Red Station (18 page)

Harry wasn't sure what she was getting at. ‘Rik Ferris is in the same boat. Same with me, same with Mace. So what?'

‘Rik Ferris didn't know any better, did he? He was just grateful they didn't charge him under the anti-terrorism laws and throw him into prison for twenty years. They'll let him back sooner or later because they need his skills.' She paused, then said vaguely, ‘I don't know about Mace.'

‘Really?'

‘Nobody does. He always played it dumb whenever we asked, so we stopped asking. Maybe there isn't anything; maybe he took the job because it was offered.' She shrugged. ‘But you . . . you're different. You don't fit.'

Harry didn't say anything, content to let this go wherever she was taking it.

‘You're not what we expected,' she continued. You see things. You question stuff. You faced up to those soldiers who stopped us the other day without turning a hair – I was watching you. If anything had kicked off, we'd have been dead. They'd have buried us in the hills and nobody would have known anything about it. But you had them laughing.'

‘Kostova was there. He wouldn't have allowed anything to happen.'

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think?'

‘What did you think he was doing – holding a political rally?'

‘I don't know. As mayor, he has a wide remit.'

‘So wide even local troops give way to him? Must be the only mayor in the world with that kind of power.'

She chewed her lip, digesting the fact. ‘Perhaps. But what about today – you and that thing with the Clones?'

‘It was a basic field test,' he said calmly. ‘We conducted them all the time in London, tracking diplomats.'

‘But we're not in London, are we?' Her eyes glittered. ‘This is foreign soil, where I usually work. You took over like it was a second skin.'

‘Are you just pissed because you should have organized it?'

‘No. I'm saying it was well done.'

‘For an MI5 officer.'

‘For anybody. It makes me wonder all the more what made you agree to come here.'

Harry turned and walked out of the office. The truth was, he didn't know the real answer, either. At the time, it had seemed the only thing to do. There had been nothing special to keep him in the UK, no pressing reason to stay in London. He had no family, a few friends he was accustomed to seeing only occasionally because of his undercover work, and his divorce had been without hang-ups, a surgical separation with no backward looks – also a victim of his work. The few dates with Jean were irregular and casual, and now seemed beyond reach. He was surprised to realize that he didn't want them to be.

It made him wonder just how far they would go to stop him going back.

THIRTY-FIVE

H
arry came to with a start, his throat dry. The room smelled of woodsmoke.

He was sprawled in the flat's one good armchair, shoes off, legs splayed out before him and head thrown back. Elegant. He peered at his watch. Gone midnight. The wood-burner showed a faint glimmer of burnt embers. It took him a moment to work out what had woken him.

He'd been dreaming again; flashing images of the boat through the mist, Parrish running forward, the flare and crackle of gunfire. The two kids lying dead by the Land Rover. But that wasn't it. Something else that had dragged him out of his sleep.

The mobile he'd bought from Rudi.

After leaving the office, he'd got back to the flat and opened a bottle of wine, stuck some logs with kindling in the wood-burner and ran his hands beneath the hot tap until he hissed with the pain. It was something he'd taken to doing without any conscious decision, and he knew why. Absolution. Pity it didn't work.

The wine was a cheap cooperative brand with a garish label and a harsh after-taste. But it did the trick, overriding the buzz going through his head and dulling his appetite.

It set him off thinking about Jean again, and their occasional dates. Sometimes they would stay in, content to share a bottle of wine and talk. He wondered what she was doing now.

They had met at a regimental reunion dinner. She was the widow of an officer killed in Iraq. Pretty, melancholy yet interesting; her throaty, irreverent laugh had drawn Harry to her. They had hit it off sufficiently to share a cab ride, and since then, an occasional drink or a meal whenever they felt the need.

She co-owned an upmarket flower shop in Fulham, a fact that she had not mentioned at first. When he had turned up with a meagre bunch of roses, the revelation had provoked much laughter and a halting explanation. The ice broken, he'd woken up in her bed the next morning surrounded by buckets of flowers.

