Red Station (11 page)

‘Mr Mayor,' Mace greeted him, and sucked in a bean shoot with relish. ‘Care to join us? There's plenty.'

‘Thank you. Not today.' The man looked at Harry again and Mace shifted in his seat.

‘Oh, sorry – rude of me. Geordi Kostova . . . Harry Tate.' He looked at Harry and explained, ‘Geordi's the local mayor. Very important man, hereabouts.' He turned to the mayor. ‘Harry's on assignment from England, come to join our little crew.'

‘So? A replacement for Jimmy Gulliver, yes?'

Mace's smile slipped for a second, but he hoisted it back quickly. ‘Sort of. Head Office likes to rotate new employees. Field experience, you could call it.'

‘I understand. Such a pity Jimmy had to return home. I enjoyed his company. Well, Mr Tate – Harry,' Geordi smiled and bowed courteously, ‘welcome to our humble town. I hope you will find much to enjoy here.'

‘I'm sure I will. The countryside looks beautiful.'

‘Yes. Very true. But be careful where you go.' Kostova put a large finger against his nose. ‘Such beauty holds many dangers and our roads are not for the faint of heart.'

Tell me about it, thought Harry. Ploughed bloody fields spring to mind.

Kostova glanced at his watch, a Rolex. ‘Please excuse me, but as mayor, there are many duties I must attend to in these troubled times.'

‘Troubled?' Harry detected a warning look from Mace but ignored him.

Kostova shrugged, a heft of huge shoulders. ‘Some local land matters,' he explained in a bored tone. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy your stay.'

He turned and walked out, the slim man falling in behind him like a shadow.

‘He just told us to mind our own business,' said Harry. ‘Nice.'

‘Not surprised. You notice the other fella?' Mace scooped up more rice. ‘Geordi's wingman, goes by the name of Nikolai. Watch out for him. He's a cutter if ever I saw one.'

‘Why would a small-town mayor need a bodyguard?'

‘Well, apart from status, this area's full of tribal conflict, that's why. They'd never think twice about popping off someone like Geordi if he didn't play fair. Bodyguard, chauffeur, fixer – Nikolai's always there. See the mayor and Nikolai won't be more than six feet away.' He took a swig of water. ‘Geordi has lots of interests, see, outside of being His Worship.' He smiled sourly. ‘Well, he'd have to, wouldn't he? Can't make a living being mayor of a dump like this.'

‘What sort of interests?' The suit and Rolex hadn't been picked up at the local market. And there was something about the man that reminded him of other local politicians he'd come across in the Balkans. Usually well-fed, mostly highly intelligent and never less than devious.

‘Trade, mostly. Anyone wants it, Geordi can get it – for a price. Got lots of contacts all over the region. Some of 'em up north.' He left the meaning hanging, and concentrated on clearing his plate.

‘How far north?' Harry prompted. Mace's abbreviated talk and his oblique references were getting on his nerves.

‘What?'

‘You said contacts up north.'

‘Oh, right. Well, all the way to Moscow, as it happens.' He tapped a finger on the table. ‘A lot of 'em do around here, if they know what's good for them.'

‘Official, you mean? Or not?'

‘Official. If they've got other friends, they probably keep it very quiet, if they've any sense.'

‘So what was that just now – a chance visit?' He didn't believe it for a moment.

Mace confirmed it. ‘Geordi doesn't do things by chance. He's a planner – a strategist. He wanted to see who you are. He likes to keep close tabs on everyone who drops by his little bailiwick.' He grinned sourly. ‘He'll soon have more than he can deal with, I reckon.'

‘Would that include keeping tabs on Carl Higgins?'
He explained about his sightings of the journalist around town.

Mace nodded. ‘He's another busy bee. The Americans are keeping a watching eye on the situation, like us. Steer clear, is my advice.'

Harry pushed his plate away, appetite gone. He had a feeling Mace still wasn't telling him everything. ‘So Kostova's not just the mayor.'

‘No. On the surface, he's a political appointee. He just put more money into the regional government's pot than the next man, that's all. And he's got mates. Prick any mayor in this neck of the woods and you'll find their veins running with greed. And deep, deep loyalties.'

