Red Station

by Adrian Magson

  It had been the truth.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Harry said, and wondered how to tell him.

  ‘Know what?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Jimmy Gulliver died in a climbing accident in the Alps not long after leaving here.’ He waited while the news sank in to Mace’s fuddled brain, then continued before he lost his nerve, ‘I had a friend check it out. He never made it back to London.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Mace sounded utterly confused. ‘That can’t be right – he went home. They never told me.’

  ‘They didn’t intend to,’ said Harry brutally. ‘He was marked down from the moment he came out here. We all were – you know that. Only some of us are graded a bigger risk than others. Gulliver was fast-track, and good. He’d have been pitched right in at the deep end, fed high-grade intelligence normal trainees never see . . . the pressure-cooker approach to see if he could stand it.’

  ‘A climbing accident?’ The awful realization was slowly making an impact on Mace’s brain.

  ‘Yes. He must have chosen to take some time off. Sort himself out.’ Harry was speaking to fill the silence, embarrassed by Mace’s expression of loss. Whatever the man’s previous failings, this was a lot for him to take in. ‘Clare Jardine told me he hired a car and planned to drive back overland. It would have taken him a while. He obviously decided to stop off for some climbing.’

  ‘He couldn’t.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He couldn’t. Jimmy couldn’t climb. He wasn’t equipped for it.’

  ‘Clearly. But it doesn’t seem to have stopped him trying.’

  ‘You don’t understand what I’m saying, man.’ Mace looked angry. ‘He couldn’t have gone climbing – it was his one weakness, same as his father. They both suffered from chronic vertigo.’ He hit the table with his fist for emphasis. ‘You’d have no more got Jimmy climbing the Alps than walking up the Eiffel fucking Tower!’

  Shit.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Half an hour later, Mace was about as sober as he would ever be this side of tomorrow. It was pitch black outside and there was no traffic noise. Harry had hunted down the mains fuse-box and got the electricity fired up, turning on the kettle and making a pot of industrial strength coffee. The decor hadn’t improved with the lights on; it looked sad and neglected, out of date like a subject in a sepia photograph.

  He’d so far poured a pint of the coffee down Mace’s throat, and the powerful brew seemed finally to be working. From initial unwillingness to see that the death of his nephew had been anything other than a mistake, Mace had finally reached some kind of plateau; he was beginning to realize that it must have been deliberate, to keep Gulliver permanently silenced.

  ‘Who set up Red Station?’ said Harry, refilling Mace’s mug. He was determined to keep going until the chief’s liquid level read ‘full’. ‘It must have been someone with clout; arranging the building and the funding, the Clones – all that. You don’t set up something like this using cash from the milk money.’ He sipped his own coffee. ‘Was it Paulton?’

  ‘He’s one of them.’ The answers seemed to be coming easier, the effects of increasing sobriety and the beginnings of cold reasoning. ‘But he wasn’t the one who really got it working. He wouldn’t have had the clout to get it past all the Whitehall watchdogs.’

  ‘So who? MI6? They’d have to be in on it, with their staff involved.’

  Mace nodded, his breath whistling through his nose. His skin had taken on a greasy pallor, as though he was leaking chacha through his pores. ‘Bellingham. Try Sir Anthony Bellingham.’

  Harry had heard the name before. One of the ghosts, usually spoken of in whispers. Bellingham was high up the tree in Vauxhall Cross. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s one of their ODs – Operational Directors. Access to funds, an organizer, a strategist. He can get whatever manpower he needs, no questions asked. He’s strictly old-school ruthless, all posh vowels and a black heart. You want to watch yourself with him, lad. He’s toxic. Cut your heart out and smile doing it.’

  Harry breathed out. It was starting to gel. ‘And the Hit? Are they Bellingham’s people?’

  ‘Yes. The Clones are Paulton’s. The two groups stay compartmentalized. Never meet. Different jobs, you see. Different skill sets.’

