Spake raised an eyebrow at the casual terminology, and she blushed, wishing she could retract it, but it was too late. ‘Sorry.’
‘It might have been a bomb-burst,’ he said carefully. ‘Although that’s unlikely. Anything too powerful would show up on the monitors. It might have been a small piece of ordnance – an anti-personnel mine.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Rudmann asked. She knew nothing of battlefield tactics, but if anyone had a workable theory free of over-exaggeration, this man would.
‘If they stumbled into a minefield, it’s likely one or more would have survived, even if wounded – certainly long enough to keep the tracking devices going and call it in. That didn’t happen. A larger explosion would have been captured on the watching satellites. Nobody has reported one. If they all went down in quick succession, with no time to call it in, there is only one explanation.’
Rudmann made a guess. ‘They were taken out by ground forces.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about our own team?’
‘There’s no news.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It depends how you read it.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘They carried the same markers, but standing orders were to call in regularly. We use a different system to the Americans. Harder to track.’ He opened the door and looked back at her with the steely look which Rudmann recognized as the traditional soldier’s face for politicians when importing bad news. ‘They failed to make the last two scheduled calls.’
Five hours later, an emergency meeting was convened in the Cabinet Office at No. 10. Present were the Deputy PM, the Secretary of State for Defence, Lieutenant-Colonel Spake and Lieutenant Commander David Brill, rushed in by car from Northwood.
‘All of them?’ The Deputy PM looked stunned by the news Brill had delivered, and the confirmation email from the National Security Agency’s liaison officer in London which was in his hand. He looked to Spake for a response which might counter the information, and wondered how to tell the PM.
‘Yes, sir.’ Spake’s confirmation was enough for the Deputy PM. The Special Forces man wasn’t much liked in the corridors of Whitehall; his aura of quiet danger sat uncomfortably alongside the well-fed civil servants and politicians. But his credentials were beyond criticism. ‘Both teams.’
‘How?’ the Deputy PM asked weakly. ‘They were our top men, weren’t they?’
‘My guess is, they were tracked from the moment they went in.’ Spake’s voice was neutral. ‘It was a risky operation anyway, but if they were all spotted so quickly, it could have only been because the Russians already had a detection shield in place. They would have been tracked from the moment they went in. Once they were down, they had nowhere to go.’
The Deputy blinked and glanced quickly at the Secretary of State. He wondered whose signature was the most likely to show up on the paperwork responsible for sending in the Special Reconnaissance team. He was relieved it wasn’t his. That, thank God, had been something he had not been entrusted with.
‘The Prime Minister will be devastated,’ he murmured finally. ‘Devastated.’
‘I’m sure he will. Is that all, sir?’ There was just sufficient bite in his voice to make his feelings clear, before he spun on his heel and made for the door.
The Secretary of State stopped him.
‘Is there anything we can do? For the team, I mean?’
‘What would you suggest?’ Spake kept his back turned, his voice as bleak as Siberian snow. ‘Send in another team to look for them?’
He strode from the room, leaving the two politicians and an embarrassed Lieutenant Commander Brill staring at each other in bewilderment.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Rudmann’s becoming a nuisance. She’s asking too many questions.’
George Paulton eased his collar around his neck as he spoke. Either he was putting on weight or his shirts were shrinking. He crossed his ankles under the desk and tried to remain calm. Sang froid in the face of adversity was the way to play it, otherwise the hyenas would move in for the kill.
Hyenas like Marcella Rudmann.
‘Ignore her.’ The man standing near the window looked urbane and confident, at ease in a dazzling white shirt and light grey suit. Sir Anthony Bellingham – he rarely used the title – bore another, far more interesting designation: that of Deputy Director (Operations) of MI6 – Paulton’s opposite number in the Secret Intelligence Service. He eyed Paulton with the intensity of an eagle looking at a morsel of food. ‘You worry too much.’
