Red Station (6 page)

Mace pushed out his chin. ‘There's nothing
special
about it. Last bloody thing you could call it. Even the flies feel underprivileged. There's a saying among the locals that this place was made up of God's leftovers. Not far wrong, either, although I've seen worse.'

‘That still doesn't tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for.'

Mace grinned. ‘They said you could be a bit churlish.' He placed his hand flat on the table. ‘There are rumours going around town – well, all over, really – that are causing a bit of bother in political circles. If they're correct, then we're all about to be dumped in the kaka.'

Harry resisted the desire to reach across and yank Mace's shirt collar tightly around his throat. ‘What rumours?'

‘The Russians are coming.'

TEN

M
ace refused to elaborate further. ‘It's early days yet,' was all he would say. ‘No point in going off half-cocked. Let's just keep our ears and eyes open, shall we?'

Harry left him to his newspaper and walked back to the office. Whatever the rumours, Russian involvement was no surprise – not this close to Moscow's ragged borders. But he was shocked that London hadn't briefed him before he came out here.

Unless they hadn't known.

He was greeted in the office by Fitzgerald. The briefing began with a demonstration of the layout of the building from ground to top floor, using a coloured map showing exits, stairways and a schematic of the alarm system, and the codes to use for out-of-hours working. Before they left the main office, he looked at Harry with a serious expression.

‘Outside of this room, we only talk British Council business. Nothing else. I run regular sweeps, and so far we've never found anything. But that doesn't mean they won't find a way in. Right?'

‘Sure.' Harry was accustomed to the paranoia of security people in foreign postings. They had learnt from others' mistakes over the decades, and nobody took the matter lightly.

Fitzgerald led the way downstairs, talking mundane matters and showing Harry a selection of rooms in the basement for odds and ends of furniture, stacks of leaflets and boxes of promotional literature in several languages. The air smelled of dust and printing ink, and damp cardboard.

‘Our main job here,' he continued aloud, ‘is to field cultural and educational enquiries, and send out leaflets to interested parties so they can locate contacts and partners. We encourage them to go through their trade delegates in London or the appropriate section of our embassy. There's a list upstairs of addresses you can give them.' He beckoned for Harry to follow and moved to a room at the rear, where the walls were lined with metal racks holding more boxes and a selection of conference and exhibition equipment.

He lifted a square of carpet to one side. Underneath was a small metal trapdoor.

Fitzgerald took a metal hook from a nearby rack and inserted it in a slot. He pulled hard and the trapdoor came up revealing a recess dug into the foundations. Reaching down, he tugged hard on something out of Tate's line of sight. A wooden box slid into view.

Inside, nestling in foam packing, were three handguns, the light gleaming off the oiled metal, and spare clips of ammunition.

He replaced the trapdoor and carpet, then led the way back upstairs. As soon as they were in the main office with the door closed, Harry turned to him.

‘What the hell are they for?' he demanded. He was aware of Jardine and Ferris watching in the background. They said nothing.

‘They've been here from the beginning,' Fitzgerald replied calmly. ‘The boss said you should know they were there, just in case.' He turned and beckoned Harry to follow. This room was divided into two offices with glass panelling down the middle. Stuart Mace was sitting on the other side of the glass, talking on the phone. It looked like any bureaucrat's den, with book-lined walls and filing cabinets, and family photos on the shelves.

‘I'll take you through our security procedure and protocols,' said Fitzgerald, moving behind a cluttered desk. ‘Then Rik or Clare will give you a quick tour and drop you off at your digs. You might as well get to know the place.'

‘Just in case?' said Harry.

‘You got it.'

For the next forty minutes, he listened as he was shown through a succession of procedures, including basic personal safety, building security and local maps. One town map showed buildings marked in red. Most were in the narrow streets on the edge of town to the north, where Harry hadn't yet been.

‘What are those?'

‘Hostile or possibly hostile locations. My advice is, don't go there.'

‘Hostiles.'

