Deception

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I’ve had a look at the camera footage,’ said Paynter. ‘Those cowboys weren’t too fussed about being seen, were they? Come see.’ He beckoned and walked away towards the rear of the building, and into a small room with blinds at the windows and a number of video monitors. A support officer in a white shirt was standing at a printer, tapping instructions on to a keypad. He pointed at a monitor showing a still shot of an internal corridor.

  Paynter ran his fingers across the monitor’s keyboard, and the picture changed to show a section of corridor with a flare of daylight at one end. A man in a white shirt was lying on the floor, legs jerking in obvious distress. He had a dark patch on one shoulder. Another man with close-cut hair was bending over him, and holding a semi-automatic pistol pressed into the wounded man’s chin.

  ‘The security guard working the rear gate,’ Paynter explained. ‘He’s just been shot by one of the attackers. We can’t get a sound feed, but my guess is the attacker’s asking where the prisoner is being held.’

  The gunman stood up and pointed his weapon down at the guard’s head. But before he could open fire, another man appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. This man was shorter and stockier, Harry noted, with dark hair. The gunman lowered his weapon, then stepped over the guard and walked away along the corridor with his colleague, passing beneath the camera.

  Neither of them looked up, and Harry wondered if they were unaware of being filmed or simply didn’t care. He stared hard at each of them, impressing their images on his memory. Both men looked hard and fit, heavy across the shoulders, and moved easily, with the purposeful manner of trained soldiers.

  ‘They’ve done this before,’ he said softly.

  ‘Watch this.’ Paynter tapped another key and this time the scene jumped to show a junction of two corridors. The two attackers were approaching the camera, walking quickly past a series of doors on each side, seemingly undeterred by any possible resistance. They paused at the junction and the taller of the two pulled an object from his pocket and peered round the corner, where three figures were clustered around a doorway, looking each way. ‘M84 stun grenade,’ Paynter commented softly. Without hesitating, the taller attacker pulled the pin and tossed the grenade around the corner, where it rolled and bounced towards the three police officers. The attacker stepped back and waited. The picture dissolved momentarily as a bright flare of light illuminated the corridor where the officers were standing. When the image cleared, it showed two men on their knees, holding their heads, and a woman officer slumped against one wall. As the shorter attacker stepped into view, one of the officers, recovering faster than his colleagues, looked up and reached out for the equipment belt at his waist.

  ‘God, you fool,’ whispered Ballatyne, just as the gunman braced himself and shot the officer, who was flung over backwards by the force of the bullet.

  The shooter stepped forward, shaking his head, while his companion paused only to lash out at the other officer with his pistol, knocking him unconscious. He then hurled another grenade along the corridor before stepping smartly with his colleague inside an open doorway to wait for the blast.

  ‘This is unreal,’ said Ballatyne. ‘Didn’t they see the cameras?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Paynter tapped the keys again, and the scene showed the two men passing beneath another camera. This time the shorter of the two looked up and grinned, then winked before calmly shooting out the lens. ‘They knew they were being filmed all right. They just didn’t care.’

  Ballatyne walked over to the door and back, puffing his cheeks in frustration. ‘I know why, too: because they’ll be gone and out of the country before we can get a lead on them. Can we have prints of these two?’

  Paynter nodded. ‘Already done.’ He turned to the support officer, who handed him a stack of still photos. ‘These are already going out to all units and ports.’

  ‘Too bloody late!’ Ballatyne muttered with unaccustomed venom. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Like McCreath said, it’s Ganic and Zubac,’ he replied. ‘He reckoned they’d come for him. He wasn’t wrong.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Right. Next question: how did they find him?’ Ballatyne was suddenly calm again, working logically through the situation and assessing what had happened . . . and how.

  Paynter was already ahead of him. ‘Is the prisoner still here?’

  ‘McCreath? Yes, downstairs. Why?’

  ‘If they located him inside a building like this, they either had someone on the inside or he’s carrying a tracking device.’

