Deception (36 page)

‘Come on. There's nothing we can do for him.' He turned and walked back towards the hotel. He'd call it in from reception. It would take the gloss off the manager's day, but there was no hiding a murder.

First, though, there was something else he had to do.

George Paulton had an instinct for danger, honed over many years operating undercover in extreme conditions. It was usually signalled by a prickling of his palms, and the last time he'd experienced it, the feeling had saved his life. He had learned never to dismiss it.

That prickling was with him again and he knew he had to leave. Right now.

He was accustomed to living out of a small bag, ready to move at a moment's notice, and there was no sign of panic as he toured the room, checking that he'd left nothing behind. He used a damp cloth to wipe down everything that he'd touched since the night before, when he'd done another such check, as much a way of easing his impatience than adhering to a self-imposed security routine.

He'd spent the last hour or so trying to get hold of his contact in the Met, and another in MI6, to find out what was happening about the hunt for the Protectory. But neither of them was answering. This lack of knowledge meant he was operating blind, unable to see even part of the picture, let alone all of it. Now it didn't really matter; it was time to go.

When he was ready, he stood for a moment, settling his nerves. Then he scooped up his bag and headed for the fire escape at the rear of the building. Deakin would be taking care of the bill, so he had no reason to go near the front desk. It would be unwise, anyway, to appear in the front foyer, since the danger, if his instincts were correct, would be centred right there.

He considered Deakin for a brief moment. The former soldier was out walking somewhere, but intuition told him that going in search of him was not an option. Deakin would have to look after himself.

He hurried down the rear stairs, a rush of excitement building in his ears. He didn't know the source of the danger, but whatever it was, whether the Chinese Deakin had dealt with or Harry Tate, every instinct told him it was very close.

In the ground floor stairwell he passed between pallets of provisions, stacks of conference chairs and folded tables, all waiting to be moved. The atmosphere and décor here was strictly utilitarian, sombre and cool. Figures in white jackets scurried about, not even bothering to look at him. They were back-of-house workers and he was plainly a guest in their view, so they would have no reason to interact.

He stepped outside. Saw a scattering of staff cars and two trucks making deliveries, tail lifts down and boxes stacked. Drivers and kitchen staff intent on their work and someone shouting in Flemish. Otherwise, nobody paid him any attention. He walked across to the edge of the building and looked round the side, where the golf course was spread out before him. He could just see one end of the car park and a portion of the access road at the front. And parked on the edge of the line of cars was the hire car he and Deakin had used to get here. He studied it for a few moments, hearing a vague, internal alarm. And wondering.

He walked along the side of the building, stopping as a young man in a porter's jacket stepped out from a recess in the wall, puffing out a final lungful of smoke and flicking away the stub of a cigarette.

Paulton smiled and the man coughed, face erupting in a flush as he was caught out in his vice. Impulsively, Paulton stopped and said, ‘I wonder if you can help me?' He needed a distraction at the front of the building, and what better one could there be than a porter on an errand?

‘Yes, sir?' The man smoothed his waistcoat, no doubt relieved that he wasn't in trouble and might even earn himself a tip.

Paulton took his keys out of his pocket and a couple of crisp notes from his wallet and gave the porter some instructions. Then he handed him his bag. The youth nodded, although he clearly didn't fully understand, but his expression also said that the amount of money he was being offered was enough to do away with any doubts he might have had.

He hurried away to do the guest's bidding, leaving Paulton waiting, his nerves jangling.

Just then, his phone rang, startling him. He answered it and listened, then said, ‘I know that. I think he's already here. For the future, I'll call you when I need to. This number's out of action as of right now.' He cut the call, then stripped the back off the phone and took out the SIM card. He bent and pushed the square of plastic into the ground, then tossed the two halves of the phone into some bushes and walked away.

