Red Station (14 page)

Once they were inside, he shut the door, then disappeared.

‘Harry. You like a drink?' Kostova was standing in an oval hallway, checking through a pile of mail on a large antique table capable of seating ten people without overcrowding. The floor was richly tiled in grey and silver and the walls were hung with heavy, lined wallpaper dotted with pink cherubs blowing golden trumpets. The effect was one of money overwhelming style.

‘Tea would be nice.' Harry decided that taking alcohol with Kostova might be a step too far. The mayor had the look and energy of a man who could take his drink and liked to prove it.

Kostova looked mildly disappointed but recovered with a wide smile. ‘Of course. Tea. Why not? Is good for the digestion, anyway.' He clapped his hands and shouted, then walked through a doorway to another room, beckoning for Harry to follow.

The room was vast, with a scattering of heavy, deeply-polished wooden furniture, comfortable armchairs and sofas, and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling at each end. The carpet was Persian over a wood-block floor, with heavy rugs seemingly dropped at random, giving the impression of something between a de Rothschild manor and a carpet salesroom.

‘Nice place,' said Harry.

‘Thank you.' Kostova was standing by a window overlooking a side garden filled with rose bushes. He smiled appreciatively. ‘It is nice to come home to some comfort, I think. Ah, tea.'

A youngish woman in a grey uniform dress and black shoes had entered the room, followed by the large man in the grey suit bearing a tray of fine china cups, saucers and a teapot. The woman poured, then handed Harry a cup. It was Earl Grey. She served Kostova, followed by Nikolai, who had entered quietly and was standing by the door. Then she and the heavy disappeared.

‘So. How are you finding our little town?' Kostova slurped his tea and beamed at Harry like a favourite uncle. ‘I trust you are comfortable?'

‘Not bad,' said Harry. ‘I haven't managed to explore everywhere just yet, but it's growing on me.'

‘Good. Good. We are not London, of course – what you are used to – but we have a very old culture and many pieces of fine architecture and a very interesting museum.'

Harry buried his nose in his cup, and glanced at Nikolai. The bodyguard was staring into his cup as if trying to decide whether to drink it or toss it in the nearest available flowerpot.

‘So, you knew Jimmy Gulliver?' Harry said. ‘He was before my time, so I didn't have the pleasure.'

Kostova looked surprised by the question. He glanced at Nikolai before replying. ‘Jimmy? I knew him . . . but not well. He was a guest in our town, and I like to make our visitors welcome.'

All visitors? Harry wanted to ask if that would extend to visitors dropping in from the north. He doubted Kostova would want them tramping over his precious carpets.

‘It was a pity,' continued the mayor, ‘that he had to return to England. He was an interesting young man.'

Harry said nothing.

Kostova continued, ‘He said he had orders to go back. A great shame. This town needs young people. We have too many old ones. Many who are not cultured.'

‘You'll soon have lots more young ones popping by,' said Harry, ‘if the rumours are correct.' It was impolite, given that he was drinking the mayor's Earl Grey. But this wasn't Eton Square and he doubted if he and Kostova would ever become bosom-buddies.

Kostova's eyes flashed. He said sombrely, ‘We are not all masters of our own destinies, Harry. I think you know that more than anyone. For both of us,' he waved a vague hand, ‘fate is decided a long way from this place.'

Harry was surprised. The mayor's English suddenly had taken a turn for the better. He wondered where he had received lessons. An institute outside Moscow, no doubt.

Before he could ask, Kostova drained his cup and called out. The woman in the grey dress appeared and took it from him.

Harry took the hint and also handed his cup to her.

‘Thank you,' he said, and headed for the door.

‘Enjoy your stay, Harry Tate,' Kostova murmured, and stayed where he was by the window. Nikolai was still studying his cup. There was no offer to drive Harry back into town.

He walked down the drive towards the gate, trying to work out what had just happened. An invitation for a drink had ended as abruptly as it had started. Had he actually managed to upset Kostova?

His mobile buzzed against his hip.

It was Mace.

