‘What was the response?’
Turpowicz said nothing, so Harry said, ‘They told you to play along, didn’t they?’
‘I couldn’t help it, man!’ For the first time, the American sounded passionate, his voice low. ‘I didn’t trust Deakin not to get suspicious and set Zubac and Ganic on me. And I wasn’t exactly in the clear with the military, either. The message was simple: I either stuck with it or they picked me up and I’d be doing serious time in the military stockade at Leavenworth. So I agreed to go along with it.’
‘Nice people you work for.’ It was easy to condemn the man, although Harry could see his dilemma. A rock and a hard place. ‘Was that the deal – a lighter sentence?’
‘Pretty much. It was all I had worth asking for. I figured they were worried about US military personnel being sucked in and used to trade military secrets. I had to look out to make sure it didn’t happen.’
‘How?’
‘Easy. The moment anyone showed up, I had to report it in. They’d have been lifted immediately. Fact is, no one did. Our runners all bug out for different places and keep their heads down. Deakin and Nicholls were strictly after their own, although I reckon Deakin would’ve got round to trading US personnel some day. He doesn’t like to let the grass grow – and he’s impatient to make a big score.’
‘Who were his clients?’
‘I only ever met one. The rest he kept close to his chest, did all his own trading. When I first met up with them, Nicholls was the one who found the people and Deakin did the selling. Then gradually it changed, and Nicholls became less involved, especially after Paulton showed up. I liked Nicholls but he was a sick man. I wasn’t surprised when he cut and run.’
‘What was Paulton’s position in the Protectory?’
‘A partner, I guess. He showed up one day, and he was in. Deakin claimed he had the inside track on contacts of foreign governments where they could sell stuff, and that made him the golden boy. Personally, I reckon he was aiming to stage a takeover.’ He shook his head. ‘He was a manipulative son of a bitch, I know that. Subtle, though, so you didn’t notice. He never came at anything head on, know what I mean?’
Harry knew all right. ‘How did you pick up on it?’
Turpowicz grunted. ‘Because I’m a simple guy from a farming background. I don’t deal in subtleties and I take people as I find them. Paulton was too smooth. I just know a mover and shaker when I see one. I didn’t like him from the moment I met him.’
‘Good. We have something in common. It didn’t seem to bother him, trading secrets and personnel for money?’
‘No. I think he got a real kick out of the whole idea, like it was getting one over on teacher, you know?’
‘You said you met one client. Who was that?’
‘Wien Lu Chi. Chinese, Deakin said, one of their middlemen. Smooth as a snake and probably as dangerous. That was a few days ago.’
‘In Bremen.’
Turpowicz looked shocked. ‘You knew?’
‘Yes. And they’re right – television puts pounds on a face. What was the trade?’
‘We deliver a Lieutenant Tan – some highly placed aide to the Deputy Commander of your forces in Kabul – in return for a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
‘A million bucks. Deakin was doing a hard sell, saying he had access to this woman, and the guy lapped it up.’
‘Was Paulton there, too?’
‘No. He was meant to be, but he cried off at the last minute; said he was tied up.’ He sighed. ‘I was against the whole deal, but when Wien handed Deakin a case full of money as a down-payment, there was no going back. He gave us five days to come up with the goods.’ He shook his head. ‘It was insane; no way were we going to find her that quick. We didn’t even know where to begin – there was no sign of her anywhere.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harry. ‘She never existed.’
A brief, frozen silence during which Turpowicz looked stunned. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘She was a ghost, laid to draw in the Protectory. You shouldn’t feel too bad – even Deakin’s man in London fell for it.’ So, he almost said, did I. But he decided that would be too much information.
Turpowicz shook his head. ‘Christ, were we ever suckered. In that case, you’d better move fast if you want Deakin and Paulton. If they’re still out there, anyway. I wouldn’t lay much on their chances when the Chinese get to hear about Tan. They’ve probably gotten them in their sights already.’
