Motive Page 16

  “I want Glocks,” the suit said. “Ten, plus ten rifles. I also need five hundred rounds for the handguns and three thousand for the AKs. What about magazines?”

  “Not a problem. How many do you need?”

  “Three for each Glock, ten for each rifle.”

  It sounded like the man was preparing for war. The only reason he’d need that many magazines was if he planned to use all the ammo at once, but that wasn’t Paul’s concern. His job was to sell the guns, not worry what they were used for. “We can do that.” He did a quick calculation. “That’ll be forty grand for the AKs, twenty for the Glocks and five grand for the ammo. I’ll throw the magazines in for free.”

  Marsh would have settled for him bringing back a lot less, but Paul was adding a surcharge for the suit’s disrespect. He expected the man to haggle, but he did not seem price-sensitive.

  “That is acceptable. How long before I can take delivery?”

  “Nine days,” Paul told him. It would mean another trip to Albania to get the AKs and the ammunition, and the handguns would have to be imported from Austria. They would be broken down to their component parts and shipped separately, then reassembled in the UK before being sold on. That was, if Marsh let the transaction go ahead.

  “Let my friend know when they are ready.” The suit stripped off the gloves and walked back to the car without another word. Oguz threw Paul an apologetic look and followed.

  “What a wanker,” Phil offered as the car pulled away.

  “Totally,” Paul agreed. There was something about the man he didn’t like. Not just his arrogant manner, either. As Franklin Marsh’s right-hand man, Paul got to meet a few of the major underworld figures, and this guy wasn’t one of them. Only one thing came to mind. “I bet he’s Al-Qaeda, or ISIS, whatever they are these days.”

  “Could be,” Phil said. “You gonna tell Marsh?”

  “I have to. He thinks he’s selling to the Turks.”

  Paul called Terry, who said that the Range Rover had left. Paul instructed him to take the weapons back to their caches spread over the greater Manchester area, from lock-up garages to legitimate businesses.

  It was nine by the time Paul, Phil and Terry returned to the Vine, still an hour away from opening. Paul found Marsh doing his usual walk-through, ensuring the nightclub was ready for the late-night crowd.

  “How did it go?” Marsh asked as he sipped a glass of single malt.

  “They want ten Glocks, ten AKs and a shit-load of ammo.”

  “Good. Good. Get a decent price?”

  “Sixty-five grand,” Paul said.

  Marsh’s eyes widened. “Sixty-five? From the Turks?”

  “I don’t think the Turks were the buyers. They had a guy with him and he did all the talking. I think Erkan’s acting as a middleman, getting a finder’s fee from the sale.”

  Marsh didn’t react well to the news. “Who the fuck was he?”

  “I dunno. Some Arab. When I mentioned the price, he didn’t flinch.”

  “And you didn’t think that was strange? You ask him for at least ten grand more than the guns are worth and he doesn’t bat an eyelid. That smells like copper to me.”

  Marsh turned and walked to his office. Paul recognised it as a bad sign, but had no choice but to follow. Once inside, Marsh poured another whisky but didn’t take his usual seat behind the desk. Paul thought it best to remain standing, too.

  “He didn’t seem like a cop,” Paul offered.

  “Oh, he didn’t? And how the fuck would you know? You thought Kenny was clean and he was a copper. You think Ryan’s a copper when he’s as pure as the driven fucking snow! What makes you the expert all of a sudden?” Marsh was red in the face by the time he’d finished his outburst.

  “If anything, he’s more likely to be one of them terrorists than a cop.”

  Marsh looked like he was about to explode. “You what? You fucking what? Are you telling me you just offered ISIS all the weapons they need to go tear up the Arndale centre?”

  “We don’t have to go through with the deal,” Paul said. “No money changed hands, so if he’s a cop, he can get me on conspiracy, that’s all. But if we don’t go ahead with the deal, even that would be shaky. We could call it entrapment.”

