had attended more and more meetings, his respect for the leader had risen, listening to how the plan could be achieved if they managed to infiltrate the various areas of Glasgow 2014 without really being noticed.
Cameron’s mouth twisted in a moue of self-disgust. Becoming Gayle’s boyfriend had brought him to the notice of several of her friends and colleagues. He was always careful not to bad-mouth the Games in front of them, of course, but somehow repressing his real thoughts had made him explode with fury in the private moments when they were together. If the others had any inkling what Number Six was saying to her, he’d be out on his ear, Cameron thought. Or worse.
They were a mixed lot, the soldiers in his small troop. Two of them had mentioned being in prison, though what crimes they had committed was never talked about. Number Two was a big brute of a man with fists like hams and shoulders that suggested he could have carried a beast off the hills. Sometimes Cameron imagined the man in full Highland dress as in the olden times, a plaid wrapped around his chest, a weapon in his hand. The impression was heightened by his muscular arms; they were covered in whorls of green and blue tattoos, Celtic runes that swirled and twisted right down to the backs of his enormous wrists. With his rustred hair and full beard, Number Two looked well suited to his particular task: something to do with the Homecoming, one of the many events peripheral to the Commonwealth Games, though big in its own way. He was to accompany a party of overseas visitors to the opening ceremony, though just how that had been achieved, Cameron never found out.
It was best not to ask too many questions, he had discovered. The other ex-con had the privileged position of being Number Three, and Cameron was certain that he and the leader had been on first-name terms long before the group had been established, such was the rapport between the two men. Tall and thin, with lank black hair, he reminded Cameron of an emaciated spider that might scuttle swiftly towards its prey before a sudden kill. A look from Number Three was enough to silence any idle chatter from the members of the group, and Cameron had wondered more than once if this man had ever committed a capital crime, such was the sense of grim suppressed rage that emanated from him at times.
Of the other two, one was the white-haired explosives expert, an older man who always welcomed Cameron with a smile on his benign countenance. Grandad, as Cameron silently termed him, was evidently enjoying his part in the project, particularly in the wake of the Drymen bomb. ‘Number Four blows up some more,’ he’d joked quietly to Cameron, nudging him with his elbow as if the whole plan to destroy the Commonwealth Games was a huge schoolboy wheeze. Cameron had watched him during the meetings, his serene face turned to the leader, listening to every word yet giving the impression that he was still in an impregnable world of his own.
He assumed that each man had been given his number after joining the group, yet Number Five was the one man he felt could take over most easily from the leader if that ever became necessary. In his late twenties, curly dark hair cut smartly, thick-soled shoes always polished, he was, Cameron had to admit, the most difficult member of the group to identify in any way. One day he might arrive briefcase in hand, like a city businessman, yet on others he would be wearing a thick parka, as if his day job entailed being out of doors. It was odd how they all deferred to him whenever he had something to suggest. His was the sort of authority that had made the younger man decide eventually that their mission was not some fly-by-night escapade but something much more serious.
Any failure would have devastating consequences for them all, this man had insisted more than once. And it was Number Five who seemed to know about the activities of MI6, though through what channels he received
Cameron’s mouth twisted in a moue of self-disgust. Becoming Gayle’s boyfriend had brought him to the notice of several of her friends and colleagues. He was always careful not to bad-mouth the Games in front of them, of course, but somehow repressing his real thoughts had made him explode with fury in the private moments when they were together. If the others had any inkling what Number Six was saying to her, he’d be out on his ear, Cameron thought. Or worse.
They were a mixed lot, the soldiers in his small troop. Two of them had mentioned being in prison, though what crimes they had committed was never talked about. Number Two was a big brute of a man with fists like hams and shoulders that suggested he could have carried a beast off the hills. Sometimes Cameron imagined the man in full Highland dress as in the olden times, a plaid wrapped around his chest, a weapon in his hand. The impression was heightened by his muscular arms; they were covered in whorls of green and blue tattoos, Celtic runes that swirled and twisted right down to the backs of his enormous wrists. With his rustred hair and full beard, Number Two looked well suited to his particular task: something to do with the Homecoming, one of the many events peripheral to the Commonwealth Games, though big in its own way. He was to accompany a party of overseas visitors to the opening ceremony, though just how that had been achieved, Cameron never found out.
It was best not to ask too many questions, he had discovered. The other ex-con had the privileged position of being Number Three, and Cameron was certain that he and the leader had been on first-name terms long before the group had been established, such was the rapport between the two men. Tall and thin, with lank black hair, he reminded Cameron of an emaciated spider that might scuttle swiftly towards its prey before a sudden kill. A look from Number Three was enough to silence any idle chatter from the members of the group, and Cameron had wondered more than once if this man had ever committed a capital crime, such was the sense of grim suppressed rage that emanated from him at times.
Of the other two, one was the white-haired explosives expert, an older man who always welcomed Cameron with a smile on his benign countenance. Grandad, as Cameron silently termed him, was evidently enjoying his part in the project, particularly in the wake of the Drymen bomb. ‘Number Four blows up some more,’ he’d joked quietly to Cameron, nudging him with his elbow as if the whole plan to destroy the Commonwealth Games was a huge schoolboy wheeze. Cameron had watched him during the meetings, his serene face turned to the leader, listening to every word yet giving the impression that he was still in an impregnable world of his own.
He assumed that each man had been given his number after joining the group, yet Number Five was the one man he felt could take over most easily from the leader if that ever became necessary. In his late twenties, curly dark hair cut smartly, thick-soled shoes always polished, he was, Cameron had to admit, the most difficult member of the group to identify in any way. One day he might arrive briefcase in hand, like a city businessman, yet on others he would be wearing a thick parka, as if his day job entailed being out of doors. It was odd how they all deferred to him whenever he had something to suggest. His was the sort of authority that had made the younger man decide eventually that their mission was not some fly-by-night escapade but something much more serious.
Any failure would have devastating consequences for them all, this man had insisted more than once. And it was Number Five who seemed to know about the activities of MI6, though through what channels he received
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