Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

the PM or his bloody attack-dog at Defence?’

Don nodded.

‘You know everyone thinks The Department is the ultimate in off-books wetwork outfits?’

‘Yes.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘No?’

‘No. When I took over from Harry Macintosh I foresaw a time when the pols might decide we need our wings clipping, so I set up an arms-length outfit.’

Acheson grinned and felt relief flooding his system.

‘You’ve got a Plan B, haven’t you?’

Don returned the grin.

‘Always.’

‘Care to share?’

‘Remember when I was CO of The Regiment?’

‘Yes.’

‘I created a cadre of lads who had, what shall we call it, something extra? Called them the Black Dogs. Gave ’em a little black diamond arm patch. They all loved it.’

‘You replicated that at The Department?’

‘Hmm mm-hmm, yes I did. Even got one of the original lads working for me. Chap called Wolfe.’

10

BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

The mourners at Stevo’s funeral divided neatly into two distinctive camps. Family, dressed for the most part in black, and comrades and friends from the Paras. Like them, Gabriel wore his khaki No. 2 Service Dress uniform. The maroon lanyards and cap badge placement over the left eye indicated they were members of 1 Para, known informally as ‘Fitness 1’ for their role supporting the SAS in the Special Forces Support Group.

The sky, which for so many months had abandoned every other colour but blue, had turned the ashy grey of woodfire embers. A chill in the air had noses running and eyes watering, disguising the tears that flowed copiously as the vicar delivered the graveside prayers.

As his final ‘amen’ was repeated by the mourners, four paratroopers took hold of the ropes beneath the flag-draped coffin and lowered Stevo to his final resting place in the soil of the country he had loved so much.

At the edge of the crowd, Gabriel and Eli stood in a tight group with Don, Colonel Acheson and a man the latter had introduced simply as John. In his sixties, thick silver hair parted on the right, he had the upright bearing of a former soldier, although, Gabriel reflected, it could just as easily be the result of yoga or simply good genes.

Acheson, Don and Gabriel all wore medals on their chests. John did not, which, given his age, also moved Gabriel to conjecture that if he had served his country, it was in the security or intelligence services.

Gabriel turned and smiled at Eli. For a woman who always tended to wear bright colours when not in camo, she looked severe in her funeral outfit of a knee-length dress, black tights and heels. But black suited her.

As the other mourners drifted away from the graveside, Acheson turned to Don.

‘Do you mind if we speak out here?’

‘Not at all. Best privacy in the world.’

‘I’ve known John since schooldays,’ Acheson said, looking at his friend who stayed silent, letting Acheson explain his presence. ‘We were at Manchester Grammar School together. I went into the army, John business. We always joke that I got the glory, John the money.’

Along with Eli and Don, Gabriel smiled dutifully, though the joke was barely worth it.

‘Nick’s right,’ John said in a deep voice in which the flattened Mancunian vowels were clear. ‘Mineral mining may not be as glamorous as what he does, but it pays well. Now I want to help him out by donating some of it. All I need to know, Colonel Webster—’

‘Don, please.’

‘Don, is how much and in what form. I can do bank transfers, cash or bloody big bars of gold. Just let me know how much, when and where you want it and it’s yours.’

Now Gabriel understood. They were meeting the mission’s banker.

‘That’s very kind of you, John,’ Don said.

‘Kind?’ John repeated, his silver eyebrows jumping upwards. ‘Listen, I’m something of an old fashioned bloke, if you take my meaning. A monarchist. A free marketeer. A patriot. And bloody proud of all three. This crew of communists who’ve lied their way into power will be gone in a few years. In the meantime, I’ll not stand idly by while they refuse to avenge British lads killed helping the Africans better themselves.’

‘Has Colonel Acheson talked to you about the sums we might need?’ Gabriel asked.

‘No. And it doesn’t matter. You want a private jet? Helicopters? Guns? Vehicles? Give me your shopping list and I’ll give you a trolley dash round whatever supermarket you chaps,’ he interrupted himself as he turned to Eli, ‘and ladies use when you’re getting tooled up, or whatever you call it.’

‘It could run into seven figures,’ Gabriel said, not wanting to find himself and Eli stranded thousands of miles from home with a backer who suddenly choked off the money supply.

John smiled, putting deep crinkles around his icy-blue eyes.

‘Shall I tell you the fookin’ great thing about being a billionaire, lad?’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Me fortune’s growing faster than I can spend it! You want a million quid? It’s yours. Ten million! Why not?’

Then he burst out laughing, the sound made physical in a rising swirl of condensing breath in the chill air.

The meeting broke up at that point, with Don promising to liaise with Acheson and John over their ‘trolley dash’.

Driving back to Aldeburgh in the big black Camaro Gabriel had inherited from a dead friend, Eli asked the question Gabriel had been worrying at like a ragged fingernail.

‘How do you feel about operating outside the law?’

He frowned.

‘Honestly? I’m not sure. We’ve always had the explicit backing of the Government and therefore the implicit backing of the Crown.’

‘Whereas now we’re operating as Don’s private army.’

‘Exactly. No cover from the MOD. No backup from the security services. No Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.’

‘Do you believe in the operation?’ Eli asked.

‘Of course!’

‘So do I. If those boys were IDF, Israel would have people on the ground in Botswana within days tracking their murderers.’

‘So would we if Mr Tammerlane hadn’t just taken up residence in Downing Street.’

‘I don’t trust him. You heard what he said on TV the other day about Israel.’

Gabriel nodded. They’d been holed up in their hotel room watching a Sunday morning interview with the