He cut the connection and dialled another number. Time to switch the game a little. Perhaps this was something Gorelkin would have to handle. Tough luck on Deane, losing one of her hoped-for trophies, but that was the way the game played out. And he knew just what to say to make the man from Moscow take immediate action: an MI6 officer and two former MI5 officers, known subcontractors for the government, were on their way to Vienna to make contact with an officer of the Federal Protective Service. That should certainly light a Katyusha rocket under his arse. And with a bit of luck it would bring down the ceiling on Katya Balenkova’s career for good. He didn’t know the woman, didn’t care if she lived or died. But anything she suffered would put a serious kink in Jardine’s life, and that alone would be well worth celebrating.
Gorelkin’s familiar, gravelly voice answered.
‘Sergei, my friend,’ Paulton said smoothly. ‘How would you like to bag Jardine, two British intelligence offices and one of your own turned double-agent into the bargain?’
FORTY-THREE
Harry had just dropped his bag in his room when his mobile rang. He expected it to be Rik telling him that Balenkova and her charges were on the move. It was Ballatyne, sounding energised.
‘Right, we’ve discovered the rat in the woodpile. His name’s Keith Maine. He’s not inside Six; he’s a senior intelligence analyst with Five. He used a loophole in a joint server to gain access to Jardine’s file in Six. We think it’s the same person who tried a while back, on a fishing trip.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to find someone inside the building to do that? Why go through Five?’
‘Actually, it wasn’t so shabby. Maine used to be with GCHQ in Cheltenham, working closely with Five. When Thames House began recruiting their own analysts with specialist experience, he requested a transfer. Said he wanted more of a hands-on challenge. They grabbed him with both hands. As for finding someone in the building, believe it or not you can’t just trawl through the faces and pick someone at random, you know. Staff get a bit suspicious at that kind of carry on.’ He sounded almost jaunty, Harry decided, at finding that the rat was at Thames House, not Vauxhall Cross.
‘What’s his history?’ Harry instinctive thought was whether the transfer had been instigated by an outside influence, to get a man inside MI5. It had been tried before more than once.
‘On the outside, he’s clean. Single – pretty much a carer for his mother until she died last year – no overt political leanings, belongs to two books groups, a small collector of first editions and other rare books. Colleagues think he’s a good guy, but boring. Good at his job, but coming up for retirement.’
Harry nearly laughed. That profile alone would fit nearly any person discovered to have dipped their fingers in the secrets drawer over the past fifty years. But it also fitted a vast number of totally innocent and hard-working members of the intelligence community.
‘The original grey man.’
‘Not to somebody, he wasn’t,’ Ballatyne murmured. ‘I doubt he was doing this out of conviction. I think he was got at.’
Harry knew what that meant. Money or a weak point, not political gain. ‘What’s happening now?’
‘The internal security heavy mob is running his entire history through the meat grinder as we speak. They’re going to town on his background, friends, where he’s been, the bookshops he visited – everything and anything. You know how it works.’
Harry knew very well. The effect of that kind of close security vetting on everybody around Maine wouldn’t be pleasant. The net result would be that he would shortly discover just how many loyal friends he had left in the world. The likelihood was, very few.
‘If he had the nous to use a back door into Six, how did he get found out?’
‘The usual thing: he got careless. He dropped a receipt from a bookshop near another officer’s terminal – an officer who’s been in Afghanistan for three weeks. Thames House knew what we were doing, so they did a deep system sweep which led to Maine’s desk. They found a twelve-digit code on the underneath of a notepad. It matched entry codes to personnel records in Six. They’ve got him lined up for a heavy chat.’
Harry frowned. There was something in Ballatyne’s voice that wasn’t right. ‘You mean they haven’t done it already?’
‘They can’t find him. He didn’t report in after lunch today and his mobile’s switched off. He logged out of Thames House for lunch, and was seen walking south across Lambeth Bridge. Last thing anyone saw of him.’
