Red Station

by Adrian Magson

  ‘What do you want, Higgins?’ Mace’s voice was cool, his expression tight. Harry got the impression he was embarrassed at being seen here. Was that because of himself . . . or Higgins?

  ‘Don’t be like that, Mace.’ The big American seemed unaffected by the chilly reception, but there was a tightness behind the smile. ‘I need to speak to your buddy, here.’ He looked at Harry. ‘I hear you’ve been getting around a lot since you arrived.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ said Harry, and resisted telling the American that he should mind his own business. Had Higgins spotted Harry lurking near Rudi’s stall?

  ‘Yeah, I figured. I should have known what you were when I saw who the driver was from the airport the other day. He fooled me good, that boy. Ferris, is that his name? Not bad for a computer geek. He’s got some front.’ He looked from Harry to Mace, daring them to deny their cover. ‘But you know, you should be careful who else you mix with, Harry. There are people around here you really don’t want to mess with, know what I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you should.’ Higgins picked up his glass as soon as the waiter set it down and drained the contents in one swallow. He winced as the liquid went down, shuddering like a huge dog. ‘Man, this stuff’s goddam lethal.’ He looked at Harry. ‘You’ve been making friends around town, I hear. Mr Mayor, Geordi Kostova for one. Nice guy but that Nikolai is a real creep. And Rudi’s a real mover, isn’t he? Thinks he’s an entrepreneur, but he’s just a street punk with some smarts. You should stay away from him – he squeals like a girl.’

  Harry saw no sense in denying he knew Rudi. Whatever pressure Higgins had been able to apply to the dealer had clearly worked. But there was no mention of a phone. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘You do that.’ Higgins gave him a long, hard look, eyes like shards of flint. Then he turned to Mace and lowered his voice. ‘You heard about the build-up long the border?’

  Mace nodded. ‘Bits and pieces.’

  ‘You kidding me? It’s more than bits and pieces. Don’t they tell you anything from London? Any of you?’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘The Russians are right on the line, my friend. Any minute now, they’ll come tripping over it and run right over this place.’ He made a surfing gesture with one huge hand and frowned at Harry. ‘But you guys know that, right? You haven’t been sitting on your thumbs since you got here – you must have heard stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’ said Harry, his interest aroused. He wasn’t sure if Higgins was trying to tell them something or merely showing off. Had he run into the same GRU men that Harry had seen?

  ‘About the teams they sent in. The ones who disappeared.’

  Mace lifted a hand. ‘Higgins, what do you—’

  ‘Let him speak.’ Harry stared at the American, wondering why Mace had been about to stop him speaking. ‘What teams?’

  Higgins did a quick one-two, then shrugged, a sly curl edging his mouth as he speculated on the situation between them. He checked nobody was close enough to overhear, then leaned over the table, bringing an aroma of aftershave with him.

  ‘A few days ago, London and Washington dropped in a couple of recon teams north of here. One Delta, the other a British recon unit. They had orders to eyeball the situation on the ground between here and the border. They had satellite images showing movements on this side, and some pictures further north, but they needed visual confirmation of unit strengths here and in the mountains, and signs of whoever else might be taking an interest.’ He dropped the sly look, his face sombre. ‘Both teams were taken out after just three days. There’s been no word since.’

  Mace muttered an oath and stood up, nearly upsetting the small table. Higgins didn’t move, his eyes on Harry.

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Harry.

  ‘How do you think?’ Higgins’ voice was soft, serious, no longer playing the gabby journalist role. ‘It wasn’t through CNN, that’s for sure.’ He clapped both hands together and stood up. ‘Whatever, I’m outta here. Got my orders to light out. You’d best do the same, you know what’s good for you.’ He glanced at Mace and continued, ‘Although from what I hear, getting out may be where your problems are just beginning.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Harry caught up with Mace as the older man walked unsteadily back towards the office. He looked badly shaken, and Harry didn’t think it was entirely to do with the drink.

  ‘What did he mean?’ He grabbed Mace’s arm, bringing him up short.

  ‘About what?’ Mace shook off Harry’s grip and dug in his jacket pocket for a slim packet of cigars. He selected one and unpeeled the wrapper with shaky fingers, then jammed it in his mouth and found a lighter. It took five attempts before he got a steady flame.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ said Harry.

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’ He seemed to realize what that could imply and pulled a wry face. ‘But you do know what Higgins is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll know he deals in misinformation.’

  ‘Really? That stuff about teams – that was misinformation?’

  Mace spat out a fragment of tobacco leaf. ‘No. That was correct. They both went off the radar at about the same time. Must’ve been a coordinated strike.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Harry fought to remain calm. Something of this magnitude should have been passed to all hands. It was too important, no, too dangerous not to have everyone made aware of. If the Russians had taken out the reconnaissance teams, then they were definitely closer than anyone thought, and probably Spetznaz, their Special Forces troops. He remembered the soldier in the jeep, wearing the GRU insignia. Same community, same abilities.

  Same enemy.

  It seemed a waste of time mentioning it now.

  The strength of Mace’s response came as a surprise. ‘What the hell makes you think,’ the head of station asked bitterly, kicking at a plastic bottle, ‘that I knew?’

