Deception

by Adrian Magson

  He drank some water and tried not to think about the head of the Protectory. The former Scots Guardsman didn’t even come close to scaring him, but he was undoubtedly living on a hair-trigger and liable to go off at any moment. And unpredictable men like him were always a worry. Fortunately, Turpowicz was calmer, a restraining influence on his colleague; but he, too, was a former soldier and would do whatever Deakin told him. God knows what they would say about this setback, though.

  Once they had cleaned their hands and faces as thoroughly as they could, they stopped long enough to remove their jackets, shirts and trousers, which they emptied and bundled into a plastic charity shop collection bag and dropped out of the window. Give it an hour or so and the contents would be recycled on the street or sitting in a shop somewhere, waiting for a grateful customer. The holdall they’d received from the Jamaican contained replacement clothing, cheap, commonplace and untraceable.

  ‘You going to call him?’ said Ganic. He was steering one-handed, twirling a triangular metal ring on his finger and flicking it with his thumb with an irritating pinging sound.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Zubac gave him a sour look. Tough as he was, his friend was disturbingly childish in the things that amused him. Here he was playing with a pull ring from one of the M84s.

  ‘Sure.’ Ganic grinned and studied the ring. ‘This is neat. I think I’ll have it silvered and put it through my kurac. The girls, they go for that weird shit. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re the weird one.’ Zubac took out a disposable mobile phone with a pre-programmed number. He wasn’t looking forward to this, but was feeling sour enough to not give a damn.

  He pressed the speed-dial key.

  Deakin listened in open disbelief to the call, then cut the connection without comment. He looked at Turpowicz and shook his head. They had moved to a hotel on the outskirts of Nürnberg awaiting the outcome of the Brixton assault, and a meeting with Paulton to discuss future plans. Zubac had just called with the bad news.

  ‘Problems?’ Turpowicz tried not to look unsurprised. Lately he’d come to expect almost anything of the men he referred to as Beavis and Butt-head, given their unsubtle methodology of eliminating the people Deakin sent them after. Following the attack on Pike in broad daylight, and the careless manner in which they had left Barrow’s body to be found, he’d had his doubts about the wisdom of making a suicidal assault on a police precinct, even with the traditionally unarmed British policemen they’d be up against. But Deakin hadn’t listened, intent only on teaching McCreath a lesson and sending a warning to anyone else who changed their mind about cooperating with the Protectory.

  ‘Bastards!’ Deakin looked ready to spit. ‘They missed McCreath! God Almighty, how hard can it be to walk over a bunch of noddies? All they had to do was get inside and finish him off.’ He paced up and down, then jumped as his mobile rang again. He listened for a second, then said, ‘Yeah, come on up.’ He disconnected and said, ‘Paulton’s here.’

  ‘Are we going to tell him about Tate?’

  Deakin shrugged. ‘Why bother? What difference does it make?’

  ‘You said Paulton knows his way around. He might give us a line on getting this guy stopped. We could do without this right now – especially as we still haven’t located Tan. Every time he interferes, he’s eating away at our deadline.’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘Yeah, well, worrying has kept me out of trouble so far. But this is moving on to a whole new level.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Deakin scowled.

  ‘This.’ Turpowicz waved a vague hand in the air. ‘Pike, Barrow, those guys in Australia, now going after McCreath in a police precinct building. We’ve changed the rules of engagement, Deak – don’t you see? We’ve come out and given the establishment the finger, saying “take this, suckers, we do what the hell we like!”’ His face twisted. ‘They’ll only stand so much of that shit before they come after us with all guns blazing.’

  Deakin squared up to him. ‘What’s the matter, Turp? Not losing your nerve, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m just saying we should back off a little. We’re—’

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Paulton.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ he said smoothly. ‘Am I interrupting something? Much louder and the whole hotel will know our business.’ He dropped his coat on a chair and headed for the mini-bar. ‘Come on, what’s the problem? Mr Wien Lu Chi putting the pressure on, is he?’ He opened a miniature of whisky and poured it into a glass. ‘I told you getting into bed with the Chinese was a risky business. They don’t play like the rest of us, believe me.’

  ‘It’s not him,’ Deakin growled. ‘I sent Zubac and Ganic after McCreath. They missed him.’

  ‘Never mind. It wasn’t necessary, anyway. What happened?’

  Deakin told him in a few brief sentences, ending with a description of Harry Tate.

  Paulton paused mid-sip. ‘Did you say Tate?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Turpowicz. ‘He’s a warrant officer with the army. One of the recovery officers they send after deserters.’

  ‘I know what recovery officers do.’ Paulton stared reflectively into his glass. ‘How long?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘How long has this Tate been in the picture?’

  ‘He first turned up in The Hague,’ said Deakin, ‘chasing Pike’s trail. Then he found Barrow not long after the Bosnians had dealt with him. The man’s like a bloody sniffer dog.’

  ‘I thought you said Pike was dead.’

  ‘He is. They were checking his back trail. Don’t worry, it’s a dead end. Like Barrow.’