SIXTY-SIX

H
arry used the room service chief's pass-key to open Paulton's room. There had been no response to knocking, so he had asked the manager to give authorization to enter. He stepped through the door, his gun drawn, and walked around the room, checking the bathroom and a walk-in wardrobe. The décor was plush, restful and very expensive. His feet sank into the thick carpet, reducing his footsteps to a whisper. The place was clean; even the wastebaskets were empty. Only the rumpled bedclothes and some water pooled in the shower-tray betrayed the fact that anyone had stayed here last night.

They had missed him by a whisker. Paulton had been here, according to the manager, making phone calls. Something must have spooked him. He looked out of the window on to the golf course. He couldn't possibly have seen Deakin being shot, not from here. So what, then?

He checked the drawers and wardrobe, anyway, a brief exercise which, as he expected, told him nothing. The room had been sanitized, the work of a true professional. There was nothing left to indicate who had actually stayed here.

He went back out into the corridor and followed the international signs for the fire escape. They led to the rear stairway and he hurried down, his feet echoing in the stairwell. On the way, he called Rik who was waiting out front.

‘He's gone. He must still be around the place somewhere. Look for anyone leaving – and watch your back.'

‘Got it.' Rik kept the connection open and Harry could hear his progress as he passed groups of people talking and a door slamming close by. Harry came out of the stairwell and passed through a fire exit door to the outside. The staff car park. A few cars, a couple of trucks and their drivers, a young man in overalls and carrying a toolbox, a porter throwing a bag into a small red Fiat and climbing behind the wheel, two kitchen workers wearing aprons, lighting up cigarettes.

He walked towards the corner of the building, which would take him to the front car park. Paulton must be here somewhere, he told himself. He couldn't have vanished into thin air—

The explosion when it came was loud and flat, shockingly out of place in these surroundings. It echoed around the building, sending a brief tremor through the structure and a rush of birds scattering off the roof. Others lifted in panic from the trees beyond, bursting away in all directions. Someone shouted and a brief scream was shrill, but with shock and fear rather than pain.

Harry ran out into the open, searching for the source of the noise. At first he could see nothing. The acoustics here weren't helping, with the main building, the outbuildings, the lake and the trees all combining to disperse the sound and confuse the senses.

Then he saw a spiral of smoke lifting into the sky towards the front of the conference centre and heard a babble of excited voices. Staff and guests came piling out of the rear of the building, some still holding kitchen implements, others clutching coats and bags, no doubt fearful of a terrorist attack. Amid the clutter of people, a car started up and drove away. The porter who'd been getting in moments earlier.

He walked out on to the golf course, from where he could see the road leading away from the front car park towards the main gate. He stopped in amazement.

The remains of a vehicle was sitting across the road like a gutted animal. The wheels were intact, but the bodywork was in flames, part of the roof gone, black smoke boiling from the inferno and trailing into the sky like a long, dark flag. It was – had been – a saloon car, dark in colour. That was all Harry could tell. Now it was a ball of fire, the flames already eating hungrily at the car tyres and adding to the black smoke billowing out and drifting in angry clouds across the surface of the lake.

Rik joined him, shaking his head.

‘What happened?' Harry asked.

‘No idea. I saw it leave the car park, then
bang
– it got a hundred yards away and went up.' He glanced at Harry. ‘That wasn't an accident.'

‘I know.' Harry turned and watched as an authority figure in a suit began to restore order at the rear of the building and hustled the staff back indoors. Beyond the building, a couple of golfers had been frozen in their game, and were standing awestruck, eyes on the flaming car.

The only movement was a small red Fiat on the narrow track, just disappearing into the trees.

Harry grabbed a young man in a porter's waistcoat coming from the front of the building. ‘This road,' he said. ‘Where does it go?'

The man shrugged. ‘Is for staff, sir. And deliveries. It goes to the outside – to the road.' He pulled away apologetically. ‘I am sorry, but I have to look for Mattheus, my colleague. He was here but is missing.' He turned to continue towards the kitchens.

