Red Station (5 page)

‘Questions? By whom?'

‘Shaun Whelan – who else?'

Paulton puffed out some air. He wasn't surprised. Whelan was a poisonous little hack who'd been booted out of RTE, the Irish broadcasting network, for disclosing private information about government officials in Dublin. He now worked as a freelance, nosing around the corridors of Whitehall like a bitch on heat. Thankfully, few took him too seriously, but his clumsy probing had a habit of causing unwelcome ripples.

‘Doesn't it bother you?' Rudmann's voice was insistent, her eyes digging into his. ‘You know his reputation.'

‘He'll keep.' Paulton wondered how much power this woman really had. The fact that she was being so blatant in her interest over the shooting was becoming a worry. Maybe she had discovered a way of consolidating her career by riding on the back of a potential scandal.

‘I hope you're right. I told the DPM you had the situation in hand.'

Paulton felt a further pinprick of annoyance. It was the lack of subtlety as much as the superior attitude; that they felt no hesitation about letting him know they didn't entirely trust him to do what was required. Had the boot been on the other foot, he knew they'd have been outraged at the suggestion that
they
couldn't cope. But he couldn't help feeling a touch of alarm. Had someone been pointing a finger? Was that it?

‘It's all in hand,' he confirmed, with a cool undertone. ‘Perhaps the DPM would like proof? We have a satellite going over shortly; I'm sure we could get Tate to look up and wave if you like.'

Her face stiffened but he was beyond caring. Time was, he'd have been left alone to get on with the trickier elements of his job without interference. Now, politicians were all damage-control experts – especially when they thought their own careers were at risk.

‘I don't think there's any need for that,' she muttered, the ice in her voice a clear warning. She began to walk away, then turned and said carefully, ‘Just see that none of this ever goes public, that's all. Do you understand?'

‘How could it?' he said coldly. ‘Whelan doesn't know where Tate is.'

As he left the building, he had a sudden, uncomfortable thought. What did Rudmann mean when she said that none of this affair should ‘go public'?

Was she referring to Harry Tate . . . or Shaun Whelan?

Later that day, Marcella Rudmann returned to her office and opened a folder sitting in the middle of her desk. It was a summary file on the life and work of Harry Tate. She skimmed through it, noting a few high points in his army and intelligence career, but nothing to suggest he was or ever had been a star. A plodder, by all accounts; solid, unremarkable, a good and loyal servant who did his job and caused no ripples. In many ways an ideal intelligence officer. There were a couple of blips, though, she noted; one minor, the other surprising.

The minor one was a report on Captain Harry Tate disarming a drunken member of 2 Para who'd gone on the rampage in a bar in Wiesbaden, Germany, in 1995. It wasn't the fact that he'd done it that was noteworthy, but that he'd broken the other man's arm in three places, and none of the man's Para colleagues had intervened.

The second notation was very different. In August 1999, Tate had been assigned to a United Nations KFOR unit in Kosovo, looking for signs of ethnic cleansing. Serb forces were suspected of systematically rounding up and ‘disappearing' numbers of Kosovar Albanians, and the UN desperately needed proof. On a reconnaissance mission in the hills ten miles from Motrovica, they had stumbled on a group of heavily-armed Serb paramilitaries. An armoured personnel carrier stood at the side of the road, its 20mm machine gun cocked and ready to fire.

The UN convoy was faced with an unenviable choice: back down or make a fight of it to prove their credentials. The senior officer had urged caution, ordering his men to turn back. The alternative route would add hours to their journey, but it was better than a fire-fight and serious casualties.

But Tate had seen something none of the others had noticed: three small Albanian girls were huddled behind the APC, their clothes torn and dirty. It was clear they didn't want to be there but were too traumatized to ask for help.

