‘Wife . . . girlfriend?’
‘That’s private.’ He definitely wasn’t going to discuss Jean. Not with her.
‘I’m Six,’ said Clare. ‘Nothing’s private.’
He said nothing. After a mile or so, she said vaguely, ‘I should tell you, the target I got burned by?’
‘What about him?’
‘It was a woman.’
‘What’s this?’ he murmured, ‘you show me yours and I show you mine?’
Before he could take it further, she was sitting forward, staring through the windscreen. ‘What’s this?’
They drew level with a khaki-coloured jeep with its nose buried in a bank at the side of the road. It looked abandoned. Later, they saw a military truck on jacks, with three soldiers struggling to change a shredded tyre. They stared as the Land Cruiser swept by, and Harry watched in his side mirror as one of the men leaned into the cab and backed out holding a radio. Calling home?
Two miles further on, he had his answer.
They were rounding a long, sweeping curve over a wooded gully, when Clare jammed on the brakes and called a warning. The tyres bit into the rough road, causing the vehicle to bounce, and she wrestled with the wheel as it threatened to tear itself out of her grip.
Harry had enough time to grab for his seat, when he noticed a line of soldiers scattering from the road right in front of them.
TWENTY-THREE
Stones hammered underneath the car like machine-gun fire and a dust cloud billowed up around them as they skidded to a halt. Amid a volley of shouting and the rattle of automatic weapons being cocked, the doors were wrenched open and soldiers motioned them to get out.
Harry moved slowly with his hands in clear sight. All it needed was a stumble and one trigger-happy soldier, and all hell would break loose. Some of the soldiers looked nervous, and he put their average age at little more than twenty. Then a large figure pushed through the men, waving away the dust cloud.
It was Geordi Kostova.
Behind him came Nikolai. They looked at ease among the troops, who moved aside without complaint to let them through. Kostova motioned Harry to stay where he was, and signalled for Clare to follow him. They walked away a few yards, with Nikolai close by, and the mayor made a display of studying Clare’s passport. He rattled off a few questions, with gestures towards Harry, and although the words were indistinct, the bite in his voice was in distinct contrast to when he had spoken to Harry in the restaurant.
Harry concentrated on trying to stay calm and ignored the weapons pointed at him. Some of the men searched the inside of the vehicle and made a show of moving the seats and playing with the instruments.
An older man thrust his face forwards. ‘You American?’ He jabbed a grimy finger at the Land Cruiser, clearly seeing it as a badge of US wealth. ‘CIA? NYPD?’
‘Not me, mate.’ Harry smiled, one eye on Kostova and Nikolai. They seemed at ease, but he wondered how friendly they really were. Would Kostova help them out if things got nasty? ‘I work for the British Council. Education? Arts? Culture?’
The man scowled but fastened on one word.
‘British? Ah, yes. British.’ He looked towards Clare and asked, ‘What she do?’
‘She?’ Harry rolled his eyes. ‘She drives like a woman.’
The translation prompted an outbreak of laughter, and two of the men mimed jumping clear of the Land Cruiser at the last minute with slapstick grimaces and cries of alarm. Eventually, they lost interest and wandered away, lighting cigarettes.
When Clare returned to the car, she climbed behind the wheel and signalled for Harry to get in. Kostova and Nikolai stayed in the background, watching. When they were on their way back towards town, she asked Harry to pass her another cigarette.
‘That was lucky,’ she said, blowing out smoke. Her voice was shaky. ‘He said if we’d been anyone else, we would have been shot.’
‘Why?’ Harry said. ‘Is this a restricted road?’
‘It is now. Military use only. They must have closed it after we took the fork back there.’
‘Kostova must have clout, lording it over the military like that.’
‘He has.’ She glanced at him with a frown. ‘What was all the laughter for?’
‘I told them that back home you were a rally driver.’
She smiled. It transformed her face, an insight into how attractive she was under the cool exterior. A deliberate mask, he wondered, or a conscious desire to be as different as possible from the character she must have played in her deception role?
