Red Station

by Adrian Magson

  The wine was a cheap cooperative brand with a garish label and a harsh after-taste. But it did the trick, overriding the buzz going through his head and dulling his appetite.

  It set him off thinking about Jean again, and their occasional dates. Sometimes they would stay in, content to share a bottle of wine and talk. He wondered what she was doing now.

  They had met at a regimental reunion dinner. She was the widow of an officer killed in Iraq. Pretty, melancholy yet interesting; her throaty, irreverent laugh had drawn Harry to her. They had hit it off sufficiently to share a cab ride, and since then, an occasional drink or a meal whenever they felt the need.

  She co-owned an upmarket flower shop in Fulham, a fact that she had not mentioned at first. When he had turned up with a meagre bunch of roses, the revelation had provoked much laughter and a halting explanation. The ice broken, he’d woken up in her bed the next morning surrounded by buckets of flowers.

  Neither of them had mentioned taking the relationship to another level. It was an unspoken agreement which seemed to suit them both.

  He thought about his message to Maloney, gauging the possibilities which might be unfolding back in London if he’d misjudged his colleague. In the end, he’d been spared further speculation when the combination of wine and tiredness had knocked him out.

  The phone.

  He scrambled to his feet and switched on the light. The floor was cold and rough through his socks and the air in the flat was like being in a fridge, in spite of the fire. He picked up the mobile and checked the screen. The sender’s ID was blank.

  It could only be one person. He brought up the message. It was brief and to the point.

  Fk!! U stl alive you bstrd???

  Harry breathed a sigh of relief and instantly forgot the cold and the tiredness. He scooted over to the door and found it locked, grateful his security instincts hadn’t fallen asleep, too. Then he went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The wine was tempting, but he needed to stay awake and caffeine was a better bet.

  He sat down to reply, all fingers and thumbs.

  Just about. need info dq.

  Double quick should make Maloney sit up. He didn’t dare use any official operational imperatives, in case they rang alarm bells.

  Ten minutes passed before the mobile beeped.

  Ok. whre u?

  Another good sign. Maloney didn’t know his whereabouts. If he had, Harry would have killed the connection immediately. Maybe his question about Harry still being alive hadn’t been a joke.

  Outr space. Safe 2 talk?

  No. Wlls & ears. Txt.

  Harry gave it some thought while he made coffee. Texting was safer than speech, but time-consuming. Talking would have been easier, the huge boost of hearing a friendly voice again immeasurable. Sod it – he’d just have to get quicker. And avoid keywords like ‘bombs’, ‘terrorist’, ‘Jihad’ or, God help him, ‘Harry Tate’.

  He sat down and began thumbing the keys.

  Need 2 whrbouts urgnt. Sixer – man frm lilliput – init J. Fiver – athlete started lndn mrthon – init G.

  Silence. Had he been too convoluted? Maloney might not pick up the reference to Lilliput straightaway. But he was no dope; he’d be sure to catch on. The code for Brasher’s name was a gift; Maloney had once completed the London marathon and talked about it non-stop for weeks.

  The answer came back.

  Gotcha. W8.

  When he woke again, he was in bed and it was gone six in the morning. He had a stale coffee-taste in his mouth and gritty eyes, and a line of thin light was pushing through a chink in the curtains. He checked the mobile, even though he knew it was too soon for any response from Maloney. Finding information about serving or former security officers didn’t exactly come off Wikipedia, and Maloney would have to tread very carefully before even beginning his search.

  He put on some tea and stood under the shower until the water began to cool. When he was feeling half human, he got dressed and set a password on the Ericsson, drank his tea and walked to the office.

  Mace was in, standing by a monitor. He nodded when Harry walked in, but made no reference to their talk. Shortly afterwards, he went into his office and closed the door.

  It was a long, frustrating day. Harry spent most of it working with Clare to follow up on the report they had given to Mace the previous day, checking all the international news channels for any details on what was happening in the north. There seemed precious little solid detail and he guessed the lid was being held down deliberately while talks went on in the background.

