Red Station (28 page)

‘Simple,' said Kostova quickly. ‘We have a lot of trouble coming this way. What we do not need is for you or your colleagues to be – engaged? – in a private internal war. We have enough of that already. Neither do we need the eyes of the world on us should something befall any foreign nationals within our borders. You understand?'

‘I think so.'

Kostova flexed the fingers of one hand and studied his nails. ‘Believe me, it would be better for us all if you left.'

Orders from Moscow, Harry wondered? Perhaps they had reasoned that invading a small state like Georgia was one thing. That would be weathered in time, like so many things Moscow did which aroused the ire of the western world. But being suspected of ‘disappearing' a number of British nationals working for a seemingly legitimate organization – no matter what their true function – would hardly go unnoticed. The media would love it.

‘You didn't say whether you had given Miss Jardine the papers she asked for.'

‘I gave her nothing. If she were to disappear, I am sure a person of her . . . status . . . would attract some unnecessary attention. Besides, we are not in the business of supplying members of your security services with false documentation.' He raised an eyebrow, daring Harry to deny it. ‘You do that quite adequately yourselves. Although,' he smiled and added, ‘I know you yourself would not be guilty of such misleading activities.'

‘Thank you for the warning.'

Kostova nodded and put out his hand, which Harry took. It was a firm grip, and warm. ‘Watch your back, Harry,' he said softly. ‘You have enemies here and at home, I think. I wish you well when you return. I, too, know what it is like to experience the . . . fallout of failure. Fallout – is that a good word?'

‘It's a very good word.'

‘Then I wish you good luck.'

Kostova turned and walked back to the Nissan and climbed aboard, Nikolai following closely behind. Seconds later, they were gone.

‘What the hell was that about?' asked Rik. He was staring at Harry with something approaching respect. ‘I didn't know you were mates with him.'

‘I'm not. We were being warned off; get out of town before we become an embarrassment he could do without.'

‘Suits me. Was that all?'

‘Pretty much. Oh, and Latham's arrived.'

‘What?' Rik looked startled, but Harry pointed to the road ahead.

‘Drive.' He settled back as the Mercedes pulled away from the kerb, and frowned at the passing street scene, thinking about timing. If what Stanbridge had said was true, the Clones weren't employed for heavy work. They were here for training purposes and to keep basic surveillance on the members of Red Station.

Their duties had ceased on the night Stanbridge had died.

But if Kostova was telling the truth, Latham had only just arrived –
after
the Clones had gone.

So if it wasn't Latham who killed Stanbridge two nights ago, who had?

Back at the office, the message light on the answering machine was green. Rik hit the button and a woman's voice gave a name and number.

Rik turned to look at Harry. ‘That was Fitz's wife, Amina.'

‘Call her,' said Harry.

Rik dialled the number and waited. ‘Fitz?' he said, and beckoned Harry over. ‘Where are you, man? We're ready to roll out of here.' He listened some more then said, ‘No, just me and Harry. OK, sure.' He hit a button on the console and Fitzgerald's voice filled the room.

‘Listen, I'm sorry about running out like that.' Fitzgerald sounded tired. ‘I checked downstairs, and when I saw it was clear, I decided to keep going. I should have told you but . . . you know, I've got a daughter here . . . and something special, which is more than I've got back home. I don't want to lose that, you know? We're out in the woods . . . staying with Amina's family. We're safe here. We've got money to last us. I heard you'd been round to the house – the neighbour recognized the Merc, Rik. I thought I should at least let you know the score.'

‘If the Russians come through here,' said Harry, ‘they'll scoop you up, you know that.'

‘No chance.' Fitzgerald's voice was flat, confident. ‘They'll have to find me first. I won't let that happen. Take care, you two. Watch your backs.'

There was a click and Fitzgerald was gone.

FIFTY-TWO

‘
I
thought I might find you here.' The Odeon was dark, but not merely with the gloomy decor of previous days; there were no lights, no sounds from the kitchen and a chill in the air signalling a lack of heating. It had the air of a building being allowed to die slowly, like a terminal patient cut off from life-saving drugs.

