Red Station (34 page)

The wait in the departure lounge had been short, during which all eyes were fixed on the military vehicles patrolling the perimeter. Then they were ushered on to the plane surrounded by French security personnel and accompanied by a variety of other nationals, all keen to get out of the way of impending trouble. One of them, a Swiss doctor, had seen blood on Harry's sleeve, and insisted on bandaging his wound.

‘You were fortunate,' he said with great cheerfulness. ‘Another two centimetres and you would have maybe lost the arm. The concussive effect on bone can be like an amputation.'

‘Thanks for that,' Harry replied, wincing. ‘You don't do house calls, do you?'

‘For you, I am afraid not. But you must have this checked . . . wherever you are going next. Each day, you understand?'

Harry nodded gratefully and sank back in his seat, closing his eyes. He was bewildered by the narrowness of their escape, thanks to Nikolai, and their safe arrival at the airport.

Latham's battered Hyundai was now concealed behind a large skip at one end of the airport car park, where it would hopefully remain undetected for several days. The guns had been disposed of in a silage pit barely a mile along the road from where they had buried Latham's body.

After arriving in Paris and retrieving their bags, they had dodged the inevitable press scramble and hired a car. Harry decided that an unobtrusive entry via the channel ports was safer than Heathrow or Eurostar. Clare elected to drive and they headed towards Calais.

As they passed the Amiens–Compiegne intersection, Harry took out Stanbridge's mobile. He dialled Maloney's number and wondered if his colleague's phone was on the watch list.

‘Yes?' Maloney answered against a background buzz of traffic. He was on foot in the open. He sounded cautious.

‘Can you talk?' said Harry.

‘Bloody hell! I was getting worried. Where are you?'

‘France, heading for the next available ferry. Can you meet us in Dover?'

‘Sure can. Ring me when you know the time.' He paused and Harry could tell he was choosing his words carefully. ‘All hell's breaking loose here. Word got out that some British nationals got caught up in the stampede across the border, and we're all wondering who. Funny thing is, in-house, your name's top of the pile.'

‘How did that get out?'

‘Don't know. Could be someone laying a trail in case it goes public. Is there anyone with you?'

‘Two. One stayed behind to look after things. Another went native.' Harry decided to leave the news about Mace until later.

‘Right. You sound like you had a bad time. You all right?' Maloney had clearly picked up something in Harry's tone of voice.

‘Fine. Got a graze on the arm, that's all.'

‘The opposition playing rough?'

‘Not theirs. One of ours. I'll tell you more when I see you. Can you look out a name for me?'

‘Sure. Go ahead.'

‘Latham. Not sure of other names. He worked for Legoland.' The nickname for MI6.

There was a longer pause. ‘Did you say
worked
?'

‘He resigned.'

‘Ouch. That'll cause a rumpus.'

‘He was trying to resign us at the time.'

‘Oh. Well, that's different. What happened?'

‘He ran into an unfriendly Russian.'

‘I hear there are some about. Well, take care and see you soon.'

Harry switched off the phone and sat back. His arm was throbbing fiercely, a relentless ache which reached down to his fingertips and burned across his shoulders. He nudged Rik and handed him the trauma pack, gritting his teeth while the young man removed his soiled bandage and cleaned the wound.

‘We need to get this looked at,' said Rik. He applied a fresh dressing and wrapped the arm firmly to avoid excess movement, then folded the dirty bandages into a plastic bag. He passed Harry two tablets and a bottle of water. ‘Swallow these. You're going to have a bit of a hole there now.'

‘Damn.' Harry downed the tablets and leaned his head against the seat rest. ‘Bang go my chances of being a male model.'

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

‘
Harry! Wake up!
'

‘Wha—? What's the matter?' Harry scrambled to sit up, shocked out of a heavy sleep by Rik's voice and a hand pounding on his good arm. He felt awful; his mouth was dry and his head was spinning. He peered through the side window. They were on the
autoroute
, with the flat, muddy fields of northern France rolling by outside. It looked grey, cold and unwelcoming. Foreign.

