Execution ht-5

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Mr Paulton,’ Gorelkin murmured, indicating a chair on the other side of the table. It sat squarely between Serkhov and Votrukhin, and he’d planned it that way. He still hadn’t worked out whether Paulton was playing them or not. If he was, he would live to regret it. ‘Now then,’ he said quietly, and leaned forward, not allowing time for the Englishman to settle, ‘would you care to tell us precisely what you know about Clare Jardine?’

  Paulton looked relaxed, but something moved in his face. Gorelkin didn’t miss it.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Paulton replied cautiously. ‘I had only the information I was given-’ He stopped speaking when Serkhov reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder. He winced as pressure was applied, and went pale.

  ‘Let us start again,’ Gorelkin murmured. ‘My colleagues have already wasted enough time chasing shadows. Now we hear that this woman you said came from a care home and was running with Ukrainian gangsters is actually a British Intelligence operative. Would that explain why she also speaks Russian, do you think?’

  Paulton tried to shrug off Serkhov’s hand without result until Gorelkin gave the signal to let him go.

  ‘I stand by what I was told,’ the Englishman insisted. ‘There was obviously an attempt to cover up her real identity while she was undergoing treatment. It’s a public facility and it would be normal for members of MI6 or MI5 to be given cover names.’ He smiled weakly. ‘The press keep a constant eye out for special forces personnel passing through the hospital; the security or intelligence services would rate even higher in news value.’

  Gorelkin thought it through. It sounded reasonable enough. He was aware of how voracious the British media was for exclusives, no matter how far that intruded into national security matters. In Russia there was no such laxity permitted. Any journalist who poked too far into the establishment found himself on a short journey to a maximum security cell until they forgot what they had been searching for.

  But he still didn’t trust Paulton further than he could spit. ‘Very well. I want you to find out now about this woman. Everything you can tell us.’

  ‘Of course.’ Paulton stood up, straightening his jacket where Serkhov’s hand had scrunched up the material. He looked flushed now, as if realising just how close he had come to disaster. ‘I’ll get onto it immediately.’

  ‘How soon?’ Gorelkin asked.

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  ‘Make it twenty minutes. Or I make a phone call.’ The threat was uttered without drama. But he meant it.

  Paulton nodded, and Gorelkin and his men watched him go. And waited.

  Paulton returned eighteen minutes later. He sat down and folded his hands together, every inch the repentant, even embarrassed, man.

  ‘You were correct,’ he announced. ‘Clare Jardine is a former MI6 operative.’

  ‘Former?’ Gorelkin picked up on the word.

  ‘Yes. She was fired by them for gross misconduct but continued to work in the security field. She was wounded while working with a former MI5 man named Tate, which is why she was being treated in King’s College.’ He stared around at the three of them. ‘But she has no credit whatsoever with SIS or MI5, and is now off the grid with Tate. She’s what some gamers call RTK.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Serkhov.

  ‘It means,’ Gorelkin murmured, ‘Ready To Kill. You can go and get her.’ He was looking at Paulton while he spoke. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  Paulton nodded. ‘Quite correct.’ He slid a piece of paper across the desk. It held three names and addresses.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The first is Jardine’s last known address, although I doubt she’ll have gone back there. The second is Tate’s, in Islington. The third is another former MI5 man named Ferris. He’s an IT drone who works closely with Tate.’

  Gorelkin flicked the piece of paper towards Votrukhin. ‘Excellent,’ the FSB chief said quietly. ‘Now we are getting somewhere.’ He glanced at his two men. ‘Go. See to it.’

  They stood up. Votrukhin looked worried.

  ‘What are your orders?’ he asked.

  ‘Take them out, of course.’ Gorelkin was looking once more at Paulton. ‘Take them all out. Then we can all go home.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’ Candida Deane shuddered as if the telling was being forced out of her, and watched the leaves above their heads shifting in the early morning breeze across St James’s Park. It was just after seven and they were alone save for a brace of joggers shuffling round the lake and the distant hum of early rush-hour traffic in the background.