Neither of them had mentioned taking the relationship to another level. It was an unspoken agreement which seemed to suit them both.

He thought about his message to Maloney, gauging the possibilities which might be unfolding back in London if he'd misjudged his colleague. In the end, he'd been spared further speculation when the combination of wine and tiredness had knocked him out.

The phone.

He scrambled to his feet and switched on the light. The floor was cold and rough through his socks and the air in the flat was like being in a fridge, in spite of the fire. He picked up the mobile and checked the screen. The sender's ID was blank.

It could only be one person. He brought up the message. It was brief and to the point.

Fk!! U stl alive you bstrd???

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and instantly forgot the cold and the tiredness. He scooted over to the door and found it locked, grateful his security instincts hadn't fallen asleep, too. Then he went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The wine was tempting, but he needed to stay awake and caffeine was a better bet.

He sat down to reply, all fingers and thumbs.

Just about. need info dq.

Double quick should make Maloney sit up. He didn't dare use any official operational imperatives, in case they rang alarm bells.

Ten minutes passed before the mobile beeped.

Ok. whre u?

Another good sign. Maloney didn't know his whereabouts. If he had, Harry would have killed the connection immediately. Maybe his question about Harry still being alive hadn't been a joke.

Outr space. Safe 2 talk?

No. Wlls & ears. Txt.

Harry gave it some thought while he made coffee. Texting was safer than speech, but time-consuming. Talking would have been easier, the huge boost of hearing a friendly voice again immeasurable. Sod it – he'd just have to get quicker. And avoid keywords like ‘bombs', ‘terrorist', ‘Jihad' or, God help him, ‘Harry Tate'.

He sat down and began thumbing the keys.

Need 2 whrbouts urgnt. Sixer – man frm lilliput – init J. Fiver – athlete started lndn mrthon – init G.

Silence. Had he been too convoluted? Maloney might not pick up the reference to Lilliput straightaway. But he was no dope; he'd be sure to catch on. The code for Brasher's name was a gift; Maloney had once completed the London marathon and talked about it non-stop for weeks.

The answer came back.

Gotcha. W8.

When he woke again, he was in bed and it was gone six in the morning. He had a stale coffee-taste in his mouth and gritty eyes, and a line of thin light was pushing through a chink in the curtains. He checked the mobile, even though he knew it was too soon for any response from Maloney. Finding information about serving or former security officers didn't exactly come off Wikipedia, and Maloney would have to tread very carefully before even beginning his search.

He put on some tea and stood under the shower until the water began to cool. When he was feeling half human, he got dressed and set a password on the Ericsson, drank his tea and walked to the office.

Mace was in, standing by a monitor. He nodded when Harry walked in, but made no reference to their talk. Shortly afterwards, he went into his office and closed the door.

It was a long, frustrating day. Harry spent most of it working with Clare to follow up on the report they had given to Mace the previous day, checking all the international news channels for any details on what was happening in the north. There seemed precious little solid detail and he guessed the lid was being held down deliberately while talks went on in the background.

‘London said good work,' Mace announced after lunch. ‘Your report ties in with the latest satellite images. They're building a picture of movements and distribution from both sides and will let us know later what the state of play is. Pity you didn't get unit IDs.'

‘The fact that they weren't wearing any should tell us something,' said Clare. ‘They're most likely local militia. They'll be heading further north by now.'

‘Can't you ask Kostova?' said Harry, looking at Mace. ‘He might tell you.'

Mace pursed his lips. ‘He might . . . if there was something in it for him.' He turned and went back into his office, leaving them to monitor internet and radio reports for further news.

Rik Ferris drifted by and tapped a finger on Harry's desk. ‘That, um . . . thing OK?' He was referring to the phone.

