Execution ht-5

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I don’t know how to contact her,’ Clare said at last, stirring a generous portion of sugar into her coffee. ‘I knew her mobile number once, but I still can’t remember it.’ She made a winding motion with a finger to the side of her head. ‘It’s all mixed up. Funny how I remembered your number, though.’

  ‘And mine?’ said Rik.

  ‘I never had yours. Anyway, why would I bother?’ She gave him a hard stare.

  He blushed, although they all knew it wasn’t out of any romantic notion. ‘I put it in the compact. . on a slip of paper under the powder.’ He looked mortified. ‘You mean you didn’t even look? I’m hurt.’

  A hint of a smile touched her mouth and hovered for a fleeting second before disappearing. ‘No. I didn’t look. Now that bloody Russian thug’s got it. He said he was going to give it to his girlfriend. Bastard.’

  ‘Hey, it was only cheap.’ Rik waved it away. ‘If you liked it that much I’ll get you another one.’

  Now it was her turn to blush, but accompanied by a feigned look of disgust. ‘Are you kidding? It was vile.’ She dropped her spoon into her cup. ‘But I want it back. Can we go now? I need some new clothes. I feel like a bag lady.’

  They were about to board their flight for Vienna at Northolt when Harry’s mobile rang. It was Ballatyne, his voice like a flat tyre. He was in the secure room again.

  Harry dropped back and signalled for the other two to carry on.

  ‘Tell me Ferris hasn’t been letting his fingers walk where he shouldn’t.’ Ballatyne threw himself straight into the conversation without preamble. He sounded peeved and ready for a fight.

  Harry was cautious. Ballatyne must know that Rik would have been accessing files somewhere; he’d even given them the nod to do so. ‘Where specifically?’

  ‘Specifically? Six, of course. The bowels of Vauxhall Cross. Forbidden bloody territory on pain of castration.’

  A quick tug of relief. ‘In that case, no. Why?’

  ‘Because somebody’s been trying to access our HR records — the section housing personnel details of former operatives no longer active.’

  ‘You mean Clare Jardine?’ It had to be; hers was the only name in play at the moment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It wasn’t Rik. You have my word on that.’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’

  ‘What brought this on?’ At the exit door to the tarmac, a member of the ground crew was signalling to Harry and a couple of other latecomers that it was time to roll. Harry avoided his eye. This was too important and he doubted he would get a signal once on board the flight, which would be basic and noisy.

  Ballatyne muttered something beneath his breath. ‘Ever since Bellingham and Paulton. . and some other security-related issues, new systems have been put in place across Five, Six, GCHQ and other selected agencies. Anybody trawling for information outside their remit, or attempting to use insider channels to do the same from one agency to another without the proper codes and passwords, which are changed frequently, sets off an alarm. It happens every now and then when somebody new tries to access a file without the current passes. Mostly it’s an officer or analyst searching the databases to cross-ferment files and gets careless.’

  ‘And this wasn’t?’

  ‘Not this time. He was blocked automatically first time round by the system lock-outs. Then he got creative and got into the guts of her file.’

  ‘And you don’t know who it was?’

  ‘Not yet. He or she was clever enough to use an access log-in code belonging to an officer on sick leave.’

  ‘That’s pretty crude.’ It indicated somebody without the specialist knowledge to by-pass the systems. . or someone brazen enough to care little about using a fellow-officer’s code.

  ‘Maybe. Or they might have been doing a quick and dirty one-time trawl and didn’t care for subtlety. There was a time it would have worked, but not now.’

  ‘How long will it take you to track them down?’ Harry didn’t know what the current levels of visual security were at MI6. They probably had CCTV on every floor, in strategic flow areas such as stairwells and general corridors, and Restricted Access points where security was at its most severe. What it might not cover were staff or officers using individual workstations.

  ‘If it was somebody within the building, it will be a process of elimination: who was present on that floor, who wasn’t where they should have been, who had visitor access, who had a bad annual assessment last time round.’

