Deception

by Adrian Magson

  The pilot nodded and lost height, and Harry dropped from the doorway and rolled, feeling the impact through his legs. He stood up and took out his gun, then stepped over the wooden fence rail and crouched at the top of the slope just above where Ganic was lying. He hadn’t moved.

  The helicopter pulled away, the down-draught fanning the surrounding vegetation and lifting Ganic’s jacket.

  Harry mentally crossed his fingers, then slid down the slope. Holding his gun two-handed, he fixed the sights on the man below. Any movement and he was going to start shooting, and to hell with Ballatyne’s reaction.

  He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ganic’s gun lying nearby. Too far for the Bosnian to reach out for it, even if he’d wanted to. It was covered in blood, with a trail of bright red splashes leading back in the direction of the bridge. Ganic’s shirt front was awash with red, too.

  His eyes were open, watching as Harry approached. He showed no expression. But a blink showed he was still conscious.

  ‘You’re a tough man to stop,’ said Harry.

  ‘Fuck you, Englishman.’ Ganic’s whisper was faint, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘You lucky.’

  Harry squatted down alongside him, showed him the gun. He felt no emotion at seeing this man down; Ganic had planned on taking Jean and killing Rik, and had a long list of bodies to his name, including the officers in Brixton. In the grand scheme of things, his time was long overdue.

  ‘Where’s Deakin?’

  A red bubble formed at the corner of Ganic’s mouth. He shook his head and coughed, his face twisting with pain. The bubble popped and a string of reddened saliva slid down the side of his chin.

  ‘Come on, what’s the point of defending him? Deakin stiffed you; he left you here with no car and no way out.’ He nodded in the direction of the crossing, which he could just see from here. Ganic must have seen it, too, before he fell. An empty track with no car in sight. It had probably been the last straw for a dying man. ‘What do you owe him?’

  Ganic swallowed, but said nothing. The helicopter had gone, and Harry guessed it had landed to conserve fuel. Overhead the skylarks had started up again, and a pigeon added its melancholy tune to the landscape.

  ‘Milan?’ The man’s voice was fainter, his breathing faster. ‘Where’s Mil . . . Milan?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Ganic’s eyes swivelled. ‘You?’

  ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘Then . . . the woman?’ He tried to laugh, but choked noisily instead.

  Harry waited for him to recover, and his breathing to settle. ‘He took his eyes off her.’

  Ganic coughed, liquid burbling in his throat. ‘Bloody fool,’ he murmured. ‘He always talked too much.’

  ‘Deakin,’ said Harry, sensing Ganic’s clock was fast running down. ‘Where do I find him? And Paulton.’

  ‘Do not . . . know . . . Pault . . .’ Ganic swallowed. ‘Turpowicz. American airborne . . . Nich . . .’ He seemed to run out of names, as if it had all been too tiring.

  ‘But Deakin. Where does he hide out?’

  Ganic’s head flopped sideways. For a moment, Harry thought he’d gone. But when he bent closer he was surprised to pick up a flutter of breathing. ‘Deakin . . . is English . . . asshole,’ Ganic whispered.

  Then he died.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Two days passed during which Clare Jardine hovered between life and death, her every heartbeat monitored in an intensive care centre. The bullet from Zubac’s gun had done a lot of damage, causing serious blood loss. But she was tough in body and spirit, and the consultants finally emerged to pronounce her past the worst. It was expected that she would survive as long as no infections set in.

  There was also the revelation that Osama bin Laden had finally been run to ground in Pakistan and killed by US Special Forces. There had been no let up ever since the news broke, and every broadcast brought fresh details about the capture and the ramifications for the West.

  Harry wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or satisfied about either event. Bin Laden himself was a distant figure, more news-feed image than a real person. The danger facing the West came from radicalized followers who were unknown and therefore highly dangerous, and likely to want to make a statement of support.

  As for Clare, he still wouldn’t trust her as far as he could jump, but she had saved Jean and himself when she didn’t need to, and he was grateful for that. She had also unwittingly saved Rik Ferris, who had grudgingly given her a thank you in acknowledgement by sending her a new powder compact made of bright-pink, girly plastic. No blade attached.

