Tracers ht-2

by Adrian Magson

  Tracers

  ( Harry Tate - 2 )

  Adrian Magson

  Adrian Magson

  Tracers

  PROLOGUE

  Baghdad — Al-Jamia District — August

  The dead don’t need food, the man in the black leather jacket and dark glasses thought coldly. He plucked a tomato from the delivery of vegetables being wheeled towards the kitchen door of the heavily fortified villa in the west of the city. As he bit through the ripe skin, a burst of voices from the local Dijla Radio rose momentarily from inside the building, then faded abruptly as the heavy door slammed shut again.

  It was time. Holding the tomato to his mouth to shield the lower half of his face, he ducked his head and left the compound through a reinforced door set in a high wall, stepping past a watchful armed guard. Glass shards and razor wire glinted atop the barricade, and the door groaned under the weight of steel plate. The guard studied him as he passed, blinked with uncertainty, but said nothing. Bolts rattled into place. The door closed behind him.

  As he crossed the sun-baked square outside, he tossed the tomato aside and took from his pocket a mobile phone with a single, pre-programmed number on speed-dial. The device felt awkward through the bandage on his hand and he winced, recalling the moment he had cut it on some glass while clambering over the outside wall to dispose of incriminating papers in a brazier along the street the previous evening. He shouldn’t have bothered, he knew that, because it would soon all be gone. But old habits die hard and he was being watched too closely in the house. Only the foolhardy tempt providence by not being sufficiently prepared.

  He thought about what would happen in the next few seconds. A brush of warm air — deceptively gentle at first — would turn into a lethal pressure-wave. Then a monstrous roar, invading the atmosphere and sucking the oxygen out of every space, collapsing lungs and buildings alike. Heavy objects would smash against the walls around the square and, amid the splintering glass and crumbling structures, screams would rise, some old and faint. Others young and shrill.

  But that could not be helped. Insh’allah. It was the will of God, may His name be praised.

  Next would be heard a patter of small sounds, like hard rain. Falling on the rooftops around the square, growing in intensity and tearing through thin structures and fabrics, it would bring a thick, choking dust, boiling through the narrow streets and alleyways like an angry fog. Amid the wails and shouts of alarm there would be the first signs of response from the security forces.

  They would be too late.

  Behind him, the door in the compound wall groaned again and a man’s voice called after him. It was the guard, recognition coming too late, duty overcoming doubts. He was asking — but respectfully — where he was going and why he did not have anyone with him.

  He ignored the man and increased his pace, lips moving soundlessly in a steady, silent mantra. He was sweating profusely and his heart was pounding. But not simply because of the borrowed leather jacket. Beneath it were extra layers of clothes into which he could change at a moment’s notice, skilfully discarding one appearance for another, as surely would be needed in the minutes or hours ahead if he were to get away safely. He passed two small boys, a scavenging dog and an old man sitting in the shade of a leather goods shop. They spoke but he ignored them.

  In the distance, the speck of a US helicopter gunship was circling a column of heavy, black smoke. The thud of rotors rose and faded, sunlight winking off the canopy. He ignored that, too; it was a common enough sight here and too far off to be of concern.

  The guard called out again, sharper this time and shrill with concern. Or was it fear? He continued walking, heavy dust muffling his footsteps. As he reached the corner of the square and the shelter of a deserted madrassa, he murmured a soft, final incantation.

  Then he pressed the SEND button on his mobile phone.

  He did not look back.

  ONE

  England — September

  The cottage lay at the end of a muddy, rutted track, surrounded by trees and bushes. To Harry Tate, it was like something out of a child’s fairytale. Only darker.

  A finger of cold air slid down his neck. He looked back towards the Saab, but it was lost beyond a curve in the track. To his right lay an expanse of tall reeds, cigar-top stems rustling in the chilled breeze coming over the dunes off the north Norfolk coast. The area was slipping into shadow as the day began to fade, erasing detail and leaving a leaden dullness in the atmosphere.