‘We've got company.' It was Clare Jardine's hand on his arm. She was in the front passenger seat, looking past him at the road behind. They had clearly managed to make a changeover without waking him.

‘OK . . . I'm with it. Who?'

‘Three men in a big Renault. They've been there for about five miles now. They've been hanging back most of the time – we thought it was just a coincidence. But now they've started moving closer.'

Harry turned and peered over the back of his seat. A dark blue Renault was a hundred yards behind on the inside lane. He counted the outlines of three figures inside. Other traffic was sporadic, a few trucks but mostly cars and the odd motorbike. Only the Renault was keeping station with them.

He drank some water, hoping to dull the growing nausea. He was dehydrated and suffering shock; hardly best conditions for dealing with another threat.

So who were they?

‘Could be DST,' said Clare, reading his mind. ‘Making sure we leave.' The
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire
– France's counter-espionage department – were responsible along with the police for their country's internal security. It was a job they took very seriously.

‘Could be Latham's mates.' Rik was gripping the wheel tightly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It could be anybody.' Harry rubbed his face with his good hand, trying to coax some life into the skin and get his brain in gear. He was also playing for time and inspiration. If the men were French Intelligence, they might be following them because of their presence on the Air France evacuation flight. Orders would almost certainly have gone ahead prior to take-off as a matter of normal security, alerting Paris to the identities and backgrounds of all foreign nationals on board. And Rik's young friend Isabelle would have been duty bound to pass on what she knew about them.

If the people in the car weren't DST, but were part of the Hit, they were in trouble. With no weapons and little chance of avoiding a direct attack, the odds were heavily against them.

He took another look. The Renault had crept closer. The front-seat passenger was heavy-set, with a shaved scalp and black eyebrows. He was holding a mobile to his ear and nodding, leaning forward with his face close to the windscreen. He took the phone away from his ear and said something to the driver.

The Renault accelerated and began to pull out.

Harry watched the move and felt his gut contract. ‘They're coming alongside.' He kept his voice casual and reached forward to touch Rik's shoulder, hoping to instil in him a sense of calm. ‘Hold your speed steady but get ready to brake hard when I say.'

‘Brake?' Rik's voice wobbled. ‘Wouldn't it be better to outrun them?'

‘No. This is their turf and we don't have the punch.' Harry didn't know how powerful the other vehicle was, but instinct told him that it would be an unequal contest. Besides, if they were French law enforcement or Intelligence officers, it would provide just the reason they needed to pull them over.

The other car drew alongside and remained level. The two passengers turned their heads to stare. Harry glanced across. Bullet Head in the front was replicated by the other passenger in the rear, a perfect pair, while the driver was a skinnier version with a bony forehead. None of them looked friendly, and they all reminded Harry of the security guards he had seen outside the SARFA building where Isabelle worked.

He caught the eye of one of the men and smiled.
Bonjour
, he thought.
Now piss off, mes amis
.

He realized he was holding his breath and tried to relax. Just as long as the side windows stayed up. That was all he asked. Windows up meant everything was normal; windows down meant they were about to go on the offensive.

The man in the front passenger seat lifted his chin at Harry in a mute query.
What are you looking at?

Harry lifted his water bottle in a silent salute. If the three men weren't interested in them it would mean nothing. If they were . . . well, it wouldn't matter much.

The Renault surged away. Two hundred yards ahead, as they approached a junction, the driver began signalling.

Moments later, they were gone.

Harry slumped back and closed his eyes. He could have done without that. His head was pounding and he felt like shit.

In the front, Rik gave a soft whoop and Clare muttered in relief.

‘Bloody kids,' he murmured. ‘Scaredy-cats.' Then he went back to sleep.

SIXTY-THREE

I
t was mid-afternoon before they boarded the first ferry and watched through the window of the forward bar as the grey French coast slipped away. The boat was busy, with the aisles and bars full of foot passengers on day trips and vehicle passengers looking weary after long drives across France.