‘Yeah. This and this,' he pointed to two buildings closer to the centre, ‘are local security police. They leave us alone most of the time. The others are bandits. Local clans. Don't mess with them; they have a habit of not returning people who stray into their territory. The cops leave them alone because they've got their own private militias.' He sniffed. ‘It's the militias in this neck of the woods that control most of what goes on.'

‘What about this place?' Harry indicated a large red building on the map not far from where they were standing. It was the Palace Hotel.

‘We call it spook central. It's the only decent hotel in town. The Yanks kip down there along with journos and a few other interested groups like the French, Germans and Russians.'

‘You know any of them – Americans, I mean?'

‘Sure. A couple. Engineers, so they say, although I doubt it. Why?'

‘A man named Higgins was on the flight in. Said he was a journalist.'

‘He isn't,' Fitzgerald said shortly. ‘Fat, loud, self-opinionated and sweats a lot?'

‘That's him.'

‘Yeah. Rik said he'd cadged a lift. He comes and goes, makes a lot of noise about the hard life of a news reporter. Not sure who he's with, but it's either CIA or National Security Agency. He might have tagged you but I wouldn't worry about it.' He paused. ‘You see anyone else like him?'

Harry thought about the young man at the airport. ‘Not yet.'

Fitzgerald smiled without humour. ‘Don't worry – you will.'

ELEVEN

N
ext morning, Harry walked to the office to get a feel for the town. The air was colder, with a heavy layer of cloud hanging over the buildings and reducing the sparse colouring to shades of grey. The atmosphere bore a taste of burnt fuel, which he guessed was cheap heating oil or badly maintained vehicle engines.

He passed few people on the way. A group of soldiers standing around a makeshift brazier eyed him suspiciously but didn't stop him. Other pedestrians steered clear of the military as if by instinct, crossing the streets with eyes down, intent on being invisible.

After leaving Fitzgerald, he'd been taken by Rik Ferris on a whistle-stop tour of the town, with the communications man pointing out local landmarks. These had been few and far between, mostly given to the town hall, the museum, the railway station . . . and the so-called hostile buildings referred to by Fitzgerald. Detached houses in the main, these were sheltered behind walls or railings, with security cameras trained on all sides. There had been nothing overt about them to suggest any dangerous presence, such as armed guards, but the metal shutters on the windows, the fresher paint compared with their neighbours and the heavy four-by-four vehicles parked in the alleyways alongside, indicated they were not your average residential premises.

The last stop was outside a three-storey building in a quiet back street.

‘Home sweet home,' Rik said cheerfully. He handed Harry a key on a plastic tag. ‘Top floor, so you can make as much noise as you like, hold wild parties and stuff like that. Make sure you invite me, though. The only other tenant is a press photographer on the ground floor, named Mario. Comes from Rome. Nice bloke.' He frowned. ‘Actually, I haven't seen him around for a couple of days. Must have found a story to cover. I've stocked up your kitchen with the basics, so you won't need to shop for a few days. Not,' he added, ‘that you'll find shopping much fun around here.'

‘Thanks. Where do you call home?' asked Harry. He hadn't had much opportunity to talk to the younger man yet. If he was a communications specialist, he couldn't exactly be rushed off his feet, and Harry hadn't seen much in the way of communications hardware in the office.

‘About quarter of a mile away.' Rik pointed out to the suburbs. ‘It's on Novroni. Number twenty-four. Old and scabby, but I'm doing it up to keep myself from going stir-crazy. Clare lives a few blocks that way.' He indicated north. ‘The other two live on the outskirts.' He hesitated. ‘Did Mace tell you about the no-comms rule?'

‘Yes. Everything goes through him. Is it set in stone?'

‘You bet. I have access to a server in London, but that's purely for messages. It's monitored closely and as bombproof as my granny's knickers. Mace has a secure terminal in his office, but nobody else gets to touch it. It's level-Alpha password-protected.'

‘I'll pretend I know what that means. What about my mobile?'

Rik held out his hand. ‘Here – I'll show you.'