  He turned to face the cottage. It was a scrubby, stone-built box with a faded green door, a small porch, tiny windows and a slate roof coated with bird droppings. It might have looked quaint once, but now had a forlorn air, in need of a good coat of paint and some work on the weed-strewn flowerbeds.

  Beyond the cottage, the track butted into the trees, the ruts old and overgrown. The end of the line. Appropriate, he thought, considering the reason he was here. He checked the windows for movement and the chimney for a telltale plume of grey smoke. Nothing. If there was trouble waiting, it was keeping its head down.

  Checking his mobile was secure under a rubber band on the clipboard in his other hand, he flexed his shoulders beneath the UPS driver’s jacket. It was a tight fit but it would have to do. Who looked at a courier’s clothes, anyway? People wanted the goodies, not a catwalk parade.

  He knocked and waited, wishing he had the comforting feel of something solid in his pocket. A 9mm Browning would have been good. But this was Norfolk, England, not downtown Baghdad or Kabul.

  A scuff of footsteps and the door opened. A man blinked into the dying evening. He was dressed in a Paisley-print dressing gown tied with a silk cord, highlighting a low-slung paunch. Bare, skinny legs ended in a pair of burgundy leather slippers, and a scraggy goatee beard gave him the look of a middle-eastern potentate in a seaside pantomime.

  ‘Yes?’ Tired eyes flicked nervously past Harry’s shoulder.

  Harry smiled genially. Gotcha. Abuzeid Matuq was a bit plumper than the photo in his jacket pocket portrayed, and he was wearing his hair a shade longer than a man of forty-six years who wasn’t a rock star should do. But it was definitely him.

  Transferred to London just over a year ago to run a newly established branch of the General Bank of Libya, Matuq had soon slipped into bad company. Once he was out of sight of head office and his beloved Colonel Gaddafi, it hadn’t taken him long to find a whole new direction in his life, and to disappear with a large amount of Libyan money. He was now being sought by bank officials and the Serious Fraud Office. Along with, most likely, the more vengeful elements of the Libyan secret police.

  ‘Got a delivery.’ Harry slapped the logo on his breast pocket. The light wasn’t brilliant, but he thought Matuq had an unhealthy grey tinge for a man his age. Fat lot of good the money had done him, then, ending up in this drab, shadow-filled hideaway.

  ‘A delivery? Not for me.’ Matuq shifted slightly, but stayed where he was. It was a reminder for Harry that desperate people sometimes do rash things when confronted by pursuers.

  And right now, Matuq was partially shielded by his front door.

  Harry got ready to move. There was no telling what the Libyan might be holding in his concealed hand. As one of his old MI5 instructors would have said, even small, furry rodents have sharp teeth when cornered.

  ‘Uh. . Mrs Tangmere? Stokes Cottage?’ Harry glanced at his mobile and shifted the clipboard until the white blob of Matuq’s face appeared in the centre of the screen. Not quite sharp enough, but it would do. He keyed the button, freezing the face.

  ‘There is nobody of that name.’ Matuq’s voice was soft, like his appearance, the accent pronounced. His eyes slipped instinctively to the large brown envelope Harry produced from under the clipboard. It
was addressed to an imaginary Mrs Tangmere in bold handwriting. Another good lesson learned: it was the detail that got you in, the lack of it that got you found out.

  ‘Took me ages to find the place.’ He hated this part, having to go through the play-acting just to give him an excuse to leave without alerting Matuq. But finding the target’s location was just one part of the assignment, albeit a critical part; next he had to get the photo to Jennings to prove it. He gestured down the track. ‘Had to leave my wheels down the end and leg it.’

  He shivered briefly and smiled again to dispel any impression of threat. Visitors promising violence or incarceration rarely comment on the weather or the state of the roads. Nor do they carry clipboards. Harry was a bit under six feet, but probably looked worryingly big to a small man on the run.

