Red Station (27 page)

‘Apparently. We should check to see if Fitzgerald's all right. If they come this far, he'll be stranded. You still got the Merc?'

‘Of course. But he won't leave his girlfriend and her kid. He told me a while back, he won't be going home again. He's got no reason to.' He jumped up, his face strained. ‘Are we leaving? We can't stay here, can we? Mace wouldn't say.'

‘He can't, that's why. He's had no orders.' Harry studied the younger man's face, and saw the beginnings of panic building in his eyes. He clapped him on the shoulder. Best give him something else to think about. ‘I want to check on Fitzgerald.' He picked up Rik's leather jacket from the back of his chair and tossed it to him. ‘You'll have to take me.'

He walked downstairs with Rik trailing behind. If Mace heard them leave, he made no attempt to stop them. Harry waited near the Mercedes until Rik caught up and unlocked it, then climbed in.

‘What if we're followed?' said Rik, turning the key in the ignition and checking his mirrors.

‘Just drive normally.' Harry had already checked the street; there was nobody in sight. ‘If we pick up a tail, anyone who knows you will know Fitz and where he lives.'

Rik took a zigzag route through the back streets, bouncing over potholes and scattering rubbish. He held his hand on the horn at every small cross-section, his foot hovering above the brake pedal, creating a stop-go jerking motion which had Harry feeling nauseous after a few hundred yards. When he hit a straight stretch, he drove fast, but Harry thought his reactions were off. In a chase, they'd have been left behind or slammed into a corner by the first truck he failed to see.

There was less sign of military activity on the way, and Harry wondered if the army was being moved out of the town towards the north. If they were, he felt sorry for them; even a small Russian force would be more than a match for the kind of troops he'd been seeing over the past few days.

They arrived in a small outer suburb cut off from the town by a single-carriage ring road. Rik drove down a residential street with two-storey houses on either side. The gardens were small, but neat and free of rubbish. There were sounds of children playing behind the fences, a few toys scattered on steps and flashes of colour that the rest of the town lacked. An elderly woman in black watched without expression from a front door as they cruised by.

Rik pulled into the kerb and indicated the door of a house identical to its neighbours save for a wooden plaque cut from a cross-section of dried hardwood. A number had been scored by a hot iron into the surface. Fitzgerald, Harry thought, importing a touch of home.

‘You want me to check?' Rik was ready to get out.

‘No. I'll do it.' Harry climbed out and walked up the path. A woman along the street was watching him. He knocked on the door. The sound was hollow, reverberating through the building. He stepped over to the front window and peered through the glass. Evening shadows were lengthening across bare floors, and the sparse furniture was already showing a layer of dust. A sock lay on the floor alongside an old newspaper, and a child's shoe sat forgotten on a sideboard.

Fitzgerald had left in a hurry.

Harry returned to the car and got in.

‘He's gone. Let's get back.'

This time, Rik stuck to the main streets. He was cruising along one of the boulevards when he said, ‘Can we drop by and see Isabelle?'

‘Why?' Harry's instinct was to say no; they didn't have time for romance.

‘She might know more than Mace is telling us.'

‘That wouldn't be hard, would it?' Harry mulled it over. Rik had a point. The French would have observers out on the ground, and they might be willing to share what they knew. ‘OK. But make it quick.'

Rik took a series of turns and pulled up outside a three-storey office block in a broad, pleasant street lined with trees. A large truck was blocking the way, and several hard-looking men were standing around, watching the approaches. Two men in overalls were carrying boxes from the building and bundling them into the back of the truck. A third man was stacking them against the sides.

‘They're moving out,' said Harry. He eyed one of the guards who was staring in their direction, one hand in his jacket pocket. A curl of wire ran up from the man's collar to behind his ear. He was talking, but standing too far away from the other guards to make himself heard, and Harry guessed he was using a throat microphone. ‘Get out very slowly,' he warned Rik, ‘and make sure your hands are in plain sight all the way.'

‘What?' Rik looked at him. The guard had turned and was walking towards them as if he meant business. ‘Oh. Christ.'

