Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller)

by Adrian Magson

  As she disappeared beneath the trees, he took out his mobile and dialled a mobile number. This couldn’t wait any longer. His future was resting on a knife-edge. It was time to play a massive hunch, to see if he was right. He didn’t know Jardine from a hole in the ground; but he had an intuitive feel for the way somebody in her position might think. And right now she was probably looking for any friends she could find. Tate and Ferris were colleagues of circumstance, he was certain. But that wasn’t enough for someone under the kind of massive stress Jardine would be under. She would want someone much closer.

  If he played this right, he would get the information he needed and get rid of a monumental risk at the same time. Two birds, one carefully lobbed stone.

  ‘Yes?’ It was Keith Maine.

  ‘I need to see you. Urgently,’ Paulton said, and told him where, and what else he wanted. The last thing he wanted from this man.

  ‘Jesus – I can’t do that!’ The analyst’s voice was pitched low. He was probably in his office somewhere, on early shift, and terrified of anyone hearing.

  ‘You can and will.’ Paulton didn’t give him a chance to panic and cut the call. ‘Ten thousand if you come up with what I want. It’s a known name; it will be on the current WAR list.’ Watch and Report, the rolling surveillance log with open access to Five and Six, to avoid agency clashes on suspects and persons of interest. He knew the way both agencies worked, knew that there was every chance that the information he wanted would be there. If his hunch was correct, it might give him a clue to Jardine’s intentions. And wherever she went, so would Tate and Ferris.

  Maine didn’t argue. Instead his voice became slightly louder, more open. ‘Very well. But I want to see it before I buy. There are so many fakes about – and I insist on it being in top condition.’ Paulton knew the signs: a work colleague was close by and he was pretending to be taking a call from a collector. But there was a sub-text. What he was really saying was that he didn’t trust Paulton to send the money, and wanted cash in hand.

  Paulton named a spot on a public street not far from Thames House, south of the river. Close enough to his work for Maine to feel safe, far enough away to retain a measure of secrecy about who he was meeting.

  The promise of money helped, as he knew it would.

  Next he dialled another number. Votrukhin answered with a terse hello.

  ‘The Jardine girl is with Tate,’ Paulton advised him. ‘Have you moved on them yet?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You should do so, soonest. Where Tate goes, Ferris is close by.’ He paused, trying to determine whether any of this could rebound on him. If the Russians collared Jardine and the two men, all to the good. He would get the credit from Deane for Jardine’s demise, and he wouldn’t need the information Maine was getting for him. But he preferred to have insurance in place, just in case. To hell with it. ‘They will be armed and ready, of course.’

  Votrukhin grunted. ‘So? You think we will not?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  There was a grey light and a threat of rain outside the windows of Rik’s Paddington flat. Harry got up from the sofa where he’d been sleeping and checked his gun, which had been close by on the floor. He stretched, then showered while Rik went out for coffee and to check the surrounding streets for unusual activity.

  Clare had slept in the spare room. Her batteries had eventually run down last night, exhausted by her efforts and the stress she’d suffered over the past few days. He’d let her sleep; they all needed rest and he was convinced nothing else could be accomplished before morning.

  But he and Rik had slept in stages, taking turns to watch the streets and check the building regularly for sounds of movement.

  ‘We need to talk about something,’ he said, when they were all having breakfast. His remark was directed at Clare.

  ‘Christ, give it a break,’ Clare muttered, tearing off a piece of croissant. ‘Let me get this down first.’ But she didn’t sound as touchy as she had the night before, he noticed. He put it down to wear and tear. The longer this went on, the more she would have to rely on them acting as a team.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rik, spooning down a yoghurt. ‘We going nuclear or what?’ His gun, a Ruger SR9, like Harry’s, lay close to hand.

  ‘In a way.’ Harry looked hard at Clare. ‘How do we stop this black ops team?’

  ‘What? Why ask me?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m out of the game, remember?’

