He played the voicemail message, listening intently. ‘Graham, my name’s Harry Tate. I want to help you. I work in conjunction with the MOD, but I imagine you’re not sure who to trust right now, so I won’t waste time trying to sell you a deal. Call me and we’ll talk. This isn’t as bad as you think.’
Ulf listened to the voice message several more times with a growing sense of excitement, trying to gauge what kind of man was speaking. If he understood the words correctly, the owner of this phone was in some kind of trouble, and this caller, this Englishman, Harry Tate, was offering to help him. But what was this ‘MOD’ he mentioned? He played it again. And again.
Eventually he switched off the phone to conserve the battery. Clearly the man Tate did not know this Graham Barrow. Yet he was offering to help him. Why? And the talk about trust; it sounded like a man offering reassurance of some kind. There followed a number, which Ulf had already written down, in case the battery died. Luckily, the caller had spoken slowly, carefully.
He began to compose in his head what he was going to say. His English was rusty, learned at university a long time ago while studying for his medical degree. But that had been no grounding for conducting a negotiation over a lost Handy and a passport.
TWENTY
Harry was eating a late lunch at Rotterdam airport when Rik called.
‘We got an answer from Barrow’s mobile. I was out but the caller left a message.’
‘Hold on,’ said Harry. A nearby group of elderly men in colourful tracksuits were making too much noise to hear properly. ‘I need to get somewhere quiet.’ He stood up and walked around the terminal until he found an alcove used for storing luggage trolleys. There was no background noise other than the faint sound of the tannoy. ‘OK. Can you play it?’
‘Sure thing.’
He waited while Rik held his mobile close to the answering machine. A voice crackled with surprising clarity, the tone at first halting, then gaining in confidence. ‘Hello. Please believe me . . . we have not caused anyone any harm. This Handy was found and we wish to return it for a fee . . . a reward for service. Also we have a passport . . . the name is Graham Barrow . . .’ The voice struggled with the first name ‘ . . . from England. Please, this is not a trick. We wish only to send back what is not ours to keep. Please call . . . but quickly as I think the battery is weak. Thank you.’ There were a few moments of forced breathing, some dull clunks, then the call ended.
Harry found he’d been holding his breath. He asked Rik to play the message again. It sounded genuine enough, but there was no way of knowing. Someone after a reward, as he had claimed? Or some elaborate ploy?
He told Rik to count to ten, then play the message again, giving him time to set up the recorder on his own mobile. Once that was done, he played the message over and over, pausing for coffee and prowling the terminal lounge, trying to read in the deep, slow voice a sign as to the identity of the caller. Educated, obviously. Articulate, too, although English wasn’t his first language. Maybe not used much. Middle-aged by the tone and depth, even courteous in his request. And then the word Handy: it was what they called mobiles in Germany.
He dialled the number.
It was answered on the tenth ring, as he was about to give up.
‘Ja?’ A man’s voice, flat and hesitant. In the background Harry heard someone whispering urgently. A woman’s voice, cut off by the man saying something sharp.
Harry introduced himself. ‘You were kind enough to call about this phone, the Handy,’ he said carefully, avoiding any sign of accusation. ‘And the passport. Are you willing to trade?’
‘Trade?’ the man sounded wary.
‘Sell. Are you willing to sell them to me?’
A whispered conversation and the man came back. ‘Ja . . . Yes . . . We wish to return both items. Your name is Harry?’
‘Yes. Harry Tate. What about the man who owns these things? Is he hurt? Have you seen him?’
‘Nein . . . no. We have not seen the man in the Pass – the passport. Only this and the telephone.’
Harry decided to cut to the chase before the man lost his nerve or the phone died on him. ‘Where can we meet?’ he asked. ‘Can you give me your name?’
There was a silence, and for a second or two Harry thought he had gone. Then the man said, ‘Schwedt. You must come to Schwedt. You will bring money?’ His voice faded on the last question, suddenly unsure . . . or embarrassed.
