Deception

by Adrian Magson

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson

  The Harry Tate Thrillers

  RED STATION *

  TRACERS *

  DECEPTION *

  The Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer Series

  NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED

  NO HELP FOR THE DYING

  NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD

  NO TEARS FOR THE LOST

  NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL

  * available from Severn House

  DECEPTION

  A Harry Tate Thriller

  Adrian Magson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2012

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2012 by Adrian Magson.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Magson, Adrian.

  Deception. – (A Harry Tate thriller)

  1. Tate, Harry (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  2. Intelligence officers – Fiction. 3. Great Britain. MI6 –

  Fiction. 4. Great Britain. Army. Royal Logistic Corps –

  Fiction. 5. Military deserters – Fiction. 6. Suspense

  fiction.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-203-0 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8130-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-409-7 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being

  described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

  publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

  is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Ann, who, in the heat of battle, has to put up with the

  thousand-yard stares and the questions not always receiving

  immediate answers. I’m right here.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With thanks as always to the wonderful Kate Lyall Grant, James, Michelle, Edwin and the whole team at Severn House, for turning my words into a complete book; to my agent, David Headley, for his help, energy and enthusiasm; to M, K, and W, who prefer to remain anonymous, and the team at Brackley Fire Station, for their kind advice.

  ONE

  ‘Three minutes to landing.’ The pilot’s Texan accent sounded terse through the comms unit. ‘Three minutes.’

  ‘Roger that. Three,’ echoed the crewman on the port side M60 door gun. He lifted his chin at former MI5 officer Harry Tate, who nodded to show he’d got the message. The crewman on the opposite gun flicked a hand in acknowledgement, busy scanning the gathering gloom below as the MH-60L Black Hawk, a sinister, sand-blasted war machine stripped of markings, clattered across the vast, darkening sprawl of Baghdad city.

  Harry peered through the open doorway to where the snake’s-head outline of an Apache AH64 attack helicopter was running parallel some 300 yards away and slightly to the rear. Another AH64 held the same position on their starboard side. None of the aircraft showed running lights.

  It had been the same since he’d come aboard; no smiles, no welcome. If they had any curiosity about what Harry was doing here, or the man with him who was now handcuffed to his seat, they kept it in check. Just a few terse words of safety from the crew chief, and an agreement about what they were to do when they reached their destination. There was more chatter, this time between their pilot, Postal One, and the escorts – referred to as Shotgun One and Two – confirming direction and coordinates, the talk stripped to its essentials, almost unintelligible to an outsider.

  Subhi Rafa’i, the reluctant cargo, showed no interest. The former Iraqi cleric was dressed in plain tan pants and a white shirt beneath a flak jacket. He looked listless and withdrawn, staring at the rooftops flashing by below and occasionally shaking his head. If ever a man looked like one going to meet his doom, Rafa’i was it.

  Forty minutes earlier, two military policemen had hustled him out of a covered truck parked in the corner of a secure section of the US operations base – where they had been driven immediately on leaving the main airport – and straight up into the belly of the Black Hawk. Rafa’i had been in the open for no more than twelve seconds, watched by several armed guards.

  It had been the longest twelve seconds of Harry’s life.

  ‘He’d better be worth it,’ US Army Colonel Seymour White, the Assistant Operations Officer, had muttered. He watched the transfer, the skin around his eyes pale with tension. ‘These guys got better things to be doing than playing cab driver.’ He didn’t add ‘for British spooks and their rag-head prisoners’, but the meaning was there.

  Harry ignored it. The colonel was flexing some psychological muscle, showing that he didn’t have to like what he was being asked to risk men and equipment for, but he had his orders and would do whatever was required. In this case it was the unusual job of delivering an insurgent back to his people.

  The two crewmen reached down and grabbed Rafa’i and hauled him aboard with little ceremony. They were in their late thirties, lean and tanned, forearms covered in exotic tattoos. Although dressed in combat fatigues, Kevlar helmets and flak jackets, and wearing side arms, little about them echoed regular US forces. They wore no badges or insignia, had shown no reaction to Colonel White’s arrival, given none of the normal snappy US military response to an officer being within shouting range. It was as if White didn’t exist.

  ‘Who are they?’ Harry queried. He wasn’t expecting an answer, but Colonel White surprised him.

  ‘PMCs,’ the American replied. ‘Private military contractors. We use them when we can’t spare our own crews or . . .’ He left the sentence hanging and tilted his head slightly.

  ‘You don’t want to?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’ White shifted his weight and tugged at his waistband, eyes flicking around the base perimeter. ‘We use whoever we can get. And these boys are good and willing.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘And they’re expensive, so don’t go getting them busted.’

  ‘I’ll try not.’