  ‘He claims he chose the place on impulse,’ said Ballatyne. ‘They wouldn’t have had time to set up an insider.’

  ‘Then it’s a device. I already checked his personal effects in the property box, and they’re clean. We’ll have to do a body search.’

  ‘Bloody Nora,’ Ballatyne murmured. ‘You can wear the rubber gloves, then. Come on.’ He signalled to the support officer to lead them downstairs to where McCreath was being held. In spite of his close shave with death, the staff sergeant looked remarkably calm, as if the sudden burst of action had regenerated him and settled his nerves.

  Paynter asked him to stand up, then examined his clothing, checking the collar and cuffs of his shirt and moving down to his shoes, which he’d been allowed to keep but without the laces.

  ‘If he’s carrying any kind of tracker,’ Paynter explained as he worked, ‘it will be located in the shoes, the belt or the thicker parts of his clothing. There’s no belt, which is the easiest place to put it, so that narrows it down. Can you remove your shoes and trousers, please?’

  McCreath did so. Paynter checked the shoes first, placing them to one side. Then he studied the trousers, working through the front, pockets and waistline. When he reached the turn-ups, he grunted and took out a slim knife. Slitting open the turn-up on the right leg, he removed a lightweight brown resin biscuit, no bigger than a mobile phone SIM card.

  ‘Neat,’ he commented. ‘GSM tracker. Not one of ours, but nice.’ He held it up for the others to see, turning it over to reveal a small silver disc embedded in one side. ‘Battery. Probably lasts a hundred hours, with a range of fifty metres or so.’ He handed it to Ballatyne. ‘If they knew which building he was in, all they’d have to do was get close to an outside wall with the monitor and wait for a signal. Once inside, though, they’d still need directions to find out which floor he was on.’ He took a small device from his pocket. It had an array of buttons and a tiny aerial. He switched it on and one of the lights lit up.

  ‘If it’s so simple,’ Ballatyne growled, ‘why didn’t you use your little toy in the first place?’

  Paynter gave him a patient look and said, ‘I like to keep my hand in. Like reading a map book instead of a satnav, technology doesn’t always provide the answers.’

  ‘Smart arse.’ Ballatyne looked at McCreath, who was pulling his trousers back on. ‘Did you know about this?’

  McCreath gave him a look of contempt. ‘What, you think I’m suicidal? I wanted to get away from the bastards, not have them jumping all over me. They must have got at my clothes and planted that thing when I was asleep in the hotel.’

  Harry caught Ballatyne’s eye. ‘We need to find out more. Do you have time?’

  ‘Why not?’ He nodded to Paynter, who waved a hand and left, while Harry signalled for McCreath to take a seat and pulled up a chair opposite.

  ‘Tell me who you met, give me descriptions, names – even nicknames – and anything else you can think of.’

  McCreath nodded. ‘I’ll try, but there’s not much to tell. Tom Deakin was first. He must be mid-forties, hard-looking, not easy to talk to. But he’s the boss; seems to make all the decisions. I found him pushy, to be honest. Impatient and edgy, as if he was living on his nerves.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘A Yank. I didn’t get his name, although I heard Deakin call him “Turp”. Forty-ish, skinny but looks as hard as nails. Calm, though, unlike Deakin. Ex-US airborne.’

  �
��He told you that?’

  ‘No. He’s got a One-oh-One Airborne tat on his wrist; an eagle’s head and banner. I saw it once when he scratched his arm. I’ve seen them before. From the way he talked, I got the impression he’s the admin guy.’