  ‘She can recover in a prison ward,’ Ballatyne announced tersely. He had called a meeting at Georgio’s. Ballatyne’s male minder was in tow as usual, and gave Harry a familiar nod.

  Harry was dismayed by the comment. ‘Isn’t it a little late in the day for that?’

  ‘Jesus, hardly. She killed her boss, a serving MI6 officer, remember? That’s a long prison term right there.’

  ‘Oh, you mean her boss the corrupt, murdering MI6 officer who wanted us both dead,’ Harry pointed out evenly. ‘She did us a favour and you know it. Bellingham would have walked, otherwise.’

  Ballatyne looked mildly shocked. ‘Surely you’re not defending her, Harry. Did she get under your skin that much?’

  ‘No. She saved my life and she saved Jean. Call me old-fashioned like that, but I can’t help it. You’d do the same.’

  ‘Maybe so. But the law’s the law.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Harry leaned threateningly towards him. Ballatyne’s minder got to his feet, although it was to pour himself a glass of water. He raised the glass in the background in a mock salute and grinned, then turned away. ‘What’s the point of locking her up? It won’t accomplish anything.’

  Ballatyne shrugged. He appeared to have no ready argument, which made Harry question how serious he had been in the first place. ‘Maybe not. I’ll see. No promises, though.’

  Harry sat back. It was something at least.

  ‘Nicholls has come in, by the way,’ Ballatyne told him. ‘Bumped into a group of Intelligence Corps officers at Frankfurt airport and suffered some kind of a mental trauma. Luckily one of them took it seriously and they hustled him away to a medical unit where he was treated and shipped back here. No idea when he’ll be able to talk coherently, if ever, but at least it’s another one down.’ He chewed his lip. ‘No sign of Deakin or Paulton, though. And if Nicholls knows, he isn’t saying.’

  ‘And the American?’ There had been no mention of Turpowicz.

  ‘Ah, well there we have some news. He’s been taken off the American AWOL list. He walked into Grosvenor Square the day before yesterday and asked to speak to the US Embassy’s Army Intelligence liaison. He’s probably out of the country by now and on his way to the brig . . . or whatever they call it over there. Good riddance.’

  ‘Do we know why he came in?’

  ‘No, and right now they’re not telling. He’ll go through a period of questioning, so we might find out later. But I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘No problem. We’ll keep looking.’

  Ballatyne shook his head and looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, that’s why I called you here.’

  Harry waited. He sensed something wrong in the atmosphere.

  ‘There’s no point continuing, I’m afraid. You’re being stood down. This operation is now terminated. We’ve been given other priorities.’

  ‘Like what?’ Harry didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. He could guess what it was, in which case he didn’t expect Ballatyne to answer. But he was surprised when he did.

  ‘Blame Osama. Ever since he got himself caught and killed, all agencies have been ordered to focus on watching for a backlash from his supporters. Sorry, but it can’t be helped. Our remit just got broader and our budgets still got slashed. We’ll have to leave Paulton and Deakin for another time.’

  ‘Why can’t we do both? They’re out there preying on deserters and s
elling secrets, and we have to stand back and let them do it? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Ballatyne shrugged, his face hardening. ‘It rarely does, Harry, you know that. There’s nothing else I can say.’

  ‘But they’ll be vulnerable now. With Nicholls gone and Turpowicz off the board, they’ll have to reorganize. And Turpowicz must have jumped for a reason. He was either disillusioned or felt threatened by something – maybe the direction Deakin was taking them in. If we can put the squeeze on him, we stand a good chance of finding out where they are.’

  It was like fighting smoke. Ballatyne merely shook his head and repeated what he had said.

  ‘Fine,’ Harry said at last. ‘I’ll look for them myself.’

  Ballatyne shrugged. ‘I can’t stop you doing that, of course. But you’ll have to do it without my help. Sorry. Orders.’

  ‘What about Cullum?’

  ‘He was threatened with being dropped from a very great height, but he doesn’t know anything. They made sure of that.’

