Invasion, p.33
Invasion, page 33
118
Taipei, Taiwan
THE DOBERMAN HAD HIM by the throat, or was it a German Shepherd? It was clamping its jaws around his windpipe. Another was attacking his shoulder. Luke lashed out with both arms and sat bolt upright.
‘Jesus, man! Take it easy! I was only trying to wake you up.’ Leach stood back, nursing his arm where Luke’s fist had collided with it. Jenny was across the room, watching him as she cradled a cup of tea.
‘Sorry,’ Luke said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I was out for the count. Must’ve been having a bit of a nightmare there.’
‘I can see that,’ Leach replied. ‘And not surprising, given what you’ve been through. Right. Do you want to come next door? This is pretty bloody momentous, I can tell you. Perhaps we should send a car to fetch Hannah. She deserves to hear this, at least some of it.’
Hannah Slade. The collector. The bravest person in this whole fiasco and she wasn’t even a serving intelligence officer. She was a civilian, a willing volunteer from the world of academia. Luke and Jenny had had only the briefest of exchanges about her since that fateful moment when they’d abandoned her in the forest. But they couldn’t put this off much longer. They were going to have to explain her absence somehow. The question was, how much should they say?
‘I think we should leave Hannah where she is,’ Jenny said, grasping the situation with both hands. ‘There’ll be classified intel on this drive and she doesn’t have the right clearance. Let’s go next door.’
Singapore station had sent three people. Two women, one man. They were standing almost to attention beside an array of desktop, wires and techie apparatus that Luke didn’t recognize.
‘It took us a bit of time to do the decryption,’ one said, ‘but we got there in the end.’
‘And?’ Luke asked.
‘And it’s a gold mine.’ She beamed. ‘It’s given us everything from China’s operational plans for an imminent maritime blockade of Taiwan to their cyber strategy: cutting the place off from the internet, isolating it entirely. And there are names on there too – all of Beijing’s agents inside the Taiwan military, people China has on its payroll. Oh, and access codes for their ballistic missile launch sites. I mean, it’s just incredible. If this checks out there’s enough in here to stop any invasion in its tracks. The guy who leaked all this must be seriously pissed off with his government.’
‘Was,’ Luke said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Was, in the past tense. He’s dead.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Although the news didn’t appear to take the wind out of her sails. ‘Well, he deserves a posthumous medal, then. Anyway, we’ve sent it all to Cheltenham and Vauxhall and they’re preparing an assessment now for Cabinet Office.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Should be just in time for PMQs in the Commons.’
119
Palace of Westminster, London
‘THE PRIME MINISTER.’ The words of the Speaker, uttered with the customary stentorian gravitas, had only a limited effect on the noisy hubbub that always accompanied the weekly Prime Minister’s Questions in the House.
‘Thank you, Mr Speaker,’ the PM began, rising to his feet and looking around a nearly full House of Commons. ‘I am pleased to inform the House that, thanks to some exceptionally skilful negotiations by our hard-working diplomats, the crisis over Taiwan has, to all intents and purposes, been averted.’ He was interrupted by cheers from his own benches and the banging of hands on wood panelling, but he held up his hand for silence.
‘We are not out of the woods yet. There’s still a lot of work to be done. But we have conveyed to the Chinese authorities the impracticality of their position and I am pleased to say their attitude has been most cooperative. I would like to pay tribute to my Right Honourable colleagues, the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defence, for all that they and their staff have done to avert this crisis. Ladies and gentlemen, today is a day to showcase the benefits of diplomacy. I would ask you all to join me in celebrating that there has not been one single British casualty throughout this period of tension.’
