Red Station ht-1

by Adrian Magson

  ‘We? Who else is involved?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s confidential.’

  She considered that for a moment. ‘You say a member of the observation team — these Clones? — was killed. I need his name.’

  ‘Stanbridge. Ex-army. I don’t know his first name. You can cross-check with service records for Kosovo; he served there with the UN.’

  Rudmann made a brief note, although Harry was sure their conversation was being recorded.

  ‘If I read between the lines, you seem to think it was this second team — the Hit — which was responsible. Why would they do that… kill one of their own?’

  They had finally reached the tricky part. Did he tell Rudmann that it was most likely Clare Jardine who had killed Stanbridge, or allow the blame to settle on a dead killer? He couldn’t prove it either way with absolute certainty, so what did it matter?

  ‘If it was the Hit who killed him, there were only two reasons I can think of: they found out that Stanbridge had talked to me, or Stanbridge recognized Latham and knew what his function was. In actual fact, Latham was the Hit. This was a job they couldn’t trust to more than one man. In Latham’s narrow world, Stanbridge was a liability to get rid of.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting that Latham was after you?’

  ‘Not just me; all of us. We were lucky to get away.’ Those of us who did, he thought. She could find out about Mace’s death herself, if she wanted.

  ‘I see. Where is Latham now?’

  ‘He ran into some trouble.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘So sue me.’

  ‘You killed him.’ It was a statement.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Very well.’ She brushed at her hair, a small charm bracelet tingling on her wrist. ‘I’ll have to verify what you’ve told me, of course. It might take some time.’

  He stared at her. ‘Is that all? You’ll look into it?’

  ‘Is there something else?’ For a second, she looked faintly alarmed, and Harry wondered how closely aware she had been of the decisions made by Bellingham and Paulton over the past few months. The civil service and government was a notoriously small community and as incestuous as a bunch of alley cats. It was inconceivable that she or some of her colleagues hadn’t been at least partly aware that something was going on in the woodpile. But suspicions didn’t amount to definite knowledge. And he couldn’t go down the route of divisive thinking, he reminded himself. He had to trust someone, at least part of the way, otherwise he’d go quietly mad.

  ‘Is something going to be done about them?’ he demanded quietly. ‘About what happened… setting up Red Station… the murder of Brasher and Gulliver?’ He suddenly found an impulse to shout this bloody woman out of her immaculately coiffed and manicured air of control. Instead he kept his voice even.

  She nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand. That’s all you need to know.’ She reached out and pressed a button on the telephone console. The door opened and the security guard stepped in.

  Harry stayed where he was. ‘There’s also the shooting,’ he said, ‘for which I was sent out there.’

  Rudmann nodded at the security guard, and he retreated and closed the door.

  ‘That is still under investigation. What of it?’

  Harry told her what Maloney had discovered about the over-flight photos and the Land Rover; how the shooting of the man, at least, might not be as innocent or as accidental as it had seemed. Rudmann made more notes on a pad.

  ‘I’m not saying it wasn’t a disaster,’ he finished quietly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened and those people shouldn’t have died. But neither was it the simple lash-up that everyone assumes. Cuts were made to manpower on economic grounds and because the Prime Minister was due to visit Stansted.’

  ‘I’m not sure that has any relevance.’ She dropped into denial mode, the government’s default position.

  ‘But the PM was at Stansted the next day?’

  Hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that? Or you checked?’ She wouldn’t know all his engagements.

  ‘I checked.’

  ‘Why?’

  Rudmann looked uncomfortable at the probing, but couldn’t avoid the question.

  ‘You had doubts,’ said Harry. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Some, yes.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t ask more questions, then,’ Harry retorted bluntly. ‘You should have asked about Red Station, too. It might have saved some lives.’

  She showed no emotion, but said, ‘We will be reviewing all the facts, I promise.’

