Red Station (15 page)

‘What about you?' Harry asked. He didn't need to hear Rik's story, but the more he learned about his colleagues, the less he might have to worry about.

‘Me? That's no secret. I got my sticky fingers into a couple of restricted files and they decided I was better off somewhere far away.' He shrugged, smiling coyly. ‘Stupid, really. They can't keep me here forever, can they?' He shifted his feet as the flow of shoppers across the street dwindled. ‘Out of sight, out of the way, I suppose. It's the limit of their thinking.'

‘Consider yourself lucky they didn't settle for a more permanent option,' said Harry. ‘You don't find many computers in solitary.'

Rik scowled as if the idea had occurred to him before. ‘I suppose. It's still like being locked up, though, being in this shithole. I mean, who thought of putting an office out here?'

‘Nobody with a sense of humour.' It was the first time anyone had voiced an opinion about being here. Harry gave it a couple of beats. So far he'd tested the water with the phone; now was the time to push the envelope. He said, ‘Did you know Jimmy Gulliver?'

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘
G
ulliver? Not much. He wasn't here long enough to break the ice. Clare got on with him, though. He bunked off without warning.'

‘I thought he was recalled.'

‘No. He'd had enough. That's what Mace said, anyway.'

‘What about Gordon Brasher?'

‘Heard of him. Some sort of analyst. He was before my time.' He grinned. ‘Another member of the escape committee. Why do you ask?'

‘Just wondering.' Harry made a show of checking the street to break the trail of discussion. ‘So what sort of files did you access?'

‘The wrong sort. Some individuals . . . but mostly operational stuff. I heard about a couple of things on the grapevine . . . operations that had gone sour. I was intrigued about what goes on at the outer edges.' He looked at Harry. ‘The areas you work in, I guess. I'm in support; we don't get to see the exciting stuff at first hand.'

‘Think yourself lucky,' said Harry. ‘Most of the time it's boring and repetitive. The rest is unpleasant.'

‘Yeah, well it doesn't always go to plan, does it? I mean, there was one file I found . . . the original documents were all there, written up. So I had a trawl through. There was this amazing stuff about a long-term drugs op leading all the way from Kandahar to London. Five guys had been working the line for nearly a year. Then, just as it was going critical, they were pulled out without explanation. Most of the product ended up on the streets of London and Birmingham. It was coded like Blackpool rock, so they could track it all the way. Bloody criminal.'

Harry nodded. ‘It happens. How did they find you out?'

‘I talked to a mate and he blabbed. It was stupid of me. I said I'd been looking for hero stuff . . . you know – SAS missions, that kind of thing. They couldn't prove otherwise because I didn't leave any footprints.'

Harry thought Rik had been lucky. They'd shovelled him out of London because there was a chance he might have stumbled on something he shouldn't have. No matter how clean he'd wiped his trail, the suspicion would have remained. To have charged him would have risked exposing a serious lack of security, as well as revealing something they wanted kept quiet. Far better to send him somewhere isolated and keep him out of the way.

Like they had with himself.

‘How do you keep your hand in?' he asked casually. It was unlikely that someone like Rik wouldn't be tempted to indulge whenever the opportunity arose. But it wouldn't be in office hours; he'd be too easily seen entering screens he had no business using.

‘When I can.' The reply was wary. He nodded down the street, ‘There's an internet café about a hundred yards down there, called Maxis. It's usually full of security cops, sniffing out deviants and such, but it's safe. I use it whenever I need a fix without every keystroke being logged. Why?'

‘No reason.' Harry noted the name for future use. He looked across the street. ‘Let's do this, shall we?'

Rik checked it was clear, then led the way to the kiosk. Their approach was watched by a sharp-faced young man with several days' growth of beard and a ponytail. Harry took it to be local street-chic.

‘Hey, Rudi,' Rik said, and bought a pack of cigarettes. He turned to Harry and murmured. ‘You need to buy some, too. Shows goodwill.'