Clare had been getting more and more restless the closer they got to home, and was drumming her fingers on the table. She had changed into fresh black cargo pants and a dark T-shirt, and apart from an increasing look of unease, could have been a student on vacation.

‘So what's the plan?' she queried shortly, eyeing Harry. ‘I take it you've got one?'

Harry shrugged. The movement was a painful reminder of his injury and he adjusted his position before replying. ‘Nothing specific. Haven't figured it all out yet. I want to get back on home soil first. Then we'll see.'

‘We?'

‘Why not? We can hardly just walk back into work and clock on. It'll need all of us to put up a front. Someone's got some explaining to do.'

‘They won't listen. Why should they?'

‘Someone has to.' Rik sounded unconvinced, but seemed happy to lean on hope against despair. ‘Maybe we should hook up with the press as a guarantee.' He looked at Harry. ‘What do you think?'

‘It might be an option. But I think we'll need more than that. We need to go to someone with enough clout to take positive action. Mace gave me a name – a woman on the Joint Security Committee.' Harry looked at him. ‘She'll have influence and she's accountable. Get to her and it'll go higher. Leave it to Bellingham and Paulton, and they'll stamp on it – and us. Red Station will be airbrushed out of existence and we'll have no protection.'

‘This is mad, what you're suggesting.' Clare interrupted harshly. She was staring balefully at a small girl wailing at the next table. ‘Once they have us, we won't see the light of day. They can't afford to let Red Station become public knowledge; they've already had too much mud slung at them over de Menezes and the terrorist arrests. Can't you see that?'

Harry studied her, wondering whether she had only just come to this conclusion or if she had been aware right from the start that going back might not be as easy as she hoped. He still wasn't convinced about her reasons for allegedly trying to get documents from Kostova. Had she really been working him and Nikolai, and hoping to get back in favour with MI6 or did she suspect what might really happen if they strolled back into town?

Rik let out a deep sigh. ‘I'm for trying to sort it out. I don't want to be on the run forever.' He toyed with a button before continuing. ‘Having guys like Latham on my back.' He shook his head in wonder. ‘What kind of bloke sets out to waste his own side? And what kind of people employ guys like him? He was going to drop us. If Nikolai hadn't come along, we'd be—'

‘Don't worry about it.' Harry cut him off before he could get going. ‘Forget Latham. Forget Nikolai. They're history, done. Just concentrate on the days ahead. Maloney will help us.'

But the mention of Latham had struck a chord in Harry's head. It was a good question. How was a man able to turn and kill his own, with no more hesitation than it took to swat a fly? Did soldiering do that to you if you stuck at it long enough? But he knew that wasn't it. He'd known hundreds of soldiers who had served long and dangerous careers, and they would have no more done what Latham did than flown to the moon. So what, then?

His brain was spinning from the accumulated effects of exhaustion, shock from the bullet wound and their enforced flight. Even so, some thoughts kept slipping through, like fragments of hard matter dropping through holes in a net. And the more that happened, the more they began to coagulate into something concrete.

Rik had been at home the night Stanbridge had died; Harry had seen movement through the window, of that he was certain. He glanced at Clare, who was still staring at the noisy child, her face set. When he'd returned to check on the area around her flat, the place had been in darkness, and he'd assumed she was tucked up in bed.

But was she?

Would an experienced MI6 officer calmly climb into bed after seeing armed men outside her flat? Would she have done so knowing that a colleague was in the vicinity and might drop by to check she was all right?

Except that she had deliberately asked him not to because of the neighbours. Was that the only reason?

And then there was Latham. If the MI6 assassin had been in town that night, why did he leave it for another three days to do something about the people he'd been sent to eliminate? He knew who they were, where they lived and worked. Making a surgical hit, with no footprints left behind, would have been a priority. Waiting three days made no sense.