  ‘London said good work,’ Mace announced after lunch. ‘Your report ties in with the latest satellite images. They’re building a picture of movements and distribution from both sides and will let us know later what the state of play is. Pity you didn’t get unit IDs.’

  ‘The fact that they weren’t wearing any should tell us something,’ said Clare. ‘They’re most likely local militia. They’ll be heading further north by now.’

  ‘Can’t you ask Kostova?’ said Harry, looking at Mace. ‘He might tell you.’

  Mace pursed his lips. ‘He might . . . if there was something in it for him.’ He turned and went back into his office, leaving them to monitor internet and radio reports for further news.

  Rik Ferris drifted by and tapped a finger on Harry’s desk. ‘That, um . . . thing OK?’ He was referring to the phone.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ If Rik was hoping he would say who he’d been calling, he was out of luck. But the comms man seemed to have something else on his mind. He made a point of hanging around, switching from foot to foot until Harry looked up at him and nodded at the coffee table.

  ‘Something bothering you?’ he asked, when the kettle was hissing loudly enough to shield his words. He threw a tea bag into a mug. If Rik was having a crisis of conscience about helping him get hold of a clean mobile, he needed to know now, before Mace found out.

  Rik waited until Clare left the room, then jerked his head and walked back to his desk. Fitzgerald was downstairs doing an electronic sweep through the building.

  ‘I got an email,’ Rik explained. He spun his monitor round so that Harry could see the screen. ‘Read it.’

  The email was from someone called Isabelle in a company named SARFA. It had been sent at eleven a.m. It read: You must leave. We are going tomorrow. Others are leaving, too. My boss says they are coming. I. xx

  ‘Isabelle?’

  ‘She’s a friend,’ said Rik. ‘French. She’s with SARFA – supposedly a French non-governmental outfit, but everyone knows it’s a cover for DGSE.’

  The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure – French espionage service – was known to have agents operating worldwide. It was well-funded and resourced, and highly efficient. Harry hadn’t expected to come across them here, although the proximity of the Med no doubt gave them a good enough reason to be monitoring the region.

  He eyed Rik. ‘Have you been sleeping with the enemy?’

  ‘I wish.’ The words came out with feeling, and the younger man blushed. ‘Drinks only, so far. We meet up from time to time and talk shop.’ He realized belatedly what that might imply, and added hastily, ‘I don’t mean we talk anything – you know. . . classified.’

  ‘I should hope not. What does she do?’

  ‘She’s their comms officer.’ He stared hard at Harry. ‘Should I tell Mace, do you think? She’s obviously referring to the Russians. I mean, if the French are bugging out, and others are going, too, that’s bad news, right?’

  ‘The only bad news,’ Harry pointed out, ‘is if you don’t tell him about your contact and he finds out later.’ The email from Isabelle hadn’t been sent over a secure line, which meant anyone checking the files later might wonder why it had not been passed on.

  Rik looked relieved. ‘You’re right. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.’

  Harry left him to it and went in search of a meal. He was tired and hungry and still had no news from Maloney
. He discovered a small family-style restaurant not far from the station, and ordered what a group at the next table were eating. It tasted like mutton stew.

  It was late by the time he returned to his flat. Darkness was shrouding the town and the few people still about hurried along with their heads down. Even the military patrols had disappeared, no doubt hustled indoors by the cold winds scything between the buildings. As he turned the corner at the end of his street, Harry glanced instinctively towards his flat.

  A glimmer of light flared briefly in one window.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Harry stepped into the shadow of the building and waited. He could see no obvious watchers at street level, and only one ancient Renault with a flat tyre thirty yards away. Even the local burglars weren’t that desperate.

  He retraced his steps, circling the block to approach the building from the rear. It meant making his way along a narrow back-alley with no lights and littered with rubbish, but it was safer than going through the front door. When he reached the rear entrance leading to his block, he stood and surveyed the area for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone showed themselves.

