Deception

by Adrian Magson

  ‘How do you know about Jean? And my address?’ he added. The mystery caller Mrs Fletcher had seen. It had to have been her.

  ‘Same friends, how else? The intel community is the biggest gossip mill in the world, you know that. Bunch of floppy lips, most of them.’ She shrugged. ‘There are no secrets in our profession, Harry. I even know what you’re up to. The Protectory is for real, isn’t it? Who’d have thought . . . a branch of the Samaritans for deserters and conchies.’

  ‘How did you know to warn Jean?’

  ‘I’d tried making contact at your place, but the resident dragon down the hall put me off, so I decided to think laterally and asked around.’

  ‘It’s hardly public knowledge.’

  ‘Oh, come on . . . you know what I mean. Like I said, nothing’s totally secret, is it?’

  ‘You trawled Six’s files.’ It was the only way she could have known . . . unless she had friends in Five, too.

  She gave him a teasing smile but didn’t deny it. ‘It’s what they trained us to do, isn’t it – use whatever assets we have? She looks nice; just your type. Bit too elegant for my tastes, though.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell her.’ She was trying to annoy him. ‘How did you spot the two watchers?’

  ‘The two wannabes in the red van?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God, they were too obvious. So obvious, in fact, that I scouted around and saw the others. They looked the real deal. Tough job you’ve got on, Harry. Is it your way of laying ghosts?’ Suddenly the humour was gone and she was searching his face for something, trying to read his expression. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I’m doing what I can, Clare. It doesn’t explain why you’re here, though.’

  ‘Simple. I’ve got ghosts, too. And Paulton was part of setting up Red Station. Maybe I don’t forgive as easily as you, or maybe I’m just a bad-tempered, hormonal bitch. Call it what you like. I’m hoping you won’t get in my way, that’s all.’ She shuffled a little closer to him on the bench seat and smiled, a hint of perfume overlaying the metallic smell from the river. She tightened her hand on his thigh. It was a strange gesture of intimacy given their last meeting, which hadn’t been particularly warm, and the fact that she had no interest in men. Indeed, her reason for being banished from MI6 in the first place had been due to falling victim in a honey trap, where the intended target – a woman – had reversed the roles with career-damaging consequences for Clare.

  Then she moved the newspaper to one side and looked down. Harry couldn’t help it; he did the same.

  She was holding a powder compact, silvered and elegant and entirely ordinary. In fact it was very ordinary, an accessory nobody would look at twice, wouldn’t even give a passing thought to. Except that this one had an extra, sinister facility beyond the cosmetic: it housed a three-inch razor-sharp curved blade now protruding from the edge, retractable at the push of a button. And the blade was resting against Harry’s inner thigh.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘You haven’t lost your taste for cold steel, I see.’ Harry tried to remain calm. He’d seen what Clare could do with this thing. If he tried anything she’d cut him before he could move an inch and be gone before he could raise the alarm.

  ‘Sorry, Harry. Try to call out or pull away and you know what I’ll do. You’ll bleed out before they can get you to hospital . . . and I won’t hang around to help.’ She continued smiling but it stretched only as far as her mouth. ‘I really don’t want to do that, though.’

  ‘What do you want, then? I’m sure it’s not to go over old times.’

  She licked her top lip. On any other woman at such close quarters, the gesture might have been almost erotic, a promise of things to come. On Clare it gave him the shivers because there was nothing in her eyes. Where there should have been shades of colour and sparkles of light, there were bottomless pools.

  ‘I want Paulton. Simple as that.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Paulton’s mine. You got your revenge with Bellingham.’

  She lifted both eyebrows. ‘I see. Somebody handed out reserved tickets, did they? I don’t recall agreeing to that.’ The pressure on his leg increased steadily, and he braced himself. ‘I don’t think you understand, Harry. This isn’t open to negotiation. I just want to tell you that.’

  ‘Hey, look who it isn’t!’

  A figure sat down alongside Clare, less than a foot away. She had been so intent on Harry, she hadn’t noticed his approach until it was too late.