They were too late. ‘Is that normal?’
‘No. His colleagues say he keeps regular patterns, rarely if ever varying. He’s a creature of habits. Heading south across the river wasn’t one of them. That’s where the internal hunters are focussing their search.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But that’s not all.’
‘Go on.’
‘He delved into an open access surveillance log on Katya Balenkova. All agencies can check it, given the correct codes. Maine had been doing some analysis on surveillance report patterns, so he had authority to go in there.’
Harry didn’t want to ask, but had to. ‘Why is that a problem?’
‘Well, very few people knew of the link between Clare Jardine and Katya Balenkova. The techs can’t tell me how much he read yet, but whoever was running him had clearly made the connection between the two women, and knew just where to point him for maximum effect.’
‘I thought that file would be closed.’
‘It is – or was. But I think I have the answer to that. When they did an initial audit of Maine’s activities, they pulled up traces of another search he’d made. This one was closer to home, in Thames House. It was a read-only file, but it looks like that’s all he needed. He was reading up on an old friend of yours. I think Maine was looking for a smoking gun to protect himself.’
Harry knew instinctively what Ballatyne was going to say. There was one other person he could think of who knew all about Clare Jardine and Katya Balenkova
George Paulton.
In an annexe to the Russian Embassy on Reisnerstrasse, a single phone call was all it took to have a team of specialists ready and briefed to go out on the streets in force, armed with photographs of Clare Jardine and Katya Balenkova. They knew who and what Balenkova was, but none had ever met her. The tone of the phone call from a source in London left no doubts about how important this was.
‘Trace and report,’ Captain Yuri Symenko, the resident commanding officer of the FSB security detachment told his men, after handing out the photos and briefing notes. ‘Do not apprehend either of these women until I give the order. There are British spies involved and I want to scoop up all of them, you hear?’ He smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. He had been here almost two years now, and had never witnessed anything this exciting before. British spies, for heaven’s sake! He’d never even seen one, let alone arrested one. If all went well, this could lead to a posting to somewhere far more interesting, like Paris or even New York.
‘But Balenkova’s FSO,’ whispered one of his deputies, staring at the briefing notes as if they carried the seal of the Kremlin. ‘Are you sure about this information, sir?’
‘The instructions come from an impeccable source, lieutenant,’ Symenko said loftily, waving away the officer’s concerns. Even so, he experienced a tiny moment of doubt. Arresting a member of the Federal Protective Service was unheard of, and would be like charging a member of the inner cabinet in Moscow with treason, such was their reputation. They were above reproach, vetted and trained to the highest level, especially Balenkova, of whom he’d heard. Yet he had also heard of Colonel Gorelkin and knew enough of his background to realise that arguing with him would be to bring his own career to an abrupt and painful end. It was sufficient to reinforce his decision. ‘When I give the order, separate Balenkova from her FSO colleague, Bronyev. Neutralise him if necessary but don’t harm him. He is not part of this. But above all, do it quietly. We do not want an international incident on ou
r hands.’
FORTY-FOUR
The area known as Riesenradplatz, with the giant wheel at its centrepiece, and the amusement arcades and rides that had attached themselves to it like noisy, brash pilot fish, was bright with colour and movement as the afternoon slipped into evening. Tourists anxious to get an exclusive photograph of the wheel made famous in the film The Third Man were shuffling around the site like paparazzi, looking for a memorable viewpoint against the fading light without including the gaudy neon of a MacDonald’s franchise or a haunted castle.
Harry felt a momentary doubt at the movement of the crowd. It would be too easy to miss Balenkova and her group here, and too easy for the Russian to see Clare first and bolt at the possibility of another approach by MI6.
He checked on Clare’s position, and saw that she had settled on a spot under the cover of a tree near a group of Japanese students, hunched and low-profile, a dark, anonymous figure in the crowd. Harry had also merged into the background, attaching himself to a group of Americans on a whistle-stop tour of Europe, allowing their shift and flow to absorb his presence.
