Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (28 page)

‘So. Balenkova is now being interviewed by the head of the Vienna team. It seems they were remarkably efficient in finding her.’ His expression dared the two men to object to his barbed comment, and he continued, ‘However, she was on official duty with a colleague and their three charges when they found her, and there was no sign of the Jardine woman or the two men who are helping her. Balenkova did not know what they were talking about.’

‘What will they do?’

‘Nothing. As the information we were given and passed onto them comes from an admittedly unreliable source, the team leader says he will not act on that alone.’

‘Idiot,’ Serkhov muttered darkly. ‘If what you told us is true, and Balenkova got cosy with Jardine a couple of years ago, how do we know Balenkova’s trustworthy? She could be playing a waiting game.’

‘Really? A waiting game?’ Gorelkin’s eyebrows went up in amusement. ‘Now that is an expression I never thought I’d hear you utter, Sergeant Serkhov. You suddenly have the utmost confidence in what Paulton tells us, do you? I thought you didn’t trust him.’ He switched his gaze to Lieutenant Votrukhin. ‘Neither of you did.’

‘No further than I can piss, like you,’ Votrukhin replied mildly, being careful not to suggest that Gorelkin had been taken in by the Englishman. ‘He’s already lied to us once, about Jardine being tied in with a Ukrainian gang. Who’s to say he didn’t plant bogus information on that memory stick just to keep us fooled for his own ends?’

‘He probably did,’ Gorelkin agreed mildly. ‘Or at the very least, told us what he thought we wanted to know.’ He paused and looked up at the ceiling, taking a long, deep breath. ‘Either way, I think Mr Paulton is, shall we say, edging past his use-by date.’

‘What do you mean?’ Votrukhin’s face said he knew what the term meant, but his tone was requesting direct orders, not vague suggestions.

‘For the moment, I mean nothing. We stay on the move, we have nothing more to do with Paulton until we know more.’ He nodded at the lieutenant’s mobile phone sitting on the table by his elbow. ‘Dispose of those – he has your numbers. We go silent and we wait to see what else happens in Vienna. If the Jardine woman comes back, it means her approach to Balenkova for help – if that’s what it was – has failed. Then we will deal with her as we should have done in the first place.’

T
he area around the hotel where Harry and the other two were staying was secluded and quiet. Any night life was a few blocks away, where the more conservative residents of Vienna could be spared the garish sights and sounds of the tourist trade that passed through their fair city, washing it with the kind of raucous music that owed nothing to Strauss, Mozart or their illustrious colleagues.

Harry had chosen the early shift, and was now standing in a darkened doorway, watching the front of the hotel they had now vacated, waiting for a sign of late night visitors. He had guessed that if Balenkova chose to make a move, with or without her colleagues, she would do so when there were fewer pedestrians about and when the likelihood of running into traffic would be slight. But she wouldn’t want to leave it too late; movements in these quiet streets would stand out, especially if she had a unit of armed FSO personnel as backup.

A taxi turned into the street and stopped a hundred yards away. A couple climbed out and the man stood on unsteady legs and paid the driver. A burst of laughter followed and the female half of the couple, a large lady in a long dress, tottered off along the pavement, shimmying to an inner tune and leaving her companion to stumble along in her wake.

A dog wandered by, sniffing at doorways, and jumped back in surprise when it saw Harry. It continued on its journey, leaving him to the night.

Twenty minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching, and peered out from his cover. A lone figure was coming down the street. He waited for the walker to pass beneath a street lamp. Slim, not too tall, in trousers and a half-length coat. He couldn’t see clearly yet but something about the movement was definitely female.

Another street lamp washed its light over the figure. A woman with fair hair.

Katya Balenkova.

She turned in at the hotel, and with a glance along the street behind her, disappeared.

Harry felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. A Walther P88 9mm, its twin was now with Rik in the other hotel. He hadn’t been convinced of the need for weapons, but seeing the display of force sent to intercept Clare, he wasn’t prepared to take chances.

Three minutes passed. No traffic and no other pedestrians. He could hear the hum of vehicles in the distance, and the tinny sound of a nearby radio or television, but that was all.