  “So now you’re a legal expert, too, eh? Okay, smartarse, let’s say he’s not a copper. Let’s say he really is Al-fucking-Qaeda. The moment I tell the Turks the deal’s off, I lose all credibility. Word will soon get ’round that I can’t even supply ten fucking AK-47s! I’ll be a laughing stock!”

  “That isn’t on me,” Paul said. “I had no idea the Turks would bring in a stranger. If you’re gonna be angry with anyone, it should be Erkan.”

  Paul’s logic had the desired effect. Marsh took his seat and drained his glass before lighting a cigarette. Paul remained standing.

  “I’ll have to go and see him,” Marsh said. “There’s no way I’m arming those bastards.”

  “What will you tell him?” Paul asked. “You can’t just say it’s because the guy he brought along looks like a Muslim. Erkan is, too. That would really piss him off.”

  “I know,” Marsh said. He was twiddling his cigarette, spinning it around the way he always did when agitated. “I’ll give it a couple of days, then say our supplier on the continent was shut down. I’ll tell him it’ll be a couple of months at least before I can get my hands on any weapons.”

  “You think he’ll go for it?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Marsh said. “Erkan knows what AKs go for, so I’d be stupid to turn down such a great price for no reason.”

  “What about the Arab, though? He’ll just get his guns from someone else.”

  “Not if we tell the old Bill,” Marsh said. “Let Billy Marsden know what happened. He can pass it up the chain as an anonymous tip.”

  “Will do.”

  Marsh extinguished his cigarette, then poured himself another shot of single malt. “Sorry for going off at you. You did nothing wrong.”

  “No worries,” Paul said. “I’m gonna shoot off if that’s okay. Got an early start tomorrow. That junkie loser Mark Bramley is late on his payments again. Seems he forgot the lesson Ryan taught him. I thought I’d give him an early morning wake-up call.”

  “Off you go,” Marsh said. “And take Ryan with you. Bramley needs teaching a proper lesson, you got me? Tell Ryan not to hold back. If he doesn’t, then maybe you’ll believe me.”

  Paul nodded and left. When he got out into the street, he sent Billy Marsden a message to meet him for lunch the next day, then drove home.

  Unsure as he still was about Ryan, Marsh had a point. His background checked out. Paul himself had been around to three of his places of work, and at each job they verified that Ryan had been a good employee—the factory incident apart—but hadn’t lasted very long. His average stint was a few weeks, but he managed nearly four months on the building site. The men there remembered Ryan as pleasant and funny, though he rarely socialised after work.

  Maybe Marsh was right. Maybe Ryan was who he said he was. After almost a year, a copper would have made some mistake by now, or at least have some of the team pulled for their illegal activities, but the recent Albania runs had gone unhindered, and the drugs were still flowing in from Europe.

  The nagging doubt wouldn’t leave him, though. Ryan had been tested twice and passed both times, yet Paul still wasn’t convinced. Maybe it was time for one final attempt to put the matter to bed for good, and today’s meeting gave him an idea.

  Chapter 19

  Ryan Anderson understood why people wanted to work for Franklin Marsh. After ten months in the man’s employ, Ryan had saved over fifteen grand in cash, he had a nice apartment, a wardrobe full of designer clothes and girls flocking around him when he visited the Vine nightclub. His looks had a lot to do with it, but being one of Marsh’s men was what drew them to him.

  He had everything a man in his twenties could ask for. It was just a pity it wasn’t legal.

  But
then, that was why he was there, to find out everything he could about Franklin Marsh’s empire and help bring it down. Only it wasn’t going as planned. He’d imagined that once he’d got his foot in the door, he’d soon learn everything about Marsh’s business, but that hadn’t happened. He’d been used as an enforcer, collecting debts and putting rivals in their place, but what he really needed was to gain access to Marsh’s inner circle. He needed to be in Paul’s position, or at least up there with him, but the prospect looked a long way off.

  The most he’d learned about the operation was that there were regular runs to Albania, but what they were bringing back was still a mystery.

  His boss wasn’t happy.

