Deception

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘There’s no trace of her before or after she signed up. That’s not normal. Everyone leaves something, no matter how small.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she’s a sleeper?’ Ballatyne had caught on fast.

  ‘It’s possible. But if she is, why leave such a prime position if she didn’t have to? It’s a waste of an asset.’

  There was another pause before Ballatyne said, ‘All I can say is, she had a spotless record, with exemplary conduct. But then,’ he continued, ‘if she was a sleeper, her controllers would have made sure of her legend, wouldn’t they?’

  The legend – the cover story for operatives working undercover. It had to be good enough to stand up to rigorous examination, with enough strands of truth to sound convincing, yet not so many that a reasonable check would reveal unexplained holes. If Tan was a spy, her legend must have been exceptional, given the position she had achieved. Either she was genuinely clean and original or she was the cleverest insert anyone had ever put in place.

  ‘Whether original or a plant,’ Ballatyne pointed out, ‘we still have a problem: a person of importance has gone missing. What we don’t know is how much she has taken with her or how much she may have already passed on.’

  He was right. If a foreign power had managed to strike gold by placing an asset in Tan’s position, they wouldn’t sit back for long without taking delivery of every nugget they could get their hands on. And neither would the Protectory.

  ‘There’s another point bugging me.’

  ‘Only one?’

  ‘How does the Protectory get a line on the deserters, and how do they identify who’s a talent and who isn’t?’

  ‘That’s been worrying us, too. So far I don’t like the answers we’re getting. I’ll keep you informed. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. The American McCreath referred to as “Turp”. I’m guessing he’s a deserter like Deakin. There can’t be too many One-oh-One Airborne men out there on the run. Do you know who we can ask?’

  ‘You need to speak to the Army Deserter Information Point at Fort Knox. A Major Kenwin Dundas. He’s been cleared to help you.’ He gave Harry the relevant telephone and fax numbers to call. Harry was impressed. It showed Ballatyne had been listening carefully to McCreath and had already prepared the way for him to make contact.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ Ballatyne continued. ‘If Tan is a sleeper, I think we can be fairly sure it isn’t the Guoanbu running her.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We’ve had an interesting circular bulletin from German Counterintelligence. A “person of interest” named Wien Lu Chi has been staying at a luxury hotel in Bremen for a few days. The reason he was noticed was that a member of the German parliament was staying there with a young woman who is not his wife, and they were keeping a close watch to keep the press away. Wien Lu Chi happened to pop up on the radar. He’s a known middleman for the Chinese and a few select Middle Eastern clients, usually dealing in arms and weapons technology. Nobody knows why he was in the country, but it’s a safe bet he was up to no good. If the Chinese are running Tan, they wouldn’t need him to be involved – they’d deal direct.’

  ‘I take it there’s been no sighting of her in the area?’

  ‘No. They’ve interviewed the staff and bugged his room, but nothing has shown up yet.’ He paused, and Harry picked up on it.

  ‘There’s a but in there.’

  ‘There is. Wien Lu Chi received two visitors in the hotel before the Germans could get a bug in place. One American, one British. They left no names but the watchers got a look at the hotel’s CCTV system.’ Ballatyne’s voice contained a smile. ‘One of the men was Thomas Deakin.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  It was nearly eight in the evening before Harry was able to pin down Major Dundas at Fort Knox. When he finally came on, the officer sounded efficient and brisk, yet there was an undertone of reserve, as though he was not altogether pleased at having to assist a British subject about an American deserter. Harry put it down to pride and launched into his request.

  ‘Sorry to bother you with this, Major,’ he said smoothly, after an exchange of names and positions, ‘but we have reason to believe that one of yours is helping channel British deserters to new identities and lives in exchange for information.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘The sensitive kind: technology, security, intelligence, armaments . . . anything they can sell.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘A group called the Protectory.’ Harry gave him a summary of what they knew without adding any names. ‘They approach deserters from strategic regiments or specialist units and offer a deal: a new life in exchange for whatever information they will trade.’

  ‘Sounds quite a scheme, Mr Tate. And where do they sell this “strategic” information?’

  ‘To the highest bidder. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who they are.’ Harry wondered if he was getting through to this man. Dundas sounded less than enthused. His next words confirmed why.

  ‘I guess you don’t at that. Thing is, these are British military personnel, right?’

  ‘That’s right, but—’

  ‘Selling British military data?’ The level of interest had dropped instantly and the implied focus for Dundas was clear: a British problem remained just that. British, not American.

  ‘We don’t know that for sure,’ said Harry, who understood his reasoning, ‘or how long it may last. One of their targets said he was introduced to an American working with the group. He was wearing a One-oh-One Airborne tattoo, eagle’s head and banner, and was referred to as “Turp”. We suspect this man is high up in the pecking order.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Dundas replied eventually, ‘I can tell you now, there are more men out there wearing the flying eagle tattoos than ever served in airborne. Same with Vietnam vets who wear the right tags and tell all the right stories. Some of them never even enlisted, but they like to claim some kind of credit on the backs of the men who did. What makes you think this Turp character is for real, anyway?’ His voice had drifted off now from professionally interested to openly sceptical.

