About the Author

ALEX SHAW has lived and worked in Ukraine, the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa. He is the author of the number one international Kindle bestselling Aidan Snow SAS thrillers. His writing has also been published in several thriller anthologies alongside International Bestselling authors Stephen Leather and Matt Hilton. Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between Ukraine, England and Qatar.

@alexshawhetman

/alex.shaw.982292

www.alexwshaw.co.uk

Praise for the Jack Tate series

‘Looking for breakneck pace and a relentless hero? Alex Shaw has you covered’

James Swallow

‘Alex Shaw is one of the best thriller writers around! Fast paced, Total Blackout gripped from page one and didn’t let go … as fast as a Hollywood movie’

Stephen Leather

‘Compelling and authentic. An explosive new series with an uncompromising hero’

Tom Wood

‘A perfect mix of hi-tech, high-concept modern action thriller and old school, Cold War espionage where evil Russians are still plotting the downfall of the West and only one man can stop them’

Simon Toyne

‘Jack Tate is a powerful character, a true Brit hero. A cracking start to a new series!’

Alan McDermott

‘Alex Shaw is a master of the action thriller. Grabbed me from the first page and never let go’

Michael Ridpath

‘Riveting thriller with an original plot and surprising twists. Tate is totally convincing as a classic Brit operative. Great drama and characterisation’

Duncan Falconer

Also by Alex Shaw

Cold Blood

Cold Black

Cold East

Total Blackout

Total Fallout
ALEX SHAW

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © Alex Shaw 2021

Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008412272

Version: 2021-01-25

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for the Jack Tate series

Also by Alex Shaw

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my wife Galia, my sons Alexander and Jonathan, and our family in England and Ukraine.

Prologue
One year ago

Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Outside the high marble walls, the desert was flat and featureless. An immaculate access road shimmered in the heat before it vanished into the far distance. Inside the walls, verdant green grass sparkled in the desert sun. Ornamental trees and flowers lined winding paths. In the heart of the compound was the main house, a three-floored modern interpretation of an Arabian palace. Chen Yan didn’t like it.

She sat respectfully on the terrace, wearing a long, gold skirt and sipping black tea. By her side Kirill Vetrov, dressed in a light business suit, seemed totally unaffected by the stifling heat. Opposite, across a table laden with fresh fruit, sat the man they had come to see and his nephew.

‘Maksim and I have known each other for many years,’ their host said, a slight smile playing on his lips, ‘and we have always conducted business face to face.’

Chen smiled. Men were the same the world over; they needed to be praised, honoured, coerced and tempted. ‘Maksim offers his sincere apologies. Were it not for ill health he would be here, as he holds his friendship with you in the highest regard. That is why, as his trusted business partner, I am here on behalf of Blackline to discuss our proposal. What I am about to share with you has not and will not be shared with any other clients.’

The prince nodded his head for her to continue.

‘The situation with your neighbour is obviously close to your heart. To have a family member not only turn their back on you but embrace a mutual enemy …’ The prince’s eyes narrowed slightly. Yan continued. ‘They have risen above their station. Their relationship with the Persians is a security and moral threat to the entire Arab brotherhood.’

‘For a foreigner, you are well briefed, madame,’ the prince said reaching for a sliver of pear in an attempt, Yan thought, to hide his annoyance.

This was shaky ground, and this was why Vetrov sat next to her as both her personal bodyguard and the focus of what she was about to expose. ‘I understand certain measures have been taken to rein in the wayward ruler of your neighbouring state, but I would like to show you an example of the assistance we can provide to bring them to heel.’

The smile returned and the prince spread his palms. ‘By all means.’

Vetrov reached into his attaché case, withdrew an iPad Pro and handed it to Yan. She brought up a video.

‘Simply press the play icon.’ The prince clicked his fingers and Salman Al Nayef, who had been sitting slightly behind his uncle, approached and took the device. He held it in front of the older royal, who retrieved a pair of frameless reading glasses from a pocket in his thobe and poked at the glass display screen with his finger.

His face took on a perplexed expression as he viewed the footage. ‘This video I have seen. I am aware it was found on a mobile phone years after the bombing, and broadcast across all the world media a week ago. It is sad that a once great city was targeted but I am thankful that the noble shahid ended the immoral lives of so many non-believers.’

