‘What does he use it for?’
‘Nothing he was ready to admit to. He said it was just another storage facility for supplies in the southern counties, to save trucking stuff all the way to and from London. I don’t buy it. If the buildings are that old, they’d be no good for storing anything valuable, and too out of the way for regular deliveries. The site is by a section of disused railway line in West Sussex. Remote enough to be ignored, close enough not to disturb the neighbours.’ He gave Harry the directions. ‘I haven’t told the local cops because they’d take several hours to make their risk assessments, then stamp all over the scene. If you’re still on board, you might want to take a quiet look instead.’
Harry picked up the paper. He was still on board and Ballatyne knew it. He hadn’t come all this way simply to give up out of an attack of the snits for not being consulted fully. But after this, that was it. No more.
‘Watch your back, Harry,’ Ballatyne added. ‘Even if Deakin and his friends have forgotten you, the Bosnians won’t have. They’ve got memories like elephants and they hold a grudge like nobody else on the planet.’
Back outside, Harry called Rik. He still wasn’t fit enough yet, but they were a team. He had every right to be in on this next phase. There was no answer. Must have gone stir crazy and slipped out for some air. He rang Clare. She picked up immediately.
‘You ready for some action?’
‘Ooh, Mr Tate,’ she trilled in a tarty voice. ‘You say the sweetest things. Where are we going, then?’
‘West Sussex.’
‘Nice. Are you bringing your big gun?’
Harry ignored her. She was trying to wind him up. ‘Where do I pick you up?’
‘I’ll be at your place,’ her voice returned to normal, ‘when you get back.’
Get back? He glanced around, an uneasy feeling crawling up his neck. It would never have surprised him if she was watching him from across the street. He hung up.
His phone rang immediately. Number withheld.
‘Yes?’
‘ . . . Tate? Got . . .’ The signal dropped out. The voice had been male, gruff, and too brief to recognize. It rang again before he could move. ‘Tate . . . again . . . your . . . friend.’ A jumble of half words, then a burst of static and it was gone again.
He rang Rik. Landline and mobile. No reply.
Something was wrong.
He grabbed a cab and was halfway to Paddington when a text message came through. This time there was no mistake, no garbled words. He told the cab driver to head for his place. He had something to pick up. He looked at the screen again and felt his stomach clench tight.
‘We have your friend. You help us or he dies.’ An address followed.
It was Soran’s storage facility in West Sussex.
FIFTY-FIVE
A narrow farm track led off a secondary road below the A264 in West Sussex towards a cluster of fields dotted with small clumps of woodland. Harry drove down the track, suddenly reminded by the swish of grass on either side of the track near Schwedt, where Sgt Barrow had died. The atmosphere here was very different, though; green and scenic, a pleasant rural setting with none of the history of the former Iron Curtain, a British haven where nothing bad could happen. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
He stopped along the track and got out, studying the fields on either side. All he could hear were a few birds and the subtle swish of wind through the trees and hedges.
Clare joined him and surveyed the surrounding fields. ‘Good location. It’s miles from anywhere.’
‘Precisely. Soran’s probably used this place before for bringing in his people. His place in Hackney was clean; he had to have somewhere else he could use for storage on the way back from the coast.’ He nodded towards a dark shape just visible between two oak trees at the end of the track. ‘Looks like a building.’ He walked to the rear of the car and took out his gun, checking the load. He handed Clare a second semi-automatic and a magazine.
She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Aren’t you worried I might shoot you?’ She inserted the magazine with practised precision. It set off a glint in her eye which he recalled from their time in Georgia. Some people were just turned on by guns, he decided. Or knives.
‘What would be the point?’
‘Fair question.’ She waved the gun, head cocked to one side. ‘A little bird told me you’re carded. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
She looked scornful. ‘So you’ve taken the Queen’s five-penny piece. And after all they did to you.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ Less than he’d thought, in fact, other than being dragged into fights he’d rather not have.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Tosh, Harry Tate. This is meat and drink to you and you know it.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re more complex than you pretend.’
He took out his mobile and brought up the text message from Zubac or Ganic. He held it up so she could read it. She looked at him wide-eyed, and for the first time, he thought he detected a sense of seriousness in her eyes.
‘Christ, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have still come?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Because all roads lead to Paulton. Isn’t that why you’re doing this?’
He set off without answering her question. If she was going to shoot him, now would be the time. But he was counting on her wanting Paulton too much to do it just yet. ‘Keep a lookout,’ he murmured, ‘and try not to shoot any members of the Ramblers Association.’
They left the car and moved down the track, arriving at an open gateway and a cluster of small outbuildings on a level patch of ground. Harry stopped in the shade of an oak tree and studied the layout. He counted five buildings in all, darkened by age and neglect, some sprouting grass from the roof. They still looked usable, and seemed too structured to be farm buildings. He soon realized why; the ground they stood on was at the head of a north–south stretch of land which must once have been a runway. Any brick or concrete buildings had long since been demolished, but someone had obviously forgotten about the Nissen huts used as sleeping quarters or storerooms. Whoever now owned the land had profited by renting them out for temporary storage or as workshops.