  Nobody did. He walked up the back path and eased open the door into the rear corridor.

  The air here was heavy with the smell of dust and damp, and the sharper tang of cat’s urine. The tinny sound of a radio seeped through the thin walls from the block next door. He closed the door softly behind him, wary of a lookout on the stairs.

  He counted to thirty, then moved forward. Winced as his foot crunched on a piece of grit. He stopped, but nobody responded, then moved on, stepping carefully past a jumble of shadows which he knew from an earlier inspection was a collection of household goods abandoned by former tenants. Nothing useful as a weapon, though – not unless he decided to threaten the intruder with a broken tumble dryer.

  He took the stairs two at a time, moving slowly. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested at the effort, and he pushed down with his hands on his knees to give himself a boost. His shoes encountered more grit, but it was too late to stop now. Thirty seconds later, he was outside the door to his flat. He turned his head to listen, placing his ear against the grainy wood.

  He counted to twenty. Not a sound. The intruder had either bugged out already or was very good at keeping quiet.

  He reached out and tested the door. It wasn’t locked. He nudged it further and it swung open to reveal a faint glow of a flashlight coming from the bathroom.

  He stepped inside, flexing his hands. It had been too long since he’d engaged in any form of unarmed combat, and he hoped it didn’t come to that. Being knocked on his arse by a local crackhead looking for a quick score would be too humiliating. But something told him this was no crackhead. As he moved away from the door, his foot nudged something solid. It was too late to remember a small footstool-cum-table standing against one wall.

  It made a hollow clunking noise.

  The flashlight snapped off.

  Harry hit the wall switch. Sod what the training manual told you about using the dark; whatever was heading his way, he preferred to see it coming.

  A blur of movement was all the warning he got as a tall figure burst out of the bathroom. The man was solidly built, dressed in dark clothing and holding a black torch in one hand. He wore a black ski cap on his head.

  There was no time for finesse. Harry lashed out instinctively, turning his body to deliver a kick to the side of the advancing man’s knee. His foot connected, drawing a grunt of pain from the intruder. But it wasn’t enough to stop him. The man’s momentum carried him forward, forcing Harry back. He threw up his arms to block the attack, but the man was too quick, slamming a fist into the side of his head. Harry felt the wall behind him and bunched his shoulders, launching a low, straight jab at the intruder’s mid-section. It drew a satisfying whoosh of expelled breath, but the man kept coming, using his elbows and fists to jab at Harry’s head in a series of rapid strikes and following up with a painful knee to the ribs.

  Harry felt dizzy and breathless. The other man was younger, fitter and stronger, and if he kept this up, Harry would end the night in a hospital ward – or worse.

  He slid sideways and felt his leg connecting with something which creaked and moved.

  A basket of dried logs for the wood-burner.

  Harry allowed himself to drop, scrambling for one of the logs. Each one was as thick as his arm and about a foot long. Grasping the first one he touched, he brought it up in a scything uppercut, smashing through the other man’s defence. Before his attacker could react, Harry gripped the log with his other hand and swung it wildly straight at the man’s head. There was a satisfying tingle as the wood connected and the man fell back, legs wobbling. Another swing and he crashed to the floor.

  Harry dropped the makeshift weapon and leaned against the wall, trying not to throw up. The burst of exercise had taken more out of him than he’d thought. But there was no time to lose. Dragging the man into the bathroom, he went through to the kitchen and came back with a length of plastic-covered clothesline from one of the drawers. Tying the man’s wrists together, he lashed him to the ornate cast-iron sink-support and finished by knotting his ankles where no amount of struggling would allow him to reach them.

  The man was snuffling, his nose partially blocked by blood, and a large bruise was already forming across his chin, weeping blood where the skin had been scraped off by the log’s rough bark. Harry wet a cloth and wiped the blood away from his nostrils. He didn’t much care about the man’s health, but having him choke to death before he could talk wasn’t going to be much help.

