‘You eat too much,’ he said, as the guard flopped to the floor. He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door to behind him.
Serkhov looked at him. ‘Did he get to be a hero?’
‘Not really. I think it was a chemistry thing. Come on.’
SEVENTEEN
Rik Ferris struck gold not long after beginning his trawl for CCTVs along Coldharbour Lane. Close to where it intersected with Denmark Hill, he came to a short stretch of shops. Above a beauty salon, he spotted the blue glass eye of a camera beneath a protective dome. He checked the point where the bracket was fitted to the wall. He could see a power lead but no data cable. It was a wireless unit. His laptop carried a useful software programme called Eye Drop; it gave him the ability to plug in to wireless CCTV feeds and copy any recorded footage. But why stand out here and do it if he didn’t have to?
He entered the shop, where the air was hot and perfumed. It was little more than a reception area and trade counter, with glass racks of beauty products around the walls. A curtained doorway led through to a larger room at the back, from where he could hear laughter and the hum of a hair dryer.
He asked to see the manager, and the girl behind the counter disappeared through into the back, to be replaced moments later by a slim, striking woman in her fifties. She was wearing a white overall and peeling off rubber gloves.
‘Can I help you? I’m Maria Carvalho, the owner.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Carvalho.’ Rik smiled winningly and handed her his ID card. He explained that he was helping in the search for a young female patient who had discharged herself from the hospital. ‘She hasn’t completely recovered,’ he said. ‘We think she may be in shock, and confused by what happened. She was seen heading in this direction, and your camera might have picked her up.’
The woman looked him up and down with a momentary suspicion, then seemed to relent. ‘We fitted the camera after some break-ins,’ she explained, in a soft accent. ‘Our insurers insisted, and it seems to have worked well so far.’ She shrugged philosophically. ‘Or maybe we’ve just been lucky.’
‘How long do you keep recordings for?’
‘For no more than two weeks. It’s movement activated, so we don’t fill up the drive with pointless rubbish. At least, that’s what the man who sold it suggested.’
Rik nodded. He was familiar enough with the technology. The less footage he had to trawl through, the better. ‘Could I see it? It would cover just a couple of hours of recording, that’s all.’
She gestured towards the curtained doorway. ‘Of course. Come. I’ll show you where we keep the machine.’
Rik followed her through the main room, which was a combination beauty treatment and hair salon, nodding at a clutch of assistants and their customers. Mrs Carvalho led him to a small office and gestured to a shelf with a hard drive and monitor. The monitor’s screen was dark, but a green operating light was blinking on the hard drive.
‘Help yourself,’ she offered. ‘I’ve got a colouring job to finish, so please excuse me.’
Rik watched her leave, then got to work, calling up the programme menu and selecting a time frame which focussed on the night Clare left the hospital.
There were many brief snatches of movement, mostly of cars stopping at the kerb then moving off, and several pedestrians walking by. Conducted in silence, it had the eerie feel of a cheap horror film, with snatches of movement and the play of car headlights forming shadows across the pavement. The footage was grainy and stuttering, and whoever had sold Mrs Carvalho the system hadn’t gone for high-end technology. But it was clear enough to make out some detail of faces and clothing.
He’d been at it for nearly forty minutes when a figure went by just beneath the camera. He almost missed it, but for the glint of light off the metal stick in the figure’s hand. He hit rewound then played the scene again. A buzz of excitement went through him. It wasn’t a stick; there was an odd shaped attachment at the top.
A metal crutch.
He breathed easily and replayed the footage over and over, watching the figure ghost by, seemingly hugging the building and bent over. Female or slim male? Female. There was something about the build. From what he recalled about her, Clare wasn’t exactly sylph-like, but neither was she a weightlifter.
Then the area around the figure flared with light as a car pulled up at the kerb nearby, and the face became clear.
It was Clare.
Rik took out his mobile and called Harry.
‘Got a sighting.’ He gave the address of the beauty salon. ‘And I think the manager fancies me. Her name’s Carvalho. You’d better hurry – I’m frightened.’
‘Keep your legs crossed,’ replied Harry. ‘Two minutes.’
Rik ducked his head through into the main salon and beckoned to Mrs Carvalho. She followed him and he showed her the footage, pointing out the glitter of the crutch.
‘A colleague’s on his way to verify it, but I think this is her.’
‘Poor dear,’ the owner replied softly, a frown of concern etching her forehead. ‘Why is she walking like that?’
‘She had a stomach operation. It’s not fully healed yet and she shouldn’t be on her feet.’ He tapped the hard drive. ‘Can I isolate this section and email it to my computer? I’ll need to distribute this to others helping in the search.’
‘Of course, yes.’ She watched while he did it then said, ‘I hope you find her. This is not a good place for a young woman alone late at night.’
Voices approached and Harry walked in. He nodded at the woman and said, ‘Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs Carvalho. It’s good of you.’
‘Miss,’ she corrected him, and patted her hair, eyelashes fluttering. ‘Always happy to help.’
Harry peered at the screen. ‘It’s her.’
