‘Call me impulsive. We need to meet. Go to the Marble Arch underground and wait downstairs near the Oxford Street south entrance. I’ll pick you up.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Not possible. It will take me a good thirty minutes-’
‘Make it ten.’ Harry cut the connection and looked at Rik. ‘Go for it. I’ll explain on the way.’
‘Heavens,’ Rik lisped breathlessly, ‘I love it when you talk tough.’
The underground tunnels beneath Marble Arch smelled of damp, decay and urine, a combination guaranteed to ensure that nobody dawdled on their way through. Most looked neither right nor left, sparing little thought for the bundles huddled beneath cardboard boxes in the darker reaches of the network, or the gaunt individuals lurking by the entrances. Apart from the concourse around the ticket office and the barriers, the walkways were ill lit, the overhead lamps casting a feverish glow and colouring everyone and everything the same drab tones.
Major Andrew Marshall paused for a moment at the top of the steps to the Oxford Street entrance, breathing in the fresh air of the Marble Arch intersection. The word fresh was relative, but it would be mildly better than what lay below. Before descending the steps he scanned the immediate area, noting people, vehicles and movement. It was just after two o’clock and the lunchtime rush had slowed to a trickle. Elsewhere was the usual bustle of activity. A bundle of passengers scurried off a coach at a nearby stop; a taxi screeched to a halt just behind the railings separating pedestrians from the rush of traffic; a man in a brilliant white djellaba weaved his way between the cars, casually avoiding death by inches and seemingly oblivious to his chances of meeting his Maker sooner than he’d expected.
Over against the central reservation barrier on the northbound side stood a car with its bonnet up. A young woman was staring in dismay at a cloud of steam swirling from the engine, ignored by every other driver. London, thought Marshall, in all its glory. He took a final breath and walked down the steps. He moved lightly for a big man, skilfully avoiding contact with others and glaring as a thin youth halfway down looked up at him, about to tap him for change. Seeing the expression on the major’s face, the youth snapped his mouth shut and shrank back against the wall as the large man with the military bearing strode by.
At the bottom of the steps, Marshall checked his surroundings, scanning faces. He didn’t expect to recognize anyone, but he had a keen eye for detail — especially nervous detail. Satisfied he wasn’t about to be mugged, he stood with his back to the wall by a rack of brochures and watched the human tide flow by.
After a moment, a man in a shabby coat and an old trilby hat appeared from one of the tunnels and shuffled up beside him. He was of medium height but broad in the shoulder. Solid. Marshall couldn’t see the man’s face but he could smell the feral aroma coming off him at six paces. He was contemplating telling him to shove off when the newcomer turned and moved past him, the smell suddenly stronger.
‘This way, Major. Don’t dawdle, now.’ Then the man was off, walking quickly into the network of tunnels leading to the far side of Park Lane.
Marshall followed, carefully not looking for his own men, who had orders to wait nearby. He recognized the man’s voice from the phone call and was impressed by the ease with which the stranger had made contact. But the casual display of professionalism gave him a sinking feeling in his gut, and he realized he’d already been outmanoeuvred.
He increased his pace, intending to be right behind the man when they stopped. There was a limited number of exits from the tunnels, giving the man few options to play with. And unless he was going to morph into a tunnel rat and slip down a drainage gully, he wouldn’t be going very far.
They entered a straight stretch of tunnel, empty save for a tall, gangly youth with a guitar and a voice like a badly tuned violin. A rumble of traffic came from overhead. They were directly beneath the rush of vehicles circling Marble Arch. Metal signs on the walls pointed to numbered exits, and the air here was even heavier and more fetid than it had been earlier, with an extra earthy layer to the range of smells.
Marshall felt oddly disorientated. It was an unpleasant feeling.
They reached a gap in the wall on Marshall’s left. This had no exit number and was blocked by a sliding metal grill pitted with rust. Behind it a flight of steps rose into daylight, the treads covered with leaf mould and litter, long unused. As Marshall drew level with the grill and set his gaze on the tunnel ahead, the man suddenly turned back and kicked the grill aside. Grabbing Marshall by the arm, he bundled him through and pushed him up the steps before he could resist, surprising him with the strength of his grip.
‘Where are we going?’ Marshall spoke as calmly as he could manage, but he’d lost his bearings and felt an instinctive desire to push back. He wasn’t accustomed to relinquishing control in this way.
‘You’ll see, Major. Keep moving.’
They continued upwards, the traffic buzz growing to a roar, and emerged into the open. Marshall was surprised to see they were on the central reservation area of grass and bushes between the traffic flow of Park Lane. Not fifteen feet away was the car — a dark Renault — that he’d spotted earlier with its bonnet raised. The young woman who had been standing by the front was now by the driver’s door looking perfectly calm.
