Deception

by Adrian Magson

  ‘And?’

  ‘They both came back with the same message. They’d bumped into other searches for the same name. Queries left on forums, the name Tan fed into search engines to see what came up – pretty much what I’ve been doing. There was even a back-door search made through an airline database, but it bombed out when the searcher tripped an alarm.’

  The Protectory.

  This had turned into a race. ‘What’s your best guess?’

  ‘If we haven’t found anything so far, it means she went off the grid as soon as she ran. In fact . . .’ He paused. More taps on the keyboard.

  ‘What?’ Harry fought to remain patient. Rik often mused aloud as he typed, as if using his fingers to drive his thought processes. In Harry’s experience, it was best to let him mumble away, but this was getting urgent.

  ‘To have disappeared so completely, she’d have needed to stop leaving a trail way before that. But there’s nothing.’

  ‘How do you mean, nothing?’

  ‘You sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘Can you hear my hand coming down the line?’

  ‘It’s like she never existed.’

  Harry was stumped. Not even the dead vanish so completely that they don’t leave some trace behind. Unless . . .

  ‘Could someone have erased her back-trail, or whatever you call it?’

  ‘History. I don’t know. I’ve heard whispers about a programme that can do it, developed by webmasters working for the National Security Agency. They’d certainly have the budget and the means to carry it out, but it would be a hell of a task. If it’s true, though, it would be like a giant search engine which simply gobbles up any mention of the target name and wipes it off the records. There one second, gone the next. The main problem is, if they weren’t very careful, it would wipe out all other Tans, too. But I know that hasn’t happened.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Easy. I fed the name into Google. If I told you how many hits it got, your head would explode. The main question is, even if they’ve managed to wipe out her individual history, why go to those extremes for one junior officer? What are they trying to hide?’

  Another answer Harry didn’t have. But they couldn’t give up now, especially with the Protectory out there, too. ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘Sure. How deep do you want me to go?’ The question was casual, but the tone of voice wasn’t. Rik was getting impatient, both with not being able to turn up something useful and being cooped up nursing his shoulder. As Harry knew well, when that happened, he was in danger of letting his fingers do the walking into areas best left alone – the very thing that had got him assigned out of MI5 in the first place.

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ he said neutrally. Rik possessed skills that could save a lot of time and legwork. Preventing him using those skills for what could be a global search seemed a chronic waste of talent. But if he took care, what could be the harm? ‘Can you use a . . . what is it called – a proxy?’

  The smile was evident in Rik’s voice. ‘Oh, dude,’ he drawled, ‘you’re so beyond ancient it’s like . . . prehistory. Fortunately, I know what you mean. I’ll get back to you.’

  Harry switched off the phone and went back to studying the file on Paulton. It amounted to precious little, and nothing to get his teeth into. The official records had been pared down to the bare minimum, large chunks of text having no doubt been black-lined at source to conceal sensitive information. What was left contained no personal clues to the man behind the name – or names, in Paulton’s case – giving only a skeleton of facts from a life spent on the move, serving in various locations including Northern Ireland, the US, Afghanistan and Colombia – the last two on attachment with the Drug Enforcement Administration, waging war on the Cartels and other traffickers – and with many gaps in the narrative which Harry translated as working undercover, and therefore classified for all eternity. It seemed ironic to him that a man like Paulton, who had been running an illegal operation that broke all the rules of the Security Service, should now be protected by the official protocol he had so clearly despised.

  But railing against it would do no good; he had to work with what he had. And that, he was forced to conclude after reading and re-reading the files, was next to nothing. Paulton had turned out to have been a master of security, even among his peers. A list of fellow MI5 officers was attached, all of whom had been interviewed. Their names were blanked out, but their comments confirmed what Harry already knew: that George Henry Paulton had lived and worked among them, yet had remained an unknown quantity, even within an organization that prided itself on its sense of family, of shared ideals and goals. Paulton had been the odd fish, with no leads, no handy family connections to be pressured, no habits which might betray him and reveal his location, no long-term friends. He had been a true everyman, colourless, self-effacing, leaving no trace and nothing in his wake.

