‘You’re Alice Alanya, age 34, Russian language specialist for Legoland,’ he recited, using the MI6 nickname for the quirky building at Vauxhall Cross. ‘I could go on but I’d have to shoot everyone in the building in case they heard.’
She blinked but said nothing. Then she lowered the can. ‘Your mate stays outside, you can come in.’
She led the way up to the top-floor landing and opened one of two doors, switching on the light.
The flat was neat, sparsely furnished, and comfortable. Lots of shelves around the walls, filled mostly with books. Russian and eastern history, travel books, dictionaries, reference works. Other shelves held paperbacks, a mixture of novels and non-fiction; a few crime and thrillers, and one or two literary works. A small TV on a low shelf in one corner, towards the rear, and an exercise bike in another corner with a bottle of water in a holder and an MP3 player and headphones looped over the handlebars. A swivel to the right would give a view out of the front window, but it looked as if the bike had never moved. She liked to focus.
No sign of sharing the space, though. No photographs or discarded clothing, no shoes left lying by the door. One person’s space; private and unencumbered.
‘I live alone,’ she said. She’d been watching his reaction. She dropped her keys on a side table and took her bags through to a small kitchen. ‘Do you want coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee, please,’ said Harry. ‘Strong as you like.’ Sharing preferences was a subtle way of breaking down barriers. But Alanya was MI6; she’d know all about that.
He looked through the front window. No sign of Rik, but he wouldn’t be hanging around. Strangers standing about in this kind of road would attract attention. Especially scruffs in jeans and trainers.
After the roar of a kettle came stirring sounds, then Alice returned. She handed him a mug of coffee, dark as sludge. Her own looked like green tea or camomile. She sat down neatly on a two-seater settee and sipped her drink, gesturing for him to take the armchair opposite. The can of Mace was close by her side.
‘What’s this about?’ she asked. ‘Have I been pinged?’ An in-house term for an alert sounded about an officer’s behaviour.
‘No. Nothing like that. I’m sorry we approached you like this, but we need your help.’
‘Really? You couldn’t go through channels?’
‘It’s not that kind of help.’
She blinked, analysing the statement. Harry let her think about it; he wanted her slightly off-balance, unsure of what this was about. Reactions were easier to assess that way, especially with someone as aware as Alice Alanya.
‘So you don’t want my superiors involved. That means it could compromise me.’ She stared at him. ‘Boy, that’s going to take some persuading.’
‘Clare Jardine.’ He let the words lie without embellishment or explanation. That could come in a second or two. He was interested in reading her face. It didn’t take long. She frowned slightly, the mug halfway to her lips, then lowered again.
‘Clare? I don’t understand.’
She was either exceptionally good or completely and genuinely surprised, Harry couldn’t tell which. Her voice had carried just the right tone of someone having a name from their past thrown at them out of the blue, but a practised liar would manage that easily enough.
‘Have you heard from her in the last six months?’
‘No. Is she all right?’
‘You were friends, though, right?’
‘Yes. More like good colleagues, but we got on. Is there a problem with that?’ She waved a hand in mild exasperation. ‘Look, I went through this before – we all did.’
‘All?’
‘Everyone who worked with her. If you’re really Five you’ll know.’
‘I’m just checking, that’s all.’
‘Fine. Then you’ll also know she left SIS under a cloud.’ She looked away for a second. ‘It’s no secret what she did. If you must know I never blamed her, not like some of the others.’
‘Blamed her for what?’
She paused, then shrugged. ‘Bellingham. What she did to him. That view is on record, if you need to check, so don’t go getting heavy on me. She was set up to be killed, along with the others.’
‘You sure that wasn’t rumour?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Are you kidding me? There’s rumour and rumour. The corridors were buzzing with it. You can’t keep something like that going if there isn’t an element of truth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, after that, she got shot and I haven’t heard from her since.’
Harry sat back. So far she’d been right on the button. Credible and angry in just the right proportions. Except for one thing: she hadn’t mentioned being in contact with Clare after Red Station. The easiest lies were by omission.
‘You heard about the shooting?’
‘We all did. It’s not often a field officer gets shot, past or serving. It rattled a lot of cages. But you probably wouldn’t know about that, would you?’
She was angry and resentful, Harry noted, lashing out with concern for a friend. He could ignore the fact that she might have – probably had – helped Clare out with information after Red Station. But she seemed genuinely unaware of any contact since.
‘Because I’m with Five, you mean?’
She didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Forget it. If you’re not tapping my shoulder about my behaviour, why are you concerned about Clare?’
Harry decided to go with the truth. He’d been hedging enough and it wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer with Five. But I am working with Ballatyne’s approval. He’s the one person you can ring if you need verification.’
‘I might do that.’ It was a sign that she recognised the name.
‘I was one of the “others” you mentioned, along with Clare. The place was code-named Red Station in Georgia and Clare and I came out together, along with the scruff outside, whose name is Rik Ferris. He’s also former MI5. We were all let go out of official embarrassment. When Clare got shot it was by a Bosnian called Milan Zubac, working for a group of deserters called the Protectory. She managed to disable Zubac with a compact knife and was lucky to get to hospital in time. She spent the last few weeks in King’s College, at the Major Trauma Unit.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it. How come?’
