Deception (10 page)

Some bloody hope. He slowed just enough to rip off the jacket and, balling it up, threw it away from him and hoped his pursuers would miss it. Maybe someone would fasten on it later  . . . afterwards.

He coughed as the pain of running caught up with him and his lungs fought to compensate for too long without exercise. He zigzagged in a vain attempt to throw the men off his trail and immediately felt his legs weakening. No good; it was too much effort and he was running out of gas. He heard a shout off to his right and instinctively veered left away from it.

Christ, this was a shit way to go, wasn't it? Better to have stayed in Sangin  . . .

Then he was running through lighter vegetation and his speed picked up. He felt a bust of exultation as he pictured the two Bosnians left way behind. Perhaps they were no better at running through this shitty terrain than he was!

He swerved once more as he saw the distant glow of lights on his left. Christ,
left
? What was that? There was nothing on his left, only  . . .

Schwedt.

He'd run in a circle.

Barrow retched and slowed, then stopped, and sank to one knee, his legs finally giving up on him, the muscles shaking with cramp. He felt beaten. In front of him, not thirty yards away, the truck lights came on. The motor was still chugging, the heater clinking like a line of tin cans on a wedding car.

And there was the tall shape of Ganic, standing by the front wing and grinning. Barrow heard a scrape behind him and knew without looking that Zubac was here, too, hardly breathing for all the running.

He felt tears of frustration and rage pulsing down his cheek. They'd herded him like a bloody sheep, forcing him to go round and come right back to where he'd started. Was this what happened to all deserters, to all those who couldn't take any more and chose to cut and run? An ignominious end in a shitty backwater? Or did some of them actually make it and survive?

Fuck it.
With the last of his resolve, he took a deep breath and charged right at Ganic, screaming with anger, wanting to pulverize that grinning face to a pulp.

He almost made it, too, catching the Bosnian by surprise. Ganic lost the grin, his mouth rounded with shock. Then Barrow saw a flare of light from the gun in the man's hand and felt a hammer blow in his chest, and then darkness enveloped him.

Zubac walked forward and knelt by the body, checking for life signs. Nothing. Without waiting for Ganic's help, he grasped the dead man's arms and, huffing with the effort, dragged the body through the wet mud and grass until he was in a thin strand of pine trees. Even though he was sure the body wouldn't be seen from the track, he felt around in the dark and scraped soil, grass and pine needles over it and brushed his hands together before returning to the truck. Then he stood for a moment, trying to recall whether Barrow had been wearing a coat. Well, if he had, he wasn't now. Too bad. Time to get out of here, before someone came.

Ganic clambered behind the wheel, and when Zubac gave him the nod, drove off the track and slammed his foot down hard, propelling the nose of the vehicle into a tall thicket of hawthorn, nettles and wild grass. There was a dull crunch as one of the front wings collided with another heap of rusting metal which had once been a car and was now becoming part of the vegetation. The engine stalled and died. All around were the twisted and rusting hulks of other rubbish which had been thrown here over the years; an old refrigerator, tangled bicycles, ancient garden and farm machinery – even the rotting remains of an old World War Two Jeep.

Ganic considered torching the vehicle; he liked a good fire. But he dismissed the idea. Too much trouble, and it would attract attention. He walked back along the track until he reached a small BMW parked off to one side. Zubac followed, puffing on a cigarette. He climbed in and Ganic drove them back towards Schwedt, then branched off before reaching the first signs of habitation and headed for the Berlin–Stettin Autobahn.

Behind them, the rain swept in hard, covering the landscape and dripping through the trees, gradually washing the thin layer of grass and pine needles from the body.

FIFTEEN

D
eakin's phone buzzed. He excused himself and checked the screen. A text message had come in. When he put the phone down he looked troubled. ‘That was our man in London. The MOD sent an investigator to ask questions about Lieutenant Tan.' He looked at Paulton and explained, ‘Our latest target is an aide to the Deputy Commander ISAF. She went walkabout after leaving Kabul. We don't know what she's got in her head, but the MOD's blowing up a shit storm about her. This investigator is a new development. They must really want her back.'

