Albatross (20 page)

‘Well,' he said. ‘That alters everything. Harrington has escaped!'

John Kidson closed the file and stood up. ‘You certainly ballsed it up, didn't you, Humphrey?' he said slowly. ‘Without him, I doubt Davina or anyone else will find Albatross. I'll take these along, Chief, and study them properly.'

When he had gone, Humphrey stood up. He unwound his long thin body carefully, as if a sudden movement might break a limb. ‘I'm going to do the same,' he said. ‘And I shall pay particular attention to Kidson after the way he's tried to throw suspicion upon me.'

Lomax put the car into third gear and pulled out to overtake the Cortina. He could see one head in the back seat, nobody beside the driver. He didn't glance near the car as he roared past it, he saw all that he needed in the rearview mirror as he came in front. It was vital that they shouldn't realize they were being followed; that was why he had overtaken at unnecessary speed. He went a good distance ahead, not troubling to keep the car in his rearview mirror. There was no major intersection within the next few miles. He signalled and pulled into a garage to let the quarry pass him. As he did so, he passed on the inside of a grey van, with Hudson Garden Centre painted on its sides. One of the men he had seen in the hotel at Shropwith was driving it. Lomax didn't stop at the garage. He drove round and through the line of pumps and sped after the van. The Cortina had not caught up and he was still in front. Now it didn't matter. He knew the significance of that van. Harrington would be changed over to it for the second part of his journey. Lomax hung back, keeping a car between himself and the van, and soon enough he saw the winking left-hand signal light as they approached a small lay-by. A quick backward look assured him that the car with Harrington hidden in it was not in view. They would stick very close to the speed limit with their cargo, no doubt crouching out of sight on the floor at the back.

The grey van had pulled up. Lomax eased into the lay-by. He was acting on moment-to-moment developments. There were two men in the car with Harrington. One man in the van. He had only seen three in conference at the bar; it would be his bad luck if someone else was hidden in the back of the van. He didn't think so, and he got out and walked towards it.

The driver saw him coming. He saw a man in sweater and jeans, lighting a cigarette between cupped hands as he walked. Lomax stopped by the closed window and tapped on it. The driver shouldn't have opened it; his orders were to stay parked in the lay-by and keep his head down till the Cortina arrived. But it looked bloody suspicious if someone knocked on the window with an innocent query and he didn't open it. He wound it down and said, ‘Yes, mate?'

‘Do you have a jack?' Lomax asked. He slipped his hand on the door handle and it yielded. The driver hadn't locked himself in. That was unprofessional for a start. ‘I've got a bleeding puncture in the back.'

‘Sorry, don't carry one,' the driver shook his head.

When the door was wrenched open he was hampered by the wheel. Lomax's fist caught him square on the chin with the first blow, followed by a crack with the heel of the hand across the side of his neck. It wasn't a killer stroke, but the driver collapsed and fell sideways into the passenger seat. Lomax got in, closed the van door, looked round quickly and saw nothing but traffic passing on its way. At any moment now the Cortina would come into view. He had to take a crazy chance, and do nothing but sit behind the wheel and hope that the foxy man would do what he would have done in his place. Make the transfer without coming round to the front to waste time chatting to the driver. He pulled the peaked commercial cap off the unconscious man's head and put it on. The Cortina came in sight of his wing mirror. They'd seen his car parked behind. He could tell because they slowed and then speeded up and then signalled left to turn in. They had to keep to the plan. He could imagine Foxy cursing, wondering why the car was empty, assuming the driver was peeing somewhere out of sight. The Cortina drew into the lay-by and stopped behind the van. Lomax stayed absolutely still, watching through the wing mirror. He saw the rear door open and the man got out. He went round the other side; Lomax switched to the left-hand wing mirror and saw Harrington scramble out of the door, hidden from the road and doubled up. The other walked up and Lomax lost sight of him. If he came to the driver's door, Lomax wouldn't have a chance to bluff. He opened it and tensed in readiness.

The man called Sam looked back at Peter Harrington; he was bent low behind the shelter of the car. One quick examination of the road showed that there was a hiatus, no cars were in view. He beckoned furiously and Harrington straightened up and came to the van. The back door was open; Sam bundled Harrington inside and jumped in after him. He pulled the door shut. There was a small window giving a meagre light that showed the outline of the driver's head. Sam banged on it twice; the head nodded once and seconds later the van began to move and swung cautiously out onto the clearway. Inside the body of the van, Sam switched on a pocket torch. He found a holdall and shoved it across to Harrington, who was huddled on the floor. ‘Get into these clothes,' he said.