‘How did you manage to get away without them being suspicious?’
‘It was their idea . . . well, Paulton’s, actually.’ Turpowicz looked a little sheepish. ‘He wanted a fall-back plan in case Zubac and Ganic failed to stop you. I was nominated to step in and do it instead.’
Harry nodded. ‘And you agreed with that?’
‘Sure. I’d already had contact with Army Intelligence, using a link with the UN. Soon as I could, I told them I was coming in.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘They agreed, but said I had to come in to London, brief your people on everything I knew about Deakin and his crew, then return to the States. But I wanted to meet you, too. I may be a failed soldier, Mr Tate, but I’m no assassin.’
Harry didn’t believe him, but there was little he could do about it. There had been other deaths attributed to the Protectory, and Turpowicz must have been around at the time. Maybe he just had a well-developed instinct for survival. If the Chinese really wanted to get antsy with Deakin over the money they had paid, it was unlikely they would bother coming after Turpowicz once he was in the States.
He wondered how long Deakin had got left.
‘Where are Deakin and Paulton?’
Turpowicz gave him the name of a conference centre near Ghent, in Belgium. ‘It’s a hideaway place he’s used before. Lots of privacy. They’ll be there two more days, then they’re gone. Deakin’s using the name Phillips, Paulton is Goddard.’ He blinked. ‘Is that us done?’
Harry reached into his top pocket and took out a small black box. He’d got as much as he needed from this man. How Ballatyne used it was up to him. ‘Pretty much. This has been transmitting ever since you sat down.’
Turpowicz looked stricken, and glanced down to his side involuntarily, his mouth working. ‘Jesus . . . they’ll kill me for this.’ He swallowed and reached into his side pocket and produced a similar sized box to the one Harry was holding. ‘They told me I had to use this to block any signal . . . I forgot.’
‘Technology,’ said Harry. ‘It’s a bitch, isn’t it?’
SIXTY-FOUR
The Auberge Grand Lac was a glorious misnomer. More chateau than inn, it had clearly been added to in a variety of ways over the years resulting in a mishmash of conflicting styles, and it now resembled something with a touch of Hollywood. Shrouded by several acres of woodland around a large lake, it was billed as a conference centre with leisure facilities, seclusion guaranteed, with one road in and out along a looping stretch of narrow pink tarmac. The road in ended at a large open gravelled space out front with discreetly marked strips for guest parking. Several outbuildings linked by covered walkways were described on their website as a gym, guest rooms and a swimming pool with, further over, a group of tennis courts and a golf course.
Harry stopped the hire car just inside the gate, where he could get a clear panoramic view of the grounds and buildings. The place was impressive. It spoke of ample funds and devotion to a cause, which was the provision of facilities for those with means and the need for secluded discussions in surroundings untroubled by everyday life.
‘Nice place,’ said Rik Ferris. He had discarded his sling and was dressed in conservative slacks and a plain shirt and jacket. ‘Selling state secrets must pay well if Deakin’s lot can afford to stay here.’
Harry used a small pair of binoculars to check the area around the main building. A few business types were wandering around, probably on a break from their meetings. A patio on one side of the building held a s
cattering of chairs and tables, with more people gathered around a trestle table serving coffee and biscuits. Cameras were located on the roof at various points, and floodlights, too, at ground level.
But no security guards, he noted. At least, not obvious ones.
He checked the tree line, which stood at least two hundred yards from the nearest building. A narrow track ran between the two, cutting across part of the golf course. Probably an access road for maintenance or deliveries. A few players were abusing balls out on the greens, but in a refined, easygoing way; no doubt the top dogs of the corporate world, enjoying a round or two while the juniors did the talking and meeting inside.
‘Come on,’ he said, and got back in the car.
