Tracers

by Adrian Magson

  It was as they were walking back to the car that Harry realized Jennings hadn’t shown any interest in how they had fastened on to Silverman and tracked him through the airport. That could only mean that he knew about their visit to Transit Support Services to access the airport tapes.

  The only question was, how?

  Rik closed the car door. ‘You didn’t mention about the blank we got on Silverman in the university,’ he said. ‘Or that the professor’s friend knows tradecraft. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Patience, Grasshopper,’ Harry replied vaguely, his mind still on Jennings. There were only two ways the lawyer could have known about them viewing the tapes. The first and obvious one was if Karen had told someone. They had never met her before, but he knew Sandra wouldn’t have suggested it if she hadn’t trusted the woman – she had too much to lose. ‘Two murders, both people traced by us, yet all he’s fixated on is Silverman, as if he’s the answer to the Holy Grail.’ He pushed back the passenger seat and stretched his legs. ‘This is no more about a runaway professor than my Aunt Fanny.’

  Rik was nodding. ‘He was more pissed that we’d gone after Param than at the fact that the poor bugger got knifed. You want me to go back in and poke something sharp up his nose? I’d enjoy that.’

  ‘Tempting, but not yet. Best make sure we get paid first.’ He was considering the second way Jennings could have known what they were up to. At the same time, he was trying hard not to connect dots which might have no relationship to each other. Paranoia was a deadly result of this game – of any game where secrets were a major part of the background, a currency, almost. He’d got used to it in MI5, managing to compartmentalize each part of the job so that he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation. Others he’d known had not fared so well, ending up with careers and marriages in ruins, fearful of their own shadows. But a pattern was beginning to form around everything they were doing which he didn’t like the feel of, and all his antennae were now quivering. First Matuq, then Param . . . and the growing feeling that Jennings wasn’t as put out by the deaths as he should have been. And if he wasn’t put out, it meant he wasn’t surprised. That only led to one conclusion.

  He was having them followed.

  Harry’s phone buzzed. It was the dispatcher from the cab firm.

  ‘The driver’s here,’ said the man without preamble. ‘His name is Nasir. But don’t hold him up – it’s mental here and I’ve got drivers off sick. I need him on the road.’ There was a rumble of conversation at the other end and another man’s voice came on.

  ‘I help you?’ he said warily. His voice was heavily accented, but with an overlay of London vowels on certain words. ‘Is no problems, right?’

  ‘No. No problems,’ Harry assured him. He turned on the mobile’s loudspeaker. ‘We’re trying to trace a man who has gone missing, Mr Nasir. You picked up two men from Heathrow’s Terminal Two on the twenty-seventh, at around two thirty. It was a pre-booked collection. Do you remember that?’

  There was a short silence, then, ‘Two men? Yes, I remember.’ In the background, someone shouted and a door slammed. ‘Was a booking. I pick up two passengers.’

  ‘Good. Where did you take them?’

  ‘I collect from terminal as arranged, on time. But passenger was impatient. First he say go to Slough. Not a problem for me. But then later he change his mind and say Southall, then he say Hillingdon. Also not a problem. I am flexible.’

  ‘Where in Hillingdon? It’s important.’

  ‘Sure. You know ski centre? I drop them off in car park and they get into a Suzuki four-wheel drive. Nice car. Very strong. I am thinking of buying one for my son when he graduates.’

  Harry knew the place. Hillingdon Ski Centre was a short hop from the Western Avenue, the main route into the city from the M40. ‘OK, that’s good, Mr Nasir. Did you see the driver of the Suzuki?’

  ‘No. I did not notice. Sorry.’

  ‘What was the colour of the car?’

  ‘Yellow. Like canary. You want the registration?’

  Harry wondered for a second if Mr Nasir was being sarcastic. Then he realized the cab driver was serious.

  ‘You’ve got it?’ He grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen.

  ‘Sure. I have a memory for all numbers like this,’ Nasir explained proudly, and carefully recited the number. ‘My son also – he is going to be a systems analyst.’