‘Take it easy. They'll know we aren't here for trouble. Not in a Merc. Just don't make any sudden movements.'

Rik stepped out of the car holding his arms clear of his body. Harry waited a few beats, then did the same. When he was sure the guard wasn't going to produce a gun and start shooting, he turned and leaned on the roof of the car to show he wasn't a threat.

Rik approached the guard, a grizzled-looking man with tanned skin and bunched shoulders. French Special Forces, Harry guessed, capable and light on his feet and likely to be hostile at the first hint of danger. The man listened carefully to Rik, then looked past him and motioned for Harry to move closer.

Harry stayed where he was.

The guard motioned again, but Harry ignored him. Eventually, the man gave up and motioned for Rik to walk towards the building.

This time it was the guard who stayed where he was, eyes on Harry.

Rik emerged five minutes later. He was waved off by a slim, studious-looking young woman in jeans and a cornflower-blue blouse. She stood and watched him walk away, a hand to her cheek.

‘She looks nice,' said Harry with a wry smile. ‘How come they've got her and we get stuffed with a geek like you?'

Rik wasn't amused. ‘Why did you do that?' His expression was more puzzled than annoyed.

‘Do what?'

‘That thing with the guard. You might have pissed him off.'

‘I doubt it. He's a professional; he was trying it on, to get us together away from the car. There was no need – he could see we weren't a threat.'

‘Christ, you could have fooled me. I thought he was going to pull out a gun.' He started the car and pulled away from the kerb, did a three-point turn and took the main street into town. As he drove, he put his hand into his pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it over.

‘What's this?' Harry opened the flap. Inside were three pieces of paper. They were in French and looked like vouchers. They were headed with an elaborate insignia and the French flag.

‘Travel dockets,' said Rik. ‘There's an Air France flight leaving at six thirty in the morning. Isabelle says we can get a seat if we show these. Other nationalities are being evac'd out, too. All except the Americans; they've got their own plane coming in.'

‘There's a surprise. They wouldn't want Higgins and his mates rolled up by the Russians – they'd never get them back.' He handed the vouchers back. ‘You're getting useful in a crisis, did I tell you?'

Rik smiled, then concentrated on his driving.

They passed a row of shops and small businesses behind steel shutters, mostly closing for the day. A supermarket was still open, with a delivery truck pulling away from the side doors. Harry told Rik to pull over.

‘Why, what's up?'

‘Nothing. We might need supplies in case we can't get out through the airport. There won't be time to get them later. Get water, chocolate, sandwiches if they have any and some fruit. And a large torch. We'll get coffee and tea at the office and make up some flasks.'

‘Got you.' Rik stopped the car and disappeared inside the supermarket.

When he had gone, Harry texted Maloney on Stanbridge's mobile.

Cmng out. Stnd by 2 tlk l8tr.'

Rik returned with the supplies and placed them on the rear seat. He'd stocked up with biscuits as well, and fruit juice. They continued on their way, but hadn't gone two blocks before a shiny black Nissan Patrol pulled in hard alongside, forcing them to slow down.

The driver was Nikolai. Kostova was in the passenger seat.

Nikolai stabbed a finger at Rik to pull over.

FIFTY-ONE

‘
Y
ou'd better do as he says,' said Harry. ‘He's got the army on his side; we don't want to piss them off.' He wondered what had prompted this. It was too much of a coincidence for the mayor and his bodyguard to turn up like this.

Rik pulled in to the kerb and went to turn off the engine. Harry stopped him.

‘Leave it running.' If they had to leave in a hurry, he wanted to be ready.

He waited, eyes on the wing mirrors. Nikolai had pulled in behind them and Kostova was getting out. The mayor stopped to adjust his cuffs, waved to someone on the other side of the road, a professional politician's gesture, then walked towards the Mercedes.

‘What do you think they want?' Rik asked nervously.

‘It's a social call,' said Harry. ‘Just sit tight and stay calm.'

