Motive Page 17

  His initial reaction was to dismiss the idea. His career was mapped out and everything he wanted was within his grasp. He was confident that he would pass SAS selection, and within a year he’d be badged and working towards his first deployment. He had joined the army to fight, and it was all he’d ever wanted.

  Until Brigshaw—if that was his real name—had turned up with his unexpected offer.

  The more he thought about it, the more appealing it sounded. Three years wasn’t that long, and he’d probably learn a new range of skills in this assignment. The extra money would come in handy, too. He could put it toward a deposit on his own home after releasing from the forces. That, and both an army and a civil service pension to look forward to.

  The job didn’t sound too difficult, either. Growing up in one of the poorer areas of Leeds, he’d mixed with villains all the time. Most were just brainless thugs, but there were some real bad boys around at that time. Ryan had never got involved in anything like drugs or theft, though. He’d always known he’d enlist and went out of his way to keep his nose clean. He’d been in a couple of scrapes with some of the hard cases, but had given as well as he’d got. People had soon learned not to mess with him.

  It wasn’t that Ryan was scared to walk into a lion’s den. He could look after himself, and hanging around with career thugs would be like going back to his school days. What really concerned him was going in alone. In the army, his mates had his back. Out there, he’d be on his own.

  After hours of consideration, Ryan could see no real downside, and he’d fallen asleep with visions of James Bond playing in his head.

  Ryan knocked on the CO’s door and waited to be ordered inside. After saluting, he got straight to the point.

  “Sir, I wish to accept Mr Brigshaw’s offer.”

  Colonel Crofter looked disappointed. “That’s your prerogative. I trust he explained the situation fully?”

  “I know that I’ll be gone for three years at the most, and that I can come back here and continue where I left off, sir.”

  “That’s right, though don’t assume you’ll get that third stripe the moment you return. This little venture will put you back a year, at least.”

  Ryan could sense that Crofter wasn’t enamoured with the whole arrangement, but that was to be expected. If Ryan were running the show, he wouldn’t want a civil servant coming along and cherry-picking his best men.

  Having to wait another year to make sergeant wasn’t that big a deal anyway. He’d apply for the SAS the day he returned and earn his extra stripe there.

  “I understand, sir, but I still want to go ahead with it.”

  The Colonel picked up a pen. “Fine. Report back here at fourteen hundred, sharp.”

  Ryan left, unsure of what was going to happen next. His secondment could take weeks to process, and though Crofter wasn’t the petty kind, Ryan was sure it wouldn’t be business as usual until his discharge papers came through.

  After a five-mile run and lunch, Ryan returned to the colonel’s office, but didn’t make it inside. Brigshaw was waiting for him, a smile on his face. He walked past Ryan towards the exit. “Come.”

  Ryan followed him out into the sunshine.

  “I got your message,” Brigshaw said. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

  “It was too good an opportunity to pass up. So what happens now?”

  “We have to decide on your exit strategy.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan asked. “Don’t I just complete the paperwork?”

  “It’s not as easy as that. I told you, these people know how to dig. If they find out you just left the army for no good reason, it’ll raise flags. We need to manufacture a way for you to be kicked out.”

  Ryan stopped. “Whoa! There was no mention of that yesterday. I don’t want to come back here in a couple of years and find I get passed over for promotion because of a strike on my record.”

  “Your record will be wiped once your mission with us is complete,” Brigshaw assured him. “This needs to be done thoroughly, with no cutting corners. If the man you’re after has a friend in the army, it could all go pear-shaped unless everything rings true. Now, I thought perhaps you could steal something, or get involved in a fight with a colleague, anything that will lead to a court-martial.”

  The notion of being expelled from the army didn’t please Ryan, especially if his mother found out about it. He wouldn’t be able to explain that it was for the greater good, that he was now working for MI5. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.

  “I wish you’d told me this yesterday,” Ryan sighed.

  “Look on the bright side,” Brigshaw beamed, “you now have free rein to beat up anyone you want. Surely there’s an obnoxious arse that you’d just love to punch in the face.”

  “Sure, I could name a few, but…”

  “Ryan, if you’re going to work for me, you have to be ready to let your fists fly without compunction. You’re going to be put in situations where you’ll be asked to hurt others. If you hesitate or refuse, that’s your career over. You need to get your head into the role, starting right now.”

  “That won’t be an issue,” Ryan said. “I’m just concerned that it’ll come back to haunt me somewhere down the line. What if I come back in three years, apply for the SAS and the guy I hit turns out to be my instructor?”

  “Then pick someone who couldn’t possibly make it past selection,” Brigshaw said. “Or pick a short-timer, someone coming to the end of their service. Either way, it has to look convincing and be bad enough to get you discharged.”

  The perfect name leapt into Ryan’s head. Corporal Sean Murray was a first-class prick who’d made no secret of the fact that he was getting out by the end of the year. Murray thought that his five years in 2 Para was all he needed to start his own security company, offering bodyguards to rich clients. What he failed to realise was that few of his colleagues would ever want to work with him again, no matter how lucrative the contract. Murray was self-serving, always looking out for number one, which didn’t go down well within a close-knit unit.