  ‘What name did they use for the pick-up? I forgot to ask the dispatcher.’

  ‘Ah, of course. Moment, please.’ There was a clunk as Nasir put down the phone and spoke to someone in the background. Then he came back. ‘OK. I have it. The pick-up was in the name of a Mr Barrett. The younger man, I think. But that not his real name.’ Nasir gave a knowing chuckle. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because Barrett is very English name, no? But the man who spoke to me . . . the young man, he is not English.’

  ‘What language did he speak?’

  ‘At first, always English. But after, until I drop them off, he does not speak at all.’

  ‘What about the other man?’

  ‘Not him either. No words. They sit like strangers, yet they are together like brothers. Even when I speak to them, to engage in small chit-chat, you know, they do not answer except with noises. But, as they walk away, I hear them speak. First the older man, I hear him ask the other where they are going and how much longer it will be as he is tired after his journey. The younger man tells him – seriously but most respectfully – that he must not speak and soon all will become clear.’

  Harry experienced the sinking of disappointment. He’d been hoping for something more definite. Then something occurred to him. ‘Was this in English?’

  Mr Nasir sounded surprised. ‘No, sir. Not speaking English now. They are speaking my language. Very normal for them, I can tell.’

  ‘I don’t follow. Your language?’

  ‘Yes, sir. These two men come from my country, my province. From Karbala, south of Baghdad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Men are native-born Iraqis.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The atmosphere in the car was tense as they headed towards Paddington, both men trying to come to grips with the revelation about Silverman’s nationality, and the fact that they had either been fooled along with Jennings or had been lied to by him.

  Harry was fast coming to believe it was the latter.

  ‘You think Nasir was mistaken?’ said Rik finally.

  ‘What? No, I don’t,’ said Harry. ‘Unless Silverman’s fluent in Nasir’s local dialect.’ It was a possibility, yet instinct told Harry that a man like Nasir was unlikely to make such a mistake. Whatever Silverman’s words had been, they had plainly convinced the taxi driver that he was listening to one of his own countrymen.

  ‘Great. So our absent-bodied professor moves like Action Man, and instead of Hebrew, he speaks like an Iraqi.’

  Harry stared out at the passing traffic. ‘I think because he is one. We can forget anything Jennings told us. He’s got some explaining to do.’

  ‘Unless we screwed up.’ Rik looked worried at the prospect. ‘Could we have latched on to the wrong man coming through the airport?’

  Harry had no such doubts. ‘If we’re going by the description, it was Silverman – we’re not that careless. He had the bandage and the facial marking. And it’s Arabic, by the way.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The Iraqis speak Arabic. And some Kurdish.’

  ‘So now you’re a linguist?’

  ‘I’m all manner of things.’ He chewed his lip. ‘It would help if we could get a line on who owns the Suzuki.’

  ‘No problem. I can do that. But I’ll have to stop – unless you want to drive?’

  ‘No. We’ve got time.’ Harry still hadn’t thought about what to do next. He needed a few moments to make a decision.

  Rik pulled to the side of the road and retrieved his laptop from the boot. He swit
ched it on and connected via his mobile to the Internet. Harry didn’t bother watching – he’d seen it all before and it still left him cold.

  Minutes later Rik scribbled a note on the slip of paper with the Suzuki’s registration. ‘It’s listed to a B. Templeton, South Acres, near Kensworth, Luton. No known recent sale.’

  Harry nodded. Unless the car had been stolen or sold without paperwork, it was a start. ‘Sounds like a farm.’

  ‘Or a caravan site. My auntie had a mobile home at a place called South Acres. Down at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. We used to go there for summer holidays . . . until it fell over the cliff in a high wind.’ He glanced across and closed the laptop. ‘Are we going to take a look?’

  ‘Not we. Me. Drop me at my place and I’ll get my car. I need you to be on standby back here. And just in case we get the call to find Yvonne Michaels, you can start researching her background.’