  ‘It takes a soldier to recognize another one, Major. The target thought he was real enough.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’ll target American personnel.’ The response was automatic, and Harry wondered what it said about Major Dundas’s open-mindedness to the men and women he was responsible for processing – or his perspective on America’s military partners.

  ‘If he does, they’ll have a field day. You want to bet against them coming across another Bradley Manning?’

  The line clicked and buzzed as Dundas digested the implications of that. It was a brutal argument to use, but the revelations that a member of the US army had systematically released classified information which eventually found its way on to the Internet had been a hard pill for the military establishment to swallow, and the reverberations were likely to go on for years. Even someone like Dundas must know that it could happen again.

  Before the major could put him off, Harry continued, ‘All I’m asking, Major, is if you would be good enough to get one of your staff to see if the name Turp comes up in your records. Then we can close off that avenue of investigation. It sounds like an abbreviation of a real name to me, wouldn’t you think?’

  There was a lengthy pause. Harry was counting on Dundas, sceptical or not, finding it hard to refuse such a simple request.

  ‘I guess that’s true, Mr Tate. Let me put you on to our Lieutenant Garcia and she’ll run a quick check. I sure hope you find what you’re looking for. You have a nice day, now.’ There was a click and Dundas was gone as suddenly as he had come on. His voice was replaced by a young woman’s, asking how she could help.

  ‘Lieutenant, my name’s Harry Tate, attached to the Recovery Office in the Ministry of Defence, London. I think we work in the same line of business.’

  ‘Sounds like we do, Mr Tate. What’s the problem?’
Garcia sounded businesslike, but her tone was a good deal warmer than that of her boss.

  Harry gave her the details. While he was talking, he heard a burst of conversation in the background at the end of the line, then the sound of a door closing. A man’s voice said something close by and there was an intake of breath as if Garcia were mouthing something in reply. Another rumble of background conversation was followed by a door closing, this time with a firm snap. Garcia said, ‘Uh . . . thank you, Mr Tate. I’ll have to get back to you on that.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Harry’s antennae were twitching. Something told him that Garcia had just received a visitor, most probably her boss, Major Dundas. She sounded distracted. What the hell was going on?

  ‘Uh, no . . . not really. I’ve been advised that our system’s down for a routine maintenance check, so I’m not able to access those files right now. We should be up and running again later . . . say in an hour?’

  Harry gave her his email and phone number, then thanked her and rang off, puzzled by what had sounded like a blatant delaying tactic. If what he’d heard about the amount of money being thrown into the Department of Defense for IT systems was true, they should have an answer very quickly. But instinct told him that wasn’t going to happen.

  An hour and a half later, Lieutenant Garcia still hadn’t called back. Harry gave it another twenty minutes, then called Fort Knox and asked to be put through to the lieutenant’s extension.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the receptionist after a few moments. ‘I’m afraid Lieutenant Garcia’s in conference.’

  ‘Can you interrupt it? It’s very urgent.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. There’s a strict protocol on this session: no calls allowed.’

  ‘I see. The system’s still down, then?’

  ‘Sir?’ The receptionist sounded puzzled. ‘There’s no problem with the system. I’ve been on it all day and it’s fine.’

  Harry thanked her politely and cut the call.

  Someone wasn’t telling the truth.

  FORTY

  A few miles away, Ganic and Zubac had pulled off the M25 motorway at the first available exit and were heading north at a fast clip. A phone call from Deakin had given them fresh orders, and they were to report to an address in east London.

  ‘C’emal?’ Zubac was on the phone, arranging a meeting in a part of the city called Hackney. Neither man had been there before, but they had been assured of a safe reception.

  ‘Yes, brother. It is good to hear from you again.’ Their contact’s voice was softly familiar, the same voice which had arranged the guns and stun grenades for the attack on Brixton police station. ‘While you are on vacation in the city,’ he continued quickly before Zubac could say anything else, ‘you should call and see your uncle Bakir.’ He gave no address, but Zubac knew it meant they should go to a store in Dalston Lane. ‘Come and visit. We will eat and help you shake the dust from your journey. Eight o’clock. Drive carefully.’

  The call was ended. Zubac put the phone away and gave his friend directions.

  It was dark by the time they reached Hackney and parked in a side street just off Dalston Lane. They were a few blocks away from the address they had been given, but the car would be safe enough here. Just in case, they used wet-wipes to go over everything they had touched and made sure they left nothing of themselves behind.

  They walked the rest of the way, noting familiar smells and sounds, of music and conversation, eyeing the eateries with interest but resisting the temptation to go inside. Being seen in the open around here would be a mistake; if the police had released photographs of them attacking the station, it would not take long for someone to see them and call it in.

  Eventually, they found a store trading in all manner of goods from groceries to clothing and kitchenware. The lights were still on although no customers were in evidence. Zubac tried the handle. The door was locked. He tapped on the glass. Seconds later, they were admitted and ushered to the rear of the store, where the air was heavy with the smell of fruit and spices, and the mustier aroma of soft goods and clothing. Three men were standing by the counter at the back, watching the two new arrivals. The man who had let them in remained by the door, watching the street.