Yan nodded. ‘He was indeed a noble shahid, and now he will be at peace in paradise.’

The prince took another sliver of fruit.

‘Please be so kind as to swipe left and press play. If you could focus on the other individual in the footage, the figure who did not explode.’

Al Nayef set up the second video and pressed play. The elderly Saudi squinted, despite his glasses, and leant forward.

‘Is this you I am seeing here, Mr Kirill?’

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Vetrov replied, his tone emotionless. ‘You are one of only a handful of people in the entire world to see the original footage.’

‘Original?’

‘Your Highness,’ Yan now took over, ‘this new footage, which the world has seen, and which the British authorities are now using to chase down the second bomber, is fake. It has been manipulated.’

The prince looked up at Al Nayef. ‘Play it again.’

Yan kept a thin smile on her face as they watched the video. The old man looked up and spoke. ‘They are absolutely identical with the exception of the man’s face.’

‘Quite so. We have used our unique technology to remove all trace of Mr Kirill and replace his face with that of a rogue operative, who will, once identified, become the sole focus of the British investigation into the bombing.’

‘Uncle,’ Al Nayef said, ‘may I ask a question?’

‘You may.’

‘Ms Yan, how is it that your technology is so advanced it has not been detected?’

Yan was encouraged by his question because she believed the older royal did not fully understand the complexity and sophistication of this technology. ‘That is the salient question, Your Highness, and one that can be answered with a simple statement. We are the only people in the world who can achieve this.’

Al Nayef continued, ‘This is a process and technology you have pioneered?’

‘It is. We believe it will be at least five years until anyone else can achieve anything remotely rivalling this, and by that time we will be two generations ahead.’

‘A powerful tool.’

‘Nephew, it is not a tool,’ the older Saudi said, suddenly understanding, ‘it is a weapon.’

Chen nodded. ‘It is, Your Royal Highness.’

‘We would like to use this technology to aid our cause,’ the older royal stated. ‘Now let us discuss how.’

Chapter 1
Port Hercule, Monaco

Jack Tate’s hair was long; so was his beard, and both itched. Wraparound sunglasses and a dark baseball cap obscured his face. The beard, shades and hat gave off the impression of someone attempting to not be seen, which was at odds with his loud Hawaiian shirt, red slacks and green Adidas trainers. Tate wasn’t attempting to be hip, he was trying to look like someone else – Egor Blok – a Russian assassin held in a black site, at an undisclosed location in Eastern Europe. Blok had a lousy fashion sense, and on the circuit he was well known for it, as well as his recent spiralling gambling debts. Tate just knew he felt daft, but here in Monaco even the most outrageously dressed specimens blended in with the principality’s gaudy, glitzy, glamorous mise-en-scène. Tate scratched his neck. The Mediterranean sun was starting to make him sweat.

In Monaco only the rich mattered, and to the rich only the super-rich mattered. Tate’s target was one of the super-rich. To these people he was invisible and that was why he was hiding in plain sight, on a boat. Tate liked the water and he liked boats, but didn’t know much about them. The one he was lounging in was a Tullio Abbate Soleil 35’. Which meant it had been made by the Tullio Abbate shipyard and was 35 feet in length, but he only knew this from reading the sales advert for the vessel. When dressed as Blok, but using a different Russian ID, he’d bought it a week before, over the border in Italy. With its muscular lines, and a top speed of thirty-five knots, in most marinas it would be a flashy item. In Monaco it was a plaything.

Tate sipped water, not champagne, as he observed the procession of rich residents and bewildered tourists meandering along the promenade. To his right, the expanse of Port Hercule stretched into the bay. Powerboats, many larger than his, and small yachts, gave way to super-yachts bobbing gently in the sparkling Mediterranean waters on the sea-end pontoons. Further out, vessels too large to enter the port sat at anchor. These were the mega-yachts of the truly wealthy. In among all of this, regal-looking polished wooden tenders ferried their guests to and from the jetties.

Some, Tate imagined, found the principality the pinnacle of sophistication, but it didn’t float his boat. He’d much rather be halfway up a mountain. Instead, he was team leader of a four-man E Squadron unit. One member of his team was dressed in scuba gear on a small launch out in the bay, another was parked up in a people carrier across the French border and the last was guarding the safe house in Nice.

