Red Station (21 page)

Stanbridge looked blank. ‘I don't have any instructions for that. It would be handled by our team leader. He says follow, we follow. Otherwise we stay on the office or stand down until further orders.'

Again, it sounded genuine. Typical security services smoke and mirrors; never let the left hand know what the right hand was doing. So they hadn't been followed out of town. But why not? Was it because the Clones hadn't been quick enough to latch on to them? Or had they been told not to? Then he had another thought.

‘Do you know why you're doing this?'

An immediate nod. ‘Yeah. It's a module in a training routine; we have to complete it over a set period of time before going on to something else. They don't tell us how long, though. We wait until we're told to stand down.'

A
module
? They were being used as live targets for training newcomers? Christ, Harry thought bitterly, they'd be handing out MBA certificates in spying next.

‘Bit late in the day to be doing this stuff, isn't it?'

Stanbridge shrugged with one shoulder. ‘It's a job. I was leaving the army, they offered and I accepted.' He looked as if he was about to say something else, then stopped.

Harry leaned forward. ‘What?'

‘What did you do to the others?'

‘Why are you bothered?' Harry knew the answer to that one.

‘They're my mates.'

‘I persuaded them to move on, that's all. Last thing I saw, they were driving like their pants were on fire.'

Stanbridge shifted his position and winced with cramp. ‘You were right . . . about me in Kosovo, I mean. I was there for a couple of months, then rotated out.' He coughed. ‘Could I have some water?'

Harry fetched a plastic mug and filled it from the tap. He held it to Stanbridge's lips at arm's length. If he tried anything, he'd get clipped. But the man drank greedily, gulping down the water.

When he was finished, he continued. ‘There was another bloke in Kosovo at the same time, called Latham. He was part of a deep-cover team, Special Ops, spending weeks in the hills.'

‘Doing what?' Harry thought he could guess.

‘Hunting for war criminals. I knew him from years back. He was always looking to get transferred, hoping to pass selection for Special Forces. I never heard if he'd made it, but if he was in Kosovo doing that job, I guess he must have. He's not a bloke to cross, though. Bloody headcase.'

‘What's this got to do with us?'

‘Why I came here . . . to your flat; I told the lads I knew you, but I wanted to check you out, get some ID. I figured I might get some brownie points if I got background info that nobody else had.' He hesitated.

‘Go on.'

‘Soon as I clocked you first time, I was sure I knew you – and I was right.'

‘How?'

‘I was in the same convoy as you when we came to that Serb roadblock with the three kids. You were the one who jumped on that Serb APC and took out the gunner . . . rescued those kids.'

Harry nodded slowly.

‘The lads didn't believe me. Said you wouldn't have pulled it off unless you were SAS or something, and why would you be out here now. I told them you'd got a round of applause from the guys in the convoy and free drinks all evening, so what did it matter?'

‘I remember.' He'd got blind drunk with relief and the aftershock of what he'd done. He hadn't been a hero; he'd been stupid. One wrong move and half the convoy could have been blown away. He'd been moved out shortly afterwards following a complaint from the Serb Liaison Office. A diplomatic move was the official explanation. Later, he'd heard that a Serb hit squad had been looking for him.

‘So the other lads . . . they're OK?' Stanbridge said.

‘They're fine.' He knew why Stanbridge was asking; the answer might have an impact on his own future. ‘I dropped some petrol condoms on their car, that's all. Singed the paintwork a bit.'

‘Petrol
condoms
?' Stanbridge nearly laughed. ‘Shit. Wish I'd seen that. What did they do?'

‘They made a strategic withdrawal at speed. You mentioned this Latham. Why?'

Stanbridge licked his lips and Harry gave him another drink. ‘This business is all messed up now, what with the Russian thing. We got orders to get ready to bug out in the morning and make tonight our last shift. Sounds like something big's going down.'

‘Lucky you. We can all go home, then.'

