Red Station (2 page)

‘Stop! Police! Don't move!'

It was Parrish. Shouting and running forward along the bank, faint in the reach of the car's headlights, he was swinging his Heckler & Koch in the air, the barrel aimed at the night sky. Harry couldn't tell if it was bravado or stupidity, but the gun was pointless if he wasn't going to use it.

And he was running across his colleagues' direct line of fire.

‘Get down, you prick!' yelled Maloney.

Too late.

The man with the dreadlocks looked at Parrish, then turned back to the Land Rover and screamed in defiance. He swung the pole down from his shoulder, catching it with a solid smack in his other hand. The car headlights glinted off dark metal.

Shotgun
.

The muzzle-blast ripped the night apart, and the driver of the Land Rover was punched off his feet. The girl screamed as he was torn from her grasp, and her legs sagged. She whirled round to see what was happening, incomprehension on her face. Then a stutter of automatic fire came from the man at the rear of the boat. It ripped into her, shredding the floaty dress and sent her spinning to join her companion.

Without pause, Dreadlocks swung his gun and pulled the trigger again. The heavy charge knocked Parrish over backwards. The helmsman shouted a warning and hauled on the wheel, surging away from the bank with a howl of engines. Taken by surprise, Dreadlocks grabbed for the side rail but missed. He sprawled headlong on the deck, while the man on the stern platform danced off-balance for a moment before grabbing the side bar and holding on tight.

Harry cursed. Whatever was housed below decks wasn't a standard engine, but something bigger – possibly twin diesels. The boat was already on its way out and would soon be gone for good if it wasn't stopped.

He took aim and squeezed the trigger, a controlled double-tap followed by another, then a third. He was aiming at the helmsman; stop the driver and the boat would go nowhere. The volley of shots was lost among the roar of the engines, and puny in contrast to the stunning blast of the shotgun. But a section of glass windshield exploded and the helmsman ducked as a chunk of moulding blew apart alongside the wheel.

Maloney was up and running, tracking the boat along the bank. He began firing steadily at the charging vessel, now nose-up as it increased speed, the wash flashing white against the sloping mud walls on either side.

At the stern, the man with the machine gun was trying to bring his weapon to bear, but was thrown off balance as the boat bounced and swayed in the narrow inlet. Dreadlocks, however, had regained his feet. Gripping the rail with one hand, he raised his shotgun and lined up on Maloney, barely thirty feet away and with nowhere to hide.

‘Bill, down!' Harry bellowed, and as Maloney threw himself to the ground, still firing, he emptied his clip at the gunman.

Shots from both guns caught the man high in the body, flipping him overboard.

Seconds later, the boat had gone, leaving in its wake three bodies on the shore and a fourth bobbing in the cold, black water.

THREE

‘
W
e're sending you out of the country. Pro tem.'

The speaker was George Paulton, Harry Tate's superior and Operations Director for MI5. His office in Thames House had a fine view of the river below, but the scenery was lost on the three men facing each other.

‘Why?' Harry stared at his superior, then flicked a glance at a heavy figure standing in one corner. The man, nameless and grey as battleship paint, had said nothing when Harry had entered the room, and there had been no introductions.

Two days after the shooting, and a raft of internal MI5 and Metropolitan Police enquiries had been kicked off with startling speed, engineered to analyse failure and avoid blame. Still numbed with feelings of guilt and remorse about the deaths of the young couple and Parrish, Harry had been called to Paulton's office to face what he was sure would be intensive questioning, yet maybe a reassurance that all would be well in the end.

Now he wasn't so sure.

‘Needs must, I'm afraid,' Paulton explained smoothly. ‘The press will be all over this like a rash, especially after Stockwell. The de Menezes affair,' he added unnecessarily, and adjusted a buff folder on his desk.

‘That wasn't the same thing,' Harry protested. ‘We didn't have enough men—'

‘Maybe not. But we have to view things in a broader context. There are . . . gaps in the sequence of events. Gaps we need to deal with. We can't do that while there's a danger you might be compromised by the press discovering your name.'