‘So you keep saying. But I don’t have the same . . . resources that you enjoy.’ It was Paulton’s way of saying power and influence, without actually using those words. For two men on seemingly equal levels, the fact that Bellingham had more of both was a growing source of irritation, a reminder also reflected in the budgetary allocations poured into SIS.
‘Be glad of it, George, be glad of it. It’s working so far, isn’t it, our little experiment? Keeps the dodgy ones out of the way until we know what to do with them. And all in the name of Her Majesty’s security services.’ He grinned comfortably. ‘Reminds me, have you heard anything about your man Tate?’
‘Nothing untoward. Why, have you?’
‘Only that he arrived safely, and has been doing the rounds, getting the grand tour. No indication that he’s planning to do a bunk, at least. Be a bad move if he tried it.’ He scowled. ‘You said he’d do as he was told, didn’t you?’
‘I said he would, as long as he believed it was a genuine posting. If he starts to think otherwise . . .’ He left the rest unsaid, unwilling to provide guarantees he knew he couldn’t keep. Men like Harry Tate were wild cards in the intelligence community, quiet and diligent most of the time, but apt to go off like a firecracker if something got under their skin.
‘He’d better be a good boy.’ The temperature in Bellingham’s voice dropped several degrees. ‘There’s only one ending, otherwise.’
Paulton clamped his teeth together. He was beginning to wish he’d never agreed to this whole Red Station experiment. What had initially seemed a useful shared Five/Six exercise in budget allocation and a way of keeping potentially awkward intelligence officers under wraps until they were no longer a threat to themselves or anyone else, all under the guise of a live training facility, was beginning to look less and less attractive.
The truth was, he’d been bullied and flattered into it by Bellingham’s smooth talk. But now there was no way out. Even worse was the knowledge that he had agreed to Bellingham’s ‘enhancement’ of the Station scenario by the addition of a second team of watchers. Originally using one team to monitor the movements of the Station’s members, he now knew there was another, far more proactive unit in place, with the unsubtle title of the Hit. They had been used twice so far. He prayed it didn’t happen again.
‘You got something on your mind, George?’
Bellingham was like bloody Merlin, reading his mind. Paulton wondered how much the man knew.
‘I think Rudmann suspects something.’ He paused, not sure how to broach the news about Whelan. ‘Whelan was sniffing around after Tate,’ he added. ‘Rudmann seemed to think he ought to be dissuaded.’ He shot his cuffs, wondering if it was too early for a stiff drink.
‘Did she now?’ Bellingham burst in before he could finish. ‘Getting above herself, isn’t she?’ He scowled, then. ‘Christ, don’t tell me she had anything to do with his death. I’d agree to almost anything nasty happening to that little shite, but we can’t go round knocking off the fourth estate, can we? Well, not yet.’ He smirked and stood away from the window. ‘Come on, George, buck up. Are you going to offer me a drink or what?’
‘Of course.’ Paulton felt faint. The solution had presented itself. Why not let Bellingham believe Rudmann was responsible? He’d never prove otherwise, so why not. He stood up and went to the drinks cabinet.
THIRTY-FOUR
Harry decided it was time to test the Clones. They
had been notable by their absence the previous day when he was out with Rik, and he hadn’t seen them when Clare Jardine took him out of town. They might have been assigned to other duties, or replaced by a different team. Yet Rik had said they were always around.
If so, it represented a break in continuity. And that made him uneasy.
‘Why do you want to do that?’ queried Mace, when he suggested a brief tag-and-tail exercise. It wouldn’t take long, but to do it properly, he would need Jardine, Rik and Fitzgerald to act as decoys.
‘It’s a simple field test,’ said Harry. ‘It’ll keep us on our toes, and we’ll see if the Clones are out and about.’
Mace nodded reluctantly, brow crinkling. ‘Not a bad idea, I suppose,’ he conceded. ‘But no confrontations. We don’t need any grief from the local security police.’