  Harry gave up. It wasn’t Ballatyne’s fault. He decided to walk home, hoping to shed his anger by pounding the pavements. It wouldn’t do his shoe leather much good, but the exercise might make him feel a little less like wrecking something.

  As he rounded a corner on to Euston Road, his phone rang.

  ‘Harry Tate?’ The voice was American. ‘My name’s Greg Turpowicz. Is there any chance we could meet? I’d like to talk.’

  SIXTY-TWO

  ‘Have you heard from the Screaming Eagle yet?’ Paulton walked into Deakin’s room without ceremony, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. He was referring to Turpowicz, using the 101st Airborne’s nickname. Dressed in a neat suit and tie, the executive abroad, he strode across to the window overlooking a large expanse of lake and studied the landscape. It looked fresh and clean under the early morning sunlight, inviting a brisk walk. ‘He was supposed to keep in touch, wasn’t he?’

  Deakin shrugged. ‘He’s not a rookie; I don’t need to hear from him every couple of hours. What’s the problem?’

  It had been two days since Ganic had failed to respond; two days since they had received confirmation that both the Bosnians had gone down, apparently without revealing any information. Dead before they hit the ground, according to Paulton’s contact in the Met Police.

  ‘The lack of reassuring information is the problem,’ Paulton murmured. ‘He was supposed to get close to Tate and deal with him for good. He has all the information he needs. I’d just relish hearing that he has done that.’

  Deakin lifted an eyebrow. For once, he seemed quite calm, while Paulton was the edgy one. They had remained in position, safe in the knowledge that nothing would go wrong, and neither of the Bosnians knew where they were, so could not reveal their location, even if they survived. Turpowicz, on the other hand, did know, although Deakin had professed continued faith in the former American soldier’s ability to stay out of trouble and keep his mouth shut even if he was questioned.

  ‘You need to chill, George,’ he said. ‘Turp will do the business.’ He grinned malevolently. ‘He has a vested interest in doing things right, anyway. The Yanks are a lot less forgiving of their deserters than the Brits; if they should happen to find out where he is . . . well, he’ll spend a lot of time banged up.’

  Paulton looked at him. ‘Tom, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say that sounds as if you’ve applied a little undue pressure on our American friend. That’s a bit risky with a man of his background, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. Turp knows which side his bread is buttered.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that. Only I would like to hear that he’s still in the game . . . merely for my own peace of mind, you understand?’ He waited, eyebrows lifted, until the other man nodded with a sigh.

  ‘OK. I’ll call him.’ Deakin took out his mobile and touched speed dial. It rang several times before being picked up. ‘Turp? How’s it going? Have you completed the transaction yet?’ He listened, eyes on Paulton, then said, ‘Sounds good to me. You know where to meet up once you’re done? Good.’ He switched off the phone and smiled. ‘He knows where Tate is going to be tomorrow morning. He’ll do it then. Believe me, I’ve seen his work before. Tate’s dead meat. Satisfied?’

  SIXTY-THREE

  ‘One of these days I’ll have a proper meeting in an office with an appointment and everything,’ Harry said, as a tall, thin man sat down beside him. ‘Who are the flat tops?’ He was referring to the men he’d spotted trying to blend in with the tourist crowd in Kensington Gardens. They were not doing too well, and were too fit and smart, in an overtly military kind of way.

  ‘They work for US Army Intelligence. Don’t worry about them, Mr Tate – they’re pretty harmless.’ The man smiled. ‘As a matter of interest, how many can you see?’

  Harry didn’t need to look. One was stationed under the trees against the backdrop of moving traffic along the Bayswater Road; a second was standing by the Round Pond watching two swans; and two more were on the move along the Broad Walk in front of Kensington Palace, but never straying too far and trying not to look directly at Harry and his new companion. ‘Four.’

  The smile dropped. ‘Four it is.’ The man held out a hand. ‘Greg Turpowicz. It’s good of you to meet with me.’ He sounded relaxed and genial, a man with time on his side. His hand was dry, the grip firm but with the underlying power of a man who kept himself in good physical shape.

  ‘Good’s got nothing to do with it, Master Sergeant. I need information.’