  ‘Really? Is that why you called this meeting?’ George Paulton sniffed at the air, one eye on the perimeter roads of Horse Guards and Birdcage Walk. Not that he could do much about it if Deane had summoned a snatch squad to take him in. He was too old for running and wasn’t about to fling himself in the duck-shit filled water in a desperate attempt to kill himself rather than face the ignominy of prison. But he didn’t think she had finished with him — at least, not yet. She had too much invested in using him for her own ends, as no doubt calling this meeting would prove.

  ‘Isn’t that enough to start with?’

  ‘So why don’t you pick her up? I thought you wanted the kudos.’

  ‘No,’ she corrected him patiently. ‘As I understood it, you saw it as part of a package to sell me in exchange for my help to rehabilitate you.’ She eyed him from behind her large glasses, her cool stare unblinking and steady. It reminded him that this woman was ambitious, experienced and nobody’s fool. The thought made him uncomfortable.

  ‘So it’s a benefit trade-off, is it?’

  ‘If you want to call it that.’

  ‘But what could I do with her? Jardine has no value to me. She’s just a washed-up MI6 killer with a dubious history.’

  Her face showed interest. ‘That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. Bellingham sent her to Red Station, didn’t he? Some misdeed or other.’

  ‘To join other miscreants, yes.’ Paulton knew what was coming; he’d been waiting for it. It showed he was back in the bargaining business on the upper side.

  ‘Why? What did she do that was so bad? It must have been serious, for him to see it as an alternative to dismissal. . or prison.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘No.’ Her face clamped shut with a spark of irritation. ‘Those files are sealed and I can’t gain access at my level.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s place that one on the table as well, shall we? A little amuse bouche — a taster for the main event. You get me what I want, and I’ll tell you everything I know about Clare Jardine’s plunge from grace.’ He smiled, pleased at the imagery.

  ‘Will it be worth hearing?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. Believe me, once you hear, you’ll want her far more than I ever could.’

  Deane made a sharp noise. ‘Come off it, Paulton. You and I both know I’m not the only one. What about your friends.’ She lowered her voice as a couple of student types in baggy shorts and beanie hats sloped by. ‘They want her and they’re expecting you to deliver. Tell me I’m wrong, droog.’

  Paulton felt a cold shiver down his back. He didn’t need to ask who she meant by ‘they’.

  She had used the Russian word for friend.

  He revised his opinion of her. Bellingham had been more astute at spotting her potential than he’d given him credit for. This woman really was dangerous.

  ‘Sorry. You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Bollocks. You know who I mean. Must be nice in Kensington Palace Gardens at this time of year.’

  The location of the Russian Embassy in west London.

  It was like a door slamming in his face. If she genuinely suspected him of working for the Russians, there was no way that she would ever sanction his return to the UK. The best he would get was a fast ticket to a maximum security cell; the worst was a bullet behind the ear. />
  Unless.

  ‘They’re not my friends, I promise you,’ he said calmly. ‘In fact, they’d see me dead in a moment if they saw any immediate benefit to it.’ He paused as an elderly man shuffled slowly past, wheezing heavily. Dressed bizarrely in tight jogging bottoms, huge trainers and a long vest, he wore a set of huge, battered headphones and a Manchester United scarf, and looked close to expiring.

  ‘Christ,’ Paulton muttered, watching him, ‘the things you see when you haven’t got a gun.’ He waited for the ancient to move away before changing the conversation. ‘What would you give to see Jardine go down, Candida? She killed your boss, didn’t she? Your mentor, Sir Anthony Bellingham.’

  Deane’s eyes flickered, betraying her feelings, and she said, ‘I could pick her up today if I wanted to. Right now, in fact. What can you offer?’