  ‘That’s two of two,’ said Paulton enigmatically.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The odds. Two of two is what an old boss of mine called lousy odds – unless they were on your side. Two good contacts meant we were in business. Two bad ones and we were in trouble. This feels like trouble.’

  ‘And what exactly was your business?’ asked Turpowicz. ‘You never really said.’

  Paulton smiled. ‘No, I didn’t, did I? Let’s say I was in a similar line of work to this man, Tate.’

  ‘A man hunter? Spy catcher?’ Turpowicz was quick off the mark. ‘Don’t tell me . . . MI5? Special Branch?’

  ‘Something like that. Do you know what Tate looks like?’

  ‘Sure.’ Turpowicz turned to the laptop and switched it on. The machine booted up and he found the shot of Harry Tate. Paulton bent and studied it carefully, then walked over to the window and peered out while the other two men waited. He seemed to have gone very still, as if frozen in mid-thought, but neither of the other two seemed to notice.

  ‘So how do we stop him?’ said Deakin. ‘Can he be called off?’

  Paulton shook his head. ‘Not by me, he can’t. I don’t have the reach. People like Tate are independent. They follow their own lines of enquiry. Stopping them is not that simple.’

  There was a lengthy silence. Turpowicz was the first to speak. He said with a nervous laugh, ‘Hell, you sound almost like you know the guy.’

  ‘Me?’ Paulton turned and shook his head, glancing briefly at the laptop screen, then checked his watch. ‘Shall we have lunch? I’m famished.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As Paulton followed the other two men downstairs, he was reflecting on how quickly and dramatically the past could come back and haunt you. Even with a quick glance at the laptop, he’d had no trouble recognizing his former MI5 subordinate, Harry Tate. The realization made satisfying his appetite the last thing on his mind, but he wasn’t about to let these men know the size of the problem they were facing. Not that Tate was unstoppable – no man was. Paulton had once described him as solid and resolute, outwardly a plodder, the kind of man who crept up on the fence; the kind you never saw coming until it was too late. It had been meant as a criticism, a dismissal of a man he had seriously underestimated. How ironically prophetic that had turned out to be. His gut tightene
d unpleasantly at the memory, and what it had led to. He’d made a mistake with Tate. It had brought serious consequences, especially for Paulton’s fellow conspirator and opposite number in MI6, Sir Anthony Bellingham. He had suffered a particularly nasty fate on London’s Embankment, a spit away from the SIS headquarters, courtesy of one of his own disgraced officers, Clare Jardine.

  Paulton was damned if he would make that mistake again.

  He caught up with Deakin and Turpowicz just as they reached the restaurant, and drew them out of earshot of the maître d’.

  ‘Those men you use – the Bosnians?’

  ‘What about them?’ Deakin looked defensive, expecting more criticism.

  ‘Tell them not to leave the country.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we need them to cover your tracks. This man Tate isn’t going to stop.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Take my word for it – we must take him out of the picture.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to do,’ Deakin looked pointedly at Turpowicz, ‘but others disagreed.’

  ‘It’s too risky, that’s why,’ the American insisted. ‘Go after Tate and it’ll bring down the big battalions on our heads. There’ll be nowhere to hide.’ He stared hard at Paulton. ‘Or is there something you’re not telling us?’

  ‘No.’ Paulton kept calm, his face blank. ‘But I know the type of man Tate is and I know how this will end if we don’t stop him now.’ He knew he was too experienced to betray any misgivings he might have; he had, over the years, kept greater secrets from better and far keener intellects than these. But he was realistic enough to know that if he didn’t handle this very carefully, it could all go very badly indeed. The fact that he knew Harry Tate was going to come out; these things always did. And being the men they were, even with his long-time acquaintance of Deakin, if they suspected there were personal reasons for a man hunter to be on his trail, they’d dump him in a heartbeat. He’d be too much of a liability to keep around for their continued survival, as small and self-contained as the organization was. He had joined them, promising to bring specialized contacts and resources, because he had seen an unrivalled opportunity to profit by the kind of assets they had passing through their fingers. It was something he did not want to lose. He was looking forward to many years of productive life yet, and for that he would need a regular supply of operating capital and the means to keep himself out of trouble.

  ‘We’re all ears, George,’ Deakin prompted him impatiently. ‘How do we get to Tate and how do we stop him for good?’

  Paulton gave a knowing smile. ‘We distract him. Everyone’s got a weak point, and Tate’s no different. We hit him where it will hurt and draw him out. Then we take him out of the picture. And I think I know just the way to do it.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘I wish I’d been there.’ Rik Ferris looked disgruntled at having missed out on some fun. Harry had called at his flat to bring him up to date on events and to see how he was progressing with his trawl for information on Vanessa Tan.

  ‘Good job you weren’t,’ said Harry. ‘You’d have slowed us down.’ He smiled to show he was joking and took a pair of pistols out of a leather briefcase he’d brought with him. They were German H&K VP70 semi-automatics.

  Rik’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Jesus – what’s this?’

  ‘The difference between life and death.’ Harry handed him a magazine. ‘Nine millimetre, eighteen-round mags, courtesy of a now defunct south London gang. If Zubac and Ganic come after us, we’re going to need them.’