He glanced at Clare and nodded towards the left-hand buildings. She slipped away without a word, the gun held two-handed in front of her. He didn’t wait to hear if there were any shouts of alarm, but started walking around the other side, eyes on the window panel in the door of the nearest hut.
Empty. The missing pane showed an oil-stained floor and an old workbench, the interior walls festooned with cobwebs. It hadn’t been used in years. He skirted the building and approached the next one, feeling the hard standing underfoot, with cracks and crevices in the concrete caused by the passage of time.
Also empty and with a hole in the roof. He glanced across and saw Clare moving away from a hut on her side. She shook her head to indicate nothing found, then stepped up to the next one. She peered through the window and shook her head again.
One more left.
Harry stopped.
The last hut was a dozen paces away, set slightly apart from the other four. Something about it looked different. He gave Clare a warning signal, and she hunkered down by the wall of the hut she had just checked while he gave this last one the once-over. Unlike the previous huts, this last one had a newer door and no window. The roof also looked solid and the grass around the doorway had been flattened by regular use.
He waited, listening for any alien sound above the breeze. A couple of skylarks were kicking up a song high above, and an unseen tractor was clattering away in the distance. Disturbingly ordinary. If the Bosnians were in there, they would catch him flat-footed before he got halfway across the open space towards the door.
To hell with it. He stepped out and moved at an angle towards the hut, which would make it hard for anyone inside to draw a bead on him. Then he cut back in and fetched up against the
door. No shots and he was still upright.
He tried the handle. Locked. He walked around the back, checking for a second door, and found a grey Renault tucked in against the rear wall. The bonnet was up and a pool of oil had spread out on the ground underneath.
Clare joined him. ‘Looks like they ran out of luck.’ The keys were still in the ignition. She leaned in and gave them a twist. The engine made an unpleasant noise but refused to catch. ‘Seized up.’
Harry walked back to the door. ‘Sorry, Mr Soran,’ he muttered, ‘but needs must.’ He kicked hard at the panel alongside the lock. The door gave slightly and he kicked again, driving it back until it smacked against an obstruction on the inside.
A wave of musty air came out to greet them, overlaid with body odour and cigarette smoke. Harry stepped inside. Anyone here would not have locked themselves in, waiting to be caught.
The interior was dark. A large battery-powered camping lantern stood on a workbench just inside the door. He switched it on. A pile of wooden crates stood at the far end, with cardboard boxes standing on pallets to keep them off the floor. The floor itself was bare concrete. Against the walls halfway down the hut lay four camp beds, two on each side. A nylon sleeping bag lay on each one with a bare pillow at the head. Two mugs stood on the floor, and an ashtray was perched on an up-ended rubber bucket.
On one of the other beds lay a crumpled T-shirt with a vivid orange starburst pattern on the front. Harry walked across and picked it up. He had only ever seen one like this; Rik had been wearing it. He’d left a clue.
He checked the cardboard boxes, which looked new. Video game consoles with a brand name he’d never heard of. Probably cheap rip-offs if Soran was risking leaving them here. The wooden crates were just small enough to have come through the door, but were heavy, and nailed down tight. He left them. Whatever was in them could wait. He went back out to where Clare was waiting.
‘Anything?’
‘No. Rik was here, though.’ He walked around the outside of the hut, scanning the ground. The grass was shorter here, and clumped haphazardly where it had pushed through the concrete. Further out, though, on the edge of the old runway, it was longer, untouched by vehicles or humans, shimmering in the breeze like waves in the sea.
‘There.’ He pointed to where twin lines ran through the grass towards the far end of the runway, the passage of whoever had walked down there showing darker than the rest. One line was broader than the other, with occasional kinks, as if someone had stepped off the line they were following.
Or he was being dragged.
‘Come on.’ Harry set off, leaving Clare to decide whether she wanted to come or not. He wasn’t sure why the Bosnians had taken Rik with them, but it could only have been as a bargaining tool if they ran into trouble, or to use him as a last throw of the dice before they bugged out. Whatever their reasoning, it was a short-term thing; this could only go on so long before they wouldn’t need him any longer.
‘This isn’t a random route. They’ve come this way for a reason.’ Clare spoke just behind him.
She was right. It was too direct, too purposeful. Nobody in their position would head out into the fields like this on a whim. They’d be drawing him out and making for a back-up vehicle, somewhere not too far away. Deakin and Soran would have provided for that. They would want both men out of the country so they couldn’t talk.
‘We’d better hurry.’ Clare sounded calm and controlled, her breathing steady. Harry reminded himself that she would have been through a tough training course with MI6, including close quarter combat exercises and live firing. Scenarios such as this would have been part of the curriculum, played out with as much reality as they could muster.
But that was training. It was nothing like the real thing.
FIFTY-SIX
They reached a wire fence, sagging in places, the posts canted at odd angles. On the other side was a railway cutting. The disused line Ballatyne had mentioned. The banks were carpeted with wild flowers, overgrown with bushes and brambles, spilling over in a frenzy of free growth all the way to the bottom.
