fitting to see you off.’ As he skips back through the cockpit, he finds her lobbing a small gift-wrapped parcel at him. ‘Leaving gift. For luck. Nothing very exciting or surprising, I’m afraid.’

  Right. He tosses it into the cabin and jumps down to pick up the last box. ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘Being deadly serious for a moment,’ the man says, removing his golf cap and scratching his largely hairless skull, ‘what kind of protection do you have?’ Despite his agricultural appearance, like most Eton-educated Jocks he sounds as English as the Royal Family.

  ‘I’d say that’s between me and my next date.’

  The man turns to his companion. ‘Has he always been this much of an onanist?’

  ‘Given the source of half his genes, it could be worse.’

  Having climbed the ladder again, Alistair flings the box into the footwell by the boat’s wooden tiller, slams open one of the under-seat hatches, tears his assault rifle free of the Velcro holding it under the lid, and holds it up.

  ‘Heckler and Koch L85A2.’ The man seems grudgingly impressed. ‘Decent pea-shooter. Should have gone for the grenade launcher model, though.’

  ‘Do I need grenades?’

  ‘It’s better balanced with the launcher.’

  ‘You get that off Google?’

  ‘Don’t be a horse’s arse. You’d be surprised at some of the things our estate-owning Arab friends use on the deer in the stalking season.’

  No, I really wouldn’t. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful out there. In fact, you’re quite insane to be considering this excursion of yours at all. Swanning off on some navel-gazing bloody … gin cruise at a time like this?’ He shakes his head. ‘Totally irresponsible, is what it is.’

  Having repositioned her fashionable eyewear, his companion cradles an elbow as if unsure what to do with her hands. ‘Seriously, my dear,’ she says, ‘do be careful. It’s a jungle out there now. We worry.’

  The two regard him intently for a moment. The woman’s mouth is a tight line. There’s disapproval there, but also something else. Further down the pontoon, the younger man is kicking listlessly at another of the concrete piles.

  ‘We have contacts,’ the man goes on, voice softening as he steps closer. ‘People who can, you know, source things. Don’t look like that – anyone in our position would be bloody mad not to make sure we’re …’ he licks his lips, as though tasting something unpleasant. ‘Insured.’ He glances about. Leans conspiratorially forward. ‘Are you quite certain we can’t offer you something more potent?’

  ‘Look.’ Alistair knows his annoyance is showing, and he doesn’t care. The truth is, he wishes they’d just piss off and leave him alone. ‘I’m in half a mind to leave even the bloody rifle behind. If someone wants my boat, they’re probably going to take it – and if that happens I’d much rather they left me breathing because I didn’t shoot at them. I’m supposed to be having a break, remember? A holiday! So, this is how I’ll have to do it. I’ll steer clear of known hot-spots, and if anything unforeseen happens I’ll have the EPIRB and the radio. Bloody hell – I’m on a thirty-four-foot sailing boat! On a good day, I can do – what? About eight knots? With my hands full, I might add.’

  He throws his hands up.

  ‘What are you suggesting, exactly? Missile launchers?’

  ‘Alistair …’

  ‘No – trust me on this. If things kick up, the kind of extra kit I could usefully fit in Otter’s Pocket – completely illegally, I might add – is only likely to get me into trouble.’

  The woman seems to accept this, but looks away, eyes guarded.

  ‘Well,’ says the man evenly, but with an unkind grin, ‘your decision. But you need to get your shit together. And soon – or from what I’ve been hearing, you may as well stay on holiday. You’re in your forties, man! Millions would consider you bloody lucky to have a job at all. What do you expect to do instead? Pottery? What’s floating around navel-gazing in some glorified bathtub going to solve? Pull yourself together.’

  Not replying, Alistair undoes the
dock lines from the pontoon cleats and throws them untidily on to the deck. He’ll sort them out later. Without starting the engine, he steps aboard. ‘Make sure you keep in touch,’ he hears from behind him. ‘You don’t have to be on your own. Please?’

  Having loosened the main sheet, he hauls the mainsail up the mast until it’s flapping noisily. He winches the sail up the last metre and then, tiller in one hand, pulls in the mainsail until the sail is full and straining. The boat quickly picks up speed, missing the nearest pontoon finger by a couple of metres.

  He ties off the tiller. Unfurls the triangular jib from around the steel forestay at the boat’s bow, winching the sail taut until the little telltales of nylon cord dotting each side of the sail waggle their tails in its slipstream like red and green spermatozoa.

