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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
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  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

She strolled over to the window for the last time. Music was starting to spill out from a bar across the street as she turned back towards him. ‘Earl Grey is keen, Luke. He wants our money and I think he’s ready to dish the dirt on this network. He’s ripe for the plucking.’ She gave him a smile of encouragement. ‘So get in there and milk him for everything he’s got. Because right now he’s the best lead – the only lead – we’ve got.’

46

Near Braintree, Essex

Friday, 11 March, 1441hrs GMT

THE DISUSED CONCRETE bunker in north Essex was a dismal hangover from the days of the Cold War. When nuclear Armageddon sometimes seemed only a hair-trigger away, Britain’s Ministry of Defence ran a nationwide network of monitoring posts – small underground bunkers from which to observe and assess the after-effects of a Soviet nuclear attack. The men – and it was almost entirely men – who were to staff this doomsday galaxy of dystopian outposts were drawn from the Royal Observer Corps. Wound down after 1991, now long since disbanded, its members pensioned off, many of its bunkers remain, gathering moss and mould, their dark recesses either locked and empty or scattered with crumpled beer cans and soggy cigarette butts. Foxes love them.

On this bleak March afternoon, winter seemed to have returned to the hedgerows and ploughed fields north of Braintree. A flock of gulls wheeled and mewed in the chill wind that blew off the North Sea, and the still-bare trees bent their branches and clashed together with every gust. Unnoticed by anyone, three figures made their way along the edge of a field, out of sight from the nearest road. One carried a rucksack on his back while two others hefted a large box between them. The box was covered with an old brown blanket, and they carried it by rope handles at either end. Every now and then, when one missed his footing on the squelching mud, a faint cry could be heard from inside the box, but otherwise the party moved along in silence.

They stopped some distance from the bunker and set their cargo down. One moved forward, cautiously, to make quite sure they were still alone. He picked his feet over the cloying mud at the edge of the field, staying close to a sheltering hawthorn hedge, stopping to scan the fields for any unwelcome observers, before proceeding to check the bunker. Ten minutes later he was back and noiselessly waving them forward.