‘You having fun?' said the station chief. ‘Dropping off the radar is not a good idea, know what I mean?'

‘I didn't know I was on it,' Harry replied.

‘Well, think again. You go missing, I want to know where you are.'

He wondered what was biting Mace's backside. He hadn't shown much interest in his movements thus far, so why now? ‘I had an invitation to tea. It seemed churlish to refuse.'

‘Tea? You taking the piss?'

‘Kostova picked me up in his BMW,' Harry explained. ‘Said he liked to meet new visitors. We drank Earl Grey served by two flunkies.' He wondered where this was leading. ‘He made it sound like standard hospitality.'

‘Standard? I'll bloody say not. When Geordi Kostova starts issuing personal invites to British Government personnel, it means he's up to something. You should have turned him down flat.'

‘Why? He's the mayor, you said.'

‘Use your head, son. How do you think he got that position? He's got the Moscow stamp of approval running through him like Blackpool rock. Why d'you think he's got all those fancy aerials at the back of his place – so he can download music off the internet?'

Harry turned and looked back. From his position in the back of Kostova's car, he'd missed the aerial array behind the main house, discreetly hidden by a clump of trees. He was no communications expert, but he guessed the array must have the ability to reach a long way. Like all the way to Moscow.

‘London's not going to like this,' Mace continued, his tone lecturing. ‘You've compromised yourself, lad.'

‘London can go screw themselves. It was tea, not twenty questions.'

‘They were just on the wire, asking where you were and what you were doing. Random check. I'll have to tell 'em.'

The phone clicked off and Harry swore. He'd been had. The invitation from Kostova had been deliberate, but had nothing to do with making friends or influencing people. And Mace must have known about it.

He'd been set up.

TWENTY-SIX

‘
I
need a mobile. A throwaway, no contract.'

Harry collared Rik as soon as he got back to the office. The others were out of earshot and Mace was on the phone with his back turned. There was no way of knowing if the young comms man would help him, or whether he'd simply go straight to Mace. But there was only one way to find out.

‘Why?' Rik grinned. ‘ET not thinking of phoning home, is he?'

‘Don't ask. Someone I need to talk to.'

‘Not wise, man. Not wise.' He pointed a finger towards the atmosphere. ‘They'll track it.'

‘No, they won't. I won't be on long enough. You going to help me or not?'

But Rik wasn't listening, too intent on showing his skills. ‘Keywords, you see. You use any keywords, it won't matter how long you're on. They'll have your footprint. Then you're toast.'

‘OK, I promise I won't use any keywords,' Harry growled. ‘Good enough?'

‘Fine. It's your neck.' Rik sucked on his teeth like a plumber giving an estimate. ‘There's a place in town. A kiosk. Sells bootleg cigarettes and
chacha
, among other things. He'll have what you need. The guy's name is Rudi. But don't touch the
chacha
– it's toxic.'

‘What the hell is
chacha
?' He wasn't really interested but it might be prudent to keep Rik onside.

‘It's vodka, mostly made with grape juice, but they also use fruit like oranges or mulberries. The best quality isn't bad, but the rest is crap.' He checked to make sure they weren't overheard. ‘The good stuff is Mace's favourite tipple. He sticks fruit juice in it to hide it but he's kidding himself.'

Harry stored away the information. Mace's drinking habits were nothing more than an exploitable weakness. In his profession, such a chink in his armour might affect all of them. ‘Where do I find this Rudi?'

Rik gave him directions to a street about ten minutes' walk away. ‘But seriously,' he added. ‘They'll track you.'

‘Yeah, I know. You said. Keywords.' Harry had a thought. ‘What about Hotmail? That's not traceable, right?'

‘Only like sticking a flag up a very tall pole.' Rik was scornful. ‘If they're monitoring email traffic out of this area, they'd go through the Hotmail first. They might not know who was sending an individual message, but they'd soon find out.'

‘How?'

