He was tucked in a side street across from the river, within sight of a familiar cream and green ziggurat dominating Vauxhall Bridge. He felt safe enough here, slightly out of the public eye, although he needed to keep a watch for roving police cars, most of which would be armed response units. This area of the riverside was notoriously sensitive and covered by CCTV cameras that had nothing to do with the Congestion Charge or trapping speeding motorists. This was the MI6 headquarters, and was probably numbered among the three or four most secure establishments in London; getting too close would be a grave error of judgement.
He eased his shoulders inside his leather jacket and breathed easily, biding his time. If anyone asked what he was doing here, he was merely waiting for his next assignment. If the same person got really awkward and pushed it, they would suffer momentarily, but he’d be away and gone before they even hit the ground.
He patted his side pocket, checking the familiar shape inside, then concentrated on watching the cars and faces moving along the street in front of him.
FORTY-SIX
‘How do I know you are who you claim?’ Even to himself, Marshall sounded pompous, and wished instantly he could have taken the words back. If this was a scam, it was a very elaborate one. His only excuse for such a response was that he was still trying to get over the shock of what he’d just heard.
The woman seemed unconcerned by his scepticism. ‘Fair comment, Major,’ she replied, and reached into a pocket. She passed over a photograph, slightly crumpled, but still clear.
It showed a street scene, and two men sitting at a café table. Marshall felt a prickly sensation crawl up his neck as he recognized himself, his companion and the location. He studied the photo and tried not to let his emotions show. The other man had been a friend as well as a colleague. It had been a bad time all round, and if there were any way he could have done things differently, he would have. But it was too late for that.
He handed the photo back, but Joanne Archer shook her head. ‘Keep it. I’ve got spares.’
Marshall fought to keep his voice level. He felt sick; the kind of sickness that makes a man wonder how he’d ever got into this vile business. ‘How did you . . . get this?’
‘I took it on an Olympus digital camera.’ Her voice was in briefing mode, flat and unemotional. ‘I was less than thirty feet away – I could have drilled you both if I’d been working for the opposition. Where you were sitting was called Café Osman and it’s located in the western suburbs of Baghdad, in the Jihad district between the centre and Baghdad International Airport. The quickest way out there from the city centre is on Highway 10 and down Ishmail Street – unless you’re lucky and get to drop in by chopper. It’s a mainly Sunni area but there are Shi’a as well. Most of the time they get on, but earlier that day the Mehdi Army had made a strike in retaliation for some Shi’ite killings a few days before. The US marines were there in force to back up the Iraqi police, which is how you and Gordon Humphries got to enjoy coffee and a chat. Actually, you were only there for a few minutes because Humphries and I had a meeting not long after in a safe house nearby.’
‘I know, but—’ Marshall tried to stem the flow of words, to say something that, however useless, would show he wasn’t uncaring. But the young woman was not to be denied her debriefing. Especially, it seemed, this part of it.
‘A couple of days later, Humphries was dead.’ She waited while this sank in. When she saw Marshall wasn’t going to speak again, she continued. ‘He was dead and I was adrift. I’m only guessing, Major, but I believe that before he died, he got wind of something big happening and got me out of the compound by calling a briefing at the safe house.’
Marshall blinked, his throat dry. ‘Go on.’
‘Unfortunately, he never made it to the meet, so I bailed out, then found the compound had taken a hit. Suddenly, I had no principal, no handler and I was alone in hostile territory. Is that enough for you?’ Her eyes sparked with anger. ‘I can describe the training camp here in the UK and give you facials on each of the instructors if you like. The adjutant in particular was a sneaky bastard. He used to report anyone who made so much as a single complaint.’ She sat back and waited, the briefing over.
Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He felt drained. It all rang too true to be a hoax, and this young woman had the distinct sound of the genuine article. Worse – she was the genuine article. There was also something in her eyes, no matter how neutral her tone, which gave a hint of powerful emotions kept in check. It was a sign Marshall had seen before in those with experience of intense combat or dangerous undercover work. If she was who she claimed – and he had no reason to doubt her – she was a very special person indeed. The thought did nothing to ease his feelings of guilt for the ways things had gone.