‘Where is Schwedt?’
‘Near the Oderbruch,’ the man said. ‘Fifty kilometres north-east of Berlin, by the border with Poland. You must come to Tegel, I think, then by car to here.’
Berlin. Barrow hadn’t gone far, then.
‘Mr Harry . . . are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. How will I know you? Where will we meet?’
A second or two of silence, then the man said briefly, ‘You come to the church in Oderstrasse. Then ring this number and I will find you.’
The phone went off.
Harry returned to the main concourse and bought a ticket for Berlin on an early Air Portugal flight the following morning. It meant an overnight stay, but at least he could get his head down in a hotel, ready for whatever lay ahead. Next he went to the bureau de change and bought a thousand US dollars. With no idea what the mystery man in Germany might be asking for the return of phone and passport, it was better to be on the safe side.
He called Rik and told him of his plans, then Ballatyne. The MI6 man was concerned.
‘You might have dug a stick in the wasps’ nest, Harry.’
‘That was the intention. I’ll never get anywhere following vague trails. I need them to come to me.’
‘If Paulton is involved with the Protectory and this is a trap, he might bolt the moment he hears your name.’
‘That’s the risk I have to take. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.’
In the flat in Schwedt, Ulf Hefflin sat back with a sigh. His chest was hurting with the strain of making the call, but he felt good. He glanced at his sister. She seemed to have gone into a trance, eyes fixed on some distant horizon, and he wondered how many of the blue tablets she had taken. Too many for her own good, probably. On the other hand, he wasn’t the one fighting the pain.
‘He will come,’ he said softly, and went to make more coffee. He would have liked something stronger, but once he started down that road, it would be hard to stop. The stress of getting Sylvia’s tablets was burden enough; now he had to meet this Englishman and go through the humiliation of asking for money for the phone and the passport. ‘Harry Tate will come.’
Back at the Continentale Café, the barman, Daniels, was staring at the screen of the security monitor in the back office which showed a still picture from the CCTV camera over the front entrance. It was the British guy, frozen as he stepped through the door. It was a good shot, and should be easy to get a make on him for someone with the right contacts.
And the man he’d been talking to earlier, the one he knew as Deakin; he would have the contacts.
He took a copy of the frozen frame and added a brief identifier: ‘The Brit who came in asking questions. D.’ Then he sent it off to a Google Mail address where Deakin could pick it up.
TWENTY-ONE
Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath stood by the door of his bedroom and listened for sounds of movement. The hotel he was being kept in was large, square and anonymous, fancy enough to be expensive, yet still a soulless block of glass and steel, a couple of miles from Brussels city centre. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours straight in the past three days, but that wasn’t down to the bedding or the decor. First had been the unfamiliar, of not being constantly under orders. Even in Selly Oak Hospital, his timetable had been fixed from morning until night. Second came the pricking of conscience after agreeing to do what he’d never thought himself capable of. Now it was fear, plain and simple.
Oddly enough, fear was something he could deal with. Christ, he’d known enough of it recently.
>
He scooted across to the bedside cabinet and gathered his few belongings together. Cash, watch, wallet, a cheap paperback he couldn’t get into. He tossed the book aside and dropped the rest into his pockets, resolve suddenly spurring him on. Then he picked up his overnight bag and paused to take stock. He was dressed in a jacket, white shirt and dark slacks, which the men who’d brought him here had made him wear. It fitted the ambiance better, one of them had joked. A man named Deakin, ex-British army. He seemed to think it was amusing, a serving soldier agreeing to trade the information in his head in exchange for cash and a new identity. Like it was some kind of game.
He was breathing fast – too fast. He had to keep control. Ever since his wounds had been patched up, he’d been getting anxiety attacks. The slightest thing could set them off, from a door slamming, to the sound of someone shouting . . . The medics said it was normal and they’d subside in time. But if anything they seemed to be getting worse. And now this situation wasn’t exactly helping. He forced himself to calm down, focussing on the wall and trying to find a picture of somewhere serene. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Right now it had to.