Tate’s mission was classified at the highest level because E Squadron’s existence was an official state secret. Run by the Secret Intelligence Service, it was formed on an ad hoc mission basis from serving members of the Special Air Service, Special Boat Service, and the Special Reconnaissance Regiments of the British Army. But Tate was an anomaly. A new initiative had seen him transferred from the SAS and made the only permanent member of E Squadron. Two years later he was still alive and kicking in doors, which to him was a relief.

Tate sipped his water and kept “eyes on” his target, or the target’s boat at least. But his weren’t the only eyes scanning the marina. With approximately one policeman for every hundred residents and a CCTV system among the most extensive in the world, Monaco was friendly soil. But the target was also from a friendly nation and the attack would upset both of them. What would be completely unfriendly would be the response once the target’s uncle realised his nephew, and aide-de-camp, had been murdered by a desperate Russian hitman. This was in addition to the loss of the sixteen million euro in diamonds he’d been transporting.

Due to the clandestine nature of the operation, Tate had decided against standard communication equipment, which if recovered could possibly imply the involvement of a nation state. Instead, each man had been issued with a Bluetooth earpiece and burner iPhone loaded with WhatsApp, for its “end-to-end encryption” ability and a VPN to add an extra onion skin of security.

Touching the button on his earpiece, Tate connected to Chris Salter, the SBS commando in the distant boat, as he moved to the helm. He spoke with a Russian accent, his words vague enough to hide his intention and his true nationality if overheard. ‘Have you seen our friend yet?’

‘I have eyes on. He’s on deck, on schedule. They’re preparing to come ashore. I count five. The target, two BGs and two crewmen. Target is dressed in cream slacks and a navy-blue shirt. They are lowering the tender.’

‘Understood,’ Tate stated. He turned the key in the boat’s ignition and started the Soleil 35’s twin Volvo Penta D4/300 engines. He cast off both the bow and stern lines, before pushing the throttle forward. With a mild whiff of diesel fumes he moved away from the mooring and started to navigate the route out into the bay.

‘The tender is in the water,’ Salter stated, over the open line. ‘Stand by, stand by. They are in the tender. Moving …’

Tate pulled off his Oakleys and raised a pair of field glasses to his eyes. He focused on the mega-yacht’s tender. One crew member was at the helm whilst the other made sure that the passengers were seated. Tate noted with relief that none of them were wearing life preservers. Moving his field glasses, Tate pulled focus and just made out the splash as Salter rolled backwards from his launch into the sea. He was ready.

As he cleared the port, Tate pushed the throttle forward and the prow of the Soleil 35’ sat up. He leant down and pulled a black kit bag from under the table in the seating area next to him. It was open and from it he gingerly retrieved a stubby H&K G36c assault rifle and held it ready below the line of the gunwale. He took an inadvertent sidestep as the boat was momentarily buffeted by the waves when it left the port for the bay itself. Ahead Tate saw the tender bobbing gently by the giant stern of the mega-yacht.

Tate had rehearsed and refined the plan, and each of the E Squadron operators knew exactly what to do. As the tender moved away from the Saudi-owned mega-yacht, Tate approached it on a parallel course – still not a threat, just a plaything going out for a cruise. The distance between the two vessels closed. Tate could now make out the facial expressions of each man on board, the two crewmen in white polo shirts looking professionally relaxed; the two bodyguards in their tight-fitting suits, looking hot and uncomfortable; and the target who had now turned his head and was looking directly at him.

Tate waited until the last possible moment and then swung the Soleil 35’ directly into the path of the oncoming tender and put the engines in full reverse. It was the nautical equivalent of an emergency stop and Tate’s boat was now broadside on to the tender. He put the throttle back to idle.

The tender started to turn, taking evasive action, and then Tate swung the H&K up and sprayed the bow with 5.56mm rounds. The crew member at the helm ducked, but one of the two bodyguards was now on his feet, a pistol in his hands. Tate cursed as the last two rounds of his magazine hit the bodyguard, catapulting him back into his seat. Tate changed magazines and acquired his target, the Saudi. The one remaining bodyguard was trying to shield the royal but he’d pushed him aside and bounded to his feet, as though he was outraged and demanding an explanation. The Saudi’s left hand held the handle of an attaché case, which was chained to his wrist, whilst his right hand had formed a fist, which he was shaking. Tate sent a burst of rounds into the Saudi. The target cried out, stumbled to his left, toppled over the port side of the tender and plunged into the Mediterranean Sea.