  The boat has heeled over.

  It’s a perfect sailing day. The tide is at slack water and, according to the LCD panel by the hatch, the boat is making seven point five knots. Its keel hums as if with pleasure. Alistair can already feel parts of him he hadn’t even realised were tense beginning to uncoil.

  When he looks back, the figures and the car are gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  ____________

  Operations Centre

  AS BEFITTING A SECURE OPERATIONS CENTRE in times of emergency, there’s a body-armoured security squad clutching short-barrelled semi-automatic carbines just inside the door. Their unblinking stares and chill politeness are pretty threatening.

  Good.

  Sebastian Blakeslee submits to security and biometrics scans, and the nearest guard punches the switch for the glass door and tells him where to go. Sections of the bulletproof glass, he can’t help noticing, are pock-marked. Faintly dank breeze-block corridors with discoloured office-tile ceilings bring him to a locking fire door. Smiling with the appropriate level of gravity, an attendant in power heels and the shortest skirt-suit he’s ever seen ushers him through.

  On the other side, a utilitarian steel staircase kinks down into the Operations Room. A block-built cube ten metres per side, its windowless walls are coated with OLED flatscreens. The largest virtually fills the wall facing the stairs. All are crammed with images and text – from news reports and satellite feeds, to spreadsheets, mugshots, and police and ’phone records. Twenty desks, each with their own, smaller displays, are clustered loosely around the holographically projecting “war table” at the room’s centre. Sebastian knows all but the eldest here will want to use Spex, but he’s banned smart eyewear in the Ops Room. Of a generation that believes shared physical screens encourage teamwork, he’s senior enough for such eccentricities to be tolerated.

  He leans on the rail at the top of the stairs. Below, the room is a hive of activity. Most of the staff look harassed and unaware he’s arrived. Lorna Ainsworth is here, he sees, locating her by her height and russet bob. She can only have been in the building a few minutes and already she’s the epicentre of activity. Catching his gaze, she lifts an eyebrow and dumps a stack of what looks like surveillance hard-copy on a subordinate’s desk with a resounding slap, making the poor kid jump.

  Sebastian finds himself grinning. He’d hope he could match her looks and energy when he reaches his sixties, but the truth is, she already makes him feel old.

  By his cue-ball skull and designer glasses, he also recognises chubby, camp, thirty-something Scott Petrie – a reputedly talented data analyst he recalls from the initial briefing. Petrie’s sharing an evidently hilarious joke with equally bald but significantly less pasty field officer Shegen Tomlin. Tomlin has so far proved annoyingly cocky – a borderline narcissist, in Sebastian’s opinion – but he’s clearly sharp, and came highly rated.

  Otherwise, he’s yet to be introduced.

  He clangs down the stairs, causing faces to look up. Dark mutterings are going on. He can empathise. In their position he wouldn’t like a gate-crashing southerner pushing him around either. Lorna greets him in her inimitable way with a peck on the cheek and leads him through the room, making introductions with characteristic efficiency.

  ‘This is Soo-Ling Campbell, our remote sensing expert. This is James Fields, police tactical. He’ll be doing most of the liaising between the team and Scottish … I’m sorry, old habits – North British Police manpower on the ground. Derek Planter, who’s off-duty from undercover work just now. We thought his input could be useful. This is Andrew Campbell, who worked for Police North Britain on state security in the run-up to the bombing …’

  Sebastian’s surprise must have shown because Lorna continues: ‘Andrew’s been fully screened, and he volunteered. As I’m sure he’ll tell you, he’s keen to restore the unit’s reputation after what happened yesterday. This here’s Andy Gupta, who is co-ordinating information from CCTV and road cameras. Carla Stout, our resident IT and tech guru, including comms. Ina Tiles is our psychologist and profiling expert …’

  A team of thirteen, in all. He picks his way around the room after her, making a point of shaking hands, committing names and faces to memory. They seem, by and large, how he’d expected. Professional, polite.

  Resentful.

  The door at the top of the stairs opens. Sebastian looks up to see a couple of men in expensive suits edge inside. The first he recognises from his doughy features and unnatural hair – like some kind of peach-coloured animal has crawled on to his scalp and died. Tom Willoughby, minister for home security. The distinguished-looking older gentleman he doesn’t, and this irritates him. The man’s tall – taller even than Sebastian, who got called “pylon” at school. He has bushy white hair and eyebrows, compact facial features with steely grey eyes, a ruddy complexion, and an expression that could be either wisdom or trapped wind.

