Red Station (38 page)

‘Mace told me that Gulliver also had a morbid fear of flying, so he chose to drive back to the UK. He hired a car locally with an agreement to drop it off in Calais. Neither Gulliver nor the car ever arrived.'

She tapped a glossy fingernail on the desk. ‘You mentioned trainees were used. What was their function?'

‘They were rotating four-man teams Paulton had in place watching the members of Red Station around the clock, to see that nobody took off or misbehaved. They were nicknamed the Clones by Red Station staff and their job was strictly watch-and-report.'

‘That's good security, surely, given the circumstances?'

‘Says you. The Clones were changed every few weeks as part of a training schedule. That way they didn't get close to Red Station and none of the staff knew they were British, much less part of an official operation.' He shifted in his chair, and wondered what activity was going on in the corridor outside Rudmann's door. Too late now, whatever it was. ‘But Sir Anthony Bellingham also had a team,' he continued. ‘They were called the Hit. They had a different agenda. I should say have, because I don't know if they still exist.'

‘What do they do?'

‘They kill people.'

SIXTY-NINE

M
arcella Rudmann's face went pale beneath her make-up. ‘That's rubbish—!'

‘No. It's not. They deal with terrorists and war criminals and people who talk too much . . . like journalists and disenchanted security officers. Do you know what wet work is?'

‘Yes, but our government—'

‘Doesn't employ such people? That's bullshit and you know it. Anyway, as soon as the Russians marched across the border, the Clones were ordered to leave.'

Rudmann said nothing, but he could tell by her stillness that he had finally got her full attention. She hadn't even queried the mention of Russians.

He told her, anyway, just for the record. ‘Red Station is in Georgia, just south of the border with Ossetia. Remote and off the beaten track; ideal for keeping people out of the public eye. It's now in what we call a hot zone.'

By Rudmann's expression, Harry guessed she was reviewing recent events and coming to grips with what he had told her. She shook her head. ‘I'll need verification of the location later. Please continue.'

‘Not all of the Clones made it out. One of them got left behind.'

‘What happened?'

‘He was murdered. Shot in the head. Then the Hit came in. Bellingham and Paulton must have decided that with the Russians on the way, it would be an ideal moment to get rid of all links to Red Station and forget we ever existed. If anyone had asked questions, they'd have blamed Russian forces or the local militia.'

‘This is speculation,' said Rudmann quietly. ‘Do you have a grain of proof to substantiate these claims?'

‘Proof that there was such a place as Red Station? Of course. And proof of the personnel. You've already seen the copy files off the data stick; they came directly from a remote server here in London. One of those messages is from Mace, reporting the Clone's murder.'

‘I see.'

‘It's not a direct link to Vauxhall Cross or Thames House; they were too clever for that. But it will be to Bellingham. He was the only one with access. The server's code-name is Clarion. Bellingham's mistake was checking it on a regular basis to monitor messages. We've got his trail mapped out for every call he made; times, dates and names.'

‘We? Who else is involved?'

Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. That's confidential.'

She considered that for a moment. ‘You say a member of the observation team – these Clones? – was killed. I need his name.'

‘Stanbridge. Ex-army. I don't know his first name. You can cross-check with service records for Kosovo; he served there with the UN.'

Rudmann made a brief note, although Harry was sure their conversation was being recorded.

‘If I read between the lines, you seem to think it was this second team – the Hit – which was responsible. Why would they do that . . . kill one of their own?'

They had finally reached the tricky part. Did he tell Rudmann that it was most likely Clare Jardine who had killed Stanbridge, or allow the blame to settle on a dead killer? He couldn't prove it either way with absolute certainty, so what did it matter?

‘If it was the Hit who killed him, there were only two reasons I can think of: they found out that Stanbridge had talked to me, or Stanbridge recognized Latham and knew what his function was. In actual fact, Latham
was
the Hit. This was a job they couldn't trust to more than one man. In Latham's narrow world, Stanbridge was a liability to get rid of.'

‘And you're suggesting that Latham was after you?'

‘Not just me; all of us. We were lucky to get away.' Those of us who did, he thought. She could find out about Mace's death herself, if she wanted.

‘I see. Where is Latham now?'

‘He ran into some trouble.'

‘That doesn't answer my question.'

‘So sue me.'

‘You killed him.' It was a statement.

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Very well.' She brushed at her hair, a small charm bracelet tingling on her wrist. ‘I'll have to verify what you've told me, of course. It might take some time.'

He stared at her. ‘Is that all? You'll look into it?'

‘Is there something else?' For a second, she looked faintly alarmed, and Harry wondered how closely aware she had been of the decisions made by Bellingham and Paulton over the past few months. The civil service and government was a notoriously small community and as incestuous as a bunch of alley cats. It was inconceivable that she or some of her colleagues hadn't been at least partly aware that something was going on in the woodpile. But suspicions didn't amount to definite knowledge. And he couldn't go down the route of divisive thinking, he reminded himself. He had to trust someone, at least part of the way, otherwise he'd go quietly mad.

‘Is something going to be done about them?' he demanded quietly. ‘About what happened . . . setting up Red Station . . . the murder of Brasher and Gulliver?' He suddenly found an impulse to shout this bloody woman out of her immaculately coiffed and manicured air of control. Instead he kept his voice even.

She nodded slowly. ‘It's in hand. That's all you need to know.' She reached out and pressed a button on the telephone console. The door opened and the security guard stepped in.

Harry stayed where he was. ‘There's also the shooting,' he said, ‘for which I was sent out there.'

Rudmann nodded at the security guard, and he retreated and closed the door.

‘That is still under investigation. What of it?'

