Harry wasn’t surprised. The Russians had any number of secretive agencies, most interconnected and linked through the KGB and its forerunners, now through the FSB and its governing body. His work with the security services had not brought him into close contact with individual members, but it had often been said that every single member of Russia’s vast security network was connected by one string or another, like a giant spider’s web. Pull one and the tug was felt right down the line.
‘I must have been out of the room when they lectured us on that one,’ he said. A thought occurred to him. ‘If their role is protection, what made Balenkova a target for an approach?’
‘Christ, you’re going to get me shot, you know that?’ Ballatyne gave it a few seconds, then said, ‘Balenkova first got lit up when she was working personal protection with a team of about twenty men and women, assigned to shadow a small but important group of military personnel. These were all high-ranking officers with responsibilities for communications, weapons and strategy, including nuclear installations. Balenkova and her colleagues were the elite of the FSO, proficient in languages and top-level protection. They went everywhere with their charges, including overseas. The psych evaluators we employ to tell us clever stuff about our friends and enemies reckon they would hear and see things we can only dream about. Each one of them probably carries more secrets buried in their brains than any other members of the security apparatus.’
It explained a lot. Who wouldn’t want to try draining one of these super-guardians of information, especially the intimate details of what the top military personnel had been chatting about over dinner and drinks when their barriers were down? Even gossip and scuttlebutt was useful if applied correctly. It was a spy’s daydream.
‘So Clare was assigned to get close to Balenkova and milk her.’
‘Yes. Balenkova’s name popped up again when she accompanied a couple of generals from the Northern Command to London for talks. She was seen as a possible target.’
‘Why?’
Ballatyne hesitated. ‘It’s not what you think. Balenkova was friendly, outgoing and there to smooth the way for talks while protecting her charges. She speaks excellent English and knows how to mix it with people. But she was heard to make some remarks off the record that our psychological profilers judged to show a degree of disenchantment with the regime in Moscow. It was too good a chance to miss, so Jardine was told to make an approach, get friendly and build a rapport. It began in London and travelled across to Brussels as the Russians moved around. There was another meeting three months later, in Paris this time, when the Russians were talking to the French, and a final one in Frankfurt. That’s when Jardine got her chain yanked. She’d gone too far and got noticed. She’d got involved.’
‘Did her handlers know in advance?’
‘What — that Balenkova was gay? Apparently not. They didn’t know Jardine was, either. One of those things. Equal opportunities and inclusivity and all that, we’re not supposed to ask anymore.’
‘So where do I find this Balenkova?’
‘You’re really hot on this one, aren’t you? What makes you think she even cares about Jardine, let alone that she’ll help you? Word is, she got busted down the ranks as a security measure after Jardine got close.’
‘I don’t know. But Clare might try to contact her. If she does it might give us a lead on where she is.’
‘Balenkova might simply turn her whereabouts over to the wet team, have you considered that?’
‘In that case, we’ve nothing to lose by asking. You know she’ll get nothing out of me.’
‘Let’s hope not. Trouble is, I don’t know where she is. If I had a hotline into the FSO database, I’d tell you. But I don’t.’
A dead end. Or was it? Ballatyne had a habit of storing information and acting on it later.
‘Another bit of news,’ Ballatyne continued, ‘is that Tobinskiy died choking on his own vomit.’
‘Seriously?’
‘That’s the public version. Truth is, there are small signs that question the facts; minute signs of bruising on the lips, which could have come from a hand placed over his mouth; and marks on his shoulders suggesting he might have been restrained, although the medical staff logged two occasions when he had to be held down for fear of hurting himself, so that’s not proven. He was nauseous, anyway, and vomiting had been recorded, but I’m told it’s easy to induce in a patient suffering gunshot wounds and running a fever. It’ll keep the conspiracy theorists busy for years.’
Harry digested the information, the scene running in his mind. For a man in a weakened physical condition and suffering a bullet wound and pumped full of drugs, it would have been a simple job physically to hold him still and complete the task. Quite what it would have called for mentally was another thing altogether. Killing was hard enough; killing a man in his hospital bed required a detachment and cold-bloodedness that he hoped he never acquired.
‘Do you have any leads so far?’
‘We got a name of the man who might be running this job. His name’s Sergei Gorelkin. He’s one of the FSB’s senior figures responsible for special operations overseas. He went off the radar in Moscow a few years ago, and it’s thought he went into another department or got demoted. Then he popped up again recently as right as rain. He was seen boarding a flight to Frankfurt several days ago. Two other suspected FSB operatives were identified passing through Paris Charles de Gaulle by a French intelligence officer on his way back to their embassy in Moscow. He recognised one of them from a penetration operation eight months previously by colleagues in the DGSE. All three were travelling under cover names. It’s only a guess but I’d bet my pension they were converging on London.’
‘Did your lady friend on the Russian desk tell you all this?’
‘The Russian desk claims to know nothing about it. I think they’re playing silly buggers and hoping to bag the prize. I got all this through back channels of my own.’