The porter, getting into the car.

‘Wait.' Harry stopped him. ‘What did your colleague look like?'

The man stopped. ‘Young  . . . blond, with glasses. And wearing one like this.' He pointed at his own waistcoat. ‘Why?'

Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry, nothing. I thought I might have seen him.'

He turned and looked at the trees where the Fiat had now disappeared. The porter he'd seen at the Fiat had been older and heavier. He hadn't seen his face because his back was turned. But his waistcoat had been stretched across his back. Too tight for a presentable fit in a place like this.

‘What was all that about?' said Rik.

‘Paulton,' Harry replied, and nodded towards the trees. ‘He traded cars with a young porter named Mattheus. He went that way.' Then he turned and looked toward the smoking debris of the car along the exit road. ‘And Mattheus got the wrong end of the deal.'

He felt a sense of defeat. Paulton had slipped away with moments to spare. It left him wondering how the former MI5 man had known they were here; how, right now, he'd suddenly judged it was time to go. Instinct born of experience, and maybe a sixth sense about what had happened to Deakin, had been enough to warn him away from his car, too. He would have known the Chinese weren't likely to forgive being misled by the Protectory.

‘Why the bullet for Deakin,' said Rik, ‘but a car bomb for Paulton?'

‘It just worked out that way,' Harry guessed. ‘They were playing the odds. They'd have got them both in the hire car, anyway, but they wanted to make a specific point with Deakin.'

Rik shook his head. ‘They did that all right. But how did Paulton know?'

‘He's smart and experienced; he's been around the block. He'd have known playing with the Chinese was risky, and if they showed up here, they'd know who was with Deakin and they'd come prepared.'

‘That's cold, though, using the porter like that.'

‘Yeah, well, it's what he does.' Harry felt tired. He couldn't quite believe that it had merely been fear of the Chinese that had made Paulton run. If he'd known they were so close, he would have alerted Deakin, too. But he clearly hadn't done that. Something else must have added to the urgency to leave right away.

Then he recalled what the manager had said, about the man he knew as Goddard being in his room. ‘
He was heard talking on the phone just a few minutes ago.
'

If he was on the phone, was he making a call  . . . or receiving one? A call telling him to get out if he valued his freedom.

‘He was warned off,' said Harry with absolute certainty, and walked back towards their car. He could already hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Their presence here had been noted, and even with the benefit of the phone link to the Interior Ministry, it would be preferable not to be here when the police arrived. He started the car and turned towards the back road, away from the burning wreck out front.

‘Are we going after him?' said Rik. He took out his gun and checked the magazine. ‘First thing we should ask him is who he's getting his information from.'

‘I'd like to know that, too.' Harry slowed to allow two golfers to cross the road, hurrying to see what the explosion had been about. Paulton, like Clare Jardine, clearly still had friends. Friends who were prepared to go out on a limb for him.

‘But we are going after him.' Rik slapped the magazine back in place and applied the safety.

They reached the main road. Two hundred yards to their right, three police cars with lights blazing were making fast turns into the gate to the conference centre. A fire truck was hard on their heels. The smoke from the burning car was beginning to drift across the carriageway. Harry wondered if the cops had passed a small red Fiat going the other way. He debated going after it, but decided not to; Paulton had a head start and would already be losing himself in the suburbs, most likely on foot by now and blending in with the populace the way he would have been taught. The odds of finding him were far too slim.

Ballatyne's words came back to him from the briefing in Georgio's. ‘
We rarely get the resolution we crave.
'

He shook his head. He wasn't prepared to believe that, not yet. He and Paulton had some unfinished business. But there were times when you had to pick your battles.

‘No, we're not going after him. Not this time, anyway.' He turned on the radio and tuned in to a music channel. ‘But we will.'

‘So what do we do?'

Harry considered it. He could see a bar-café sign along the road. A bit too close for comfort, but there were plenty more within a few minutes' drive.