Harry pointed at a pack of Marlboro. The man flipped it across the counter and took the money without speaking.

Rik signalled for a light. As he leaned over to suck in the flame, he said, ‘My friend needs a cell.'

‘Uh-uh.' Rudi lit a cigarette, too, and gave Harry a quick once over, squinting through the smoke. ‘You calling local?' His accent carried a faint American twang.

‘No. Is that a problem?'

‘For me, no. But some cells have limited range, you know? For good signal you need top device. It cost more.' His eyes had brightened with interest.

‘How much?'

Rudi bent down, revealing a bald patch. He resurfaced and slid an Ericsson T68 between two piles of magazines. ‘Best I got at the moment. You could ring the moon with that, no problem.'

The phone looked new, except for a faint scratch on the screen. It was either a clever copy or stolen from some luckless businessman. Either way, it was better than what he had. ‘How much and how long will it last?' he said. ‘And I don't mean the battery.'

Rudi grinned good-naturedly. ‘I get you, man. It last maybe three days. For that I give you good price. One hundred dollars US.'

Harry heard Rik give an intake of breath. ‘What?'

‘Don't touch it.' Rik gave Rudi a reproving look. ‘A model that good but that cheap? It's probably got someone on its tail who wants it back. Three days means it was lifted locally.'

‘Hey, what you saying?' Rudi protested mildly. ‘You want to ruin my business?' He shrugged. ‘Eighty dollars. Best price.'

‘I'll take it.' A few days wouldn't matter; he was hardly going to be using it non-stop. He took out some dollars and slid them towards Rudi. The phone was good enough for his purposes, and instinct told him he wouldn't get a better deal anywhere else.

A dusty Volvo had turned into the street, heading towards them. One person inside. Square shoulders, short hair.

Rudi took the money and folded it into his pocket. ‘Sure thing. But you know . . .'

‘Yeah, I know. No keywords and we've never met before.' Harry picked up the Ericsson and walked away, tossing Rik the pack of Marlboro.

The Volvo rumbled by, spitting out gravel from beneath the tyres. Up close, the driver was in his fifties, with heavy jowls. He wore a thick jacket, ragged at the elbows, and was checking door numbers on the other side of the street.

Harry breathed out but kept his head down.

Rik seemed unaware of the car and fell into step alongside him.

‘You want something?' said Harry. For what he was about to do, he didn't need an audience.

‘Oh. Right. Sorry.' Rik's face fell but he peeled away obediently. ‘Don't be too long, though,' he said. ‘Mace likes to know where we are.'

Right, thought Harry. And why is that, I wonder? He hurried away, punching buttons until he found the SIM card directory. As he suspected, it contained a list of names and numbers, the former mostly Anglo, the latter with dialling codes he vaguely recognized. American.

Great. Knowing his luck, the mobile probably belonged to Carl bloody Higgins of the CIA.

He found a tiny basement bar beneath a small supermarket. It was grubby and workaday, of the type where the clientele looked as though they preferred minding their own business. He bought a coke and bagged a corner table, then switched on the mobile and waited while it searched for a signal. If it didn't work, he'd go back and cut off Rudi's ponytail.

He knew the number he had to dial by heart; he and Bill Maloney had spent a lot of time calling each other before, during and after operations. He thought over what he wanted to say. It had to be as lean as possible, as every second spent on the line increased the risk of discovery. Using a clean phone would avoid his name or number popping up on a monitor somewhere and sounding alarms all over London.

Need yr hlp. Rd 1. It wasn't elegant, not by the standards he'd seen kids texting each other, but he wanted brevity, not prizes. Hopefully, Maloney would recognize his call sign. He had a moment of doubt as he pressed the SEND button, but let it go. As long as Maloney received the message and didn't ignore it.

Or worse, call the dogs down on him.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I
t was Jordan Conway's draw to fetch water. The day promised to be a long one. It wasn't fully light yet, but he knew the feel of the air enough now to be able to judge the conditions. They had picked up a satellite reading of the weather forecast in the last radio burst at midnight. It promised a brief spell of humidity before turning colder. This close to water, they would be at the mercy of the last of the midges, flies and mosquitoes, all vying for a final bite of human skin.

