Deception ht-3

by Adrian Magson

  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 Nurnberg 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 protege, 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.

  Harry couldn’t see the faces of those sitting in front of him, but he felt sure there was nobody he’d recognize. He slid into a chair and waited.

  The talk ended a few minutes later with a few desultory and pre-prepared questions from the media pack. Then a woman from the press office stepped forward and said, ‘That’s it, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we have to wrap it up there. General Foster has a very busy schedule. There are briefing notes by the door for you to pick up on the way out. If you would like to take photos now?’

  Harry waited while the snappers did their job, before they headed for the door in a flying wedge, eager to send in their photos and copy and get to the nearest pub. As the numbers diminished, General Foster collected his papers together and walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, head bent listening to an aide feeding him his next agenda item. As the officer neared him, Harry stood up and showed his Security Services card.

  ‘General Foster, if you have a moment?’ He was relying on a tone of authority to cut through the inevitable smokescreen around the general and confuse the suits and aides into letting him speak long enough to gain the officer’s attention.

  Foster slowed, eyeing the card and then Harry, his concentration broken. He stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ Up close, he was tanned and lean, exuding confidence and gravitas. He would have to, given his job, Harry thought, and realized he was only going to get one punt at this.

  As he opened his mouth to reply, a minder in a suit
tried to intervene, placing a hand on Harry’s chest and pushing without even bothering to look at his card. ‘That’s not possible. Step back. Apply through the press office in the approved manner.’

  Harry looked down at the hand, then eased it away, applying just enough pressure on the tendons with his thumb to draw a gasp from the man. He dropped the hand and looked straight at General Foster, estimating that he had about five seconds before the minder got over his surprise and wounded pride and yelled for back-up. Another three and security guards would be jumping all over him. ‘General, I need to ask you about Lieutenant Tan. Have you any idea where she might have gone?’

  Foster’s eyes were a dark shade of green, Harry noted, full of intelligence and, no doubt, the weightiness of his position in the war against the Taliban, coupled with his role as a military diplomat. But there was a disturbing blankness in there, too, echoed by the frown edging his brow, and Harry experienced a moment of startling revelation.

  The general said, ‘Sorry — I think you need to speak to personnel on any issue like that.’ Then he was gone, surrounded by his acolytes, and Harry was left with two large security guards hustling him towards the exit.

  As he stepped out into the sunlight over Whitehall, Harry realized he’d been wrong. His assumption about the senior officer being protected from any fallout and therefore off-limits to Harry was way off-target. The simple fact was, General Patrick Foster, Deputy Commander Afghanistan and Lieutenant Vanessa Tan’s immediate boss, hadn’t got the faintest idea of who Harry had been talking about.

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘Cutting it fine, Harry. I was beginning to have my doubts about you.’ Clare Jardine answered Harry’s call on the fifth ring. She sounded amused and even faintly smug, as if she’d been expecting his call all along. ‘I’m glad I was wrong.’