  ‘You think?’ Rik countered. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  She didn’t respond, but gave him a sour look.

  ‘You know them better than we do,’ Harry told her. ‘You know how they work, you said. So, how do we stop them coming after us?’

  ‘Short of killing them, you mean? Getting a direct cease and desist order from Moscow?’ She thought it over. ‘Finding them won’t be simple. They’re trained, like our guys, to operate alone or in teams of two or three, depending on circumstances. They have no profile, they stay off the embassy circuit and use papers which take long enough to check to allow them to get away if compromised. They’ll be incommunicado, answerable only to their field controller, whoever he is.’

  ‘Gorelkin. Ballatyne says a man named Gorelkin was spotted coming this way on false papers. He’s high up in the FSB’s Special Purpose Centre.’

  Clare blew out her cheeks. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. I’ve heard of him but I thought he’d retired. He’s one of their grey wolves from the old days. A hardliner.’ She frowned. ‘Hang on. He did retire, I’m certain of it. He fell out with his new bosses when the FSB took over from the old KGB. He didn’t like the new touchy-feely approach and thought they’d lost their edge.’

  ‘Ballatyne said he disappeared for a while, then came back recently.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘It happens. But only in special circumstances.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, think about it: if someone’s needed for something deniable, he’d be ideal. He’s retired and has no provable link to official operations.’

  ‘That’s a bit lame, isn’t it?’ Rik said. ‘Like anyone would believe it. Once FSB, always FSB, I thought.’

  She gave a hint of a shrug. ‘You asked. I told you. They’re deniable or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or they’re here without sanction. Completely off the books.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘If the right man gave the order, yes.’ Her tone of voice told them who she thought that right man was. There was only one.

  The Russian president.

  ‘They did Litvinenko,’ said Rik. ‘So why not Tobinskiy?’

  ‘But this time,’ Harry pointed out, ‘they know the world is watching.’ He thought it over. Tobinskiy had been murdered, according to early suspicions, although there was no guarantee that the UK authorities would come out and say so. The scandal would be immense unless they could provide solid proof to the world’s court of opinion. If not, there would be a diplomatic and trade backlash from Moscow. Without it, they would have to sit on their hands, powerless to make a solid case.

  But Clare Jardine was the proof; she was the only witness who could put the Russians at the scene of Tobinskiy’s death. And their clumsy attempt to kill her in Pimlico would only add fuel to the suspicions.

  Unless they could silence her for good.

  He turned back to Clare, trying to find a way of convincing her to help. He had run several ideas through his mind, but nothing seemed to fit. Because ever since last night, he’d been thinking of only one way to find the two Russians and stop them coming after them. ‘There must be a way to stop them. If we don’t, they’ll keep coming. And if they’ve got inside access to security and intelligence personnel files, they’ll know your details . . . and they’ll soon know ours.’

  Her eyes were unfathomable, and he wondered if she wasn’t suffering some kind of sensory overload. He would have been in similar circumstances. But somehow he had to reach her.

>   ‘You’re in danger,’ he said. ‘The only way to stop this is to catch the hit team or to blow it wide open. Or threaten to, anyway. Then you have to disappear. For good.’

  ‘How?’ Her voice sounded distant, tired. Lost.

  ‘We get in touch with the one person who might be able to help you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Katya Balenkova.’

  There was no reaction. In fact Clare showed no signs of having heard him. The silence in the flat was total.

  ‘Clare?’ Rik spoke up, one eye on Harry.

  Harry’s phone rang. He ignored it. Now wasn’t the time to break the spell. They had to get her to respond.

  ‘Are you saying Katya wouldn’t help? Or couldn’t?’ he said carefully. ‘Think about it. She’s in the Federal Protective Service. She might be able to get word to someone who could stop these bozos.’ He didn’t want to mention that there had once been a relationship of sorts between the two women; that in times of dire need you used what you could, real or tentative. Neither did he want to find out that they had parted in hate and he was wasting his time.