  ‘Actually, that’s not quite true, is it? You have nothing to hold her on.’ He allowed another jogger to go by, then added, ‘Given a public hearing, Jardine would make sure Bellingham’s past misdeeds with Red Station came out. Mine, too, I grant you, but that’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  ‘How noble of you.’

  ‘But your present masters wouldn’t allow it. Too much stink attached. It’s one dirty little secret they would rather forget about. On the other hand, the longer she’s out there, the more she gets under your skin.’ He saw that strike home, and felt calm again. Deane wanted Jardine, all right; like a drunk wants another drink. But prison wasn’t enough. She wanted her dead. And if he read her correctly, she was expecting him to arrange it. ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do. But there’s got to be a quid pro quo.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Good. So where is she?’

  ‘A man named Tate has her hidden away. He’s former MI5.’

  ‘I know who Tate is. I should do — he used to work for me.’ He took a deep breath. Somehow he’d known it might come down to this. But how had Deane found out? ‘You know this for a fact?’

  ‘I was introduced to him yesterday. Ballatyne was parading him at a meeting like a pet ridgeback.’

  ‘Ballatyne? Do I know him?’ He’d been out of the loop too long. People had moved on or moved up, the civil service version of musical chairs. The game had changed.

  ‘He worked with a man named Marshall in Operations. Marshall died and Ballatyne moved into his chair.’ Her tone of voice betrayed her innermost thoughts on that one. ‘Ballatyne’s clever, though. And committed. I’m having to watch my back with him.’

  ‘It comes with the trade.’ His voice was bored. ‘You were talking about Tate.’

  ‘Apparently he helped Jardine escape from the two gunmen who shot the hell out of Pimlico and wounded a policeman.’ She leaned forward. ‘Find Tate and you’ll find Jardine.’

  ‘And when I do?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, George. You know what I mean. I know you’ve arranged things like it before.’ The use of his first name gave no hint of intimacy; the subject under discussion was too chilling for that. ‘Whatever you do to her, it had better be permanent. Remember, I want all of them: Jardine, the Russian gunmen and their boss. . and the name of the insider.’

  ‘Insider? I don’t follow.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. You see, I’ve just been informed that somebody has been ferreting through our files, plucking out details. Now, I have no proof, of course, but I’m willing to bet your testicles that he or she is working for you.’

  Paulton said nothing. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Maine wasn’t a field man, and not clever enough to have avoided leaving any traces of his searches. It was a pity, but he was going to have to ruin Maine’s collecting habit for good. He’d have to let him fall, a casualty of battle. Just as long as he did it without dropping himself in a cold, lonely cell.

  ‘We haven’t found out who the ferret is yet,’ Deane continued. ‘But we will. You could save me some time, though. Give me everything you know and we’ll talk rehabilitation. But don’t take too long. We’re getting close.’

  She produced a small square of white card. It held a line of neat handwriting. ‘Tate’s address. I ran a check on him, just in case you’d forgotten how.’

  He took the card, although he didn’t need it. Let her think she was one up on him.

  As she turned and walked away, he was left wishing he’d got a sniper stationed on a nearby rooftop. If he had, he’d have given the signal to pull the trigger and put the bitch out of his misery.

  As she disappeared beneath the trees, he took out his mobile and dialled a mobile number. This couldn’t wait any longer. His future was resting on a knife-edge. It was time to play a massive hunch, to see if he was right. He didn’t know Jardine from a hole in the ground; but he had an intuitive feel for the way somebody in her position might think. And right now she was probably looking for any friends she could find. Tate and Ferris were colleagues of circumstance, he was certain. But that wasn’t enough for someone under the kind of massive stress Jardine would be under. She would want someone much closer.

  If he played this right, he would get the information he needed and get rid of a monumental risk at the same time. Two birds, one carefully lobbed stone.

  ‘Yes?’ It was Keith Maine.

  ‘I need to see you. Urgently,’ Paulton said, and told him where, and what else he wanted. The last thing he wanted from this man.