  He made them sound like corporate departments. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The Clones are a training wing. They ship ’em in, teach ’em how to track and monitor, give them a taste of a foreign turf, then move them on. It’s what the original idea was all about . . . what the explanation is if anyone starts asking too many questions.’

  ‘But you had direct contact with them.’

  ‘Yes. As far as the Clones were concerned, it was all part of the course. I fed them information about our movements, but only to save wasted trips.’

  ‘Really? But that day I ran the field test, they followed everyone.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them, that’s why.’

  ‘Why not? All it would have taken was a phone call.’

  ‘I . . .’ He stopped and pawed at the table top. ‘I never wanted this . . . this sell-out. Not particularly proud of myself, either. That day . . . I pretended to be sceptical when you suggested the test but I wanted to see if you could get one over on them.’ He shrugged miserably. ‘It was a small victory.’

  ‘What about the Hit? You have contact with them?’

  ‘No!’ Mace’s voice held the ring of truth. ‘Never. Nor would I want to. The Hit have . . . other uses.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Black Ops. Wet work.’

  Stanbridge had been telling the truth.

  ‘Who are their targets?’ Apart from Brasher and Jimmy Gulliver, he wanted to add. But he didn’t. He’d exhausted that route already.

  ‘Whoever they’re pointed at. Gang bosses, terrorists, assassins . . . whoever looks like jumping the fence and getting away with the chickens.’ He grunted. ‘I told you Bellingham’s old-school. He’s a solutions man . . . gets things done and doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t like untidy ends – you’d do well to remember that.’

  Harry accepted the warning with a nod. There had always been rumours about teams operating on the grey fringes of the security community; shadowy groups of individuals apparently moving in the half-light of black operations, trained to kill when the call came, when all else had failed. It was canteen gossip wherever you went, mostly romantic chit-chat, a spawn of the Bond movies where licences to kill were dished out to hardened veterans when the need arose and deniability was paramount.

  ‘An alternative justice, is that what you’re saying? A bullet is cheaper and quieter than a trial – and more guaranteed?’

  ‘You got it.’ Mace sounded almost his old self. He didn’t look proud of it. But neither was he looking as if shame or guilt were going to overcome him any time soon. Too late for that. Angry, though; he looked that and more.

  ‘Risky, wasn’t it?’ Harry was referring to Red Station.

  ‘Maybe. Bellingham got involved because he got tired of having to answer Joint Intelligence Committee enquiries every time an operation went wrong or an agent turned bad. He wanted cleaner solutions.’ Mace sighed, shook his head. ‘You still think I dobbed in Jimmy?’

  ‘No.’ Harry couldn’t see it, not now. But if not Mace, then who – and how? They were supposed to be isolated, out of touch, Mace’s the only terminal linked to London.

  It was Mace who provided the answer. ‘I knew Jimmy was driving back. Thought he was insane, personally. But I didn’t tell London immediately. Should have . . . but I didn’t. He needed time to think. I hoped he’d see sense on the way back and get out for good.’

  ‘What did you tell the others?’

  ‘That he’d been recalled. I had to tell London eventually, but I waited until I was sure he was on his way. Then I gave the job to someone else, using my terminal.’ His face took on a look of self-loathing. ‘I wasn’t feeling well. No excuse, but I could
n’t face going through all the palaver. I told them to send it among a whole load of useless chaff, saying he was on his way back. Big mistake, as it turns out. The worst.’

  ‘Who did you tell?’

  ‘The way I planned it, London might have missed it for a while, giving Jimmy more time to sort himself out. But it went by itself, didn’t it? A message like that stood out like tits on a duck.’

  ‘Who?’ Harry repeated.

  ‘The only other person who got close enough to find out what he was doing. Bloody Sixer.’ His face twisted with bitterness.

  Suddenly Harry knew.

  Clare Jardine.