‘They’re out of the hotel and heading for the wheel.’ Rik’s phone message had come after a lengthy wait, just as Harry was trying to think of another way of allowing Clare to contact Katya Balenkova. They had promptly left the small hotel where they were staying and walked to Riesenradplatz to wait for their quarry to arrive.
The American group began to drift away to the south, making noises about finding somewhere cheap to eat, before the restaurants got too busy. It left Harry feeling exposed, and he looked for another group. But none was static enough to provide sufficient cover, so he kept on the move, his mobile in his hand, glancing occasionally at his watch, playing the late-date scenario, but never moving out of sight of Clare’s position.
As he walked past a stall selling ice creams and soft drinks, his phone rang.
‘Harry Tate?’ The voice was male, with a vaguely American accent.
‘Speaking.’
‘A man in Vauxhall said you might need supplies. My name is Richoux.’ The last was a code word identifier, taking the name from the last place the two men had met in London. Ballatyne had been busy making arrangements.
‘Good timing,’ said Harry, and told the caller where he was.
‘Stay where you are. I’m a few minutes away on foot. I know what you look like, don’t worry. I’ll approach from the north, across that roundabout in the centre. We’re old friends and you forgot your briefcase when you visited me. My wife’s name is Inge.’
Harry thanked him and cut the connection. Only spies made a big thing about walking up to somebody in a public place. In the normal world, it happened all the time and nobody questioned it. He continued walking, making a slow tour of the area and keeping Clare in his line of sight. While doing so, he called Rik.
‘Where are you?’
‘Five minutes away. One of the suits stopped the cab and went into a chocolate shop with the male guard. What’s the German for I think my wife’s cheating on me with four other men?’
‘Why?’
‘My driver’s getting arsey about following their cab.’
‘Tell him “meine Frau betrügt”. He’ll think you’re a total wet, but he’ll enjoy the chase.’
He stopped in the shade of an overhead canopy and waited. He was facing the roundabout ‘Richoux’ had mentioned, where he had seen cars come and go. There were various approach roads but they all fed into this one place. A noticeboard with a map of the area showed the attractions on offer. A number of business cards had been inserted behind the rim, including taxi and limousine services. He plucked one out and stuck it in his pocket.
‘Harry!’ A man in a sports coat and flat cap appeared by his side. He was carrying a black briefcase and made a show of relief at seeing him. Red-faced and chubby, he held the briefcase aloft and made a brief pantomime about how nice it had been to see his old friend, but that Harry had left his briefcase behind and Inge had sent him out on pain of death to get it back to him.
‘Tell her she’s an angel,’ said Harry, playing along. ‘Next time I’m in town, I’ll take her out for dinner. Not you, though – you’ve had your share.’
The two men laughed and ‘Richoux’ glanced at his watch before throwing his arms around Harry, claiming for the benefit of anyone close by that he was late for dinner and had to dash.
Harry watched him go before checking inside the briefcase. It held two soft cloth bags, of the kind up-market shoes were sold in. He could tell by the weight and look that they each contained a handgun and a spare magazine. The briefcase also contained a Yale key attached to a piece of card by a length of string. The card carried an address in the suburbs.
The safe house.
His phone rang again.
‘Just arriving,’ said Rik. ‘They’re in a cream Mercedes.’ He read out the number.
Harry turned and saw a cream-coloured cab stop near the wheel and disgorge a group of passengers. Four men and a single woman. Three of the men were soft looking, obviously bureaucrats; the fourth looked alert and fit, moving with athletic ease. A bodyguard.
The woman was Katya Balenkova.
Harry glanced across at Clare. She had spotted the group, too, but hadn’t moved, which was good. He doubted Katya would see her clearly enough to identify her, which was also good. Any sudden move or a direct approach would be enough to warn Katya’s colleague that something out of the ordinary was unfolding, and he would have to make a move to neutralise the situation. Just as he’d been trained.
