Tracers

by Adrian Magson

  ‘How about Jennings?’ said Harry, in the silence that followed. ‘He’s the key to what happens next. If anyone can call Dog and his team off, it’ll be him.’

  ‘We checked his home address. It’s been cleaned out. And I mean cleaned. He evidently knew how things might pan out. It was only a rental place, anyway; he seems to have been moving around a good deal in the past couple of years.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise.’

  ‘But we know he’s out there. We intercepted some of his communications, which is how we discovered the presence of the other two men. He’s clearly controlling all three.’

  ‘But who,’ asked Rik, ‘is controlling Jennings?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry gave him a sideways look, and the intelligence officer tilted his head to one side.

  ‘We have some names. We’re checking them out.’

  ‘The men with Dog,’ said Rik. ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘No. We haven’t got a line on them yet. We’re working through a list of names.’

  ‘What list?’

  Before Ballatyne could answer, the answer clicked in Harry’s brain. ‘You mean the names on the course, don’t you? The course Joanne Archer was on. Just how many killers were you training at the same time?’

  Ballatyne flinched. ‘That’s a bit melodramatic.’

  ‘So sue me. How many?’

  Ballatyne hesitated, then said resignedly, ‘All the members on the course were serving personnel, with the exception of three men.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – Dog and these other two. What were they training for?’

  ‘That’s classified. I can’t go into it.’

  ‘Well, they weren’t army chefs, were they?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. As you know, there are times when we have to use whatever tools we can get.’

  ‘Subbies,’ said Rik. ‘Private military contractors.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So what does that make Joanne?’

  ‘She was different. Special. My guess is, we’ll find these two men failed the course and Dog approached them afterwards. They’d have been sufficiently demoralized or sour to turn without too much persuasion.’

  ‘But highly trained, even though they failed,’ Harry countered. ‘How long before you work your way through them?’

  ‘There are four men unaccounted for. Two are believed to be out of the country with their units. If we can locate them, we’ll know for sure who the remaining two are and have pictures circulated immediately.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do us,’ Rik muttered. ‘They could be all over us before we know it.’

  ‘Why was Dog there?’ Harry asked. ‘According to Marshall, he’d already been through everything Special Forces could throw at him.’

  Ballatyne shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t know. That’s a question for Jennings. He might have been on a refresher, but I think he was there to shadow Miss Archer. She was always the one going to Baghdad because a woman was the only option to place alongside Rafa’i. The others would have been training for different assignments.’

  ‘But why would Dog have been watching her?’

  Ballatyne lifted an upturned palm. ‘We think this whole operation was planned as soon as news leaked out about Archer’s recruitment as a close protection operative for Rafa’i. The people behind this didn’t just cobble something together on a whim; they were thinking long-term. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s been carefully thought through.’

  ‘We?’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘You said “we”.’

  ‘There are more than just the British involved. I can’t say more than that.’

  ‘So how did the news leak out?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry – I have to get back for a briefing.’ He stood up and walked towards the door, then turned before leaving. ‘If it’s any consolation, I know you two were given a raw deal after that business in Georgia. I read the files and I’ve spoken to some of the people around at the time. I can understand your scepticism, but please bear with me for a while longer. We do need your help on this one.’ His eyes drilled into Harry’s, then he turned and left.

  ‘Well, cheers,’ Rik breathed as the door closed behind the intelligence officer. ‘That makes me feel better.’

  ‘Ancient history,’ said Harry, standing up. ‘Come on. We’ve got to locate Jennings.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘How about a spot of burglary?’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Jennings’ office was locked and silent. The street lights gave no indication of what lay inside, and the passing lights from cars and vans threw too many confusing shadows to allow more than a glimpse of vague furniture shapes through the windows.

  ‘Are we going in?’ said Rik, face pressed to the glass. ‘Ballatyne’s mob will have been through here already, won’t they?’

  ‘I know. But did they find anything?’

  ‘Good point.’ Rik turned away from the door and surveyed the street. He walked along to a builder’s skip thirty yards away and rooted around in its depths. He came back with a short strip of metal pipe and stamped on one end until it was flattened into the rough approximation of a burglar’s jemmy. When he was satisfied, he said, ‘You give me the nod, I’ll get us in.’

  Harry shook his head ruefully. Rik was full of surprises. He let it go. It was either this or a brick, or spend too long trying to get through a rear window. Neither prospect appealed to him, and he was not that expert at picking locks. He waited instead for something heavy to come along. Eventually, a delivery truck rattled down the street, its diesel engine echoing loudly off the buildings. As soon as it was level with their position, he gave Rik the nod.

  Rik grunted and heaved and the front door flew open, the crack of the ruptured frame lost in the blast of the truck’s engine.

  Harry led the way inside the familiar office suite and switched on the lights. The rooms had been cleared, leaving the basic furniture. The military prints were still in place, and he guessed that the suite had been rented as seen. They set about checking each of the rooms by turn, knowing that even if Ballatyne’s people had swept the place, they might still have missed something.