  White nodded. ‘This is the best time to fly. They’ll take you in low once you’re near the coordinates, then go down fast. You’d better hold on to your lunch.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Hope so. You’ll off-load your cargo and get straight back out of there. No chit-chat, no fond goodbyes and try not to start a firefight. Just in case of trouble, they’re sending over two Apache six-fours to run interference; they’ll join you as soon as you leave here. Do exactly what the crew tell you and you’ll be back in time for dinner.’ He nodded once and walked away, stiff-backed; the mention of dinner clearly not an invitation.

  Now they were approaching the Al-Jamia district west of Baghdad, where Rafa’i had once had his heavily fortified base and centre of operations. Until he had blown it up, anyway. Part of a failed plot to gather support against the Western Coalition Forces, he had sacrificed a number of his closest followers in a bid to disappear, believed killed by the Coalition. Tonight he was being returned home to face those he had left behind
. Nobody expected the outcome to be a good one.

  But it solved a tricky problem the UK government had faced only a few days ago: what should they do with a former cleric-turned-insurgent who had tried to gather sufficient financial and terrorist support to throw out every westerner still in Iraq? Having him die on UK soil was unthinkable – although that had been the plan if a group of shadowy Coalition businessmen and others had had their way. Equally, imprisonment in a UK jail on terrorist charges would have turned any establishment holding him into a tinderbox. The solution was brutally simple: send him back home.

  Harry felt the seat shift beneath him as the Black Hawk changed direction. The gunners focussed their attention on the ground. The escorting Apaches kept station with them and the houses below suddenly sprang into view as the nose dipped. They were coming in fast. Colonel White hadn’t been joking.

  TWO

  ‘Ready for landing.’ The pilot again, his voice strangely calm. ‘Postal One going straight in. Shotguns One and Two, hold course and check for unfriendlies. Over.’

  The escorts responded, and Harry saw the port side craft pull away. He didn’t envy them their task. They would be using night vision equipment to scout a confusing jumble of narrow streets, back alleys, open lots and rooftops, checking for any threat to the Black Hawk’s safety and hoping to spot it before it happened. Only the most foolhardy of insurgents would stand out in the open to fire on them, but there were plenty of those. Most preferred the illusory safety of houses and walls, where the night vision ‘eyes’ couldn’t always reach. Any incoming fire from ground level would be on them before they saw it.

  The helicopter dropped again, the engine note changing and the vibration increasing. The noise echoed back from the surrounding structures and the top of a tree flashed by at floor level, straggly and bare. Harry saw the flare of a paraffin lamp on a rooftop, the flames glinting off an array of aerials, wires and satellite dishes, and highlighting the upturned faces of a family gathered around it.

  ‘Postal One, we have three SUVs near the designated landing area. Three SUVs, over.’

  ‘Shotgun One, Roger that. Estimate eight, repeat eight people. No weapons in sight. No weapons.’

  ‘Let’s get down and do it.’ The pilot dropped them with stomach-churning speed and dust billowed around the open doors as the helicopter settled, sending up a whirlwind of scrap paper and other debris. The two crewmen were at their guns, flicking off the safeties and settling their feet, the senior man waving to Harry to get ready to disembark. They both looked on edge, their movements rehearsed and economical, but tight, and Harry could feel the tension between them.

  He released his seat buckle and took out the keys to the handcuffs, then unplugged the helmet comms lead and swung across to Rafa’i’s seat. The former cleric smelled of sweat and fear, and one of his legs was shaking uncontrollably, but he looked Harry in the eye and said nothing while the cuffs were being unlocked.

  A loud whistle. The starboard crewman was pointing towards the opposite door, where his colleague had picked up an M4 assault rifle, ready to lead the way out. He slapped his hand against his side to indicate that Harry should draw the M9 pistol he’d been given before take-off.

  Harry eased the gun from the grip of the holster clip, then pushed it back. The last time he’d drawn a gun was still raw, in a place about as far removed from this scenario as it was possible to get: St James’s Park, central London. He could still smell the discharge, still hear the gunshots, still feel the recoil through his wrist.

  Still see the body falling.

  He cursed silently and urged Rafa’i out of his seat and across to the door, which was facing the open square where they had landed. The quicker the welcoming committee saw Rafa’i, he’d been advised, the better. If all they saw were two armed men piling out of the helicopter, things could get complicated.

  He took a deep breath as the smell of dust, hot metal and engine oil swirled around him. He kept one hand on Rafa’i’s arm just above the elbow and followed him through the door, dropping to the ground right behind him and going into a crouch while the crewman with the assault rifle took up a position ready to watch Harry’s back. The noise was deafening, battering the air around them, sand particles stinging every square inch of exposed skin and defying concentration.

  Across the square and just visible in the gloom, a number of men watched their arrival, loosely scattered around three four-by-four vehicles. In the background, keeping watch, the two Apaches were constantly shifting position just above the rooftops.