They made their escape, leaving the owner excitedly regaling her customers with the story.
‘She was heading north,’ said Rik. ‘But I’m not sure that helps us much.’
Harry took out a street map and stabbed it with his finger. ‘There’s a four-way junction up ahead with side streets. It’s going to be messy finding out which way she went from there. But it’s all we’ve got.’
It took them a further two hours of false starts, broken cameras, reluctant owners and poor footage around the large junction to find other premises with a private CCTV that offered a decent, useable clue. This one was above a bingo hall in Camberwell Road, showing Clare’s figure heading due north towards the area known as Elephant & Castle. She was bent over and seemed to be leaning on the crutch more than she had been earlier.
‘She must be hurting,’ Rik commented. ‘Could you do that? I couldn’t.’ His voice carried a hint of admiration.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Nor me. Come on.’ He thanked the bingo hall manageress for her help and led the way back onto the street.
‘Where to?’
‘She’s going for the river,’ said Harry. He made a note in his notebook. He’d been plotting the position of street cameras as they went, building the progress line ready to hand over to Ballatyne. The MI6 man might not be able to do much with it very quickly, but being able to give him precise positions where Clare had passed by would narrow down the search time considerably.
It made him wonder what Clare had in mind, and whether she was absolutely clear about her intentions. The closer she got to the centre of London, if that’s where she was heading, the greater became the density and coverage of street cameras. And that exposed her to enormous risks of discovery by the MI6 trackers as well as the Russians. On the other hand, tracking a single figure through the streets, camera by camera, was not that simple, unless someone had access to real-time footage and knew exactly where to look. If the followers on either side got that much, then they would have Clare in their sights, unless he and Rik could get to her first.
He consulted a street map. The Elephant & Castle would be a nightmare for the two of them to check out. There were several roads leading off f
rom the main gyratory system, and a maze of smaller streets Clare could have ducked into to stay out of the open. Covering them all would be impossible without an army of helpers or direct access to the street cameras from a central position.
He followed the map with his finger, leap-frogging ahead. Clare probably knew this area as well as he did. If so, she’d have probably headed for somewhere familiar, somewhere she could join the army of night people gathering in the area and lose herself among them. That meant only one logical destination: Waterloo Station.
He texted Ballatyne.
EIGHTEEN
‘Where are you right now?’ It was Ballatyne, in answer to Harry’s text. He sounded rushed.
‘Near Waterloo. We’ve had a sighting of Clare.’
‘Never mind that. This is not an instruction for you to get involved, but an update. There’s been a shooting at King’s College hospital. The security control centre was raided by two armed men. They forced their way in and made the operator hand over a hard drive with CCTV footage of the night Tobinskiy was killed. Then they shot him.’
‘Dead?’
‘No. He’s alive but hurting.’
‘Any indications who they were?’
‘The guard was able to talk just before he went into the operating theatre. He said the man doing all the talking sounded English at first, but an accent came through a couple of times. There was another man who stayed outside the control room. He looked East European and was built like a wrestler. There’s footage of him and the shooter leaving the building together through a side door. Then nothing. The police are working on cameras in the area, but my guess is these jokers will merge into the background.’
‘Russians?’
‘Undoubtedly. Looks like the FSB team decided to get hold of the footage. Comes across as panic measures to me, probably to cover their tracks from their visit the other night.’
‘Why would they bother?’ Harry countered. ‘There’s the footage from today’s entry. They’re clearly not worried about leaving evidence. Not that it proves who they were.’
A long pause. ‘Good point. In that case they must be counting on tracking down Clare before we do and getting out of the country. Thanks to the obstruction by the hospital authorities, they now have a lead on us. As soon as they scan that hard drive and put out pictures to their resident network on the streets, Jardine’s hours are numbered.’
‘Wasn’t there a backup drive?’
‘That was the backup. And the hospital’s still dragging its heels in releasing the original footage.’ His breathing echoed down the line. ‘I give them about four hours before the executives are hit with a massive court order which will freeze their balls.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Harry gave this new development some thought, then said, ‘It would help if we could cut this short.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Following her trail is taking too long; she could be anywhere. She’ll probably be looking for help by now, and there’s a limit on who she’d approach. Do you have that name for me? There must have been at least one person she was friendly with. Nobody works in a complete vacuum.’
‘Damn. You never give up, do you? OK. I got one. Her name’s Alice Alanya. She’s a Russian language specialist, thirty-four and single, lives in Harrow, north London. She was friendly with Jardine, but as far as I can make out, no more than that. They shared briefings on a couple of Jardine’s assignments, and Alanya gave her some refresher sessions to keep her language up to date. As far as I can make out without disturbing the water, she was about as close to Jardine as anybody.’
‘Disturbing the water?’
‘I’m having a problem with the deputy head of the Russian desk. It means going through back-channels to avoid her.’ Internal politics. He didn’t elaborate further. ‘I’ll email you a photo in a minute.’
‘Is Alanya clean?’
