Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller)

by Adrian Magson

  ‘What about the Englishman?’ Votrukhin asked. ‘Did he come good?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Gorelkin opened out a map of London. It had a series of coloured dots on it. The furthest south was a short distance from King’s College. There were six more, all in a line leading towards central London, all black. The last black dot was at Waterloo Station.

  ‘These black dots represent firm sightings of Jardine,’ Gorelkin explained. ‘They end at Waterloo Station, but there’s an imperfect shot of a figure across the river near Charing Cross Station which could be her.’

  ‘The blue ones,’ said Serkhov, ‘are they possibles only?’

  ‘Yes. Either the image was poor or it was too far to tell for certain. There would have been others bearing a similarity to Jardine, of course, but the blue ones are in line with where she might have gone, so we don’t discount those.’

  He placed one hand on the paper, forming a curve with his thumb and forefinger. The curve embraced the area of Battersea in the south right up to Waterloo Station and the Embankment in the north, including where the river bent eastwards towards the area of Southwark and London Bridge. ‘Start here by the river and work your way across to the north and west. She is in that area somewhere. Maybe north of the river by now, maybe not. Use those you can trust to spread the photos.’

  ‘What does Paulton think?’ Votrukhin ventured a question. ‘He’s the expert. Does he have an opinion he’d like to share with us?’

  ‘Only that Victoria is probably a good area for anyone to hide. Lots of tourists, lots of movement, cheap hotels and faces nobody remembers.’

  ‘It’s still a hell of an area.’ Votrukhin picked up the map and folded it, nodding at Serkhov to bring the box of photos. He might not like what they had to do, but refusing Gorelkin’s orders was not an option.

  Gorelkin smiled and checked his watch. ‘You’re correct, lieutenant; it’s a big area. It’s now eight o’clock. Do it right and you should have this part of London covered by nightfall.’ He stood up, straightening his jacket. ‘Find her, deal with her . . . and you might just be forgiven for letting her go in the first place.’

  Harry and Rik had had the same idea, although they were working with a better head and shoulders shot of Clare, from JPEGs supplied by Ballatyne. They were at least three years old but clearer than any CCTV shot. They also had the advantage of being less likely to arouse suspicion among those they approached that she had been filmed by a security camera, and was therefore on the run from the authorities.

  Harry had abandoned any idea of checking the neighbourhood where Clare had once lived, on the simple grounds that she wasn’t the nostalgic sort and wouldn’t bother returning there.

  They reached Victoria Station and began to ask around, having decided to split up and work their way south towards the river. It was dog work, requiring them to go into the darkest corners they could find, but necessary if they wanted to reach the most obvious people – the ones Clare might have met in the past few days. They approached street hostels, rough sleeper communities, figures huddled in sleeping bags and beneath layers of cardboard; they checked doorways and empty premises, squats and renovation sites, spoke to traffic wardens and sweepers, rail workers and café owners. The response became numbingly similar, mostly in the negative. But equally depressing were the possible sightings too vague or too long ago to follow up easily, from individuals trying to help, yet offering a tantalising hint that Clare was out there somewhere.

  By midday, they had exhausted their supply of photos, and were forced to take Rik’s memory stick into a printer to get more produced.

  ‘She might have moved further out,’ Rik suggested, as they sat and drank coffee, waiting for the photos. ‘Or north of here. There are plenty of squats beyond Park Lane, fancy big places waiting to be renovated.’

  Harry knew he was right. But they couldn’t afford to spread the search too thin. They were already overstretched as it was. Clare could be anywhere in the city, he knew that; but it was simply his instinct that placed her somewhere within reach.

  He took out his mobile and composed a text. This one wasn’t for Ballatyne.

  We can help you. Ring me. He paused, wondering what he could use as an identifier. To Clare, on the run and hurting, this text could easily be a trap to lure her out of hiding. Then he had it. He added, Pink Compact. So not your colour. He dialled the number of Fortiani’s mobile and pressed Send.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Have you seen this woman?’ Serkhov shoved the photo under the nose of a man sitting in the doorway of a day hostel a hundred yards south of Victoria Station. The doors were locked and the alcove reeked of urine. Serkhov tried not to throw up at the rank body odour coming off him.

  ‘Say what, pal?’ The eyes were slate grey and unfocussed, his greasy skin a network of veins and ingrained dirt. The neck of a bottle stuck out from his coat pocket.

  Serkhov swore silently and gave up. He’d seen drunks like this too many times to be surprised. Back in Moscow they were a feature of the landscape, high on illicit vodka or samogon, and the cheap chacha as it was known in Georgia, all liable to be dangerously toxic. He placed the heel of his hand on the man’s forehead and slammed his head back against the door. He wished instantly that he could wash his hands and turned away in disgust.

  Across the street, Votrukhin watched and shook his head. He placed a mint on his tongue, allowing the sharp flavour to spread around his mouth. Given time, he’d have used more subtle methods and picked their targets more carefully, chatting first to gain their confidence, maybe even buying them a drink or two. But time was something he didn’t have, and subtlety an art Serkhov had never possessed.

