Red Station

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You could have vetoed it.’ Paulton tapped the folder, his cheeks flushing. ‘If you felt there were insufficient resources at your disposal, you could have said . . . should have said. It’s every officer’s right . . . every officer’s judgement.’

  ‘And let those drugs out on the streets? We’d have been crucified and you know it.’ Harry felt himself beginning to boil over. He breathed deeply. Losing it here and now wouldn’t do any good. But after the meaningless debriefing with the three Stooges earlier, he could sense the drawbridges going up all around him. He wondered if this was how establishment stitch-ups began.

  ‘It was still your call.’ The dig came from the man in the corner; pointed, cold, unfriendly. Silent until now, he had clearly decided to wade in on Paulton’s side.

  ‘Really?’ Harry turned, the heat rushing to his face. ‘And who the hell are you? When did you last go out on an op?’ He glared at the man, saw only empty, hooded eyes staring back from a well-fed face. ‘When did you last lie in shit and sewage for hours at a time, waiting to face men armed with automatic weapons – men who don’t give a flying fuck about law and order because of what they’re bringing in? You think they give a pig’s tit about “stop, police” or us waving our ID? They don’t.’

  ‘The planning—’ Paulton tried to interject, but Harry was on a roll, sensing his future going up in a fireball.

  ‘The planning was done by the book, with all the assessment boxes ticked, just the way the suits like it. But guess what – someone was too concerned with budgets, targets and key performance indicators!’

  ‘Tate—’ The unnamed man lifted a pudgy hand, his eyes as cold as granite.

  ‘It’s Mister Tate to you,’ Harry growled. ‘Those two civilians died because they were allowed to penetrate a compromised security cordon and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for not ‘managing’ the dead officer, that’s bullshit. He ran across the firing line. He was brave, certainly, but stupid; he should have done as he was told and kept his bloody head down.’ He could have added that in running out from cover, Parrish had probably exacerbated the situation and drawn fire on to the couple while using their arrival as a distraction. But he didn’t say it; the man was dead. ‘Ask Maloney – he’ll tell you.’

  ‘Maloney has made his report. He has been taken off operational duties pending an enquiry.’ Paulton fixed him with a glare. ‘As of now, you are not to have any contact with him. Understood?’

  ‘Why? That’s ridiculous. He’s my number two—’

  ‘Was your number two. As of this minute, we’re offering you a new posting. Overseas. It’s a career position, with additional benefits at an enhanced grade.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Should help your pension entitlements, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Jesus, the pension!’ Harry wanted to spit, he was so mad. ‘For how long? Doing what?’

  Paulton shrugged. ‘For as long as necessary. Until things calm down, at least. You’ll be briefed on arrival by your head of station. I recommend you take the post.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘Right now, I don’t see any alternatives.’

  They were protecting themselves, Harry knew. They wanted him out of the way while all the official wailing and gnashing of teeth went on and they could build a credible explanation. But what were his options? Stay and face a public enquiry, the token guilt figure? Resign and be hounded by the press? Or take their dubious offer and work his way back?

  ‘How long do I have to think about it?’

  ‘You don’t. You leave today.’

  Against all his instincts, Harry took the offer.

  After leaving Paulton’s office, Harry went home to pack a single bag and make a few phone calls. To friends to say he would be away for a while; to Jean, a slim red-head in her forties who referred to herself with dry wit as the OD – Occasional Date.

  Instead of Jean, he got Felicity, her Sloaney business partner in a west end flower business.

  ‘Off again? She’ll be sorry she missed you.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry wasn’t so sure. Jean knew what he did but had never asked questions. Until now, he’d taken it for a judicious lack of interest.

  ‘Obtuse man.’ Felicity’s voice was friendly, gently reproachful. ‘Don’t you know you’re the only person who makes her smile? Come back soon.’

  He put down the phone amid conflicting emotions; resumed packing to get his mind in gear. The department would deal with the letting of his flat while he was gone, so he boxed up his personal things and left them in the middle of the floor for removal and storage.

