From above.
He looked up, sweeping the gun from under his jacket. Clare was looking down at him. Her eyes went wide when she saw the gun pointing at her.
He signalled for her to stay where she was, then turned and tossed a coin down the stairs. It bounced and rolled, the tinkling sound echoing off the walls like the ringing of a small bell. It finally came to a stop on the ground floor.
He followed it down, the gun held by his side. If anyone was waiting for him, being above them would give him a marginal element of surprise.
And margins were what counted in situations like this.
The foyer was empty.
He checked the front door, which was closed, then made his way to the basement. His breathing sounded unusually harsh in the enclosed space.
The storage rooms were undisturbed, the under-floor panel still in place.
There was no sign of Fitzgerald.
FORTY-FIVE
Harry left the guns where they were and went back upstairs to tell the others.
Mace looked stunned and reached for a phone. ‘He’s probably gone straight home,’ he said. ‘He was worried about his girlfriend and kid.’
‘He lives with a local girl,’ Rik explained to Harry. ‘She’s got a daughter and Fitz is nuts about them. The mother’s been putting him under pressure to take her out of here. Can’t say I blame her, with everything that’s going on. I think he’s scared she might dump him if he doesn’t do something soon.’
‘Why would that be bad?’ said Harry.
Rik shrugged, his expression sombre. ‘He’s got nobody else. His wife and kids in the UK never speak to him, so this is a final posting for him.’
Harry understood. Fitzgerald wouldn’t be the first security services employee to want to retire somewhere out of the way, where his old trade wouldn’t keep coming back to haunt him. With nothing back home, it could be the only sense of belonging that he had left.
‘No answer,’ Mace announced. ‘I’ll try later.’
Harry left them to it and went back downstairs. He needed some fresh air. Being cooped up when danger threatened only increased a sense of paranoia. What he could see, he could deal with.
The streets were quiet. A few vehicles lumbered back and forth, mostly military, with smaller trucks and jeeps dotted at junctions and men in uniform standing in small groups. What civilians there were hurried along and avoided eye contact, apart from huddles of older men outside the basement shops where chacha was available.
The fabric of the town appeared to have suffered a change already. A truck had run off the road at one corner and ploughed into a grocery store, scattering a layer of broken glass, splintered wood, fruit and vegetables across the street. The shopkeeper was arguing heatedly with the driver, while an officer stood nearby, calmly ignoring them. Further on were signs of cracked paving stones where heavy trucks or APCs had parked, and other indicators of where the military presence was showing its impact on the civilian infrastructure in damaged street lamps and bent road signs. It all heightened the tension and gloom in the atmosphere, and Harry wondered how long this could continue before something broke.
He found a coffee shop and went inside. He ordered their version of liquefied mud and watched the world go by. Nobody paid him any attention. After thirty minutes, he got up and left. It was only as he stepped outside and felt the weight on his hip that he realized he was still carrying his gun. He cursed himself for being careless; he had to get off the street. If he ran into a patrol and they searched him, it would be the end of his freedom – or worse.
As he rounded the corner, he saw two men entering a basement bar across the street. They were deep in conversation and one of the men was in officer’s uniform.
The other was Carl Higgins.
Harry checked the street both ways. If Higgins really was CIA, he might have outriders in place, watching his back – such as the three men he’d seen with him in the Palace Hotel bar. He couldn’t see anyone matching their description, so he crossed the street and slowed to a dawdle as he passed the entrance to the basement.
The door was closed, but there was a gap between the numerous advertising stickers on the glass panel. He ducked his head to see inside, and saw Higgins and his companion sitting at a table. They were smiling like old friends.
The door opened and the sound of talking and laughter spilled out into the street. Harry kept walking, wondering what the CIA man was up to. Was he bolstering his cover as a journalist or working on something deeper?