The three bureaucrats looked up at the wheel, gesticulating and laughing, clearly intending to take a ride. One of them hustled off, beckoning for the male bodyguard to go with him, no doubt to pay for their tickets. The other two men trailed in their wake, with Katya bringing up the rear and scanning the area like a true professional.
Harry stayed where he was, aware that if she turned now just as he began to move, she might spot him. He rang Clare’s mobile.
She answered with a dull voice. ‘I see her.’
‘Wait for the three suits to get on board,’ he told her. ‘If the male guard goes with them, make your approach. But not too fast.’
‘I’ve done this before, you know.’ She cut the connection. He turned his head and watched as she moved out from under the tree and walked towards the wheel.
Katya had stopped a short distance back from the last people in the queue. She was well clear of the men but watching as they shuffled towards where the cabins arrived at the embarkation platform, laughing and jostling like children on a day out.
Harry felt a sudden jolt.
There was no sign of the male guard.
He moved position slightly. The guard might be the truly paranoid type; the type who might have gone on ahead to check there wasn’t a bomb under the seat set to blow his charges sky-high. Or he might have doubled back to watch their backs.
Clare turned her head and looked back at Harry. She was just thirty yards behind Katya, standing among a small knot of passengers who had just exited the wheel and were clustered together looking for direction. For once she looked uncertain, no longer confrontational, almost lonely. He felt for her, and tried to imagine how he would feel in such circumstances, meeting up with a person he had once been close to; someone he had caused to lose position and prestige, and who might turn and react badly.
Then Clare was moving, striding forward with purpose. She stopped alongside Katya, not so close as to invade her space, but within earshot. Then she was talking; he could tell by the way she held her head, facing slightly away, chin down.
Balenkova took a moment to react, no doubt having had to break her concentration. She turned her head, then snapped it back into position at once, her whole body stiffening.
Contact.
Harry’s phone rang.
He ignored it. Too much going on here right now. It stopped once to go to voicemail, then started ringing again immediately. He accepted
the call.
Ballatyne.
‘Don’t hang up – I don’t care what you’re doing. Just listen.’ The MI6 man’s voice was tense. ‘Keith Maine’s body was discovered thirty minutes ago in a Ford Transit off Kennington Road. He’d been stabbed once with some kind of long spike. On the floor of the van was a lunch box and the cap from a memory stick, but no sign of the stick itself. It looks like he got it out of the building in the lunch box. There was clearly a handover, but the other party didn’t keep their side of the bargain. I checked back with the techs. Maine accessed a travel file in Six and picked up the ticket reference to your name, and copied details of your trip to Vienna. Safe to say that whoever he was working for now has the stick and whatever data it contains. He knows where Balenkova is . . . and where you are.’
Harry swore silently. He’d been here before. If the information had been passed to the two Russians, it wouldn’t take them long to get a team in Vienna to track them down based on Katya’s movements. All they had to do was follow the group’s itinerary.
He cut the connection with Ballatyne without a word. He had to warn Rik to keep his eyes open. But the most vulnerable was Clare – especially right now when she was face to face with Katya herself.
FORTY-FIVE
A whistle sounded, piercing the music and noise from the amusement stalls and other rides. Harry looked round.
Rik was standing near where the cab had dropped Balenkova’s party. He was making a subtle chopping motion with one hand across his throat, fingers out straight. He must have tried to ring Harry but couldn’t get through because of Ballatyne’s call.
The signal was clear.
Abort.
Behind him, Harry saw why. Four men were getting out of a black Mercedes SUV. Dark suits but definitely not business types. Too alert to be casual visitors. One of them flicked a hand to usher away the other three, their orders to disperse. Then he looked off to one side, where a footpath led through to a green space and an adjoining approach road, and gave a subtle nod.
Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) Page 21