  A short taxi drive took him west to RAF Northolt, where he was shunted aboard a military plane and handed a flask of coffee, a bottle of chilled water and a tuna sandwich. He took his seat and found he had two escorts sitting nearby. Military policemen by the look of them, hard and capable. They ignored him completely. He knew that if he tried to get off, they’d have him face down on the cabin floor before he reached the door.

  He ignored them in return. Drank his coffee, ate half his sandwich, saved the rest for later. Not that he liked tuna especially. But better than nothing. He fell asleep thinking of Jean.

  They prodded him awake at Frankfurt. Gummy-eyed, he stared through the window. The plane had stopped behind a military hangar, shrouded in shadow, distant arc lights casting an eerie glow. He was urged down the steps and into a plain, white van reeking of oil and stale sweat. Three minutes later he was in the civilian terminal, where he was told where to collect his tickets for his onward flight. He signed a docket at the desk and turned to see if his escorts were coming, too.

  They had disappeared.

  FOUR

  ‘In hindsight, Tate should have had more back-up and support.’ Paulton tossed his listeners an early mea culpa to be going on with. It was chicken bones at best, probably pointless, but might keep them at bay for a while and sit well on the record should a board of enquiry be convened.

  ‘Is that all you can say? After all that work and preparation?’ Gareth Nolan, Deputy Commissioner for Operations in the Metropolitan Police, scowled across the table. He was clearly intent on levelling blame towards MI5 for the failures. ‘You’re defending the man?’

  They were in an anonymous, polished room in the bowels of a building off Horse Guards Avenue. The flak from the failed operation was beginning to settle around everyone’s ears as the story gradually became public knowledge, and this was not the only meeting Paulton had been called to.

  ‘It’s not a matter of defence,’ he said curtly. ‘It’s the facts I’m interested in.’

  The senior policeman shrugged it off. ‘It was a bloody cock-up, right from the start! It cost one of my men his life, and two innocent civilians. Your man – Tate, is it? – should be charged with incompetence at the very least! What is he – a trainee, fresh out of university?’

  ‘He is a former army officer,’ Paulton said calmly, a defensive stance for the record rather than loyalty to his man. ‘He served with distinction in Kosovo and Iraq, among others, but he isn’t Superman. Circumstances went against him . . . against the team. It happens.’ He smiled coldly, adding, ‘Besides, if I understand the facts, it was your officer who put himself at risk; your team who got stuck driving their van into a mud-wallow. Don’t you teach them ground-reading skills anymore?’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The voice of the third person in the room cut off Nolan’s intended retort, leaving him fuming impotently. ‘Let’s press on, shall we?’ Marcella Rudmann, chair of a Joint Intelligence Subcommittee overseeing security operations, flipped open a folder in front of her. ‘This business is appalling by anybody’s standards. Which is why this meeting involves just the three of us . . . so far.’

  The subtle warning did not go unnoticed by the two men. They were in session with one of the most powerful women in Whitehall, against whom arguments were like light rain on a metal roof. She had the Prime Minister’s confidence and the support of senior cabinet members.

  ‘Two civilians dead –
one the daughter of a local VIP, we believe – a courageous firearms officer killed and one dead drug-runner. I couldn’t care less about the last one, but the other three are going to keep the press on our collective necks for months to come. What are you doing about it?’

  ‘Doing?’ Paulton raised an eyebrow, although he knew perfectly well what Marcella Rudmann was alluding to. A head had to roll and, more importantly, had to be seen to roll. More than that, any source of embarrassment had to vanish quietly, beyond the reach of the press. He felt for a moment the spectre of blame settling around his neck like an icy collar. If anyone had to take the fall, it should be the weasel in uniform across the table from him; it had been his men who had thrown the drugs bust into disarray after many months of work, leaving the MI5 operators and the on-loan firearms officer to deal with the ensuing firefight. There was also the manpower cuts forced on them at the last minute by the Home Office; cuts meaning that resources were tailored to the threat level involved. Intelligence reports had advised that the threat level of the operation in Essex was likely to be low, and therefore required minimum personnel on the ground.