He gave it another two minutes. They had left a phone number with the receptionist, saying that they had been called away on urgent business out of the city, but would retain their room for the following night. If Balenkova was playing them, it would be sufficient to make any watchers think they could catch up with them the following evening.

His phone buzzed. It was Clare.

‘She called. She’s agreed to meet.’

‘Where?’

‘Here, at the hotel – but I didn’t tell her where it is. I told her what you suggested and she said fine.’

‘That’s very trusting of her.’

‘No, it’s not. If she doesn’t like you, she’ll kill you. She’s very capable.’

‘Thanks for the warning. Is Rik outside?’

‘He’s on the roof, keeping watch.’

‘Right. Five minutes.’ He cut the connection and waited. If Balenkova had help nearby, now was the time she would call it in. It gave Harry a chance to spot any watchers, while remaining unconnected with Balenkova save for a short period before they entered the other hotel. As a precaution, he took out the gun and placed it on a ledge in the doorway. If he did get scooped up here and now, there would be no going back if found in possession of a weapon.

A door scrape echoed along the street, and when he looked out, he saw Balenkova step into the open and look left. Then she turned and began to walk towards him. He picked up the gun and walked away, making sure she saw him.

Two minutes later, he waited in a recess between two buildings for her to come along. When she did, he stepped out, hands empty and clear of his body so that she could see he meant her no harm.

She stopped a few feet away from him. She looked perfectly balanced and relaxed, but had one hand in her coat pocket, which looked a little dragged down on that side.

‘Mr Tate?’ Her voice was accented but clear. Confident but wary.

He nodded. ‘I’d like to check you for devices, if you don’t mind.’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘And if I do mind? I still don’t know who you are, only your name.’

‘Which Clare told you.’

‘But I don’t know you. Why should I trust you?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you? She wants to see you. She’s in danger.’

‘Yes, she said that. What makes you think I can help?’

‘I don’t know if you can. But she believes it – wants to, anyway.’ He pressed on before she could talk further, aware that she could be playing for time, in which case they needed to be away from here and off the street now. ‘Follow me and I’ll take you to her.’

She didn’t respond for a moment. Then she took her hand out of her coat pocket. It was empty. She lifted her hands clear of her body, holding the coat open.

‘What are you proposing to do – a body search? The last man who tried that is still walking with difficulty.’ Her tone was light, but he guessed she wasn’t fooling.

‘Nothing like that. I just wanted to see if you were willing to go along with it, that’s all. Is the gun loaded?’

‘Of course. Is yours?’

Harry nearly laughed. He hadn’t heard such cheesy lines since watching a very bad spy film a few years ago. But it broke the tension between them. He turned and led the way along the street and round a corner. The hotel was across the street.

Inside, they by-passed the reception area without being seen and took the lift to the fourth floor. Up close, he saw that Katya had nice eyes but a pock-marked area of skin along one side of her jaw. She smelled of soap and was wearing jeans and a plain sports jacket with flat-heeled boots.

She watched him assess her and did the same back, lifting a dismissive eyebrow before concentrating on the mirror on one wall.

Outside the room where Clare was waiting, he was about to knock when Katya held up a hand.

‘Please. Can I speak to her alone for a few minutes? I promise I won’t harm her. She owes me that.’

Harry nodded and stepped back.

‘W
e all clear?’ Harry stepped onto the roof, where Rik was keeping an eye on the streets below. The air was fresh and slightly damp with the promise of rain, free of the traffic fumes further down. They were on a maintenance veranda running all the way round the building, with a clear view of the approaches to the hotel. Unless Katya had been coached since the meeting in Riesenradplatz and was under orders and playing a devious game to reel them in, they should be safe for now.

‘So far.’ Rik shivered. ‘How was she?’

‘Prickly, suspicious. What you’d expect.’

‘You left them alone?’

‘They need to talk.’

‘Bit risky, though, isn’t it? They could be punching seven bells out of each other.’

‘It might ease the tension a bit if they do. I’ll give them three minutes to decide.’

‘What do we do if she agrees to help? She’s not exactly in a position to call off the dogs, is she?’