  The secretary’s office was bare, save for a small vase of wilting flowers in brown, scummy water. The desk drawers were empty and smelled unused. She had probably been a temp hired by the day. A tiny washroom at the rear held a soap dispenser, a kettle and some tea and coffee makings. No coats, no umbrellas, nothing that might contain a connection to Jennings’ whereabouts.

  They went through Jennings’ desk, taking out the drawers and checking each one. Rik ducked underneath and felt round in the space where the drawers had been, checking the runners with his fingers.

  When he backed out, he was clutching two bits of paper. One was a faded bus ticket, years old, which he discarded. The other was a National Car Parks ticket with an adhesive back. It was four days old. He showed it to Harry. It was printed with a time, date, location code, the fee paid and a number for enquiries.

  ‘I can check this later online,’ he said, ‘or try it now on the phone.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Go for it.’

  Rik picked up the phone on the desk, listened for a dialling tone and dialled the number on the ticket.

  ‘Hi,’ he said cheerfully, when it was answered. ‘Look, my idiot brother went on a bender the other day and used my car. Trouble is, he left it in one of your car parks and can’t remember which one.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said the woman on the other end. ‘I’m not sure how we can help, though.’

  ‘Easy,’ he said confidently. ‘I’ve got the ticket and there’s a location code on it. He must have kept the ticket instead of leaving it in the car.’ He gave her the code and added, ‘When I get my car back, I’m going to charge him for the excess.’

  The woman tapped keys and came back a few seconds later with the answ
er. He thanked her and looked at Harry. ‘Ruislip.’

  It was a slim lead, but the only one they’d got. Harry picked up the phone and dialled Ballatyne’s number. The intelligence officer wasn’t there, but one of his colleagues offered to help.

  ‘I need Jennings’ car registration and model,’ he told the man. ‘And home address if you’ve got it.’

  ‘I’ll have to check this out with Mr Ballatyne, sir,’ the man said. ‘I’ll get back to you directly. Are you on a landline?’

  Harry gave him the number and put down the phone. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take long. He was right. Ballatyne called back within three minutes.

  ‘What do you have?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. A parking ticket from Ruislip. It means he’s got a vehicle. If we can trace that, we might find out where he is.’

  ‘Ruislip?’ Ballatyne sounded intrigued. ‘He rented a flat in Twickenham, but we’ve already checked that out and he’s gone. It’s being renovated, so there’s nothing to see. The landlord doesn’t have a forwarding address.’

  ‘Ruislip could be a bolt-hole he kept in reserve, then.’

  ‘Maybe. But if he’s got a car, we don’t know what it is. Nothing showed up on any of our trawls. He might have leased it through a blind company account somewhere.’

  It was like the cottage in Norfolk, the Battersea flat and the place at South Acres: dead ends and blind alleys. Having the locations of the killings and anywhere he’d lived stripped bare and redecorated was a neat way of hiding all traces. He wondered aloud if that might provide a trail for Ballatyne’s investigators. Somebody must have paid for the work.

  ‘Probably a cash job, but worth checking,’ Ballatyne agreed. ‘I’ll get on to it.’

  Harry rang off and said to Rik, ‘Looks like we’ll have to do it the hard way.’ He led the way out of the office.

  There were few vehicles left in the public car park at Ruislip by the time they arrived. Since they didn’t know the make, model or colour of the car, they were, literally, operating in the dark.

  A portacabin to one side of the entrance showed a light still glowing from inside, and Rik tapped on the door. It was opened by a large man in a yellow fluorescent jacket and dark uniform trousers. He was carrying a bag and looked as if he was about to shut up shop.

  ‘Hello, gents. Lost your keys?’

  Rik handed him the ticket from Jennings’ office. ‘We’re looking for the car that forgot to display that,’ he said. ‘It might still be here.’

  The man dropped his bag on a table behind him and studied the ticket. ‘This doesn’t tell me much. Hang on, though.’ He stepped back to check a ledger on the desk and leafed through until he found a note. ‘This is a guess, but there’s a car down the far end that’s been there a few days. They don’t usually stay that long unless by arrangement, and we’ve been meaning to get it moved. My colleague made a note because there was no ticket displayed. He’ll get towed if he doesn’t turn up soon. Are you the police?’

  Harry flashed his ID. ‘We’re looking for a government official who failed to show up for work. We’re concerned about him and we’d like to take a look at the car.’

  The man looked doubtful, but shrugged. ‘OK. Follow me. There’s no body in it, though, I can tell you that. We’d smell it, otherwise.’ He grinned at this attempt at dark humour and led the way across the car park to a dark-green Subaru parked against a fence. There was no tax disc in evidence.

  Rik tried the doors. As was expected, they were locked. The boot wasn’t, and Harry asked the attendant if he could borrow a torch. He could have used his own, but he wanted the attendant out of the way for a few minutes.

  ‘What for?’ The man shifted from foot to foot. ‘I can’t let you go rummaging around in there – it’s still private property. You should shut the boot.’

  Harry handed him his mobile and said, ‘Ring the last number dialled. Our boss’s name is Ballatyne. He’ll vouch for us and he’ll ring your supervisor if you ask him to. This is a matter of national security. We’re not here to nick the car.’

