Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (33 page)

Across the table from him, Lieutenant Votrukhin and Sergeant Serkhov stayed very still. To comment now, even to move at the wrong moment, would be to invite disaster. They felt a measure of sympathy for the man Symenko, on the other end of the phone, but only insofar as his being the focus of Gorelkin’s anger meant they, for the time being, were not. They knew, however, that it would not last for long. If Jardine and Balenkova managed to get back to London, their peaceful world would shatter in an instant.

‘Fucking idiots!’ Gorelkin slammed the phone down, bouncing it clear across the table so that Serkhov had to retrieve it. ‘You two had better upgrade your efforts, I can tell you. That incompetent donkey Symenko won’t be able to stop them leaving Vienna, which means they will be back here by tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Might they decide to go somewhere else instead?’ said Votrukhin hopefully, who was wishing he could get on a plane to Moscow right now. Anything was better than staying with this sinking ship. He was now in full agreement with Serkhov; that Gorelkin was following some kind of secret agenda, and they were trapped like flies in his web until he let them go. Worse, he couldn’t help but feel that Gorelkin had finally lost control of the situation, and he and Serkhov were in danger of being dragged down with him. But getting out was not a luxury they could afford.

‘No. They will come back here. You must redouble your efforts to find Jardine.’ He rubbed at the side of his jaw. It was the first sign of nerves that the two men had seen in him, renewing their concern about what this operation had turned into. ‘This cannot be allowed to go any further,’ he muttered. ‘We must end this now.’

‘And if we don’t?’ said Votrukhin. ‘We don’t even know where they are. And every day we stay in London is a day closer to our being identified.’

‘Don’t!’ Gorelkin snapped. ‘I will not have defeatist talk! This is vital work, much more so than either of you two clods can imagine. Now get out there and do your jobs!’

Votrukhin stood up, an angry retort on his lips. But Serkhov grabbed his arm and stopped him.

The two men walked out without a word, leaving Gorelkin staring at something very far away.

‘W
hat do you want, Ballatyne? I’m busy.’ Candida Deane barely looked up as Ballatyne stepped into her office, focussing instead on a file she was reading. The soft lighting, essential for all the inner offices of SIS Headquarters like this one, made her features seem less harsh than normal, as if she had been airbrushed.

‘Just a chat.’ Ballatyne wasn’t fooled by the businesslike tone; she was puzzled by his appearance. He pushed the door closed behind him, something that he knew would put her nerves further on edge. Other than the required briefings and meetings which brought all department and desk heads together, he and Deane rarely had reason to speak alone. Even with everything surrounding the Russian hit team and their attempt on Clare Jardine, their encounters had rarely been without other heads involved, and therefore somewhat impersonal.

He sat down without being asked, and crossed his legs, flicking away some imaginary dust. He glanced around the office, which was not yet hers until her superior gave his final notice, and saw signs of her already settling in; a few books, a set of tiny hand-painted Matryoshka dolls, some photographs of foreign places.

‘About what?’ She put down the file and sat back.

‘Your meeting with George Paulton, for one.’

She stared at him, her face showing no emotion, then said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I meet with him?’

‘That’s what I would like to know.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a single photo. ‘But before you go all girly and deny it, take a look at this.’ He dropped the photo on the desk in front of her.

It showed Deane standing in St James’s Park. Alongside her was George Paulton.

‘It’s a fake.’

‘Of course it is.’ Ballatyne allowed a full measure of sarcasm to coat his voice, and put his hands together. ‘As was, I suppose, the old man who jogged by at one point. He was dressed in jogging gear and wearing enormous headphones. He looked as if he was about to die. In fact Paulton was quite rude about him; said something about not having a gun – I have the full transcript which I can give you, but I can see by your expression that you don’t need it.’

Her eyes were like ice and her voice just as frosty. ‘What do you want?’

‘Please let me finish. The old chap’s name is Emil Panowski. He was one of the best Cold War field operatives we ever had, did you know that? You should look him up in the archives. He used to cross the Berlin Wall back and forth like a rat up a drainpipe. He still does the occasional job for us where we need an invisible presence. He’s getting on for eighty, you know.’ He sniffed. ‘He had a full sound recording on you the moment Paulton showed up. Very interesting it was, too.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Deane had gone quite pale, he noted, but she was still defiant.