120
Vauxhall Cross, London
SHOWERED, DRESSED, RESTED, Luke Carlton felt clean on the outside, but inside the guilt was gnawing away at him. So much so that he had hardly closed his eyes on the flight back from Taipei the day before. He knew Jenny Li felt likewise. Crammed up next to each other in Economy, red-eyed and sleepless with worry, there was no chance to discuss their predicament without being overheard. Yet even on the brief refuelling stopover in Bangkok, they had barely said a word. In a single brief exchange before leaving Taipei, they had decided, on balance, to confess all once they reached Vauxhall Cross. Hannah’s fate would surely have been sealed the moment they left her in that forest. She would have had no chance. The collector, they concluded, had done her duty and done it magnificently, but she was beyond saving. And the last thing either Luke or Jenny wanted was to find themselves part of a Taiwanese judicial inquiry.
So here he was, driving into Vauxhall Cross exactly eight days after they had left for Hong Kong, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. Luke searched for a space in the garage beneath the MI6 headquarters, parked his Land Rover and strode past the two Union Flags on miniature flagpoles that marked the discreet entrance for visitors who preferred not to be seen. He nodded to the black-clad security guards as the door hissed open for him. And then he was inside, walking into the circular marble atrium, and suddenly a familiar figure was rushing up to him and gripping him affectionately by the shoulders.
‘Luke! Oh my God, I’m so worried about you!’ It was Angela. She looked tired and stressed but then, he thought, I probably look ten years older after this week.
‘Good to see you too, Angela,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Sorry, what do you mean you are so worried? I’m back now. Hell of a trip, lots to discuss, of course.’
Angela took a step backwards, clamping her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Christ. You don’t know, do you? No one’s told you?’
‘No one’s told me what? Come on, Angela, don’t be cryptic.’
She looked around and moved another step away. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke. I can’t say any more but you’d better get yourself up there. They’re waiting for you in C’s private office.’
‘They? Who’s they?’
A shake of the head.
‘Go. Just go. Come down and see me at my desk afterwards, if they’ll let you.’
Into the lift, up to the sixth floor and down the hall, then past a sign on a closed door that read ‘Wellness Team’, until he reached the Chief’s private office. This had to be about Hannah, didn’t it? But how bad could it be? He wasn’t proud of what they’d done but he and Jenny had done it together and they’d done it for the Service. And the results were out there for everyone to see, even if the PM was giving all the credit to other people.
He pushed open the door. Six people, all standing. He recognized Alex Matheson, the Chief, Felix Schauer and Jenny. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
‘Come in, Luke,’ the Chief said. ‘I think you’ve met Floyd, our Ethics Counsellor? These two people are from Legal.’
Oh God. So Jenny’s told them about Hannah. She must have done. Maybe he needed a lawyer of his own.
‘Look,’ Luke began, hoping to regain the initiative, ‘we both feel terrible about what happened to Hannah. But she didn’t die in vain.’
‘She didn’t die at all,’ retorted Felix Schauer. ‘It’s worse than that.’ He walked over to a desktop computer, tapped a key and a grab from a newspaper filled the screen. ‘Take a look at today’s South China Morning Post. It’s all over the front page.’
Luke froze.
‘MI6 Left Me to Die’ ran the headline. ‘Dogs Ate My Face’ was the line beneath it. Next to the text was a photograph of Hannah Slade, lying in a Hong Kong hospital bed. It looked as though half her face had been torn off.
‘She’s done an Edward Snowden,’ said the Chief. ‘She’s gone over to the Chinese and told them everything. Everything!’ She let those words hang in the air before she continued. ‘So while I’m grateful for all the work you and Jenny did in retrieving that intel, I’m afraid this has blown up in our faces. Badly. Even if this is all a set-up by Beijing, and she’s been coerced into it, the effect is still the same. It’s nothing short of a PR disaster for the Service.’
Luke said nothing. He stood stiffly to attention, waiting for the blow to fall.
‘So, Luke and Jenny, I am placing both of you on indefinite suspension pending an investigation. As from this moment, and until further notice, you no longer work for this Service as case officers. That is all.’
Epilogue
Army Command College, Nanjing, China
JUNIOR SERGEANT JIAN ZHANG was disappointed. The training for the mission he was expecting to undertake had been postponed almost as soon as it had begun. There was to be no invasion of that renegade offshore island they called Taiwan. At least, not this month.