  Malcolm Brigshaw had sold the job as long-term, but with every passing week, he was pushing for more information. Perhaps Brigshaw was getting stick from his own superiors, but Ryan doubted it. Brigshaw didn’t seem the type to take shit from anyone.

  He’d first met the man while in 2 Para. Ryan had been a 23-year-old corporal, and as he’d told Marsh, he was up for his third stripe and weeks away from attempting SAS selection. That was, until Malcolm Brigshaw had turned up at Colchester Garrison.

  * * *

  Ryan marched down the corridor to the CO’s office and knocked on the door. He heard the instruction to enter and opened the door, coming to attention in front of the commanding officer’s desk and offering a smart salute.

  “Corporal Anderson reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “At ease,” Lieutenant Colonel James Crofter said, giving a quick salute in return. He was a thick-set man in his late forties, and filled the chair he was sitting in.

  “Is this the man?”

  Ryan turned his head a little and noticed another man in the room. He was dressed in civvies, a grey suit and highly polished shoes. He looked to be in his fifties, with short, thinning grey hair neatly trimmed. He had a military bearing, confirmed by the regimental tie.

  “It is,” Crofter confirmed. He didn’t seem happy with the other man’s presence.

  The civilian stood. He was an inch shorter than Ryan’s six-two. “Let’s take a walk.”

  He opened the door and Ryan looked at his CO, who waved him out. Ryan stood to attention once more, saluted and turned smartly on his heel. In the hallway, he followed the civilian out into a warm May morning and fell in step.

  “How are you, Ryan?”

  “I’m good, sir. Mind telling me what this is about?”

  “All in good time. My name’s Malcolm Brigshaw.” He looked around. “This place has changed somewhat over the years.”

  Ryan said nothing. He wasn’t interested in which buildings had been replaced over the years, and he thought mentioning it could send the old man down nostalgia lane without telling Ryan the purpose of his visit.

  “I used to be stationed here a few years ago,” Brigshaw said, pointing to his left. “My barracks were just there.”

  “That’s nice. Look, if you’re here to write a book about the garrison’s history, I’m the wrong man.”

  That brought a chuckle from Brigshaw. “Hardly. Things change all the time, it’s inevitable, and only fools wallow in nostalgia. No, I’m here to discuss the future.” He looked over at Ryan. “Your future.”

  “I think that’s pretty much set. I get my third stripe in a few weeks, then I’m off to Hereford.”

  “Ah, yes, I saw your application. And I must say, your record has been exemplary to date. The SAS would have been a good fit for you, I’m sure.”

  Ryan stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean, ‘would have been’?”

  “I’m here to offer you an alternative path.” Brigshaw resumed walking, not turning to see if Ryan was behind him.

  “If there’s a new unit that’s better than the SAS, then I want to know about it.” Ryan was level with Brigshaw once more. Whoever he was, he appeared to have access to military records. Ministry of Defence, perhaps?

  “Not new,” Brigshaw said. “We’ve been around for a long time, but we fight on a different front. Rather than storming buildings in a far-off land, we protect our country from domestic foes. We just don’t use military tactics to achieve our goal.”

  “Ah, so you’re MI5.”

  Brigshaw smiled. “The CO said you were a bright lad. Yes, I’m with the security service.”

  “So what do you want with me? Are you auditioning for the new James Bond?”

  “He was Six,” Brigshaw said. “But yes, we’re recruiting. Tell me what you know about MI5.”

  “Only what I’ve seen on TV. Spies running around with guns, going undercover to infiltrate the bad guys.”

  Brigshaw nodded. “Yep, that’s about as far from the truth as you could possibly get. In fact, we rarely venture out into the real world, and when we do, we’re seldom armed. Up until now, the footwork was done by agents, which is a bit of a misnomer. People think agents are the ones who are employed by us, but they’re actually members of the public who already have an in with the people we’re interested in. We call them covert human intelligence sources. Think of them as informers. People like myself, who run the agents, are called intelligence officers.”

  “I stand corrected,” Ryan said. “So what do you want from me? I don’t know any villains.”