‘Did Kostova say what all the military is for?’
‘There’s been a general mobilization. All leave has been cancelled, all units are on stand-by, and there’s a push north towards the border.’
‘That was open of him.’
‘Perhaps because he knows they can’t hide it any longer.’ She pointed skywards, signifying the satellite overview of the planet from which very little could be hidden, then threw the cigarette out of the window with a grimace of distaste. ‘He also confirmed the general talk gathering pace around town for a few days.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Russians are coming. Can you believe that?’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘You told me Jimmy Gulliver got back.’ Harry pushed into Mace’s office without knocking. Clare Jardine was in the outer office, typing up a report for London on what they had seen that morning.
Mace looked up from his desk, blinking like an owl. An empty glass stood by his elbow, a smear of colour across the bottom. Brandy or whisky, Harry guessed, and not the first. ‘What?’
‘You said Jimmy Gulliver returned to the UK. Where did he go?’
‘I can’t tell you that. Restricted information.’
‘Crap. Who’s going to know?’
Mace chewed on his lower lip. It was like watching a laborious series of checks and balances being considered before spewing out a response.
‘You’re pushing your luck, lad,’ he muttered finally.
‘Don’t call me lad. I’ve been around the block nearly as many times as you.’ Harry was ready for a fight. The idea of being here for months was already getting to him, but now something else was niggling away at him, disturbing his frame of mind.
‘Why hasn’t Gulliver been in touch?’
‘Christ, what is it with you about Gulliver? Maybe he doesn’t give a rat’s backside. We’re history to him – so what? He’s hardly going to look back on this as his finest hour, is he?’ Mace breathed deeply and shook his head. He sat back with a wave of his hand. ‘OK . . . y’right. What difference does it make? No big secret any more.’ He coughed and stared at the surface of his desk as if it might contain a script he could read from. ‘Jimmy Gulliver. Good lad, he was . . . for a Sixer. Crying shame.’
‘What did he do, to bring him here?’
‘Jimmy? Not sure. I think he had a change of heart; expressed doubts about what he was doing. What MI6 was doing. Shouldn’t have done that.’
‘You mean we’re not allowed doubts now?’
‘Not at his level. I reckon he was too open about it. Shout too loud and they mark you down.’ He blinked. ‘Nice lad . . . but naïve.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s my theory, anyway. Might be all bollocks, of course.’
‘But you’re Head of Station. You get copied on all our files.’ He leaned over the desk, trying to keep the discussion on track.
Mace considered this seriously. ‘Normally, I do. But not with Jimmy. His file was red-tagged.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Means eyes-only, those at the top. Must have been into a lot of heavy stuff, know what I mean?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘It means he was a high-level security risk. Someone they didn’t want wandering around the planet with a story to sell.’ He grinned lamely and waggled a finger. ‘You’re pushing it, askin’ these questions. You’ll get us both into trouble.’
‘You think we’re not already? Look arou
nd you.’ Harry walked over to the window and back. ‘Did Gulliver stay in the service?’
‘No idea. Have to ask them, won’t you? Wouldn’t bet on a reply, though.’
‘He’s never contacted you?’
‘Un-huh.’ Mace shook his head. The movement made him wince. ‘Why should he? Too bloody glad to be out of here, I should think. No sense looking back.’
‘Odd, though, isn’t it . . . for an ex-colleague?’
‘Odd business we work in, that’s why. Bloody odd world, in fact.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Harry turned to leave, then said, ‘Were there any others who went back, apart from him?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’ Mace’s voice took on a growl.
‘Just asking. It’s better than sitting here doing nothing. Does it matter?’
‘Asking the wrong questions always matters – you know that.’
‘Let’s assume I don’t give a rat’s arse.’
Mace chewed his lip, then gave in. ‘There was one before him. A Fiver named Gordon Brasher. Analyst by day, idiot plotter by night. He decided he didn’t like the Official Secrets Act he’d signed and passed some data to a bunch of left-leaning loonies who wanted to blow up the planet. He was the first one sent out here after the place was established.’