They drove to the front entrance and parked out front. A shuttle emblazoned with the centre’s name was loading cases and passengers, and Harry scanned the faces out of habit. Tired-looking, but smiling, checking out and heading for home after a gruelling few days. A grey Mercedes was ticking over near the road, the Asian driver standing by the door. He looked alert and fit, too watchful to be an ordinary chauffeur or taxi driver. Harry was reminded of Ballatyne’s words when the MI6 officer found out where he was going.
‘The place is used by foreign diplomats, so don’t go shooting anyone we like.’
It had taken a lot of persuasion for Ballatyne to allow Harry to proceed, but he had thrown in the right amount of help where it was needed, on the grounds that it wouldn’t cost anything.
Harry left Rik outside and walked past the shuttle bus and through the front entrance. Inside was all marble and glass, soulless as a hospital foyer, only quieter. He approached the desk and asked to speak to the manager. The receptionist nodded and hustled away into a rear office, returning with a bristle-topped man with sad eyes and the look of a professional problem solver.
‘Yes, sir? May I help?’
Harry showed him a card with a name on it. It held a telephone number which was a direct line to a senior member of the Belgian Interior Ministry. Ballatyne had assured him that it would clear the way should he need it, and that the Belgians had been advised of his visit but would keep only a watching brief.
He could tell by the manager’s reaction that the name was familiar.
‘If you ring that number,’ Harry said quietly, ‘you will have confirmation of our credentials. In the meantime, could you tell me if two guests by the name of Phillips and Goddard are still here?’
The manager nodded eagerly. ‘Of course, sir. As a matter of fact, I have already had a call from the ministry, advising me of your . . . visit.’ He glanced sideways but there was nobody close by. ‘I would merely ask that you be discreet, please. We have trade delegations here from Hong Kong and Singapore and I would not wish to upset the atmosphere.’ He simpered. ‘They are like wild birds: once frightened, they rarely come back.’
Harry nodded. That would explain the driver out front. ‘Don’t worry – I’m totally house-trained. Are the men still here?’
The manager turned and caught the receptionist’s attention, and they went into a brief huddle. When he came back, he said, ‘Indeed they are, sir. Mr Phillips is in L24, overlooking the lake, and Mr Goddard is in G18, overlooking the golf course. I am advised by Leon, our customer reception captain, that Mr Phillips is down by the lake. He saw him walking in that direction earlier, accompanied by another visitor.’
‘Thank you.’ Both together. It would be easier than hunting them separately. Harry began to turn away, then stopped. ‘Another visitor, you say. Not Mr Goddard?’
‘No, sir. The gentleman called just as you are now, and asked to speak to him.’ He gestured towards the reception desk. ‘The customer reception captain checked with the room service chief for you just now. Mr Goddard is still in his room. He was heard talking on the phone just a few minutes ago.’
Harry thanked him for his help and walked back outside to join Rik. Which one first – Deakin or Paulton? His instincts were pulling him towards his former boss, but getting Paulton wouldn’t close down the Protectory.
The shuttle bus had gone and the Mercedes was pulling away along the exit road, elegantly powerful. There was one passenger in the back, in shadow. As the car passed by, the driver glanced across, and Harry felt a mild frisson of something pass between them. It was like a small current of electricity, and he knew he’d experienced it before. But where?
Then it came to him: Ballatyne’s minder in Georgio’s restaurant, the first time they’d met. It had been the unspoken recognition between fellow professionals.
‘Christ, surely not.’
‘What?’ Rik looked at him.
‘The lake. Deakin’s down by the lake.’
They ran across the forecourt and over a belt of immaculate lawn past the corner of the building. The lake was spread out before them, the sunlight glinting off the surface, a scattering of water birds throwing small shadows as they floated on the mildest of ripples. A jetty jutted from the bank, with a handful of small boats tied up alongside. Benches were spread out at intervals around the perimeter of the lake, each one sheltered by small open-box surrounds of privet hedge. Only one bench was in use, and that was away from the approach road, with its back to the woods.