  Harry made a note. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He talked about the money . . . how they’d get it to me, the transfer through bank accounts offshore, how I’d need to choose passwords and where I’d want the deposits made. I mean, I handle my own financial stuff, like insurance and bank accounts, but he was using a whole different language, like an expert. He was “Turp” and Deakin was “Deak”. They seemed pretty tight.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Apart from the nut-jobs who stormed this place, you mean? I met them at the hotel Deakin kept me in near Brussels – a four-star block near the ring road. They never said much, and they weren’t there all the time. They’d turn up without warning, then disappear again. But it was like they were letting me know they were watching me all the same. They said there was another guy around when they weren’t going to be there, but I never saw him.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Ganic and Zubac. Don’t know their first names – we never got that friendly. They’re Bosnians . . . ex-military or militia, I’m not sure. Zubac’s the boss; he’s the smaller one, but not by much. Ganic is scary and doesn’t care who knows it. There’s not a lot goes on behind the face, if you know what I mean. I’ve seen guys like him before: dead on the inside. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve buried a few where they come from.’

  Harry didn’t bother asking him where the hotel was; he was sure Ballatyne already had that covered. Besides, he was sure that the Protectory would have had it cleaned, checked and sanitized of anything incriminating.

  ‘There was another name I picked up,’ McCreath continued. ‘Someone called Nicholls. Deakin didn’t seem to have much time for him, but he was obviously part of the group. He never came to Brussels, though, as far as I know.’

  Funny how Brussels kept cropping up, thought Harry: first with Pike, then Paulton and Deakin, now McCreath and the Bosnian storm-troopers.

  He made McCreath go through the descriptions again, getting him to paint a picture and give him every bit of detail he could recall. It was standard debriefing procedure tailored to drain the mind of every scrap, even to the point of recalling material that would serve no specific purpose, in the hopes that it would drag out something he could use.

  But Deakin and his crew had been very clever.

  ‘Tell us about the Protectory,’ said Ballatyne. ‘Names and numbers.’

  ‘They never told me much – and nothing about themselves,’ McCreath replied. ‘I got the impression that there are three main guys running it, but Deakin hinted at others he could call on if needed. He laid it on that the Protectory was there to help people like me who’d been asked to do too much for Queen and country.’ He grunted. ‘He made it sound like a charitable organization for damaged squaddies. I fell for it, I admit. Christ, it was a no-brainer; I was in a mess, no life to speak of, no way back and they were offering me a way out. It was a bloody sight better than what I’d been living with for the past four years, so I said yes.’

  ‘And what exactly were they offering?’ Ballatyne asked.

  ‘A new identity, ready cash and help with relocation. There were places I couldn’t go, Deakin said, because I’d be vulnerable. But that left plenty of places I could disappear to, no bother.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Low cost countries like Thailand, Cambodia, a couple of places in Latin America, even Australia and Canada. He said a fair number of Americans have ended up there.’

  ‘What did they want in return?’

  This time McCreath hesitated, and Harry guessed it was probably out of shame at having considered trading information for a better life. ‘They wanted anything new, especially on comms systems, networks, satellites and ECMs – electronic countermeasures. They were particularly interested in the new battlefield communications system I’d been working on when I got wounded.’ He scowled. ‘They seemed to know quite a lot about it already, though. I think they’d already done some work on it.’

  Pike, thought Harry. They’d have got something from him before he turned and ran. With another 251 Signals Squadron expert on their hands, Pike wouldn’t have been worth trying to hold on to, not once he’d made his intentions clear.

  ‘Did they ever mention any other British army personnel they were after?’

  ‘Not to me. The focus was all on me.’

  ‘Anyone named Tan?’

  ‘Tan? No. They didn’t mention and I didn’t ask. They didn’t seem the kind of people to mess with; I got that message pretty quick.’

  ‘So what made you back out?’

  McCreath sighed. ‘They were asking too much. No way did I want to go back to Afghanistan, but that didn’t mean I was prepared to sell the kind of information I had to the highest bidder.’ He frowned and twisted his hands together. ‘I know it’s easy to say it now, but I realized it was my mates I’d be selling down the river . . . exposing them to God knows what, now or in the future. It wasn’t like I’d planned on becoming a traitor, you know? I just wanted . . . out. Anyway, I wasn’t supposed to call anybody from the hotel, but I needed to talk to someone. So I bribed a cleaner to let me use her mobile and rang the mate I’d been staying with before Deakin turned up. He told me about Pike; said he’d heard on the grapevine that Pike had arrived back in London, ready to call it a day, but he’d been taken out.’ McCreath looked down at the table. ‘I knew it had to be Zubac and Ganic. They’d been away for a couple of days by then. I was a bit slow on the uptake, but I figured if I stalled or tried telling them I wasn’t going to sell, I’d be next.’ He gave Harry an empty look. ‘So I bugged out and headed back here.’