‘Why here? I’d have thought passing data was an automatic jail sentence.’
‘Me too. But our lords and masters thought otherwise.’ He stood up and picked up his glass. ‘Like I said, you’ll have to ask them.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He went home, same as Gulliver. They did some psych tests on him and decided he was no longer a risk.’ He picked up the empty glass, dropped it in a drawer, slammed it shut and gave Harry a hard look. The discussion seemed to have sobered him up. ‘Now piss off and write up what you saw this morning. We got work to do.’
Harry waited for Mace to disappear on one of his regular ‘breaks’, then walked to the nearest basement internet bar. He signalled to the barman and got some time online along with a mug of coffee and a small jug of milk.
He checked out the news channels first. The usual items, from the twin conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, to the economic meltdown threatening the world. Nothing about the shooting. Had it finally run out of steam? He doubted it; maybe everyone was taking a breather.
He scrolled through the lists, discarding the stories as he went. He Googled ‘Essex shooting’. It returned over a million hits, most of them involving gun clubs and clay pigeon shooting. He added the word ‘police’. Fewer hits, mostly concerning firearms units and London-based criminals. And the death by stabbing of a reporter named Whelan. He clicked off the page, tired of following up leads that led nowhere. He was about to log off when he stopped.
Whelan.
He knew that name. But where from? He went back to the link. It brought up a report from a south London newspaper’s crime correspondent.
A man found knifed to death on South Clapham Common after a suspected mugging has been named as Shaun Whelan, a freelance journalist. Police reports suggest his body may have been concealed for at least twenty-four hours in a small copse, and was only noticed by a park worker early this morning. Local residents say the area is a frequent haunt of gay men, and arguments are not uncommon. Whelan, 58, who had a reputation as a fierce campaigning journalist, began his career with RTE, the Irish radio and television broadcast service, before moving to London. At the time of his death, he was investigating the controversial shooting of a police officer and two innocent civilians during a drugs operation in Essex, which is currently the subject of an official enquiry. He was unmarried and lived alone.
Harry sat back, feeling guilty. Whelan was the man he’d wished a broken neck on.
What were the odds on a freelance reporter digging into a busted MI5 operation and getting himself knifed in a mugging? He believed in the realm of coincidence – even random occurrences. But some events stretched those laws beyond the point of believability.
And this was one of them.
As he left the café, a shiny silver BMW drew up alongside him, the tyres crunching over some discarded plastic in the gutter. Harry glanced sideways, expecting to give a shake of the head to a driver looking for directions.
It was Kostova, with Nikolai at the wheel.
‘Get in,’ Kostova invited him cheerfully, waving at the back seat.
‘Why. Where are we going?’ Harry checked the street for signs of lurking heavies. If he was being lifted, this was a civilized way of doing it.
‘We go to my house for a drink.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But we must stop meeting like this.’ He climbed in the car and closed the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nikolai drove fast, hands light on the wheel. He caught Harry’s eye in the rear-view mirror, nodded, then looked away.
Harry waited to see where he was being taken.
Kostova said nothing.
The interior of the car was beige leather and smelled of lemon freshener. It was a rich man’s ride, with walnut panelling and thick carpets, and classical music easing smoothly out of twin speakers behind Harry’s head.
They reached the suburbs, gliding at speed along one of the town’s boulevards. Each side was lined with large villa-style houses set behind high fences. Some were inhabited, but many looked neglected and empty. They were almost at the end when Nikolai slowed and swung the wheel, taking the BMW between an impressive set of iron gates. They stopped in front of a two-storey house surrounded by thickly planted flower beds and bushes.
Kostova jumped out and stretched, openly savouring the fresh air. ‘Come, Harry, come,’ he said enthusiastically, and strode off towards the front door without waiting. A thickset man in a grey suit appeared in the entrance. He had the bearing of an army man, with a bristle of black hair across his scalp and no neck. He nodded to Kostova, but ignored Harry completely.