  ‘And if it’s somebody outside?’

  ‘Actually, that might be easier. If it’s an outsider with access through a common server, they’ll leave a trail that can’t be erased. And there are only so many points of origin they could have used.’

  A whistle came from the departure door, and Harry said, ‘I’ve got to go. The flight’s leaving.’

  ‘OK. I’ll call later with any news.’

  FORTY

  Votrukhin and Serkhov were beginning to get rattled. None of this was going the way they wanted. The girl had escaped — twice. And now they had failed to get the two men helping her. Worse, they had only just missed them, the knowledge of how close they had come to regaining some credit with Gorelkin taunting them like a dying laugh. Serkhov had picked the lock to Ferris’s flat within seconds, and it was immediately apparent by the condensation from the shower and the remains of breakfast that the flat had been vacated in a rush not long before.

  ‘They had a warning,’ he muttered sourly as they hurried along the street. For the present they were without a car until a replacement was sourced, and having to rely on public transport and taxis to get around. Yet another reason to be anxious; every second they spent on buses, in taxis and on the Underground, quite apart from using the streets on foot, risked them being spotted and recorded. By now their descriptions would have been issued city-wide, and only luck would continue to keep them out of the hands of the British security authorities.

  ‘Who else would have known, though?’ Serkhov shouldered through a group of immigrant workers waiting for a work bus, oblivious to their protests. ‘Nobody but us knew we were going there.’

  ‘The Englishman. He knew.’

  ‘Sure. But why would he risk playing games with us? Gorelkin has him by the nuts.’ He mimed crushing something with a powerful fist. ‘One phone call and he goes to prison for treason, or whatever it is they charge them with here.’ He spotted a cafe and nodded at the steamy window. ‘Wait. I need some tea. Even the vile mixture they serve here is more than we’ll get from the colonel. And I don’t think I can face his temper on an empty belly.’ He swerved across the street, reaching for some money.

  Votrukhin was forced to follow. The last thing he wanted was an argument with the sergeant; right now they needed to be acting as one and focussing on what to do next, not squabbling over food and drink.

  They sat inside and sipped strong tea and ate a sandwich each, surrounded by a mixed clientele of building workers and student types. Accustomed to short, sharp breaks and no guarantees when the next one would come along, they knew the value of keeping their physical energy levels high. Eating also kept their mental faculties alert, especially when in the field as they were now and having to rely on split-second decisions to cope with an ever-changing situation.

  Votrukhin stared out at the passing traffic. His expression was grim. For the first time in a long while he was feeling uncertain of himself. And Serkhov’s touch of insubordination wasn’t helping. In fact he should have slapped him down for it, but he hadn’t the heart.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Serkhov had tuned into him, the way close colleagues do in operational situations. He took a large bite of his sandwich and fished out a segment of gristle, flicking it onto his plate.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Tell me what you’re thinking apart from filling your belly and I’ll let you know.’

  Serkhov swallowed some tea. ‘This assignment’s going to hell in a bucket, is my opinion. And
we’re stuck like a couple of tarts right in the middle of it.’ He hesitated as if suddenly remembering that he was merely a sergeant talking out of turn to an officer, then ploughed on hastily. ‘I know we have to work to orders and in isolation so we can’t spill our guts if we get caught, but what happened to briefings, backup and some help? In any case, I’m not sure the colonel’s being entirely open with us.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Serkhov shrugged. ‘The way he’s not allowing us any contact with the embassy or anyone else.’

  ‘So what? It’s standard operational rules. We’ve worked like this plenty of times before.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve always had fall-back positions available. Lose a car and we know immediately from pre-briefs where to go for another one. Here we are in the busiest city in the western world, with more Russians outside Moscow than most places on earth, and we can’t even do that straight away. And we’re now using one-time-only meeting places, like that dump of an office we were in last time.’

