Red Station (39 page)

Not a chance, Harry had decided. Not a bloody chance. He had weighed the pros and cons, looked at what kind of a life awaited him if he did what was expected of him. He, too, could move back into the fold, all sins forgiven, the records expunged. Say no more, all done and dusted. He could see out his service until retirement called.

Only it wouldn't be quite as comfortable as anyone imagined. It would carry, for a start, the images of that night in Essex, when bad decisions had left three people dead – one of them a good policeman, one an innocent girl.

Not all the bad decisions were his, he knew that; cutting the manpower at a crucial moment was the most dam-
aging, leaving him badly outgunned. But he still hadn't forgotten his own moment of inaction, that split-second of hesitation just before the gunman on the boat had opened fire. Even though Maloney had confirmed a few days ago in a pub off the Charing Cross Road that a few seconds would have made no difference whatsoever, it was still with him.

He took a deep breath and felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He'd sliced a hole in the fabric and fitted a special holster – more of a sack, really – so that the gun barrel, with its suppressor, wouldn't snag.

Pulling it out would take half a second. Levelling it would take even less, and less still to pull the trigger. A spit of sound, the explosion of gasses muffled to little more than a cough by the suppressor, and even that would be lost in the noise from the traffic and the rush of the river. Then he'd be gone, walking away as casually as he could manage. In minutes he could be in Waterloo Station, shrouded by crowds of commuters.

But Bellingham wouldn't be going anywhere.

He had tried to argue Rik Ferris out of his part in what was to follow, but to no avail. Bill Maloney had insisted on running interference, too. If anyone saw what happened, and attempted to interfere, they would be mugged by a hooded figure in a tracksuit or a heavily-built lout in jeans and a donkey jacket. Neither would be recognizable and neither would hang around afterwards to answer questions.

The worst of it was, in a way that made him wonder and smile, he knew both of them were relishing their part in it.

He walked towards Bellingham, keeping an eye on the bodyguard. The man was looking down at the water. Harry took a deep breath, trying to walk softly, taking the weight off his heels, the way they'd trained him. Trouble was, he sounded like one of the guardsman outside Buckingham Palace, his footsteps echoing off the walls like gunshots.

Bellingham looked up as Harry approached, a dribble of smoke coming from his lips. If he had concerns about his personal security, he was careful not to show it, eyes steady.

‘You want something?' He sounded belligerent, a fact reflected in his stance. Up close, he smelled of soap and cigar smoke.

‘You know who I am?' Harry knew he'd been recognized. The MI6 director must have a good memory. Or maybe he'd been checking through MI5 personnel records to see who else he could despatch to the back of beyond for ‘training' purposes.

Then it hit him: he had met Bellingham before.

He was the man with Paulton when he'd had his debrief prior to leaving for Red Station. At the time, he had said nothing, remaining in the background, a suited figure with a bland face. Paulton had done all the talking.

The MI6 man nodded. ‘Tate, isn't it? What are you doing here?'

Harry paused, surprised by Bellingham's easy reaction, his apparent self-control. He'd expected to have to introduce himself at least. But maybe this proved just how hands-on Bellingham was in the Red Station set-up, and how well he knew its personnel.

‘Where did you expect me to be? In a Russian lock-up? Or disposed of in a quiet gully by the Hit?'

‘The what? Hit? No idea what you're talking about.' Bellingham glanced at his cigar, flicked some ash off the end. Harry noted that he also took the opportunity to check for his bodyguard.

‘You should know. You sent them after us. His name was Latham.'

‘Really? Why would I do that?'

‘You know why.' Harry breathed easily. Bellingham was playing it just the way he'd expected: deny and counter-attack. ‘They were supposed to kill us; Mace, Ferris, Clare Jardine, Fitzgerald and me. The members of Red Station. With the Russians coming over the border, you and Paulton decided it would be a good idea to clear the decks. After all, who else would anyone blame?' He waited, but there was no reaction. He added, ‘Did Latham arrange for Gordon Brasher to take an overdose? And for Jimmy Gulliver to have a climbing accident?'