  It was Rik Ferris, wearing his sling and carrying a mug of coffee.

  Clare turned and looked at him. But the pressure of the knife stayed on Harry’s leg, a measure of her self-control. She looked to her front again, momentarily surprised, then said calmly, ‘Fuck off, Ferris. This is a private chat between grown-ups.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s a bit difficult, see.’ Rik placed his mug on the bench alongside him and scratched his chest. He was wearing a leather jacket over one of his more colourful T-shirts. He slid his good hand inside the sling over his other arm, then smiled. Their shoulders were almost touching, and Clare must have sensed something, some unseen movement undetectable by anyone else. Or maybe it was expression in Rik’s eyes. She dropped her gaze and fastened on the inside of the sling itself.

  ‘Heckler and Koch nine millimetre,’ he told in a mock whisper. ‘Eighteen-round magazine; if I miss you with the first one – which I think is hugely fucking unlikely, to be perfectly honest, even for me – I’ll get you with the rest.’

  ‘My,’ she said in mock admiration, ‘you have grown up into a big, bad boy. I heard about what you did to that girl in St James’s Park.’ Her face hardened, taunting him. ‘Get off on shooting women, do you?’

  ‘Only the ones who piss me off.’

  ‘Then you should study your ballistics; you pull that trigger and a nine mil will go right through me and into Harry . . . probably through him and the next person, too. So screw you, baby face.’

  ‘Fair point.’ Rik nodded without turning a hair. ‘Very fair. Only I did study ballistics and these rounds carry a reduced charge. They’re also loaded with soft noses, so you’ll cop the lot.’ His expression this time was every bit as cold as hers. He leaned closer, nudging her shoulder, and whispered, ‘Take the blade off Harry’s leg or I’ll fucking shoot you in the ribs, you stroppy cow. You know what that’ll do to your insides, don’t you? Then where’s your revenge got you?’

  An age seemed to pass. Clare didn’t move, evaluating the likelihood that he might be bluffing. Her eyes were fixed on Rik’s face, seeking a hint of hesitation, of weakness. For Harry, waiting for the blade to turn and open his leg to the bone, it was too long. He batted her hand away and shifted sideways before she could move, leaving her marooned, with Rik too close for her to retaliate.

  Along the path, a man in a smart suit was watching them, a mobile phone in one hand. He’d probably picked up on their body language, seeing a woman bracketed by two men and misinterpreting the situation. Harry almost wanted to explain who, if anyone, was in real danger here, but he doubted the man would believe him. If this carried on any longer, it was in danger of going public.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said quietly. ‘Leave it.’

  Clare closed her hand with a faint click and the compact disappeared. ‘OK, boys. I get the message. You can’t blame a girl for trying, though, can you?’ She stood up and looked at Rik with a tiger’s smile. ‘You’d better watch it, Ferris. You’ve been mixing with him too long.’ She glanced at Harry. ‘And you, big feller; call me, won’t you?’ She turned and walked away, back straight and heels clicking on the pathway.

  ‘Reduced charge?’ Harry muttered, watching her until she disappeared out of the gardens. He didn’t entirely trust her not to suddenly turn and start blazing away. ‘Where did that bullshit come from?’

  Rik looked pale. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. His hand was shaking slightly. ‘I was kidding, wasn’t I? Christ, I wasn’t about to start blasting away out here – and she knew i
t.’

  Harry’s mobile buzzed. ‘That’s the thing: I don’t think she did.’ He checked the screen. Ballatyne. ‘What’s worse, neither did I.’

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘You trying to be coy by any chance?’ Ballatyne sounded tired. ‘You call and don’t leave a message, my boys see that as a bad sign. Says an asset’s feeling nervy and leaving a trail for others to follow.’

  It was the second reference to an asset in quick succession; the first had been by Clare Jardine. ‘Nervy’s right; I got a message to meet you on the Embankment.’

  ‘Couldn’t have. I was busy.’

  ‘I know that now.’ Harry told him about the phone call and finding Clare Jardine waiting for him with her trusty little knife.