  ‘So you’re getting choosy about where we meet, now? Have you forgotten those places we used in Beirut? Or Athens? They were toilets compared with this.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It’s like we’re right off the grid all of a sudden and having to survive on our wits, with no chance of backup. But where’s Gorelkin while we’re running our arses off around London?’

  ‘He’ll be somewhere near, waiting for us to report. It has to be that way, you know it.’ Votrukhin sounded uncertain, even to himself, and felt instantly guilty. Team leaders weren’t supposed to show doubt to those beneath them, no matter how desperate things were. The problem was, he was under exclusive orders from Gorelkin, a senior officer, and those orders included a no-contact rule with anyone outside of their three-man cell. It also precluded any practical displays of initiative, such as getting the hell out of here on the first flight while they still could.

  ‘And there’s the Englishman,’ Serkhov muttered. ‘What the hell is that all about? He’s ex-MI5 and therefore a sworn enemy. If he betrayed his country and his service, he certainly won’t think twice about dropping us in the shit if it suits him. Has he been cleared through central command to work with us?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Why — would you like me to call them up and check?’

  ‘I bet he hasn’t. The thing is, how do we even know for sure he’s not still employed by MI5, huh?’

  Votrukhin shifted in his seat, a worm of doubt in his mind. He’d been having the same thoughts ever since meeting Paulton. It wouldn’t be the first time a team had been sold a fake pony. ‘Don’t even think that, you idiot. Gorelkin’s not an amateur at this game; he’ll have checked him out very carefully. Anyway, I think they know each other from way back. Haven’t you sensed the atmosphere between them? They’ve worked together before, I’m certain.’

  ‘Big deal. Once turned, a man can be turned again in my opinion. Paulton now knows our faces, full descriptions — even our mobile phone numbers. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’

  Votrukhin said nothing. He was supposed to be above such rebellious considerations. And as an officer in the Special Purpose Centre, he should by rights be reporting Serkhov for his words and having him shipped home on the next flight out to face an unpleasant investigation and a period of retraining. Yet much of what the sergeant had said was correct. Something in the way Gorelkin had been acting was like a man waging his own private war, not trusting his men to know any of the background details. All they knew was that after dealing with Tobinskiy, the situation had been going steadily to hell, as Serkhov had phrased it so acidly, in a bucket. And now they were in pursuit of not only a former female member of MI6, but two former members of the Security Services, MI5, who were guarding her.

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ Votrukhin said finally. ‘That we tell Gorelkin that we’re withholding our labour? That we don’t want to play anymore? He’d have our balls on a stick inside the hour.’

  Serkhov looked depressed. ‘I don’t know, do I? I’m just saying. It doesn’t feel right.’ He pushed his mug and plate away and stared out into the street through the condensation on the window. ‘Give me a gun and a bunch of terrorists and I’d be happy. Not this game of round-the-houses.’

  FORTY-ONE

  George Paulton watched from the cab of a battered builders’ van as the tall figure of Keith Maine appeared at the junction of Lambeth Road and Kennington Road. The analyst was dressed in his usual suit and carrying what looked like a plastic Tupperware box. The pavement behind him was clear, with no obvious signs of pursuit or surveillance. Indications of either would have meant Maine was already being watched, or had panicked and sold Paulton out to the heavy treaders of MI5.

  Paulton put the Ford Transit in gear and drove slowly along the street as if looking for an address. Half the skill in appearing normal was to do normal things. Nobody noticed the mundane and everyday activities, the background clutter of people going about their lives and jobs. And builders’ vans were ten-a-penny, not worth a second look, especially when aged and scuffed to anonymity. Not unless the builder he had liberated this van from happened to have made the trip all the way from across the river in Blackfriars in search of his beloved vehicle and saw him.

  He timed his arrival just as Maine was beginning to betray signs of nerves. The analyst was looking around and evidently already feeling out of his comfort zone, his face creased with concern.

