Ganic clambered behind the wheel, and when Zubac gave him the nod, drove off the track and slammed his foot down hard, propelling the nose of the vehicle into a tall thicket of hawthorn, nettles and wild grass. There was a dull crunch as one of the front wings collided with another heap of rusting metal which had once been a car and was now becoming part of the vegetation. The engine stalled and died. All around were the twisted and rusting hulks of other rubbish which had been thrown here over the years; an old refrigerator, tangled bicycles, ancient garden and farm machinery – even the rotting remains of an old World War Two Jeep.
Ganic considered torching the vehicle; he liked a good fire. But he dismissed the idea. Too much trouble, and it would attract attention. He walked back along the track until he reached a small BMW parked off to one side. Zubac followed, puffing on a cigarette. He climbed in and Ganic drove them back towards Schwedt, then branched off before reaching the first signs of habitation and headed for the Berlin–Stettin Autobahn.
Behind them, the rain swept in hard, covering the landscape and dripping through the trees, gradually washing the thin layer of grass and pine needles from the body.
FIFTEEN
Deakin’s phone buzzed. He excused himself and checked the screen. A text message had come in. When he put the phone down he looked troubled. ‘That was our man in London. The MOD sent an investigator to ask questions about Lieutenant Tan.’ He looked at Paulton and explained, ‘Our latest target is an aide to the Deputy Commander ISAF. She went walkabout after leaving Kabul. We don’t know what she’s got in her head, but the MOD’s blowing up a shit storm about her. This investigator is a new development. They must really want her back.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Paulton murmured. ‘It’s bad news for the MOD, losing an officer in her position. Highly embarrassing for the British military establishment, too. The Americans in particular won’t be too impressed.’
‘It could be good for us, though.’ Deakin twirled his glass on the table. ‘If they’ve put someone on her trail, it means they have no idea where she is. That gives us time to find her first. This could be a big one, gentlemen; someone in her position probably has more current strategic information at her fingertips about the campaign in Afghanistan and the command staff involved than any of the others put together. If we get her onside and ready to trade, I believe we can name our own price.’
‘Except that we don’t know where she is either,’ Nicholls pointed out.
Deakin sat back. ‘True. But if she’s plugged into the network the way the others are, she might get in touch.’ The information grapevine which guided many absconding soldiers into reaching out to the Protectory for help was amazingly efficient, yet did not betray any details of the men who ran it – Deakin and his colleagues worked very hard at keeping it that way. It had proved effective so far, with Pike and Barrow being two recent examples of where doors had to be slammed shut to prevent a leakage of information by runners who changed their minds.
‘As long as she plays ball,’ said Nicholls.
Nobody disagreed with that. The one weak point in the way the Protectory operated was that not all their ‘projects’ were guaranteed to trade information for the promise of a new life and new identity. Serving personnel decided to jump the fence for all sorts of reasons, including fear, sickness, religious principles, right through to a change in philosophical outlook. Not all of them felt so disenchanted with their lot that they could easily break the oath of loyalty they had taken and sell country, regiment and – most importantly – former comrades for the chance of a new life.
‘She sounds a real prize.’ Paulton was holding his wine glass to his nose, breathing in the aroma and staring at Deakin with a measured gaze over the rim. It gave him an almost professorial air of superiority.
‘Hang on a sec. Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?’ Turpowicz gave Paulton a sideways look, then glanced at Deakin. ‘Exactly how much does he know about this?’ His tone suggested that if it were true, Deakin had gone too far in revealing details of their targeted deserters to an outsider.
‘Everything.’ Deakin paused for a moment to let that sink in. ‘George already knows what we do. I briefed him on our current projects because he has a line on some new contacts in the market place; contacts who will guarantee us a better price for what we sell. He knows the current thinking in the British and American security establishments, which is vital to us if we are to continue in safety, and I felt he had a right to our confidence in return for his help.’
‘In that case,’ Nicholls said coolly, ‘it’s rather too late in the day to argue about it, isn’t it? But what makes George here so all-knowing? Does he come with special credentials?’ He stared hard at Paulton as if challenging him to say otherwise.
‘I do, actually,’ said Paulton calmly. ‘I spent many years working for the British government . . . in the Security Services, should you be interested.’ He smiled at the look of shock on the faces of Turpowicz and Nicholls. ‘Sadly, we had a little disagreement and I was forced to leave. I now find myself at a loose end and, knowing Thomas here, I decided to get in touch and offer my services.’ He fixed a steady gaze on Nicholls. ‘Is that satisfactory or would you like to check my shirt size?’
‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’ Nicholls looked calm enough, and nodded for Deakin to continue. Before he could speak, however, Paulton chipped in, leaning forward to add emphasis and authority to his words.
