Red Station (10 page)

The shooting was still in the news. As he scrolled down the BBC's main news page, his spirits sank. He checked the commercial television channels, which told him nothing more, then flicked through the websites of the British nationals. Some of the speculation was wildly off-target, but the guesswork contained a disturbing amount of accurate detail. One report even spoke with relish of an official cover-up, claiming in knowing tones that ‘according to unnamed sources within the police, the name of an unknown security agent who was present at the shooting has been withheld by the Home Office pending internal enquiries.' The report went on to say that the name of this ‘agent' would soon be a matter of public record, and that the Home Secretary, who was facing calls to bring in an outside senior police officer to take over, could not delay in replying for much longer.

As he read this, Harry wondered how much of the speculation was a result of unofficial briefings carefully leaked to keep the public temporarily satisfied until a coherent strategy could be decided on. He noted the name of the report's author, and hoped sourly that Shaun Whelan, whoever he was, would trip over and break his neck.

Tired of staring at the screen, he switched off the machine and paid the barman. He'd check again tomorrow. Maybe London would flood and they'd forget all about it.

Half an hour later, he turned a corner and stopped. He'd managed to lose his bearings, and instead of arriving back at the office, he'd somehow veered off course and arrived across from the Palace Hotel.

He entered the main doors and crossed a large, tiled foyer scattered with potted palms and comfortable chairs. A sign pointed to a bar, from where he could hear the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses.

He checked the room before walking in. Four men and a woman, all westerners, were gathered around a table. Two of the men were working at laptops, while the others had their heads together in discussion. They did not spare Harry more than a cursory glance.

There was no sign of Higgins. Harry went to the bar and ordered a beer, then found a comfortable chair in one corner, in line-of-sight of the door, but set back from anyone walking by.

The other customers were a mix of German and Swedish, and appeared to be part of a news team gearing up to head north. There was talk of local guides, ‘road' rations and where to stay if they got bogged down anywhere remote.

Ten minutes later, Carl Higgins walked in.

He gave the group a friendly wave, then bellied up to the bar, flicking a finger at a lager pump. Moments later, he was joined by one of the newsmen. They spoke in soft tones for five minutes. The other journalists ignored them.

When three more men walked in, the journalist with Higgins returned to the table and the talk continued as if he had never left.

The three newcomers, all dressed in suits, scanned the bar, eyes passing over Harry without a flicker. They were all in their late thirties or early forties, with smooth shaves and the well-fed look of diplomats who believe in keeping trim. They joined Higgins at the bar, and the man from Ohio ordered more drinks, then led them through a glass-panelled doorway into a restaurant. The last man in dragged a heavy CLOSED sign across the floor and shut the door behind him.

Harry felt the beer turn sour in his mouth. Could they be any more bloody obvious? He got up and left. He had seen enough.

Higgins was a spook.

EIGHTEEN

J
ournalist Shaun Whelan was feeling his age, if not his weaknesses. He stepped out of the lights and echoes of Clapham South underground station, and headed towards a nearby stretch of open parkland. It was just before ten at night and a chill was in the air. But in spite of the temptation to turn for home and curl up with a glass of Chablis, he was feeling the pull of another, far stronger temptation; one which he knew would not easily fade.

A thin-faced wisp of a man with fair hair and soft skin, he had long ago become accustomed to the twin attractions in his life: the pursuit of a good story on one hand, with all the stresses, frustrations and disappointments that brought, and on the other, the desire for something he thought of as affection . . . even love. Which, he conceded with a nod to irony, was as stressful and disappointing as the day job . . . and just as frustrating on a different level.

He pushed the thought away and pulled up his collar, distancing himself from a group of youths loitering on the pavement. He was hoping the brief eye contact and the slip of paper exchanged in the pub near Westminster at lunchtime had not been an elaborately cruel tease. Some of the young set were like that, building up older men for a fall, mindless of the damage they were doing to frail egos and frailer bodies. As if it were not wounding enough to be getting on in years, having the salt of unkindness rubbed in was an injury he could do without. And after losing Jamie, his companion of the past decade, he needed all the warmth – however fleeting – he could find.