He was so focussed on Higgins, he almost collided with the rear corner of a military jeep parked on the kerb. It had its bonnet raised and was covered in dust, testifying to a long journey between washes. Four men wearing local militia flashes were sitting in the back, facing each other in pairs. They were silent and watchful, and turned to eye Harry with open curiosity. One of them had his camouflage jacket opened, revealing a dark blue T-shirt stretched across a muscular chest. The garment bore the insignia of a black bat on a blue background.
Something about the men made him uneasy. They seemed different, less casual than the other soldiers he’d seen around town. More controlled. Professional.
And that insignia on the man’s T-shirt.
As he drew level with the front of the vehicle, a soldier wearing the same flashes stepped on to the kerb. He was looking at a growing pool of oil on the ground beneath the jeep. When he saw Harry, he reached up and slammed the bonnet.
Harry felt the soldier’s eyes on him all the way down the street.
Rik was alone in the office, standing by one of his monitors. Harry grabbed his arm.
‘I need you to send a message to London, high priority,’ he told him. ‘Ask them if there are any Russians serving with the local militias.’
‘What?’ Rik looked sceptical. ‘You kidding? We’d have heard, surely.’
‘Ask them anyway. It’s urgent.’ He recalled what Mace had said about the Russians, and latterly the message from Rik’s friend, Isabelle. It was possible that the soldier inside the jeep had been buying his underwear on the black market, but he doubted it. Trawling through his memory of lectures on foreign Military Intelligence unit insignia, he had recognized the black bat motif on the man’s T-shirt. It was usually worn by Glavnoye Razvedovatel’noye Upravlenie (GRU) – Central Intelligence operatives. If he was right, then everyone’s information was already out of date.
The Russians were already here.
‘Harry,’ Rik murmured to him ten minutes later. Harry was sitting at one of the monitors, checking out news channels on the internet. The situation had not changed much, but they were mostly reporting from the safety of news studios. ‘Harry, you need to see this.’ Rik was frowning at his screen and scrubbing at his hair.
Harry looked at Rik’s monitor. A long table of alphanumeric codes was scrolling down the screen. It meant nothing to him but was clearly worrying Rik.
‘What is it?’
‘I sent the message you asked me to,’ Rik replied and nodded at the screen. ‘This is a log of outgoing message tags over the past three days, all of them to Clarion in London.’
‘Clarion?’
‘Our contact server at Thames House. At least, I thought it was at Thames House. It could be anywhere. Point is, it’s an individual server set up to service this place.’ He teased at a fingernail with his teeth. ‘They probably didn’t want to sully the other stations or networks with us bad boys, so they gave us our own robot. Anyway, it’s where all our messages get processed and passed on. Housekeeping stuff, weekly data, intelligence reports, special requests like your message just now – Mace’s report about Stanbridge – everything.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve had no reason to check before. I mean, what the hell happens here normally? And I wasn’t sent here to do this kind of stuff, anyway. The opposite, in fact.’
‘If you don’t get to the point,’ Harry told him, ‘and in English, I’m going to shoot you in the leg.’
‘Right. You send a message, you get an acknowledgement. So what?’
‘That’s the problem. I send messages, but I never see an open reply. Ever. The acknowledgement code is there, but that’s the machine talking, not an operator. It’s bugging the hell out of me. Surely at least one of the messages would initiate a human response?’
‘Like you said, Mace deals with them.’ Harry shrugged. ‘He’s the head of station; it’s the way he’s got it set up. With your record, are you surprised? They’re hardly likely to want you anywhere in the system, are they?’
‘Yeah. Fair enough.’ Rik took a deep breath, as if about to confess to something awful. ‘Only, yesterday I deliberately sent a rubbish message.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘To see what would happen. It was crap . . . gobbledygook. I wanted to see if anyone would ask for a re-send. That’s what you’d expect, right? Some transmissions get screwed up, the line goes down, and if the guy on the other end is awake, he’ll ask for a repeat. I mean, I would if I was on the end. It’s really annoying me.’
‘I can see that.’ Harry wondered if paranoia was getting to Rik. He’d been out here too long.