Rik shrugged. ‘By doing what they normally do: quoting the war against terror. It's the modern “Open Sesame”, isn't it? They'd have instant access to whatever records they needed. It's too risky. You'd do better to stick with texting.' He smiled slyly. ‘You do know what texting is, don't you?'

Harry knew. He'd been on a communications update course. He remembered the instructor saying that texting in code was almost impossible to spot unless a specific device was being monitored.

‘Does this Rudi speak English?'

‘Of course. He's a wheeler-dealer; he likes to score.' Rik scowled. ‘I'd better come with you. He gets jumpy if he thinks the cops are around. Most of the stuff he handles isn't kosher, you know? That's why it's cheap. I'll check it out for you, so let me know when.' He gave Harry a steady look. ‘You did this all by yourself, though. I don't want London giving me a load of crap for your misdemeanours – I'm trying to live down enough of my own.'

‘Good luck with that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You seriously think they're going to let you back?' Harry gave him the benefit of a six-inch stare. ‘I wouldn't count on it, sunshine. They've got long, nasty memories and they don't forgive easily.'

Rik swallowed. ‘You think?'

‘I know. Let's go.'

‘What, now?' Rik glanced towards Mace's office. ‘What'll I tell the boss? He doesn't like any of us going off without a reason.'

‘Fuck him.' Harry was still mad at Mace over his visit to Kostova's house. Mace had contributed in putting another black mark on his record, for what purpose, he didn't know. Maybe it was part of his nature, to worm a bit of excitement out of working in this miserable place. It was bad enough getting carpeted as the man in charge of an operation that bombed; God alone knew how they'd react when they heard he'd enjoyed the hospitality of a political figure with known links to Moscow.

But he had to consider Rik. It would be unfair to drag him into it. ‘Tell him I need your help in buying a coat. It's cold here and I don't want to die of hypothermia.'

From down the street, the kiosk looked rundown and colourless, slotted into a derelict space between two other shops. A stained canvas awning cast a shadow over the makeshift counter, covered with faded stickers advertising a variety of products, most of them unavailable on the open market.

After stopping to buy a plain padded coat from a general clothing store, Harry had followed Rik's lead and now stood fifty yards from the kiosk, watching the flow of customers – mostly men in rough working clothes and heavy boots – and eyeing the occasional vehicle passing by. None of the cars stopped and they saw no signs of watchers. Or, come to think of it, thought Harry, the Clones. Most of the customers accomplished their purchase with the minimum of chat, sliding money across the counter and retrieving their purchases before scurrying away.

‘He trades in cigarettes, booze, fuel, electronics and perfumes,' Rik explained, anticipating Harry's question. ‘And whatever toxic substances he can get.'

‘You know that from experience, do you?'

Rik hissed briefly. ‘Don't use it, never have. I get my kicks from a keyboard. If you ask Rudi, he'll get it. All it needs is the right money.'

‘You said fuel. Is that what I can smell?'

‘Yeah. It stinks, doesn't it? Worse than chip fat. Don't worry – you'll get used to it. The gangs siphon it from a spillage pipe at a refinery over to the east and sell it cheap on the streets. It smells so bad because they haven't finished the refining process, which is why anyone who uses it too much blows out their engines.'

‘Regular little capitalist, isn't he?' Harry settled his shoulder against a wall, prepared to wait until Rik said it was safe to move.

‘So,' said Rik, sensing a moment for casual chat, ‘have you managed to get it on with our Clare yet or has she given you the moody like she does everyone?'

Harry stared at him. Rik obviously didn't know about her. ‘You serious?'

‘Just asking. You know why she's here, don't you?'

‘Is it relevant?'

‘Not really. Just gossiping. She overcooked a honey-trap and went all the way, according to chit-chat.' He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘And we British don't do that, do we? Go all the way, I mean.'

‘You reckon?' Harry watched as an army truck slowed near the kiosk. The driver was alone, probably checking out the place to see if he could make a buy without being seen.

‘Anyway, it went sour and the suits didn't approve. She got tabbed out here.'

The lorry speeded up and disappeared at the end of the street, belching exhaust fumes.