‘Fine, thanks.' If Rik was hoping he would say who he'd been calling, he was out of luck. But the comms man seemed to have something else on his mind. He made a point of hanging around, switching from foot to foot until Harry looked up at him and nodded at the coffee table.

‘Something bothering you?' he asked, when the kettle was hissing loudly enough to shield his words. He threw a tea bag into a mug. If Rik was having a crisis of conscience about helping him get hold of a clean mobile, he needed to know now, before Mace found out.

Rik waited until Clare left the room, then jerked his head and walked back to his desk. Fitzgerald was downstairs doing an electronic sweep through the building.

‘I got an email,' Rik explained. He spun his monitor round so that Harry could see the screen. ‘Read it.'

The email was from someone called Isabelle in a company named SARFA. It had been sent at eleven a.m. It read:
You must leave. We are going tomorrow. Others are leaving, too. My boss says they are coming. I. xx

‘Isabelle?'

‘She's a friend,' said Rik. ‘French. She's with SARFA – supposedly a French non-governmental outfit, but everyone knows it's a cover for DGSE.'

The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure – French espionage service – was known to have agents operating worldwide. It was well-funded and resourced, and highly efficient. Harry hadn't expected to come across them here, although the proximity of the Med no doubt gave them a good enough reason to be monitoring the region.

He eyed Rik. ‘Have you been sleeping with the enemy?'

‘I wish.' The words came out with feeling, and the younger man blushed. ‘Drinks only, so far. We meet up from time to time and talk shop.' He realized belatedly what that might imply, and added hastily, ‘I don't mean we talk anything – you know. . . classified.'

‘I should hope not. What does she do?'

‘She's their comms officer.' He stared hard at Harry. ‘Should I tell Mace, do you think? She's obviously referring to the Russians. I mean, if the French are bugging out, and others are going, too, that's bad news, right?'

‘The only bad news,' Harry pointed out, ‘is if you don't tell him about your contact and he finds out later.' The email from Isabelle hadn't been sent over a secure line, which meant anyone checking the files later might wonder why it had not been passed on.

Rik looked relieved. ‘You're right. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.'

Harry left him to it and went in search of a meal. He was tired and hungry and still had no news from Maloney. He discovered a small family-style restaurant not far from the station, and ordered what a group at the next table were eating. It tasted like mutton stew.

It was late by the time he returned to his flat. Darkness was shrouding the town and the few people still about hurried along with their heads down. Even the military patrols had disappeared, no doubt hustled indoors by the cold winds scything between the buildings. As he turned the corner at the end of his street, Harry glanced instinctively towards his flat.

A glimmer of light flared briefly in one window.

THIRTY-SIX

H
arry stepped into the shadow of the building and waited. He could see no obvious watchers at street level, and only one ancient Renault with a flat tyre thirty yards away. Even the local burglars weren't that desperate.

He retraced his steps, circling the block to approach the building from the rear. It meant making his way along a narrow back-alley with no lights and littered with rubbish, but it was safer than going through the front door. When he reached the rear entrance leading to his block, he stood and surveyed the area for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone showed themselves.

Nobody did. He walked up the back path and eased open the door into the rear corridor.

The air here was heavy with the smell of dust and damp, and the sharper tang of cat's urine. The tinny sound of a radio seeped through the thin walls from the block next door. He closed the door softly behind him, wary of a lookout on the stairs.

He counted to thirty, then moved forward. Winced as his foot crunched on a piece of grit. He stopped, but nobody responded, then moved on, stepping carefully past a jumble of shadows which he knew from an earlier inspection was a collection of household goods abandoned by former tenants. Nothing useful as a weapon, though – not unless he decided to threaten the intruder with a broken tumble dryer.

He took the stairs two at a time, moving slowly. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested at the effort, and he pushed down with his hands on his knees to give himself a boost. His shoes encountered more grit, but it was too late to stop now. Thirty seconds later, he was outside the door to his flat. He turned his head to listen, placing his ear against the grainy wood.