‘He dresses very well.'

‘Yeah, he's a real dandy, is Geordi. Likes to travel, too.' He stood up, brushing at the front of his jacket. ‘You done?'

Harry nodded. ‘Who was Jimmy Gulliver?'

Mace's eyes were cool. ‘He was here for a while, same as you. Then he went home. End of story.' He turned and walked out, leaving Harry staring after him.

TWENTY

G
eorge Paulton eyed the bodies assembled in the large room and sensed his spirits stirring. An emergency meeting had been called and the air of excitement was palpable. He noticed a number of eyes normally dulled by the mundane, gleaming with an inner fire.

Of the men and women here, at least six were involved in the Middle Eastern and Central European desks of their various agencies, while others were co-optees, on standby for whatever specialist information they might harbour in their little grey cells and black portfolios. He noticed the Deputy Director of Special Forces, Lieutenant-Colonel Spake, tall, tanned and dangerous-looking, standing at the back of the room. Near him, another man in a dark suit who could only be American, and further along, a face he seemed to recall from a GCHQ meeting a few months back. There were also people from the Foreign Office and the MOD, and the heavy figure of Sir Anthony Bellingham of MI6.

Marcella Rudmann rapped on the table and everyone found a seat and settled down. Bottles of water were uncapped and glasses rattled, but it was clear that everyone – like Paulton – was intrigued.

Almost everyone, anyway, he reflected, staring at Spake. The officer seemed slightly bored, a sure sign that he knew more than anyone else. Interesting.

Rudmann cleared her throat, waiting for silence. For a brief moment, she caught Paulton's eye. He looked away, preferring not to face her. News of Shaun Whelan's sordid demise had filtered quickly into the wasp-nest of Westminster, and he realized he might have moved just a shade too fast in dealing with that particular problem. Not that anyone could prove anything; another stabbing was hardly news. But a gay older man knifed while cruising on Clapham Common might be sufficient to rattle a few cages among the moral majority. Especially as that man was a well-known journalist.

‘Just over eighteen hours ago,' Rudmann began, ‘we received information that Georgian Forces were moving north into the breakaway region of South Ossetia.' She indicated a stack of folders on a side table. ‘Full details are contained in the briefing notes, so please refer to them later. Due to circumstances, this briefing is exactly that – brief. We'll call further meetings as and when the situation develops.' She glanced at Spake and added, ‘I'll ask the Deputy Director of Special Forces to take up the briefing.' She nodded at the army officer with a faint flush of her cheeks, and sat down.

Paulton smiled to himself. Jesus, the bloody woman was almost salivating. He stored the thought away for future reference.

Spake climbed languidly to his feet and stepped over to a large interactive map on the back wall. It showed the entirety of Europe stretching right across to the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and Paulton felt his spirits sink. God, don't let it be another briefing on some shitty rock-pile where they think they've found Osama Bin Laden playing backgammon and drinking coffee. It would be like all the other ‘sightings': totally bloody useless and time-wasting.

But Spake soon put paid to that theory. He tapped the map with a tanned finger, on an area to the west of Afghanistan, near the Caspian Sea.

‘As Ms Rudmann just said, Georgian army units including battle tanks, APCs and troop transport have moved north into the separatist area of South Ossetia. They're backed up by helicopters and fighters, but we have no news yet of how active any air units have been. As some of you may know, there have been tensions between the two for some time, with clashes at numerous points along the disputed border. So far, though, it hasn't broken out into outright war, and it could be that some mediation by the US government has been a restraining factor.' He glanced at the man in the dark suit, who nodded slightly. ‘However, that looks like changing as the Georgian government sees itself being challenged by this – and other – separatist areas. If Georgian forces go in hard, and ignore international appeals, then it doesn't take much to realize what might happen.' He moved his hand and tapped a dark area on the map representing a stretch of mountains. ‘The Caucasus Mountains; the dividing line between Georgia, South and North Ossetia . . . and Russia.' He turned and faced the audience. ‘Our information is that heavy troop numbers have been building up, and that a surge of movement can be expected any day.'