Tate had argued that the men had taken the girls prisoner, and that they should investigate further. The senior officer – a Dutch Major – had declined, fearing escalation, whereupon Tate had jumped down from his vehicle and walked over to the APC. Ignoring the Serb soldiers, he had clambered up the side, knocked the gunner cold and turned the gun towards the watching Serbs.

They had handed over the three girls without argument.

Rudmann pursed her lips. So, she reflected, a good and loyal servant with an occasional spark about him. But that had been years ago.

Pray God he kept it bottled up.

She sat back and stared at the ceiling. Part of her brief was to make sure that there were no ‘own goals' in security operations which could come back to haunt the government later. Like the Essex operation. Getting him out of the way had been an instinctive move, and Paulton had obviously foreseen the need. But her brief gave her considerable power and responsibility – far more than men like George Paulton were even aware of – and she took the work seriously. For that reason, she had sent for Harry Tate's personnel file, just to be sure he wasn't a rogue male who might bring disaster on them, no matter what Paulton's opinion of the man might be.

She closed the file and summoned her secretary to return it. Harry Tate had once shown a spark of something, but that was all. Sparks didn't always translate to flame. Even so, he was better off out of the way. For all their sakes.

‘Get this back without fuss,' she told the young woman who entered the room. ‘Remember, no signatures and no record.'

NINE

T
he inside of the Odeon Restaurant was dark and cluttered, a sombre cavern with lots of rough-sawn wood, wall-hangings of indeterminate origin or purpose and smoke-stained varnish. Ethnic, Harry decided, and more bar than restaurant. Maybe it said something about Stuart Mace, the Head of Station, if this was his local watering hole.

A single figure was sitting at the rear of the room, facing the door and reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee sat by his elbow. He looked up as Harry approached, studied him for a moment, then shouted towards a doorway in the back wall.

‘Found us, then.' Stuart Mace was in his late fifties, with a fleshy face and the tired eyes of a bureaucrat. His hair was silvery grey and swept back in elegant wings. Had it not been for his present location, he could have been a prosperous, if worn-down GP, looking towards retirement and some time on the golf course.

‘Thanks to Rik Ferris.' Harry sat down just as a cup of thick coffee was set before him by an elderly woman in a black apron and a dress covered in small, blue flowers. She left without making eye contact.

Mace nudged a small jug of cream towards him. ‘Help yourself. Stuff'll melt your teeth, otherwise. No trouble getting here?' Mace spoke in economical bursts, as though unnecessary words might spin off and be overheard. Harry had met others with the same habit. Spooks and career criminals, mostly.

‘The landing was interesting. And I just got stopped in the street by the military.'

Mace nodded. He didn't seem unduly concerned. ‘What did they want?'

‘Money. Is that normal?'

‘Nothing's normal around here. They've got lots on their minds at the moment – separatist stuff to the north, mostly. They think anyone new in town is out to get them. They're probably not wrong. You met any of the crew apart from young Rik?'

Harry poured cream and tasted his coffee. It was muddy and strong enough to float a brick. Sugar made no noticeable difference. He debated mentioning meeting Higgins, but decided to leave it for later. ‘Jardine and Fitzgerald. Unless the watcher at the airport was yours.'

Mace lifted an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?'

‘Yes.'

‘Probably security police. Never mind; gives 'em something to do, watching new arrivals. There are four of us puppies here, now you make five. Enid Blyton would be ecstatic.' He toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, drumming on the tabletop, then said, ‘I heard about your trouble. Sorry business. Sounds like over-reaction, shoving you out here.'

‘You could say that.' Harry couldn't help a touch of bitterness; he was still trying to get to grips with what had happened and the speed with which he'd been shuffled out of London.

‘Or was it that you didn't play the game and relied on the wrong people?'

‘Say again?' He was only half listening, trying to work out whether sitting here with this man was part of his punishment. He was also surprised to hear Mace talking so openly about who they were. There might not be any other customers but it was sloppy tradecraft for a man of his seniority.