‘You're talking rubbish, man. Who the hell are – Brasher, was it? – and Gulliver? I suggest you get help. In fact, I'll get Paulton to arrange it.' Bellingham began to turn away. ‘Now, if you'll excuse me—'

‘Don't you want to know about Latham?'

Bellingham's face barely registered a flicker. But it was enough to betray him.

‘He's dead.'

SEVENTY-TWO

B
ellingham's mouth dropped open. He recovered quickly, but Harry knew he'd finally hit home.

‘We buried him face down in a ditch. It seemed a fitting end.'

Bellingham stepped back. ‘I don't know what you mean. I don't know anyone called Latham. What do you want from me?' A slight tic had started up under his left eye.

‘You. We want you. And Paulton. Although somehow I doubt we'll get to him. He seems to have done a runner. But you'll do for starters.'

‘We?' The cigar was forgotten now. Bellingham was beginning to look trapped. He looked beyond Harry, sweeping the area with a practised eye.

‘Enough of us to bury you.' Harry felt the response was over-dramatic, but it seemed appropriate. Bellingham and Paulton had buried him and the others in Red Station; it seemed right to think of retribution in the same terms.

‘Don't flatter yourselves – any of you.' Bellingham tossed the cigar into the river and thrust his hand in his pocket. ‘Who the hell would believe you?'

For a second, Harry thought he might be going for a weapon, and got ready to draw the gun in his pocket. It would probably be the last thing he ever did, but he was damned if this man was going to take him down. Then he realized Bellingham would be carrying a panic button. Press once in case of threats from foreign agents or pissed-off security officers. Bellingham wasn't the gun type; he employed others to do his shooting for him.

He reckoned on having just a few minutes before the summons brought a response. ‘I've spoken to Marcella Rudmann,' Harry said. ‘I think she'll be looking to have a chat sometime. She's particularly interested in Clarion.'

‘Don't be pathetic.' Bellingham's voice dripped contempt, his mouth contorted, but he looked haunted at the mention of his server link. ‘You think you can come back here and take
me
on? You're deluded, all of you, like that pathetic drunk, Mace. I suppose he's hiding somewhere, afraid to come out and face the world without a stiff drink inside him?'

‘He's alive, if that's what you mean.' The lie came easily. ‘And ready to talk.'

‘Then he'll be arrested,' Bellingham replied. ‘As will you. Your friends too. Is Jardine one of them?'

Another name, another point of reference. It confirmed that Bellingham knew who was in Red Station. By itself it might not be enough, but it added background colour for any subsequent enquiry.

‘Yes, she's out there,' he said. ‘I'd watch your back, if I were you. You made her some promises then let her down. She's unlikely to forgive you for that.'

Bellingham's eye gave a twitch, and he struggled to hold his gaze on Harry's face. He said acidly, ‘We'll see. You'll all serve time in the darkest hole I can find. Believe me, you have no idea what being buried really means!'

A touch of spittle from Bellingham's mouth landed on Harry's cheek. He gripped the gun harder and wondered what it would be like to take it out and deliver his own brand of justice on behalf of those Bellingham had consigned to oblivion. The man didn't have the slightest sense of remorse or fear, even when faced by someone who could bring him down.

Bellingham turned and walked away, his coat tails flapping around him, his head swivelling as he looked for his bodyguard.

But the tall man had disappeared.

SEVENTY-THREE

H
arry checked the walkway in both directions.
What the hell was happening?

The nearest figure ahead of Bellingham was an old lady with a dog, its nose buried in a discarded fast-food carton. Bellingham
always
walked down here, Maloney had told him, and always accompanied by his minder. Two hundred yards from the bridge down and two hundred back, without fail. Such a predictable pattern was almost suicidal for a man in his position, but nobody had seen fit to get him to change it.

On the other hand, nobody had tried to kill him, either.

So far.

Judging by his stance and the urgency with which he was moving, Bellingham had only just realized that he was without protection. And he didn't like it.

Harry set off after him.