  They had already handed out dozens of photos in the area, and secured the dubious promises of several illegals to hand out more and spread the word about the missing woman to the north and east. For the most part, that meant waiting to see what came back. But in the meantime, doing something was better than nothing, and might keep Gorelkin off their backs.

  He turned and walked along the street, Serkhov following a parallel path on the other side. A street sweeper in a bright orange tabard was scooping up some litter. He stopped alongside him, holding out the still of Jardine taken from the CCTV footage.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Have you seen this girl? She’s thought to be in the area. She discharged herself from hospital and could be in danger.’

  The man squinted at the photo for a second, then shook his head. ‘No, pal, I haven’t seen her. Like I told the other bloke, there’s a thousand look just like her walk past here every day. Sorry.’

  Votrukhin thanked him and was about to walk away when he stopped. ‘The other man? Big with a shaved head?’ If it matched, it would be Serkhov, but he hadn’t been working this area until now – and then only across the street.

  ‘No. Young guy, spiky hair. Looked like a charity worker but he wasn’t.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Dunno. Something about him. A bit sure of himself, if you know what I mean. I reckon he had copper written all over him. Have you told the cops about her?’

  ‘Ah, of course. That would be it.’ Votrukhin thanked him and moved away, his antennae twitching. He caught Serkhov’s eye and signalled him to wait, then walked across the street to join him.

  ‘We have company,’ he announced, scanning the area carefully. ‘A young man with spiky hair, could be police, also showing a photo of Jardine and asking if anyone has seen her.’

  Serkhov pushed his lip out. ‘Could it have been one of our drones?’ A name for the more trusted illegals they had recruited to broaden the search across London.

  ‘No. There’s no way any of them would be mistaken for police – not by a local, anyway.’

  ‘So who are they?’

  ‘Security services, I think. MI5, MI6 . . . even sub-contractors. She disappeared the same night as Tobinskiy died, so it makes sense that they will be looking for her to ask why.’ He felt bad for
not dealing with the woman as Serkhov had suggested, when they’d had a chance. Unless they recouped the situation and got to Jardine first, this was going to come back and bite him, he was certain. Team leaders shouldn’t make these kind of mistakes. ‘This is getting too crowded for comfort.’

  Serkhov scowled. ‘Do we carry on? If it’s Security, they might spot us before we see them.’

  ‘We have no choice.’ He fixed Serkhov with a hard stare. Now was not the time for doubts. ‘There might be more of them working the area as a team. Keep your eyes open for anyone flashing photos.’

  ‘And if they see us first?’

  ‘Chyornyiy rules, remember? Deal with it.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  To Harry, in spite of Fortiani’s beliefs to the contrary, The Grove wine bar looked exactly the sort of place to pick up a spare mobile phone. It was a high-end bistro and restaurant on two floors, standing on a prominent corner spot a few minutes from Victoria Station. One look inside and he’d already spotted several phones prominently displayed where anyone trained in brush-past techniques would scoop them up in an instant. With so much laughter and talk, busy waiters juggling trays of food and drinks, clients coming and going, often from one table to another in pursuit of gossip and connections, it was like an ants’ nest of furious activity.

  Just the kind of place Clare would have targeted.

  He stood on the corner outside, trying to get a feel for the area. The buildings here were up-scale and neat, the streets open. Not the best place for a fugitive to hide in. While The Grove would have been ideal for a fishing trip, to pick up a mobile phone, Clare would have been looking for somewhere more compact to duck into, with plenty of interconnected run-throughs and preferably without cameras. Victoria was attractive, with thousands of business travellers and tourists to use as cover, but anybody pursuing her would make that the first place to look. And a young woman with a stick would stand out.

  He consulted his map and felt his spirits sink. Pick anywhere with a pin. It would take a team weeks to go through the lot.

  Rik joined him, shaking his head. ‘Not even any possibles.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘We’re not the only ones looking for her, though.’

  Harry looked at him. ‘I know. I’ve had a couple of comments. What did you hear?’

  ‘Four people mentioned guys flashing photos around – photos of a young woman. One said the photo looked like a still from a security camera. No reliable descriptions, but they all said they had foreign accents. A couple I spoke to reckoned they were Czechs or Poles, like illegals.’

  ‘Or Russians.’

  ‘Exactly. But the descriptions were of young guys, probably no more than twenty, and not well dressed. The line they were selling said the same thing: the woman had discharged herself from hospital.’

  Harry nodded. Any other story would not have elicited the same sympathy or desire to help. But the men doing the asking sounded unusually young. Reliable FSB operators working overseas were usually older, having proved their trustworthiness and picked up a bagful of experience and scars along the way. Twenty was too young.

  ‘They’ve been clever,’ he concluded. ‘They’re using the street traffic. Doing what we’re doing but on a bigger scale, and using illegals or over-stayers to spread the word. Put out enough photos and someone somewhere will hit pay dirt and get the reward.’

  His phone rang and he grabbed it eagerly, hoping it would be Clare.

  It was Ballatyne.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Alanya and checked the operations log. The two men in the Focus were a security surveillance team sent to check her out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the simple reason that she was buddies with Jardine. This business has got everyone in a spin. Deane’s got internal security turning the place inside out for anybody who so much as looked squinty-eyed at Jardine. Alanya happened to be top of the shit list.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She is now. She thinks you’re midway between Superman and a saint, by the way. Personally I think she’s deluded, but there you go.’