Harry told her what Maloney had discovered about the over-flight photos and the Land Rover; how the shooting of the man, at least, might not be as innocent or as accidental as it had seemed. Rudmann made more notes on a pad.

‘I'm not saying it wasn't a disaster,' he finished quietly. ‘It shouldn't have happened and those people shouldn't have died. But neither was it the simple lash-up that everyone assumes. Cuts were made to manpower on economic grounds and because the Prime Minister was due to visit Stansted.'

‘I'm not sure that has any relevance.' She dropped into denial mode, the government's default position.

‘But the PM was at Stansted the next day?'

Hesitation. ‘Yes.'

‘You know that? Or you checked?' She wouldn't know all his engagements.

‘I checked.'

‘Why?'

Rudmann looked uncomfortable at the probing, but couldn't avoid the question.

‘You had doubts,' said Harry. ‘Didn't you?'

‘Some, yes.'

‘Pity you didn't ask more questions, then,' Harry retorted bluntly. ‘You should have asked about Red Station, too. It might have saved some lives.'

She showed no emotion, but said, ‘We will be reviewing all the facts, I promise.'

It seemed to be the best answer he was going to get, and he decided not to outstay his welcome. He reached the door and turned to look at Rudmann. She was watching him, hands folded on the desk before her, a perfect mandarin, unemotional, impassive.

He wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

‘This won't go away,' he told her. ‘It will come out . . . who set it up, who knew about it. People like Bellingham, they'll talk. You can't sweep it under the carpet.'

Rudmann returned his stare. ‘What do you want, Mr Tate?'

‘Me? I want my life back. Simple as that. Not too much to ask, is it?'

SEVENTY

M
arcella Rudmann sat and waited for confirmation from the front desk that Harry Tate had left the building. When the call came, the security man asked if she wanted Tate followed.

‘Don't bother,' she said. ‘He'll spot whoever you send after him.'

She cut the connection and made two calls, then walked along the corridor to a small office at the end. It was windowless, drab and overheated, and contained a single desk holding an array of audio equipment. A man in shirtsleeves sat waiting.

He stood up when she entered. His name was Everett and he was a senior officer in Home Office Security and had Rudmann's full confidence.

‘Did you get all that?' she asked.

Everett nodded. ‘Nice and clear.' He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I'll get it transcribed right away.' He paused. ‘Tate's a bit of a time-bomb, isn't he? Is it true what he said – about your front door?'

‘Yes.' She shook her head. ‘I'll arrange it today. I'm more concerned about what he claims about Red Station. If it's true, it's appalling.' She looked at her hands as if wanting to wash them clean, and paced across the office and back. Everett waited for her to speak. ‘I've just had confirmation that George Paulton has disappeared,' she said finally. ‘I always had my doubts about that man. And the police have now identified the man they believe was responsible for Shaun Whelan's death. It wasn't a mugging. The killer is a subcontractor for the security services.'

‘Ouch.' Everett pulled a face. ‘And Paulton was involved.'

‘I'm certain of it.'

Everett's eyebrows rose. ‘I'll talk to the Met. Not that I expect they'll find anything; if Paulton's gone, he'll have covered his tracks.' He hesitated. ‘It leaves Sir Anthony Bellingham rather exposed, doesn't it?'

Rudmann nodded. She had reached the same conclusion. Which was why the other call she had made before leaving her office had been to the deputy PM.

His question had been simple and to the point. Two very senior security officers had gone stratospherically beyond their brief. What was she going to do about it?

SEVENTY-ONE

H
arry leaned on the wall overlooking the Thames and watched a plank floating downriver. It swirled almost majestically, flashing bright against the grey wash, then was gone, consumed by the fierce undercurrent.

A bit like me, he reflected, that plank. Thick, weather-worn and likely to be dragged under when not expecting it.

He looked to his left and saw a familiar face strolling along the riverside walkway. He cut a smart figure, an unhurried, well-fed man in an expensive suit; an anachronism compared with the fleeting, toned and anxious office workers hurrying by elsewhere.

Sir Anthony Bellingham. It had to be.

Behind Bellingham, a tall man in a dark suit wandered along at the same pace, eyes on the road, the walkway and the river. Bellingham's bodyguard.

Harry waited. There was plenty of time. He'd come a long way for this. He glanced at the nearest camera focussed on the length of the riverside walkway. It would have a clear view of everyone passing by; of their faces, clothes, what they carried and even their conversation if the operators had a good lip-reader handy.

Across the river were more cameras. Most would be concentrated on the several hundred square metres surrounding the stone building of the MI5 complex, known as Thames House. One or two might be temporarily offline; according to Rik Ferris, the number of cameras inoperative in London at any one time was staggering. Maintenance cuts, mostly, aided by the occasional brick lobbed by a disgruntled resident or an aggrieved motorist.

As if on cue, Rik Ferris appeared in the background beyond Bellingham. He was dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, and holding a drinks bottle. He jogged easily, a spring in his step, covering the ground with ease. He looked fit and Harry was surprised; a few good nights' sleep had worked wonders.

Bellingham paused to stare across the river and took a cigar from his top pocket. He carefully unwrapped it, placing the cellophane film in his pocket, then reached for a lighter. It flashed as he stroked it with his thumb.

Probably gold and heavy, thought Harry. Not designed to impress, though; just the way the man was. The flame flared, followed by a puff of grey smoke which hung momentarily around the spy chief's head before swirling and disappearing on the river breeze.

Harry had rehearsed this moment in his head several times. With Paulton gone, Bellingham must have considered himself safe. He could go about his daily business until it was time for him to go, a faithful and loyal servant of her majesty's civil service. Then he could slide into a comfortable, index-linked retirement and disappear off the face of a planet he had only ever served beneath the surface.

All would be well with the world.