When she saw them appear, she turned and slammed the bonnet.
‘You’ll have to hop over the barrier, Major,’ the man instructed him. ‘And get in the back, would you? We’re going for a short ride.’ As he spoke, he shrugged off the coat and trilby and tossed them on the ground, revealing him to be stocky and in his forties, with a genial face and brown hair. He had an easy smile and seemed relaxed, as if this kind of activity happened every day. Marshall wasn’t fooled; he didn’t doubt for a second that he was ready to move fast if the need arose. ‘Sorry about the God-awful whiff from that coat — but you have to use whatever’s to hand, right?’
Marshall stepped over the barrier as instructed and got into the car alongside a young man with spiky hair and cool blue eyes. He also looked relaxed but alert, hands resting on his knees. Marshall recognized the type; he employed one or two himself.
The young woman slid behind the wheel and started the engine. She was dressed in jeans and a windcheater and looked strong and capable. She was attractive in spite of wearing little or no make-up, and Marshall slotted her into the same category as the two men: not to be underestimated.
The older man dropped into the front passenger seat and signalled the woman to move off before turning to look at Marshall. ‘Apologies for the subterfuge,’ he said, ‘but we wanted some of what my dear old mum called quality time, and I figured you might have brought the odd little helper in tow.’
‘One or two,’ Marshall agreed. He forced himself to relax, knowing that these three people had total control and there was nothing he could do about it. Worse, he didn’t need to look around to know that none of his men was anywhere near. The pick-up had been neat, unfussy and unexpected, and he made a mental note to have a word with the Directorate of Training about reviewing the use of street tactics in London.
FORTY-FIVE
‘We have a problem,’ Harry explained to Marshall, as the car surged into the traffic flow. He wanted to get straight down to business in case Marshall had a tracking device on him. If he did, they’d soon have someone on their tail. . and there was no time to do a body search or go through his clothing to find it. ‘Oh, by the way, my name’s Harry, the one next to you is Rik and this lady is. . well, I think you probably know who she is.’
Marshall studied Joanne’s profile but shook his head. ‘Actually, I don’t. Perhaps you could introduce me.’
‘Really?’ Harry was surprised. He checked the major’s face for signs that he was lying. But unless he was a world-class actor, he appeared to be telling the truth. It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. ‘OK, fair enough. But before we do that, we want to know about a man called Jenni
ngs.’
Marshall shifted in his seat. ‘What about him?’
‘You know him, then?’
‘It would seem I must. I take it you’re already aware of that fact. My question is, how?’
‘We saw you outside his office.’
‘Ah. Careless of me.’ Marshall’s voice was heavy with irony. ‘I really should stay off the streets. So?’
‘Is he official?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Has he ever been?’
Marshall waggled his head from side to side before replying. ‘I suppose, technically, once. But he and the establishment parted company some time ago. He preferred the opportunities presented by the private sector. I believe the terms and conditions for his special kind of expertise are a great deal more rewarding, financially speaking. The public purse is not unlimited, unfortunately.’
‘How sad. What expertise?’
‘He arranges things. A kind of events organizer, I think someone once called him. How do you know him?’
‘We’ve worked for him a couple of times. Strictly freelance.’
‘Really? I hope you counted your fingers afterwards. What sort of work?’
‘Finding people. It’s what we do.’
Marshall looked puzzled. ‘Just that — you find people? Is there a living to be made from it?’ He raised his eyebrows in innocence as Rik snapped his head round. ‘Seriously — I’m interested.’ He smiled, seemingly as calm as if he were at his favourite club, enjoying a chat with fellow members over a glass of best malt.
‘We do OK.’ Harry flicked a glance over Marshall’s shoulder through the rear window. Joanne was taking them along the Bayswater Road as they’d planned. ‘There are a lot of missing people out there.’
‘So I’m told. I take it the ones you trace are not your run-of-the-mill change-of-life absconders, though.’
‘Dead right. Killers, rapists, defecting bingo callers, we get ’em all.’
‘How droll.’ Marshall flicked something off his trousers and adjusted the crease. ‘I suppose I should ask how you come to know about Operation Pamper? Or was it something you picked up during the course of your work?’
Harry gave him a cool smile. He guessed Marshall’s air of calm was a deliberate device to needle them, to make one of them come out with something they hadn’t intended to. He decided to save him the trouble. There was only so much beating about the bush that he could stand, and none of them was getting any younger.
‘We know you trawled for, recruited and trained an operative for a special, deep-cover assignment in Baghdad,’ he said. ‘The operation was given the code name Pamper and the person you dropped out there had instructions to protect a high-ranking Iraqi. The operative was trained by Special Forces and told to report back on everything they saw and heard, including voice and image capture. How am I doing so far?’