‘Suka! Chort!’ Tate hollered in anger, in Russian, as he saw both man and case disappear below the surface of the water. Using his left hand, he opened up the throttles to full. The Soleil 35’ reared up and powered away from the tender. Tate turned and, one-handed, emptied the rest of his magazine above the stern of the tender, to keep their heads down.

He now had to concentrate on his own exfiltration. He passed Salter’s abandoned launch and headed south-west, the speed making the boat buck rhythmically as waves broke against it. He needed to put as much distance between him and the hit as possible. The entire attack had been so swift Tate’s planning had calculated the local authorities would not have started to react yet.

But he was wrong.

A siren sounded behind him and Tate turned his head to see a patrol boat belonging to the Monaco Maritime and Heliport Police Division rounding the stern of the Saudi mega-yacht and ploughing after him. Tate swore again, this time in English. Where the boat had come from he didn’t know, but he knew he had to get it to focus on him. Tate tapped his earpiece in the forlorn hope of speaking to Salter but when the call wasn’t answered, it confirmed what he already knew: the SBS man was still underwater. He needed to buy Salter time to get back on his boat and away with his cargo. The cargo was the most important part of the mission; even Tate himself was expendable.

Tate could outrun the patrol boat, but much like a car chase it was what was further down the road he may run into that worried him. He assessed his options. If need be, he’d use the pair of grenades in his bag to scuttle the boat, and then he’d swim ashore – but he didn’t want to risk being hunted like a drowned rat. Tate let the patrol boat inch closer, then he throttled back and came to an almost standstill, reached into his bag, and then in his best hackneyed acting gesticulated with his right arm to show his frustration with the engines. All the while, however, the engines were still running and his H&K was ready on his seat.

The larger vessel approached him, riding high on a bow wave. He could make out a man at the helm and a further two with automatic weapons slung across their chests. The military of Monaco was the third smallest in the world after those of Antigua and Barbuda, and Iceland, but that did not mean its men and women were untrained. Nevertheless, he imagined this was the most excitement they’d had for years, and he didn’t trust their trigger fingers. A loudhailer blasted orders at him in clipped French: ‘Turn off your engine! Raise your arms above your head!’

Tate had run out of time. He brought his two hands together, transferred what he was holding in his left to his right and pulled the pin. He counted, one … two … and then he hurled the grenade at the bow of the oncoming patrol boat.

As he’d expected, the boat and its crew were too slow to react, and as he’d calculated, the grenade didn’t reach the vessel but exploded ten feet ahead of it, showering the rising bow with shrapnel. Immediately after the explosion he whipped up his H&K and poured rounds at the vessel.

Tate turned, grabbed hold of the wheel and pushed the throttle full ahead. The bow of the Soleil 35’ shot skywards as it lurched forward. At the same time the police patrol boat veered to port. The two vessels shot away from each other, as though Poseidon himself was separating them. There was a moment of silence, a moment of indecision from the police and then a barrage of shots rang out. Tate ducked, knowing that a lucky shot was all that was needed, but also knowing that the shots were being fired in an attempt to keep face rather than with any hope of stopping the fast-retreating target. Tate kept his focus forward as he ran parallel to the coast in a straight line. At maximum speed, within a minute he had left the police launch behind and a minute later had left Monaco and was off the coast of France.

He passed Cap d’Ail and headed directly for the marina at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. To the west the coastline alternated between jagged cliffs and sandy beaches. With the exception of a high-powered motorbike, which could cut through the traffic on the undulating, winding coast road, the Soleil 35’ would beat any land-based vehicle to their destination, police included. Tate just hoped that there wasn’t already a reception waiting for him.

Over the roar of the engine and the cadenced crashing of the waves against the hull, Tate now heard another pulsing sound, one that he didn’t want to hear. He had company, uninvited company.