  The man looked down at the phone, hesitated, then handed it back. ‘No need.’ He delved in his jacket pocket and came up with a large rubber torch, which he switched on. ‘I’ve only got my dog to go home to, and she sleeps most of the time. I could do with a bit of excitement.’

  While he held the torch, they checked the boot. It held a faded blanket, a pair of walking boots and some old newspapers, but nothing of interest. Harry stepped round to the front of the Subaru and looked at the attendant. ‘If this is against your principles, you should look away now.’

  The man smiled, a gold tooth gleaming. ‘Wait one second.’ He walked across to his portacabin and returned with a length of wire, which had been fashioned with a hook on one end. ‘This usually works handsome,’ he told them. ‘You’d be surprised how many owners leave their keys at the office. Don’t know how they do business, some of them.’

  Seconds later, he stepped back from the car and clicked the door open with a flourish.

  They searched the inside in detail, unearthing just a single piece of paper – a garage receipt from the car’s customer service folder, where it had been wedged behind the User Manual. The work had been for a damaged exhaust, and the customer address was in Harefield, Middlesex. The customer’s name was Parsons.

  The date was a month old.

  ‘This has been sanitized and dumped,’ Rik said quietly, while the attendant was out of earshot on the other side of the car. ‘You ever had a car this clean?’

  Harry shook his head. It was clear the vehicle wasn’t going anywhere. Whoever had owned it before had finished with it, and he was willing to bet that if it really was registered to someone named Parsons, it would turn out to be a cover name.

  ‘Harefield’s not far from here,’ the attendant offered helpfully, and insisted on giving them directions. ‘Shouldn’t take you long this time of night. I hope he’s OK, your bloke.’

  Harry slipped him a note and thanked him for his help, and told him they would arrange collection of the car.

  ‘No problem.’ The man was happy, his evening made by the small interlude of intrigue. ‘I’ll secure it and leave a note for my mate. If you want to . . . you know, look into another vehicle any time, and need someone to hold the torch, drop by.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  The address on the garage bill led to an anonymous terraced cottage on the edge of a small development. Open fields spread out into the darkness in front, and a few houses showed lights to the rear. The properties either side were dark and silent, and in the glow from the street lights the area looked neat and well maintained.

  Harry parked a few doors along and walked up the front path. He pressed a button to one side and heard a bell ringing inside. There was no answer. He tried the handle but it was locked. Leaving Rik to keep watch, he went to check the rear.

  The back gardens were small and laid mostly to patios or decking, with gravelled beds sprouting ceramic flower pots and exotic grasses. Harry pushed through the gate and negotiated the gloom to the back door. When he touched the handle, the door swung open.

  He stepped back, eyeing the windows. He couldn’t hear anything, as there was just enough ambient night noise to block any sounds from inside. He turned and walked back to the front and led Rik to the car.

  ‘Back door’s open,’ he said quietly, and opened the rear of the Renault. He leaned inside, then swore softly.

  ‘Problem?’ Rik joined him and immediately spotted the metal box with the combination lock. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Harry muttered, and tried again to open it. But the mechanism was jammed solid. He ran his fingers round the combination dial and felt a sliver of metal wedged firmly into one side. This was no accident.

  Rik looked at him. ‘It’s a hot box!’ He sounded shocked. ‘I was meaning to ask you about that—’

  ‘Ask me some other time. We’ll open it later.’ He looked back
towards the house. There was still no sign of life. In spite of his reservations about carrying weapons, having the backup of a gun right now would be an enormous psychological advantage. ‘Come on.’

  Leaving Rik to cover the front door again, he made his way to the back and stepped inside. The only sound was the ticking of a heater. The air smelled musty and dead. He brushed his hand across the wall by the door and flicked on the light. He was in a small kitchen, tidy except for a plate and wine glass standing in the sink. The base of the glass was crusted with dried red wine.

  He walked through the cottage and opened the front door.

  ‘Anything?’ Rik was scowling, but looked fully alert.

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ Harry whispered. He gestured towards the stairs. ‘I’ll do up there.’

  He went up the carpeted stairs before Rick could ask more questions. He reached the landing and stepped into a bathroom. Empty. He crossed the hallway and found a small bedroom containing a single bed, a cheap pine desk with a PC on the top, and a chest of drawers.

  He stepped into the last room and switched on the light.

  Jennings was lying across the bed, dressed in a shirt and pants. His legs were white stalks, hairless and devoid of colour or muscle tone. He looked as if he might have been dressing to go out. A pair of shiny black brogues stood by the bedside cabinet, and a tie lay across the pillow. A suit was hanging on the front of a single wardrobe.

  Harry called down. ‘Up here.’

  Rik joined him and moved across to the bed. A small hole was visible in Jennings’ throat, just below the chin, and a heavy trickle of congealed blood had wormed its way down one side of his neck. Another had run from the corner of his mouth and puddled on the coverlet. Harry checked the skin around the wound. There were no signs of scorch marks.

  ‘He was shot from the door,’ he concluded. ‘Small calibre. Doesn’t look as if he had time to react.’