  ‘Jesus — I can’t do that!’ The analyst’s voice was pitched low. He was probably in his office somewhere, on early shift, and terrified of anyone hearing.

  ‘You can and will.’ Paulton didn’t give him a chance to panic and cut the call. ‘Ten thousand if you come up with what I want. It’s a known name; it will be on the current WAR list.’ Watch and Report, the rolling surveillance log with open access to Five and Six, to avoid agency clashes on suspects and persons of interest. He knew the way both agencies worked, knew that there was every chance that the information he wanted would be there. If his hunch was correct, it might give him a clue to Jardine’s intentions. And wherever she went, so would Tate and Ferris.

  Maine didn’t argue. Instead his voice became slightly louder, more open. ‘Very well. But I want to see it before I buy. There are so many fakes about — and I insist on it being in top condition.’ Paulton knew the signs: a work colleague was close by and he was pretending to be taking a call from a collector. But there was a sub-text. What he was really saying was that he didn’t trust Paulton to send the money, and wanted cash in hand.

  Paulton named a spot on a public street not far from Thames House, south of the river. Close enough to his work for Maine to feel safe, far enough away to retain a measure of secrecy about who he was meeting.

  The promise of money helped, as he knew it would.

  Next he dialled another number. Votrukhin answered with a terse hello.

  ‘The Jardine girl is with Tate,’ Paulton advised him. ‘Have you moved on them yet?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You should do so, soonest. Where Tate goes, Ferris is close by.’ He paused, trying to determine whether any of this could rebound on him. If the Russians collared Jardine and the two men, all to the good. He would get the credit from Deane for Jardine’s demise, and he wouldn’t need the information Maine was getting for him. But he preferred to have insurance in place, just in case. To hell with it. ‘They will be armed and ready, of course.’

  Votrukhin grunted. ‘So? You think we will not?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  There was a grey light and a threat of rain outside the windows of Rik’s Paddington flat. Harry got up from the sofa where he’d been sleeping and checked his gun, which had been close by on the floor. He stretched, then showered while Rik went out for coffee and to check the surrounding streets for unusual activity.

  Clare had slept in the spare room. Her batteries had eventually run down last night, exhausted by her efforts and the stress she’d suffered over the past few days. He’d let her sleep; they all needed res
t and he was convinced nothing else could be accomplished before morning.

  But he and Rik had slept in stages, taking turns to watch the streets and check the building regularly for sounds of movement.

  ‘We need to talk about something,’ he said, when they were all having breakfast. His remark was directed at Clare.

  ‘Christ, give it a break,’ Clare muttered, tearing off a piece of croissant. ‘Let me get this down first.’ But she didn’t sound as touchy as she had the night before, he noticed. He put it down to wear and tear. The longer this went on, the more she would have to rely on them acting as a team.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rik, spooning down a yoghurt. ‘We going nuclear or what?’ His gun, a Ruger SR9, like Harry’s, lay close to hand.

  ‘In a way.’ Harry looked hard at Clare. ‘How do we stop this black ops team?’

  ‘What? Why ask me?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m out of the game, remember?’

  ‘You think?’ Rik countered. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  She didn’t respond, but gave him a sour look.

  ‘You know them better than we do,’ Harry told her. ‘You know how they work, you said. So, how do we stop them coming after us?’

  ‘Short of killing them, you mean? Getting a direct cease and desist order from Moscow?’ She thought it over. ‘Finding them won’t be simple. They’re trained, like our guys, to operate alone or in teams of two or three, depending on circumstances. They have no profile, they stay off the embassy circuit and use papers which take long enough to check to allow them to get away if compromised. They’ll be incommunicado, answerable only to their field controller, whoever he is.’

  ‘Gorelkin. Ballatyne says a man named Gorelkin was spotted coming this way on false papers. He’s high up in the FSB’s Special Purpose Centre.’