This time tomorrow, they'd probably be freezing their asses off.

He gently cleared a gummy throat and relished being down by the water, where it would be cooler. He edged forward until he drew level with Doug Rausing, who was on watch.

‘OK, boss,' he breathed. ‘We good to go?'

Rausing nodded without taking his eye away from the monocular's padded eyecup. ‘We're clear. Nothing moving bigger than a fox, no change to the terrain. You set?'

‘Yep. You want anything from the deli?'

‘Some popcorn would be good,' replied Rausing, with a dark smile. ‘If they don't have any, bring me some chips.'

‘You got it. Pay me when I get back.' Conway secured the collapsible water container to his belt and slid away to the edge of their hide.

He studied the ground for a full five minutes before moving out, checking for wildlife. Animals were the best indicators of intruders; when someone alien moved in, the wildlife moved out or went quiet. Like they would when he began moving, although not, he hoped, at the same time. A few birds were skimming over the rough grass, and a couple of hares squatted a hundred yards off, heads down and munching. Some crows were in the trees by the lake, arguing the toss as usual. Apart from that, it looked good. He wondered whether Bronson and Capel, the other two Delta men, were watching. Maybe he'd see one of them down by the lake on water duty. They could have a chat, catch up on old times.

He looked up to where a few late stars showed between the clouds, and wondered briefly about the sky cover that was supposed to be up there, watching over them. They were probably brewing coffee and having breakfast about now, changing shift in their long hours spent patrolling while the cameras sent back images to base. And above them would be the satellites, forever circling, taking pictures of the aircraft taking pictures.

Seconds later he was moving, belly down and making his way carefully towards the lake. It was a 250-yard trip, mostly downhill, a gentle slope over undulating grass. There were a couple of gullies he could use, dead ground forged by decades of water coursing down to the lake, and some low scrub where he could take a look around without standing out. As long as he didn't run into trouble, it would take about an hour to complete the trip there and back. But there was no hurry.

TWENTY-NINE

T
o the west, the British Special Reconnaissance team was also on the move. But their objectives were different. ‘Hunt' Wallis was scanning the ground in front of him through his glasses, fighting a rising sense of panic. He was desperate to see signs of Jocko Wardle, his colleague. Wardle had gone out on a recce after hearing noises in the trees. They had agreed it was better for Wardle, a former poacher, to do it, using the dark to move rather than waiting for daylight.

That had been an hour ago.

So far, there had been no sign of him coming back, no contact on the tiny radios they were each carrying. The sets had a short range of a few hundred yards, but were sufficient for communicating between OPs without disturbing the airwaves. Wardle should have been on by now, signalling the all-clear, or back in the basha, looking for something to eat.

‘Anything?' Mike Wilson slid alongside Wallis, bringing an aroma of damp clothing and chocolate, and the familiar tang of oiled weapons.

‘Fuck all. Something's up.'

Wilson nodded. ‘He's run into trouble, daft bastard.'

‘Unless he stopped for a crap. Or tripped over and broke his silly fuckin' neck.'

The dark humour hid a genuine concern for their colleague. But both men knew that if he hadn't come back by now, he probably wasn't going to.

He was either captive. Or dead.

Yet they had seen no sign of enemy forces.

Either way, he was beyond their reach. Their orders were not to engage with local forces under any circumstances unless their lives were at extreme risk. Agonizing over the rights and wrongs of leaving Wardle out there would only lead to negative thinking. And that was counter-productive. If there was an opportunity to take a look later, they would do it. For now, they could only watch and wait.

‘Better call it in,' Wilson said soberly. ‘I'll get on the net.'

Wallis nodded and continued scouring the darkness while Wilson went back to make the call. If Wardle turned up safe and well, they could cancel the alert. He'd get a beasting for causing them grief, but that was part of the job.