Deception

by Adrian Magson

‘Help you how?’

  ‘Out of the country. With you I can get across the water.’

  ‘Why me? Hasn’t Soran got you a way out? Deakin? Nicholls?’

  Zubac stared at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. ‘You know a lot, Englishman. Maybe too much. Maybe I should kill you right now.’ He lifted the gun and took the first pressure on the trigger.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ‘So far so good, then.’ Paulton nodded. Deakin had just relayed the news that Ferris was in the bag and a message had gone to Tate letting him know. He and the others were walking around the lake at the conference centre, avoiding the other groups taking a break from their meetings. Chatting with corporate windbags was the last thing any of them wanted to do right now.

  ‘As long as Tate does what you said he will.’ Deakin picked up a stone and flicked it into the water. ‘You’ve got a lot more faith in him than I have. What’s to stop him screaming for the cops?’

  ‘Because it’s not in his nature. I know the way he thinks, believe me.’ Paulton was now relishing the fact that they were depending on his knowledge of Harry Tate to do the right thing. It meant the balance of influence had shifted, allowing him to play a more guiding role in what would follow. ‘He’ll trot after Ferris alone because he’s been conditioned to do so. It’s all he knows.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t?’ Turpowicz insisted.

  ‘In that case, there will be a messy confrontation with the police or Special Forces and I fear your two thugs will not return to their homeland. And Ferris will be another casualty of police action.’ He eyed Turpowicz keenly. ‘In which event, Mr Turp, I think we might have need of your specialized military skills.’

  ‘Me?’ Turpowicz stopped walking.

  ‘Yes.’ Paulton turned and glanced at Deakin for support. ‘Of the three of us, you alone have the freedom to travel to the UK without lighting up half the security or military networks in the country. You’re what some of my more hip, cool and trendy former colleagues call a “clean skin” – unknown to anyone and able to move freely without arousing interest.’

  ‘Why the hell would he need to do that?’ Deakin asked. He sounded torn between the desire to remain in control and fascination at what Paulton was saying.

  ‘Damn right,’ Turpowicz echoed. ‘I like it just fine on this side of the Channel, thanks.’

  Paulton kept his eyes on the American’s face. It was a trick he’d learned when about to propose a dangerous course of action to a subordinate. It lent gravity and confidence to the implied request that was about to follow. ‘If the Bosnians fail to stop Tate, then you will have to step in and take over. Unless, of course, you’ve been out of practice too long?’

  It was a risky way of provoking a positive response, not least because Paulton wasn’t sure what Deakin’s reaction would be at having matters taken out of his hands like this. Except that it made absolute sense – and he was certain that the former US airborne sergeant’s pride would not let him back down.

  ‘He’s right.’ Deakin nodded after a few moments. ‘We have to get this turkey off our tail. We’ve already used up three of our five days, and we don’t need Tate on our case along with the Chinese. How about it, Turp?’ He waited for his colleague to agree.

  Turpowicz stared at them in turn, then tilted his head. ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Paulton smiled broadly. ‘Good man. Shall we go and celebrate, or do you need to go off into the woods and practise those silent kill techniques which I know they teach at Fort Campbell?’

  Turpowicz didn’t return the smile. ‘No need. Once taught, never forgotten.’

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ‘It’s not just me any more,’ said Harry, thinking fast, eyes fastening on Zubac’s and trying to drill into his brain. ‘The word is out; the Protectory is going to be ripped apart anytime soon. Their time is up along with anyone associated with them: Deakin, Turpowicz, Nicholls, the lot. For you, using any of the conventional ports is out of the question. They’ll be watching every exit from here to Inverness.’

  Zubac slowly relaxed his grip on the gun, flexing his fingers around the butt as a frown knotted his brow. The barrel dipped as he absorbed what Harry was saying. Then, ‘You better hope not.’ He shifted the gun and angled it down at Clare’s head. ‘Or I shoot her right now. You think I care about shooting a woman? She is nothing to me. We did it all the time where I come from. It was sport.’