‘Really?’ He took a small digital recorder out of his top pocket. ‘Perhaps this will convince you.’ He pressed play and Deane’s voice echoed into the room in a sequence of brief utterances.

‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’

‘Tell me I’m wrong, droog.’

‘Find Tate, you’ll find Jardine.’

‘And when I do?’ It was Paulton’s voice this time, before switching back to Deane.

‘Don’t be coy, George. You know what I mean.’

And finally.

‘Whatever you do to her, it had better be permanent.’

Ballatyne switched off the recorder. ‘I got my boys to do a bit of simple editing, I admit, but I think you’ll agree, it’s a game changer. This little selection alone puts you in a meeting with a wanted traitor and enemy of this country; it shows you had knowledge of events and facts that you have chosen not to share with an on-going investigation; and you actively sought the murder of a former MI6 officer – all as a means of gaining promotion. Or did I get the wrong end of the stick?’

Deane’s voice, when she spoke, was shaky. ‘So why haven’t you used it? You want Paulton and the Russians for yourself, is that it? Grab all the glory for yourself?’

‘I couldn’t care less about Paulton. He’s finished, anyway, as I’m sure he must know by now. If Gorelkin doesn’t get him, Harry Tate will.’

‘But?’

‘But he has his uses until then and that’s what I’m focussing on. I want to know where he is.’

‘How would I know that?’

‘Because you’re not stupid, that’s why. You had one of your tails on him from the moment you first met. You’ve had him followed and pinned down ever since. Paulton’s good, but he’s been out of the game too long, unlike your young shadows.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll do you a trade. Give me Paulton and I’ll sit on this recording. And you do nothing – and I mean
nothing
– to warn him or to make a move against me.’

She made an ugly noise. ‘Like I should trust you.’

‘I agree it’s a bit one-sided, but that’s the offer. Take it or leave it.’

He walked to the door without waiting for her answer, and let himself out.

‘W
hat is this place?’ Katya Balenkova looked with suspicion at the oak panels and heavy pictures on the wall, made drab by a yellowish light coming in from the outside. It was the room in Great Scotland Yard where Harry had attended the meeting with Ballatyne and the various security-related committees. She sat down gingerly between Harry and Rik. Clare was on her way to a private clinic arranged by Ballatyne, to undergo some tests. She had, in any case, refused to attend anywhere official after arriving back from Vienna, on the simple grounds that she didn’t trust Ballatyne or any of his sort not to lock her up and throw away the key.

‘We call it Room one-oh-one,’ said Ballatyne, settling in his seat at the head of the long table.

Katya gave him a flinty smile. ‘Of course. Where nasty things happen. How appropriate.’

‘You’ve read Orwell?’

‘Of course. It was how we learned about life in the west.’

Ballatyne realised that she was laughing at him. ‘How droll. Don’t worry, the only nasty thing likely to happen here is if you drink the tea. They use it down in Portsmouth to de-scale the hulls of clapped-out destroyers.’ He tapped the table, attracting the attention of Harry and Rik, John Crampton of the Met Police CO19 team, a young male official with a notepad and a lean and tanned individual seated at the far end, dressed in a plain suit straining at the shoulders. ‘Shall we get on?’

‘Who’s the strong silent type?’ Rik was the first to speak, jerking a thumb towards the man at the end.

‘He’s an observer,’ said Ballatyne. ‘Hopefully we won’t need his services, so introductions aren’t necessary. Our singular purpose for holding this meeting is to find a way of locating and stopping the two FSB operatives who killed Tobinskiy and tried to eliminate Miss Jardine. Beyond that, we do not go.’ He glanced at Katya. ‘Miss Balenkova, I understand your position; you don’t wish to operate against your countrymen, although it seems to me that you’re already doing that by being here. However, your presence here is a courtesy. You are not expected to take part in any direct action.’

‘I understand.’