‘I'm not surprised,' Paulton murmured. ‘It's bad news for the MOD, losing an officer in her position. Highly embarrassing for the British military establishment, too. The Americans in particular won't be too impressed.'

‘It could be good for us, though.' Deakin twirled his glass on the table. ‘If they've put someone on her trail, it means they have no idea where she is. That gives us time to find her first. This could be a big one, gentlemen; someone in her position probably has more current strategic information at her fingertips about the campaign in Afghanistan and the command staff involved than any of the others put together. If we get her onside and ready to trade, I believe we can name our own price.'

‘Except that we don't know where she is either,' Nicholls pointed out.

Deakin sat back. ‘True. But if she's plugged into the network the way the others are, she might get in touch.' The information grapevine which guided many absconding soldiers into reaching out to the Protectory for help was amazingly efficient, yet did not betray any details of the men who ran it – Deakin and his colleagues worked very hard at keeping it that way. It had proved effective so far, with Pike and Barrow being two recent examples of where doors had to be slammed shut to prevent a leakage of information by runners who changed their minds.

‘As long as she plays ball,' said Nicholls.

Nobody disagreed with that. The one weak point in the way the Protectory operated was that not all their ‘projects' were guaranteed to trade information for the promise of a new life and new identity. Serving personnel decided to jump the fence for all sorts of reasons, including fear, sickness, religious principles, right through to a change in philosophical outlook. Not all of them felt so disenchanted with their lot that they could easily break the oath of loyalty they had taken and sell country, regiment and – most importantly – former comrades for the chance of a new life.

‘She sounds a real prize.' Paulton was holding his wine glass to his nose, breathing in the aroma and staring at Deakin with a measured gaze over the rim. It gave him an almost professorial air of superiority.

‘Hang on a sec. Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves?' Turpowicz gave Paulton a sideways look, then glanced at Deakin. ‘Exactly how much does he know about this?' His tone suggested that if it were true, Deakin had gone too far in revealing details of their targeted deserters to an outsider.

‘Everything.' Deakin paused for a moment to let that sink in. ‘George already knows what we do. I briefed him on our current projects because he has a line on some new contacts in the market place; contacts who will guarantee us a better price for what we sell. He knows the current thinking in the British and American security establishments, which is vital to us if we are to continue in safety, and I felt he had a right to our confidence in return for his help.'

‘In that case,' Nicholls said coolly, ‘it's rather too late in the day to argue about it, isn't it? But what makes George here so all-knowing? Does he come with special credentials?' He stared hard at Paulton as if challenging him to say otherwise.

‘I do, actually,' said Paulton calmly. ‘I spent many years working for the British government  . . . in the Security Services, should you be interested.' He smiled at the look of shock on the faces of Turpowicz and Nicholls. ‘Sadly, we had a little disagreement and I was forced to leave. I now find myself at a loose end and, knowing Thomas here, I decided to get in touch and offer my services.' He fixed a steady gaze on Nicholls. ‘Is that satisfactory or would you like to check my shirt size?'

‘We'll have to see, won't we?' Nicholls looked calm enough, and nodded for Deakin to continue. Before he could speak, however, Paulton chipped in, leaning forward to add emphasis and authority to his words.

‘I realize you have reservations about me, gentlemen – which I understand, believe me. I would, too, in your place. But let me say this: Tom's absolutely right about the opportunity here. From what you've told me, an extremely bright young woman joins the British army and moves into a position of vital importance, working alongside the Deputy Commander ISAF in Kabul. She will have seen documents, data, plans and people from David Petraeus on down. There are very few at her level who would have had this kind of access. Very few.' He looked around but nobody interrupted him. It was a clear sign that his position was already established, even after such a brief time. ‘And now this bright young woman with a superior brain has gone walkabout  . . . and the British MOD has put an investigator on her trail. Believe me, gentlemen, they don't do that lightly. It must mean they think she's worth it for whatever information she has in her head.' He paused again, demonstrating his skill at holding an audience. ‘It won't be just the British concerned about that, either. Your former bosses, Mr Turpowicz, must be equally keen to see her returned to the fold of the godly before she can unload what she knows about Petraeus and his home team.'