‘How could they?' Harry looked from Paulton to the other man. He didn't like the way the conversation was going. ‘There's no way they can find out, unless someone talks. And what gaps?'

‘You're right: on balance, they shouldn't find out. But we can't take that chance.' He waved at the folder, which Harry guessed contained his and Maloney's debriefing notes. ‘As to gaps . . . there's the question of why the secure perimeter around the site allowed two civilians to pass through. And why the police officer on assignment wasn't managed correctly. It doesn't look good.'

‘I've already been over this.' Harry had faced a three-person committee earlier that morning. A woman from Legal and two men, one from Human Resources and the other a limp-wristed individual from Operations. All faceless, all void of any emotion, they had absorbed detail like sponges but offered no help or empathy. It was as if his career so far counted for nothing.

It had been like facing a death tribunal.

‘We're trying to safeguard your situation,' Paulton purred.

‘Is that what it is?' Harry felt an uncommon rebellion building. His dealings so far with Paulton had been relatively few and at best remote. But he had always seemed to be on the side of his officers. Now something different seemed to be hovering in the air. ‘Why do I get the feeling that the fault for what happened is being shifted my way?'

‘There were failings, you can't deny that.' There was a hint of steely reproof in Paulton's voice.

‘Damn right there were. Like the last-minute reduction in team numbers. Economics, I was told. What kind of economics?' Harry continued, before the other could interrupt, ‘We were in the middle of an operation!'

‘You could have vetoed it.' Paulton tapped the folder, his cheeks flushing. ‘If you felt there were insufficient resources at your disposal, you could have said . . .
should
have said. It's every officer's right . . . every officer's judgement.'

‘And let those drugs out on the streets? We'd have been crucified and you know it.' Harry felt himself beginning to boil over. He breathed deeply. Losing it here and now wouldn't do any good. But after the meaningless debriefing with the three Stooges earlier, he could sense the drawbridges going up all around him. He wondered if this was how establishment stitch-ups began.

‘It was still your call.' The dig came from the man in the corner; pointed, cold, unfriendly. Silent until now, he had clearly decided to wade in on Paulton's side.

‘Really?' Harry turned, the heat rushing to his face. ‘And who the hell are you? When did you last go out on an op?' He glared at the man, saw only empty, hooded eyes staring back from a well-fed face. ‘When did you last lie in shit and sewage for hours at a time, waiting to face men armed with automatic weapons – men who don't give a flying fuck about law and order because of what they're bringing in? You think they give a pig's tit about “stop, police” or us waving our ID? They don't.'

‘The planning—' Paulton tried to interject, but Harry was on a roll, sensing his future going up in a fireball.

‘The planning was done by the book, with all the assessment boxes ticked, just the way the suits like it. But guess what – someone was too concerned with budgets, targets and key performance indicators!'

‘Tate—' The unnamed man lifted a pudgy hand, his eyes as cold as granite.

‘It's
Mister
Tate to you,' Harry growled. ‘Those two civilians died because they were allowed to penetrate a compromised security cordon and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for not ‘managing' the dead officer, that's bullshit. He ran across the firing line. He was brave, certainly, but stupid; he should have done as he was told and kept his bloody head down.' He could have added that in running out from cover, Parrish had probably exacerbated the situation and drawn fire on to the couple while using their arrival as a distraction. But he didn't say it; the man was dead. ‘Ask Maloney – he'll tell you.'

‘Maloney has made his report. He has been taken off operational duties pending an enquiry.' Paulton fixed him with a glare. ‘As of now, you are not to have any contact with him. Understood?'

‘Why? That's ridiculous. He's my number two—'

‘
Was
your number two. As of this minute, we're offering you a new posting. Overseas. It's a career position, with additional benefits at an enhanced grade.' He gave a thin smile. ‘Should help your pension entitlements, I'd have thought.'