He looked back and studied the sky. A smudge of colour, coming from the direction of Monaco. A helicopter was on his tail. Tate couldn’t yet make out what type it was, but he was no stranger to either abseiling out of one or being hunted by the same. His mind flicked back to the events of a year before in the US, when a Spetsnaz team in a modified GlobalRanger had forced him out of the sky. He slammed a fresh mag in the H&K, but defending himself on a bucking boat from a swooping chopper would be no easy thing; spray and pray would be the order of the day and he could not and would not lose any more time by slowing down to engage. He just hoped that if it came to it the pilot would care more about losing his life than losing his target.

Tate held the short assault rifle against his right leg to minimise its profile, and continued to motor. The helo was moving fast; it grew larger and then Tate relaxed. It was a civilian Eurocopter EC130. It swished past the boat, just above the height of the cliffs. His iPhone rang.

‘I have the package,’ Salter stated over the crashing of the waves.

‘We have company. Monégasque patrol boat.’

‘Have that. Am proceeding as planned.’

Tate ended the call.

He slowed the Soleil 35’ as he started to approach Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The faster he motored the quicker he would be able to get ashore, but a slower approach would raise fewer French eyebrows. Tate scanned the shoreline with his binoculars. Apart from general pleasure craft he could see no official-looking vessels or watchers on the shore. Only now did he repack the H&K into the kit bag and zip it up. He woke up his iPhone and called the team driver. ‘How are we?’

‘All clear, Guvnor,’ the SAS man growled back in deadpan Glaswegian.

‘Police?’

‘None.’

‘ETA seven zero minutes.’

‘Have that.’

Tate throttled back the twin Volvo engines further as he followed the channel to enter the marina. Unlike its counterpart in Monaco, which was protected from the sea by the curvature of the bay, the Beaulieu-sur-Mer marina and yacht club was fronted by a man-made breakwater. Eyes darting in every direction from behind his dark Oakleys, he entered the marina proper and immediately made a turn to starboard and motored past the pontoon-mounted Total petrol station to the first row of berths. This was where the largest of the vessels were moored, serious powerboats and cruisers.

Four berths in, there was a gap between two imposing vessels. Tate took in the name of the largest. It had “Princess 72” printed on the side. The other was shrouded in a large cover and looked as though it hadn’t been moved in a while. Both towered above his own boat and would provide some cover. He slowly backed the Soleil 35’ into the berth, and cut the engine. Tate secured the boat and cast his eyes around the marina. This end was quiet, and there was no one obviously watching him, but that probably wouldn’t last for long. Tate quickly scanned the boat’s interior for spent shell cases. He found a handful, the rest having been ejected and whipped away into the sea, and put them back into his kit bag. He then removed a packet of alcohol wipes and started to rub down all the surfaces. After thrusting the used wipes into his kit bag, Tate then hefted it onto his shoulder and stepped off the Soleil 35’ for the last time, making sure to leave the boat’s keys in the ignition as an open invitation to any light-fingered passers-by. If it got stolen it would muddy the waters even further, and if not, the police would confirm that the boat had been bought and used by the known Russian hitman Egor Blok, or someone who looked very much like him.

Without pausing he leisurely followed the perimeter walkway towards the main entrance. In front of him the sun glinted off the white-walled villas of the town, and behind them rose mountainous hills like the jagged spine of some ancient beast.

Tate reached the main car park as a gunmetal grey Renault Trafic SpaceClass executive people carrier turned in from the coast road. Without looking at the office or the security box, Tate pulled back the sliding door and climbed inside.

‘Crap here, isn’t it?’ James “Paddy” Fox’s voice was gruff, guttural, Glaswegian and laced with sarcasm. ‘Neither a stick of rock, nor a donkey to be seen.’

Tate rolled his eyes; he was used to the Glaswegian’s dour humour. ‘Any issues?’

‘None.’

They left the marina complex and joined the one-way system, which would enable them to drive out of town in the direction of their second rendezvous point. Both men had memorised the local area and knew the streets as well as any local taxi driver.

Tate opened his line again with Salter. ‘ETA?’

‘Five minutes,’ Salter reported over the thundering of waves in the background.

