She cut the call with a brief goodbye. She had to find out, otherwise she’d never rest. If Harry Tate was here for her, it could only be that he’d been sent by London, most probably SIS. And he wouldn’t be bringing chocolates. No matter that she’d once saved his life and stopped a bullet in the process, some dues were automatically cancelled the moment you jumped the fence and disappeared, the way she had. In the world of secret intelligence, once you were no longer part of the same game, all bets were off.
She followed Tate’s progress, using stairways and corridors as cover, the ID tag swinging from her neck. She was surprised by how quickly he appeared to move, a fish among other fishes, only faster than most, yet without obvious effort. She waited while the queue entered and was processed through passport control, then moved onto a mezzanine overlooking the main concourse, where she could watch him moving to the meet-and-greet exit.
She moved around a German couple who were arguing volubly over a mislaid passport, then got back on track. And stopped.
Tate was gone.
Just like that.
She swore to herself and felt a hint of panic. She’d had her eye on him! How the hell—
Then he was walking up a moving stairway towards her. He looked relaxed and mildly interested, as if this encounter hadn’t been totally unsurprising. But then the Harry Tate she had known very rarely looked surprised by anything.
She watched as he stepped to one side to allow other passengers to spill off the stairway and move past. He was wearing a heavy topcoat and plain slacks and carrying a holdall. Enough, she figured, for a couple of nights stopover. Visas for UK nationals now lasted for thirty days rather than the original five or ten. If Tate was here for any longer than a couple, he was travelling very light. Dark clothing, dark holdall, dark shoes – all of it anonymous, she reflected, just like him. She’d seen Tate disappear before, like smoke on the wind. It was a rare skill not available to everyone, and although she could do it herself, she wasn’t as good as him.
‘For a moment, there,’ he murmured, ‘I thought you were trying to avoid me.’
Clare wanted to hit him, to demand why he was here, to insist he leave her alone and go back to wherever he’d come from, to forget he’d seen her and never think of or speak of her again. But the words wouldn’t come.
‘Coffee,’ he said finally. ‘I could really do with a large coffee.’
There was no way out. The best she could do was to go along with him, find out why he was here and move on. Trying to lose him would be like shaking off a piece of lint.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I lost Tate.’ It was Perry, delivering news Colmyer didn’t want to hear. He stood up from his desk as if given an electric shock, causing a tray of files to slide off the edge and scatter its contents across the floor. His secretary, busy pouring coffee, rushed to gather them together, but he waved a hand at her and shouted, ‘Leave them! Get out.’
When he regained his temper, he said to Perry, ‘How? Where?’
‘He bagged a stand-by seat on a flight to Minsk. But at least I know that’s where he got off.’
Colmyer ground his teeth together. ‘Why are you telling me this? Find him!’
‘You asked for reports,’ Perry replied calmly. ‘I’m keeping you updated.’
‘Are you sure you can handle this?’ Colmyer muttered savagely. ‘I had every confidence in you; you’d better not let me down.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m on it. I know people in Minsk; associates who can find Tate before he knows it.’
Colmyer experienced a momentary buzz of concern and wondered just what kind of ‘people’ Perry knew in Belarus. He was supposed to be a loner, a man ill-suited to be associated with anyone, least of all in a place like Minsk. There had certainly been no indication of any in his background data, and he wondered if it might become a problem in the future. Using off-the-books talent was a double-edged sword, especially if they responded to a more tempting offer from elsewhere or used others from God alone knew what kind of dodgy milieu.
Perry interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are you talking executive action?’
‘Of course executive bloody action,’ Colmyer snarled. ‘Both of them. Do it!’
He cut the connection and sat down. He had the beginnings of a headache inching across his forehead and snatched at his coffee. It was already lukewarm and he was tempted to hurl it across the room. Minsk? Why the bloody hell had Ferris gone to Minsk? But deep down he knew why: if anyone was digging into areas of the UK’s intelligence files, Belarus would be one place where cyber operations were set up with carefully concealed lines to Moscow. And a man like Ferris, with all manner of information stored in his brain, would have been drawn there to be scalped, drained and emptied of every little thing he knew.