  It had been a bad decision, but one Paulton himself had reluctantly agreed to. Outgunned and on foot, Tate and the others hadn’t stood a chance. He wondered idly whether senior police officers were issued with swords on which they could fall. Probably not; their health and safety department wouldn’t allow them near anything sharp.

  ‘About Tate.’ Rudmann was in her fifties, attractive and poised, but possessed of an aggressive approach which belied her looks. She had a reputation for caring little about individual sensibilities or rank, evidenced by several big-gun civil service carcasses littering the ground behind her.

  Paulton forced himself to remain calm. Was it really going to be this simple? Had she just given him a clear, unambiguous signal that the man on the ground was to take all the blame? He sighed; he’d be stupid to toss it back in her face. Tough on Tate, especially at his time of life. Forty-something, he seemed to recall.

  Better for himself, though. If he was careful.

  Nolan wasn’t slow to pick up the inference, and snickered in triumph. ‘Tell me, Paulton, what do you do with security types you want rid of? You can hardly send them down to the local job centre, can you? Or have them spilling their guts by writing their memoirs.’

  Paulton shot him a look of genuine loathing and resisted the instinct to mention the Stockwell tube shooting in 2005, by a police marksman. Instead, he replied, ‘Actually, we execute them. Saves time and paperwork. We could always extend the practice to your lot, if you like. Care to be the first candidate?’

  Nolan’s face paled and he began to protest. But Rudmann’s hand came down flat on the table, the rings on her fingers giving the sharp, flat echo of a gunshot.

  ‘Your solution, George.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘You mean here and now?’ He was damned if he was going to give her an answer in front of this jumped-up traffic cop – not when it meant admitting he was surrendering the head of one of his officers. It would be tantamount to admitting that he had the guts of a slug. He slid a glance at his watch.

  Tate’s flight should be taking off anytime now. A few hours and he’d be beyond reach. For good.

  Rudmann’s hand drifted ominously towards a phone at her side. ‘Make it quick, George. Time’s running out.’

  He gave in, convincing himself he was fighting his corner but battening down on the tiny worm of self-contempt seeping into his bones.

  ‘It’s taken care of,’ he said with feigned reluctance, aware that Nolan would practically soil his pants hearing what he was about to say. ‘We have a place . . . a posting. It’s a recent innovation. It will put Tate beyond the reach of the press, or . . .’ he hesitated, eyeing Nolan, ‘. . . anyone else who goes looking for him.’

  ‘What sort of place?’ Rudmann had been fingering her watch, no doubt late for another meeting. But she stopped at this latest revelation.

  ‘A branch office. I don’t want to disclose the precise location, but it’s not in this country.’

  Nolan’s eyebrows shot up to join his receding hairline. ‘How? Five doesn’t have jurisdiction out of the country.’ He looked at Rudmann for support.

  ‘Actually, you’d be surprised where we have jurisdiction.’ Paulton gave him his nastiest smile, pleased to have taken the policeman by surprise. ‘But that’s all I’m saying.’ He waited for Rudmann to insist. This one should be a definite no-go area, even for her.

  She nodded. ‘Very well.’ She closed the folder before her and stood up. ‘That’s all, gentlemen.’

  Nolan looked crestfallen at being frozen out, but hurried away, no doubt eager to begin spreading tales. Paulton watched him go, determined not to share even the same corridor space with the man in case he was tempted to do something physical.

  He turned and faced Rudmann. Her expression was a mask.

  FIVE

  ‘I wasn’t going to insist,’ Rudmann said quietly after Nolan had gone. ‘Especially in front of that odious little creature. But there are others who will. Is it wise sending Tate to this . . . posting?’

  It suddenly occurred to Paulton that she might already know about the place he was referring to. He couldn’t think how, but she undoubtedly had contacts he wasn’t aware of; resources he didn’t know about. It was an unsettling thought. ‘The PM, you mean?’ He caught a hint of perfume and wondered vaguely what it was. And where she daubed it.