The interior of the Renault fell silent for the next few minutes. The veteran SAS operative continuously scanned the road and his mirrors, whilst Tate sat by the door with his H&K at the ready. Stuck behind a slow-moving local bus on the narrow roads, their progress was slower than envisaged and by the time Fox pulled the Renault in next to the scooter parking area, overlooking Plage la Calanque, eight minutes had elapsed. Unwilling to leave the vehicle and visually tie himself with it, Tate sat with his eyes fixed on the path leading down to the beach. Another minute rolled past and despite the air con, Tate felt a wetness at his temples. He absentmindedly scratched his face with his left hand. Motorists passed them and such was the ubiquity of the vehicle’s use as a taxi that even though it was illegally parked, no one paid them a second glance.

And then someone did.

‘Plod,’ Fox said.

‘I see them.’

‘It’s bloody Laurel and Hardy!’

To their left a pair of police officers were strolling towards them. The first was shortish and rotund whilst his partner was gangly. At that exact same moment there was movement from the opposite direction, from the beach path. The broad-shouldered figure of Chris Salter appeared. He was wearing a cut-off scuba outfit, carrying a black holdall and ushering a thinner man towards the road. Tate impatiently watched them approach. The road was too narrow for the Renault to turn and they couldn’t reverse against the oncoming traffic, not with a pair of advancing gendarmes. The only option Tate could see was to draw the policemen’s attention away from the van and towards him. For the second time that afternoon he knew the mission was more important than he was.

‘Change of plan,’ Tate said. ‘I’m going walkabout.’

Fox turned in his seat, a quizzical look on his craggy face. ‘You sure?’

‘No other option. You get to the safe house and I’ll see you there.’

Minus his H&K and bag, Tate opened the sliding door of the executive Renault and stepped out. He’d know immediately if his description had been circulated. For the gendarmes to link him to the attack in Monaco was acceptable but Salter and the man he was accompanying had to get into the van. Tate shut the door, and swaying like a drunk, ambled in the direction of the policemen. After several steps he let himself slip off the kerb and stumble into the road. An oncoming car sounded its horn. Tate shouted in angry Russian and raised his middle finger. He stepped back onto the pavement and then pretended that he’d just registered the presence of the gendarmes.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen! Could you help me? I’m looking for an exciting place to drink!’ Tate said, in Russian-accented English.

Both Frenchmen had scowls on their faces, disgust at dealing with a belligerent, drunk foreigner rather than fear or apprehension at confronting a violent suspect. So far so good.

The nearest of the two, the gangly one, spoke in French.

Tate shrugged.

The second officer took over, switching to English. ‘Show me your ID.’

‘ID?’ Tate frowned, swayed.

‘Passport. Papers. Documents.’

‘Ah, I understand.’ Tate slowly reached his right hand into the back pocket of his trousers. As he did so he turned his head just enough to see the door on the opposite side of the Renault open and the two men get in. Tate casually retrieved a wallet as the Renault drove past. ‘I have these papers.’

The second officer grabbed the wallet and examined its contents. ‘You have broken several laws: drunk in public, jaywalking and using obscene language.’

‘Have I?’ Tate shrugged, innocently. Perhaps he had, or perhaps this was a shakedown; either way it gave the rest of the team time to make good their escape.

‘Yes, you have! There is a penalty for each of these offences.’ The officer now had Tate’s euros in one hand and the leather wallet in the other.

A wide smile formed under Tate’s beard, and he nodded. ‘Surely there is some financial accommodation that could be made? Could I pay a, how do you say it, “on-the-spot fine”?’

Laurel spoke in French to Hardy who nodded then addressed Tate. ‘My colleague has informed me of the required fine. You have here enough to cover it.’

‘That is good news.’

‘It is.’ Hardy handed him back the empty wallet.

There was a crackle of a radio transmission. Laurel frowned. He unclipped his radio with his left hand and spoke into it, in at first slow then progressively faster French. The fatter officer’s eyes widened. A vehicle passed them, a seagull squawked overhead but other than this the only sound was the muffled voice on the other end of the radio, at police dispatch. Tate swayed slightly on the spot. As Laurel listened, his eyes narrowed and he took a step forward, shortening the distance between them. The man’s right hand traversed towards his baton. He said something to his colleague.