Harrington unpacked the holdall by the beam of the torch. A dark blue suit, white shirt, dark tie, black shoes. He wondered how they'd known his size, and then remembered the computer room in Dzerzhinsky Square where every personal detail of every member of the KGB and its servants was on record.

‘Where are we going?'

Sam said from behind the torch, ‘Manchester Airport. You're taking a business trip. There's a briefcase in the corner. We'll be there in an hour. What the hell!'

The van was slowing down; he had no means of communicating with the driver except by banging on the little window. He went up to it and rapped sharply on the glass. The head half turned, a hand came up and pointed left. They were pulling in. Sam let out a string of swear words culled from the Royal Marine Barracks, Portsmouth. The van stopped. Harrington muttered at him in the dim light, ‘What's the matter – for Christ's sake?'

‘Shut your arse!' was the snarled reply. He was at the back door, opening it to a crack. He hissed at the figure glimpsed outside, ‘What the fucking hell are we stopped for – we'll miss the plane …' The back door opened and Lomax launched himself inside.

It wasn't as easy as dealing with the driver. His opponent was caught off guard but his reactions were as fast as Lomax's own. The first savage blow caught him in the stomach, but the muscles were rock hard and he didn't jack-knife. He lunged with his right foot and caught Lomax on the thigh, missing the groin by a few inches. It was then that Lomax knew that he faced an adversary as well trained as he was. He would have to strike to kill.

He used the old Glaswegian head butt, but with the variation of bringing the skull up at the last moment so it caught the victim's chin. The impact and the angle were faultlessly timed. Sam's neck vertebrae snapped like rotten twigs.

Harrington was locked into the back of the van with the dead man. He crouched on the floor, shaking like a beaten dog. He had cowered away from the flurry of violence that broke out, shielding himself from the lashing fists and feet. When one of them fell, he wasn't sure whether it was his rescuer or the assailant who had burst in upon them. He was in semi-darkness again and the door was slammed. The van started to move. He couldn't see or find the torch. Eventually he found it because it rolled across the narrow floor as the van made a sharp turn to the right. He grabbed and caught it and fumbled with the switch until it shot its yellow beam onto the body of the man with the sandy hair; he lay on his back and his head lolled to the right as if the neck were stuffed with rags. Harrington knew at once that he was dead. He turned away and retched into the dark corner. Someone else had taken him; the agent of his Soviet master lay broken at his feet. Who in the name of Jesus God was driving him, and where? He shed a few tears, sniffling in misery. The van turned again; he realized that the roar of traffic ebbed and flowed outside. Then it slowed and stopped. Harrington stayed frozen in his corner, waiting for the door to open, for something to tell him what had happened.

When it did, he blinked and cowered. ‘Get out,' Lomax said. ‘Watch it, or you'll get a bullet.' Harrington bent down and scrambled out of the back; he missed the little step and stumbled. Lomax gripped him hard and kept him upright.

‘You!' Harrington whispered, his mouth agape.

‘Yes, me. Walk to that white car. Get in the front seat, and don't try anything.' They had come back to the lay-by where he had transferred to the van. Lomax had seen a sign of consciousness in the driver slumped beside him. It would be some time before he was able to get out and look inside the van. By then Lomax and Peter Harrington would be well on their way. And when he did find his dead companion, he would make the best disposition of both van and corpse for his own safety. Nobody but the KGB would know that the original rescue had changed its direction. Lomax got in beside Harrington. He said without looking at him, ‘You've got two choices. You can make the best of it, or you can be a bloody fool and find yourself back in jail. Next time it'll be the D wing at Parkhurst. You won't get out of there in a hurry. And I haven't got a gun, so it's up to you.'

Harrington said slowly, ‘Where are you taking me? What is all this?'

‘I'm taking you to a safe place, where we're going to sit down and talk about Albatross. And then, much against my judgement, Davina will keep the bargain and let you make contact with your Russian friends. If that doesn't suit you, we'll stop at the nearest police station.'

Harrington looked out of the window. He felt weak with defeat. ‘You know the bloody answer,' he muttered. ‘Let's go on.'