Ballatyne shuffled two pieces of paper and continued. ‘We now have identifiable footage of the two men we believe assassinated Roman Tobinskiy in King’s College. The same two men subsequently raided the hospital’s security control centre and shot the guard after taking the hard drive to the cameras. They were then filmed both inside and coming away from Starbucks in Pimlico, and shooting an unarmed policeman in the street outside.’ He glanced at Katya. ‘They weren’t here to play games.’

‘How are the wounded men?’ asked Harry.

‘Recovering, although unlikely to ever work again. The shooter and his mate were seen dumping their car afterwards in the Park Lane underground car park. It all tallies rather nicely with footage of them entering the country six days previously, proof for cynics that the cameras do have a genuine function.’ He smiled drily. ‘I had my men canvas the area around Park Lane, and they turned up a doorman on the Grosvenor House Hotel who remembered them.’

‘Lucky break,’ said Crampton. ‘Or were they careless?’

‘Luck, apparently. But we all need it from time to time. This particular man used to run security in the casinos in Monaco. His skill was remembering the faces of professional card sharks and so-called lucky players. These two weren’t players, but he remembered them the moment he saw the photos. All we had to do was match his memory to the security cameras inside.’ He looked very pleased with himself for a moment, then said, ‘We came up with a surprise package. Our two shooters, whose names we don’t know, were there, having a cosy chat with one Sergei Gorelkin. And who else should walk in but a man known to us all, but most especially to Harry, here. George Paulton.’

Harry found he’d been holding his breath. He’d had a feeling Ballatyne had uncovered something important, but hadn’t known what it was. Now he knew.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Right now, no idea. You don’t sound surprised.’

‘I’m not. This business has his thumb-prints all over it. Gorelkin’s men must have been tipped off about who and what Clare was, and her connection to Katya and Six. Paulton would have known about both. You said Maine pulled his details off the files, possibly to find some dirt as a safeguard if Paulton cheated him.’

‘Correct. Sadly we can’t confirm that now Maine’s dead. But it’s almost certain that Paulton silenced him. I ran a check on Paulton’s operational log. It seems he and Gorelkin popped up simultaneously in Stockholm, Berlin and Madrid, among other places, several years ago. Paulton was running at least two officially sanctioned fishing operations against him, although the debriefs show nothing of significance was achieved. With hindsight, I think we can treat that with a certain amount of disbelief. I reckon he and Gorelkin came to an arrangement over the years, and may have even worked together since Paulton went rogue. He’s been out in the wilds, and unless he won the Spanish lottery, he’ll have needed funds.’

‘You think Gorelkin brought him in to help kill Tobinskiy?’ Crampton asked.

‘I doubt it; that was already an on-going operation. But he might have brought him in to gain access to MI6 and MI5 files, to find Jardine. That’s where Keith Maine comes in. He had the means and the knowledge, and Paulton would have known him well enough to exert pressure.’ He sat back. ‘Now I’ve established who did what, we need to find Gorelkin and his men before they latch onto Jardine again.’ He looked directly at Katya. ‘You told Harry that they might be operating illegally – or, at least, without proper sanction from the government.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that makes them criminals.’

‘Correct.’

‘It would save a lot of mess,’ he said slowly, ‘if we could get them pulled out by their own people. What are the chances?’

She thought it over, eyes on his. ‘You want me to contact someone about these three men?’

‘It would help if you could.’

‘But why would they believe me? In their eyes I’m now a criminal and a traitor. I could be acting on your instructions . . . which I would be, of course.’

‘Plant the seed; that’s all I ask. You must know somebody you can call. If it means finding a private phone number, I’m sure we can help.’ He smiled knowingly.

She sat back, eyes clouding over, and thought about it for a full minute. ‘Maybe there is one person.’

‘Dare I ask who?’

‘His name is Bronyev. He was my colleague in Vienna. We were friends, too. He is a good man.’ She looked a little sad at the memory.

Ballatyne was sceptical. ‘A bodyguard with the FSO? Does he have any clout?’

‘Not him, no. But his father does. He is an army general. Is that clout enough, Mr Ballatyne?’