  Harry stared at the wall with a mild sense of frustration. There was only one thing for it: if he couldn’t get to Tan and ultimately to Paulton, he would have to wait for Paulton to come to him.

  Seconds later, his phone rang.

  ‘Harry?’ It was Jean.

  Her voice brought an instant feeling of disquiet. ‘Hi, you. What is it?’

  ‘Umm . . . I don’t want to ask silly questions,’ she said carefully, ‘but . . . are you having me followed?’

  FORTY-TWO

  Harry felt his gut go cold. Vetting of families and friends when working for the security and intelligence services was an occupational hazard you lived with. Having strangers delving into every aspect of your life and background wasn’t pleasant, but it was part of the job and something you learned to live with. But why would Five or Six choose to take an interest in Jean now, of all times?

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep last night, and got up for a drink. When I glanced out of the window I saw two men sitting in a van just along the street. They were still there this morning, although they’d changed position slightly.’

  ‘They’re probably watching someone else.’ Even as he said it, instinct told him it wasn’t likely. London was a huge city, and no doubt there were plenty of individuals currently under a twenty-four-hour watch by the authorities and private security companies all over the metropolitan area. Yet why should Jean be one of them? And any official surveillance would be a lot more discreet.

  It could only mean one thing: the Protectory.

  ‘It feels a lot more personal to me,’ said Jean. ‘After Michael was killed and journalists hung around hoping for a story, I got into the habit of checking the street. I still do it.’

  ‘What do they look like?’ He had to remain calm, to avoid feeding any sense of concern through to Jean. She had been through the mill after her husband, Michael, had died in Iraq, with a small media buzz surrounding her for what seemed like weeks. This would certainly have reminded her of those times.

  ‘Young, mid-twenties. Short haircuts but not military. Mediterranean types, wearing blouson jackets and jeans. They’re sitting in a red VW van – I’m not sure of the model. Are they from Thames House?’ Jean knew enough about Harry’s work to venture a reasonable guess at where any security related interest might originate.

  ‘I’ll get it checked.’ He knew it would be waste of time, even though the descriptions didn’t match Zubac or Ganic. These two were too young. He guessed the two Bosnians were keeping a low profile at the moment after the attack on the police station. But how difficult would it be to get two men – probably fellow countrymen – to do some basic legwork for them? They wouldn’t need specific skills apart from patience, the ability to keep their eyes open and a healthy fear of failing.

  Unless they had been given specific orders to do something else.

  ‘Can you stay where you are for a while?’ He hoped he sounded casual. ‘I’ll come round.’

  ‘OK. I’ll ring Felicity and tell her I’ll be in later. Is this dangerous?’ She came across as ama
zingly calm, and Harry wished he was with her right now.

  ‘I doubt it. They’re probably looking for someone else.’

  He rang off and went to a locked drawer inside a cupboard, and took out the VP70 semi-automatic and inserted the magazine. Then he rang Rik.

  ‘You need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘And I need your help. Bring the Heckler. I’ll pick you up.’

  Rik knew by his tone not to question it. ‘I’m ready.’

  As Harry drove fast towards Rik’s flat in Paddington, he realized that he had got precisely what he’d wanted: the undiluted attention of the Protectory. Except that instead of watching him, they had latched on to Jean. The one weak link in his background. And there was only one person he could think of who could have told them about that.

  Paulton.

  FORTY-THREE

  The door of Jean’s flat swung open with a faint puff of sound on the carpet.

  Harry breathed in the familiar smells of her perfume and felt his stomach turn to ice.

  This door shouldn’t be open.

  He’d come in through the back entrance to the block, avoiding the street where the two watchers were sitting in a red VW Kombi. Rik had stayed in a side street nearby, keeping an eye on them while Harry came in to check on Jean.