Harry passed him his Nokia, which he hadn't used since leaving London. Rik switched it on. He held it up so Harry could see the screen. It was blank.

‘They wiped it before you left. It won't pick up a signal here, so you might as well dump it. I'll give you a new one in the morning. It'll be OK for the local network, but no further.' He handed the phone back and put the car in gear. ‘It's not too bad here. You'll get used to it.'

‘That's what Mace said.' Harry wondered when they'd managed to wipe his mobile. At the time of the debriefing, probably, when he'd handed it in at security.

‘He's right. Welcome to paradise.'

Harry watched him drive away before making his way inside and up three flights of narrow, concrete stairs inlaid with coarse tiles. They were worn down in the middle from the passage of feet over the years, and crackled with grit underfoot. The air was cold and damp, a depressing contrast to the conditions at the airport.

He shivered, wondering if this was a taste of the winter to come.

The interior of the flat was spacious but minimally furnished, like a student's lodging circa 1968. Most of the items looked as if they had been sourced from a bric-a-brac salesroom. The living room, bedroom and kitchen held the basics, and carried a faint aroma of mildew and cleaning fluid. A wood-burner stood in the living room, black and cold and squat as a beetle, and the bathroom was ancient and damp, echoing to the plunk of water dripping from a furred-up shower-head the size of a soup tureen.

He sat down on the bed and contemplated his future. So far, he'd been a man in motion, one foot in front of the other like an automaton, following orders. Now he was here, he couldn't see beyond the bleak surrounds of these four walls and the grubby little cowpat of a town outside.

Even Jean seemed too far away to be more than a vague memory.

He leaned back, depressed, suddenly too tired to care, and fell asleep dreaming about the young couple in the Land Rover and a tall gunman with dreadlocks and a pole belching fire.

TWELVE

M
ace was in his office by the time Harry got in, feeling worn out from a restless night's sleep. He tapped on the glass door and walked in, and was surprised to smell alcohol in the air. A half-full glass of amber liquid sat in the centre of the Station Chief's desk.

‘Come in,' said Mace, his words heavily precise. ‘Set yourself down and pull up a coffee.' He waved vaguely in the direction of a filter machine in the corner.

Harry decided against it. The rim of the glass bowl looked toxic.

‘Your digs all right?' Mace asked.

‘Magnificent. I'll soon have it looking just like home.' Harry didn't bother pretending; he was sure the last thing Mace was concerned with was the well-being of his staff.

‘Good. Good.' Mace ignored the sarcasm and sat back in his chair, nursing his glass.

‘Is there something you want me to do?' Harry hoped this wasn't chancing providence. He felt washed out, his eyes gritty, and wanted nothing more than to get through the day, have a decent meal and get to bed – preferably alone, although he'd have felt a lot happier if Jean was here.

‘Not really. Thought it was about time I let you in on all the gossip.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, let's say you're not unique, all right?' Mace held up a finger. ‘Take young Ferris. MI5 computer bod. Something of a wiz, recruited from university and put to work for the greater good minding other people's business. Trouble is, he got bored ferreting about in websites and computers belonging to terrorists, trouble-makers and general malcontents, and began using his skills closer to home; people in the government, people in power. One or two of 'em in the security services.'

‘Christ.'

‘Yeah. He'd have hacked Him too if he could have found His website. He wasn't all that clever, though. He talked about what he'd done after hours. Silly boy. Should have known he'd get dobbed in by some back-stabber with ambition. Lots of that in this business.'

‘What happened?' Harry was surprised Ferris wasn't languishing in a cell somewhere. Hacking any computer was an offence; taking on the security services at their own game was tantamount to suicide.

‘He got tabbed. That's a fancy name for having your legs taken from under you and sent out here, which is what happened to you. Your file gets tabbed, you're due for a nasty surprise.' He showed his teeth in another grin. ‘The people he took a sneaky look at didn't want him loose on the labour market, so they decided to put him somewhere where they could keep an eye on him. Lucky for him.'