Since deciding to seek the Protectory’s help, he’d been doubtful about what he was getting into. Going on the run had been done on a whim, high on prescription drugs and the after-effects of his injuries, when he was desperate to be away from the stuff he’d been doing with 16 Air Assault Brigade. It wasn’t going to work out over there, he told himself. The lads would be at it for years, slowly losing numbers. Eventually the politicians would have to admit defeat, or have Afghanistan as a permanent killing ground, a gross war of attrition. How could you fight an enemy you couldn’t even see most of the time? Where they hid among civilians and came at you out of nowhere, and the next time you stepped down from a Chinook in a swirling dust cloud you could be right on top of an IED—
He breathed deeply until the thoughts receded. Too late for all that. Focus. He’d made the jump and now he had to face the consequences. Whether he did the trade the Protectory wanted him to, emptying his head of everything he knew or . . . he did what his brain was telling him to do right now, before anyone came back, he was out on a limb and would have to make the best of it. Trouble was, he now knew, after what he’d just heard, changing his mind might be the last thing he ever did.
So much for the support the head man of the Protectory – Deakin? – had promised. Help us, he’d said, and we’ll help you. If you don’t want to, no fault, no worries. We’ll give you a ticket out and new papers, even a couple of names and addresses where you’ll find work and a chance to disappear into the undergrowth. He was certainly persuasive, that Deakin, no messing. Made it all sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. Not now. Now it was shit serious and . . . Christ, what would his mum have said . . .?
He gripped his bag tight, his breathing coming under control, every muscle and nerve telling him he should be on the move. He had to make a decision. Now. Stay here and sell out . . . or go back and face whatever shit they wanted to throw at him. There were no half measures. Only, if he was going back, he’d have to move quick, while the two Bosnian minders were out of the way. They’d disappeared suddenly, but promised to be back. It must have been them who did for Neville Pike. They had that look about them. The call to his mate earlier, who’d put him in touch with Deakin in the first place, had been a shocker. News from England, he’d said, then told him about a hit on a car carrying two redcaps and a third man named Pike.
Is that what they did to people who changed their mind?
He’d tried to ignore it, thinking there had to be more to it. Maybe Pike had blown it and threatened to dob them in. Then another thought came creeping, one that stopped him getting to sleep at the thought of the Bosnians. Was it only the doubtful who got slotted? Or was it everyone’s fate?
He eased the door open and peered through the crack. Saw a long corridor with a light-tan carpet lit by yellow overhead lights. Follow the yellow brick road to . . . what? He took a deep breath. He could make it down there, no problem, like a greyhound on whisper mode. If anyone else showed up, either Deakin or his Yank mate, he’d run right through them. He already had his exit route scoped: down the back stairs and out through a side door near the kitchens. In a place like this, the fire escape door was probably rigged to show up on a security screen if it was opened. He couldn’t risk that. But he’d seen the staff sneaking out for smokes through another door, and figured that would be his best way. He’d noticed how taxis were always coming and going here, too, all through the night, so there would be no problem flagging one down and flashing some notes. Quick trip to the station and he’d be heading for the coast.
And England. London. Home.
He stepped out and started running.
TWENTY-TWO
The terminal at Berlin’s Tegel airport was a frantic mass of meeters and greeters. Harry fought his way through the crowd and found a car-hire desk where he signed for an anonymous VW Golf. The clerk behind the desk handed him his collection slip and directed him to a kiosk where he could find detailed road maps. He picked up his overnight bag and thanked her, and walked away.
The man immediately behind Harry stepped forward to take his place, then appeared to remember something and changed his mind. Throwing a glance at Harry’s back, he hurried out to the front of the terminal.
When Harry left the airport, following the map towards the east of the city and the E74 Ring and the E28 leading north-east towards Stettin, Poland, he was being followed.