He tried to take his mind off the darkness and its potential perils by focussing on the story he was currently chasing around the cubby-holes of Whitehall. It remained tantalizingly short on detail and would probably stay that way unless he got spectacularly lucky, but what was certain was that a combined security services and Met police drugs snatch had gone disastrously wrong, leaving four dead in a hail of gunfire. Two were rumoured to be a courting couple, while a third had been a policeman from an armed response unit. The fourth was unknown, but possibly one of the drugs gang.

During his digging, Whelan had heard a name mentioned by one of his police contacts, although it was still unconfirmed. All he had been able to ascertain was that an MI5 officer named Tate had been transferred to ‘other' operations shortly after the shooting. He felt certain it was no coincidence.

His initial research had revealed that a Harry Tate had started out in the army, transferring to the Intelligence Corps with service in Central Europe, before subsequently disappearing off the map. He knew what that signified: the man had most likely been scooped up by one of the security agencies, possibly MI5 or SIS (MI6), and his whereabouts and current role had been sanitized. The two agencies were always on the trawl for good people with useful backgrounds. Candidacy as a spy or counter-spy wasn't always judged by possession of a good degree and being ‘spotted' by a friendly Oxford or Cambridge don; they needed their fair share of older people with solid experience in place of a creative CV – especially with the current focus on the war against terror. And Tate sounded just the right type.

If Whelan's sources were correct, Tate had been the man running the operation. He didn't have all the details yet, but the story was out there, waiting. The very idea was nearly enough to make him turn and go home, where he could continue trawling through the files for more sources.

But not quite. As he crossed the pavement and on to a path stretching across the park, he saw a figure ahead of him in the gloom. The build looked familiar and he felt a knot of excitement in his chest.

Whelan hopped over a short fence and entered the shadows close to a public convenience. The air was heavy with the aroma of damp earth, rotten vegetation . . . and toilets. His nose twitched, the Whitehall story suddenly pushed into the background. No way was he going in there; it was a death-trap waiting to happen. Instead, he veered towards a line of trees on the far side, where the back-glow of street lights cast at least an element of warmth and normalcy.

He increased his pace, eyeing the bushes to one side. The figure he'd seen earlier had disappeared. The darkness here was virtually impenetrable, but he saw something out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement against a lighter background. Friend or foe? Warmth or chill? His breathing increased and his blood began to race, buoyed by the thrill of the chase.

He forced himself to slow down. No sense in making himself look too desperate; a quick way of turning the boy off, if anything.

As he followed the path around the darker morass of a pond, picking up the metallic, muddy tang of standing water, he saw the figure more clearly, standing beneath a tree, backlit by distant lights. Medium height, slim, dressed in the loose clothing of the street, easy to slip out of.

Easy to slip into.

His excitement began to build, and he jammed a hand into his trouser pocket. Anxiety and anticipation were the twin fuels which kept him going at times like this, but they could easily become all-controlling.
Christ, he was like a sixteen-year-old on his first time! Cool it, Whelan, or you'll blow it
. Although, come to think of it, he reflected with a dizzy chuckle, wasn't that rather the point?

‘You made it,' he called. His voice was shaky, breathless, and sounded inane. Like a line from an old movie. Yet what else could he say?

‘I said I would.' It was the voice from the pub. It had been competing with the din of music and laughter, but he recalled the tight build, the young, handsome face and the strong hands.

Especially the hands.

Not the eyes, though. He felt a touch of unease. The eyes looked . . . different. Not like the voice and the body language. Yet there had been so much more . . .

Then it was too late to change his mind, even if he'd wanted to.
Sorry, Jamie,
he thought briefly, and stepped up close to the youth, his heart pounding. This was too good to waste. Too rare.