Harry closed the front door behind him, shutting out the colder air. Mace was alone in shadow at his usual table. A bottle stood on the table in front of him and his glass was nearly empty. There were no other customers.

‘Where else would I be?' He sounded drunk, and Harry guessed he'd been hammering the booze since they'd parted. The man must be working his way through every drinking joint in town. He looked exhausted and grey, his hair limp and no longer swept back elegantly over his ears.

‘We should leave,' said Harry. ‘They could be rolling down the street any minute.'

‘They? You mean the Russians? Or the Hit?'

‘Same difference. I'd rather not meet any of them if I can help it.' He explained about the flight vouchers Rik had got from the French.

Mace spun the glass on the table top. ‘Good idea. Well done, Rik, eh? Either way, I'm staying.' He waved a tired hand in the air around him. ‘After all, how can I leave this? It's the only investment I've got left.'

‘You
own
this place?'

‘Sure. Have done for a while. It was going to close, so I put some money on the table.' He grinned crookedly. ‘Seemed a good idea at the time, even if it does break every Service rule in the book.'

‘Where's the old woman?'

‘My business partner, you mean? Up-country somewhere. Said she had to see her niece, make sure she was OK. She'll be back – she's keen to pro . . . protect her share of the assets.' He swallowed and blinked at the verbal stumble. ‘Christ, think I've had too much.'

Harry sat down. He wasn't sure he wanted to do this. Confrontations rarely went well in his experience, even less so when alcohol was part of the mix. But if Mace was staying put, it might be the last opportunity he had of getting him to talk.

‘You knew all along what was happening here, didn't you? What Red Station was for . . . what might happen to anyone sent here. Especially if they tried to leave.'

Mace's silence was enough.

‘Did you volunteer for this?' Harry pressed him. He could hear people running in the street, and someone banged on the door as they passed. A car horn sounded, impatient and tinny, and distant shouts echoed off the buildings. The early sounds of panic; the prelude to forced flight. Close by, a man's voice shouted something at length. He didn't understand a word of it and cared less. Not right now. ‘Or did they offer you the top desk to keep you quiet?' He suddenly wanted a drink. This wasn't like interrogating terrorists or drug smugglers. This was working on your own people. It felt . . . unclean. ‘They'd have needed someone here, on the inside,' he continued. ‘Someone they could trust . . . someone who would agree to working here rather than being pensioned off early. Isn't that right? The Clones could only do so much . . . hear so much. What better than having a man on the inside to keep London in the loop?'

Still no reply. No shouting now from outside. Just a distant drone of a car engine. If it turned into something heavier, he was out of here. Mace would have to fend for himself.

‘Did you allow the Clones inside to set up their bugs? Drop them the nod when a team member was away from home so they could run a quick check of their phones and correspondence? Tell them in advance when we were going on a pointless errand so they didn't have to follow?'

‘It wasn't like that.' Mace's voice was sticky and dull, like congealing treacle.

‘Of course it was. They couldn't have run it all the way from London. Someone had to be the eyes and ears on the inside, to make sure the boys ands girls behaved themselves and didn't get restless.' He pressed on, feeling like a heel but desperate to know. ‘You were ideal; no further chance of advancement in the Service; your best years were behind you. It must have been a life-saver.' He reached out and picked up the bottle. Read the label. Felt disgusted by what he was doing, but more so with the man across the table. ‘Pity Jimmy Gulliver didn't get the same deal.' He put the bottle down.

Mace blinked heavily. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘You told them Gulliver was going home, didn't you? That he'd had enough. That he was going to make noises.' He breathed in, fighting the nausea. ‘You gave them his travel details so they could arrange for an intercept. It had to be you – you were the only one who knew him well enough. The only one he trusted enough to talk to.'

‘I told them he'd left,' Mace growled. ‘That was all.'

‘I don't believe you. You could have left it . . . let it slip out quietly later that he'd skipped town without warning. It would have given him, what – twenty-four hours head start? Time to lose himself
en route
.'