Lomax slipped his car into gear and swung back out in to the traffic. He left the clearway at the next turning. By that time the first road blocks were being set up on the roads out of Shropwith.

Davina didn't see Walden after the meeting. He wasn't in his office and she didn't intend to whet Frieda Armstrong's curiosity by asking where he was. She worked with furious intensity, wishing that there was more to do. She was still seething with the injustice of what had been done to Walden. One compensation was the look on White's face when she had thrown down her challenge before walking out. It was a bluff, because until they had Peter Harrington safe, she had no hope of tracing Albatross.

One of those three men in the office that afternoon was a spy and a traitor. Responsible for death and betrayal over years, a Judas who had been bought for what? For money, like his namesake? Or for politics, also like his namesake? If she could find an answer to the motive she might come closer to the man. Now the files were open to them all, showing the hidden hand at work. Harrington's capacity to help was in the open too. So was her determination to go on alone until she had the mask of Albatross in her hand and the real identity revealed. It could be dangerous; she realized that, and accepted the risk. But it was worth goading them to get a response.

She had a headache by the evening. Her work was finished; the office next to hers was empty. She thought of Walden, and pitied the emptiness of his life that he had to seek comfort from a stranger. His sexual approach had not disturbed her. She could cope with that. She loved Colin; promiscuity had no appeal. But there was something vulnerable about Walden that was difficult to ignore. A bold, self-confident, brilliant man, bursting with energy and ideas. And still this loneliness that no one would discern behind the fireworks and the money.

She packed up her desk and went down in the lift. She was on her way to the car park at the rear of Arlington Place when she saw the newspaper hoarding. ‘Traitor Escapes'. She bought the paper and knew what she was going to read. Peter Harrington had disappeared from the open prison at Shropwith. She folded it up and got into her car to drive home. She and Lomax were too late. The KGB had got to him first.

She let herself into the Marylebone flat, dropped the keys onto the hall table and opened the newspaper again. She felt drained and sickened. The sitting-room door opened and she saw Colin standing there. ‘Oh, God,' she said. ‘You know what's happened?'

‘Yes.' He came to her and kissed her lightly. ‘Come in, darling. We've got a guest.'

She pushed past him and saw Peter Harrington sitting on the sofa with a drink in his hand.

‘Well, here I am,' he said. ‘Not where I meant to be, but better than where I was. Nice to see you, Davy.' He took a swallow from his glass and smiled. ‘The major's got a heavy hand with the scotch,' he remarked. ‘First drink I've had in six years. I'm quite pissed already.'

Davina stood looking at him and then she began to laugh as she held out her arms to Colin Lomax.

‘I'm safe. They got him out in time. I knew they wouldn't fail me.' Albatross. He hadn't relished the name with its connotations of ill omen. But he had carried it long enough to laugh at superstition. He hadn't found it easy even to smile in the last few months when he was alone. Investigation. The dreaded word that he used about others. Knowing how the machinery worked made it worse; he could recall a dozen instances where other men suspected of treachery had been watched and caught out without having any idea that their time had run out. But his wouldn't. He was impregnable now. The danger had blown up like a high wind and just as suddenly it dropped and he could go on in calm. His people in Moscow had repaid many years of faithful service by swift action. Harrington would also reap his reward.

Better for Harrington that he didn't get the chance to betray; Moscow wouldn't have forgiven that. Now he would be fêted and honoured, miserable specimen that he was, and enjoy the status of a hero. ‘When my turn comes, I won't want that. I shan't slip away to exile. I shall retire and live out the rest of my life in the country I love, which I've served in my own way. I shall die and my obituary will be published in
The Times
, saying what a fine public servant I was and listing my good qualities. And the truth will go to the grave with me. My truth; my beliefs. And the mourners won't know when they stand about and place their wreaths … not even the ones I love best will ever know.' Morbidity followed upon relief; he shook it off, impatient with himself for indulging in a death wish that had no bearing on the present time. The strain had been greater than he had realized. It was one thing to set the bloodhounds loose on others. He had enjoyed that aspect of his work. He didn't like them baying at his own heels. That damnable woman. Why hadn't she been killed in Mexico – why had the car bomb in Australia missed her? He stayed very quiet, thinking that if Harrington hadn't been rescued, something would have had to be done about Davina Graham before she got any closer to him.