‘I realize you have reservations about me, gentlemen – which I understand, believe me. I would, too, in your place. But let me say this: Tom’s absolutely right about the opportunity here. From what you’ve told me, an extremely bright young woman joins the British army and moves into a position of vital importance, working alongside the Deputy Commander ISAF in Kabul. She will have seen documents, data, plans and people from David Petraeus on down. There are very few at her level who would have had this kind of access. Very few.’ He looked around but nobody interrupted him. It was a clear sign that his position was already established, even after such a brief time. ‘And now this bright young woman with a superior brain has gone walkabout . . . and the British MOD has put an investigator on her trail. Believe me, gentlemen, they don’t do that lightly. It must mean they think she’s worth it for whatever information she has in her head.’ He paused again, demonstrating his skill at holding an audience. ‘It won’t be just the British concerned about that, either. Your former bosses, Mr Turpowicz, must be equally keen to see her returned to the fold of the godly before she can unload what she knows about Petraeus and his home team.’
‘Maybe.’ Turpowicz was unconvinced. ‘Get to the point.’
‘My point is simple. If we find Lieutenant Tan . . . locating a suitable buyer for what she knows will be a matter of course. In fact, I may already have one in mind.’
SIXTEEN
On his way back to London, Harry rang Ballatyne to arrange a meeting. There were things he needed doing which he hadn’t got the clout for, but which Ballatyne had. The MI6 man agreed to a rendezvous at the Italian restaurant off Wigmore Street later that evening.
Next he rang Rik Ferris, who already had news about the Eurostar ticket.
‘It was bought through a ticket office in Scheveningen, near The Hague, in the name of Fraser,’ said Rik. ‘I checked his background; it was Pike’s mother’s maiden name.’ He gave Harry the address of the ticket office. ‘Still no other hits on his or any of the other names, and Tan’s so common it’s like wading through seaweed.’ He yawned. ‘Can I come out to play? I’m getting bunker fever here.’
‘Sorry,’ Harry told him. ‘I might need your back-up later, though.’ It was a small lie; he couldn’t see any scenario arising where he would need that kind of help, and Rik was in no shape to go around being physical. But he didn’t want to depress him further.
This time when he arrived at the restaurant, there was no coffee on offer and the suited hard-case stayed with the car.
‘Sorry abo
ut the rush,’ Ballatyne explained. ‘I can’t spare much time – we’ve got some rockets going up. Nothing to do with our business, though. What’ve you got?’
‘I’ve drawn a blank so far on Lieutenant Tan. No family, no background to speak of and nothing yet to show even a sign of where she might be.’
Ballatyne looked unconcerned. ‘So she’s gone to ground. I’m sure she’ll surface sooner or later. I think you should forget about her for the time being. Weapons technology and systems are the hot topics right now; personnel with that kind of saleable knowledge are the ones being sought.’
Harry was surprised. It was such a change of emphasis that he got the uneasy feeling Ballatyne was stonewalling him. Or maybe he had developed a new set of priorities.
‘You mean who’s got the biggest gun?’
‘Exactly. Boys’ toys, Harry. Boys’ toys.’ He looked pleased at the analogy.
‘I still think Tan’s worth looking at, that’s all. You can be sure the Protectory will, too.’
‘What are you looking for, specifically?’
‘I haven’t got the punch to gain access to Cambridge University graduate files or unlock the MOD’s records. You do. Did something happen while she was at university which could have had a delayed reaction – made her vulnerable? Did she meet someone after joining up who could have influenced her in some way? Anything like that could be a lead to help track her down. There’s certainly nothing else out there.’
Ballatyne looked unconvinced, but appeared to relent. ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can find.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I got word from the security boys at London City airport. Two supposed German males boarded the scheduled Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt at seven fifteen, the same evening Pike and Wallace were killed. The timing fits; it wouldn’t have taken them long to get from the A12 to the airport. They could have lost the Merc anywhere along the way; left the keys in the ignition on a side street in east London and the local bangers would have done the rest. It’s probably gathering a thin layer of desert sand on a dock in Dubai even as we speak.’
‘Sounds like it was planned,’ Harry agreed, ‘if it was the same two men. Do we have pictures?’
‘Not good ones – and nothing from the hospital cameras. They were offline. Highways Agency computer problems made their pictures grainy. Both men were heavily built, one medium height with dark hair, the other tall, but bald, possibly shaven.’
‘What made them stand out, then?’
‘One of the girls on the desk is German. She said their German wasn’t that good and believed they were either Czech or Bosnian. She thought it odd enough to mention it to her supervisor who called it in.’ He shrugged. ‘We got lucky: the supervisor used to be in Immigration and thought it worth passing on.’ He checked his watch. ‘Got to go. What are you doing next?’
Harry explained about his intention of following Pike’s trail back to Holland. ‘Wherever Pike started his return journey, he must have had a meeting prior to that, presumably to sell what he knew, which generated the payment through Grand Cayman. Getting a line on where he came from right before he used the cash machine in The Hague will help me backtrack him from there.’
‘We know he was in Thailand,’ Ballatyne pointed out. ‘Long way to go.’
‘It’s also too big and crowded. You could hide an entire regiment out there and nobody would know.’
‘Fair comment. But why travel anywhere? We’ve got people who can do the research online and on the ground. Ferris could do it, given the right equipment. How is our wounded soldier, by the way?’
‘He’s fine. He’ll be all right when he’s rested up and got something to concentrate on.’ He paused, then said, ‘I want to rattle a few cages over there, to see what I turn up. If I cross the Protectory’s trail along the way, they might get to hear about it. That won’t happen working online.’