Harry gave the other three a quick briefing, then let them go. Nobody argued – not even Jardine. He gave them a head start, and once Mace had gone back to his office, made sure both his mobiles were fully functional. He had no intention of using the Ericsson – that was for communicating with Maloney. But if one packed up, he wanted to be sure he had a stand-by.
Fitzgerald was the first to call in. Harry had given each of them instructions to walk to various points in the town, then to phone him with any news of tails. Fitzgerald’s objective was the central post office. He was carrying a large brown envelope in plain sight. It would be enough to attract attention, and easy enough to follow.
‘Got a tail,’ he reported succinctly. ‘White male, late-twenties, casual clothes. He knows what he’s doing, although he made a couple of minor errors.’
The next caller was Clare, from outside the station. She said, ‘I picked up one man a hundred yards from the office. Looks military; young and fit. Reasonably good but no expert. Should I lose him?’
‘No. And don’t stab him, either.’ Harry rang off. It was getting interesting.
Rik was last, calling from the town’s museum. He also had a follower, with a similar description to the men he had seen before. He said he had performed a simple in-and-out manoeuvre of a shop, and caught the man flat-footed in the middle of the pavement.
Harry took the calls on the hoof while making his way in a lengthy fashion to a local spa bath he’d picked out on the map. His route crossed several streets, allowing him to spot anyone who might be on his tail. He picked up a tail after three blocks; another male, white and slim, with short hair and dressed in jeans and a ski jacket.
He had instructed the others to return to the office after calling him, and not to show they had seen their followers. He continued walking, taking in the spa, the library, a café where he enjoyed coffee and cake, and several statues of fallen heroes. By the time he had seen enough sights for one day, he had been out for two hours. He had not only retained his original tail, but had picked up two more.
He hailed an unmarked cab and jumped in. He knew it was a cab by the way the driver, a whiskery old man with a beret, was drifting along hugging the kerb. He spoke no English, but Harry had the address of the office written on a piece of paper. The old man nodded and turned on his radio, drowning the back of his battered Renault in the local brand of folk music.
‘So what did it prove?’ Mace asked, when they assembled back at the office. The other three had already told him what they had accomplished, and were waiting for Harry to complete the picture. ‘And what the hell took you so long? You go to the border and back?’
‘There are four of them,’ said Harry, ‘as Rik thought.’ He caught a grin from the younger man out of the corner of his eye. ‘We each got tagged, and when Clare, Fitz and Rik came in, their tails latched on to me.’
‘Really?’ Mace frowned. ‘How?’
‘By using mobiles,’ said Clare. ‘The moment they didn’t need to follow us, they switched to Harry, to see where he was going.’ Her expression was cool, but there was grudging approval in her voice at what Harry had accomplished.
‘I still don’t see what you’ve learned about them,’ said Mace heavily. ‘You don’t know who they are or what they want. It’s just another surveillance operation by local security cops. We should all be used to that.’
When they all dispersed, Harry sat at one of the desks, wondering what the hell was going on. So a group of unnamed men was following their every move. Not unusual in itself, given the territory and the in-built suspicion of foreigners. But there were inconsistencies in the Clones’ individual skills. They operated well as a team, but at different levels. It still meant they were a team . . . but this wasn’t their usual job.
Another thought occurred to him. He’d seen no sign of the Clones during his two trips out of town with Clare Jardine, nor when he’d gone to meet Mace. Neither had he seen a trace of them when he and Rik had gone shopping for the mobile phone. If they were as unskilled as he had witnessed today, he’d have seen at least one of them.
So why the uneven pattern?
There was only one answer: the Clones usually knew where their targets were going. Today, because he’d sprung the test on them, they’d scrambled all hands.
It meant someone was keeping the Clones informed of their movements. But who? Everyone was out and walking within minutes of his briefing.
Everyone except Mace.
‘Why are you here, Harry?’
