Deception

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Hey!’ Soran rounded on Harry, stabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘You cannot do that! Is private property. I complain through my solicitor.’

  Harry gave him a cold look. This man had helped the two who had been watching Jean, had probably provided material assistance to Zubac and Ganic. ‘You go for it.’ He read out the last of the numbers listed, then tossed the phone back on to the table and walked through to the back door, which was sagging off its hinges, courtesy of the metal ram.

  Outside, a collection of eager young faces had gathered at the rear gate. From the comments made, he got the impression that they were not unduly upset at seeing C’emal Soran being turned over. He ignored them and made for a small outhouse to one side. It had a substantial door which was out of keeping with the ancient, porous brick walls. It was locked. He went back inside and asked Soran for the key.

  ‘Is lost,’ the Bosnian replied without even looking at him. ‘Is nothing much in there – storeroom only. I never use.’

  Harry nodded, wondering if Soran was being obstructive for the hell of it, or playing a delaying game. ‘In that case, you won’t mind if we open it for you, will you?’ He looked at the officer, who called out for the man with the battering ram and told him to break down the door.

  Three heavy blows and the door caved in. It revealed a storeroom with white walls fitted with metal racking piled with cardboard boxes. A camp bed and an armchair were the main anomalies, along with a kettle, milk and two mugs with traces of cold liquid in the bottom. Packets of sugar and tea and an open packet of biscuits lay nearby. Harry touched the kettle with the back of his hand. Difficult to be certain, but he thought it held traces of warmth. Someone had been in here recently. Maybe this was where they had planned on holding Jean, to use her as a bargaining chip.

  The man with the battering ram was watching him, and caught on quick. ‘I’ll get one of the guys to take the temperature,’ he said, and spoke into his radio.

  Harry nodded. If nothing else, it would prove Soran was lying about the key. He flicked up the thin mattress on the camp bed. Nothing but canvas and the stale tang of unwashed bodies. The armchair was stuffed with foam, lumpy, misshapen and stained, but that was all. He nudged it to one side, then bent and picked up something lying on the floor.

  A triangular metal ring.

  There was nothing else to see, so he asked the officer to bag up the mugs, biscuit packet and kettle for prints and DNA testing, and left him to it.

  He walked back into the building and dropped the ring on the table in front of Soran. It was clear by the man’s expression that he recognized it for what it was. So did the police officer, whose jaw dropped.

  ‘This is a pull ring from an M84 stun grenade,’ Harry announced. ‘It was found in your locked storeroom along with traces of recent occupation. Hours recent, in fact. This, along with chemical and DNA analysis, is going to put you right at the centre of an attack on a south London police station by Zlatco Ganic and Milan Zubac, where at least two officers were shot dead.’ He turned to leave, while the officer took out a plastic evidence bag and placed the ring inside, his face grim at what Harry had revealed.

  Soran was looking sick and licking his lips. He said nothing.

  ‘You should have got your people to clean up properly,’ said Harry. ‘Big mistake.’

  FIFTY

  ‘Employ undisciplined thugs and that’s what you get, in my experience.’ Paulton was uneasy at the news of the abortive attempt at lifting Jean Fleming. They should have had her by now. And Tate, too, as he would have galloped to her rescue like an eager bloodhound, no doubt about it. Instead it had fallen apart, following on from the widely circulated news of a terrorist attack on London’s Brixton police station, resulting in the deaths of two officers and the serious wounding of several others. No group had claimed outright responsibility for the raid, but two or three were hinting at it in an attempt to gain credibility. As a separate issue, news of a late night police raid on a house belonging to the Bosnian community in the east of the city was just filtering out, although Paulton had already heard the latest details from a contact in London with connections to the Metropolitan Police.