  ‘OK. OK.’ Harry wanted to call his bluff, but he couldn’t take the chance. He’d seen what Zubac was capable of. He lifted a hand to placate him, anything to stop him pulling the trigger. ‘Let me think how. First, though, where’s the man you took?’

  Zubac blinked. ‘Ah, you mean your colleague, the boy?’ He tilted his head back towards the bridge. ‘Him I nearly forgot. He’s fine. He’s my other insurance, in case this one dies too quick . . . or you refuse to help.’

  To emphasize his point, Zubac reached down and placed the gun barrel against Clare’s forehead. He took the first pressure on the trigger as Clare stared up at him, looking helplessly past the gun. ‘You like this woman, Englishman? Huh? She’s not pretty already; this will make her even less so, I promise you. Difficult to like her much then.’ He grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘But at least she won’t fight back, yes?’

  Harry didn’t say anything. He was too busy trying not to look at Clare. Her right hand was moving. He told himself that it was probably a subconscious motor motion, a reaction to shock and pain drawing in the muscles. God knows what she must be feeling.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’ It was bullshit, of course, as they all knew. Zubac would no more allow them to go free than he would give himself in to the police. First Clare, then Rik, then Harry; all expendable in exchange for his freedom. And with Harry, Zubac had a score to settle. ‘So what was the plan, then, before this? If you’ve got a vehicle, it would help.’ Keep him talking, opening the idea that he could get away even now.

  ‘There is another car with fresh plates. In the town called Grinstead.’ Zubac had trouble with the ‘Gr’. ‘One kilometre east from here, by crossing . . . but not used any more. You understand, crossing?’

  ‘I understand. All you have to do is walk along the track until you reach it.’

  Clare had brought her hand down to her hip, moving with excruciating slowness. It must have been agony. Harry kept his eyes on Zubac’s face, demanding his full attention. He had no idea what Clare was up to, but if she could distract him long enough . . .

  ‘That’s easy enough. You get the car and then what? What did Soran say to do next? What was the plan?’

  Zubac spat to one side. ‘Soran is going to be dead man,’ he muttered. ‘The Renault he gave us was supposed to be good. It was shit machinery with shit engine, fit for scrapyard. So maybe there is no car in Grinstead and he cheat us. That is why you will help.’

  Christ on a bike, Harry thought. What a time to lose confidence in your supply line.

  ‘There will be other cars, no problem. I can get one.’

  Clare’s hand had disappeared. She was now trying to move her body, to roll slightly. Was she going for a back-up weapon . . . or was the pain so acute that she was trying to ease it? Whatever, the final movement was sufficient to catch Zubac’s attention.

  He glanced down with a muttered query.

  Harry began to move, his gut lurching. It was no good; he would be too late. All it would take was the pressure of Zubac’s finger—

  Fortunately, Zubac was even slower to react. Clare gave a grunt and her hand came out from under her body trailing a glint of silver. She brushed the back of Zubac’s hand, leaving behind a heavy veil of blood as the blade of her compact knife sliced deeply through the skin and extensor tendons. The Bosnian cried out in pain and tried to pull the trigger, but his fingers were useless and the gun fell on to Clare’s face. As it slid to her side, she scooped it up in a flash and thrust it into his chest, screamed furiously, and pulled the trigger twice in
quick succession.

  Zubac was thrown backwards by the force of the shots.

  By the time Harry got to her side, Clare had dropped the gun and was nearly unconscious. He made her comfortable and checked her airways were clear, then tore off his shirt and used his belt to hold a wad of the cloth against the wound.

  As he worked on trying to save her, she watched him, her eyes unnaturally bright. If there was a message in there, he failed to see it. But then she whispered something and it was simple, desperate.

  ‘Help me . . .’ Then she passed out.

  Harry took out his phone and rang Ballatyne’s office.

  ‘One woman with a gunshot wound,’ he told the man who answered, and gave him his location. ‘She needs urgent medical attention. Ground access is rubbish – a chopper would be quicker. Tell them to look for a railway cutting near a bridge. Landing area is good.’