‘I can only apologize,’ he said finally, ‘for everything that has happened to you, Miss Archer. You may accept that or dismiss it as you wish – I can’t say I blame you if you take the latter course. I wasn’t aware you’d survived the bombing. All our information led us to believe that you had died along with everyone else. And when you didn’t report in . . .’ He shrugged and rubbed his face with a large hand. ‘I visited your flat once. Pointless, of course, but it seemed the right thing to do. Your landlord said you were away. It’s no excuse, I know, but we were forced to believe the worst. Gordon Humphries’ death didn’t help in that regard, I’m afraid. What do you want from me?’
‘Protection.’ This came from Harry, in the front seat. ‘And rehabilitation for Miss Archer. She’s been left high and dry by your lot for too long.’
‘Of course, that goes without saying. But protection from what?’
‘From whom, actually,’ the younger man, Rik, put in. ‘We’ve got a psychopath on our tail. We think he’s one of yours.’
‘I doubt that.’ Marshall’s instinct was for outright denial. God knows, he wasn’t privy to every backwater operation being conducted by his colleagues, nor the people they employed. Yet something about these three was turning all that he knew upside down. Why not this as well?
Harry pointed at the photo Marshall was holding, his finger on one of the two armed security men in the background. ‘This man has already killed at least three people – possibly four – and had a go at Joanne. We believe he’s got orders to take out Rafa’i. He missed this time, but we think he’ll be back for another try.’ He looked hard at Marshall. ‘Like I said – he’s one of yours. Well trained.’
‘I need more details,’ said Marshall. He was playing for time but it was all he could do. He listened while the two men gave him a concise briefing of everything that had happened so far. It stretched from Norfolk to the capital and nothing they said sounded too far-fetched – which worried him even more. He made notes on a small pad, then studied the photo again, although he really didn’t need to. When he’d first seen the face of the security guard, he had experienced an instant jolt of recognition. It wasn’t good news.
‘I remember this man,’ he told them at last. There was nothing to be gained by denying it. ‘But only because he was attached to my security detail.’
‘Go on,’ Harry prompted him.
‘He stood out. The other men treated him with obvious caution, and a fair bit of respect. It tends to make one take notice. So I checked his record. His name’s Gary Pellew. He’s former Special Forces and goes by the name of Dog. He did valuable work for us over many years in appalling circumstances. It did things to him.’ Marshall dropped the photo and shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, nobody noticed until it was too late.’
‘You mean he’s a head case,’ said Rik.
‘Damaged, certainly,’ Marshall agreed levelly. ‘Not that he would ever acknowledge such a description. He’s fiercely proud of the fact that he’s never failed to carry out an order. If anything, it’s something of a character flaw.’
‘You mean he’s a robot.’
‘I mean he won’t stop until he’s accomplished whatever job he’
s on.’
‘Cheers, Major,’ said Rik dryly. ‘Just what we wanted to hear: a government-trained psychopath with a work ethic. Can’t you get him stopped?’
‘I doubt it. He no longer works for us. Not long after this picture was taken, he dropped out of sight. His colleagues said he’d been behaving irrationally – he allegedly tried to kill one of the other guards. He’d also taken to slipping out and doing some freelance night-sniping of insurgents.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘They may have been troublesome, but that definitely wasn’t part of his brief.’
‘He wasn’t all bad, then?’ Joanne’s voice was laden with sarcasm.
‘Sadly, he had a problem differentiating between insurgents and civilians. It’s believed he shot dead at least five innocent locals over a period of several nights. Before they could stop him, he’d gone.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘It’s believed he may have been headhunted by Jennings as long as a year ago. Now we know why.’ He let a few moments go by, then added. ‘Where is Rafa’i?’