  The crewman waved Harry forward, sliding sideways to give himself a safe field of fire. Harry pushed Rafa’i and followed closely behind, drawing the M9 and holding it down by his leg. None of these men would expect them to come unarmed, but waving weaponry in the air like some of the cowboys of the PMC community was asking for trouble.

  The men watched him come. The agreement had been to take Rafa’i to the centre of the designated landing site, then leave. That suited Harry just fine, but he’d have felt a lot better if he could have seen how many more were lurking in the shadows. It suddenly struck him how incredibly insane this was.

  Then one man detached himself from the group and walked forward. He was unarmed, heavily built and dressed in a white shirt and pants. He immediately became the focal point for a beam of high-intensity light from the helicopter. At a shout from Harry, he very cautiously lifted his shirt to reveal a bare torso. Harry gave the OK and urged Rafa’i on. When they were down to a dozen paces apart, the light beam was switched off and Harry stopped walking. He backed away, ordering Rafa’i to continue alone.

  Seconds later Harry was back in the Black Hawk and the crewman was giving the OK to lift off.

  The pilot was as calm as ever. ‘Postal One, we’re out of here. Thank you, Shotguns One and Two. Delivery completed.’

  Rik Ferris was waiting when they got back to the base, left arm in a tan-coloured sling. He had a US army baseball cap jammed on his head and looked pale and restless.

  ‘You took your time. I thought you were just going to fly over and throw him out?’

  ‘We were,’ said Harry. ‘But we decided it would be polite to land first.’ He eyed the sling, which had been plain white when they’d arrived here. ‘That looks fresh.’ The sling and bandage covered a bullet wound sustained in St James’s Park a few days before, courtesy of a rogue female Special Forces bodyguard. Rik still hadn’t brought it up in conversation, but Harry knew he would when he was ready.

  Getting shot wasn’t something you forgot for long.

  Rik grinned. ‘Yeah, that’s the only good bit about coming here. A US army medic noticed the sling and insisted on taking a look. When she saw it was a bullet wound, she was well impressed. Her name’s Tammy and she lives in Florida.’

  ‘Lucky you. You’ve only got a few thousand competitors, then.’

  ‘Very funny. How did it go?’

  ‘Fine. We had an easy ride.’ Thank God, he thought. He could still see the faces of the two crewmen and their businesslike, wire-tight movements. They’d been out here too long, he guessed; living on the edge and expecting every trip to be their last. It had a way of eating away at you. No wonder Colonel White was concerned for them; although it was probably more to do with logistics and paperwork if he had to replace them than concern for paid mercenaries. But it was none of his business.

  ‘And Rafa’i?’

  ‘Forget him.’ Harry walked into the operations building. He unloaded the pistol and watched the man behind the desk check the breech, then signed the log. ‘Did you get anything on the car registration?’ He’d asked Rik to run a photo past what Rik called ‘the community’ – his contacts in computer geekdom – to see if anyone recognized the buildings or the part of the car registration plate that was showing.

  ‘Nothing yet. I wanted to chase it up while I was waiting, but the security guys wouldn’t let me use my laptop.’ He nudged the shoulder bag lying at his feet. ‘Said it was a security
risk.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I need something to eat.’ What he needed more was to lie down somewhere for a week. He was still feeling the bruises from the contact in London, when he’d been shoulder charged by a man intent on killing him.

  ‘Mr Tate, sir?’ A man wearing the insignia of a Specialist handed Harry an envelope. ‘I was instructed to give you this, sir, compliments of Colonel White. There’s a driver waiting to take you to the airport when you’ve eaten, and your flight leaves at oh-six-hundred, sir. Have a safe one.’ He flipped a half salute and walked away.

  Harry ripped open the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper with a brief message: The Italian off Wigmore. 10.30 Friday. RB.

  Richard Ballatyne. It took him a moment to think about what day it was. Wednesday. He needed some sleep.

  Rik said, ‘There’s a great cafeteria across the way. They serve steaks the size of a mattress.’

  ‘Good. After that we head home.’

  ‘What’s on the agenda?’

  ‘If Ballatyne keeps his word, we’re going hunting.’

  THREE

  Richard Ballatyne was sitting in the same Italian restaurant off Wigmore Street, in London’s West End, where Harry had first met him. It had been less than ten days ago, but seemed longer. Much had happened since then, and a rapid series of events piled one on another skewed one’s perspective on time. The MI6 officer looked tired, as if the past few days had drained him of energy, his dark hair limp and the eyes behind the glasses blank and hollow.

  A hard-case in a suit was sitting to one side of the room, hands out of sight beneath the table and an untouched glass of water in front of him. Other than a brief nod of professional acknowledgement, he paid no further attention to Harry, but concentrated on the street outside.