  ‘Sorry. I cannot help,’ Matuq murmured regretfully, beginning to close the door.

  Harry let him. He’d done what he came for. Now he just had to wait for instructions.

  ‘No problem. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned and walked away as the door closed, followed by the rattle of bolts being thrown. He squeezed a glance across the tips of the reeds in the marsh bed separating Stokes Cottage from the village of Blakeney. The air here was damp and sour, a ghost of mist adding to the chilled atmosphere. He caught a faint shine off the Saab’s roof as he rounded the curve in the track and hoped Matuq hadn’t seen it. A UPS delivery driver with a clipboard was unremarkable; the same man in a mud-spattered car was not.

  He dodged puddles, automatically checking the ground for tyre tracks. A single set but not fresh. Matuq must have a vehicle tucked away behind the cottage. If the Libyan decided to split, he’d have a job tracking him down again. Runners, once spooked, rarely allow their pursuers a second chance.

  Out over the reed beds, a startled bird took off with a clatter, wings beating the air. Others followed, scattering wildly into the darkening sky. Harry wondered if his presence had set them off. He brushed subconsciously at his neck and lengthened his stride.

  This place was already giving him the creeps.

  TWO

  In the car, Harry checked the picture on his mobile against the hard copy in his pocket before sending it on the next stage. If Jennings was on the ball, he should have instructions within minutes. Then he could be out of here, with or without a package.

  He yawned and shifted the passenger seat back and placed a foot on the dashboard, knuckling the tiredness from his eyes. There were times when he felt too old for this business; covert surveillance and tracking was for youngsters; those who were time-rich, who didn’t find themselves thinking of all the better things they could be doing instead of getting stale and stodgy in the front seat of a car while the world slipped by outside. Not that forty-something was old, exactly. He probably needed some TLC and a good holiday. With Jean, preferably. He leaned forward and checked his face in the mirror. Could do with a shave; hair still good — a bit long on top maybe but no traces of grey among the light brown; teeth not bad, either.

  He lowered the window a fraction, allowing the smell of salt and decay to drift in. He shifted uneasily and eyed his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see here: the reeds, some woodland and dull, camouflage-coloured undergrowth. Beyond that and out of sight lay the coastline of dunes and the cold North Sea. The overall impression was unwelcoming and unnaturally quiet, as if all life had been turned off at the mains.

  He eased the door open and stepped back out, treading with care in the mud. Out here was a steady rush of low-level noise produced by the breeze among the trees and rushes. Apart from that, there was nothing visual to disturb the scenery: no people, no movement, no vehicles. Just a car engine rumbling faintly from somewhere over by the village. He left the Saab and strolled the few yards back to the main road, using up time while waiting for Jennings to call back.

  To his right, the road was empty, burrowing into the gloom before abruptly turning a corner as it followed the line of the coast. To the left, a hundred yards away towards the village, a white utility van stood on the grass verge, a red warning cone near the offside tail-light. The rear door was open, showing a jumble of tools inside. A long metal mains key stood against the side of the van. There was no sign of the driver.

  He strolled back to the Saab and climbed in, taking a ten-day-old copy of the Telegraph off the back seat as he did so. He’d already tried the crossword but wasn’t in the mood. He flicked through the pages for something of interest. Another bombing in Baghdad and the death of a so-called major Iraqi figurehead; a critical setback to the handover of full power, according to the leader writer, who was clearly deluded enough to believe that one man was all it needed to solve the problem. Harry felt a surge of relief that he was no longer a part of that whole sorry mess. All in the past, thank God.

  He thought about Matuq, wondering if he’d have to take him back. He didn’t like taking in runners, whatever their alleged background or problems. It changed the whole dynamic of the hunter-prey situation. Tracing them was one thing; it was done remotely, avoiding all physical contact until the last possible moment. Doing the knock wasn’t always necessary, either, depending on the client’s requirements. But sharing car space with the target afterwards and having to listen to them justifying their actions was a step too far.