  He went through the man’s pockets. Not surprisingly, he had no identification; no wallet, no papers, no scraps of information to reveal who he was. No clothing tags, either. That alone was unusual.

  But he did have a mobile phone. Harry checked the directory. Three numbers in all. The man had called each of them, all within the past twelve hours, on or close to the hour.

  Reporting in, thought Harry. With this one here making four, there were no prizes for guessing who they belonged to.

  The other Clones.

  He dropped the mobile in his pocket and slid to the floor, feeling the cold of the tiles seeping into his buttocks. He needed a rest. And he had time; after all, where was he going?

  Eventually, the man stopped snuffling and stirred. His eyes flickered and rolled open, and he instantly shook his head and tried to stand. When he found that didn’t work, he groaned and tugged at his bonds, head lolling forward to see what was holding him.

  Operating by instinct, thought Harry, observing the bunching of muscle in his shoulders. This bloke has been trained; he knows he has to get free, no matter what.

  He leaned forward and slapped the man across the face. It wasn’t a brutal blow, but carried enough frustration and anger to rock his head back. His eyes opened and slowly focussed, finally settling on Harry with a start. He blinked twice and winced as pain began to register.

  And at that moment, Harry saw something familiar in the man’s face.

  He felt a jolt of surprise. How could he know him? He’d only caught a glimpse of the Clones out on the street – hardly ideal conditions. Yet the feeling was overwhelming. Maybe he’d been on the plane in. Or at the airport. No. Christ, it was further back than that.

  Then it began to filter through. The man was in his late thirties, with strong hands and an athletic build. He had short-cropped hair and the remains of a tan, faded to a dirty hue on the forehead and cheeks. He had the hard look of someone accustomed to regular exercise, and knew how to fight; the use of elbows and knee had proved that. Street thugs don’t normally use their elbows.

  Harry was well-acquainted with the kind of men who did.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ he said softly. The face was swimming up through a murky haze, from deep in his memory.

  The man said nothing, struggling with his bonds.

  ‘Give it up,’ Harry told him. ‘I learned from a maste
r mariner.’

  ‘Fuck you, bastard!’

  The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. The oath was fluid, the accent familiar.

  It came from somewhere in the Midlands.

  The intruder was English.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘That was a mistake,’ said Harry. ‘I thought you were local. I was about to let you go. We’ve met before. Thing is, where?’

  The man stopped struggling. If he recognized Harry, he was hiding it.

  Harry finally got it. ‘Stanbridge.’ The man had been in Kosovo attached to the UN. Harry hadn’t known him well; just another name and face in passing. They’d probably shared a truck, an APC or a canteen table. Maybe even a snow-filled shell hole. There had been lots of those.

  Stanbridge said nothing. He stared at the floor and began working his wrists again. The skin around the bonds was beginning to turn dark red with the effort and the restricted blood flow, and Harry wondered whether he should ease up on them a bit. On the other hand, he still had no idea what the man was doing here.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on and I’ll loosen those knots,’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Screw you,’ said Stanbridge.

  ‘Hardly original, but suit yourself.’ Harry stood up and went through to the kitchen, locking the front door on the way. If Stanbridge was one of the Clones, he didn’t want to risk the other three piling all over him when they came to rescue their mate.

  He made coffee, trying to figure out exactly what had brought the man here, to his flat. Why this godforsaken hole? If he was British, the others were, too. Unless he’d gone private.

  He gave up and stared out of the narrow window overlooking the back alley. He could just make out the shape of a cat sitting on a crumbling section of wall, cleaning itself, relaxed. Better than a guard dog, he reflected. Quieter, too.

  He took his coffee to the bathroom. There was nothing like the aroma of best roasted to make a man feel uncomfortable. A classic softening-up technique, mostly recommended now to people selling houses.