Harry grinned. ‘You’re more devious than I thought.’
‘I have my moments. But if you think I’m devious, Gorelkin’s got a reputation like a box of weasels. He’s old-school KGB and as hard as nails. If he’s over here, it means the Tobinskiy job was given top priority. Gorelkin has a chain of command like everybody else, but it’s known that he takes his orders from the presidential office.’
‘Would their embassy know he’s here?’
‘I doubt it. Whatever Gorelkin’s doing, the last thing Moscow wants is a politically motivated assassination leading right back to their front door.’
Harry digested the information, then said, ‘What about the other two men?’ He and Rik must have come very close to running into them earlier, and he didn’t like the idea of two FSB heavies walking up behind him with orders to kill.
‘The French say they’re specialists. You know what that means.’
‘Killers.’
‘Correct. I don’t have names and only the vaguest descriptions, but I’ll mail those over to you as soon as I have something firm. Why — are you getting nervous?’
Harry told him about the other people hunting Clare Jardine. ‘They’ll spread the net further and faster than we can. Can’t we get the Met involved?’
‘Sorry. No can do. They’re under pressure elsewhere, and this is messy enough as it is. There’s already chatter on the wires about a patient disappearing from the hospital. If we get the plods looking for her, it’ll hit the news before tea time that there’s a manhunt going on. God only knows what the media would make of that.’
‘Clare’s in danger. You don’t think we owe her our full protection?’ Harry tried to keep his tone level. Getting angry at Ballatyne was pointless and would merely make him dig in his heels. And deep down he knew the MI6 man was right.
‘Of course we do. But you’re it, I’m afraid. Five is too busy with other things, and it’s pointless drumming up support with inexperienced officers who wouldn’t know their arse from their knee joint. Jardine
knows the score; she’ll keep her head down. If she’s still got the instincts we drummed into her, she’ll call in and ask for help. Smaller is safer, as you know.’
Harry cut the call and found he’d been holding his breath. He was facing an unpalatable truth: as far as the establishment was concerned, Clare Jardine was on her own.
Unless he and Rik could find her before the bogeymen did.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clare had made a mistake. She had slipped out of the basement flat just before midday, no longer able to stand the enclosed space. All the while she could hear sounds of movement in the rest of the building, and the construction noise further along the street, she was growing more and more convinced that discovery was not far away. In the end she had had to leave, taking the crutch and the mobile in case she couldn’t make it back again. A lesson learned from her former life: never leave behind anything incriminating, never take anything you don’t need to carry.
She had hugged the buildings, moving vaguely away from the direction of Victoria, where she felt sure that SIS watchers for one would be conducting surveillance for her. Where the Russians would be was beyond her; they did not work to the same set of rules as other intelligence agencies, and that was the greatest danger. They could pop up anywhere.
She had walked for twenty minutes, moving slowly in a zigzag pattern, aware that if she continued for long enough, she would end up completing a circle. It was the way that those being pursued often ended up, walking in what they were certain was a straight line, but which eventually drew them back to their start point.
To get her bearings, she had stopped, trying to picture the layout of the streets in the area. The last thing she needed was to walk out into the open, where a woman with a crutch would stand out.
Then a man had turned a corner on the other side of the street, where three streets converged on a small paved triangle containing a cluster of trees and raised flower beds, and a small toilet block. The man was young and thin, with the gaunt, hard looks and fair hair of an east European. Possibly a waiter or kitchen worker — there were plenty of restaurants in the area employing both. He was dressed in jeans, trainers and a bomber jacket, all bearing the creases of long use and not recent purchases.
She moved into the doorway of an upscale carpet shop, with Persian rugs and no prices, and watched the man as he strolled along the pavement. He was acting casual, but scanning the pedestrians around him just a little too intently. Then he’d stopped a postman and showed him a piece of card, asking a question. The postman took the card and held it at an angle as if to catch the light. He shook his head and handed it back.
Clare felt her stomach go tight.
A photo. The man had showed him a photo.
She debated moving away from him. But that would mean walking along a quiet stretch of pavement with little traffic. She would be exposed, her crutch clearly visible. Maybe she should ditch it. It was acting like a beacon to those who knew she had it; and she was certain that her pursuers would by now have a CCTV still of her. It was what she would have done, and all those in the same business. Get a picture and show it around.
But getting rid of the crutch was a non-starter; she needed its comfort and support in a literal sense, as her muscles were still not able to do the job they had been trained to do. Instead, moving as quickly as she dared, she walked towards him, one eye on the man, the other on a small parade of stores eighty yards away, with a cluster of scaffolding rising to the roof tops.
She began to draw level with the man, watching from the corner of her eye as he stopped and put a phone to his ear. He had his back to her, looking at the ground and kicking idly at a small stone or something, distracted. Her nerves were screaming at her to run, to hobble, to do anything to move faster, to get away. All he had to do was look up and turn his head, and he’d see her!
Then she was past the first scaffold poles and beneath a familiar green awning, and ducking through the doorway into the welcome warmth and smells of coffee and amid the noise and comfort of people.