  The phone buzzed. Jennings.

  ‘You may leave.’ The voice was smooth and bland, smug even, and Harry pictured him behind his executive desk in west London, pinstripe suit and polished brogues on display, self-satisfaction turned up high.

  ‘You sure about that?’ The last thing he needed was to drive all the way back to London only to have to come out here again because of a change of heart.

  ‘I’m sure. Someone else will handle it from here.’ A click and Jennings was gone.

  Harry switched off the phone and placed it on the central console. Jennings had few obvious social skills and seemed determined not to improve them; maybe he’d been dropped once too often as a baby. He tossed the paper over his shoulder, distracted. Something was niggling at him. Something about the call. But it wouldn’t come.

  He reached up to check the rear-view mirror, settling himself for the long drive back. He’d stop somewhere for a meal, if he saw a place open. Something with chips. Or salad.

  In the mirror, two bursts of light flared briefly against the darkening sky.

  The source was from the top of the track near the cottage. There was no sound, but Harry knew instantly what it meant.

  THREE

  He was out of the car without thinking. He clicked the door shut and crouched by the rear wing. No sound after the flares of light; no indication of anything wrong. Yet there was something. Had to be.

  He stood up and opened the boot. Reaching inside, he located a heavy metal box with a dial, which he moved two clicks to the right. Seconds later he flipped open the lid and took out the familiar weight of a semi-automatic and inserted a loaded magazine.

  This is not clever, he told himself. Crazy, in fact. But what he’d just seen in the mirror was the reflection of muzzle-flash. Gunfire. He’d be even crazier going up there empty-handed.

  He sighed and closed the boot. Took a deep breath.

  Like old times.

  The layout of the track was familiar enough, but he took it at an easy walk, keeping to the side away from the reeds. He’d done this kind of thing too many times in too many places before and knew that hurrying wouldn’t help. Whatever had happened at the cottage was done; going in on the run wouldn’t change it and could easily get him killed. And with the light fading fast, the ground was too uneven to take at a faster pace.

  When the cottage came in sight, he stopped.

  The door was wide open and a blaze of light was spilling out across the front step and painting the track a dirty yellow.

  It was a bad sign: runners don’t leave doors open. The sense of being pursued is with them always and the security of enclosure is what they crave most. Open doors bring unwelcome vi
sitors with a tendency to chat. Chatting allows secrets to slip out. And he’d heard Matuq close and bolt the door.

  He waited, tuning in to the night. Above the breeze a faint rattle echoed from the reeds behind the house, like the distant applause of a concert audience. A bird took off. High overhead, a plane droned unseen across the sky.

  Staying clear of the light, Harry circled round the side of the cottage, one eye on the windows. There was no sign of movement inside, no sound from the outside. A flimsy wooden carport stood away from the house. It contained a dark-coloured Renault saloon with pale streaks of dried mud down the side. He touched the bonnet. Cold as mutton. If this was Matuq’s car, he hadn’t used it for a while. Then he noticed the vehicle had an odd tilt to it.

  The tyres had been slashed.

  He stepped towards the rear of the cottage and peered round the corner. A cold breeze was slicing in across the reeds from the sea, and he hunkered down in the lee of the wall. The back door was less than three feet away; wood-panelling at the bottom, glass at the top. Adequate for holiday lets but too flimsy for serious security.

  He leaned over and tried the handle. Locked.

  Ducking beneath the windows, he returned to the front of the cottage. Still no sound or sign of life. He stepped up alongside the front door, weapon held two-handed in front of him. With a conscious effort not to take in an audible breath, he stepped inside.

  FOUR

  Abuzeid Matuq was lying on his back against the far wall of the small main room, bare legs splayed out before him. The former banker wore a shocked expression and looked somehow diminished in size, as if death had robbed him of solidity. His Paisley-print gown showed two black holes in the front, and in the depression between his stomach and his chest, a dark, liquid mass had pooled like oil on sand.