  He, Deakin and Turpowicz had relocated once more while awaiting developments in London and the search for Lieutenant Tan. This time they had moved from Nürnberg to a conference centre hotel near Ghent, in Belgium. Groups of businessmen were the norm here, and the three of them would pass unnoticed amid the comings and goings of corporate parties and trade delegations. The grounds were extensive, encompassing a large lake surrounded by woods, and guaranteed privacy. But it was also close enough to major roads should they need a rapid evacuation, something Paulton had insisted on.

  Colin Nicholls had not joined them. He had retreated further into the background, claiming to be busy scouting for Tan and checking on other deserters. It left the other three to look after the current business, a move openly welcomed by Deakin. His irritation with his colleague had been growing more evident, and he had begun to voice his impatience with Nicholls’ lack of energy and his reluctance to trade on the skills of the people passing through their hands. It had been slowing down his own plans to take the Protectory up a level and place it on a more commercial footing, something which had attracted Paulton to join him in the first place.

  ‘They’ve never missed before,’ Deakin muttered. He was staring into space, unsettled by the repeat failure of his two Bosnian guns.

  ‘Perhaps because they’ve never previously delegated the work you pay them for to people with no experience. Did they even get inside her flat?’

  ‘Yes, but something had alerted her. She’d disappeared and left the door open.’

  Paulton lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really? It allows them in but they don’t break anything in the process. Clever move.’

  Deakin looked sour. ‘Isn’t it just? Are you sure this Fleming woman doesn’t have training? Only it was odd she should bug out just before they arrived.’

  ‘She most likely saw ’em coming, that’s why,’ growled Turpowicz. He had said little after hearing of the latest setback. ‘Those guys blend into the background like a pair of silverbacks in a toy store.’

  ‘Cut the sniping, will you?’ Deakin snapped. ‘I hear you – you don’t like Zubac and Ganic. I get that. But they have their uses.’ He slumped back in his chair, chewing his lip in frustration.

  ‘If you recall,’ Paulton put in smoothly, before Turpowicz could argue back and escalate matters, ‘the whole idea was to draw Tate out by threatening his girlfriend. Then they could have dealt with him. We’ve now lost that advantage. Tate will have moved her to a safe house and he’ll be on his guard against further attacks.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Deakin.

  Paulton hesitated before replying. He’d been disappointed at Deakin’s reliance on the Bosnians and their decision to involve others without consultation first. That was where Deakin lacked management experience, in his opinion. Maybe he’d been out of the army command structure too long. He should have insisted on the two Bosnians being the only ones in play. That way any exposure through mistakes, such as using amateurs, was minimal, as was the trail back to Deakin and himself. ‘We try again, only sooner rather than later. Perhaps the last method was too sophisticated for your pet thugs. I suggest we use them to make a more direct assault and get Tate out of the picture for good so we can get on with business.’

  ‘Direct?’ Deakin looked uncertain. ‘How direct?’

  ‘The surest way to defeat an enemy is to hit them when they least expect it.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Tate’s a soldier, with a soldier’s mind-set. After a win, the victors invariably let their defences down. It’s human nature. With a man like Harry Tate, it’s ingrained. He won’t expect us to try again so soon.’

  Turpowicz sat up, his face showing understanding. ‘Harry? Harry? Christ, I knew it. You’ve had this guy Tate tagged from the moment you saw his face. You do know him!’


  Paulton wanted to bite his tongue. He’d said too much, allowed his need to exert some control over the situation to take over. However, he had survived worse verbal calamities in tougher company than these two men. He recovered and spread his arms with barely a break in his stride. ‘Mea culpa, gentlemen, mea culpa. I admit it, I fibbed a little, if only because it didn’t seem relevant at the time.’ He held up both hands to ward off their protests. ‘Let me explain. Please. Tate used to work for me. He’s no more a warrant officer than I am – he’s a former MI5 officer who was discharged in disgrace.’ He sniffed. ‘A little shooting incident which killed two civilians and a police officer.’

  ‘So why’s he still working for the government?’ Turpowicz demanded.