  It seemed to be the best answer he was going to get, and he decided not to outstay his welcome. He reached the door and turned to look at Rudmann. She was watching him, hands folded on the desk before her, a perfect mandarin, unemotional, impassive.

  He wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

  ‘This won’t go away,’ he told her. ‘It will come out… who set it up, who knew about it. People like Bellingham, they’ll talk. You can’t sweep it under the carpet.’

  Rudmann returned his stare. ‘What do you want, Mr Tate?’

  ‘Me? I want my life back. Simple as that. Not too much to ask, is it?’

  SEVENTY

  Marcella Rudmann sat and waited for confirmation from the front desk that Harry Tate had left the building. When the call came, the security man asked if she wanted Tate followed.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘He’ll spot whoever you send after him.’

  She cut the connection and made two calls, then walked along the corridor to a small office at the end. It was windowless, drab and overheated, and contained a single desk holding an array of audio equipment. A man in shirtsleeves sat waiting.

  He stood up when she entered. His name was Everett and he was a senior officer in Home Office Security and had Rudmann’s full confidence.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ she asked.

  Everett nodded. ‘Nice and clear.’ He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll get it transcribed right away.’ He paused. ‘Tate’s a bit of a time-bomb, isn’t he? Is it true what he said — about your front door?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll arrange it today. I’m more concerned about what he claims about Red Station. If it’s true, it’s appalling.’ She looked at her hands as if wanting to wash them clean, and paced across the office and back. Everett waited for her to speak. ‘I’ve just had confirmation that George Paulton has disappeared,’ she said finally. ‘I always had my doubts about that man. And the police have now identified the man they believe was responsible for Shaun Whelan’s death. It wasn’t a mugging. The killer is a subcontractor for the security services.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Everett pulled a face. ‘And Paulton was involved.’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  Everett’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ll talk to the Met. Not that I expect they’ll find anything; if Paulton’s gone, he’ll have covered his tracks.’ He hesitated. ‘It leaves Sir Anthony Bellingham rather exposed, doesn’t it?’

  Rudmann nodded. She had reached the same conclusion. Which was why the other call she had made before leaving her office had been to the deputy PM.

  His question had been simple and to the point. Two very senior security officers had gone stratospherically beyond their brief. What was she going to do about it?

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Harry leaned on the wall overlooking the Thames and watched a plank floating downriver. It swirled almost majestically, flashing bright against the grey wash, then was gone, consumed by the fierce undercurrent.

  A bit like me, he reflected, that plank. Thick, weather-worn and likely to be dragged under when not expecting it.

  He looked to his left and saw a familiar face strolling along the riverside walkway. He cut a smart figure, an unhurried, well-fed man in an expensive suit; an anachronism compared with the fleeting, toned and anxious office workers hurrying by elsewhere.

/>   Sir Anthony Bellingham. It had to be.

  Behind Bellingham, a tall man in a dark suit wandered along at the same pace, eyes on the road, the walkway and the river. Bellingham’s bodyguard.

  Harry waited. There was plenty of time. He’d come a long way for this. He glanced at the nearest camera focussed on the length of the riverside walkway. It would have a clear view of everyone passing by; of their faces, clothes, what they carried and even their conversation if the operators had a good lip-reader handy.

  Across the river were more cameras. Most would be concentrated on the several hundred square metres surrounding the stone building of the MI5 complex, known as Thames House. One or two might be temporarily offline; according to Rik Ferris, the number of cameras inoperative in London at any one time was staggering. Maintenance cuts, mostly, aided by the occasional brick lobbed by a disgruntled resident or an aggrieved motorist.

  As if on cue, Rik Ferris appeared in the background beyond Bellingham. He was dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, and holding a drinks bottle. He jogged easily, a spring in his step, covering the ground with ease. He looked fit and Harry was surprised; a few good nights’ sleep had worked wonders.

  Bellingham paused to stare across the river and took a cigar from his top pocket. He carefully unwrapped it, placing the cellophane film in his pocket, then reached for a lighter. It flashed as he stroked it with his thumb.