Kostova came alongside and stopped by Harry's door. He smiled broadly as Harry got out to meet him. The mayor seemed in a genial mood, and was puffing on a black cheroot, a picture of relaxation. Although his suit was pressed, his shoes looked scuffed and covered in dust. He'd been travelling.

‘Harry,' Kostova greeted him, and held out his hand.

Harry shook it, one eye on Nikolai. The bodyguard was wandering along the inner edge of the pavement, eyeing the front of an empty shop. He remembered what Mace had said about the man and decided he wouldn't care to turn his back on him.

‘Mr Mayor. How are you today?'

‘Please, call me Geordi. Everybody does.'

‘OK, Geordi. What can I do for you?'

Kostova fanned away a cloud of cigar smoke and ducked to look in the Mercedes, nodding at Rik and glancing at the supplies on the back seat. ‘Good car. Very strong – comfortable. You are going back to your Council office, yes?'

Harry nodded. The mayor was playing games; he knew perfectly well that they were no more British Council than Red Cross nuns. ‘That's correct. I take it you know we intend leaving shortly?'

Kostova grinned and flicked a piece of ash from his cheroot. ‘I did not, but why should I? You are free to come and go as you please. Of course, there are some restricted areas . . . to the north, for example. But I doubt you will be going there, anyway. Elsewhere?' He shrugged and pursed his lips, still smiling.

‘The airport?'

‘Airport no problem. Flights are unfortunately restricted, but there are still seats available.' He paused and glanced at Nikolai, who had walked past them and was watching the traffic. His voice dropped slightly. ‘If you are going, Harry, I think you should do so as soon as possible. This is not a good time to be here. I'm sure you know that.'

‘I do, thank you. Is it true what they say?' He nodded towards the north.

‘I am afraid so, yes.' Kostova looked saddened. ‘It is a pity, but . . .' He looked towards the sky. ‘Maybe it will be over soon and we can all go back to the way things were before.'

‘I hope so. You speak excellent English.'

‘I was lucky. My mother was a teacher of English. She believed it was the language we should all know for the future. Although now,' he shrugged again, ‘who knows? Chinese, perhaps?' He dropped his cheroot and stood on it, adding with almost studied deliberation, ‘A fellow countryman of yours arrived today. Did you know that?'

‘No. I didn't. Why – does it concern me?'

‘Who knows? It might. His name was . . .' Kostova pretended to search his memory, ‘. . . Phillips? Yes, Phillips.' He nodded. ‘But I think that is not his real name.'

Latham. It had to be. ‘Are you taking an interest?'

‘We have no reason for doing so. Unless, of course, you know something about him which means we should detain him?' He lifted his eyebrows, inviting confirmation.

It was tempting, but Harry didn't bite. ‘I don't think so. The name means nothing to me.'

‘Very well.' Kostova appeared to dismiss the subject. ‘Your colleague, Clare Jardine. She is unhappy with her employment, I think. Did you know she has been trying to acquire new papers?'

Harry wondered what stroke this was meant to be. Disinformation or mischief-making? He had no doubts that Kostova was an expert at both.

‘What sort of papers?'

‘Passport . . . visa . . . driving licence.' He smiled thinly. ‘What the Americans call the whole nine yards. She has been meeting with people who are involved in such things. But they cannot help her. They tell me instead. I wonder why would she need these things?' His eyes twinkled to show that he knew her cover was false.

Harry decided to go with care. Act dumb and Kostova might think he was being played for a fool. Too much outrage and he would see through it. If it were true, what the hell was Clare Jardine doing looking for new documents? Unless she was planning to make a run for it. New papers, new life. If anyone could disappear forever into the woodwork, it would be a member of MI6.

But why would she?

‘Did she ask you?'

‘Only once, and couched – is that it, couched? – in careful words. But definitely a shopping trip, I think you would call it.' He smiled. ‘You English are so playful with your language. But amusing, too. I like English.'

‘Why are you telling me this?'

Nikolai was walking towards them, eyes on the car and the two men. He seemed to float over the ground, detached. Like a bloody ninja, Harry reflected.