Stanbridge shook his head again. ‘We're being replaced. By another team.'

‘What?'

‘Latham's in charge.'

A Special Forces man-hunter. Coming here? His spirits sank. ‘What does he look like?'

‘From what I remember, tall, thin – skinny, actually. But fit. Hard. Lives like a monk. Extreme.'

The physical description fitted half the men in town. It wasn't much help.

‘What's the new team's objective?'

Stanbridge shrugged. He was subdued, almost fearful. ‘They didn't tell us. Just that the other team would take over. Same thing as us, I suppose. Only . . .'

‘Only what?' Harry had a feeling he wasn't going to like what he heard next.

‘Guys like Latham . . . they're way beyond our kind of exercise. We're still training, although we occasionally do other stuff, like Close Protection and that. But Latham . . .' He stopped.

‘Spit it out, for Christ's sake.' Harry wasn't about to use force, but if something nasty was in the wind, he had to know what it was.

‘Nick Brockley, our team leader, he said he'd heard whispers about Latham's team. They're not pleasant. Heavy duty.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘They're called the Hit. Word is, they kill people.'

FORTY-ONE

H
arry left Stanbridge where he was, with a sandwich and water to keep him quiet. He promised to release him before morning when he'd checked something out. Then he made his way back to Clare Jardine's flat.

He was too wired up to contemplate sleep, but didn't fancy the idea of staying with Stanbridge. Neither could he turn him loose without knowing what the other Clones were doing. Stanbridge might be lying and bring the others here in force and armed. This way, at least one of them was neutralized and the others were getting over the shock of being under attack. It might keep them unsettled enough not to take offensive action.

There was no sign of the burned car. He toured the block twice, checking the side streets, gradually widening the search until he was satisfied. He glanced up at Clare's flat. It was in darkness. He considered going up to see if she was OK, then thought better of it.

Instead, he made his way to Rik's place, a few blocks over. Novroni was a wide street close to the outskirts, a mix of family homes and one or two blocks which could have housed workers. There were very few cars in evidence, none of them new.

Number 24 was a single building squashed between two empty warehouses. The brickwork was crumbling, the front garden scrubby and abandoned to a litter of rusting metal and decaying packing crates. Originally part of the warehouses, he suspected, now leased by Red Station.

A light was on in one of the downstairs rooms, and he could see movement behind the net curtains. He made a tour of the area, checking cars and the dark spaces between buildings, until he was sure there were no watchers.

Stanbridge had been telling the truth.

He returned to his flat, stopping at an all-night working-men's café for a mug of stewed coffee and a cold meat sandwich. He had to force the food down, but it could be a while before he got another opportunity. A few tired-looking men in dusty overalls and heavy boots were hunched over hot drinks or glasses of spirits, smoking and talking in low voices. They barely gave Harry a glance. Late shift or early? It was gone five and he wondered where the hell the time had gone.

He sensed something was wrong the moment he stepped off the street into the apartment building. It might have been in the quality of the grey light washing down the stairwell, or a shift in the atmosphere, as if the air inside had become charged with energy. He stopped and tilted his head to one side, listening. Something in the building had changed.

He waited for the telltale whisper of someone moving, the creak of shoe leather or the rustle of clothing. With no background noise, such sounds travelled easily at night.

Nothing.

He could have done with a weapon, but that was crying for the moon. Instead, he began the slow shift up the stairs, stepping carefully on to each tread.

He paused twice after hearing noises; one a scuffing sound, the other no more than a sigh. He decided it must be the building and continued on up. He stopped near the top to ease the aching muscles in his thighs. Jesus, he was getting far too old for this. If he made it out of here in one piece without getting shot, stabbed or having a bloody heart attack, he promised himself he'd start buying lottery tickets.

He arrived at his front door and stopped.

It was open.

Bugger. He breathed out in mild frustration. Stanbridge had managed to free himself and leg it. He pushed through the front door. Saw the bathroom light on. The door partly open.