  “Say I do this. Then what?”

  “You’ll go before a court-martial,” the MI5 man said, “where I want you to plead not guilty. Once your paperwork is squared away I’ll have someone meet you in the Grapes on Mersea Road.”

  “Will I have to do any time in the glasshouse?”

  “I’ll see to it that you don’t. Crofter will have you confined to barracks and you might get some KP, but that’s it.”

  A few days buttering rolls and cracking eggs in the kitchen seemed worth it for a free go at Sean Murray.

  “Okay, when do you want me to do it?”

  “No time like the present,” Brigshaw told him. “Give me a few minutes to give Crofter the heads-up.”

  Brigshaw held out a hand and Ryan shook it. The older man’s grip was firm, confident.

  “Just don’t go too far,” Brigshaw winked. “If you kill the guy, you’re on your own.”

  Ryan watched him walk back towards Crofter’s office, then went back to his room to change before heading to the gym. Murray was always there at this time of day, pumping iron in an effort to maintain his physique. He was a big man, packed with muscle, but not as hard as he looked.

  When Ryan got there, Corporal Sean Murray was sitting on the end of a bench doing bicep curls with fifteen-kilo weights. He was talking to two privates, telling them how successful he was going to be once his stint in 2 Para was over.

  “I’ve already got a dozen big clients lined up,” Murray told the pair. “They’ve got projects in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, you name it. Anyone who comes and works for me will earn four times what they get in the paras.”

  Ryan walked over and stood a couple of feet from Murray. “Bullshit.”

  Murray looked up at him. “What?”

  “I said bullshit. The market’s saturated. These days you’ll be lucky to get three hundred dollars a day and no expenses. You’re getting into the
business twenty years too late, so stop filling their heads with crap.” Ryan turned to the two privates. “Ignore this idiot. He’s only getting out because he can’t hack it.”

  Murray shot to his feet and stood nose to nose with Ryan. “What’s your problem?”

  Ryan pushed him away. “You’re the problem, Murray. All those steroids have addled your brain. You’re more concerned with this stupid dream than mucking in with your mates, and you only pump yourself up because you’ve got such a small prick.”

  Ryan couldn’t have choreographed it better. Murray went to push him in the chest but Ryan deflected his hand and caught him high on the cheek with a vicious right. Murray’s head snapped sideways and Ryan followed up with a left that sent blood flying from Murray’s shattered nose. Murray staggered backwards and fell over a bench, landing in a heap, but Ryan wasn’t done. He kicked the man in the ribs, then got in close and rained blows to his head.

  “Enough!”

  The voice belonged to Captain Jock Carson, and Ryan obeyed his barked command. He stood up and faced the officer.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “He attacked me, sir,” Ryan said as he stood to attention. “It was self-defence.”

  The captain looked at the two privates, but they avoided eye contact.

  “Pick him up,” the officer ordered, and the two men each grabbed an arm and dragged Murray to his feet. His face was covered with blood, and one eye was already completely closed due to heavy bruising.

  “Anderson, come with me.”

  Ryan followed Carson along the now familiar route to the CO’s office. The captain knocked and went in while Ryan waited outside. A few minutes later, Carson emerged.

  “You’re confined to quarters. The CO wants this dealt with swiftly, so you’d better get your story straight, sharpish.”

  Carson marched away, and Ryan walked back to his room, unable to remove the Cheshire cat grin from his face.

  * * *

  The proceedings were set up a lot faster than Ryan had expected. Two days after the incident, he received notice to attend the court-martial set for three days later. He was offered counsel but refused, saying only guilty men needed a lawyer.

  At the trial, he pleaded not guilty. The two privates Murray had been talking to testified as witnesses. They both stated that Ryan had thrown the first punch, something Murray corroborated when it was his turn to take the stand.

  When his turn came, Ryan insisted that Murray had actually tried to put his hand on him first, but only his own quick reactions prevented him from doing so. Fearing another attack would come, he’d struck first.

  Ryan only had to wait half an hour for the panel to make up their minds. He was brought before them once more, looking sharp in his dress uniform. He stood to attention while they read out the guilty verdict, with the presiding judge recommending an immediate dishonourable discharge.

  Murray had grinned as Ryan was led out of court, but Ryan hid his jubilation. Within two hours, he was sipping a cold lager in the Grapes not far from Merville Barracks, his worldly possessions in a bag at his feet.

  The pub was quiet. The lunchtime throng was gone and it was too early for the after-work crowd. Ryan was sitting behind a table, looking at the news on his phone, when a stout man walked in, looked around and made a beeline for him. He sat down without asking and thrust out a hand.

  “I’m Marcus Hayes,” he said. His accent told of private schooling and privilege. “Brigshaw sent me.”

  “Oh, okay. I was expecting him, that’s all.” Ryan shook hands, noting that Hayes’ grip was strong, not in keeping with the flabby physique. He pushed his pint aside and reached down for his bag.

  “No need to waste good beer. We’re not in a hurry.”

  Hayes went up to the bar and returned with a glass of orange juice.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Head to Surrey,” Hayes said. “My car’s outside.”