  Maine did a double-take as the van stopped and he saw Paulton beckoning from the driver’s seat. For a second he didn’t recognise who was under the baseball cap and wearing a set of paint-spattered overalls, then he gave a weak smile and climbed in. The smile faded as Paulton set off south and took the first left down a side street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve got the information. Have you got the cash?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Paulton replied, taking a right turn, then another left. ‘We need to get off the main street, that’s all.’ He grinned, showing his teeth. ‘We don’t want everybody and his brother seeing our little transaction, do we?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ Maine sat back, careful not to brush against anything dirty, and held onto the door handle.

  Paulton pulled into the kerb behind an old VW Golf, and cut the engine. They were situated between two tall buildings here, with no windows immediately overlooking them, a point Paulton had carefully scouted out earlier. There were no street cameras just here either, and he felt as secure as he could be.

  He reached down by the seat and produced a heavy brown envelope. He opened it to show packs of cut paper, and peeled them back to show the edges of twenties and fifties. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get small denominations,’ he said, ‘but I figured the smaller the package the better you would like it.’

  Maine’s eyes opened wide at the proximity of so much cash. He smiled nervously and opened the lid of the Tupperware box. Inside was a pack of sandwiches and a banana. He lifted the sandwiches and took out a memory stick with a plastic lid. He unsnapped the lid. ‘It’s all on there. I copied the file for you. There’s not much on it. . just a bunch of surveillance logs and the subject’s movements over the past six months, and some historical annotations and comments.’

  ‘What sort of comments?’

  ‘Who the subject is, her background, how she first came to be a person of interest.’

  Paulton smiled like a tiger. ‘How interesting. That should save me a lot of chit-chat.’ He didn’t bother to explain what that meant.

  ‘It runs up to five p.m. yesterday. There’s a small delay for overseas traffic from our watchers, so we don’t know if she has moved since then.’

  ‘Excellent, Keith. Excellent. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? We’ll make a field man out of you yet.’ He took the memory stick before Maine could stop him and handed over the brown envelope. He was counting on Maine being too scared of being outed to his bosses and losing his pension, to have double-crossed him. ‘How did you manage it, b
y the way?’ He wasn’t really interested in the detail, but allowing Maine to preen was a useful way of deflecting his attention.

  Maine almost smirked as he slid his fingers inside the envelope and ran them over the notes. ‘Easy enough, as it happened. There’s a common surveillance log on targets open to all agencies so we don’t trip over each other. Any one agency wishing to move on an individual or organisation merely checks the log to make sure there’s no on-going operation against them, and signs off the details as going “live”. Everyone else steps back until given the all-clear.’

  ‘The wonders of organisation. Are you certain you left no trail?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not an amateur, you know.’

  Paulton smiled. ‘Of course. Aren’t you going to count it?’ He glanced in the wing mirrors on either side, and felt his blood beginning to race. The street was clear. No pedestrians or vehicle traffic, nobody watching. It was now or never.

  Maine bent his head to check the money, the pull too much to resist. As he did so, Paulton reached down again and picked up a steel meat skewer from the floor. The curved end was wrapped with a pad of rag and gaffer tape which he’d arranged earlier, to protect his hand.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Maine had noticed something wrong. ‘This isn’t right-’

  His protest was cut off sharply as Paulton brought his right hand round and up in a vicious jab, aiming at a point just above the analyst’s belly. With his full shoulder weight behind it, he drove the point of the skewer into Maine’s body, punching through his suit, then his skin, and into his heart.

  Maine grunted and turned his head to look at him, his jaw dropping open in shock. His eyes went wide for an instant in accusation, and he mumbled something unintelligible, and tried to shake his head. It wouldn’t work. A bubble of spit appeared at the corner of his mouth, and popped.

  Paulton checked his pulse. Nothing. He glanced in the mirrors. Still clear. And no shouts of alarm. He sat back, breathing heavily, and flexed his right hand. In spite of the padding, his palm was going to be bruised to buggery. A pack of ice should sort that out, along with a stiff drink. He figured he owed himself that, at least. Then he needed to check the contents of the memory stick, to see what Maine had come up with.