‘Safe,’ said Harry. ‘For the time being.’
‘Let’s hope he stays that way. He’s an important man. It would be useful if nothing happened to him while he’s on British soil. I take it there’s no chance of bringing him in for a chat?’ He looked at Joanne Archer; she was clearly the one who knew the Iraqi best.
‘You’re right,’ she replied shortly. ‘No chance.’
‘I see. And what do you plan doing with him?’
‘Get him out of harm’s way,’ she replied. ‘Back to Iraq if that’s what he wants.’
Marshall’s tried to keep a blank face. ‘Ah.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Harry queried.
Marshall had already said too much. It was time to back off and get the machinery working on clearing up this whole sorry mess, starting with the psychopathic Dog. He could leave these three to take care of Rafa’i – for the time being, at least.
‘No. No problem. I wish you luck – it won’t be easy.’ He extracted a card from the back of the notebook and scribbled a number on it. ‘That’s a direct number if you need to reach me. My deputy is Richard Ballatyne. I’ll brief him as soon as I can and we’ll be in touch on your mobile later today.’ He looked at Joanne. ‘I really am sorry, Miss Archer. I wish there was more I could do to rectify things.’
Rik leaned across him and opened his door. It was Marshall’s cue to leave.
FORTY-SEVEN
Marshall watched the car move away and made a note of the number, although it was probably a waste of time; if the three people he’d just been speaking to were as good as he thought, they’d either get rid of it within the hour or the number would prove untraceable. But it was an instinctive part of him too ingrained to ignore. He also decided to alert Ballatyne of the situation immediately rather than wait. His deputy could at least get the team working on tracing Dog. And trawling through the Asian community networks for signs of Rafa’i.
He took out his mobile and speed-dialled a number. Twenty minutes later, a dark Rover with two men inside slid in to the kerb. Marshall climbed in, told the driver to head for Vauxhall Cross.
The man said nothing, but both looked wary. Marshall didn’t bother taking out his frustrations on them; what was done was done, and he’d been responsible for putting himself in the situation where he could be lifted, anyway.
When they were in sight of the building, Marshall tapped his driver on the shoulder and waited as the car pulled in to the kerb. He liked to walk the last stretch to get the kinks out of his joints and prepare himself. Today was no different, in spite of recent events. As he strolled along the pavement, relishing the brief exposure to the cool air off the river, he wondered about the three people he had just left. Joanne Archer was who she claimed to be; he had no doubt about that. Her anger was too raw, the detail too specific to be faked. But he needed to discover the identities of the two men with her. It wasn’t critical, as he was sure they would emerge soon enough. But he liked to know who he was dealing with.
Of one thing he was already certain: they were professionals. They had about them the unmistakable air of government-trained personnel; they were too calm and controlled to be amateurs, and to have picked him up so easily in a crowded thoroughfare without exhibiting some major tension really took some doing.
That thought suddenly prompted a faint jump of memory. It was from a while back, and he couldn’t be certain, but while he’d been looking at the older man, Harry, he’d felt a stirring of something familiar. He didn’t know the man, he was certain of that. But he knew of him. All he had to do was remember where from. He took out his mobile and dialled another number. It might be a wild goose chase, but it was worth a try. Know your enemy and you held the advantage. It was a maxim he didn’t always agree with, but this time he was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Instructions issued, he pocketed the mobile and thought about the girl, Archer. He felt a measure of sadness for her. And guilt. That there was a need for people like her was irrefutable; that it had to be young women such as she was, in his opinion, less so. Unfortunately, his concerns at the time had been overruled, to the extent that he had been prevented from ever meeting her, or even seeing her file and photo. But would he have stopped her going if he’d met her? What would he have done, he wondered, if it had been his own daughter recruited and trained for such a task, then abandoned to her fate?
A familiar figure in a pinstripe suit passed him by, nodding briefly in recognition. Something to do with Planning or Analysis, Marshall thought vaguely. They all looked the same after a while, the intelligence community’s faceless army.