Ballatyne pursed his lips. ‘It’s a risky strategy, rattling cages. You never know who or what you might wake up.’
‘I know. But I’m short of ideas at the moment.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ballatyne nodded. ‘Just watch your back.’
He walked out, leaving Harry to shut the door.
SEVENTEEN
A sickly dawn was lifting over the horizon as former railroad worker Wilhelm Dieter plodded slowly away from Schwedt, following his ritual daily walk, a determined but joyless defence against advancing old age. He absorbed little of the surrounding scenery to interest him; he’d been seeing it for too many years to count and doubted it would bring anything new to arouse his curiosity or brighten his day. It was why he alternated between this route and another going north, hopeful that maybe the change would keep his mind engaged along with his body, and throw up something distracting to look at once in a while, even if only some wildlife.
As he neared the strand of pine trees running along the border like a prickly rash, he noticed a group of carrion crows in the upper branches. Nothing unusual in crows, he reflected, the bloody things were everywhere. But clumped together like that? They looked like a bunch of priests on a day out, dark and faintly shabby, united in their bickering.
Tyre tracks in the mud – and recent, too. He’d have noticed them if they’d been here on his last walk two days ago. Nothing much came down here these days other than the occasional border patrol, although they were rare, too. There wasn’t the same need now, for patrols. Not since the Wall had come down.
He stopped and gave vent to a hacking cough, the result of too many cheap cigarettes, a lousy diet and damp living conditions, and tugged irritably at the woollen cap with the ear-flaps flying loose about his head. He shivered and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat, feeling the cold easterly wind coming across the trees and surrounding grassland. Christ, if only we could have a bit more sunshine, he thought. It would liven up this bloody back-of-nowhere place for a start.
He continued walking and skirted a puddle, his ears prickling with tension. He stopped and studied the ground. Footprints everywhere, and more than one set, by the look of it. The tyre tracks ran on through the mud, leading towards the bend and the thicket where a few irresponsible louts from the town were forever dumping the rubbish they couldn’t be bothered to dispose of properly.
He decided to take a look. There was nowhere down here for a vehicle to go, not unless it was military or police. The track ended in a heavy gate, although if one were determined, it might be possible to blast through. But why bother? It only led to Poland for God’s sake; same scenery, different language.
He followed the track, his curiosity aroused. If there was anything salvageable, he could maybe get some cash for it in town. Anyway, what else did he have to occupy himself? Then he noticed a shallow furrow leading off to one side of the track, as if something heavy had been dragged through the grass towards the trees where the crows were gathered. A sack of something, perhaps? Probably somebody’s worthless shit, but worth a look at least . . .
As he stepped off the track he noticed a coat spread over a tangle of blackthorn, the khaki colour darkened almost black in places by moisture. An old jacket, he decided, military surplus by the looks of it and widely available in places if you knew where to look. But why was it here? He felt the beginnings of a worm of excitement beating in his chest, and stepped forward to retrieve it.
Two hours later, less than two kilometres away, a former government office worker named Sylvia Heidl sat in a bare flat on the second floor of an ugly concrete block looking out over a featureless landscape. She was staring at a shiny black object on her kitchen table. It had a small green power light in one end which was flashing intermittently like a deficient ceiling bulb. It was a sign of energy and life, seemingly mocking the fact that her own vital signs were fast diminishing.
Outside, thin rain pattered against the windows, cold and relentless. In the quiet of the room, her breathing was quick, bird-like. It matched the throbbing of a pulse at her temple, visible under the translu
cent skin marked by the blemishes of old age. But old age wasn’t the problem. She looked down at her hands. They were like a collection of bony sticks; sticks which had lost their strength over the past few months and weeks along with the rest of her body, the disease which had overtaken her turning her into an old woman in no time at all.
A sound outside brought her head up, fear clutching at her breast. Then she relaxed, recognizing old Bendl’s asthmatic coughing. He shuffled down the foul-smelling stairs in the darkness each morning, on his way to the refinery where he worked as a clerk. Like the few who had jobs here, he started early and finished late, eager to work punishing hours for next to nothing, since earning nothing was simply to fade and die.
As the footsteps receded, she wondered what Ulf would say. Her brother was a doctor, although not the kind who could help her. An army medic for many years, he knew a lot about battle wounds but precious little about cancerous growths caused by the toxic air which attacked you as you breathed. But with his part-time job at the hospital, he knew people he could ask . . . people with access to drugs which helped manage the pain she was suffering with increasing regularity.
She reached over and picked up the mobile phone, and brushed off a thin smear of mud, where old Wilhelm had handled it.
‘See if Ulf can sell these in town,’ he’d suggested tentatively, pushing the mobile and the slim red book into her hands. He had come straight round after his walk and woken her up, pounding on the door as if his life depended on it. ‘He might even be able to return them to the owner . . . for a reward. We can share in whatever he gets.’ He’d gone on to explain where he’d found the jacket and, in the pocket, the mobile phone and the British passport. ‘I would do it myself, but I don’t know who to speak to. I don’t get into town much these days.’
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