Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller)
Page 29
‘Sure, why not?’ Votrukhin slapped him on the arm and took a deep breath. ‘Shall we do this, Leonid? Or should I call you Butch?’
‘No, Fyodor. I’m Sundance. You’re Butch.’
They walked to the door, guns held loosely by their sides, then opened it wide and stepped out into the night.
SIXTY-TWO
‘It’s over.’ It was Ballatyne’s voice echoing down the wire. He sounded tired. ‘Two bodies were found on the shore near Canvey Island late last night. The descriptions match our two Russians.’
‘What happened?’ Harry felt an odd sense of relief. He’d done enough chasing and shooting recently; all he wanted now was for this to end.
‘The locals heard a lot of gunfire coming from an abandoned fisherman’s cottage. One was a former armourer and recognised automatic fire. He called in some of Crampton’s pals. When they got there they found two dead and a lot of spent shells.’
‘It wasn’t your lot, then?’
‘No. This was an execution; the two dead men got off a couple of rounds each, but if they hit anyone there were no signs of it. A couple of dog walkers further back down the road remember two cars going by at separate times, but it’s a public road and popular with young couples. The cops are trawling any cameras in the area for footage, but they don’t hold out much hope. They’re writing it up as a gangland shooting, to keep the press happy.’
‘It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Why would the Russians eliminate their own people?’
‘Possibly to get rid of an embarrassing situation. If Gorelkin and his two hoods were operating off the books and without official sanction, no matter how high up the orders came from, nobody this side of the next ice age is going to say otherwise. We can’t prove who they were, and Moscow will deny any knowledge until the vodka runs dry. In the end it’ll be forgotten.’
‘And Gorelkin?’
‘Already gone. He was escorted onto a plane at Heathrow by two embassy security types late yesterday afternoon. He didn’t look well.’
‘You didn’t stop him?’
‘Why bother? He was here as a private citizen, and nobody wants to pursue a case of entering the country under false papers, which is all we’d get him on. We have to watch the pennies these days. In any case, my guess is he’s going back to a far worse punishment than anything we could dish out. How’s your neck?’
‘My neck’s fine. We were lucky . . . they weren’t trying to kill us, just put us off.’ Harry was convinced that the ramming hadn’t been accidental. The timing had been too perfectly executed, when all their attention was on the car in front. It had taken skill, but even Bruce had agreed that it was possible, given the right training.
‘You still think that?’
‘I do. Any news about Paulton?’
‘He’s keeping his head down if he has any sense. There’s now a charge out on him for suborning a member of the security services to gain information under the Official Secrets Act, and the murder of the same individual.’
Harry let it slide. There was something Ballatyne wasn’t telling him; something to do with Paulton, he was certain. Maybe it would come out in time.
‘And Deane?’
‘Resigned. She’s decided to pursue another line of deviousness elsewhere.’
‘Did you have anything to do with that?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
Harry changed tack. ‘I tried calling Clare. She’s not answering. Do you have the address of the clinic where she’s being treated?’
‘I do, but I hear she left the clinic and has gone away with Balenkova. I think they’re off somewhere hot for some rest and recuperation. Can’t say I blame them, to be honest. Don’t worry, Harry, I’m sure she’ll call one day.’
Harry wasn’t sure. Clare had no reason to call him. What had been between them was an incident in history, now over and done. She had a future to work on. All the same, he couldn’t forget the words she had uttered in Vienna, about Paulton: ‘If you don’t get him, I will.’
SIXTY-THREE
The 20.00 hours Eurostar pulled out of St Pancras right on the button. George Paulton relaxed for the first time that day, after scanning the rest of the Business/Premier carriage. It was nearly deserted, as he’d hoped, with only a group of French business types further back, already fading fast towards sleep as conversation ceased and tiredness took over.
He watched the lights flickering by outside, and wondered how everything had gone so horribly wrong. By rights he should have been staying in London now, dining out wherever the mood took him, his freedom assured by order of the Home Secretary, his case made secure by pressure from the movers and shakers in the security departments, like Candida Deane.
But that was not to be. Deane had dropped off the radar, and no amount of digging had found her. The fact that she was refusing his calls meant one thing only: his value had dropped to nil in her eyes and she no longer wished to be associated with him. Instead, he was slinking out in the night to an uncertain future and with an even bigger price on his head than ever before.
But at least he was alive, which was a fate better than Gorelkin could look forward to. If he knew the kind of masters the old spy faced back in Moscow, payment would be very short and sharp indeed.
Trying to play Gorelkin had been a huge mistake; he should never have responded to the Russian’s call in the first place. The man had been born devious and it was in his DNA to keep his real cards behind his back. But the opportunity to buy himself back into the country had seemed too good to miss.
Now that was all in the past.
He fought to keep a lid on the rage that was bubbling away inside him. All jobs carried a tally, good and bad, and he had gained so little coming here; no redress with Tate, no settling of scores with Jardine . . . and most of all, not even the pleasure of turning the tables on those in the security establishment who had turned their backs on him so easily and left him out in the cold.