Ahead of him, a motorcycle courier pulled in to the kerb and took out a map. A couple of American tourists took photos of the river and a delivery van bumped by, its unsecured roller shutter clattering. After the story he’d just heard, such everyday noises and colour seemed trivial.
Absorbed by his thoughts, Marshall was only vaguely aware of the soft swish of leathers and heavy footsteps crossing the pavement. The motorcycle engine was still rumbling, and the smell of its exhaust tickled his nostrils. It took a moment for him to realize that the courier was now behind him and coming up fast—
Marshall began to turn. But he was too late. He rocked to a blow low down on his left-hand side, followed by a sharp, cold pain going right through his body. As he opened his mouth to protest, he felt a weakness spreading to his limbs, beginning in his hips and going all the way down to his feet. He staggered and reached round to his back, but that only made the pain worse. He felt dizzy, and a rush of congestion building in his throat. He coughed, saw an impenetrable darkness closing in, blotting out all sights and sounds, and wondered how he could have been so careless after all this time.
Marshall began to feel very cold. He didn’t feel his knees hit the pavement, didn’t hear the cry of alarm from the woman tourist. All he could think of was the things he hadn’t yet accomplished.
FORTY-EIGHT
‘I hate this waiting.’ Rik scuffed his feet on the grass and tossed away the dregs of a coffee. They had left Harry’s Saab just off the Bayswater Road and were sitting near the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The Renault had served its purpose and was now in an underground car park in Mayfair, gathering fines. There were a few people about, mostly walkers and tourists, but they had good all-round scope to see anyone approaching.
‘It’s only been an hour,’ Harry murmured calmly, staring up at the sky. He had his head back in an attitude of total relaxation, as if they were out for a picnic rather than waiting to see whether Marshall rang back or turned up in person with a squad of armed men.
‘I know. But it’s not like we’re up for a job interview, is it? If we’re hung out to dry for all these killings, Marshall’s our only chance of getting to the bottom of it, and of Jo getting her life back.’ He slam-dunked his cardboard mug into a litter bin. ‘And then there’s old Ruby Rafa’i. Think what HM Government’ll do if he gets slotted on our turf.’
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br /> ‘Subhi,’ Joanne corrected him. ‘His name’s Subhi.’ Her voice was flat, on the verge of confrontational, and it was clear that she, too, was reaching the limits of her patience.
Harry said nothing. The waiting was always the worst. It would get to each of them in different ways. That and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Rik said, ‘Why don’t we turn the tables and ring him? For all we know, he’s spent the last hour having us traced and spotted.’
Harry reached into his pocket and tossed Rik his mobile. ‘You think he’ll tell you, go ahead.’
As Rik dialled the number, Joanne stood up, thrusting her hands in her pockets. She did a nervous jog on the spot and flexed her neck and shoulders, her rucksack on the ground at her feet.
Rik switched the phone to loudspeaker and waited. After ten rings, it was answered by a man with a gravel voice. ‘Yes?’ No identity, no indication of who he worked for.
‘Is Major Marshall there?’
‘Marshall isn’t available. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘He said he’d be in touch . . . him or someone called Ballatyne.’ Rik rolled his eyes as a voice rose in the background and the line became muffled. Then the speaker came back. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to call back later.’ The connection was cut.
‘Bloody hell.’ Rik stared at the phone in disgust. ‘Is that what we pay our taxes for – to call back later?’ He tossed the phone back to Harry, who reached out and plucked it from the air without moving from his position.
After five more minutes, Harry stood up and looked around. Rik was right to be impatient. This was all taking too long. Marshall should have got back to them by now. Every minute they stayed out in the open, they were at risk.‘Let’s move,’ he said. ‘Back to the car.’ He looked at the other two. ‘If anything happens, we split up and meet in two hours at the Kensington Hilton.’ It was the first place he could think of, but well placed if they were forced to split up and regroup, and busy enough inside to keep a low profile.
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