  ‘Understood, sir. Air ambulance on the way. I’ll tell Mr Ballatyne. Any opposition likely?’

  ‘There was – they’re both dead.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The man cut the connection and Harry switched off his phone, not sure if his final words had been an acknowledgement or a congratulation.

  Rik. He had to find Rik. Must be under the bridge if Zubac had been telling the truth. As he scooped up his gun and stood up, Harry glanced back along the track, eyes drifting towards the grit bin where he had shot Ganic.

  But Ganic was no longer there.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Harry jogged across to the bin, staying low. The skin on his neck was prickling with anticipation, expecting the slam of a gunshot. But nothing came. He scanned the area, hoping for some signs showing where the Bosnian had gone. How the hell had the man survived the two shots? He must have the constitution of an elephant.

  But he wasn’t bulletproof. There were blood spots on the ground. More on the remains of the bin’s wooden doors and the grass leading towards the slope. It didn’t look as if he was bleeding profusely, but still more than enough to have slowed down or stopped most men in their tracks.

  And no sign of his gun.

  A tangle of bushes littered the slope, some at head height and covered with greenery. Too dense to see anything clearly until you were right on it, by which time it was too late. If Ganic was up there waiting, it would be suicidal going up after him. He’d have done this kind of fighting before. All the Bosnian had to do was wait and Harry would walk right on to his gun.

  He turned towards the bridge. He had to find Rik, or Ganic would have a bargaining tool and they’d be back to square one. And somehow he doubted Ganic would be as patient or as talkative as Zubac.

  He stopped before going in, trying to see inside the shadowed structure. It was probably forty feet wide, the ground clear as far as he could see. But there were bushes and weeds growing along the base of the walls, ideal cover for a man to lie in wait. If Ganic had worked his way round and was already in there . . . Harry shook his head. Pointless worrying. After all, what else was he going to do – turn round and walk away? This had to bloody end some time.

  He stepped forward, braced for a movement, a sound. According to the close quarter combat instructors many years ago, it was more a feeling you had to look for, a shift in the atmosphere that gave a hint of the threat to come. If the opposition was good enough, they’d make no sound, have no need to move until they were ready. But the air around them would shift, and that was what they had to look out for. The good students used their instincts and tuned in immediately, picking up the signals. The bad ones ended up dead. At the time, Harry had thought it was instructor mumbo-jumbo, thrown in to make them try harder. But he’d soon learned different.

  He heard a groan, then a scrape of sound, like fabric rubbing on something. It was coming from the far side of the bridge, behind the wall.

  Was it Ganic, wounded and desperate, but willing Harry on so he could kill him?

  It was Rik, arms tied behind his back and ankles held by a wrap-around of rope. Just enough to hold a man still. He looked groggy, his body limp, but he jumped when Harry bent over him. Then recognition flooded his face and he relaxed.

  ‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you?’ he moaned, shaking off the ropes when Harry loosened the knots. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight them off all by myself. Jesus, I’ve got a headache. That bastard Zubac . . .’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. They came knocking not long after you left. I thought it was you and opened the door. Next thing I knew I was having the shit kicked out of me. I don’t remember much after that.’ He looked up with a start. ‘Where are they? I heard shots.’

  ‘Zubac’s dead. Ganic’s free and roaming but wounded. Lie still – you might have concussion. There’s a chopper on the way. We need to get back to Clare.’ He put a hand under Rik’s arm and helped him up.

  ‘Clare? You mean slice-and-dice Clare, the MI6 sushi chef? What’s that crazy bitch doing here?’

  ‘Saving our bacon, mostly, so stop moaning, you little tick – you owe her. She took a bullet.’

  Rik made a sound, stumbling on shaky legs. ‘Long as I don’t have to be bessy mates with her. She gives me the creeps.’

  They emerged from the bridge and crossed to where Clare was lying. Her breathing was uneven, but she was hanging on.

  ‘Christ, that looks bad,’ said Rik. He looked shocked, dropping the antagonism in an instant. ‘Is she going to make it?’

