Skinner gathered the team in the garage to draw their gear. Each member was issued a Kevlar vest, a communications belt with a virgin cell phone and a two-way military-grade radio, a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol and fifty rounds of hollow-point ammunition, a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun along with fifteen clips, each of which contained twenty-seven rounds, two antipersonnel hand grenades, one white phosphorus grenade, a Camelbak hydration system, a packet of high-grade dextroamphetamine, better known as “go pills,” and a KA-BAR knife and sheath.
All members received a last item: a protective plastic pouch containing one 500mg capsule of pure sodium cyanide.
The carrot was the sum of $800,000 to be paid to each member upon successful completion of the mission, on top of the $200,000 each had already banked. The stick was a life sentence without the possibility of parole, to be served at a supermax prison. There inmates spent twenty-three hours a day locked inside a 10-by-7-foot cell where the lights never went out. Exercise was taken one hour a day inside a narrow yard with walls rising 40 feet on all sides and fencing covering the sliver of daylight visible above.
Death was preferable to capture, either by a New York City policeman’s bullet or by the lethal poison tablet.
The mercenaries spent the next hour getting familiar with their gear. Pistols were disassembled and put back together. Machine guns were field-stripped, examined, and modified to meet individual demands. Clips were loaded and stowed in gear bags.
Afterward, Skinner Beaufoy ordered the teams to assemble in the garage with all tactical gear. All donned their vests and commo belts with pistols and spare clips. They slung their gear bags over their shoulders and strapped their machine guns to their chests. Fully equipped, each carried a load of more than 35 pounds.
“Long day,” he said, looking with pride at the group. “Lights out in an hour. Hit the rack and get as much sleep as you can. When you get up, I want you to stay inside until I recce the area and give the all-clear. We’ve made it this far—let’s not muck it up. Thirty-six hours, lads. Gott mit uns.”
65
It was raining in London.
Alex stepped out of the cab at the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street. She struggled to open her umbrella. A moment was enough for the downpour to douse her hair and soak her jacket. The fare from Gatwick was £90, nearly $140. She counted out the notes, consoling herself that at least she hadn’t had to purchase an airline ticket.
The cab pulled away and Alex looked to her left and right, orienting herself. She knew the city. Shortly after separating from Bobby, she’d spent a month at Scotland Yard as part of an interagency task force on cybercrime. On weekends she’d jogged along the Embankment east to west, a distance of 9 miles, then walked back, taking hours to explore the city’s neighborhoods.
Alex continued south two blocks, then turned the corner at Brook Street. Mayfair counted as the city’s poshest borough, and New Bond Street was its epicenter. Art galleries, boutiques, and local outposts of the world’s most elegant fashion labels lined either side of the street. In the midst of them, she found 200 New Bond Street. Instead of a show window, there was a two-story wall of milky green glass. Five stainless steel letters placed at eye level on the right-hand side of the building announced the inhabitants. GRAIL. Entry was through a brushed steel door at the end of a recessed doorway. She pressed the buzzer and lifted her head so the security camera could get a good look at her. There was no speaker visible, and no disembodied voice asked her name. The softest of clicks sounded as the lock disengaged. She pushed open the door and entered a dimly lit foyer.
Carpeted stairs led to a first-floor reception area. There was a desk with no one behind it. Smoked glass walls blocked her view of the rest of the office. She could see shadows moving behind them. A glass panel swung open and a trim blond woman dressed in a pale gray two-piece suit approached, hand outstretched. “Chris Rees-Jones,” she said crisply. “Nice to meet you.”
“Alex Forza. You’re kind to see me.”
“One likes to keep one’s friends at Five happy.”
“Future employees?”
“Something like that,” said Rees-Jones, with a Cheshire Cat’s grin. “This way.”
Rees-Jones led Alex through an open warren of desks and workspaces. Occasionally a man occupied a desk. All wore fancy striped dress shirts, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. A few read the morning paper. One was on the phone, but when he spoke his voice was so soft, it sounded like rustling velvet.
“Quiet day?”
“Not so much.”
Alex could expect that half the employees were former intelligence agents of one sort or another, with time at MI5, known colloquially as Box, or at MI6, the security service. The rest would come from Scotland Yard and various branches of the British military, primary among them the SAS, or Special Air Service.