His thoughts were disturbed by the connecting door at the end of the carriage behind him sliding open. Footsteps shuffled along the aisle, one set, maybe two. He settled instinctively deeper into his seat, reducing his profile, and became vaguely aware of two figures stopping at a set of four seats across from him. He watched in the reflection in the glass as they sat down across from each other, placing bags on the table between them. Two women, he noted, oddly dressed.
It took a moment for him to realise that they were covered from head to toe in black burkas, with only their eyes visible. They were speaking softly in French, the words muffled beneath the cloth, too soft to pick up. North African Muslims, he guessed, returning to Paris after a visit to London.
He ignored them and found himself drifting, his earlier anger now fading, deflected by the interruption. A good thing, he decided; agonising over what had not been accomplished was pointless; he’d learned that years ago. Now he had to face the future, wherever that might be. He had money enough, depending on where he finished up, but he would have to put his mind to one or two schemes he’d been considering in order to keep the funds coming in.
The train juddered, waking him with a jolt. He’d been dozing, his thoughts morphing into dreams, the images jumbled and confusing. The two women were still across the aisle, both intent on electronic readers. It reminded him that he should invest in a decent model soon; so much simpler than carrying around the laptop he had been using before this trip.
He put his head back and allowed himself to drift again, his mind sifting abstractly through the potential locations he had seen and considered over the past two years, locations where he could melt into the local fabric and be reasonably assured of safety and comfort; where he could at least be reasonably certain that neither Harry Tate nor any other vengeful hunters would ever find him.
He came awake again with a start. The sleep had been deeper this time, his mouth gummy and dry, his eyes heavy, as if he’d been drugged. He was sure he’d felt some movement close by; another passenger passing in the ais
le, perhaps, brushing against his shoulder. He shook his head and looked at the window. But all he saw was blackness and his own pale reflection. God, he looked old. Tired. He yawned and rubbed his head against the seat back, glancing guiltily at the two women across the aisle. But only one was still there, still reading.
He sighed and relaxed. That must have been it: her companion had stood up and stumbled against him with the movement of the train. He closed his eyes, relishing the arrival in Paris, and with it the feeling that, once again, he was beyond the reach of anyone who might wish him harm. Out beyond Paris was an open book, to be explored at leisure. Not quite the result he’d wanted, but not a disaster by any means.
He dozed. He wasn’t sure for how long, but when he opened his eyes next, something had changed. He shook his head and blinked. Everything was dark. The lights had gone out. He started to turn towards the aisle when he became aware of someone close to him. Too close. He felt the proximity of a body and a fan of breath on his cheek.
‘What . . .?’
‘You should have changed the name you came in on, George.’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and lilting. ‘That’s sloppy tradecraft, using it all this time. I got all your train bookings and all Katya had to do was wait and watch.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Paulton tried to push her away, but she’d got him pinned into the corner. And who was Katya? The name was familiar, but he couldn’t recall.
‘Somebody really doesn’t like you, George. They told me where you were – even sent me a photo. You changed your appearance, but you got careless; Grosvenor House has got great CCTV. It got you and your new friends from Troparevskiy Park. The rest was easy. You’re the last one left.’
Another touch, this time running across his leg, and a sharp pain brushed his inner thigh. Before he could cry out, he felt a rush of heat spreading down around his knee.
He wondered if he had wet himself, and felt an instinctive flush of shame.
‘I think it’s time you retired, George, don’t you? Like Bellingham.’ The woman patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t bother getting up. Oh, silly me – you probably can’t now, anyway.’
Then she was gone and the lights came up. He blinked through the glare, saw her walking away from him, the burka flapping as black as a crow’s wing. The connecting door to the next carriage opened and she stepped through. Her companion appeared just beyond her, a glow of light from the toilet cubicle falling across her head. Then she turned and both women stepped inside and closed the door.
Seconds later – at least, he thought it was seconds . . . God, he felt so tired for some reason – they came out. Only this time, instead of falling across black cloth, the light fell on uncovered pale skin and hair. One woman was blonde, the other brunette. The clothes had changed, too, and they were now wearing jeans and sweatshirts, the anonymous dress of women all over the world.
Paulton struggled to focus, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Had he fallen asleep and gone into some sort of fugue state? He didn’t think so. What the hell was happening to him?
More movement. One of the women – the brunette – was walking back towards the connecting door. She stopped just the other side of the glass, but made no move to come through. She simply stood there. And smiled at him.
Paulton swallowed and tried to speak. But his vocal chords felt oddly disconnected. He could see her face clearly now, and for a second he failed to believe what his eyes were telling him. Then recognition came flooding in. It couldn’t be!
Clare Jardine.
Something, he wasn’t sure what, it wasn’t something he could feel, some awful premonition, an association of ideas, a horrible knowledge, made him glance down at his lap. A dark shadow was spreading across his leg, which was starting to feel quite numb. When he concentrated, he saw it wasn’t a shadow, but a bloody red flow that was glistening and pulsing and dripping to the carpet where it was forming a glossy, widening puddle.
He watched, somehow knowing that he was watching his life leaking out of him, but unable to do a thing about it. He lifted his eyes towards the connecting door, imploring.
But all he saw was the reflection of the carriage in the glass.
Table of Contents
A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three