‘You don’t get it. I could have sent a copy of Das Kapital in Hindustani and they wouldn’t have noticed. Yet this morning, Mace comes in with a reply to a message he sent yesterday.’
‘So his messages are rated a higher priority.’ Harry began to move away before he also got infected by shadows and suspicions. He didn’t need it, not on top of everything else.
Rik said, ‘I think it’s a blind drop.’
Harry stopped. ‘Say again?’
‘A blind drop. It’s a server which allows files or messages to be dropped in and picked up remotely. It’s dead simple. It’s called a host, and gives out whatever automatic response they want it to – like these acknowledgement codes – and either sends on the messages automatically or holds them until the administrator or whoever wants to pick them up.’
‘Where would this administrator be sitting?’ Harry had no idea what Rik was saying but he guessed someone – a human body, at least – had to be located in an office with access to the server and incoming messages.
‘They could be anywhere in the world. All they need to do is call up the host server, input the security code and retrieve the files.’
‘And the host server isn’t in Thames House?’
‘That’s the beauty of it – it doesn’t have to be. It could be in an office in Mumbai or West Bromwich, just as long as it’s got a web connection.’
‘But someone must be reading the messages,’ insisted Harry. He was getting a headache, of the kind brought on by too much techno-speak. ‘You said yourself, Mace gets replies.’
‘That’s right. But nobody else does. I’ve never had one direct; I know Clare hasn’t – she’s bitched about it often enough. But I thought she was just being snooty about losing her place in the pecking order. All replies come through Mace. That means that whoever is monitoring our messages only responds to specifics. My rubbish message would have been dumped and wiped.’
‘So anything we send, any data, any intelligence, any files – is seen only by one person?’ Harry felt a shiver of unease. There could be only one reason for such a set up, and that was to avoid any odd-job administrative worker seeing the messages and forwarding them to the wrong person.
‘Most likely. My bet is, he calls up from a remote terminal outside the network once a day, maybe less, and responds when he feels like it.’
‘Which means?’
Rik shrugged. ‘To anyone else outside Clarion and this office, we don’t even exist.’
FORTY-SIX
Harry needed to find Mace. Whatever was going on wasn’t going to be fixed by ignoring it. First Fitzgerald missing, now the discovery that they were isolated from all contact in London other than via Mace and his secure terminal. Rik didn’t know where Mace was, so Harry looked in his office. There was nothing entered on his wall diary, but he found a menu card from the Odeon on the notice board and tried the number. There was no answer. He went back to the main office.
Rik looked up. ‘You tried the Odeon?’
‘Yes. Nothing.’
Rik raised his eyebrows. ‘Must have felt like a change of scenery. You could try near the station. There’s a workmen’s place round the back he goes to. Next to a car-hire place. Serves strong coffee.’ He grinned cynically. ‘Chacha brand.’
Harry left him to it and made his way to the station, running checks to make sure he wasn’t followed. He passed more military trucks and groups of soldiers huddled against the buildings, sharing cigarettes and bottles of coloured liquid. Chacha mixed with fruit juice, probably. The bloody country must run on the stuff.
On the way, he glanced down the street where Rudi’s stall was located. There was a flurry of activity going on right in front of it, and someone was shouting. Several pedestrians were hurrying by on the other side without looking, although they looked the type to be among Rudi’s regulars. Something in the atmosphere of the scene made Harry step into a doorway to watch.
It was a bad sign.
A man moved away from the kiosk and climbed into a big four-by-four at the kerb. He leaned out, holding the rear door open. It gave Harry a clear profile view.
It was Higgins. He was followed by three other men, one of them being dragged struggling across the pavement.
It was Rudi.
Harry left the doorway and walked away. If they merely suspected Rudi of handling a stolen phone, the most they could do was make a few threats. But if the Ericsson was theirs, and they had already traced its journey to the dealer, it wouldn’t be long before they came calling on Rik. It depended on how much resistance Rudi offered up to safeguard his business.