He didn't understand the inconsistency with the bodyguard. It was standard procedure that the principal was never out of his protection officer's sight. A decent distance might be observed for confidential discussions, but that was all.

Now the game had changed completely.

As he increased his pace, he sensed another figure moving up into his field of vision. He relaxed. It was a woman in a running suit and hooded top, jogging easily along by the inner wall, head down. She had an MP3 player strapped to her upper arm, the wire curling up under the hood, and was fiddling with the player's retaining strap while keeping up a steady pace. She was thirty yards away from Bellingham and posed no threat.

Harry concentrated on walking as fast as he dared without attracting attention. Maybe he should have got himself a running suit. Now that
would
have raised a few eyebrows.

The woman runner passed Bellingham without a glance. Bellingham turned his head, eyeing the woman's trim buttocks. She was twenty yards ahead of him and close to a concrete bench when she appeared to stumble. She threw out one arm, her pace broken, and something fell to the ground. Small, rectangular and white: the MP3 player. There was a faint clatter as it hit the ground and shattered, bits of plastic pinging into the air. Harry heard her cry of dismay as she stooped too late to catch it.

Bellingham was closer than anyone. His body language betrayed hesitation, then he stepped forward to help, his proximity overriding any concern at the disappearance of his bodyguard. He raised a hand to touch the woman's arm, his rich voice floating back to Harry's ears, solicitous and soothing.

It was all done very smoothly. One second they were standing alongside the bench, then the woman sat down, the pieces of her player on the ground around her feet, her hand to her face.

Bellingham sat alongside her, one hand reaching out to pat her arm, then dropping to pat her knee.
Never mind,
the gesture implied.
It could have happened to anyone
.

The woman didn't look up, didn't object to the hand on her leg. Instead, she rubbed her arm where the MP3's retaining strap was still in place. When she brought her hand away, she was holding something.

She reached down to Bellingham's thigh, and daylight flashed on shiny metal.

‘
No!
' Harry swore and broke into a run.

In a continuous movement, the woman reached up and drew her hand across Bellingham's front, just beneath his chin. It might have been a caress, the intimate touch of a lover, almost smooth and gentle. But the way Bellingham's head went back indicated it was anything but.

By the time Harry reached the bench, breathing hard, the woman was eighty yards away and covering the ground in a floating, easy run. Bellingham was still sitting as if stunned.

‘Jesus, what happened?' Rik Ferris raced up to join Harry, and they stood and stared at the MI6 director. He was bleeding profusely, his body slumped and held in place only by its own downward weight. His thighs and chest were a mess of red, and spurts of blood were pulsating past the layers of fat around his collar and dripping on to the paving slabs beneath.

Clare Jardine happened
, thought Harry. Her and her evil bloody powder compact, the blade curved and razor sharp, like a pruning knife. Lethal in the hands of an expert. But he didn't say anything. He had no proof. In any case, there was no point. Not now.

Instead, he said, ‘Femoral artery and throat. A professional kill.' He pulled out his mobile – actually, Stanbridge's mobile, which he'd never got rid of – and looked at the screen. The signal was strong down here; he'd get a 999, no problem. They'd be here in seconds, all bells and whistles. Hell, St Thomas's hospital was a spit away; they'd almost be able to see the body from the front door.

He turned and threw the mobile over the wall into the river. ‘Bloody things. Never work when you need them.'

‘What?' Rik, who knew about communications and signals, especially in London, looked towards the river in confusion. ‘But that—'

‘Wasn't working.' Harry looked at him, daring him to argue. It was better than looking at Bellingham. ‘Trust me. By the time the medics get here, he'll be dead. He's nearly gone already.'

‘I've got a phone.' Rik started to reach for it.

‘Great. Phone them. And while you're about it, you can explain what you were doing here while a senior MI6 officer was getting his throat cut. A man who, just a couple of days ago, ordered your execution.' Harry walked away without looking back. A gaggle of early sightseers was approaching a hundred yards away, festooned with cameras and curiosity. ‘Don't take too long to decide,' he called back. ‘The heavies will be along soon and looking for anyone with a grudge.'