Red Station (22 page)

She must know where Red Station was.

‘I have no idea what you mean.' He fell back on the old civil service and Whitehall mantra: when in doubt, deny everything. But he felt a dizziness that threatened to knock him off his chair if he didn't control it.
How the hell could she know? Unless Bellingham . . .

‘Don't take me for an idiot, Paulton,' she hissed dangerously, barging in on his thoughts. ‘I saw your reaction when Spake gave his briefing about the line the Russians were most likely to take across the border. It didn't take long to work out where you had put Tate and the others. Now, what are you doing about them?'

‘Why, nothing,' he insisted. ‘They will stay in place until we decide they can no longer do any good.'

‘Are you
insane
? You send people like Tate out there – problem people, you called them – and you think they can stay there in the face of what might be about to happen? What if the Russians scoop them up? It'll be their biggest intelligence coup in years!'

‘They are professional operatives and will be monitoring the situation on the ground.' Paulton fought hard to keep his tone level but realized he was sounding pompous. What possible business did this
infernal
woman have questioning how they carried out operations, he seethed quietly. But he knew the answer: she had the ear of No. 10 and a
laissez-aller
to the security agencies' innermost workings.

Fortunately, he had an answer to her meddling. ‘Before you start lecturing me about how far inside the PM's confidence you are, you're wasting your time.'

‘What do you mean?' She flushed crimson with anger.

‘A decision was made less than thirty minutes ago, immediately after the crisis meeting. The station personnel have been told to dig in and report as and when they can. They are more use to us there than running for cover anywhere else.'

‘But the evacuation—' she began.

‘Will not apply to them,' Paulton broke in. ‘If their cover has already been compromised, like the Special Forces teams, and they go near the airport, the Russians will be waiting for them.' He smiled coldly, enjoying telling Rudmann that a decision had been taken without her being present – and that she could never disprove what he was saying.

‘I'll speak to the PM! This is unacceptable.'

‘Maybe it is. But the Intelligence Committee has no say in day-to-day operational matters such as this.' His eyes blazed with fire. ‘This is the sharp end of what we do, and it doesn't always go according to plan. Not everyone ends their day tucked up in bed with a warm cup of cocoa.'

‘Who decided this?' she demanded, and Paulton could have sworn she almost stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Who advised the PM?'

‘That's something you don't need to know.' He checked his watch. ‘Now, you'll have to excuse me, but I have other matters to deal with.'

When she had gone, the side door to Paulton's office opened, and Sir Anthony Bellingham entered. He looked unperturbed by what he had just heard.

‘She doesn't sound happy,' the MI6 man commented.

‘She isn't,' said Paulton. ‘Let's hope she has too much on her plate to start digging around and making unnecessary noises.'

‘Don't worry, George. We control what information comes out via Red Station. If we say they're blown, they're blown. Rudmann will be too busy fighting her corner to pursue it forever.'

‘That was neat, sidestepping her. How did you manage it?'

‘Simple. I checked her diary and arranged a meeting with the Cabinet Office while she was otherwise engaged. It took three minutes. So many meetings, so little time . . .' Bellingham smiled. ‘It's amazingly simple to get a decision when the pressure's on. I didn't mention who the personnel were, of course. No sense in making problems for ourselves.'

‘Any news from over there?' Paulton felt uneasy at having to ask Bellingham for information, but the MI6 man had the resources available without questions being asked.

‘None. Either the lines are down or signals are being jammed. Can't say I'm surprised.'

‘And Brockley's team?'

‘Ah. Now that situation is not quite so good.'

Paulton paled. ‘Why – what's happened?'

‘One of them has disappeared. A man named Stanbridge. It seems he went to check on one of Red Station's personnel and never returned. The others were subsequently attacked with petrol bombs. They're on the way out as we speak.'

‘
What?
' Paulton felt himself reeling. He tried to rationalize the situation. The man's disappearance might be down to the local militia or security forces. They would be especially jumpy with everything that was happening on their doorstep, and anyone acting strangely was probably being picked up as a matter of course. If Stanbridge had been in the wrong place at the wrong time with no useful explanation, it would account for his disappearance. No doubt he would surface sooner or later, none the worse for his experience.

The petrol bombs, however, were something else. Security forces wouldn't use them; they were hardly that ill-equipped, by all accounts, even the militia. That left civilians. But why?

Then another thought occurred to him.

Harry bloody Tate
.

‘What?' Bellingham had noticed his change of expression.

‘Nothing.' He deflected the question with one of his own. ‘How long are we going to leave them there?'

‘Who?'

‘
Them
. Mace . . . Ferris . . . the others.' He didn't dare mention Tate in case it betrayed what he was thinking.

‘They can stay where they are. Why?' Bellingham was eyeing him with suspicion.

‘Is that wise? There may not be much time left. Another couple of days and the borders could be locked tight. We should at least warn them.' Then a thought occurred to him and he stared at Bellingham. ‘You haven't told them yet – about Delta and the Special Reconnaissance team.' Even as he said it, he knew he was right.

‘There was no point.' Bellingham's tone was cool, his jaw flexing. It was the MI6 man's first real show of irritation over this issue that Paulton had seen. ‘It wouldn't help their situation, would it? We leave them for now.'

‘Why?' Paulton wondered what Bellingham was up to. As the only means of communicating with Red Station, the other man was in complete control of what information came out . . . and what went in.

‘It's getting out of hand, George. Just as it did with Gulliver.' Bellingham's words were pitched low. ‘I've already arranged for Brockley's team to be replaced.'

‘I don't understand. To do what?' He immediately wished he hadn't asked, and realised with Bellingham's next words that he had lost any say in what was about to happen in the Red Station. And that with that, there was no going back.

‘Don't ask, George. You really don't want to know.'