  Harry took the piece of paper and studied it. It would be easy to drop the assignment here and now; to forget about Silverman and go find other work. There was plenty out there if you knew where to look. But would it really be that simple? Quite apart from the fact that he and Rik were now linked by proximity to two murders, he was intrigued by what they had so far unravelled. Could he really put aside what he knew and forget it?

  They travelled in silence for a while until Harry said quietly, ‘There’s something seriously off about this.’

  ‘What?’ Rik glanced at him.

  ‘All of it. Two runners die right after we find them, and an Iraqi comes into the country on a false ticket and goes into a covert huddle. What the hell has Jennings got us involved in?’

  ‘You think they’re linked?’ Rik looked nervous. ‘Terrorists? An Al-Qaeda cell?’ He let out a long breath at the possibility. ‘Sounds a bit wild. I can’t see Param as a pal of Osama.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ Harry agreed. ‘But it hardly seems normal, does it? Nasir the taxi man’s normal. His kid graduating and getting a car, that’s normal. Not this.’

  Twenty minutes later, Harry was in the Saab heading north. He gave the M1 a miss and threaded his way instead on to quieter county roads, using the time to think. Rik was right, this whole business was wild. But then, the activities of terrorists and criminals usually were . . . if that was indeed what Silverman was. How he, Matuq and Param could possibly tie in together was, on the surface, impossible. The three of them, given what he knew of their backgrounds, were worlds apart. Yet instinct told him there must be a common factor. All he had to do was find it. The idea that he might be slipping into the kind of territory he had decided to leave behind was disturbing. If there was a terrorist dimension to this, and the situation was going hot, it could escalate rapidly into something beyond his control.

  As he eased clear of a built-up area of housing and shops, he checked his mirror, automatically cataloguing the traffic behind. A couple of big trucks, a van and one or two cars. They’d been there for a while, all of them. Nothing to worry him. And why should there be? And yet . . .

  He felt uneasy. He wasn’t normally given to seeing shadows, yet something about the past few days was beginning to get under his skin. He noted a lay-by coming up. He waited until the last moment, then spun the wheel and braked hard, skidding into a dipped, single-track hollow shielded from the road by a dense layer of bushes. He pulled up and waited, the engine running, watching the mirror.

  Nothing. He counted to thirty, waiting for the first signs of a vehicle coming in after him. Most days in most situations, he trusted his instincts. And while the best of alarms occasionally threw up a false flag, the one time you ignored them was usually when something was wrong.

  Apart from the hum of cars and the heavier beat of an occasional truck engine, every vehicle continued on by without slowing.

  He gave it five more minutes, fighting against the desire to keep moving. Moving was good; moving stopped you becoming an easy target. When you stopped you became vulnerable. After five minutes, he climbed out and went to the boot, reached in and found the metal box. He flipped the dial and opened the lid. The handgun was concealed under a layer of foam. A 9mm Browning semi-automatic variant, it carried no identification marks, the dark steel well worn and showing signs of its passage through many hands. But it was clean and oiled and, as a quick check revealed, ready for use. He made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his pocket.

  He got back in the car, wondering whether he should have left Rik in London. But Rik was a computer whizz, not a field man. Harry had taken him to a private range a few times, to give him a workout. He had shown a good eye and a steady hand, and had performed well on a defensive driving course. But it didn’t make him ready to be thrown into a dangerous situation and able to cope instinctively.

  Unlike himself. A hangover from being a field officer in the security service was that Harry had left with the unusual proviso of being ‘carded’ – permitted to carry a handgun as a civilian. It meant he was on call by the authorities if the need arose. He’d fought against it at first, determined not to have any kind of umbilical cord tying him to an organization that had tried its level best to kill him. But in the end the offer had been too easy to accept and he’d given in, persuaded against his better judgement that it might be useful. After all, what was the likelihood of him being called? They had better, younger and brighter bodies on their books.