  ‘Because he’s deniable, Mr Turpowicz. If anything goes wrong . . . well, he’s not on the books and nobody knows he exists.’ He stared hard at the American who was looking ready to argue. ‘Isn’t that what Blackwater was all about with their security contractors? Sorry – Xe, I believe they now like to be called. Strange name, but that’s PR for you.’

  ‘Tate was one of yours?’ Deakin was staring at him. ‘Christ, George, you promised me you were clean . . . that they’d forget all about you. That’s why I agreed to let you on board. There’s no risk, you said. Now you’ve got an intelligence operative on your tail! Where the hell does that put us?’

  ‘Actually, that’s not what Tate’s doing.’ Paulton’s voice dropped a level, pitched deliberately low so that the two men were forced to listen. He was surprised they could be manipulated so easily in this way. Even so, he was on a knife’s edge and knew it. If he didn’t convince them very quickly that he had some control of the situation, they might easily decide to cut their losses and turn against him. ‘I’m reliably informed,’ he continued firmly, ‘that he was taken on by the MOD for one job and one job only – and that was to look for Lieutenant Tan. Tate’s strictly freelance; a contractor. They do it all the time when they’re short of manpower.’

  ‘That’s supposed to make us feel better?’ Deakin didn’t sound mollified. His body language was tight, his movements betraying his impatience and a need to take action.

  Paulton continued quickly, ‘Tate’s a plodder and always was. He follows orders but he’s no great strategic thinker. Tan was clearly judged to be too high a value asset to leave out there, so they called in Tate to go after her and bring her in . . . something he has been singularly unsuccessful in doing, let me remind you.’

  ‘You’d better be right about that. We’ve managed to stay below the radar for a long time now; I’d hate to find I was suddenly exposed because you were top of the Security Service’s wanted list.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too happy, either,’ Turpowicz added darkly. ‘Which makes me wonder why you’re talking about taking him out. Surely that’ll make them mad enough to come after us?’

  Paulton smiled. They were coming round, albeit slowly. ‘Precisely the opposite. Too much trouble at a time when the MOD is already under scrutiny over lavish spending, equipment shortfalls and desertion rates, and they’ll shut down the operation and focus their efforts elsewhere. Believe me, I know the way the drones in Whitehall and the Security Services think. Jumped-up bean counters, most of them; they don’t have the stomach for trouble unless it’s publicly or politically popular – and hunting down deserters has never been either of those. Half the population doesn’t care about soldiers on the run and the other half doesn’t want to know. Not the right form, y’know.’

  ‘All right.’ Deakin stood up, shrugging off his earlier mood. ‘So how do we get this bugger off our backs once and for all?’

  Paulton looked satisfied at having got them both onside. ‘Simple. I’ll give you the home address of Tate’s protégé, a man named Ferris. All you have to do is get your men ready. Only this time, no subcontracting the job out to kids or hoping to catch Tate in a drive-by shooting. This is warfare, not a gang-bangers’ spray-fest. Lift Ferris – he’s an IT button pusher, so he’ll be no problem – and Tate will follow. He’s too much of a white knight to leave Ferris out there. When he moves in, your thugs kill them both and we’ve got a clear field to carry on our work.’

  Deakin looked unconvinced. ‘But that will expose Zubac and Ganic. Tate will be looking for them.’

  Paulton’s response was cool. ‘Sadly, yes. But that’s what they’re for, isn’t it – to take the risks? After all, better they go down than we do.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘I need to speak to General Foster.’

  Ballatyne didn’t express any surprise at Harry’s early call the following morning. Maybe, Harry thought, he’d been expecting this all along. Especially as Foster was reported to be in London to talk to an important parliamentary select committee about the progress of supplies and equipment for troops on the ground.

  For Harry, talking to Tan’s former boss was the next logical step in the search for the missing lieutenant. She would have been the general’s shadow every pace he took, in Kabul and elsewhere, closer than most and always there whenever she was needed. It was what good aides did: anticipating the unexpected, operating at elbow’s length yet mostly unseen, advising, noting, observing – another set of eyes and ears for their superior. In such circumstances, General Foster would have got to know the young officer better than most, would have acquired even subliminally some information about her that might help them find her. Would have gained, perhaps, an insight into what made her tick.