  ‘Only if they’re quick.’ Harry stood and listened, wondering where the chopper would come from. For Clare the seconds were ticking away.

  Rik found Zubac’s gun. He checked the load, cleaned off some dirt, then sat down on the ground and looked up at Harry.

  ‘This was a fuck-up, wasn’t it? All of it. Was it necessary?’

  Harry shrugged. He didn’t know any more. They hadn’t found the Protectory or Paulton, and one of their tame orcs was out there somewhere with a gun. He took out his mobile and called Ballatyne. This time the man himself answered.

  ‘You on another killing spree, Harry?’ he said drily. ‘I’m not going to have to send you back overseas, am I? The ambulance should be there any minute, by the way. What’s the damage?’

  ‘Clare Jardine’s badly wounded, Rik’s bashed up but moaning and one of the Bosnians was playing possum. He’s out there somewhere, bleeding, but armed and mobile.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s a police chopper somewhere above you now. Got a camera on board so good he can spot the freckles on a rabbit’s arse. Moment they see Ganic they’ll have him picked up by a Special Forces team.’

  ‘No,’ said Harry quickly. That was the worst thing they could do. ‘Let Ganic run.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘They have a car waiting ready to go. They were trying to get back across the Channel. Ganic wasn’t the brains of the outfit; that was Zubac’s role. Ganic’s a soldier. All he knows is they had to get out of the country – he won’t be thinking about why. With Zubac dead he’ll concentrate on getting back to Deakin . . . and Paulton.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Harry. The man’s a cop killer.’ Ballatyne sounded adamant. ‘We let him get among the public with a gun and we’ll all end up in Parkhurst. There could be a bloodbath.’

  ‘Then get me to him before he can go anywhere.’

  ‘To do what? You’re not the executioner here, Harry.’

  ‘He’ll tell me where Deakin is hiding. Pinpoint his location and get me close behind, and I’ll follow him in before he gets anywhere public – but you have to be quick.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then it’s over.’

  Ten minutes later, Harry was seated in the body of a British Chinook fitted out with medical equipment. He could do nothing but watch while the crew of army medics got on with their job, evaluating the extent of Clare’s injury and keeping her alive before they took to the air. She was still losing blood from the bullet wound in her side, and her skin was a frightening shade of grey. The chief medic was on the radio feeding through the detail
s of her wound and current state ready for their arrival and Clare’s transfer to an emergency unit, while his colleagues busied themselves monitoring her condition and keeping her as still as possible against the build-up of vibration as the aircraft got ready to lift off.

  Across from Harry, Rik was staring at her, his face a vivid array of colours from where Zubac and Ganic had subdued him for transport to the abandoned airfield. He had a patch of blood on his chest, but a medic had pronounced it a minor leakage from his shoulder wound which, Rik had explained, was caused by a carefully placed kick from Ganic on the way down.

  One of the helicopter crew members waved at Harry and signalled for him to get out. Harry unclipped his belt and jumped down, and the crew member hurried him away from the noise and dust of the down-draught.

  ‘You’re to wait here,’ he shouted. ‘They’ve spotted your man less than half a mile away. He’s down and not moving. Another helicopter will pick you up in three minutes. Stand well back and keep your head down.’ He clapped Harry on the shoulder and jumped back into the fuselage, then the Chinook wound up and lifted off, enveloping Harry and everything around him in a stinging spray of soil, dust and tiny bits of gravel.

  SIXTY

  Ganic was lying to one side of the trail, face up, arms flung out to his sides.

  As the police helicopter assigned to pick Harry up slid alongside the old railway cutting, Harry could see that the Bosnian’s hands were empty. He checked the cutting in each direction. Nobody about. But just beyond where he was lying, the remains of an old vehicle crossing were just visible where a track met the railway at right-angles.

  There was no sign of a getaway car. Zubac’s suspicions had been correct: Soran had failed to keep to this part of the plan.

  ‘Drop me here,’ he said, pointing to the top of the slope leading to the track, where long grass would make a soft landing and give him some cover if Ganic was still a danger.