Harry studied the area, noting where someone had slid down through the grass at one point, bending and crushing the stems, the way a man might if his hands were tied and he was unable to keep his balance.
He stepped over the fence and stood for a moment before venturing down the slope. If the Bosnians suspected someone was after them, they would be waiting at the bottom. Although on higher ground, the pursuer would be vulnerable, committed to the long slope with nowhere to hide but soft bushes and nowhere to go but down.
It would be like a turkey shoot.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Clare. She joined him and then stood by his side, staring at the ground below and no doubt thinking the same thing.
It was a trap waiting to be sprung.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We do it together.’ He pointed to where a path had already been flattened, where Rik had lost his balance. ‘I’ll take this, you take a spot further along.’ He set off without waiting, knowing that to argue was to waste time. Rik couldn’t have long left.
He slid down the slope by degrees, waiting for the slightest movement, the merest hint of sound. It might be all they would get. Zubac and Ganic were skilled on terrain like this, and would have trained and fought in open country as well as woodland. They had the skills and the motivation, and too much to lose to play safe. They would kill at first sight.
Harry reached the bottom and studied the terrain. The metal rails and sleepers were long gone, the ground now flatter, but scattered still with stone ballast which made walking uneven. There were signs of regular use, however, and he guessed this was probably part of a hiking route. He fervently hoped nobody was going to come this way today.
He waited for Clare to join him, then turned east. ‘Grinstead is this way. If we follow the line, we’ll find them.’
He led the way, with Clare following a few paces behind. They stopped every now and then, listening, checking the bushes ahead for signs of disturbance, for anything that shouldn’t be there. Overhead, the skylarks were becoming a distraction, and Harry wondered what the penalties were for shooting them.
They came to a bridge. Brick built and sturdy, with metal parapets and ornamental panels, it rose up above the track, throwing a shadow and dwarfing the surrounding bushes and trees with its sheer bulk. There was no sound of traffic passing over its length, only the birdsong, now distant and faint.
‘Unused,’ Clare murmured.
Harry said nothing. If there was anywhere to spring a trap, it was right here. Plenty of hard cover, lots of shadow, good vantage points from on high, tailor made for killing.
He heard a creak of wood.
They had passed an ancient grit bin a few yards back. Made of metal, with two wooden batwing-style doors set at an angle, it was a piece of railway detritus, abandoned and forgotten. Warped now and long since peeled of any paint, the doors were shut.
Except now they were moving.
‘Down!’ Harry turned, bringing up his weapon, instincts and training kicking in. He found Clare standing in his way, and stepped sideways to get a better line of fire. She moved back, trying to drag her gun round to bear on the target, but stumbled on a piece of ballast and lost her balance.
The batwing doors flew open, and the tall figure of Ganic uncurled from inside, grinning triumphantly. He had waited for them to pass before making his move, and now he had them cold. He was aiming at Harry, whom he clearly thought was the bigger danger. But as he squeezed the trigger, one of the doors fell back against his leg.
It was enough to distract him. The gunshot was loud in the cutting, the bullet so close to Harry’s head he swore he felt the wind of its passing.
He stood his ground and returned fire. Two shots, an echo of a third, and Ganic was flung backwards, trying to stay upright, a shocked look on his face as twin red spots showed on his shirt front. He dropped his gun and fell back into the bin, the doors disintegrating as his
heavy body crushed them flat.
Clare had cried out. It took Harry a moment to realize that he had only fired twice. Clare had not fired at all.
But there had been a third shot.
He turned. Clare was lying across the track, a bright splash of red on her stomach. She had dropped her gun and was scrabbling in pain at the ground, trying to get up, and staring at Harry, eyes wide in desperation and shock.
‘Don’t move!’
Harry froze. Slowly turned his head. It was Zubac, standing just clear of the bridge and holding a semi-automatic. It had been a classic ambush. Zubac must have been waiting in the safety recess under the bridge, with Ganic taking the rear.
Zubac stepped out from the bridge, feet crunching on the scattered ballast, motioning with his free hand for Harry to drop his gun.
‘Drop the gun, Englishman, or I’ll finish off your bitch right now.’
Harry did so reluctantly, bending slightly to allow the gun to drop carefully. Misfires could also kill. It would be too humiliating to be gut-shot by his own weapon.
‘What do you want?’ He had to keep Zubac talking. Talking was good. Talking allowed for distractions and negotiations. Talking meant life.
‘Want?’ Zubac was looking at Ganic’s body, slumped inelegantly across the grit bin that had been his hiding place. If he was upset by the death of his friend, he showed no emotion.
‘Yes. You didn’t lead us down here for nothing. You could have been away and gone by now.’
‘True.’ Zubac shrugged and looked up at the sky. The skylarks had gone silent. Only the tractor droned on, ragged and distant. ‘It is pleasant here. Tranquil. Is that the word – tranquil?’ He dropped his gaze to Clare. ‘Help me and I won’t let her suffer.’ Harry glanced at Clare, who was groaning softly. Fresh blood glistened wetly on her blouse, with a trail running down her side. If he didn’t get help soon, she would die.
Deception Page 24