With his left hand still full of euros, Hardy started to reach with his right for his baton. The time for talking was over. The two batons meant that this wasn’t going to be a fair fight, and it couldn’t be, because Tate would win that with ease. He had to be quick and he had to be fast and the two officers, who had suddenly been reminded of their real jobs, had to go down. Hard. Tate threw his empty wallet at the face of the first gendarme, stepped sideways and drove his elbow into the face of the second. Tate followed the elbow with a fist and the officer collapsed into the road. Turning on the spot, Tate kicked the first officer, who was still gawping at him, in the groin. A fist to the side of the head landed him next to his colleague. Tate booted the pair of them again, just to stop them from getting up, grabbed his wallet and his money, and sprinted away in the opposite direction to the van.

There were shocked faces and a yell of outrage from another pedestrian and a few cars beeped their horns as they went past, but no one attempted to stop him or to give chase. An elderly couple moved aside, both cringing as he ran by.

‘That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into,’ Tate muttered to himself as he left the scene.

He knew the road layout and had agreed the route with Fox. Unless the van wasted time negotiating the one-way system again it would take the mini-roundabout and drive back past the two police officers. Tate ran up the street, towards the salmon-pink-walled Royal Riviera hotel on the corner. Now out of sight of the two gendarmes and anyone who had seen the altercation, he slowed to a walk. He pulled off his baggy shirt, exposing the white muscle vest he was wearing underneath, and balled it into his left hand.

Tate carried on up the Avenue Jean Monnet and paused at the access road for the Hotel Delcloy complex. A taxi entered with two passengers in the rear. He allowed himself now to glance back down the avenue before and saw the Renault round the corner. He let it pass him and carry on up the hill. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

‘Last chance for a lift. There’s a junction up ahead; I’ll meet you after it on the left,’ Fox stated.

‘Negative,’ Tate replied. ‘Get to the safe house.’

‘Aye.’ He heard Fox audibly sigh. ‘Have that.’

Tate ended the call.

Tate knew he wasn’t going to blend in anywhere, and as long as the van wasn’t linked to him, that was all that mattered. Confronting the gendarmes had been a dumb decision but his only play: it made him the sole target. He stayed where he was, hidden from direct view of the passing traffic, and waited for the taxi to re-emerge. He heard sirens scream down the hill. The now empty taxi reappeared.

Tate flagged it down and asked the driver to take him to the Hotel Negresco on Nice’s Promenade des Anglais. The driver started to complain but a fifty-euro note made him change his mind.

Tate sat low in the back. The traffic become heavier as the taxi passed through the centre of Villefranche-sur-Mer and then entered the outskirts of Nice.

*

Forty minutes later Tate arrived back at the safe house. He’d covered his tracks by ducking in and out of the Hotel Negresco via different doors, and then taking a second taxi that dropped him two roads away from the safe house. He went through the large gates and up the gravel drive that led towards the villa.

The exterior walls were painted a pastel yellow and it was surrounded by a bright green lawn and palm trees.

Salter, now dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, secured the gates behind him. ‘Fancied a bit of shopping, did we? Our guest is in the living room with Paddy.’

‘Cheers.’ Tate walked up the steps to the entrance of the villa. Inside the temperature was several degrees cooler, due in part to the high ceilings, white walls and white marble floor. Tate crossed the voluminous entrance hall and entered the living room. The space was sparsely furnished. One figure sat at a table whilst another stood at the far end, framed by the window.

‘You’re alive then?’ Fox noted with mock surprise.

Tate shut the door and walked farther into the room. ‘Just.’

The other man now stood and faced Tate. He was equally as tall as Fox but a lot narrower, and thirty years younger. ‘This is the man who shot me!’

‘It is,’ Fox said, a slim smile forming on his face. The veteran SAS man had most recently been operating as a security adviser to several royal houses in the Middle East, whilst in fact being on the SIS payroll. It had been Fox who had recruited their guest as an SIS asset, suggested that he defect and set Tate’s mission in progress.

‘Paddy, you personally guaranteed my safety.’ The man’s accent was Oxbridge; in fact Tate thought he sounded more English than he did. ‘Without your assurances I would not have agreed to this, but it is this man who made my escape possible.’

Tate took in the figure of His Royal Highness Salman bin Mohammad Al Nayef, the man they had been sent to extract, the man who had made a deal to pass on detailed information regarding his uncle’s business and personal links to an alleged new terrorist threat. Al Nayef may well have been a member of Saudi Arabia’s extended royal family, but he wasn’t getting anything more than a “sir” from Tate. It was something the man needed to get used to. ‘I’m happy you made it here in one piece.’