  The phone was still ringing. Then it stopped, leaving a note hanging in the air.

  Almost immediately, Rik’s landline began ringing. And his mobile.

  Harry’s radar twitched. Something was wrong.

  He reached across and hit the audio button on the landline base. It was Ballatyne. He sounded terse, his voice bursting hollowly in the room.

  ‘Harry, you have to get out of there. Two men paid an early morning visit to Jardine’s old address. The owners were away, but the place was trashed as if they were searching for something. A neighbour called it in and the address showed a red light. If they’ve got her old address, we’d best count on them having yours and Ferris’s, too. There’s a squad on the way to your place and another on the way to Paddington to intercept, but you’d better not wait. Call me when you can. Now go.’

  The phone went dead.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Out,’ said Harry. ‘Grab and go.’ He snatched up his gun and checked the load. Rik was already doing the same and reaching for his car keys and a panic bag. Clare was slower in moving, but it was obvious her training was kicking in. Neither of them bothered asking why; they knew.

  ‘Down the fire stairs,’ said Rik softly, closing the flat door behind them. He set off along the corridor to a plain maroon door in the corner. He eased it open, allowing the air to move without any movement or sound. He peered through the gap into the stairwell.

  Empty.

  With Harry helping Clare and watching their backs, they descended the stairs, listening to sounds coming from the other flats and from the outside. More than anything they were listening for the sound of footsteps.

  They reached the ground floor and Rik pointed to a door at the side of the building. It had a fire bar and a glass panel, and a view across a path to a gate in a brick wall. Through the gap they could see pedestrians and cars and an adjacent street.

  Rik nodded towards the gap. ‘Go. I’ll get my car and meet you in the street.’ Then he stepped towards the fire door and pushed it open, checking that all was clear before signalling the others to follow. The moment they were out in the open, he moved away and was gone, striding across a small car park with his mobile pressed to his face and his gun held inside his jacket.

  His Audi was parked in the far corner. He reached it and opened the door, climbed in and started the engine. Placed the gun on the passenger seat, covered with an old newspaper.

  As he went to drive forward, two men appeared at the entrance to the car park. One was tall and slim, the other was heavyset, like a wrestler. The tall man continued walking towards the front entrance; his colleague turned and entered the car park. He had one hand inside his jacket.

  Rik watched, hardly daring to move. He was parked in shadow here, and unless the other man looked directly at him, he should avoid detection. Even so, he reached for his gun and slipped the safety in readiness.

  The wrestler approached the main rear door, through which most residents came and went, and which was too often left open. Like now. He reached out with his free hand and pulled the door open, hesitated, then stepped inside and disappeared from view.

  Rik let out his breath and put his gun back on the seat, safety on. Go or stay?

  This could all end now, if he played it right. Up behind the wrestler, take him out and wait for his colleague to come down the stairs. No more need for Clare to run, no need to wait for the knock on the door. Except that things didn’t always go the way you planned. The tall man might go for broke and take a hostage, or shoot his way out. Others could get hurt. And what if the squad Ballatyne had sent turned up right in the middle of it? They were unlikely to ask for ID before opening fire on a man with a weapon in his hand.

  He left the gun where it was and started the engine, drove out of the car park and into the street, turning right to complete the square and bring him back down the street where Harry and Clare were waiting.

  Harry, meanwhile, had moved through the gap in the wall and found himself on a quiet one-way street. Cars were parked on one side only, with a line of wheelie bins huddled across the other side, awaiting collection. He beckoned Clare to come out, and she emerged, holding her stomach but moving freely.

  Everything was quiet.

  A car started up behind the wall. Harry recognised the throaty hum of Rik’s Audi. It idled for a few moments, then moved away and was gone.