Once they were inside, he shut the door, then disappeared.
‘Harry. You like a drink?’ Kostova was standing in an oval hallway, checking through a pile of mail on a large antique table capable of seating ten people without overcrowding. The floor was richly tiled in grey and silver and the walls were hung with heavy, lined wallpaper dotted with pink cherubs blowing golden trumpets. The effect was one of money overwhelming style.
‘Tea would be nice.’ Harry decided that taking alcohol with Kostova might be a step too far. The mayor had the look and energy of a man who could take his drink and liked to prove it.
Kostova looked mildly disappointed but recovered with a wide smile. ‘Of course. Tea. Why not? Is good for the digestion, anyway.’ He clapped his hands and shouted, then walked through a doorway to another room, beckoning for Harry to follow.
The room was vast, with a scattering of heavy, deeply-polished wooden furniture, comfortable armchairs and sofas, and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling at each end. The carpet was Persian over a wood-block floor, with heavy rugs seemingly dropped at random, giving the impression of something between a de Rothschild manor and a carpet salesroom.
‘Nice place,’ said Harry.
‘Thank you.’ Kostova was standing by a window overlooking a side garden filled with rose bushes. He smiled appreciatively. ‘It is nice to come home to some comfort, I think. Ah, tea.’
A youngish woman in a grey uniform dress and black shoes had entered the room, followed by the large man in the grey suit bearing a tray of fine china cups, saucers and a teapot. The woman poured, then handed Harry a cup. It was Earl Grey. She served Kostova, followed by Nikolai, who had entered quietly and was standing by the door. Then she and the heavy disappeared.
‘So. How are you finding our little town?’ Kostova slurped his tea and beamed at Harry like a favourite uncle. ‘I trust you are comfortable?’
‘Not bad,’ said Harry. ‘I haven’t managed to explore everywhere just yet, but it’s growing on me.’
‘Good. Good. We are not London, of course – wh
at you are used to – but we have a very old culture and many pieces of fine architecture and a very interesting museum.’
Harry buried his nose in his cup, and glanced at Nikolai. The bodyguard was staring into his cup as if trying to decide whether to drink it or toss it in the nearest available flowerpot.
‘So, you knew Jimmy Gulliver?’ Harry said. ‘He was before my time, so I didn’t have the pleasure.’
Kostova looked surprised by the question. He glanced at Nikolai before replying. ‘Jimmy? I knew him . . . but not well. He was a guest in our town, and I like to make our visitors welcome.’
All visitors? Harry wanted to ask if that would extend to visitors dropping in from the north. He doubted Kostova would want them tramping over his precious carpets.
‘It was a pity,’ continued the mayor, ‘that he had to return to England. He was an interesting young man.’
Harry said nothing.
Kostova continued, ‘He said he had orders to go back. A great shame. This town needs young people. We have too many old ones. Many who are not cultured.’
‘You’ll soon have lots more young ones popping by,’ said Harry, ‘if the rumours are correct.’ It was impolite, given that he was drinking the mayor’s Earl Grey. But this wasn’t Eton Square and he doubted if he and Kostova would ever become bosom-buddies.
Kostova’s eyes flashed. He said sombrely, ‘We are not all masters of our own destinies, Harry. I think you know that more than anyone. For both of us,’ he waved a vague hand, ‘fate is decided a long way from this place.’
Harry was surprised. The mayor’s English suddenly had taken a turn for the better. He wondered where he had received lessons. An institute outside Moscow, no doubt.
Before he could ask, Kostova drained his cup and called out. The woman in the grey dress appeared and took it from him.
Harry took the hint and also handed his cup to her.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and headed for the door.
‘Enjoy your stay, Harry Tate,’ Kostova murmured, and stayed where he was by the window. Nikolai was still studying his cup. There was no offer to drive Harry back into town.
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