  “Surrey? Not Thames House?”

  “I see you’ve done your homework. No, you won’t be going there until you’ve completed the evaluation. We do that outside London.”

  Ryan paused mid-sip, his eyes narrowing. “Evaluation? Are you telling me that I have to audition for the part? After I just got myself kicked out of the army?”

  Hayes didn’t seem fazed by Ryan’s steely gaze. “Nothing like that. It’s a chance for us to get to know you, see what makes you tick.”

  “And what if you don’t like what you see?”

  Hayes shrugged. “You get paid for two years, then go back to what you were doing.”

  That didn’t sound too bad, but Ryan was determined not to fall at the first hurdle.

  * * *

  Ryan needn’t have worried. Within hours of arriving at the house in rural Surrey, Ryan knew he was going to fit in.

  The main part of the training centre was a detached house set on thirty acres of land. A half-mile dirt road led from the country lane to the front door of the eight-bedroom property, and behind it and to the right there was a separate rectangular building that looked new. Beyond that was nothing but open land for hundreds of yards in either direction. Ryan guessed it was designed that way so that no one could sneak up to the house.

  “No security measures?” he asked Hayes.

  “CCTV on the access road and in the trees around the property, plus motion sensors that trigger an array of 3,000-lumen spotlights. We’ve got a couple of men monitoring them twenty-four-seven.”

  Ryan was impressed by the fact that he hadn’t seen any cameras on his way to the house.

  A man wearing jeans and a T-shirt opened the front door as the car pulled up. He walked towards the car with his hand outstretched.

  “Hi, Ryan. I’m Zack. Zack Bennett.”

  He appeared to be in his late twenties, but had a seasoned look about him, like he’d seen a lot. His black hair was cut short, and his frame suggested he looked after his body.

  “I guess you know who I am,” Ryan said as he shook the hand. He looked up at the three-storey house. “This where you train all the spies?”

  “Agents,” Bennett corrected him. “And yes, this is where training will take place. You’re actually the first, but more will be joining us over the coming weeks.”

  “How does that work? Won’t we be at different stages by then?”

  “You will, but as each recruit arrives, so does their handler. I’m yours, and it’s my job to teach you everything I know.”

  “Great,” Ryan smiled. “So when do I get my Aston Martin?”

  Bennett laughed. “I like you, Ryan. But by the time this is over, I guarantee you’ll hate me.”

  Ryan doubted that. Having decided to take on the challenge, he intended to put everything into it. He knew he had the smarts and the stamina to get through whatever they had to throw at him.

  “So, if I don’t get the car, what about my legend?”

  He’d read enough thrillers to know that undercover officers always adopted a false identity, known in the trade as a legend, a fabricated personal history that included bank accounts, work history and criminal record.

  “There isn’t one,” Bennett said as he led Ryan inside. “When you go in, you’ll be Ryan Anderson.”

  “Wait a second. They’ll know exactly who I am?”

  “That’s right. That way, you don’t have to remember a lot of fictitious details and you can’t trip yourself up. Just tell them everything about yourself. Where you grew up, who your mates were, why you got kicked out of the army, everything. When they run checks on you, it’ll all come back good.”

  Ryan was not impressed with the answer. For one, if he managed to get enough intel to bring down his target, they would certainly look for retribution.

  “What about when they come looking for me?”

  “They won’t. If you do your job properly, they’ll all be in prison. Besides, we’ll pull you out weeks before we go in and arrest anyone. They won’t suspect you.”


  “But if they do?” Ryan insisted. “Or they go after my family?” He was an only child, but just the thought of putting his mother in danger sent a shiver through him.

  “If it ever comes to it, we’ll arrange new identities for her. A new home in a different county, or a different country if that’s what she wants. But as I said, it won’t happen. We’ve thought this through and we use the protocols that have served us well over the years.”

  “I thought this was a new venture.”

  “It is,” Bennet said, “but we’ve been running civilian agents since the Second World War. We know what works, trust me.”

  “If it worked so well, I wouldn’t be here,” Ryan pointed out.

  Bennett put an arm around his shoulder as they walked. “This is different. We used to use amateurs who were already associated with the target, but now we’re handpicking the best. With your clean background, there’ll be no reason for them to suspect you.”

  “But surely MI5 has its own undercover agents—sorry, officers.”

  “We do, but naturally they have to go in with a false name, history, etc. There’ve been times when their real life and undercover life have crossed over, and you can imagine how awkward that could be. One guy was two months into an operation in Manchester when he came back to London to visit family. His kids begged him to take them to Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea play Manchester City, but while he was there, a member of the gang he’d infiltrated saw him. Our guy was supposed to be single, no kids, but there he was with the wife and two sons. Needless to say, the op was blown.”

  “What did they do to him?”

  “Nothing much. They followed him back to his house and checked the electoral roll to see who lived there, saw the names didn’t match and gave him a beating. Not bad enough to put anyone away for it, but it served as a warning. We knew we had to revise our strategy.”

  That wasn’t encouraging news, but as Bennett had pointed out, Ryan would be going in clean. He wouldn’t have to memorise a new personality, just be himself.