‘Jesus, the
pension
!' Harry wanted to spit, he was so mad. ‘For how long? Doing what?'

Paulton shrugged. ‘For as long as necessary. Until things calm down, at least. You'll be briefed on arrival by your head of station. I recommend you take the post.' He studied his fingernails. ‘Right now, I don't see any alternatives.'

They were protecting themselves, Harry knew. They wanted him out of the way while all the official wailing and gnashing of teeth went on and they could build a credible explanation. But what were his options? Stay and face a public enquiry, the token guilt figure? Resign and be hounded by the press? Or take their dubious offer and work his way back?

‘How long do I have to think about it?'

‘You don't. You leave today.'

Against all his instincts, Harry took the offer.

After leaving Paulton's office, Harry went home to pack a single bag and make a few phone calls. To friends to say he would be away for a while; to Jean, a slim red-head in her forties who referred to herself with dry wit as the OD – Occasional Date.

Instead of Jean, he got Felicity, her Sloaney business partner in a west end flower business.

‘Off again? She'll be sorry she missed you.'

‘Really?' Harry wasn't so sure. Jean knew what he did but had never asked questions. Until now, he'd taken it for a judicious lack of interest.

‘Obtuse man.' Felicity's voice was friendly, gently reproachful. ‘Don't you know you're the only person who makes her smile? Come back soon.'

He put down the phone amid conflicting emotions; resumed packing to get his mind in gear. The department would deal with the letting of his flat while he was gone, so he boxed up his personal things and left them in the middle of the floor for removal and storage.

A short taxi drive took him west to RAF Northolt, where he was shunted aboard a military plane and handed a flask of coffee, a bottle of chilled water and a tuna sandwich. He took his seat and found he had two escorts sitting nearby. Military policemen by the look of them, hard and capable. They ignored him completely. He knew that if he tried to get off, they'd have him face down on the cabin floor before he reached the door.

He ignored them in return. Drank his coffee, ate half his sandwich, saved the rest for later. Not that he liked tuna especially. But better than nothing. He fell asleep thinking of Jean.

They prodded him awake at Frankfurt. Gummy-eyed, he stared through the window. The plane had stopped behind a military hangar, shrouded in shadow, distant arc lights casting an eerie glow. He was urged down the steps and into a plain, white van reeking of oil and stale sweat. Three minutes later he was in the civilian terminal, where he was told where to collect his tickets for his onward flight. He signed a docket at the desk and turned to see if his escorts were coming, too.

They had disappeared.

FOUR

‘
I
n hindsight, Tate should have had more back-up and support.' Paulton tossed his listeners an early
mea culpa
to be going on with. It was chicken bones at best, probably pointless, but might keep them at bay for a while and sit well on the record should a board of enquiry be convened.

‘Is that all you can say? After all that work and preparation?' Gareth Nolan, Deputy Commissioner for Operations in the Metropolitan Police, scowled across the table. He was clearly intent on levelling blame towards MI5 for the failures. ‘You're defending the man?'

They were in an anonymous, polished room in the bowels of a building off Horse Guards Avenue. The flak from the failed operation was beginning to settle around everyone's ears as the story gradually became public knowledge, and this was not the only meeting Paulton had been called to.

‘It's not a matter of defence,' he said curtly. ‘It's the facts I'm interested in.'

The senior policeman shrugged it off. ‘It was a bloody cock-up, right from the start! It cost one of my men his life,
and
two innocent civilians. Your man – Tate, is it? – should be charged with incompetence at the very least! What is he – a trainee, fresh out of university?'

‘
He
is a former army officer,' Paulton said calmly, a defensive stance for the record rather than loyalty to his man. ‘He served with distinction in Kosovo and Iraq, among others, but he isn't Superman. Circumstances went against him . . . against the team. It happens.' He smiled coldly, adding, ‘Besides, if I understand the facts, it was your officer who put himself at risk; your team who got stuck driving their van into a mud-wallow. Don't you teach them ground-reading skills anymore?'