  Probably gold and heavy, thought Harry. Not designed to impress, though; just the way the man was. The flame flared, followed by a puff of grey smoke which hung momentarily around the spy chief’s head before swirling and disappearing on the river breeze.

  Harry had rehearsed this moment in his head several times. With Paulton gone, Bellingham must have considered himself safe. He could go about his daily business until it was time for him to go, a faithful and loyal servant of her majesty’s civil service. Then he could slide into a comfortable, index-linked retirement and disappear off the face of a planet he had only ever served beneath the surface.

  All would be well with the world.

  Not a chance, Harry had decided. Not a bloody chance. He had weighed the pros and cons, looked at what kind of a life awaited him if he did what was expected of him. He, too, could move back into the fold, all sins forgiven, the records expunged. Say no more, all done and dusted. He could see out his service until retirement called.

  Only it wouldn’t be quite as comfortable as anyone imagined. It would carry, for a start, the images of that night in Essex, when bad decisions had left three people dead — one of them a good policeman, one an innocent girl.

  Not all the bad decisions were his, he knew that; cutting the manpower at a crucial moment was the most dam- aging, leaving him badly outgunned. But he still hadn’t forgotten his own moment of inaction, that split-second of hesitation just before the gunman on the boat had opened fire. Even though Maloney had confirmed a few days ago in a pub off the Charing Cross Road that a few seconds would have made no difference whatsoever, it was still with him.

  He took a deep breath and felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He’d sliced a hole in the fabric and fitted a special holster — more of a sack, really — so that the gun barrel, with its suppressor, wouldn’t snag.

  Pulling it out would take half a second. Levelling it would take even less, and less still to pull the trigger. A spit of sound, the explosion of gasses muffled to little more than a cough by the suppressor, and even that would be lost in the noise from the traffic and the rush of the river. Then he’d be gone, walking away as casually as he could manage. In minutes he could be in Waterloo Station, shrouded by crowds of commuters.

  But Bellingham wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  He had tried to argue Rik Ferris out of his part in what was to follow, but to no avail. Bill Maloney had insisted on running interference, too. If anyone saw what happened, and attempted to interfere, they would be mugged by a hooded figure in a tracksuit or a heavily-built lout in jeans and a donkey jacket. Neither would be recognizable and neither would hang around afterwards to answer questions.

  The worst of it was, in a way that made him wonder and smile, he knew both of them were relishing their part in it.

  He walked towards Bellingham, keeping an eye on the bodyguard. The man was looking down at the water. Harry took a deep breath, trying to walk softly, taking the weight off his heels, the way they’d trained him. Trouble was, he sounded like one of the guardsman outside Buckingham Palace, his footsteps echoing off the walls like gunshots.

  Bellingham looked up as Harry approached, a dribble of smoke coming from his lips. If he had concerns about his personal security, he was careful not to show it, eyes steady.

  ‘You want something?’ He sounded belligerent, a fact reflected in his stance. Up close, he smelled of soap and cigar smoke.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Harry knew he’d been recognized. The MI6 director must have a good memory. Or maybe he’d been checking through MI5 personnel records to see who else he could despatch to the back of beyond for ‘training’ purposes.

  Then it hit him: he had met Bellingham before.

  He was the man with Paulton when he’d had his debrief prior to leaving for Red Station. At the time, he had said nothing, remaining in the background, a suited figure with a bland face. Paulton had done all the talking.

  The MI6 man nodded. ‘Tate, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’

  Harry paused, surprised by Bellingham’s easy reaction, his apparent self-control. He’d expected to have to introduce himself at least. But maybe this proved just how hands-on Bellingham was in the Red Station set-up, and how well he knew its personnel.

  ‘Where did you expect me to be? In a Russian lock-up? Or disposed of in a quiet gully by the Hit?’