‘You mean with her surname? There’s no reason to think she isn’t. Her great grandfather was a Russian émigré, but any allegiance to the old country ran out a long way back. She’s just another member of Six, that’s all.’
‘Where do I find her?’
‘She’s a creature of habit. She leaves the building about six thirty unless there’s a buzz on, and gets home via Harrow-on-the-Hill.’ He read out an address. ‘Go easy on her. I don’t want this spreading fire and panic throughout the service. Use my name if you have to but keep it low-level.’
Harrow-on-the-Hill tube station was no more or less prepossessing than any other station Harry had used, although it had the disadvantage of possessing two entrances on opposing sides of the line. The northern exit and ticket hall gave access to the main shops and town centre off College Road; the southern exit gave out onto a back road opposite a small recreational park. Alice Alanya’s home address, a small block of private flats on a residential street to the east, was reachable from either direction.
Harry watched as the flow of passengers walked by from the northbound line. He was checking faces while trying to look bored, occasionally checking his watch like a man on a date. Rik was across the way, doing the same in case Harry missed the target. They had decided to wait at the tube station for her, rather than following her from SIS headquarters, on the grounds that the less time they shared the same space, the less likely Alanya was to pick up on their presence. Even non-field operatives were trained to be alert at all times, in case of being under surveillance from foreign agencies, but according to Ballatyne, Alanya had been involved in special operations because of her language expertise, so she would be even more aware of the need for caution.
Harry checked the print-out of the photo Ballatyne had emailed him. Alice Alanya was slim, about five feet eight inches, with long dark hair, pale skin and a nice smile. He hadn’t been able to think of a better word; she was pretty without being beautiful, but would attract attention from most men without trying.
Which made him wonder why she was single. Ballatyne had been unable to help on that score, as closer questioning of her colleagues would have aroused suspicions and chatter in the office – something he wanted to avoid.
Another trainload decamped and walked by. Equal numbers of men and women, mostly office workers but a few in more casual gear or work clothes. The flow dropped to a trickle, then ones and twos in no particular hurry, some using mobiles. A minute passed by and Harry looked across at Rik, who shrugged and got ready to wait some more.
In the sudden quiet, they heard footsteps. A young woman, walking at normal speed, head up, alert. Shoulder bag, smart suit, white blouse. Officer worker. She was heading for the northern exit.
Alice Alanya.
Harry already had his phone clamped to his ear. He started talking, saying he was on his way and he’d be there in five minutes, an imaginary but entirely plausible conversation heard a hundred times a day. It was a signal to Rik to start walking away, front-running the target to keep his face hidden, but assuming the normal route home unless told otherwise by Harry.
Alanya stopped just a hundred yards from the station and entered a store advertising East-European food. Harry called Rik to tread water and wait for her to emerge, while he carried on walking. He was playing safe in case she had ducked into the store for more than just groceries; she might have done it to check her back. He passed Rik without speaking, and turned the corner and waited behind a builder’s van parked at the kerb.
Moments later his phone rang. It was Rik.
‘She’s coming out, heading your way. Carrying a plastic bag. I’m following.’
Harry watched as Alanya came into view and crossed the road. She appeared unconcerned, walking at the same speed, another worker on her way home, now with the makings of dinner.
He gave her a hundred yards, with Rik following, then crossed to the other side and joined in.
Five minutes later, she entered the block of flats they had scouted out earlier. A single front entrance beneath a canopy, three floors, a smart building, well mainta
ined. Harry joined Rik fifty yards past the block.
There were no signs of other watchers.
‘You going in first or me?’ Rik asked.
‘I’ll do it. I look more like Internal Security. You look more like a cat burglar.’ He was looking at Rik’s clothes for the day, which, unlike his jacket and slacks, were jeans, a nondescript T-shirt and scuffed trainers. His normally spiky hair had been tamed by an application of gel to prevent him standing out.
Rik grinned. ‘Cheers. That’s the kindest thing you’ve said all day. I’ll hold the fort out here.’
Harry nodded, then walked back to the block of flats and through the entrance.
Alice Alanya was waiting just inside. She looked calm.
She was holding a can of Mace in her hand.
NINETEEN
‘Why are you following me?’ She was holding the Mace ready, knuckles white. One blast and he’d be on his knees clutching his face, eyes streaming. One well-placed kick if she’d been trained right and he’d be out for the count.
She was good.
Harry already had his MI5 card in his hand. He held it up as her fingers tightened around the can. ‘Official business. If you use the Mace, my colleague will come in and jump all over you.’
It wasn’t true, but might make her think twice.
She blinked, eyes flicking towards the entrance. ‘You mean the scruffy young guy in glasses and trainers? He looks lightweight.’ Up close, she looked fit and capable. The nice bit had sunk beneath the surface.
‘That’s the one. He’ll love you for noticing. Can we go inside . . . or somewhere more public?’
‘Who do you think I am?’ She was nervous now, more so than when she’d thought he was just a prowler. Investigators from the Security Service landing on your doorstep usually had that effect, especially when you’re in the same business.
Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) Page 9