  Two of the men were in their twenties and dressed in jeans, trainers and jackets, the uniform and appearance of a million others. The third was a large individual with a shaved head, a heavy stomach and beard, and piercing eyes. His hands were resting on the counter.

  ‘I am C’emal Soran,’ he said, and swept a hand towards the others in introduction. ‘Antun, Davud.’ He did not introduce the man by the door, but it was clearly one of his sons, since he possessed the same build and posture.

  Zubac and Ganic nodded and shook hands all round with steady formality, then Soran led them through a door at the back, to a storeroom with a central table and four chairs. The air here was heavy and gritty on the tongue, the floor scattered with a variety of packing materials. The table held a large platter of food, bread and fruit, and alongside stood glasses of juice and bottles of water.

  ‘Sit, my brothers, sit,’ said Soran and waited for the visitors to take their places, then offered them food and drink. ‘I apologize for the surroundings, but we have a growing mail-order business and not enough room.’ The two younger men sat but did not eat or drink.

  ‘So,’ Soran said eventually, when Zubac and Ganic were refreshed. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Did the rucksack come back to you?’ asked Zubac, pushing his glass away. ‘There should have been two handguns, some ammunition and three grenades.’ He smiled to soften any implied suggestion that he did not trust the Jamaican who had handled the weapons after the attack. ‘Our thanks for everything – and the car.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ Soran waved a vague hand. ‘And yes, we have everything back.’ He gave a humourless smile to show that he understood the reason behind the question. ‘We have a good relationship with the Jamaicans. They help us, we help them. Because nobody expects it, it works to our mutual satisfaction. You have need of these things again?’

  Zubac nodded. ‘The guns, yes. But first we need these two.’ He lifted his chin to indicate the two younger men, who had so far remained silent, summoned by Soran to listen and be ready to follow instructions.

  ‘That is why they are here, brother.’

  Ganic leaned forward. ‘Are they any good, though? They look very young to me, just out of school.’ He seemed less comfortable with the ritual Zubac had insisted they should observe, and more intent on getting down to business. He stared hard at the two young men, who blinked nervously before looking to Soran for guidance.

  ‘They are sons of my cousin,’ the older man rumbled, and looked calmly at Ganic as if daring him to question it further. The message was clear: these two are blood relations and therefore vouched for. ‘They have lived here two years and know the city well. They have also been trained in another place. They have many skills.’

  Zubac nudged Ganic’s knee under the table, and the taller man shrugged and sat back with a muttered, ‘Very well.’

  ‘What do you want them for?’ asked Soran, eyes switching back to Zubac.

  ‘Surveillance work,’ Zubac replied. ‘That is all. Watch and report on a target . . . on who comes, who goes, what she does. We will pay well for their time.’

  ‘She? You want them to watch a woman?’ Such an idea, Soran’s question implied, was both beneath them and could lead to trouble, in spite of the money offered. A man could only get so close to a woman for so long before someone noticed – usually the woman herself, if she had her wits about her.

  ‘Yes. Why? Is that a problem?’ Zubac spoke firmly but without heat. He knew that Soran was probably looking for any reason he could find to raise the fee. Having a difficult, even well-known target would make any surveillance all the more complex to carry out.

  ‘You tell me.’

  There was silence, lengthening as wary looks were exchanged between Soran and
his two men. Then Zubac added carefully, ‘She is nobody of importance, I give you my word. Simply a connection in a chain.’ He rolled a finger through the air as if winding in a length of string. ‘Watch her and we find the person we want.’ He smiled and lifted his chin. ‘Is that acceptable?’

  Soran nodded. He wasn’t about to turn away valuable business. The young men, Antun and Davud, said nothing, their opinions not required. ‘You have a name and address for this woman?’

  Zubac took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Soran picked it up and opened it. The paper had a small photo clipped to one corner. He read the details written down, his lips moving slowly, then slapped the piece of paper and photo down in front of the man named Davud.

  ‘It is agreed.’ He smiled as if he had signed an international treaty, and poured more juice. This time he included his cousin’s sons, who raised their glasses and drank in turn. ‘They will go immediately and watch and report on this woman of no importance,’ he said, eyes glinting with dry humour. ‘In the meantime, you can sleep if you wish. I have made arrangements.’ He jerked his head at the two young men and they got up and left the store without a word. Then he looked again at the paper and said, ‘This woman named –’ he tilted his head to one side, curling his tongue with difficulty around the words – ‘Jean Fleming, a seller of flowers.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Six thirty next morning, and Harry found sleep elusive. It was too early to call Fort Knox, so he ran through Paulton’s details on the data stick. He came up for air at one point and phoned Rik to see how he was progressing with his search for Vanessa Tan.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Rik. ‘But it doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there.’ There was the sound of key taps in the background, then, ‘Point is, we’re not the only ones looking.’

  Harry gripped the phone. ‘Explain.’

  ‘I put a couple of mates on to it . . . told them it was a simple trace for an insurance job. More hands make light work, that sort of thing.’