  ‘To do what?’ said Ballatyne.

  ‘I don’t know. Hand myself in, I suppose. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly, but I knew if I stayed where I was, I’d most likely end up dead.’

  Harry let the silence lengthen, then said, ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘I know. I should say thanks, but I suppose it would be pointless, wouldn’t it?’ He looked miserable and suddenly couldn’t meet Harry’s eye.

  ‘No, I mean you were lucky before today. You heard names, saw two of the Protectory and the two Bosnians face to face. That was a lot of exposure for someone who was going to be allowed to disappear into the sunset with a new ID and a load of cash.’ He stood up. He needed to keep moving. ‘Fact is, from that moment on, you could identify all of them and that made you a liability. Whatever else we know about the Protectory, one thing’s clear: they’ve survived for a long time now. They only let out the kind of personal information you got for one reason.’

  McCreath swallowed as the full realization of his position began to sink in. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Because once they’d drained you of the information they wanted, you weren’t going to be allowed to live long enough to pass anything on.’ He walked to the door. ‘There was nothing in this for you and never has been. Just like Neville Pike and at least three others we know of. No future, no money, no new ID. You were expendable.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  While Harry and Ballatyne were talking to McCreath amid the wreckage from the attack on the police station, Zubac and Ganic were closing in on the M25 motorway, the east–west link south of London, their sights set on taking a ferry to France. Their exit from the attack site had been a close-run thing; as they left through the rear gate, they had run into an armed response vehicle responding to an all-units call. But they had been undeterred; a few rounds of fire from the Rugers had disabled the police vehicle and they had managed to walk away amid the confusion and screams from pedestrians ducking for cover.

  Two hundred yards further on, they had made a pre-arranged hand-off of the rucksack containing the weapons to an elderly Jamaican at a grab-and-go craft stall. It disappeared under the table and in r
eturn they got a holdall and keys to an anonymous grey Renault waiting in a pub car park off Coldharbour Lane. From there it had been a simple route through the back streets to take them south and out of immediate trouble before a cordon could be set up.

  Zubac was feeling humiliated by the results of their attack. They had not failed to carry out an assignment like this in a long time – especially on a lightly armed facility where resistance should have been minimal. With superior firepower and the element of shock backed up by the M84s, it should have been a cake-walk. They should have been able to clear a route to McCreath and eliminate him with the minimum of fuss and walk away before anyone could stop them. Instead, they had been drawn like amateurs on a chase of their quarry through the corridors of the police station, only to run into a choking cloud of potassium bicarbonate in a stairwell. Zubac suppressed the desire to rub his eyes and scrabbled around in the footwell where he found a plastic bag containing a bottle of water, a change of clothing, packs of sandwiches and a packet of antiseptic wet-wipes.

  He ripped out a handful of wet-wipes and handed them to Ganic, who was driving. His friend was red around the eyes from the effects of the potassium, but had avoided the worst of the powder. Zubac had been leading the way and had started up the stairs just as the first wave had come down, cloaking him in its embrace before he could back off. He poured water into his cupped hand and splashed it over his face, swearing fluently at the man who had done this to them.

  ‘We had guns and stun grenades!’ he howled angrily, splashing more water. ‘How could this happen? They had silly little sticks, that’s all!’

  Ganic shrugged and lit a cigarette one-handed, and Zubac swore at him in frustration. His knew his friend of old; Ganic wasn’t so concerned with failure. For him, the occasional setback was an operational hazard. It happened when you were least expecting it and was something you lived with, even Zubac had to admit that. Not that Deakin would see it that way.