Back in her office, Marcella Rudmann was surprised to discover she had a visitor. Gareth Nolan, Deputy Commissioner for Operations in the Metropolitan Police, was waiting impatiently for her return.

‘I'm sorry to drop in without an appointment,' he said smoothly, ‘but I have some information which might be of interest.' He sat down without being asked and placed a folder on the desk in front of him.

Rudmann wondered who he was planning to undermine this time. She had no illusions about the senior policeman's ambition for favours and higher office, but he did have his uses. All she had to decide was whether the information he claimed to have was useful to her or not, and whether the knowledge might harm her in any way.

‘What can I do for you?'

Nolan delved into his folder and produced a 10-inch by 8-inch black-and-white photograph. It was the sort that Rudmann had seen many times before, culled from security cameras. It had a row of numbers and letters printed in white across the bottom, and was grainy and lacking light. It was a profile shot of a man in jeans and a hooded top crossing a tiled floor.

‘This was taken from a CCTV tape at Clapham South underground station,' Nolan explained importantly. ‘It was timed, as you can see, at twenty-one thirty hours on the night Shaun Whelan was killed, and shows this man leaving the station.'

Whelan
. Rudmann felt a chill across the back of her neck at the mention of the journalist's name.

‘Go on.'

Nolan slid a second photo across the desk. Rudmann recognized the figure immediately.

‘This shows Shaun Whelan leaving the station just before ten o'clock.' He paused for effect, then passed her a third photo. This showed a figure in a hooded top walking towards the camera. The time stamp was 22.20 hours. ‘And this man was shown re-entering the station at twenty past.'

It was the same figure as in the original shot.

‘Who is he?'

Nolan smiled and sat back. ‘We're not sure. But we're running facial-recognition software to confirm it right now. I should have an answer for you by tomorrow morning at the latest.'

Rudmann was surprised. She was aware that the database of known ‘faces' was very large, but it did not – could not – include everyone. ‘You sound very sure of that. What do you mean by confirm?'

‘One of my officers thinks he knows the man. It helps us narrow down the field considerably. Once we're certain, we'll pick him up.'

Rudmann tossed the last photograph on the desk. The senior policeman obviously wanted a pat on the head. ‘It will be good work if you can get him, Deputy Commissioner. Very good work. But I'm not sure why you feel I should be interested in a murderous little mugger who preys on the unwary.'

Nolan gave a smug grin. ‘Oh, he's no mugger. Far from it.'

Rudmann's stomach tightened. Nolan was looking too pleased with himself.

‘What do you mean?'

‘My officer thinks he met this man on an anti-terrorist training course.'

‘What?' She sat forward.

‘He works for the security services.'

FORTY-THREE

‘
N
o sign of the Clones yet.' Rik sidled up to him at the coffee table next morning.

It was gone eleven. Harry had got in late, exhausted by lack of sleep. He had noticed the younger man staring out through the front windows, scanning the street, and guessed why. It was no surprise when he approached him the moment Harry walked through the door.

‘Maybe they overslept.' Harry spooned in extra coffee and sugar; he needed a caffeine boost to keep his eyes open and his brain in full working order. He'd been extra careful coming in this morning, checking his route back and front for unusual faces. But other than a lot more military vehicles and soldiers standing around looking menacing, there had been no sign of watchers.

And that was a worry. If the Clones were already gone, abandoning their colleague in the process, did that mean the Hit was here? With Stanbridge's body lying in the flat below his, he could almost feel the increased threat in the air.

‘Yeah, maybe.' Rik shifted his feet, then said, ‘I told Mace about the email.'

‘What did he say?'

‘Not much. Just told me to pass it on. Said London would know what to do. Do you reckon they'll pull us out if things get too hot?'

‘I don't know,' Harry said honestly. ‘If they do, it'll be to assign us somewhere else. Have you passed on the email?'

‘Yes. First thing.' He wandered away to fiddle with one of the monitors.

Harry stretched his arms and felt his muscles complaining. With Clare a reluctant helper during the night, they had taken the body downstairs to Mario's flat. He had a feeling the Italian photographer wouldn't be needing it anytime soon. They had placed it in the bedroom, inside an old blanket box, with a jumble of clothes on top. It wasn't a pleasant task, but short of dumping the corpse out in the open countryside it was as good as they were going to manage.

He had been debating whether to tell the others about Stanbridge, and still hadn't made up his mind. Mace might blow a fuse and tell London, as he was officially required to do. If so, there was no saying what might happen. Knowing that a member of your own side, whatever their function, had been murdered, then hiding the body, wouldn't go down too well. It wouldn't matter what the likely motive might have been; a death was a death and would have to be investigated.

He waited for Clare to come in. When she put in an appearance, she looked even paler than usual, with dark rings around the eyes. She avoided catching Harry's eye and went straight to her desk.

No help there, then.

Mace came in and headed for the coffee pot, pouring himself a liberal dose. He looked a mess, as if he'd been on a bender. The others carefully avoided noticing and went about their business.

The Ericsson in Harry's pocket buzzed softly, and he stepped away from the others. He didn't think anyone else had heard it, although Rik was giving him an oblique look. Maybe the IT man had developed an especially acute ear for electronic noises over the years, and could identify a model by its tone.

Harry ignored him and went to the toilet on the ground floor. The phone was still buzzing and he realized it wasn't a text message.

Somebody was calling him.

The screen showed no caller ID. It had to be the former owner. He was surprised they hadn't tried already. They had probably blocked the phone automatically the moment it went missing, and were now trying to recover it any way they could.

‘Huh?' he grunted.

‘Who is this?' It was a man's voice; thin, reedy, American. Rudi sounded American. Maybe he was calling to offer an upgrade, although Harry doubted it.