  “Well, unfortunately, we do. And our old strategy wasn’t effective. We’d throw money someone’s way, hoping for intel, but most of the time we were double-crossed. Fed fake leads about incoming shipments, things like that. You see, the people we’re after don’t take kindly to snitches, so few people took us up on our offer. It was decided that a tactical revamp was required. From now on, the agents we run will be professionals and will work directly for MI5.”

  Ryan shrugged. “So you’re sorted. Use your own guys or get some undercover cops and away you go.”

  “We thought of that. Twenty years ago, it might have worked, but criminals are a lot more sophisticated these days. Not only can they perform more rigorous background checks, but there’s also the chance that an undercover officer might trip across someone he’s already had dealings with. No, what we’re looking for is someone with a totally clean history.”

  Ryan could see where the conversation was heading. “You want me to work undercover for MI5?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  It certainly wasn’t what Ryan had expected when he’d marched into the CO’s office. He’d thought perhaps it might be to discuss his promotion, or his request to try out for the SAS. He never imagined being headhunted to become a spy.

  “I’m flattered,” he said, and meant it, “but I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I don’t want to throw that all away.”

  “You won’t be throwing anything away. Think of it as a secondment. As I said, we need fresh faces for every operation. Once you’ve been in the field, you become a liability. You’d spend two years with us, perhaps three, then you can return to the army and pick up where you left off.”

  “Simple as that? They’d just welcome me back, no questions asked?” The words were out of his mouth before Ryan had time to think. It surprised him that he was actually considering the offer.

  “That’s the arrangement we have with the MoD,” Brigshaw said. “You’d spend a year training, then take on your one and only role. Once that’s complete, you’ll have a job here waiting for you.”

  Ryan would be twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six by the time he returned. Still well below the maximum age to join the SAS. As long as he kept himself fit, he should have no problems. There were other things to consider, though.

  “If I have to infiltrate a jihadist terror cell, won’t they notice my white skin and accent?”

  “We don’t deal exclusively with Islamic extremists. It’s the main focus of our work at the moment, but we’re also interested in the people who supply them with weapons. That usually means home-grown organised crime. That’s where you come in.”

  “Okay. What about pay and my pension?”

  “You’ll get double what you
’re receiving at the moment, and they’ll continue to pay into your army pension. We’ll also put a lump sum into a civil service pension for you.”

  The financial side sounded good, but Ryan wasn’t about to commit without more details.

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Get in with the wrong crowd,” Brigshaw said. “We’ve got our eyes on a few people, career criminals, but they operate at arms’ length from the illicit side of their businesses, so we can’t pin anything on them. Your job would be to get in at the bottom of one of these organisations and work your way up until you’re close enough to the man at the top to get details of his operation.”

  “And what if they twig that I’m MI5?”

  “It won’t happen. They can do all the checks they like, but there’ll be nothing to tie you to the security services.”

  Brigshaw seemed certain, but he’d already admitted it was a new venture for the security service. Ryan would have preferred something to measure his confidence against, like a few successful missions that ended with the agent walking away in one piece.

  “How long do I have to think about it?” Ryan asked.

  “I’ll need an answer tomorrow. And I don’t need to tell you that this conversation never took place. If anyone asks why you were talking to me, I’m a solicitor, informing you of a great-aunt’s will.”

  They’d walked around the block and were almost back to where they’d started.

  “How do I contact you?” Ryan asked.

  “Just give the CO your answer. He’ll get in touch with me.” Brigshaw stopped and turned to Ryan, looking him in the eye. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you could do the job. Of all the people we had to choose from, you were the standout candidate. You’re cool under pressure, your decision-making skills are exemplary, and you’re capable of looking after yourself. You’d be doing your country a great service.”

  Brigshaw turned and walked away, leaving Ryan Anderson with plenty to think about.

  * * *

  The next morning, Ryan went to see the CO. While his roommates had gone to the mess, Ryan had spent the night in his barracks, chewing over Brigshaw’s proposal.