  Willoughby clearly recognises Sebastian. The man’s eyes lock on him like an owl’s, then he’s waddling down the stairs, hand extended. ‘Warrant Officer Blakeslee,’ he declares affably, jowls wobbling. ‘I heard you’d been assigned to this. I hope you’re well.’

  ‘Mr Blakeslee,’ Sebastian corrects, taking the hand as expected. It’s like sticking his hand in a bag of warm chips. ‘I’ve been retired from service for quite a while now.’

  ‘But still, your record speaks for itself,’ Willoughby blusters. He turns to the white-haired man, who’s inspecting Sebastian with beady, impenetrable eyes. Usually Sebastian has a reasonable idea of people within a few seconds, but this one’s keeping his cards by his chest. The man’s wearing a moss-coloured tweed suit and a silk cravat. The outfit should have looked ludicrous, an anachronism. Somehow it doesn’t. ‘Trevor – this here is Sebastian Blakeslee, who is overseeing this investigation. I don’t think you’ll find a more capable pair of hands.’

  Willoughby turns back to Sebastian. ‘Mr Blakeslee …’

  ‘Please, Sebastian.’

  ‘Sebastian. Ah. Of course. I, um – I don’t believe you’ve met Sir Trevor Bolton-Clemens. Permanent secretary for the Ministry of Defence.’ The minister tilts his bulk confidingly into Sebastian’s personal space. ‘Strictly between us and these walls, he’s also filling in as chief of staff now that Tristan Coombes … um …’

  As the minister tails off, Sir Trevor nods a greeting. His handshake is dry and firm. MoD. Interesting. He knows who the man is, of course, but he’s fairly sure this is the first time he’s laid eyes on him. ‘You keep a low profile,’ he observes.

  The expression in the eyes doesn’t waver. ‘It helps me do my job.’ There’s a pause. ‘You were a mercenary, weren’t you, after you left the army?’

  Sebastian leaves a silence that’s a heartbeat longer than necessary. ‘Private security contractor,’ he corrects. ‘Like many well qualified ex-army. As I’m sure you are aware. Transferable skills and all that.’ He shrugs. ‘We all have to make a crust.’

  ‘Indeed we do. And now you’re … what? An operational advisor?’

  ‘Employed by MI5, that is correct.’

  ‘Which branch?’

  ‘G Branch – T
errorism.’ Obviously. ‘And acting head of this investigation. If you’re implying that my spell freelancing somehow puts my loyalty in question – I urge you to refer to agency screening procedures, my agency and military record, and stats concerning the number of MI5 employees with backgrounds similar to mine.’

  ‘His record is second to none,’ Willoughby breaks in, conspicuously trying to smooth the waters.

  ‘I don’t doubt that it is,’ responds the permanent secretary, smoothly. His accent is extraordinary, so loaded with vowels it’s sometimes difficult to follow him. He’s like a caricature of a bygone time. ‘Well, I’m here in an observational capacity. As you’ll appreciate, this matter is something of a priority.’

  Sebastian nods, stiffly.

  ‘I’ll try not to get in your way. As you were.’

  You do that. Disguising a deep intake of breath, Sebastian turns to face the room. He finds Lorna skewering him with her hazel gaze, an eyebrow characteristically raised. He raises one in return. Discreetly rolls his eyes.

  ‘Attention, everyone.’ Allowing the room to come to order, he pulls his Service-issue ’phone from his pocket and flips through the presentation menu. He can feel Willoughby and Bolton-Clemens just behind him. ‘This thing synced?’ he asks, shaking the ’phone in Carla Stout’s direction. Carla looks panicked, then peers over her rimless glasses to check her screen, and nods.

  Sixteen sets of eyes turn expectantly on him.

  ‘As a task-force we now have more than twenty hours of catching up to do on this, so we’ll need to get cracking. You’ll all have heard versions of what happened, and some of you will already know far more detail than I do. My job is primarily co-ordination, so I’ll give a quick overview of what’s known so far.’

  He swipes to the first page of the presentation, which is reproduced four metres high on the screen dominating the room. It’s a forensic reconstruction of the bomb-blast, overlaying animated graphics on to a 3D rendering of the blast scene. Swivel chairs creak as heads turn towards the screen.