‘No.’ Harry still wasn’t entirely sure what he’d hoped to achieve from this. Getting Clare out of harm’s way was one thing, and they’d almost achieved that until he’d heard Ballatyne’s news about the details lifted from secret files on the memory stick. The Russians had moved even faster than he’d expected, drumming up a search team to track down Katya. But luck had been on their side. Just.

He hoped it would continue.

His phone rang.

Clare said, ‘We’re good. You can come down. She promises not to shoot you.’

Harry left Rik on guard and walked down to the room, using the rear emergency stairs, which were deserted and little-used, although impressively carpeted. He rapped on the door and stood back so that whoever answered the door could get a good look at him.

It was Katya. She had one hand out of sight behind the frame.

‘You can put that away,’ Harry said. ‘If I was going to slot you, I’d have done it in the street.’ He marched past her into the room. Clare was sitting on one side of the bed. She looked oddly bright-eyed and alert, in spite of the rough day, and was sipping from a miniature of brandy from the minibar.

‘Celebration?’ he asked, and felt embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. What’s the situation?’

‘Katya’s agreed to help us,’ Clare announced. ‘She thinks her future’s shot, anyway, so why not?’

‘Really? That was quick.’ Harry studied Clare for signs that the miniature wasn’t her first. In her weakened condition intoxication would be much faster than normal, and he didn’t want her impaired any more than she already was. He also wanted to avoid false promises and expectations on both sides. If Katya had already made a decision which would affect her entire future, it had to be the right one.

‘Really.’ Katya advanced into the room and stood in front of him. Her gun hand was hanging down by her side. She looked more formidable up close, and Harry could see why she was so good at her job; attitude radiated from every pore, but without brashness. In basic terms, she gave off the right vibes to inspire confidence in her charges and a sense of power in anyone who faced her.

‘Help us how?’

‘I can help you find Sergei Gorelkin. Find him and you will find the men trying to kill Clare.’

‘OK.’

‘But first you must promise me full protection and entry to the UK without months in one of your asylum centres or a debriefing cell.’ She looked him in the eye, her stare unwavering and cool. ‘Otherwise I walk out of here and you never see me again.’

Harry hesitated. For someone negotiating their future, she was amazingly self-possessed. But the simple truth was, there was no way he could guarantee any of what she was asking. However, he knew a man who might. ‘I’ll see what I can do. That’s all I can say.’

‘Bullshit,’ Clare intervened. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Tate. Katya’s giving up everything for this. The least the UK government can do is allow her residency and new papers.’ Her lip curled. ‘The MOD does it all the time for Iraqi and Afghan interpreters, and I know Six has done it before for blown assets. She’s going to help you find the killers of Tobinskiy. Surely that counts for something.’

‘I agree with you. But I’m not on the official payroll. I promise I’ll speak to Ballatyne.’ He looked at Katya. ‘The first priority, though, is to get you out of here.’

She nodded and put a hand out to prevent Clare from arguing further. ‘Very well. That is enough for now. This man . . . Gorelkin. He’s a special; one of the old guard. He retired years ago. Some said he was not a fan of modernity, others said he was simply tired of the game.’

‘Game?’

‘He started out in the GRU – military intelligence – and was very active during the Cold War in Germany and the West. He also organised counter-terror units during our Afghan War and was highly decorated during that time. He transferred to the KGB and worked under Vladimir Kryuchkov until Kryuchkov’s forced retirement in ’91. Gorelkin continued but some say the fight had gone out of him, that he was not happy with the new ways of the FSB or of the new government.’

‘Of Putin?’

‘Especially of Putin. But not even a man of Gorelkin’s status could voice those opinions for long without attracting trouble. Eventually he dropped out of sight. There were rumours that he was doing special work for the government, but they were like many rumours, impossible to prove. It was part of the mythology of men like him. Then, I think two years ago, it was said he had died of cancer.’ She glanced at Clare. ‘I tell you this only so that you know who you are dealing with. If Sergei Gorelkin is, as you say, controlling the team in London, then he was asked to come in and do so at the very highest level.’