The youth responded, moving in close. Whelan took in the scent of aftershave, something lemony and subtle, and the heat of sweet breath on his cheek. He abandoned himself to the feeling of being cherished, of being warmed.

The feeling lasted just three seconds.

Then Whelan felt an ice-cold burning deep in his gut. His legs began to fold, their strength suddenly ebbing away. He felt his bladder loosen, humiliating and hotly wet down his legs. He struggled to hold himself upright, to lock his knees against the downward pressure, but the muscles and sinews wouldn't obey. Nothing would.

He coughed, but couldn't understand why.

The youth stepped back. In his hand, a flicker of steel, and on his face, total blankness.

Whelan turned his head away, his last voluntary action. In the sudden, bitter knowledge of disappointment, he was sure he saw Jamie standing off to one side, pale and translucent in the night. Waiting.

Then everything went black.

NINETEEN

T
he Odeon restaurant was empty again, save for Mace. The station chief was sitting near the back wall, at his usual table. He had left instructions at the office for Harry to join him. There had been no reason to refuse, and Harry had seen enough of the town for a while and wanted to see what information Mace might have other than gossip about his colleagues.

As he sat down, Mace called for the old woman. She shuffled out bearing a tray loaded with bowls of food, and placed it on the table.

He stared in surprise. He saw green chicken, egg-fried rice, onions, bean shoots and a mix of what could have been pork and beef.

‘Christ, where did this come from?'

Mace's eyes gleamed. ‘Best Thai for miles. Actually, the only Thai for miles. Beats me how or why; she must have travelled a bit in a former life. Served it up one day without asking. Never seen anyone else get it, so maybe she fancies me. Tuck in.' He picked up a spoon and scooped up chicken, bean shoots and rice, humming cheerfully.

Harry wanted to refuse; to tell Mace to stuff his fancy food and get lost, that he wanted to go home. But Mace had his orders, and sending a member of the awkward squad back to London wasn't part of the agenda. Besides, Harry's professional side was intrigued to want to find out what was going on here. He sat down and reached for a spoon and plate.

They ate in silence, and Harry was grateful for the first decent meal he'd had in what seemed like days. Airline food and greasy takeaways were beginning to take their toll on his system.

‘You been taking a snoot at the Clones, I see,' Mace muttered eventually. His eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘Young Rik's seeing shadows.'

‘You don't believe him?' Harry wondered about Mace's scepticism. Did he know more than he was letting on?

‘Never said that. Just said he shouldn't let it get to him.' He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. ‘Bound to be under scrutiny, aren't we? Stands to reason; we're the enemy. Anyone who thinks our British Council cover fools anyone needs their bumps felt. Same in London with their trade delegates. We stand out like spare dicks at a wedding.' He hoovered up more rice. ‘How many did you spot?'

‘Two. Rik says there are four.'

‘That would be about it. They probably hang on the Americans and French tails, too, with regular changeovers to keep 'em fresh. I wouldn't worry about it.'

‘They both have intelligence teams here?'

‘Course they do. This close to Mother Russia and the Caspian, they'd be negligent not to. Most of them are so-called oil engineers and the like, but their cover's paper thin.'

Like Higgins, thought Harry. Different skin but the same animal underneath.

‘So we ignore them?'

‘Ignore them, forget them, stay well away, is my suggestion.' His eyes locked on to Harry's. ‘That's not bad advice, either.'

Before Harry could reply, the restaurant door opened and two men stepped in off the street.

The first was large, like a bear, unshaven and with lank, black hair, but dressed in a smart suit, white shirt and buffed shoes. His shadow filled the doorway. The other man was shorter, slim like a dancer, and dressed in black. He moved round the bigger man, light on his feet, and stood to one side, waiting.

The big man approached their table.

‘Mr Mace,' he said genially. His eyes slid over Harry in a rapid assessment. ‘I see you are enjoying our excellent native cuisine.' He chuckled at his wit and smoothed the front of his suit.