  ‘Probably not. But his office. They will want to be sure Tate isn’t going to pop up somewhere foreign and start talking. That really would be a disaster – for everyone.’

  ‘He won’t.’ Paulton mentally gagged at the idea; it would be a career killer. The decision to tell her something – anything – was easily made. It might keep her off his back and satisfy others that a head had rolled; that all was well in the world. Most would see it as a classic display of self-defence – a civil service skill customarily absorbed on the first day in the job. Not that Tate would appreciate the subtlety. ‘He’s been assigned to the modern equivalent of Fort Zinderneuf. It’s remote, unpleasant, and he’ll be monitored to ensure he doesn’t go AWOL. It should suffice.’

  ‘I see.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘You’d planned this already.’

  ‘I thought it might be on the cards, yes, after . . . previous incidents. It’s a precautionary measure.’

  ‘How astute. But why? What’s so special about Tate?’

  He paused for several beats, wondering how much to tell her. Thrown a small bone, it might be enough to put her off-track for the time being.

  ‘Nothing, as such,’ he said finally, choosing his words with care. This could come back and bite him on the arse if he said the wrong thing. ‘Tate’s old school; knows things we’d rather he didn’t get prised out of him by a clever hack. He’s one of those intelligence officers who crept up on the outside rails without being noticed; diligent, solid, good at his job, does what he’s told most of the time.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He can be bolshie when he thinks he’s right. It’s best we keep him out of the way.’ He could have added that Harry Tate had refused to play the game of musical chairs which passed for a career path around here, but he’d been around long enough and deep enough to know where several skeletons were buried. Even if he didn’t know that he knew. It might be a good time to ensure it stayed that way.

  The main fact was that Tate, good and obedient servant that he was, was feeling justifiably annoyed at being left dangling out in the Essex marshland. Reason enough to move him out of anyone’s sight and hearing before he exploded.

  Rudmann seemed satisfied. ‘How long will he be there?’

  ‘For as long as we think fit. He’ll be allowed back eventually – subject to safeguards, of course. No contact with home and hearth, all communications with Thames House to come via his head of station. Even his family won’t know where he is.’ Not that Tate had any, he recalled. Divorced an
d likely to stay that way. An odd fish. Probably a drinker, on the quiet. With a shudder, he realized the man actually had the potential to be the worst kind of spook to have on your hands when the shit hit the fan.

  ‘Who else knows about this place?’ Rudmann dragged him back.

  ‘Six. But nobody else.’ He held his breath, aware that he was on thin ice. What if she asked why this had not come up before?

  ‘I see. How often do you . . . use it?’

  ‘Rarely, so far. As I said, it’s fairly new. Experimental, you might say.’ He forestalled further questions by asking, ‘Is there anything else?’

  Rudmann shook her head. There was something of the prude in her expression, as if finding something about him and his world which she did not like. Even so, it was evident that she was fascinated by what he had just told her.

  ‘What on earth do you call this place?’

  ‘There is no official designation.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘If nobody has logged it, nobody will find it.’

  There was a lengthy silence, then, ‘But you must have a name for it.’

  ‘Yes. We call it Red Station.’

  SIX

  Harry Tate celebrated his birthday with a miniature of Bell’s whisky while waiting for his bag to come off the plane. Between sips, he was trying to convince himself he’d been born lucky.

  There was little talk in the drab terminal; most of his fellow passengers were in deep shock after an aborted first landing. About to drop on to the runway, the pilot of the Antonov AN 24 had suddenly hauled the nose up without warning, the ageing engines screaming under full power as they fought to claw the aircraft back into the thin air above Mukhrani airport, Georgia. Cries of alarm in several languages had joined the sounds of tumbling crockery in the galley. But the near-stall manoeuvre had paid off, dragging them in a juddering curve away from the airport and out over the open countryside, vibration shaking every rivet and leaving behind a heavy flow of muddy exhaust fumes like a giant crop-duster.