  ‘That could have been nasty. She did Bellingham like that, didn’t she?’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ She had also cut the man’s throat, Harry remembered. Artistry with a blade in the blink of an eye. He felt an echo of a twitch in his leg at the lack of expression on Clare’s face and the thought of what she might have done had Rik not been there. He had no compunction about confirming her part in her former boss’s death because she had been caught on CCTV in the act. It had earned her a place on MI6’s Most Wanted list.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Paulton’s head on a plate and me to step aside. But not in that order.’

  ‘She’ll have to join the queue, won’t she? How did she seem?’

  ‘Tense. Angry. I’d say she’s got issues – and an accurate inside track on what you and I are working on. She found Jean, she got my home address and phone, and she knows pretty much up to the minute what I’m doing. She even knew you were out of the office.’

  ‘Christ, what a bloody nerve. We’ve got a chatterbox in the woodpile. I’ll put out an alert and set off a security trawl through her old section.’

  ‘Good idea. But it was Clare who spotted the Bosnians and warned Jean to get out. I’ve moved her to a safe place just in case.’

  Ballatyne grunted. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me is Jardine’s not all bad.’

  Harry wasn’t that naïve. ‘She helped Jean because she wanted to get to me. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t roast me if the situation came up.’ He realized he was still holding the newspaper which Clare had left behind. She must have thrust it at him as she stood up. Or maybe he’d grasped it subconsciously – he couldn’t remember.

  Ballatyne had switched topics. He gave Harry the address of a shop in Dalston Lane, and the name and contact number of an officer in SO19, the Metropolitan Police firearms unit. Harry dug out a pen and wrote it down in the margin of the newspaper. It was that day’s copy of The Times. ‘Be there at eleven thirty tonight. They’re going to turn Soran’s place upside down. They’ll probably find nothing but it might be a good idea if you were in attendance.’

  ‘What do you expect to find?’ He flipped the newspaper round. Something had been written across the lower half of the page, just above the political and military engagements for the week. It was a mobile phone number.

  ‘Anything or nothing. Soran’s clever enough to stay below the radar, but even clever people get careless. If he thinks nobody’s going to touch him, it’s time to show him otherwise. Keep Ferris out of it, though. SO19 don’t need any walking wounded as bystanders.’

  Harry switched off and found Rik watching him over the rim of his coffee mug. He handed him the newspaper and tapped the number written down. ‘Any chance you could find a subscriber name for that? It’s probably a disposable but try anyway.’

  ‘Sure. You off somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve been invited to a party.’ Before Rik could ask, he stood up. ‘Sorry – grown-ups only. And you’ve still got Tan to hunt for.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ Rik didn’t look too upset at being left out, though. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas about her . . . something a mate suggested. I’ll shout if anything comes up.’

  Other than a few early drunks and late workers, none of whom were paying any attention, Dalston Lane was reasonably quiet when Harry walked along the pavement and tapped on the passenger window of a transit van with a cleaner’s logo on the side. A scattering of other unmarked vehicles indicated that SO19 were here in numbers, with a perimeter tight enough to stop anyone from leaving the area if they needed to. As the window went down, he caught the mixed aromas of coffee and body odour and heard the clink of metal from inside the van.

  ‘Harry Tate,’ he said softly.

  ‘Good to have you along.’ The man in the passenger seat was heavily built and wearing a helmet and dark boiler suit. He was holding a large metal battering ram, known as a ‘universal key’ between his knees. He nodded towards the front. ‘The boss is along the street in the control car. He asked if you could stay back until we go in and the way’s clear. A unit will block the front of the shop and we’ll hit the rear. Less likely to get cut by flying glass that way when I use this.’ He jiggled the ram up and down and gave Harry a brief once-over. ‘You ever done this before?’

  Harry thought back to the last time he’d kicked a door in. He’d been holding a weapon then, and ready to shoot anything that moved. Although he was armed now, this wasn’t quite the same. ‘A few times. But I’ll stay out of your way until you’re in.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The man half turned his head. ‘Col? Refreshments for our guest, if you please.’