A broad smile appeared on Al Nayef’s face. ‘Did you see how I stood up, and waved my fist at you?’

‘I did,’ Tate said.

‘It was something I saw in a film. It felt like the right thing to do.’

Tate humoured him. ‘It was. You looked brave.’

Al Nayef shrugged and dipped his head, abashed like a teenager. ‘Was I convincing?’

‘Totally.’

‘I practised.’

Tate frowned, concerned. ‘Where was this? Did anyone see you?’

‘No. No one saw me. I was on my own, in my cabin. I watched several Hollywood action films to study their technique.’

‘Armchair warriors are the most dangerous,’ Fox said.

Tate coughed back a laugh.

Al Nayef went on, ‘And like a Hollywood film you used blanks in your gun, but it was highly realistic.’

‘Extremely,’ Tate agreed. In fact, his first and third magazines had been loaded with standard rounds; it was only the second that he had “shot” Al Nayef with that had contained blanks.

Al Nayef extended his hand to shake Tate’s. ‘All because of you I am here. You are a good man.’

‘But his fashion sense is a bit shite,’ Fox said.

Tate shook Al Nayef’s hand. ‘I’ll leave you both to it.’

‘Cheers, sonny,’ Fox said, and winked.

Unlike everyone else, Tate still looked like an extra from Miami Vice. He shut the door and took the stairs to the first floor. Stage one of the mission was over, but it was far too soon to relax. The authorities in Monaco, France and neighbouring Italy would all by now be aware that an attack had taken place. Rescue boats would be searching for Al Nayef, or his body, and Tate’s description of course had been circulated. Tate thought about Al Nayef. He’d seemed more excited than scared, as though it was an adventure and he wasn’t running for his life, as though he’d not quite comprehended the seriousness of his situation.

Perhaps if he saw what Tate was about to do now, the true precariousness of the situation would hit him? But Tate knew Al Nayef must not see what was in the room he was about to enter.

Tate walked into the master bedroom and shut the door behind him. Plastic sheeting covered the room and reminded Tate of an episode of Dexter. A pile of crumpled, damp clothes lay on the floor. A naked male body was positioned squarely on a plastic sheet next to this. The corpse was intact with the exception of a missing lower jaw, but the face had been mutilated. Deep lacerations cut right across it; the nose was missing and the cheekbones broken. The dead man’s unrecognisable face looked as though it had got in the way of a heavy ship’s propeller.

A supply of surgical masks, gloves and white protective coveralls lay on the bed. Tate donned a set then moved to the corpse and dressed it with difficulty in Al Nayef’s clothes.

Ten minutes later Tate stood back to admire his grotesque creation. This had once been someone’s son, perhaps someone’s brother, husband or father. An abrupt sense of remorse tightened his chest. He had once also been someone’s son, and so had his brother but unlike the corpse before him they both lived whilst their parents did not. And the man who had murdered their parents – Ruslan Akulov – was still free. Tate felt his remorse turn to anger.

‘Do we know who he was?’ Fox said, as he appeared behind Tate, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Tate answered without looking up. ‘No idea. All I know is that he was delivered here and is fresh enough to pass for our friend downstairs.’

‘Dental records?’

‘That’s probably why the lower jaw is missing, too tricky to copy.’

‘Poor bastard.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t mean laughing boy here, I meant Al Nayef. Today he’s royalty, tomorrow he’s just Joe Public.’

Tate stretched his back. ‘That’s the name SIS should have put on his new passport.’

A smile split Fox’s craggy face. ‘I haven’t given you yours yet, have I?’

‘No.’ Tate frowned.

Fox let his smile turn into a grin. ‘I wouldn’t shave until you’ve checked it out.’

Tate removed the coveralls, gloves and mask. ‘So can I have it?’

Fox reached inside the pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Here.’

It was a genuine United Kingdom passport, and had been aged in order to not rouse suspicion. Tate looked at the photograph page. He closed his eyes and sighed. It was a real photo of himself, with a sensible haircut but it had a Hulk Hogan, horseshoe-style moustache that drooped around either side of his mouth.

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