‘But I did.' Mace's skin was mottled and a flick of spit dropped on to the table. He stared at Harry, eyes watering and red. ‘I knew he wouldn't do anything stupid . . . I've known him since he was a kid. That stuff about making noises . . . that was just anger talking.'

‘Say again?' Harry sat forward. ‘You knew him
before
?'

Mace hesitated, then gave a long sigh of capitulation. ‘Jimmy was my nephew – my younger brother's kid. His parents were killed on a farm they ran in Zimbabwe . . . part of Mugabe's land grab. Jimmy came back and started over, brought up by an aunt – my sister. Did well, won a place at Cambridge, got picked out by an agency talent-spotter and offered a fast-track through Six.'

‘But they must have known you were related.'

‘The vetting didn't pick it up. I didn't know he was back until I bumped into him in Vauxhall Cross one day. Knew him immediately, of course, even though I'd last seen him as a boy.' He shrugged. ‘Bloody shock, I can tell you, finding him in the same grubby line of business. He slipped through the net. It happens.'

‘And you never said anything?'

‘Why should I?' Mace looked sullen and defensive. ‘They'd have tossed him out. What was the point?'

‘Fat lot of good it did him.' Harry wondered if he was telling the truth. After his whole life working in the deception game, setting up a smokescreen would be second nature to a man like Mace. Yet he sounded convincing.

‘What d'you mean?' Mace demanded.

The reality of the situation hit Harry like a thunderbolt. He could see it in Mace's eyes. He'd asked him not long after arriving here if he'd ever heard from Gulliver. The answer had been no.

It had been the truth.

‘You don't know, do you?' Harry said, and wondered how to tell him.

‘Know what?'

He took a deep breath. ‘Jimmy Gulliver died in a climbing accident in the Alps not long after leaving here.' He waited while the news sank in to Mace's fuddled brain, then continued before he lost his nerve, ‘I had a friend check it out. He never made it back to London.'

‘I don't understand.' Mace sounded utterly confused. ‘That can't be right – he went home. They never told me.'

‘They didn't intend to,' said Harry brutally. ‘He was marked down from the moment he came out here. We all were – you know that. Only some of us are graded a bigger risk than others. Gulliver was fast-track, and good. He'd have been pitched right in at the deep end, fed high-grade intelligence normal trainees never see . . . the pressure-cooker approach to see if he could stand it.'

‘A climbing accident?' The awful realization was slowly making an impact on Mace's brain.

‘Yes. He must have chosen to take some time off. Sort himself out.' Harry was speaking to fill the silence, embarrassed by Mace's expression of loss. Whatever the man's previous failings, this was a lot for him to take in. ‘Clare Jardine told me he hired a car and planned to drive back overland. It would have taken him a while. He obviously decided to stop off for some climbing.'

‘He couldn't.'

‘Sorry?'

‘He couldn't. Jimmy couldn't climb. He wasn't equipped for it.'

‘Clearly. But it doesn't seem to have stopped him trying.'

‘You don't understand what I'm saying, man.' Mace looked angry. ‘He couldn't have gone climbing – it was his one weakness, same as his father. They both suffered from chronic vertigo.' He hit the table with his fist for emphasis. ‘You'd have no more got Jimmy climbing the Alps than walking up the Eiffel fucking Tower!'

Shit
.

FIFTY-THREE

H
alf an hour later, Mace was about as sober as he would ever be this side of tomorrow. It was pitch black outside and there was no traffic noise. Harry had hunted down the mains fuse-box and got the electricity fired up, turning on the kettle and making a pot of industrial strength coffee. The decor hadn't improved with the lights on; it looked sad and neglected, out of date like a subject in a sepia photograph.

He'd so far poured a pint of the coffee down Mace's throat, and the powerful brew seemed finally to be working. From initial unwillingness to see that the death of his nephew had been anything other than a mistake, Mace had finally reached some kind of plateau; he was beginning to realize that it must have been deliberate, to keep Gulliver permanently silenced.