  The American looked stunned. ‘You know my background?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. The accent couldn’t have been Deakin, Nicholls has had a brainstorm and turned himself in, and I’d know Paulton’s voice anywhere. You were the only one left. And,’ he continued, waving a finger in a circular motion, ‘there are a few of our own flat top equivalents in the neighbourhood, too. Just to see that you play nice.’

  Turpowicz couldn’t help it; he glanced around the park. ‘I don’t see ’em.’ One of the watchers picked up on the look and started to move, but the American shook his head to warn him off.

  ‘They’re here, take my word for it. If this was a film, you’d be able to see at least three red dots dancing on the front of your shirt.’

  Turpowicz struggled not to glance down, and gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m impressed. You must have connections.’ He watched two heavily built men in tracksuits walking a string of large dogs, and a small Asian woman almost being pulled off her feet by another pack. ‘Is it true that this place is crowded with Russian agents? I hear this is where they come to do their drops and stuff.’

  ‘Only in books. What do you want?’ Harry didn’t want to exchange small talk about this place; he’d been forced to shoot dead the last person he’d been here with. Joanne Archer, a rogue Special Forces soldier, had shot Rik Ferris and turned her gun on Harry while attempting to kill a former Iraqi cleric in St James’s Park. He’d been left with no choice.

  ‘You off my back would be good, although,’ Turpowicz waggled a hand, ‘it’s kind of academic, now I’m back inside, so to speak.’ He added quickly, ‘Uh . . . what’ll happen if I reach into my pocket?’

  ‘Do you need to?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Well, then, nothing . . . as long as you do it slowly.’ He waited but Turpowicz had changed his mind. ‘You did a deal with the military, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of. How’d you know?’

  ‘I checked with Fort Knox and got blanked. And the US military wouldn’t assign a four-man protection team if you were still out there and running.’

  ‘Blanked?’ He frowned at the word. ‘Oh, you mean the runaround.’ He smiled. ‘All this time with Deakin and I still don’t get British slang. But “blanked” I like. Says what it means.’ He crossed his legs. ‘Yeah, it’s true, I did a deal. I also heard you’d been checking up on me. How did you pick up my name?’

  ‘McCreath heard the abbreviation. When Fort
Knox got tricky about telling us who it might refer to, I knew there had to be something to it.’

  ‘But they didn’t give you my full details, right?’

  ‘Not directly.’ Harry wasn’t about to dump Garcia in the pan. She had done what she thought was right, for her own reasons. ‘We bugged Major Dundas’s desk. He talks as he types. Very sloppy security.’

  Turpowicz made a noise with his mouth. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘What do you want? You want to trade with us, too?’

  ‘Not exactly. I want to give you Deakin. Interested?’

  ‘Why? His activities are nothing to do with the US military. The nearest he came to US army personnel was you.’

  ‘That’s correct. Let’s just say that I have my orders.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  Turpowicz shifted in his seat. ‘You’re right, I made a deal with the military. Full disclosure for a light sentence. I tell them – and you – what you want to know, and I get my life back in maybe ten months’ time.’ His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, a recital. He might seem relaxed, but there was a tension about him like a ripple in the air.

  ‘How did they make contact?’

  ‘I got careless one night in Germany several moons back and ran into a couple of undercover military cops. I was already having doubts about Deakin, so I told them I was in contact with the Protectory and suggested I could be of use. They made some calls. The answer came back to let me run as long as I stayed in touch. I had no choice – I said yes.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Harry. ‘So to get this straight, even though you stood by while Deakin and his two bulldogs murdered at least two British army personnel, made an armed raid on a British police station and killed three police officers, tried to kidnap a close friend of mine, actually abducted and beat a colleague of mine and shot a woman, you get to walk away for being a good boy?’

  ‘Hey – that wasn’t any of my doing,’ Turpowicz protested heatedly. Then he dropped his voice. ‘I had no control over what Deakin was using those two psychos for. Most of the time he never said what they were doing until it was done.’ He pounded his knee angrily. ‘I reported what I knew as soon as I could, every time.’