Mace read his mind. He flapped a hand to indicate the four walls around them. ‘You gonna tell me this is breaching rules and regulations? Walls have ears and all that bollocks?' He sniffed. ‘One, the walls don't speak English; two the old woman's as deaf as a dead dog – she relies on picking up vibrations like a bat. Anyway, Fitzgerald regularly gives the place a going-over with his electronic sweepers. It's clean.'

Harry shrugged. ‘If you say so.'

‘I do. As I was saying, you telling me you never got dumped on in the army? That they don't have self-serving shits in uniform who'll shaft you soon as look at you?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Bloody right. I'm surprised a man your age hasn't learned life's most valuable lesson: make sure you've always got an exit strategy – even if that means dumping on someone else before they do it to you. Never mind, you'll get over it.'

Harry nodded. Mace was right. It didn't make him feel any better – or bring him any closer to what his purpose was in being sent here, other than getting him out of the way. But placing him on garden leave in Brighton or Harrogate could have done that. Unless they knew something he didn't.

‘So what exactly am I here for?'

Mace blinked. ‘You don't know?'

‘I know why . . . I just don't know what I'm supposed to do.'

‘You're here because you screwed up. Same as the rest of the security services' fuckwits out here.' He flapped a hand. ‘I mean, look at the place. Who'd volunteer for this?'

‘Nice to be appreciated.'

‘No need to get touchy; I'm the biggest fuck-up of all. Difference is, they don't want me back in London and I don't want to be there. Place is a snake pit. You'd think they might forgive once the dust has settled. It's not as though officers with your kind of experience are thick on the ground.'

Harry let that go, but his curiosity was aroused. So Mace had tripped up, too, along with the others. Christ, what was this place – a penal colony for spooks?

‘How long will I be here?'

‘Didn't you ask – what's his name . . . that self-serving little shite, Paulton? He's the one sent you.'

‘I would have, but considering the speed I got bounced with, we weren't really on normal speaking terms.'

Mace chuckled. ‘Not too surprised, are you? They don't want to get tainted, see. Better to get you out of the way where you can't do their pension entitlement any harm. Bastards. A few years ago, a couple of incidental deaths wouldn't have raised an eyebrow, not in the grand scheme of things. Things're different now, though; risk assessments, health and safety, rules of engagement – we're all accountable. It's like working in a glass case. Still, at least you got a travel slip to foreign climes, such as they are.'

‘So how long?'

‘Easy. You stay here until they decide you can go home . . . or a public enquiry is convened and you get dragged in front of the cameras as the sacrificial idiot.'

‘Is that likely?' Right now he was dust under the carpet. The only question was, how long could he stay that way?

‘Who knows? Until then, you pretend you're attached to the British Council and promote British interests, culture, language and way of life and generally act like a boring and bored administrative wonk. In actual fact, you'll do what you've been trained to do: keep your eyes open, your ears pinned back and report back on whatever looks interesting.'

‘So suddenly I'm a spy? I thought that was Six's job.'

‘Don't get precious; you know the score. We're all in this together. It's called multitasking.' He paused, then said, ‘They mention the no-communications rule?'

‘Yes.' Paulton had made it clear that where Harry was going would be a dead zone. No communication in or out except via his head of station, which was Mace. It included everyone: friends, family, past loves, present colleagues, the press . . . most especially the press. For the foreseeable future, Harry Tate would be deemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

‘Make sure you stick to it. Any breach and you'll be hauled out of here fast.'

‘You man there's a worse posting than this?'

‘Better believe it. I suggest you take a few days to get acquainted with the town. There's not a lot on at the moment, so we can spare you for that. The others'll help.'

‘So what's special about this place?' Harry had been trying to think why
here
, so far from just about everywhere and every conceivable operation MI5 might be involved in. His colleagues were constantly working the drug routes across Europe in their attempt to monitor and identify the traffickers who used various points of entry and arranged staging-posts for their illegal trade. But this seemed an odd place to be watching.