  ‘What’s wrong, having trouble sleeping?’ the MI6 man muttered tartly.

  ‘No. But I am having trouble tracing Vanessa Tan. I might get a lead from talking to Foster.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Ballatyne said finally.

  ‘Why not?’ Harry mentally dusted himself off for a fight. This official habit of creating firewalls around figures of power and influence was not going to help, not in this situation. He needed to talk to anyone who had known Tan recently. Her school and university days were gone, her family was non-existent and it was likely that anyone who had known her before her army days would not recognize the person who had gone to war. Without talking to the one person who had been closest to her, he was no further forward in even guessing where she might have gone since jumping the fence.

  ‘Because he won’t talk. Sorry, Harry, it’s not on the agenda.’

  ‘He won’t or he won’t be allowed to?’

  ‘You’ll have to find another way.’ The tone was adamant, final. End of discussion.

  Harry cut the connection. He thought he knew what was going on: Foster was being protected from any potential fallout associated with having a key member of his staff deserting. When in doubt, close ranks.

  Time to bluff his way forward.

  Stepping into the Ministry of Defence Main Building felt like deliberately walking out into rush-hour traffic in Trafalgar Square. In spite of the impressive amount of light coming through the glass acreage of the new development, Harry felt a darkness about the place, although he knew it was his imagination. He headed for the enquiry desk under the watchful eye of the security guards and flipped his Security Services card at the bristle-haired man on duty. It was just nine fifteen and there were a lot of people about, something he was hoping to turn to his advantage.

  ‘I’m here to catch General Patrick Foster’s press briefing,’ he said. ‘Last minute assignment.’ He’d been surprised to find how easy it had been for Rik to access the General’s timetable.

  The receptionist nodded and ran Harry’s card under a scanner. It would probably light up all manner of screens in the MOD and Security Services, but Harry was past caring. What could they do to him other than chuck him out? ‘Room 16A on the ground floor.’ The receptionist nodded towards the security screens and returned his card. ‘Through there and turn right, sixth door along. He’s been talking about fifteen minutes already.’

  Harry nodded and passed through the body scanner, then submitted to a security wand check before getting the OK
to proceed. So far so good.

  He arrived at 16A and stepped inside. The room was light and airy, concealed lighting giving the feel of a conservatory. General Foster was standing behind a lectern facing the door, gesturing towards a screen to one side showing a schematic of force distribution numbers against a background map of Afghanistan. The figures looked impressive, a multiple array of ground capabilities in various colours, an image of the country flooded with personnel. But Harry knew they were less than full; putting up detailed figures of how many men, women and machines were in theatre was as far beyond the instincts of the MOD as asking them to pull their own teeth with pliers. Whatever this press talk was meant to achieve, it was unlikely to be giving anyone – least of all the press – an accurate breakdown of UK and Coalition commitments in the fight against insurgents, but rather a political feel-good image for public consumption.

  Foster was droning, his voice dry and automatic, and Harry guessed he was here under orders, to put a man-on-the-ground gloss on the situation for the media. While he would be accustomed to talking, the press was unlikely to be his favoured audience. Like most military men, he would be happier talking to fellow professionals, using a direct language far removed from the discreet, carefully micro-managed words he would be using here and being watched by MOD suits to ensure he didn’t depart from the agreed script. Generals before him had done so, and the control now was far tighter than it had ever been.

  Harry checked the room. There were fewer than twenty in the audience, most of them photographers. It must have been disappointing for the MOD press office. Flying in a general all the way from Afghanistan should have generated a lot more interest, but maybe it was an indication of just how much information the press now had on a daily basis; they didn’t need to queue up to see the main man himself to know what was truly going on.