  ‘You’re too late, you know,’ Mace continued, reading his expression. ‘She’s probably long gone. She’s a bright girl, I told you. She’ll have seen the writing on the wall days ago. She knew that even if she helped London by keeping an eye on the rest of you, they’d never trust her – not fully. She’ll be halfway to Timbuktu by now.’ His eyes went cold. ‘You’ll never find her. Why do you think she got close to thugs like Kostova and Nikolai? She needed help so she could disappear. Like I said, bright. A survivor.’

  So Kostova had been telling the truth. But how had Mace found out? Maybe that was his passport to staying here when everyone else was baling out: feeding Kostova bits of information.

  Christ on a bicycle, Harry thought tiredly, they’re all as bad as each other.

  But he wasn’t interested in Jardine or Mace; not now.

  He was after a bigger fish.

  ‘Where do I find Bellingham?’ he said quietly. ‘How can I get to him?’

  Mace didn’t answer straight away. He picked up the bottle and went to fill his glass. His hand shook as he upended it. The bottle was empty. He tossed it across the room, where it shattered on the floor.

  Then he told Harry what to do.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Clare Jardine’s block was in darkness. Harry checked his watch. It was just after midnight.

  He called Rik at the office. ‘Follow the destruct sequence,’ he told him.

  ‘What about Mace? He’s supposed to authorize that.’

  ‘Mace isn’t in a fit state to authorize his own name. Do it.’

  ‘OK. Everything?’

  ‘Records, files, hard drives, the lot. Don’t worry about the BC stuff – just everything else. Can you do it?’

  ‘Bloody right I can. It’ll be fun. What I don’t wipe forever, I’ll burn or hit with a hammer.’

  Harry cut the call and climbed the stairs. The air smelled clean, of flowers. Different to his place. The stair treads were lined with rubber, and were clean. Somebody must sweep it regularly, although he couldn’t quite picture Clare Jardine behind a broom.

  Standing over someone with a whip was more her style.

  He knocked gently on her door and stepped back so she could see him through the peephole.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, flinging open the door. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and looked rumpled. She clearly hadn’t slept.

  ‘Nice to see you, too,’ he muttered. ‘Care to invite me in or shall we have a slanging match out here?’

  She stood aside. He stepped past her into a comfortable, if minimally furnished flat. It was not unlike his own in size, although there were a few feminine touches. Not many, but enough to be noticed. He concluded that she either didn’t have the nesting gene or had placed it on hold.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ he said. ‘You coming?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Rik and me. Mace is staying and Fitzgerald’s gone native. They’ll have to take their chances.’

  She shook her head, eyes blank. ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘Why? You think Kostova will look after you? Or Bellingham?’

  Her face tightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been cosying up to Kostova and Nikolai. And you’ve been feeding information back to Bellingham in London.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. Who the hell do you think you are—’

  ‘Save the wounded outrage,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the time. You’ve been working on Kostova to get you some papers. Bellingham’s made you some promises in return for your help, but you don’t believe him. Frankly, I don’t blame you. But you thought you’d set up an alternative escape plan by getting a new passport from Geordi Kostova. He hasn’t delivered, has he?’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve met people like him before. He found out what you are and he’ll promise anything to get what he wants. But his demands will never stop. You know that as well as I do. What did he ask you for in return – the keys to Vauxhall Cross?’ He shook his head, hating this line of attack. But he had to shock her into seeing reason. ‘What he doesn’t know is that you’re not an active agent in the real sense. Which puts you out of the loop. You haven’t told him that, have you? What did you tell him – that you could get him something to take to Moscow and get himself some promotion?’

  ‘I’ve been working him, you fool!’ she snapped, her voice was low and trembling with anger. ‘Finding out exactly why he’s here. Him and his creepy friend, Nikolai. It’s what I was trained for . . . what we were all trained for – even you. The rest of you may have resigned yourselves to your fate, but I haven’t!’ She turned away from him. ‘I’m not going to stay in this shithole for ever. I’ll do whatever it takes to get back.’

  ‘Whatever it takes? Including tapping up the only Russian intelligence officer for a hundred miles? You thought you’d do that for the good of Queen and country?’ He stopped; he didn’t want to alienate her entirely. ‘Did Bellingham put you up to it?’