  A hand came out from the back of the van clutching a small plastic cup. It was steaming and smelled of coffee.

  ‘We’ve got ten minutes, Harry,’ said the voice behind the cup. The side door slid back. ‘Climb in and get that down you.’

  Harry thanked him and climbed aboard, nodding to half a dozen helmeted and suited men sitting patiently in the dark. The tension in the air was palpable and someone was humming quietly. He sat and drank his coffee in silence; they didn’t need conversation, and probably had him tagged as a Whitehall watcher sent to monitor proceedings.

  His phone buzzed. It was Rik. ‘No joy on the mobile number. You want me to try it to see who answers?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try it later.’ He switched off at a burst of static on the vehicle’s radio, followed by the order to approach the premises and for cars on the outer perimeter to close in. Harry was surprised by the numbers involved. Ballatyne must have called in some big favours to get this level of help, and was taking no chances. Even if it came up empty, it would send a powerful message to Soran and his associates that they were under the spotlight.

  He let the men out and climbed in alongside the driver, who sensed his impatience and glanced at his watch. ‘Give it a minute or so and they’ll be in.’

  Harry lowered the side window. From eighty yards away, the coordinated shouting of the teams at the front and rear of the shop, followed by the ram hitting the back door, sounded very loud. It immediately set dogs barking in adjacent premises, and caused one or two lights to go on along the street. Most, however, stayed off; not everyone was keen to be seen joining in the public spectacle, preferring to watch under cover of darkness.

  Harry stepped out of the van and walked along the street to the front door, where an officer was standing guard. Two of his colleagues were kneeling on a struggling figure in the middle of the shop, while a third was checking behind the counter and racks with a large flashlight. Harry stepped past them and walked through to the back room, his nose twitching at the spicy atmosphere, where he found a senior officer standing alongside a large man with a bald head. Two armed officers stood in the background. From overhead came the sounds of a search in progress.

  ‘You break my property, you pay,’ said the balding man, as something tinkled and a man swore. The man’s voice was dull with sleep, enhancing his heavy accent, and Harry thought he recognized the familiar tones of the Sarajevo district of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He’d heard them too many times before, ranging from friendly to downright hostile, ever to forget them. Mostly the latter.

  The officer sniffed and l
ooked at Harry. ‘You want a word with him?’

  Harry shook his head. Questioning the man wouldn’t help; Soran would undoubtedly use every lever he could to plead a case of unlawful entry and an invasion of his privacy. ‘I’ll take a look around, though,’ he said, and walked up the stairs. He found several officers conducting a room-by-room search, piling anything of interest at the top of the stairs for removal in evidence bags. Most of it looked like junk, although there was a replica automatic pistol which looked real enough to fool anyone.

  The living quarters were cramped and dark, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of cooking. It was a man’s space, with no signs of a woman’s touch. Harry knew instinctively that their chances of coming up with anything concrete leading to the two Bosnians who had killed Pike and Barrow and tried to get McCreath were slim. Whatever secrets Soran had were probably well concealed.

  He returned downstairs and found the officer and Soran sitting at the room’s central table. Soran was spinning a mobile phone with his forefinger, while the officer was asking about the two young men questioned earlier.

  ‘They have gone home,’ Soran muttered disinterestedly. ‘They do not live here.’

  ‘Home? Where’s that?’

  Soran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Young men, they move all the time . . . change place like I change shirts.’ He scowled and waved a hand, the matter of no importance. ‘Why should they tell me? I am not their keeper.’

  ‘They work for you?’

  ‘No. They are painting, decorating . . . many jobs like that.’

  ‘What about phone numbers?’ said Harry, after a nod from the officer.

  ‘I do not know.’ Soran looked up at him. ‘Who are you?’ He jerked his head at the officer. ‘His name I know. Yours I don’t.’

  It was a delaying tactic, a distraction. Harry ignored it. Instead he picked up the mobile phone from the table and pressed the call button. It showed the last few numbers dialled. He read them aloud and the officer jotted down each one in a notebook.