  Harry couldn’t believe it. He had to have known. Unless . . .

  But Mace wasn’t finished. ‘I picked up on it through a contact in another agency. They thought it was common knowledge among the spook community.’ He looked sour. ‘So it was – everywhere but here. We’re so fucking out on a limb they don’t tell us anything.’

  They walked on in silence. Harry was trying to decide whether Mace was lying or not, and if he was, why. But his whole demeanour seemed too angry to be faked.

  ‘The server,’ said Harry, as they arrived near the office. ‘Clarion.’

  ‘What about it?’ Mace tossed his cigar aside and watched it bounce in a shower of sparks into the gutter, where it fizzed out in a stream of filthy water.

  ‘Rik says it’s a blind drop. It takes messages in but they don’t get passed on.’

  ‘Young Rik should mind his business.’ The words were intended to be harsh, but Mace sounded half-hearted, as though he didn’t have the stomach for a fight.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Harry grabbed his shoulder and spun the older man round. ‘This isn’t a bona fide station, is it? It’s a blind, like Clarion. We’re here for no other reason than someone back in London wants us to be – and it has nothing to do with gathering intelligence. In fact, anything we do find is ignored.’ He felt certainty grip his stomach and said acidly, ‘What happens to us if the Russians arrive in force, Mace? Or haven’t they given you a protocol for that?’ When Mace didn’t answer, he continued, ‘You’re still waiting to hear, aren’t you? They must know by now, but they haven’t told you. Well, I’ve got news for you: I’ve seen them already. They’re here and waiting for the kick-off.’

  Mace reached up and lifted Harry’s hand off his shoulder. His expression was melancholy. ‘I know, lad. I’m not blind – I’ve seen them, too.’

  ‘So where does that leave us? If Higgins and his bunch are leaving, we should move, too. And what did he mean about getting out being the start of our problems?’

  Mace sighed and stared up at the sky as if seek
ing inspiration. Then he said, ‘It’s complicated, lad. Let me give it some thought, eh? We’ll talk again, I promise. I’ll go tell the others.’ He turned and walked away, his gait heavy.

  Harry watched him go. Mace was like a man undergoing a journey of self-discovery and not liking what he saw. It explained the drink, but in his frame of mind, he was no help to himself or anyone else.

  He saw an internet bar down the street and went inside. He sat at one of the monitors. For a long moment he considered trying to get through to Thames House and demand some answers. Starting with Paulton, for example. But he knew the security barriers would present themselves, the mere mention of his name launching an automatic firewall.

  Frustrated by indecision, he opened up the news channels and clicked on the BBC website, following the link to a fresh news item.

  ARE SPOOKS PROTECTING THEIR OWN?

  In a dramatic revelation today, a journalist working for a local London newspaper has revealed that just hours before his press colleague and friend, freelance investigative reporter Shaun Whelan, was fatally stabbed in an alleged mugging on Clapham Common a week ago, he had claimed to have proof of an attempted cover-up of the fatal shooting in Essex two weeks ago, during which two civilians, a police officer and an alleged member of a drugs gang were killed. The unnamed journalist, who has asked for anonymity while his claims are being investigated, says he was in a local pub when Whelan, 58, revealed what he had discovered. He also claimed to know the name of the MI5 officer in charge of the attempted drugs intercept, and that the officer has been quietly spirited away by his superiors to avoid what is being described as their worst operational failure in years, certainly since the fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes at Stockwell Tube station in 2005. Whelan did not reveal to his friend the name of this officer. ‘Shaun,’ said the man, ‘always played his cards close to his chest. He was a thorough professional, and would not have made these claims without being able to substantiate them later.’

  Asked if he thought Whelan might have become a target because of his determination to uncover the truth about the shootings and name those responsible, the journalist thought that it was possible. ‘Shaun had previously expressed concerns about his safety,’ he said, ‘and he once told me he thought he was being followed by men who might be members of the security services and “friends” of the disappeared MI5 officer.’

  Both MI5 and the Metropolitan Police have declined to comment pending the outcome of their investigation.

  Harry was appalled. This was him they were talking about! How the hell had it got this far? Was he now suspected of orchestrating the death of a journalist?

  He logged off and paid the bill. He had to get back to the office.

  As he stepped out of the internet bar, he glanced to one side, his attention drawn to a line of pennants fluttering in the wind. They were adorning a car-hire forecourt next to the café where he had found Mace. Something about the place tugged at his memory, but it took a few moments before it registered.

  He took out his mobile and rang Rik.

  ‘Where’s the best place to hire a car around here?’ he said. ‘If I wanted to go on a long trip.’

  ‘What?’ Rik sounded shocked, his voice dropping. ‘Hey – you’re not thinking of bugging out, are you? If you are, I’ll go halves.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Harry. ‘I need a name, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s only one place worth trying. Are you at that café I told you about, near the train station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ve found it. It’s the place next door.’

  Harry walked back up the street to the site with the pennants. There were several vehicles on display, nearly all four-by-fours, most showing signs of a hard and brutal life. But no customers. He entered a small, bare office in one corner of the yard, and hit a bell on the counter.