‘Maybe.' Turpowicz was unconvinced. ‘Get to the point.'

‘My point is simple. If we find Lieutenant Tan  . . . locating a suitable buyer for what she knows will be a matter of course. In fact, I may already have one in mind.'

SIXTEEN

O
n his way back to London, Harry rang Ballatyne to arrange a meeting. There were things he needed doing which he hadn't got the clout for, but which Ballatyne had. The MI6 man agreed to a rendezvous at the Italian restaurant off Wigmore Street later that evening.

Next he rang Rik Ferris, who already had news about the Eurostar ticket.

‘It was bought through a ticket office in Scheveningen, near The Hague, in the name of Fraser,' said Rik. ‘I checked his background; it was Pike's mother's maiden name.' He gave Harry the address of the ticket office. ‘Still no other hits on his or any of the other names, and Tan's so common it's like wading through seaweed.' He yawned. ‘Can I come out to play? I'm getting bunker fever here.'

‘Sorry,' Harry told him. ‘I might need your back-up later, though.' It was a small lie; he couldn't see any scenario arising where he would need that kind of help, and Rik was in no shape to go around being physical. But he didn't want to depress him further.

This time when he arrived at the restaurant, there was no coffee on offer and the suited hard-case stayed with the car.

‘Sorry about the rush,' Ballatyne explained. ‘I can't spare much time – we've got some rockets going up. Nothing to do with our business, though. What've you got?'

‘I've drawn a blank so far on Lieutenant Tan. No family, no background to speak of and nothing yet to show even a sign of where she might be.'

Ballatyne looked unconcerned. ‘So she's gone to ground. I'm sure she'll surface sooner or later. I think you should forget about her for the time being. Weapons technology and systems are the hot topics right now; personnel with that kind of saleable knowledge are the ones being sought.'

Harry was surprised. It was such a change of emphasis that he got the uneasy feeling Ballatyne was stonewalling him. Or maybe he had developed a new set of priorities.

‘You mean who's got the biggest gun?'

‘Exactly. Boys' toys, Harry. Boys' toys.' He looked pleased at the analogy.

‘I still think Tan's worth looking at, that's all. You can be sure the Protectory will, too.'

‘What are you looking for, specifically?'

‘I haven't got the punch to gain access to Cambridge University graduate files or unlock the MOD's records. You do. Did something happen while she was at university which could have had a delayed reaction – made her vulnerable? Did she meet someone after joining up who could have influenced her in some way? Anything like that could be a lead to help track her down. There's certainly nothing else out there.'

Ballatyne looked unconvinced, but appeared to relent. ‘Very well. I'll see what I can find.' Then he changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I got word from the security boys at London City airport. Two supposed German males boarded the scheduled Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt at seven fifteen, the same evening Pike and Wallace were killed. The timing fits; it wouldn't have taken them long to get from the A12 to the airport. They could have lost the Merc anywhere along the way; left the keys in the ignition on a side street in east London and the local bangers would have done the rest. It's probably gathering a thin layer of desert sand on a dock in Dubai even as we speak.'

‘Sounds like it was planned,' Harry agreed, ‘if it was the same two men. Do we have pictures?'

‘Not good ones – and nothing from the hospital cameras. They were offline. Highways Agency computer problems made their pictures grainy. Both men were heavily built, one medium height with dark hair, the other tall, but bald, possibly shaven.'

‘What made them stand out, then?'

‘One of the girls on the desk is German. She said their German wasn't that good and believed they were either Czech or Bosnian. She thought it odd enough to mention it to her supervisor who called it in.' He shrugged. ‘We got lucky: the supervisor used to be in Immigration and thought it worth passing on.' He checked his watch. ‘Got to go. What are you doing next?'