She ordered an Americano from the barista, spilling a few coins onto the counter one-handed, keeping her back to the door and window. Then she took her drink and slid into a corner seat, juggling the crutch awkwardly past two mothers and their toddlers, expensively casual and blissfully unaware as they discussed schools and husbands, and how hectic their schedules were.
Noisy and shouty but great cover. Clare relaxed. Took out the mobile, opened the back and slid the battery back into place, a cautious move against the phone being triangulated and traced.
One could never be too careful.
The phone vibrated in her hand, and beeped loudly, making her jump. An incoming message.
The two mothers scowled in disapproval as if their me-time had been spoiled, and one of the children watched Clare, waiting to see what she would do.
She ignored them, aware that she was attracting attention but unable to avoid it.
We can help you. Ring me. Pink Compact. So not your colour.
Harry Tate. It had to be. Or Rik bloody Ferris. The reference to the compact was the decider; the identifier to stop her running for the hills. Clever.
She switched the phone off and stuffed it back in her pocket. She needed time to think. To get her mind in order. Peace and quiet hadn’t helped her, in that basement, so maybe this noisy environment, with the threat of discovery not far away, would work instead, getting her brain cells firing on all cylinders.
She took out the pink compact and turned it over, the plastic smooth and comfortable to hold. Amid all the craziness that had happened recently, this was the one normal thing she had in her possession. She stood up and went to the washroom, leaving the crutch against the chair. She was shaking with nerves, and her stomach was sending shivers through her whole body. She’s pushed herself too hard and was now paying the consequences. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth with water, then washed her hands. She needed a shower or a bath; she felt gritty and sweaty, and her clothes were beginning to smell. She’d managed to rinse her underclothes, but that was all. She dabbed on some of the powder from the compact, but gave up when it stuck to the moisture in her skin.
She returned to her table. The women and children were gathering themselves together, like a small tribe moving on to pastures new, scooping up their clutter. She sat and watched them leave by stages, edging towards the door, and sipped her coffee, going over her options.
She ran her fingers across the mobile in her pocket. She’d almost had the number for Alice earlier. It had hung there, taunting her, the digits swimming around like fish in a tank, one second in place, the next confused. Then gone.
The same had happened with another number. But that one was a definite no-no. She had ignored it, knowing it would come to nothing. But then the numbers had come back clearly, and one by one, fallen into line like balls in the National Lottery. And perversely, when what she really wanted was Alice’s number, there they had stayed, tight and ordered in her mind’s eye, waiting to be dialled.
Why couldn’t the number she wanted do that, instead of this. . forbidden one? It had been so tempting to try the keys. Katya Balenkova. The familiar image of the slim face and short blonde hair hovered before her, causing an ache she thought she had long suppressed.
An echo of the ache that had led to her downfall.
But calling Katya would trigger alarm bells in more than one place, of the kind that would end in disaster for both of them. After she had been pulled off the assignment by her controller at Vauxhall Cross, she’d had no news of the FSO officer’s fate and had heard nothing since. For all she knew, Katya might be dead.
She leaned forward to check the street, her view now clearer with the mothers and children gone. The young man had disappeared. She’d been lucky; just a few seconds more out in the open and he would have seen her.
She sat back with a sigh and watched in a detached way as a blue BMW drew up at the kerb and two men got out. They ignored the reser
ved parking sign for deliveries, and a workman in a yellow tabard and hard hat protesting about needing the space.
The men crossed the pavement and stepped inside. The first was tall and dark, military in bearing. A leader. The second was stockier, heavy across the shoulders. A follower. She labelled them instinctively, businessman and driver. She felt tiredness wash over her. This was taking more out of her than she’d thought possible. She needed to get back to the empty flat; to get her head down and sleep.
The two men ignored her and went to the counter, ordering tea and coffee.
She must have dozed off momentarily, because suddenly they were sitting down, the tall one by her side, the other across from her.
Blocking her in.
The taller man shifted in his seat, bringing him slightly closer.
With him came the familiar smell of peppermint, giving her a jolt of recognition more acute and identifying than a face.
‘Miss Jardine,’ he said softly, looking into his mug of tea with distaste. He placed it to one side and added, ‘You’ve embarrassed us, my colleague and me. Led us quite a dance. Is that how the saying goes?’
Her instinct was to ask him who he was, what the hell he was talking about, to dissemble and act the outraged lone woman accosted by two predatory men. But she knew that wouldn’t work.
He was speaking Russian.
TWENTY-NINE
Clare stared at him. The shock of hearing him use her name lasted a brief moment before she managed to clamp down on any reaction. Of course he’d know it; he’d have got it from the hospital. The moment they’d found her gone, after dealing with Tobinskiy, they’d have gone into overdrive, deciding what, if any, were the implications of her disappearance, and what to do about it. How they had found out she spoke and understood Russian was incidental. They’d probably drawn that conclusion from her sudden departure. It would have been enough to have had them calling in expertise, checking records, chasing down CCTV records and trawling the streets.
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