‘Are you saying?' A florid-faced man in a sharp grey suit posed the inevitable question, ‘that the Georgians might push right through to Russia? That's madness.'

‘No. I'm saying the opposite,' Spake replied shortly. ‘The people in Ossetia now have Russians citizenship. If Moscow chooses to exert its right to protect those people, there's only one way to do it.'

There was a lengthy silence as the words sank in, punctuated by a pigeon flapping on a windowsill outside. If there was a collective thought among the listeners, it was one of alarm.

‘I don't believe it,' a voice muttered. But nobody hurried to agree.

‘What about the Americans? They've been supporting Georgia. What are they doing?' The first speaker looked at the American as if he alone were responsible. The American ignored him.

‘That's why we're monitoring the situation.' Spake tapped the map. ‘As of forty-eight hours ago, two teams – one from the US Delta Force and the other from our own Special Reconnaissance Regiment – were inserted to watch the possible approach routes from the north.'

‘Inserted? How?'

‘The usual way. Quietly.'

‘It's leaving it a bit late, isn't it?' said another man. ‘By the time the teams spot anyone, they'll already be over the border and heading south.'

‘You're right. But dropping men to the north of the mountains, where they could spot any movement earlier, would be too hazardous. The Russians have already been increasing their monitoring operations in the area for some time.'

The voices died again as they digested these implications, and Paulton reflected that if it hadn't been the Deputy Director Special Forces delivering the sobering facts, the place would have been in an uproar of doubt and sheer incredulity. As it was, their belief was total. He glanced at his watch and wondered how soon he would be able to get out of here. His involvement was going to be minimal from here on in.

The next question killed any such notion.

‘What if they do move south?' Marcella Rudmann queried. ‘How far might they go?'

Spake studied her face for a moment, and she blushed again under the scrutiny.

He shook his head. ‘We don't know. Nobody does . . . except possibly Mr Putin.' It did not go unnoticed that he made no mention of President Medvedev.

‘But your best guess?'

He studied the map and reached out his hand. It hovered for a moment on the mountain region of South Ossetia . . . then stabbed down further south.

Much further.

‘Best guess? At least Gori . . . but possibly the capital, Tbilisi. And anywhere in between. God help anyone who shouldn't be there.'

And George Paulton, watching where the finger finally came to rest, felt his guts turn to ice.

TWENTY-ONE

S
ixty miles to the north of Tbilisi, in the foothills of the Caucasus, a late breeze was sliding off the mountains, bringing a cold snap from the peaks. It was a welcome relief from the unusually warm lull that had been hanging around the lower plains during the day, and the man on watch shivered slightly under his camouflage smock. Winter was making its first move, far to the north and east.

He moved with care, scanning the lake three hundred metres away. The lightweight thermal infrared monocular was good to go in any light, and the long range optics could pick up any heat source or movement.

At any other time and place, he reflected, such as his native Michigan, it would have been a joy to sit and drink in the utter stillness and beauty of nature. A few birds were swinging slowly over the water, occasionally dipping to gather insects or some drops of moisture, then soaring upwards like elegant kites, feeding off the remaining thermals. A bunch of crows called among a stretch of conifers over to the right, their haunting sounds echoing across the lake, and a fox poked its nose out of the bushes and made its way down to the water's edge, where it drank in brief bursts, before slinking back into the shadows.

The watcher, whose name was Jordan Conway, glanced at his watch. The dulled case and face reflected nothing, both treated with light-absorbing film. For out here, even the smallest movement, the tiniest glimmer, could betray a man's position in an instant. As if to test the theory, he stared beyond the trees to the right of the lake, where he knew Bronson and Capel were dug in, watching their flank. There was no sign that they were there. He hoped it stayed that way.

‘How's it going?' The whisper came from a few feet to his rear. The speaker was Doug Rausing, the leader and fourth member of the Delta team and a ten-year veteran of covert operations on behalf of the Pentagon and the White House. He came from Tennessee, although none of his colleagues held that against him. Surfacing from a brief sleep, he was inching forward to take over from Conway as soon as the light dropped.