Unlike a car showroom, however, these vehicles looked anything but new. Danny counted thirteen black cabs. One of them had an advertisement for Mamma Mia: The Musical plastered across its side. A few others had the odd dent in their bodywork. There were VWs, Minis, a couple of Transits, even a battered old Royal Mail van whose rear doors were open and the interior filled with grey mail sacks. Notable by their absence in what Danny immediately took to be a vehicle pool for the Security Services was anything remotely flash. No Porsches, no Range Rovers, nothing convertible. These vehicles were supposed to be invisible – there was, after all, nothing so commonplace as a black cab on the streets of London. One of them had its bonnet up and a mechanic – the only other person present that Danny could see – peered round from one side on hearing footsteps. He didn’t look surprised to see Danny standing there. He just pointed towards the far side of the warehouse where there was an anonymous Portakabin. A box within a box. Danny strode up to it, knocked firmly on the door and then stepped inside.
There were six men inside. Three of them were standing drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. The others stood a few metres apart, clearly in conference. Danny recognised one of them as Johnny Cartwright, the CO of 22. Cartwright was the first to notice Danny. He beckoned him to come and join them. As Danny grew nearer, he realised he recognised each of the three guys drinking coffee. He’d seen them around Hereford HQ but didn’t know them by name. The two men Cartwright was speaking with, Danny didn’t know at all.
Cartwright made a curt string of introductions, starting with the Regiment boys. ‘Jack Ward.’ A lean, wiry guy with a pronounced mole on his left cheek. ‘Greg Murray.’ Shaved head, piercing blue eyes. ‘Spud Glover.’ A head shorter than Danny, but with squat, broad shoulders so solid they looked like they’d stop a green-tipped round at point-blank range, and a round face and balding head that, weirdly, reminded him of Phil Collins. Danny shook each soldier’s hand before the CO directed him towards the two suits. ‘Oliver Carrington.’ The older of the two, Carrington had steel-grey hair and wore old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses. The lenses were very thick and the eyes behind them seemed wary as he shook hands with Danny.
‘I appreciate you joining us at such short notice,’ he said.
‘I was at a loose end anyway, pal,’ replied Danny.
Carrington smiled blandly. Danny had the impression of a man well used to hiding his emotions.
‘And Hugo Buckingham,’ Cartwright continued. Danny nodded at this younger man. He was slender, almost girlishly so – the dead spit of Hugh Grant. His floppy brown hair was a bit scruffy, but he had a friendly face.
‘Very good to meet you,’ Buckingham said. His voice was posh but not unpleasant. Danny nodded noncommittally at him, before throwing his CO a questioning glance.
‘Six,’ Cartwright said, as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.
Carrington cleared his throat and then took charge of the meeting. ‘May I suggest we get started, gentlemen? Find a seat where you can.’
‘Yeah, I heard you were pushed for space up at MI6,’ Spud said. Good point. Danny wondered what he was about to hear that made this spook so keen to banish unwanted ears. But that strand of conversation was over. A cautious respect existed between the men of 22 and the MI6 personnel whose dirty work they were so often brought in to do. The guys sat down on plastic stackable chairs and listened.
‘You’ll be aware of the current situation in Syria,’ Carrington said. None of the Regiment men gave any indication that this was so, but it almost went without saying. When you know there’s a chance of your superiors ordering an insertion into any of the world’s hot spots at any given moment, you tend to keep one eye on the news. Even in the forward
There were six men inside. Three of them were standing drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. The others stood a few metres apart, clearly in conference. Danny recognised one of them as Johnny Cartwright, the CO of 22. Cartwright was the first to notice Danny. He beckoned him to come and join them. As Danny grew nearer, he realised he recognised each of the three guys drinking coffee. He’d seen them around Hereford HQ but didn’t know them by name. The two men Cartwright was speaking with, Danny didn’t know at all.
Cartwright made a curt string of introductions, starting with the Regiment boys. ‘Jack Ward.’ A lean, wiry guy with a pronounced mole on his left cheek. ‘Greg Murray.’ Shaved head, piercing blue eyes. ‘Spud Glover.’ A head shorter than Danny, but with squat, broad shoulders so solid they looked like they’d stop a green-tipped round at point-blank range, and a round face and balding head that, weirdly, reminded him of Phil Collins. Danny shook each soldier’s hand before the CO directed him towards the two suits. ‘Oliver Carrington.’ The older of the two, Carrington had steel-grey hair and wore old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses. The lenses were very thick and the eyes behind them seemed wary as he shook hands with Danny.
‘I appreciate you joining us at such short notice,’ he said.
‘I was at a loose end anyway, pal,’ replied Danny.
Carrington smiled blandly. Danny had the impression of a man well used to hiding his emotions.
‘And Hugo Buckingham,’ Cartwright continued. Danny nodded at this younger man. He was slender, almost girlishly so – the dead spit of Hugh Grant. His floppy brown hair was a bit scruffy, but he had a friendly face.
‘Very good to meet you,’ Buckingham said. His voice was posh but not unpleasant. Danny nodded noncommittally at him, before throwing his CO a questioning glance.
‘Six,’ Cartwright said, as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.
Carrington cleared his throat and then took charge of the meeting. ‘May I suggest we get started, gentlemen? Find a seat where you can.’
‘Yeah, I heard you were pushed for space up at MI6,’ Spud said. Good point. Danny wondered what he was about to hear that made this spook so keen to banish unwanted ears. But that strand of conversation was over. A cautious respect existed between the men of 22 and the MI6 personnel whose dirty work they were so often brought in to do. The guys sat down on plastic stackable chairs and listened.
‘You’ll be aware of the current situation in Syria,’ Carrington said. None of the Regiment men gave any indication that this was so, but it almost went without saying. When you know there’s a chance of your superiors ordering an insertion into any of the world’s hot spots at any given moment, you tend to keep one eye on the news. Even in the forward
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