  Harry looked back at the block of flats. There was a chance if they stayed right here that anyone looking out of a rear window at the top might see them. He grabbed Clare’s arm.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and led her up the street towards the top where Rik would have to enter. By the time they got there, Rik was waiting.

  Two minutes later they were out of the street.

  Harry texted Ballatyne. Away & clear. We need to meet now. Richx

  ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ Clare stared around her with a look of disbelief at the décor of Richoux in Piccadilly. She was huddled in a corner seat, arms crossed tightly over her middle. ‘I thought we were going to see Ballatyne.’

  After a fast drive from Paddington, with Rik taking a series of diversions in case they had been followed, they had ended up in the restaurant and grabbed a rear table well away from other customers.

  ‘We are,’ said Harry. ‘But he’s shy about introducing us to his colleagues. He thinks we might put our feet on the table. Anyway, the coffee here is better.’

  ‘And we don’t have to give up our weapons,’ Rik murmured.

  At that moment, Ballatyne walked in and approached their table, leaving his minder by the door, watching the street.

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you fancied me,’ the MI6 man said to Harry. He sat down, signalling for the waiter to bring coffee, and placed a bulky brown envelope on the table by his side. ‘Signing off a text with “Richx” is a bit risky, isn’t it? You never know who might be hacking into your phone these days.’ He nodded at Rik and received a vague hand wave in return, and gave a wan smile to Clare. She didn’t respond.

  He raised an eyebrow and said, ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We were leaving,’ Harry replied, ‘and Rik spotted two men answering the description you gave us. We got out just ahead of them. Thanks for the tip.’

  Ballatyne’s eyebrows went up. ‘Close call. I checked with the squad we sent round, but they didn’t see anyone. They were held up in traffic.’ He shrugged. It happened. ‘What can I do to help?’ He was speaking to Harry but looking at Clare.

  ‘Katya Balenkova. How do we get hold of her?’

  Ballatyne looked surprised. ‘Boy, you don’t ask much, do you? Why do you want to contact her?’

  ‘If we don’t stop these guys,’ Rik replied, ‘they’ll stop us. If we do stop them, they’ll send someone else – someone we don’t know.’

  ‘And you think Balenkova might help you? Dream on �
�� she’s a Federal Protective Service officer, which makes her all but FSB in name only. Why would she put herself at risk?’

  ‘She might consider it’s worth it.’ Harry gave a fractional tilt of his head towards Clare.

  ‘What – you think because of their little fling Balenkova will turn on her old bosses?’ If he thought the comment undiplomatic, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Litvinenko did. Tobinskiy did.’ It was the first time Clare had spoken, and surprised them all. Her voice sounded cracked and dry, as if she had got out of the habit. She was staring at Ballatyne, eyes dulled by tiredness but a firm line to her mouth.

  Ballatyne didn’t respond at first. Then he said, ‘You’re ready to go along with this insanity?’

  ‘Not really. I think Tate’s nuts, but what choice do I have? Anyway, Ferris is right: if the two men who approached me don’t finish this, they’ll send somebody else; maybe not straight away, maybe not even this year. They’ll let the dust settle, then one day they’ll send in another team. It’s the way they do things, you know that.’

  Ballatyne looked grim. ‘Fair enough. I suppose I can’t stop you trying.’ He checked his watch. ‘About now, Balenkova’s babysitting three Russian government financial heavyweights at an international banking symposium in Vienna. They’re in the city for three days, glad-handing and talking roubles, euros and dollars.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Clare spoke forcefully, but with a tinge of uncertainty.

  ‘Why – you think escorting bankers is beneath her? That they don’t merit equal protection to military chiefs and politicians?’

  ‘Damn right. She’s one of their best people. She was heading for the top spot, guarding Putin himself.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘After you were busted and had to be pulled out, we heard she was suspended for a year or more, under suspicion. Then she was put on a roster looking after bureaucrats and low-level functionaries travelling in and out of Chechnya. Sounds like a punishment squad to me.’