Then came the smell.

Harry gagged.
Oh, Christ . . .

He pushed the bathroom door back until it stopped with a bump. Stanbridge was lying in a foetal position against the wall. He had somehow managed to stretch the clothesline in his struggles to get free, but not enough to protect himself.

He'd been shot in the side of the head.

Harry didn't bother checking the body. There was a lot of blood and grey matter against the wall and across the floor, and signs of burn marks around the wound. Whoever had done this had stood very close to him before pulling the trigger.

Harry walked out of the bathroom and rang Clare Jardine.

‘I don't have time to explain,' he said when she answered. ‘Can you get over here right away?'

‘What?' She sounded breathless and irritable, as if dragged from a deep sleep. ‘Tate? Is this a joke?'

‘Get over yourself,' he said brutally. ‘This is a code red. I need help. Now.'

He switched off the phone, tired of her snarky attitude. Code red should get her moving. It meant the shit had hit the fan and there was no time to lose. He thought about calling Rik. No, he'd freak out; he wasn't trained for this. Fitzgerald, then. If Mace was right about him, he was used to making people disappear off the street. A third-floor bathroom should be right up his alley. Too late now – he'd wait for Clare.

He untied the body from the sink and disposed of the clothes line in a rubbish bag in the kitchen. Then he rolled the body flat, rearranging the clothes. He'd deal with the clean-up operation later.

Jardine was quick. Less than ten minutes later, Harry heard a footfall on the stair. He went to the window to check the street. No cars, no watchers. The early morning light filtering across the rooftops made the flat seem squalid and depressing, and he suddenly wanted to get away from here. He waited until he heard a soft knock before opening the door.

She gave him a cold look, a vein standing out on the side of her face.

Harry was unimpressed. ‘What did you do, take a bus?'

She ignored him and went on the offensive. ‘What's your problem, Tate? You didn't have to be so bloody insufferable on the phone.' She pushed inside without waiting to be asked, and he closed the door and led her to the bathroom. Stood aside to let her see.

She froze when she saw the body, but that was all. No histrionics, no panic.

Tough indeed, he decided, and a stomach to match. Most people would have puked on sight.

‘His name was Stanbridge,' he said.

She stared at him, eyes wide. ‘Did you—?'

‘Of course not. I caught him searching the place. He told me he and his mates have been called off the job as of this morning. I went out to see if the others were still around, and when I got back he was like this.'

Clare bent to inspect the body. ‘Who would have done it?'

Harry decided to lie. They could worry later about what Stanbridge had told him. ‘I don't know. But we need to get rid of the body. If whoever killed him makes a phone call, we'll have the authorities all over us like a rash.'

‘Or his mates.'

‘I wouldn't bet on it.' He began looking round for something to wrap the body in. There were no plastic bags, which would have made the task easier, so he took a blanket from the bedroom.

He had already decided what to do with the body. The further they moved it, the greater the risk of running into a security patrol. It made sense, therefore, to move it somewhere close.

He placed the blanket on the floor, then grasped the dead man's shoulders and looked up at Clare.

‘You ready or not?'

FORTY-TWO

‘
W
e're discussing the evacuation of all British nationals.' Marcella Rudmann stared hard at George Paulton as if making a point.

They were in his office, where she had followed him from a crisis meeting between representatives of the Foreign Office, the MOD and the RAF. Paulton had been invited along even though Five had no relevant responsibility or input. He thought Rudmann looked ready for a fight and wondered what had provoked it. Doubtless he would soon find out.

‘So I heard,' he said smoothly, sitting behind his desk. He indicated a chair, but she ignored him.

‘
All
British nationals.'

‘Sorry?'

‘For heaven's sake, man, that place . . . the Red Station or whatever outlandish designation you've given it. What are you doing about the people there?' Rudmann looked white around the eyes, and he suspected it had less to do with her concern over the personnel in the station and more to do with his less-than-respectful response. Then he realized what she was saying.