‘I was with her at the time.’
TWENTY
Candida Deane, Deputy Director of the Russian Desk in SIS, stepped into the Donovan Bar in Brown’s Hotel in London’s Mayfair, and scanned the tables.
George Paulton waited as her gaze passed over him, paused, then came back. He raised a hand, at the same time checking his watch. Right on time.
Beyond her the doorway was empty. No obvious heavies lurking – a point he’d insisted on, although he knew they wouldn’t be far away. Deane wouldn’t have been able to dump her personal protection altogether without questions being raised by internal security. But the one person she wouldn’t like to be seen meeting in public was a former Operations Director of MI5 who was now on a watch-and-detain list at all ports, accused of offences against . . . he still wasn’t entirely certain what the legalities were of what he’d done, but no doubt government lawyers had done all the necessary paperwork.
He stood up as she approached, and saw her frown as she took in his appearance. It reminded him that although they had met before, it had been a while ago and on different levels. And she had never seen him in this guise before.
‘Thank you for coming, Miss Deane,’ he said politely, and sat down again. ‘I thought you might appreciate the ambiance here.’
She glanced around, in spite of herself. The walls were lined with Terence Donovan photographs, while behind the bar, with its high stools, was a startling stained glass window depicting St George of dragon-slaying fame. He wasn’t particularly bothered whether she liked it or not, but if he had made a serious error of judgement in coming back to London and arranging to meet her, he at least wanted to have a pleasan
t memory to take away with him.
They ordered; she took a vodka and tonic, no ice, while he asked for a second Donovan Martini, their signature drink. He figured he could afford the slight fuzziness it would bring and he had a lot of catching up to do.
‘I’m not a traitor,’ she said calmly, as soon as they were alone. ‘And I won’t do anything that makes me into one. Get used to it.’
Paulton lifted an eyebrow. ‘Ouch. So defensive.’ He picked up his drink and raised it in an ironic gesture towards her. ‘Salut.’
‘Just so we’re clear on that point, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m clear on it, don’t worry. It’s why I contacted you in the first place. I’m already out in the cold as it is; why tie my future to someone who might just get found out for some other offence further down the line?’
Deane said nothing.
‘Thing is,’ he continued, ‘I know how ambitious you are. You’ll use me, the service and anyone else you come across to get what you want.’ She looked ready to protest, but he waved a conciliatory hand. ‘Not that I blame you; a top job in Six is worth having. And we all do what we think is right to get to the top of our respective dog piles, don’t we?’
She stiffened. ‘Well, you stuffed that up for yourself, didn’t you?’
‘Now, now. Don’t play nasty. We’re supposed to be friends.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Friends? We’ll never be friends as long as we live, George, so don’t give me that crap.’ Her south London accent became more noticeable as emotion took over. ‘You contacted me for one thing and one thing only: you want to come in out of the cold without being marched straight into Wandsworth at the start of a long sentence in solitary. You said you’d bring me something worthwhile to help you do that. Well, I’m waiting.’ She took a slurp of her drink, her face flushed.
Straight for the throat, thought Paulton. Like an attack dog. It was a reminder not to push her too far. In her position she would know people she could call on if she wanted someone taken care of quietly.
‘And I keep my promises,’ he assured her smoothly. ‘For example, I know of at least five agents-in-place in the UK, still active, still gathering intel, still reporting back to Moscow, Langley and Beijing. At least one of them is turnable.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it? Someone you can add to your credit list of achievements.’
He saw by her expression that he had struck a nerve. Look at any SIS officer, and you would see what you’d expect to see – a spy in plain clothing. But peel back the skin, the carefully crafted outer layer, of the ambitious ones, and you’d find a bureaucrat with an eye to the main chance – the gold chalice of spy-running: having their own double-agent on tap. And one with a potential line right into Moscow Central was still the purest gold of all.
‘I’ll need more than that.’
‘Of course you will. And I have something better. A lot better.’
‘Paulton, if you’re stringing me—’
‘I’m not. And before you tell me what nasty, despicable things you can have done to me, remember that I know things you and some of your friends in high places would rather I didn’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Some of it is, shall we say, less than current. Old hat. Passé, even. But still embarrassing to those in power. However, let’s not fall out over that. No, I have what dear old Gordon Brown used to refer to rather boringly as “a package of measures”. Only my package comes with a lot more meaning.’
Deane waited, eyes dull.
‘Clare Jardine.’
Deane frowned. ‘What about her? We had her, then she ran. I told you.’ She pulled a face. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. But there are people above me who agreed to leave her be, as you know. She’s untouchable.’
‘But you didn’t agree, did you?’ Paulton resisted the temptation to grin, knowing her secret. This wasn’t the moment for triumphalism. ‘You want her to pay for what she did to Bellingham. Quite right, too. I sympathise. And she will pay, I can assure you.’ He uttered the words, feeling the weight of the mobile phone in his pocket, which held the data Maine had sent him. It had been very last minute, and not as helpful as he’d hoped. But the intelligence analyst had done his best.