  A fat, balding man in greasy overalls appeared through a rear door, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘American?’ He clearly had no problem identifying foreigners, and Harry assumed that whatever the rental price had been, it had just taken a hike upwards.

  ‘You rented a car to an Englishman named Gulliver,’ he said, and spelled out the name. ‘A few weeks ago. He was supposed to take the car to your brother in Calais. Do you know when he arrived?’

  ‘Why you ask?’ The man’s eyes flicked past Harry to the yard outside. He seemed relaxed, but wary.

  ‘Because he never got home. His mother’s worried about him.’ He shrugged and smiled easily. ‘The family asked me to look into it . . . before our government takes the matter up with your Interior Ministry.’

  The man stared at him for a long moment, then tossed the rag to one side. He licked his lips. ‘Why they do that? Is no concern to me what he does. Maybe he go for a holiday somewhere. Not my problem.’

  ‘Actually, it is your problem. You were the last person to see him. Want the police coming here and asking questions?’ He took out his wallet, counted out some US dollar notes. The man watched without expression. But his eyes stayed on the money.

  ‘All I need,’ said Harry quietly, ‘is to know when and if he arrived at your brother’s place in Calais.’ He stopped counting and slid the notes halfway across the counter, but kept his hand on them. ‘A phone call would do it. That’s all. Then I’m gone.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Is easy. I don’t need to make phone call. He never arrive. Car is missing.’ He reached out and tugged the money from under Harry’s hand. ‘Maybe your friend is a thief.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘We got a problem, old son. Well, two, actually.’ Bellingham was sprawled behind his desk when Paulton was ushered up to his third floor office. The MI6 Operations Director looked flushed, and had it not been too early in the day, Paulton would have sworn he’d been drinking.

  After responding to Bellingham’s call for an urgent meeting, it wasn’t the best of openings. Paulton felt his spirits sink. ‘What sort of problems?’

  Bellingham flicked a sheet of paper across his desk. It was a photocopy of a press item. ‘This is circulating faster than the pox,’ he snarled. ‘How the hell did Whelan get hold of your man’s name?’

  Paulton’s stomach gave a lurch. He’d already seen the report. ‘He hasn’t – didn’t,’ he answered. His voice came out an octave above its normal pitch on hearing the journalist’s name. ‘This doesn’t actually mention Tate’s name. It’s Whelan’s friend making wild claims.’

  ‘Don’t act the arse, George. I don’t care if he’s got Tate’s name sewn into his knicker elastic in gold thread. It’s the idea that Whelan might have been knocked off by the establishment that worries me – and should be scaring the buggery out of you.’ He sat back and clasped his hands over his belly. ‘See, I know what you did, George. You were covering your backside, weren’t you? You thought Whelan was getting too close so you decided to put him off. Permanently. Pity you didn’t tell me first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d have dealt with it a lot better, that’s why.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Still, as long as nobody left Tate’s name lying around, we can deny it until the Second Coming and they’ll never be able to prove otherwise.’ He eyed Paulton carefully. ‘I take it there’s no chance of anything turning up, is there? No little clues that might drop you squarely in the kaka?’

  ‘Of course there isn’t!’ Paulton’s chest began pounding at a rate he was sure wasn’t good for him. The way Bellingham was talking made him wonder if this conversation was being recorded. If so, he was cooked; he’d already said too much.

  ‘Mmm. Good. Best forgotten, then.’

  ‘What else was there?’ Paulton asked him, anxious to get on and get out of here fast. There were things he needed to do.

  ‘What? Oh, the other thing, yes. Y’know that server thing we set up for Red Station – Clarion? Bloody thing’s worked well so far, absorbing useless messages from Mace’s motley crew like a baby’s nappy.’

  ‘What about it?’
/>
  ‘I think somebody’s rumbled us.’

  ‘What?’ Paulton jumped in his chair as if he’d been stung. ‘Somebody here?’

  ‘No, not here, you idiot. I’m the only one with access, remember? Over there, in the arse-end of beyond. Some smart-Alec – probably that communications twerp you sent out there – sent a couple of silly messages, one of them a load of nonsense which any fool could see was a deliberate draw. He was testing the response. The other was real, asking about Russian troops in militia uniform, initiated by your man Tate. I missed the rubbish one and didn’t notice the second until it was too late. Other things on my plate.’

  ‘Can’t we explain away the situation – a communications malfunction or something, to keep them quiet?’

  ‘Nix. We’re too late.’

  Paulton tried to think through the implications. His head suddenly felt inexplicably hot. It was one bloody thing on top of another. Ferris. Rik Ferris. A young IT graduate who’d got bored punching keys and saw things he shouldn’t have. Nothing critical, but enough to cause a stink if he’d gone public. He wondered what had prodded him into action after all this time. There could only be one answer.

  Harry Tate.

  ‘Ferris – is that him?’ Bellingham was still chuntering on, and came to the same conclusion. ‘He’s been getting very pally with your man Tate, I hear. Therein lies the real problem.’

  Paulton stared at his opposite number and wondered just how many lines of communication he had into Red Station. The man was like a fat spider, tugging on his web. ‘How do you know all this?’