John Carr

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.

39. (#ulink_d7c1ad22-8e8d-5ead-be62-2fae0e8fc377)

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.’