But as he and his unit returned to barracks to await new orders their commander gathered them in to make an announcement.
As part of the ongoing and noble endeavour better to understand the malicious intentions of the capitalist imperialist powers seeking to intervene in the internal affairs of the People’s Republic, the unit was to be visited at the end of the month by a special guest. That guest was a gweilo, a Westerner, and a former spy. But this spy had changed her behaviour and placed herself on the correct path. And Zhang’s unit had much to learn from her.
The name of this guest was Dr Hannah Slade.
Acknowledgements
To Lizzie, thank you for listening patiently as I wrote this book and asking all the right questions that needed to be asked.
To my editor, Simon Taylor at Transworld Publishers, who also asks the right questions, in an ever-so-tactful way. This is our sixth book that we’ve worked on together.
To Julian Alexander, my equally talented agent at the Soho Agency. Thank you for all your help, encouragement and advice, especially when the pressures of too many commitments meant the inevitable pushing back of a deadline.
To Hazel Orme, my loyal and longstanding copy editor, and all those who worked on the proofreading.
My thanks to Sasha Gardner for her help, advice and diligent proofreading.
To the late Royal Navy Rear Admiral John Gower for his detailed advice and expertise on naval operations, both above and below the surface, and for guidance on Whitehall procedures.
To Royal Navy Commodore (retd) Alistair Halliday for invaluable naval knowledge as well as your patience and engagement with all my many questions. It has been an absolute pleasure to learn from you.
To Ed Lucas, the ever-knowing and multi-talented author, for your advice and suggestions on some of the more technical aspects of this business.
To Richard Foster, my guide and mentor during my trip to Taiwan to research this book. Your affection for its language, culture and its people shone and you were great company throughout.
To my other friends who’ve served in the Royal Navy, for your patient guidance: one day I won’t need to be reminded that a ship’s wall is called ‘a bulkhead’.
If you enjoyed Invasion, don’t miss Frank Gardner’s action-packed bestseller Crisis
Read on for an extract …
Prologue
BUTTERFLIES. SUNLIGHT AND butterflies. That was what he remembered. Dappled patterns on tropical foliage, bird calls from high up in the tree canopy, and so many butterflies. Really big ones. As big as a man’s hand and blue as a gem. Dazzling, dancing, beckoning him to follow. Come with us, they seemed to say, and you’ll be safe.
In convoy they drove out that morning, the families of the oil company senior executives, singing on their way to the annual corporate picnic. Last year, it was a private beach near Cartagena, and this year a country club on the very edge of the jungle. Beside drooping vines there were trestle tables laden with food, baseball for the grown-ups, a makeshift jungle gym for the kids. And Luke Carlton, just turned ten, was bored to tears. Inquisitive and adventurous, the games did nothing for him. He watched, scowling and grumpy, as the CEO stood on an upturned crate. He was American, jowly and gregarious, with a big belly-laugh and a lime-green polo shirt that struggled to contain his ballooning waistline. He was making some sort of speech in slow, halting Spanish with a terrible accent. Luke reckoned he and his classmates could speak better Spanish than that.
Luke picked his moment. Unseen, he slipped away from the group and darted into the forest, following the butterflies. With every step, he expected to hear his name called and the sound of running footsteps followed by a sharp rebuke, but it never came. The path veered left and he took it, arrived at a fork and turned right. The butterflies were everywhere, folding their gossamer wings as they alighted. They were his friends – they had to be: why else would they be showing him the way? More than once he stopped and held up his hands for them to land on. He smiled when one fluttered onto his nose and another onto his blond hair, which his mother had brushed only that morning.
He should probably be heading home, he thought, and began to backtrack down the path. But there, blocking his way, was a large fallen log. He didn’t recognize it. At his feet a trail of chestnut-coloured ants swarmed across the track.