  By the way she looked at him, he knew he’d hit the button.

  ‘What did he promise you?’ he asked gently. ‘Home and absolution? A welcome back into the fold?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said hotly. ‘Anything’s better than staying here.’ She clutched her arms around her. ‘He said I could have my old desk back if I got close to Kostova.’ She looked at him. ‘I don’t mean that close – I know what you’re thinking.’

  It sounded convincing, reasonable, all that passion. But Harry wasn’t taken in. Clare had been trained in the art of deception, of feeding people what they expected to hear. She could be doing it to him right now.

  He changed tack. ‘So why is he here?’ He was aware that time was running out. They had to be moving before everything hit the fan. But information was power, and the more he knew now, the better he was prepared for what lay ahead.

  ‘He’s a plant. He’s Georgian originally, but he’s lived in Russia most of his life. They sent him back here with a cover story to get himself in with the locals.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Harry wasn’t up on current Russian thinking, but he knew they hadn’t changed their methodology much. And the Russians of old had always taken the long view. If Kostova had been sent here, it had to be with some strategy in mind, and not a short-term view.

  ‘Because Vladimir Putin wants everything back the way it was. He wants all the satellites back, all the breakaway states, all the power that will bring. A politician here, a mayor there . . . it’s takeover by stealth. Why do you think they’re so eagerly massing to the north – just for the sake of the separatists?’

  ‘And Nikolai? What’s his place in all this?’

  ‘He’s FSB. Originally KGB. Sent to make sure Kostova stays loyal and to protect their investment. If the locals found out what Kostova was really doing here they’d string him up on his own front gate. Nikolai plays on that fear to get him to do what Moscow wants.’

  He could see that working. But it still didn’t explain the relationship between Clare and Kostova. ‘Did he get you the papers you wanted?’ He was interested to see whether their answers would be the same.

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, ‘No. He didn’t.’

  So she was stuck. Unless she came out with them.

  ‘It’s us or nothing,’ he told her. ‘It’s all the same to me. B
ut you really don’t want to stay here. They’ll roll right over you. Rik’s destroying all the records right now.’

  She shook her head, suddenly looking very vulnerable. But she hadn’t lost any of her steel. ‘Good for Rik. Why should you care about me?’

  ‘Because I need to get to Paulton. And through him to Bellingham. You can help me do that.’

  She frowned. ‘Why do you want to get to them?’

  ‘To set things right.’

  Her face twisted. ‘Christ, Tate, what are you – a boy scout? Set things right? That’s positively archaic. Are you on some kind of revenge trip?’

  ‘Maybe. But you owe it to Jimmy Gulliver.’

  Her frown deepened. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? What’s Jimmy got to do with it? He’s lucky – he’s out of this, safely back home.’

  He didn’t think twice; she had to know. ‘Actually, you’re wrong. Jimmy Gulliver’s dead.’

  The words were like a slap to the face. Clare staggered, her eyes registering a rush of emotions. Harry saw doubt followed by denial, then anger.

  ‘Rubbish. He’s back in London.’

  ‘Is that what they told you? Your open message back to Bellingham put Gulliver under the spotlight. He died not long after leaving here. A climbing accident. That’s the official explanation, anyway. Odd that, because Jimmy suffered from chronic vertigo. He wouldn’t go near a set of stepladders, much less a mountain.’

  ‘Wha— how can you know that? Who told you?’

  ‘Mace. Jimmy Gulliver was his nephew. He’d known him as a kid, but they’d lost touch.’

  She said nothing, her expression dissolving inwards.

  Harry moved towards the door. It was now or never. But he couldn’t force her to do anything. ‘Are you coming? We don’t have long. Kostova and Nikolai, the Russian army . . . or Latham. He’s already here, by the way. Or we make a try for the airport, morning flight. Take your pick.’

  She turned away, her face pale. ‘Can you give me five minutes?’ She sounded desolate.