  ‘How did you get hold of them?’ Rik picked up one of the guns and checked the mechanism. Both weapons had the patina of past use, but were clean and ready to go.

  ‘Ballatyne pulled some strings. They’re not logged to anyone, but if we have to lose them, make sure they stay lost.’

  ‘You think they’ll come, even after what they did in Brixton?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Especially after what they did in Brixton. They don’t take failure very well, nor does Deakin. With McCreath banged up and out of reach, they’ll be concentrating even more on going after a prime target like Tan . . . that’s if they haven’t already found her. But to do that, they’ll want me out of the way.’

  Rik looked at him. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because it’s what I would do.’

  Rik put the gun down on the table with the magazine aligned alongside it. ‘Apart from watching our backs, where do we go from here?’

  ‘We keep looking for Tan. She’s the key to this. If we find her, we’ll eventually find Deakin and the others.’

  ‘And Paulton.’

  ‘And Paulton.’ It always came back to Paulton. Maybe his former boss had become an obsession, just as Ballatyne had suggested. But trying to ignore his part in the picture wasn’t going to help; he was a constant, hovering in the background like a ghost, an itch Harry couldn’t scratch. He rubbed his face and forced himself to rationalize. After the events of the morning and the dramatic flight through the police station, he was feeling numbed, as if he’d come down off a chemical high. The truth was, though, he’d been concentrating so much on the other runners, he’d given little more thought to finding Tan. And she was worrying him. For a high-profile young female army officer, Tan had disappeared completely. Too completely. With no back-story he could use to figure out where she might have gone, and no family history or recent employment details other than the sparse MOD material, it was like staring into a dense fog.

  ‘I haven’t found anything yet,’ Rik admitted, as if reading his mind. ‘I even checked all the social network sites like YouTube, Twitter, Facebook and others, but there’s been nothing. I’ve got a couple of friends working on the name, too – and one is using the photo to link in to FR systems at airports. It’s slow going, though.’

  Harry nodded. It was a long shot. Facial recognition systems were still not readily available in all international airports, and the chances of Vanessa Tan doing them a favour by appearing on one at the right moment were slim. But it was another avenue to explore. He sat down and stared at the ceiling, trying to work through the problem. There was something right there, back at the beginning, which was bugging him. ‘Why would someone on the run,’ he said aloud, ‘set up a system for managing a property left to deteriorate, and pay phone rental on a machine which is never used? What would be the point? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Keeping a bolthole, just in case?’ said Rik.

  And what about the bank details? There had to be a link somewhere, Harry reasoned. ‘Anyone arranging regular payments through a bank has to leave some kind of trail. Christ, they certainly know how to chase me quickly enough when something goes wrong.’

  Rik shook his head. ‘I checked and double-checked. Nothing doing. Somehow the system got wiped, but left instructions and funds enough to keep paying.’ He glanced at Harry and added, ‘Of course, there’s always the possibility that it was done deliberately. But why would they?’

  There was only one reason Harry could think of. It was a major one and went right to the heart of international espionage practice: that of penetrating a foreign bureaucracy or military infrastructure and working on the inside. It would mean the current Vanessa Tan was a sleeper, a spy gathering information, data and the confidence of some of the most important military officers in the world. Yet, if that had been her sole role, whoever was running her could not have guaranteed the Cambridge graduate ever making it into the army, let alone gaining access to any of the information they wanted. Getting run over by a Cambridge bus would have been just as high on the cards.

  Unless she had been just one of a handful of sleepers, her controllers playing the odds that at least one of them would succeed and find their way inside. If so, it spoke of people playing very long odds indeed. And that narrowed down the field considerably. Harry put that thought to one side. There was nothing he could do about it right now. Instead he had to concentrate on finding Tan.
If she was a sleeper, the switch must have been made after leaving Cambridge and applying for the army. If so, that cut down the timeframe. But it still didn’t tell him who was running her.

  And why would she drop out at such a crucial moment and position in her career? Had someone blown her cover? If so, Ballatyne would have been the first to know. Unless she’d simply lost her nerve and taken flight. She was thirty years old, still young, and the intense pressure of working in that kind of environment, storing away information while staying below the radar of constant security reviews, would have been enormous.

  That raised another question: how did the people running her get the information out of her head? They couldn’t exactly download it like a stored computer file. Unless she took huge risks and put everything down in writing and passed it on by secure electronic means. He mentioned it to Rik, who looked doubtful.

  ‘It’s possible, but risky. Transmissions of any data going out from anywhere in Afghanistan would stand a high chance of being picked up, and an encrypted satellite phone would only be any good as long as nobody found it. Would she be allowed to carry one in her position?’

  Harry had to agree. But if she didn’t pass the information online, it had to be by personal contact. That was also highly risky, but providing she was careful, she could have done it by booking into a hotel somewhere and having pre-arranged meetings with her controller in the next room.

  He decided to call Ballatyne. The MI6 man came on within seconds.

  ‘Were there ever any doubts about Lieutenant Tan in the weeks leading up to her disappearance?’ Harry asked him.

  Ballatyne hesitated, then said, ‘Not as far as I know.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Her disappearance doesn’t fit. The whole set-up is odd.’