Either way it was time to dump the phone.
He found a deserted building site away from curious eyes and took out the Ericsson. It was now a liability. If it belonged to Higgins or his colleagues, they would be able to put a trace on its signal and it wouldn’t take long for them to follow it all the way into his pocket. He dropped it to the ground and stamped on it, reducing the plastic to a mash. Then he kicked the pieces into a muddy puddle. While he thought of it, he took out Stanbridge’s mobile and rang Rik.
‘Higgins and some of his pals have just taken Rudi for a ride,’ he told him.
‘What?’
‘I’ve dumped the phone. If they come calling, play dumb.’ He cut the connection and keyed a text message to Maloney.
New number, short life. Use w care.
He hit SEND and turned off the phone. He wouldn’t need it for long and he doubted the Clones’ handlers had the same ability to run a local trace that the Americans had. But he needed a means of contacting Maloney. Without it, he’d be left high and dry.
He reached the station and made his way round to the back. He found a café modelled on a Parisian bistro, jutting out aggressively from a corner plot like a sharp tooth. The wedge-shaped establishment was shiny with glass panels and copper screens, and small circular tables packed together with small, upright chairs. A few were occupied, some by men in uniform, sitting uneasily away from other men in work clothes and dusty boots.
Mace was sitting alone near a window, scanning the previous day’s copy of The Times. A small glass of clear liquid and a coffee stood in the middle of the table.
He didn’t look happy at the interruption
‘You got a bloody tracking device on me?’ he snarled, and threw the newspaper to one side. ‘Can’t get a moment’s peace in this place since you arrived.’
/> ‘If I wasn’t here,’ Harry murmured, ‘I wouldn’t be bugging you. You could always send me back with a good review, or transfer me to somewhere civilized.’
‘Forget it. Doesn’t work like that.’
‘Really? So how does it work?’ Harry knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere, but he felt like winding Mace up. He was feeling irritated by the whole place, but especially Mace’s apparent acceptance of the situation.
‘This is not like a career step in Shell Oil,’ Mace replied. ‘You don’t go through here on a management trainee grant, collect your MBA and move on somewhere better. This is a proper posting and you only get a move-on card when London says you can. So I’m about as useful to you as tits on a fish.’ His eyes flickered momentarily, and he wiped his face with a tired hand. ‘Christ, listen to me. I sound like one of those self-righteous HR tits in Whitehall, hiding behind the rule book.’ He raised a hand and signalled to the barman for a refill, then looked at Harry. ‘You want one of these? Cleans your pipes like battery acid but you’ll never get a cold again.’
‘No. Coffee’s fine,’ said Harry. He pointed at the coffee machine and sat down. When the coffee arrived, he spooned in sugar and took a sip. It tasted like a sweeter brand of sump oil and had a greasy film on the surface. ‘God help me, if I ever get out of this place, it’ll be somewhere where they know what a coffee bean look like.’
‘That would be Tbilisi, just down the road.’ Mace smiled. ‘Unfortunately, that’s off-limits, so you’re stuck in this shithole. What have you got?’
‘What makes you think I’ve got anything?’
‘Because you’re a pit bull on the quiet, that’s why. You see stuff others don’t notice and you’ve got a nose for trouble. Now you’ve hunted me down to this place. You didn’t do that just for the pleasure of my company.’
‘Well, well, if it isn’t my fellow passenger!’ A familiar voice boomed across the café, cutting off what Harry was going to say about the server. He turned. Carl Higgins was ploughing his way between the tables like an ice-breaker, coat tails flapping around him. He dwarfed the room with his presence, and even the soldiers looked wary. On his way, he waved a beefy hand at the barman for refills. ‘Time to dance, huh? Whaddya say? Cha-cha-cha!’ He clapped Harry on the shoulder and eased himself alongside Mace, settling his buttocks on two chairs with a sigh. ‘Man, this place is getting to me. I need to go home. I musta done something really wrong to get this shit assignment.’
Red Station Page 18