Marshall said nothing. He returned Harry’s look with a bored shrug. But the tension in his face was suddenly evident. Harry decided he needed to make that tension boil over.
‘This high-ranking Iraqi was classified by the Coalition as something of a golden solution,’ he continued, ‘because of his influence across the political spectrum, which made him highly unusual — and valuable. He was there in case the new government fell apart like an old wooden shed — as pretty much everyone with a brain expects it will do one day. His name was Subhi Rafa’i. Still with me?’
Marshall gave him a wintry smile which gave nothing away. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Is that all? May I go now?’
‘Not by a mile.’ Harry was unfazed by Marshall’s denial. ‘Because of his importance, Rafa’i had a team of local bodyguards and a secure location in a fortified base. They couldn’t surround him with a shield of Coalition troops because that would have compromised his position. With someone so highly regarded, it was taken for granted that he’d also have a ton of enemies, even among his own crowd. So the Coalition decided to go one better; they put in an extra layer of protection — a backstop — in case his own team failed. And that was fine until just recently, when the compound he lived in was bombed, probably by insiders. The place was destroyed and Rafa’i and everyone inside was reported killed. Including,’ Harry added heavily, ‘your deep-cover operative.’
Marshall shrugged. ‘Bombings happen there all the time. Are we going for a drive in the country?’ He gestured out at the passing scenery of west London.
Harry checked outside. A few more minutes and they’d be on the Western Avenue, where the traffic was more open.
‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘your operative wasn’t the only home-team casualty that day. You also lost the handler assigned to the operation. He was killed in what was reported as a random drive-by shooting, although that now looks unlikely.’ He paused for effect, then said softly, ‘His name was Gordon Humphries and he was a senior officer with MI6. We still in the ballpark, Major?’
For the first time, at the mention of Humphries’ name, Harry was rewarded with what seemed to be some genuine reaction. Marshall dipped his head for a moment, jaw tensed.
Finally, he murmured, ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because we were hired to do what we do: to look for someone. In this case, a man called Silverman, an Israeli professor who’d arrived in Britain after a mental breakdown. But that was just a cover story. Silverman turned out to be an Iraqi. And guess what — it was none other than the recently vaporized Subhi Rafa’i. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only people who knew he hadn’t died. Ever since we latched on to him, somebody else has been following us around trying to finish the job.’
Marshall gave him a flat stare. ‘You seem to have a lot of information. That doesn’t mean it’s accurate. Why should I be interested in this?’
‘If you’re not interested, why are you here?’ Harry shook his head in disgust. ‘Get your head out of your backside, Major. Your Operation Pamper has fallen apart at the seams and you don’t even know it. What do I tell you next to convince you we aren’t making up the whole story? You want a description of Humphries’ sister, Sheila?’ He waited but there was no response. ‘Details of the safe house where Humphries used to meet his agents? Or how about some really gritty stuff — like the name of the operative you dumped out in Baghdad and left to die? The one you never bothered going after to find out if she was alive or dead? Oh, the name’s Joanne Archer, by the way. It’ll be on your files.’
Marshall flinched visibly at the name, but said nothing.
‘Stop here.’ Harry recognized the moment for what it was and tapped Joanne on the arm. They had gone far enough. They were drawing level with a side street. Joanne signalled and spun the wheel, pulling in to the kerb. The street was deserted save for two lines of cars. No people, nobody to interrupt them. She turned off the engine.
Marshall looked momentarily alarmed. ‘Why have you stopped?’ His voice was steady, but there was no hiding the tension around his eyes. Or the way he turned to look down at Rik’s hands, still resting on his lap.
‘Don’t worry, Major,’ said Harry calmly. ‘We’re not going to burn you. We just wanted you to meet your special operative, that’s all.’
Marshall frowned, relief giving way to the beginning of anger. ‘How?’
At a nod from Harry, Joanne turned in her seat. ‘Hello, Major,’ she said evenly. ‘Or should I call you Boss?’
A few miles away, Dog was sitting astride his latest acquisition, a dull-green Kawasaki. It had new plates, courtesy of another bike left unattended in a street in Southwark, and would do him for the time being. As well as the false plates, he had added a courier’s pannier and covered the tank with a leather jacket that held maps, disguising the original lines and appearance from a chance sighting by its former owner.
He’d finally heard from Jennings and now had fresh instructions. There had been a change of priorities, the lawyer had informed him. Dog had taken the information without comment; orders were orders and he w
ould follow them through without question. Jennings had revealed with some reluctance where he was staying, and Dog had tucked the information away for later use. He didn’t mind secrecy, but it was beginning to irk him that he was being left out of the loop as if he were of little importance.
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 cafe 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.
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