Harry led the way across the open ground, eyes fixed on the person sitting on the bench. It was a man in casual dress of shirt and pants. He looked relaxed, slim, one arm along the back of the bench, the other hand in his jacket pocket. He looked as if he might be dozing, no doubt lulled by the warmth of the sun’s rays and the reflection off the water.
Thomas Deakin.
Harry wasn’t taking any chances. He reached for the gun in his pocket, conscious that Rik would be moving away to one side to cover him. Ballatyne had moved mountains and called in debts to ease the way for them both to be armed. But he’d added strict instructions that the weapons must be used only in extreme circumstances.
Harry moved closer and said, ‘Deakin. Show me your hands.’
There was no response.
‘Deakin, show me you’ve heard and understood.’
Then he realized that they were already too late.
Deakin’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep. A trickle of blood had run down the side of his face and stained his shirt collar, and was already attracting a small buzz of flies. The blood was coming from a dark hole just above one ear.
SIXTY-FIVE
Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. He forced himself not to look round; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. If the man who had shot Deakin was watching from the tree line and had Harry in his sights, there was precious little he could do about it now. Instead, he checked the other side of Deakin’s head. No exit wound. He inspected the wound again. Powder burns were visible around the entry point. Not a rifle from the woods, then.
This had been an execution, up close and personal. Pointed. He remembered what Turpowicz had said about the Chinese middleman, Wien Lu Chi. ‘Smooth as a snake and probably as dangerous.’ This was Deakin’s payback for not coming up with the goods in time. Or maybe they’d realized they’d been sold a pup. The Chinese wouldn’t have got their down-payment back, but that would be of less immediate interest than saving face – and sending out a warning to others. Nobody messed with them without paying in full.
Rik joined him and stared at Deakin’s body. ‘You reckon Paulton did this?’
‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not his style.’
Harry was looking towards the access road, where a flash of movement had caught his eye. The grey Mercedes was approaching the gate, unhurried and sleek. It slowed almost to a stop, and Harry saw the oval of a face turned towards them in the rear window. He’d only caught a brief glimpse as the car had passed by, but he’d got an impression of a slim figure, neat and of middle years, dressed in a suit. He’d have blended in perfectly with the trade delegation the manager had mentioned.
He toyed with calling the authorities, but decided against it. From here to a motorway intersect
ion wouldn’t take long in the Merc, and by the time a helicopter got overhead, they’d be in among thick traffic or have switched cars. Operations like this weren’t carried out on a wing and a prayer; they had too much to lose if they fouled up. Maybe the centre’s security camera would pick up the number plate and show the faces of the driver and passenger. Or maybe not.
‘Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him.’ He turned and walked back towards the hotel. He’d call it in from reception. It would take the gloss off the manager’s day, but there was no hiding a murder.
First, though, there was something else he had to do.
George Paulton had an instinct for danger, honed over many years operating undercover in extreme conditions. It was usually signalled by a prickling of his palms, and the last time he’d experienced it, the feeling had saved his life. He had learned never to dismiss it.
That prickling was with him again and he knew he had to leave. Right now.
He was accustomed to living out of a small bag, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and there was no sign of panic as he toured the room, checking that he’d left nothing behind. He used a damp cloth to wipe down everything that he’d touched since the night before, when he’d done another such check, as much a way of easing his impatience than adhering to a self-imposed security routine.
He’d spent the last hour or so trying to get hold of his contact in the Met, and another in MI6, to find out what was happening about the hunt for the Protectory. But neither of them was answering. This lack of knowledge meant he was operating blind, unable to see even part of the picture, let alone all of it. Now it didn’t really matter; it was time to go.
When he was ready, he stood for a moment, settling his nerves. Then he scooped up his bag and headed for the fire escape at the rear of the building. Deakin would be taking care of the bill, so he had no reason to go near the front desk. It would be unwise, anyway, to appear in the front foyer, since the danger, if his instincts were correct, would be centred right there.
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