What Paulton now knew was that there was little chance of tracing Jardine in the normal way. She appeared to have gone off the grid after returning from Red Station and killing Sir Anthony Bellingham, and had no home address, no family and no close friends. But he had a good facial photo of her, which should help Gorelkin’s gorillas in their search.
A pulse was beating in Deane’s throat. Paulton recognised the signs of anger beating beneath the surface. Deane had worked under Bellingham in MI6. She had been one of his protégées, one of a posse of SIS recruits loyal to him and hanging on to his coat-tails. Ironically, had Bellingham survived, Deane’s advance in the service would not have been quite so rapid. But sudden gaps in any organisation created opportunity for the ambitious. He doubted Deane had ever considered it, but with his death, there had been a vacuum and she had moved on up ahead of her colleagues. The fact that he considered her totally unsuited to the job was beside the point. Played right, she could still be useful to him.
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘I have an idea, yes. But that’s not the only part of the package.’
‘Really? Who else have you got – Lord Lucan?’ Deane didn’t bother hiding her scepticism. ‘Not interested.’
‘Not even close. I know who put an end to poor old Roman Vladimirovich Tobinskiy in King’s College.’
Deane’s eyes showed a spark of interest, quickly supressed. ‘How can you know that?’
He grinned. What she meant was, even she doesn’t know that. ‘I know how they found Tobinskiy, I know about the guard leaving his post the night he was killed . . . and I even know the name of the man who came over especially from Moscow’s Special Purpose Centre to run the kill team who carried out the assignment.’
The thought processes as Deane ran through the permutations were almost painful to watch. Paulton let them run without interrupting. He knew what was happening. Boxes were being ticked, targets lined up, scores being calculated for the final personal triumph.
Finally, she said, ‘Are you saying Jardine wasn’t involved?’
It was a minor point, but one he knew she would consider. Vengeance is a hard goal to let go.
‘She knew nothing about it.’ As her face fell, registering disappointment, he added smoothly, ‘But in the final analysis, who will be able to tell? She was right there when it happened, she knows the Russians, she was already a bad apple in the barrel.’ He shrugged meaningfully. ‘You can do with that what you will. I presume you have people looking for her?’
She gave a hint of a nod, but no more. She would have to be careful committing resources to look for a person of no official interest purely for her own ends; but he had no doubts that she already had a team working on it. Outsiders, probably, a bunch of contractors from one of the many shadowy private security companies with offices in Mayfair.
He watched while she worked out the prizes this could bring her: the team responsible for the murder of a Russian dissident in a London hospital, including their senior Moscow chief; the woman who had murdered her boss, Bellingham. A shot at the top job.
Game, set and match.
TWENTY-ONE
Alice Alanya stared at Harry. ‘I didn’t realise. How did it happen?’
Harry didn’t want to go through the shooting again; he’d done that enough already. But he owed Clare some recognition with her friend. ‘She was helping Rik and me track down Zubac. We found him but he got the jump on us and shot Clare. He was going to finish her off, then me, when she used a knife on him. She saved my life.’
‘That’s why you want to help her.’
He nodded. ‘And she helped someone else. I owe her for that, too.’
‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘I haven’t heard fr
om her, if that’s what you’re asking. Not since . . . well, ages.’ She stopped speaking.
‘But you used to, before she was shot.’
She shook her head, but it didn’t amount to a denial. He decided not to push it.
‘You’ve heard of Roman Tobinskiy?’
‘Of course. What about him?’
He told her about Tobinskiy’s death in King’s College Hospital. She looked shocked, even stunned; with her position in MI6, working on the Russian side, she would be well aware of the gravity it would bring to international relations if the death was proven to be suspicious.
‘Clare was recovering in an adjacent room,’ he added. ‘She may have heard something that made her run. If she did, then the killers will be after her.’
‘Killers?’
‘Two men raided the security control centre at the hospital earlier today and took the CCTV hard drive. It would have held footage of the night Tobinskiy died and of Clare leaving the hospital minutes later.’
Alice touched a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. The implications were clear and she knew what it meant for Clare. ‘My God. How awful.’
‘Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t been told.’ He was more surprised that she hadn’t been hauled in and questioned by internal security. Maybe, with stunning lack of efficiency, they were working through Clare’s past list of contacts in reverse alphabetical order.
‘I didn’t know – honest. How bad was she hurt?’
‘She was out of the woods and recovering well, but not enough to have a couple of killers on her trail.’ Or a vindictive bunch of MI6 heavies, he wanted to add, but didn’t. That might colour her judgement. ‘Last seen, she was heading towards Waterloo Station and central London. Best guess is she’ll go to ground and find someone she can trust. But she has no ready access to money or ID, unless she had a stash somewhere.’
‘You mean with a friend. Like me.’ She gave him a flat look. ‘You think I’m hiding her?’ She swept a hand out. ‘Do you want to search the place? Go through my things, check my phone log and laptop to see if we’ve been having cosy chats? Go ahead.’
Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) Page 10