  He stepped across the threshold, nerves humming with anticipation. If anyone was waiting for him, they would not be able to conceal their presence completely. A scrape of fabric, an unguarded intake of breath, something would always give them away.

  There was nothing.

  He moved along the hallway. No furniture out of place, no signs of a struggle, no debris . . . or worse.

  He checked each room, leading with the gun. Each space was empty save for a lingering trace of Jean’s presence, tantalizing and almost painful. Where the hell had she got to?

  He made his way back to the front door of the flat, beginning to feel a desperate sense of panic. Surely they couldn’t have—?

  ‘Harry?’ Rik’s voice was a soft murmur coming from the mobile in Harry’s top pocket. He tapped the mobile twice in response. Go ahead.

  ‘The two guys are still in the VW van. You OK?’

  Harry breathed out and lowered the gun. ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘Her door was open. Can you see inside the van?’

  ‘Shit. Give me two . . . I’ll do a walk by.’

  He heard the sound of breathing and the rub of cloth as Rik moved out into the main street, then an increase in traffic noise. Ten seconds, twenty seconds; he was beginning to get impatient and on the point of going down when Rik spoke.

  ‘Two young guys trying to look hard. They look half asleep to me. Definitely a surveillance job. Can’t see inside the back, though. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Stay on them. I’ll join you.’

  Harry pocketed the gun and walked back downstairs, gut churning with fear at what might have happened to Jean. Had the watchers called in help and had her lifted? Had she panicked and fled? No and no. If they had taken her, they wouldn’t need to hang around. And Jean didn’t do panic. She must still be around here somewhere. So, there must be another explanation. She had to have slipped out for some reason.

  That still left the watchers to deal with.

  Harry left the block of flats by the rear entrance and made his way round to the street where the two men were stationed. Instead of heading straight towards them, he took a narrow street at right angles to the one where they were parked, passing Rik on the way. Rik was wearing his sling and clutching a clipboard, playing street canvasser and stopping the occasional pedestrian, able to act out in full view of the watchers while keeping an eye on them.

  Harry reached an intersection and turned left then left again, eventually completing the circumference of the block until he came back to the main street. On the way, he picked up a black garbage bag bulging with old telephone directories, a throw-out from a renovation job in a nearby house.

  Nobody expects a tail to carry a garbage bag.

  He was now in front of the Kombi, which was parked thirty yards away. A crushed Coke can lay in the gutter by the driver’s door. The two men inside watched him appear, then saw the rubbish bag in his hand and lost interest.

  Sloppy tradecraft, thought Harry. They had parked facing against the traffic, which was a big no-no and made them stand out. It meant they weren’t professionals, but that was a good thing. Professionals would already have detected something not quite kosher about him and would be driving away fast. Or shooting.

  Rik had broken off talking to a young woman further along the street and was walking towards him, the clipboard in evidence and his other hand parked inside his sling. He was limping noticeably, too.

  Harry smiled in spite of the circumstances. It was a neat touch, if a bit dramatic. Who would expect any kind of threat from a man with a gimpy leg and his arm in a sling?

  He approached the Kombi, timing his pace to coincide with Rik’s arrival at the rear of the van. Five paces short of the vehicle, he moved to the kerb and dropped the garbage bag alongside a bin, shaking his head in a disgruntled resident look, then moved off to continue on by. As he did so, he checked the pavement both ways. No pedestrians close by, nobody watching. No collateral risk if anything should kick off. Otherwise, a few passing cars, a FedEx delivery truck just pulling in along the street, but most of the drivers too intent on their progress to take any notice.

  As he drew level with the Kombi’s front wing, Harry turned and stepped in fast against the driver’s door, preventing it from opening. In the same instant, Rik moved out into the street and walked up to the passenger door, tapping on the window.

  The men inside scrambled to sit up, the passenger upsetting a plastic bottle of mocha milk drink over his lap with a shout of protest while the driver turned to stare at Harry with a look of alarm. He began to reach for the ignition.