The city had changed beyond all recognition since he’d last been here, a result of reunification and EU funding, and he was forced to concentrate on the traffic around him to avoid being spun off in the wrong direction. It was this concentration which made him realize that he’d picked up a tail.
A dark-blue VW Passat had nosed out from the airport behind him, and was sticking rigidly behind him a hundred yards back. It wasn’t significant given the volume of traffic, and he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that two manoeuvres later, when he’d deliberately turned off the Ring and regained it, the Passat was still there. The driver was male, but holding too far back for Harry to get a clear sight of his face.
When the car was still behind him twenty minutes later, but showing no signs of doing anything other than following, Harry decided this was the first indication that his plan to get the Protectory interested was working. But he needed help. He rang Rik.
‘How’s the arm?’
‘Itching like a bugger. Why?’ Rik sounded bored and irritable.
‘Saddle up, Tonto. I’ve got a tail and I need to find out who he is without letting him know that I know.’
‘Thank God!’ Rik muttered fervently. ‘Where to?’
Harry gave him directions to Schwedt and read out the Passat’s registration number. ‘Get the details on that and grab the first flight available,’ he suggested. ‘Be ready for an overnight stay.’ He had no qualms about billing Ballatyne for the double expense; there were times when operating two-handed was the only option. And having this man on his back was the nearest yet to a definite show of interest from the Protectory. ‘You might do well to hire an automatic, with your arm.’
‘What are you, my mother?’ Rik muttered. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll put the word on the car out with the community; they’ll soon get me a name.’ His fellow-hackers and IT geeks loved nothing more than nosing around in official files where they had no business, each venture a new challenge to be overcome. He paused. ‘Ballatyne’s people could get this, too, you know.’
‘Yes, they could. But he’d have to go through official channels, and it would take too long. And I’m not sure how leak-proof those channels are. Hire something inoffensive and try to be inconspicuous.’ Rik usually drove a vivid blue Audi TT, and his spiky hair and choice of garish T-shirts were hardly unmemorable.
‘Hey – I can blend,’ he protested. ‘I mostly choose not to.’
Harry thought th
at was rich, remembering how Rik had been canned from MI5 for nosing into restricted records and leaving a footprint, but he let it go. ‘Take my advice and blend. These people don’t mess. Remember what happened to Pike.’
‘Gotcha, boss. That all?’
‘Yes. Ring me when you get close.’
He disconnected and checked the map. Schwedt wasn’t far. Another forty minutes and he’d be there. He put his foot down and watched as the Passat gradually matched his pace. He slotted himself between two large trucks and the Passat began to overtake, then dropped back. Not a professional, he decided, or a cop. Just a man doing a job of work. But who for?
TWENTY-THREE
‘Who the hell is this bloke?’ Deakin was on his laptop studying the photo-snatch sent by Daniels in Scheveningen. It was clear enough to use, and he’d earlier forwarded copies to watchers at the airports of Amsterdam, Rotterdam and, to be safe, Berlin. These were all cities where he had contacts he could use at short notice. Most were gofers, available for simple tasks requiring no elaborate skills other than mobility and freedom of movement in exchange for a small fee. They usually had contacts with the local police, town halls and other agencies. A few were capable of more serious work if it was needed, or knew others they could call on. They cost more but it was a price Deakin was prepared to pay for his prolonged security.
Right now, he was waiting to see if anyone would spot the face.
He and Turpowicz were staying in the Goldenstedt Hotel in Delmenhorst, a southern suburb of Bremen. At two storeys and forty rooms, it was big enough to be anonymous, and close enough to the city’s commercial zones for two foreign visitors to pass unnoticed. He and Turpowicz had made the move from Hamburg as a natural precaution, and would be moving on the following day. Staying ahead of trouble was something that had kept them all free for a long time now, and would do for the foreseeable future.
Deception Page 10