  But authorized or not, there was still a risk to carrying an automatic weapon in his car. Especially if he ran into a random police check and was unable to provide proof of his authority quickly enough. It was reason enough not to drag Rik into it . . . and one of the reasons he had never told him about being carded. Even so.

  He took out his mobile and considered calling him. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and he should warn him to keep an eye out for unusual movement around his flat. But what if Rik overreacted and got himself into a jam? He decided against it. No point in raising the tension unnecessarily. First he needed proof.

  A mile ahead of the lay-by, Dog sat astride a trials bike in the forecourt of a petrol station and sipped from a small bottle of mineral water. And waited.

  He was dressed in worn, nondescript black leathers and a scratched crash helmet, and was watching for signs of the Saab.

  Whatever had caused Tate to pull off the road so abruptly didn’t particularly concern him; he was certain he hadn’t been made, although that might change the longer he stayed on Tate’s tail. But any deviation from the norm was a change in pattern and, in Dog’s experience, such changes often carried unforeseen dangers if you ignored them.

  When the familiar car flashed by ten minutes later, he tossed the bottle into a bin and dialled a number on his mobile. When a voice answered, he said, ‘We’re off again.’ Then he switched off the mobile and powered away after the Saab.

  NINETEEN

  Unaware of Dog’s presence, Harry was soon off the main routes and cruising through quiet back roads. He drove fast, negotiating the bends with ease and flicking past slower traffic and the occasional cluster of houses. All the while he kept an eye out for signs of pursuit, but saw nobody hovering in his wake for longer than seemed normal.

  A sign came up for South Acres. A crudely painted sheet of marine ply nailed to a pine tree at the side of the road, it bore an arrow pointing down a narrow, unpaved track. The track disappeared into a thick belt of conifers and seemed to lead to the only dwelling for some distance.

  Harry turned round and drove back slowly past the entrance to study the layout. The track bent out of sight after fifty yards, and wherever South Acres was, it lay screened by trees at the top of a rising slope.

  A hundred yards beyond the entrance was a scrubby, unkempt field dotted with tufts of couch grass. A few weather-worn poles and uprights lay scattered, with a rusting feed bin on its side, buckled and unused. The paint on the poles was peeling and dull, and if any horses had jumped them, it must have been a long time ago. Another line of trees at the end of the field prevent
ed any view of a house or farm buildings. A newish TO LET sign on a post stood against the fence near the road, with the agent’s name followed by a phone number.

  Harry spotted a gap in a group of trees just beyond the field and stopped. He reversed off the road until the nose of the car was screened by folds of soft bracken and the overhanging branches of a beech tree. He checked his watch and nodded towards the sky, where the light was already beginning to fade. Another thirty minutes and it would be safe to take a walk.

  He took out his mobile and dialled the number of the letting agent that he’d seen on the post in the field.

  ‘Dempsey’s. Can I help you?’ The singsong tones of a young woman echoed in the car.

  Harry said, ‘I’ve just noticed your panel in a field near a place called South Acres. Is it vacant?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The young woman sounded distracted, as if she’d been about to leave. ‘But that property’s on a short let. Perhaps you could call in the morning? Our Mr Dempsey can tell you—’

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ Harry interrupted her before she could put the phone down. ‘I’m flying out of Luton this evening and I need to get something sorted in the next day or so, otherwise my wife and daughters are going to kill me. I need to rent a place for at least twelve months, but it’s got to have stabling for three horses.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  ‘What’s your name, miss?’

  ‘It’s Donna.’

  ‘Listen, Donna, you could save my life and I’ll tell your Mr Dempsey what a big help you’ve been. Let me know the name of the current tenants, so I can pop in for a quick look round, would you? If it fits what I want, I’ll do a bank transfer tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Donna sounded interested but cautious. ‘I can’t do that. Mr Dempsey handles the South Acres let. All I know is, it was to a gentleman who wanted a temporary base here for a few weeks.’ Her voice dropped slightly. ‘He insisted on paying for three months, and since the place had been empty for a while, Mr Dempsey let it go as a special. That’s all I can tell you.’