Clare Jardine stopped him as he was about to leave. Her expression was not unfriendly, but he detected a tone of puzzlement. He thought she looked tired.
‘Because London sent me. I was a bad boy, remember?’
‘I mean why did you agree to take this posting? You can’t have wanted it – you must have known they only wanted rid of you until the fuss dies down.’
‘Your point being?’ He didn’t feel inclined to discuss his decision to take the posting with Clare or anyone else. They were hardly friends, and there were people he knew better with whom he wouldn’t ever talk about it.
‘My point,’ she said, with a flush of colour, ‘is that I was finished when I came here – might still be for all I know. If they ever let me back inside Vauxhall Cross, it’ll probably be in some lowly post where I’ll die of boredom. I’m not sure I could take that.’
Harry wasn’t sure what she was getting at. ‘Rik Ferris is in the same boat. Same with me, same with Mace. So what?’
‘Rik Ferris didn’t know any better, did he? He was just grateful they didn’t charge him under the anti-terrorism laws and throw him into prison for twenty years. They’ll let him back sooner or later because they need his skills.’ She paused, then said vaguely, ‘I don’t know about Mace.’
‘Really?’
‘Nobody does. He always played it dumb whenever we asked, so we stopped asking. Maybe there isn’t anything; maybe he took the job because it was offered.’ She shrugged. ‘But you . . . you’re different. You don’t fit.’
Harry didn’t say anything, content to let this go wherever she was taking it.
‘You’re not what we expected,’ she continued. You see things. You question stuff. You faced up to those soldiers who stopped us the other day without turning a hair – I was watching you. If anything had kicked off, we’d have been dead. They’d have buried us in the hills and nobody would have known anything about it. But you had them laughing.’
‘Kostova was there. He wouldn’t have allowed anything to happen.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think?’
‘What did you think he was doing – holding a political rally?’
‘I don’t know. As mayor, he has a wide remit.’
‘So wide even local troops give way to him? Must be the only mayor in the world with that kind of power.’
She chewed her lip, digesting the fact. ‘Perhaps. But what about today – you and that thing with the Clones?’
‘It was a basic field test,’ he said calmly. ‘We conducted them all the time in London, tracking diplomats.’
‘But we’re not in London, are we?’ Her eyes glittered. ‘This is fore
ign soil, where I usually work. You took over like it was a second skin.’
‘Are you just pissed because you should have organized it?’
‘No. I’m saying it was well done.’
‘For an MI5 officer.’
‘For anybody. It makes me wonder all the more what made you agree to come here.’
Harry turned and walked out of the office. The truth was, he didn’t know the real answer, either. At the time, it had seemed the only thing to do. There had been nothing special to keep him in the UK, no pressing reason to stay in London. He had no family, a few friends he was accustomed to seeing only occasionally because of his undercover work, and his divorce had been without hang-ups, a surgical separation with no backward looks – also a victim of his work. The few dates with Jean were irregular and casual, and now seemed beyond reach. He was surprised to realize that he didn’t want them to be.
It made him wonder just how far they would go to stop him going back.
THIRTY-FIVE
Harry came to with a start, his throat dry. The room smelled of woodsmoke.
He was sprawled in the flat’s one good armchair, shoes off, legs splayed out before him and head thrown back. Elegant. He peered at his watch. Gone midnight. The wood-burner showed a faint glimmer of burnt embers. It took him a moment to work out what had woken him.
He’d been dreaming again; flashing images of the boat through the mist, Parrish running forward, the flare and crackle of gunfire. The two kids lying dead by the Land Rover. But that wasn’t it. Something else that had dragged him out of his sleep.
The mobile he’d bought from Rudi.
After leaving the office, he’d got back to the flat and opened a bottle of wine, stuck some logs with kindling in the wood-burner and ran his hands beneath the hot tap until he hissed with the pain. It was something he’d taken to doing without any conscious decision, and he knew why. Absolution. Pity it didn’t work.
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