Soon the path gave out altogether and there, hanging off his bare leg, was a leech. Slimy, black as a slug, gorging on his blood. He tried to flick it off with his thumb and forefinger but it was stuck fast to his flesh. Luke shrugged. It didn’t occur to him that he was lost, just that he’d be in trouble with his parents when he got back.
At that moment he saw that he was not alone. There were three of them, standing silent and watching. Never in his wildest dreams had Luke seen anyone who looked like that. Their faces were painted a vivid purple, their scalps shaven smooth, and each had some black object inserted into his lower lip. Round their necks they wore strings of animal teeth. Or were they bones? He couldn’t tell. The men were small and wiry, naked but for the filthy cloths around their waists. Two carried long, curved bows; the third clutched a blowpipe. Their language was strange, all rasps and clicks, definitely not the Spanish they were teaching him at school. One moved, an arm slowly extending. Were they going to shoot him? Rooted to the spot, Luke wondered what it was like to be hit by an arrow. Did you die straight away, or slowly? Would it hurt? Were they – were they going to eat him? But now they were making a sign to him, gesturing – they wanted him to follow them.
They walked for hours. With clicks and grunts they urged him on, offering swigs of brackish water from the gourds at their waists. And then through the tangle of forest vines he could see a clearing, a dozen round thatched huts, smoky fires, barefoot children, the discarded carcass of a monkey. He caught his breath. A jeep from his father’s company, with the familiar brown-and-yellow logo, stood between the huts. He ran to the door and yanked it open. ‘Dad!’ But a woman he didn’t know was sitting in the driver’s seat, her eyes red and sad. ‘Mi chico,’ she said to him and held out her arms.
He stood his ground. ‘Where’s my mum and dad?’ he demanded. ‘I want my mum and dad!’
‘Your mother and father … There has been a terrible, terrible accident on the road. All day they looked for you, and when they tell them you are found they came at once. They were driving so very fast. They could not wait to see you, they did not see the truck. Oh, Luke, we are so, so sorry.’
A butterfly fluttered close to his face. He slapped it away. ‘You’re lying!’ he shouted. ‘Where are they? I want to see my mum and dad!’ But she shook her head and her eyes welled with tears, though his were still dry. ‘They are gone, Luke. Your parents are gone. They are in Heaven now. May God look after you.’
CHAPTER 1
FIRST CAME THE antennae. Brown, swivelling, twitching. Then the shiny armour-plated body, emerging from the dark recesses of the drains. Jeremy Benton watched with disgust as the first cockroach of the night crawled out from his hotel sink. This place was a dump and he couldn’t wait to leave it. Forty-seven years old, hair thinning, mortgage worries mounting. Alone in a Colombian hotel room, trying to focus on the job instead of fretting about his bank balance, while the ceiling fan turned lazy circles and the sweat rolled down his fleshy neck and soaked his fraying collar.
The insect grew bolder, probing the grime-encrusted porcelain, foraging and tasting. In one impulsive movement, Benton launched himself off the bed and struck with a rolled-up magazine. ‘Got you!’ He missed and the roach shot back into the drains. He sat down heavily, already out of breath. He looked at his watch. It was time. He reached under his jacket and felt the cold, metallic shape of the Browning 9mm automatic. Not the weapon he had asked for – this model had a date stamp on it that was even older than him – but it was all they’d had at short notice in the embassy armoury. They had even made him sign out every single one of the thirteen rounds that had come with it. He had put in his time on the range this year – you had to if you expected to keep your firearms licence in the Service – but he hoped he wouldn’t need the pistol. If he was honest with himself, Benton knew he wasn’t cut out for the heavy stuff. If he was really honest, he would say he was scared shitless.
Jeremy Benton had been offered the usual ‘security envelope’ for tonight’s job, a close-protection detail of SAS troopers disguised, not always convincingly, as civilians. It was a toss-up between personal safety and raising profile, so Benton had gone for a compromise. The security detail had dropped him off at the hotel, then melted away. This operation, he had told London, was so sensitive, so secret, it had to be kept low profile. He needed to be alone.