  ‘The what? Hit? No idea what you’re talking about.’ Bellingham glanced at his cigar, flicked some ash off the end. Harry noted that he also took the opportunity to check for his bodyguard.

  ‘You should know. You sent them after us. His name was Latham.’

  ‘Really? Why would I do that?’

  ‘You know why.’ Harry breathed easily. Bellingham was playing it just the way he’d expected: deny and counter-attack. ‘They were supposed to kill us; Mace, Ferris, Clare Jardine, Fitzgerald and me. The members of Red Station. With the Russians coming over the border, you and Paulton decided it would be a good idea to clear the decks. After all, who else would anyone blame?’ He waited, but there was no reaction. He added, ‘Did Latham arrange for Gordon Brasher to take an overdose? And for Jimmy Gulliver to have a climbing accident?’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish, man. Who the hell are — Brasher, was it? — and Gulliver? I suggest you get help. In fact, I’ll get Paulton to arrange it.’ Bellingham began to turn away. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me-’

  ‘Don’t you want to know about Latham?’

  Bellingham’s face barely registered a flicker. But it was enough to betray him.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Bellingham’s mouth dropped open. He recovered quickly, but Harry knew he’d finally hit home.

  ‘We buried him face down in a ditch. It seemed a fitting end.’

  Bellingham stepped back. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know anyone called Latham. What do you want from me?’ A slight tic had started up under his left eye.

  ‘You. We want you. And Paulton. Although somehow I doubt we’ll get to him. He seems to have done a runner. But you’ll do for starters.’

  ‘We?’ The cigar was forgotten now. Bellingham was beginning to look trapped. He looked beyond Harry, sweeping the area with a practised eye.

  ‘Enough of us to bury you.’ Harry felt the response was over-dramatic, but it seemed appropriate. Bellingham and Paulton had buried him and the others in Red Station; it seemed right to think of retribution in the same terms.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourselves — any of you.’ Bellingham tossed the cigar into the river and thrust his hand in his pocke
t. ‘Who the hell would believe you?’

  For a second, Harry thought he might be going for a weapon, and got ready to draw the gun in his pocket. It would probably be the last thing he ever did, but he was damned if this man was going to take him down. Then he realized Bellingham would be carrying a panic button. Press once in case of threats from foreign agents or pissed-off security officers. Bellingham wasn’t the gun type; he employed others to do his shooting for him.

  He reckoned on having just a few minutes before the summons brought a response. ‘I’ve spoken to Marcella Rudmann,’ Harry said. ‘I think she’ll be looking to have a chat sometime. She’s particularly interested in Clarion.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic.’ Bellingham’s voice dripped contempt, his mouth contorted, but he looked haunted at the mention of his server link. ‘You think you can come back here and take me on? You’re deluded, all of you, like that pathetic drunk, Mace. I suppose he’s hiding somewhere, afraid to come out and face the world without a stiff drink inside him?’

  ‘He’s alive, if that’s what you mean.’ The lie came easily. ‘And ready to talk.’

  ‘Then he’ll be arrested,’ Bellingham replied. ‘As will you. Your friends too. Is Jardine one of them?’

  Another name, another point of reference. It confirmed that Bellingham knew who was in Red Station. By itself it might not be enough, but it added background colour for any subsequent enquiry.

  ‘Yes, she’s out there,’ he said. ‘I’d watch your back, if I were you. You made her some promises then let her down. She’s unlikely to forgive you for that.’

  Bellingham’s eye gave a twitch, and he struggled to hold his gaze on Harry’s face. He said acidly, ‘We’ll see. You’ll all serve time in the darkest hole I can find. Believe me, you have no idea what being buried really means!’

  A touch of spittle from Bellingham’s mouth landed on Harry’s cheek. He gripped the gun harder and wondered what it would be like to take it out and deliver his own brand of justice on behalf of those Bellingham had consigned to oblivion. The man didn’t have the slightest sense of remorse or fear, even when faced by someone who could bring him down.