  ‘It’s a strain, I know. Who’s Deane?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  Harry had a sudden thought. Clare worked the Russian section and Alice Alanya was a Russian language specialist. ‘He’s Head of the Russian desk, isn’t he?’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘I know – you can’t tell me otherwise you’d have to send round one of your hotshots to shoot me. I get that. But who else would have an interest in this Tobinskiy business? Does this Deane know there’s a Russian wet team out there?’

  Ballatyne breathed heavily down the phone. It was enough to tell Harry that he was correct. ‘She, actually,’ he said finally. ‘And if she does know she’s not saying. Her name’s Candida Deane. She’s deputy head while her boss is off sick. It’s an open secret that she’s hoping he stays that way.’

  ‘So she’s ambitious.’

  ‘With good reason; from the Russian desk to the upper reaches of the totem pole is an easy stretch. It carries more responsibility, it takes more budget and it has a lot of history. Bets are that she’ll make it, and she won’t care who she burns on the way, me included. I never told you any of that, of course.’

  ‘She sounds like a toughie.’

  ‘Like a junk yard dog. She’s not to be messed with, Harry. She’s one of the new breed; all MBAs and focus meetings and barbed wire knickers. But she’s no shrinking violet. She likes to collect trophies and she’s built a team around her who think the same way.’

  ‘Warning noted. What about that other thing I asked you for? The target.’

  A longer silence while Ballatyne played with his conscience, then: ‘Jardine’s target was a woman – a Russian. Her name was Katya Balenkova, and she was a captain in the Federal Protective Service, or FSO.’

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Probably. Give me five and I’ll call you back.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Lieutenant Katya Balenkova strode through the arrivals hall at Vienna Schwechat International Airport, scanning faces among the groups of meeters and greeters. Most looked local, with a few business types standing around exchanging pleasantries or deep in conversation on mobile phones. While she couldn’t imagine any of them possibly presenting a threat to the three government financial specialists from Moscow coming along behind her, it was her job to ensure that their passage was unhindered and safe.

  She dismissed each person quickly, automatically checking body outlines for the bulge of concealed weapons, and eyes for a look too intense and focussed for this place. When she was certain the way was clear, she turned and gave a signal to Bronyev, her FSO colleague. He nodded and herded the three bankers towards the main concourse and exit, where a limousine would be waiting outside.

  She felt almost naked without her service weapon, which they were not permitted to carry on flights for obvious reasons. But it wouldn’t be for long; as soon as they reached the city, she and Bronyev would be issued with side-arms from the embassy’s armoury. It would not be a fact made known to the Austrian authorities who, like most countries, would take a dim view of the carrying of guns on their sovereign soil. But the Russian government’s view was that bodyguards without weapons were like bulldogs without teeth.

  She stepped back to avoid the senior of the three men, a particularly loathsome bureaucrat named Dobrev, who had been eyeing her openly ever since they had met the previous day. Overweight and pasty, with gelled hair and a heavy gut like excess baggage, he had made no secret of his intentions on this trip, suggesting that a drink at the earliest opportunity once they reached the convention hotel in Vienna would be an excellent way to show his appreciation for her security services. He had ignored Bronyev’s disapproving stare, resting his pudgy hand on Katya’s arm just a shade too long, snuffling pig-like with pleasure and pressing himself against her.

  She had resisted the desire to kn
ee him in the balls, and instead feigned a quick move to check out a nearby cab driver loitering for a fare. Having already been demoted from captain to her present rank of lieutenant after getting caught in a foreign espionage sting – although she had been cleared of any deliberate intent by an enquiry panel – dropping a fat banker to the floor with a Grozny handshake would only make things worse. And she had no wish to see what the job felt like at an even lower rank. Probably shepherding local dignitaries in some God-awful backwater in the Urals, just to make them feel valued and important, a small but vital cog in the machine that was the new Russia.

  The official driver from the embassy was waiting by his car, a black Mercedes, as arranged. Katya watched from the side as Bronyev ushered the three men out of the main entrance and across the pavement, under the eye of two policemen who knew an official car when they saw one, even though it carried no pennant on its nose to smooth the way. It was all done with much petty fussing by the bankers, keen to have onlookers notice them and wonder at their importance, even if nobody quite knew what they represented.

  So different, she thought, to the charges she had once worked with and guarded so assiduously. Diplomats, ministers and military men of the highest ranks, they knew the game and played it correctly. Grandstanding in public was for special days, parades and national celebrations; every other day out in the open, wherever they were, demanded rigorous adherence to protection rules. That meant no wandering off, continuous movement unless told to stop by their guards, and no ostentation likely to attract the attention of political extremist or terrorists.

  And at all times, following the advice of their minders.

  It was mostly bullshit now, she realised that. In the main, the men – always men – wore civilian clothes, unless on parade or at a function, and were as faceless as the next man, albeit far better dressed. But wearing a fancy imported suit merely made them envied or resented, rarely if ever a target.