  Then he saw the gun in Harry’s hand, resting against the glass. Harry made a circular motion with his hand, and the driver hesitated, then lowered the window. A loud tap from Rik and the passenger saw the gun’s twin not two inches from his shoulder, hidden inside Rik’s sling. He also lowered his window, but with reluctance.

  Both men were in their twenties, dressed casually in jeans and jackets, and would have passed unnoticed in the street. Neither had shaved for a couple of days, and had short, scrubby hair. The driver was suffering an outbreak of acne. The passenger stared across at Harry, deliberately ignoring the gun right next to him. Harry identified him as the leader of the two, all attitude and bravado.

  ‘Police,’ he said, and reached in and removed the keys from the ignition. He nodded at Rik to check the back. Rik disappeared for a moment, and there was the sound of a door opening, then closing. He reappeared at the passenger window and shook his head. No sign of Jean.

  ‘Can I see your driver’s licence?’

  The driver looked surprised and shook his head. ‘We are waiting for job,’ he said, his accent thick. ‘Sorry, officer. We are painters. What is this? Are we doing wrong?’ His look of wide-eyed innocence would have been convincing had the passenger not fisted him in the leg with a muttered warning.

  Harry didn’t understand what he’d said, but murmured, ‘Ah, Bosnians, I see. Now we’re getting somewhere.’ He decided to rattle them, to keep them off-balance. ‘Did Zubac and Ganic send you? Get you to keep an eye on a flat across the street?’

  The driver’s mouth dropped open in recognition, but the passenger said something else and he snapped it shut again.

  Rik said, ‘You’ve got a lot to say for yourself, sunshine.’ He pushed his gun forward until the barrel was resting against the passenger’s shoulder, which got his full attention. At such close range, there would be no dodging a bullet. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Painters,’ the passenger answered dully. ‘Like he said. You not police, so what you want?’ He stared at Harry with knowing contempt, but there was no hiding the doubt in his eyes. British police he understood; the
y had rules and regulations in situations such as this. But anyone else carrying guns in London was an unknown quantity, and therefore to be treated with caution.

  Harry pushed the tip of his gun barrel up against the driver’s nose, forcing his head back so that his companion could see what would happen if he pulled the trigger. He didn’t care right now whether anyone saw them, he was growing angrier at the threat to Jean. ‘Wallets. Now!’ It was sharp and brutal, and the driver grunted with pain, his eyes streaming, but it achieved the desired effect. Both men handed over their wallets, which were of cheap leather and slim.

  There wasn’t much to help. The driver’s name was Antun Goranuvic and his colleague was Davud. Brothers or cousins. There was no way of telling if they were their genuine names, and Harry doubted it mattered anyway. The wallets held a few notes in sterling and euros, some credit cards and one or two photos, but nothing to say who they worked for or where they came from.

  He looked at Rik and nodded at his gun. ‘How many shells have you got in that since the last job?’

  Rik didn’t miss a beat. He gave a lazy smile and said, ‘Enough. Why?’

  ‘Shoot them both. Now.’ Harry turned and walked away.

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘Wait!’ He had taken just three steps before the driver, who he figured was the weaker of the two, decoded the instruction and his nerve broke.

  Harry turned back and stood by the window. Now it was the passenger who looked the most worried. His attitude was gone and his knuckles were clenched tight on his knees, the cloth wet with the spilled drink.

  ‘We have not seen her,’ he muttered. ‘The lady. I show you.’ He reached up and gingerly took a slip of paper from behind the sun-visor. It held Jean’s name and address written in ink and a photo clipped to one corner.

  ‘Who gave you this?’

  There was a momentary hesitation before the driver said, ‘What you say before . . . Zubac and Ganic. They came to us and said we should do this.’ He wasn’t looking at Harry, instead staring rigidly to his front as if holding on to the last bit of courage he could muster and not doing too well.