He was about to reach for the phone to contact Hough when he had second thoughts. This wasn’t a disaster, not yet. If Perry did his job properly, his dealings in the US following his visits to Moscow would never see the light of day and Ferris and Tate would be history. The archives would remain closed, just as Sir Geoffrey Bull, and Sir Anthony Bellingham before him, had promised. As for his financial records and the extent of his undeclared involvement in banking and energy stakes in that region, that could be explained away. Being dragged before the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards Office and subjected to an investigation would be an embarrassment, but ultimately negotiable. What might be less easy to explain was the considerable and hidden wealth of shares and investments through a network of holding companies and shadow accounts, spread across more than a dozen tax havens and jurisdictions. It was this that would be the finish of him. Making money out of astute and permissible investments was easy to dismiss; being found to be elbow deep in Russian, Ukrainian and Chinese companies, all sanction-busting with some of the world’s most hostile states across the Middle East, was not.
He called his secretary for more coffee and told her to postpone the next meeting for thirty minutes. He needed to think. The knowledge that he could be suborned had meant little when he was starting out as an MP. The kind of information he was privy to then was unimportant and therefore unhelpful to a foreign power. But that was then. Now the reality of his situation had struck home with a vengeance. He’d been careless; he should have seen this coming.
The thought brought a chill of fear deep in his chest. He’d thought himself a friend of men in suits with close ties to the Kremlin, and used that for his own gain, playing up his contacts to the Americans. Those same men in suits had even given him a nickname he’d actually thought funny at the time.
Cicada.
TWENTY-NINE
Harry was surprised by the change in Clare Jardine’s appearance. Whether the result of a different lifestyle or the physical impact of having been shot, the transformation was considerable. In fact he doubted if most people who’d once worked with her in MI6 would recognize her now. But he did. Share close enough ties even for a short while with someone under stressful circumstances, and you get to know the way they move, the way they hold themselves. That kind of closeness tends to imprint a person on the psyche more than a shared cubicle or a regular chat over coffee and cake.
That he’d spotted her at all was pure luck. She’d moved against the backdrop of an overhead walkway just as he’d looked up, subconsciously checking for cameras or watchers. It was obvious that she was scanning the crowd of passengers around him, and while he might have expected that of security officials at any major international airport, seeing a face he recognized doing the same had been a surprise. His initial thought was that she might be there to meet an incoming traveller. But when he realized she was keeping up with him as he progressed through the airport, he realized that he was the subject of interest.
She led him to a cafeteria area, now largely deserted after the recent flush-through of meeters-and-greeters, and ordered coffee. The woman behind the counter seemed to know her and gave a friendly smile, and he wondered if Minsk was where Clare now lived.
In truth he hadn’t given a thought to where she had gone, save that he’d hoped she stayed lucky and safe. That was the least he could wish for her.
‘You look well,’ he said, which wasn’t his best opener, but he had to start somewhere.
‘You look older,’ she countered bluntly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Still the same old Clare, thought Harry. He wondered if she was still carrying her deadly little blade, the one concealed in a powder compact which could be unleashed in a moment. He shook a sugar bag and dumped the contents in his coffee. A few stray grains scattered across the table, and he gathered them together with a sweep of his hand. He was playing for time, still trying to get over the surprise of seeing her standing there at the top of the elevator, a blast from the past. ‘Sorry. I gave up sugar a while ago, but every now and then I feel the need.’
‘I’m not interested in your dietary habits.’ Clare’s voice took on a hard edge, and her hand nudged her cup aside, spilling a few drops of black coffee. ‘You didn’t answer my question: why are you here? Is it me you’re after?’
Harry said, ‘Why would I be after you?’
She didn’t believe him, it was written in every line of her face. In addition she looked stubborn, angry, concerned and, unusually, ready to bolt. That was unlike her. The Clare Jardine he’d known had been naturally assertive and ready to face up to anything. But this version was different somehow. He studied her face, trying to gauge what she had gone through since he’d last seen her. She was thinner, but not unhealthily so, her hands strong and unhesitating in their movements. Her hair was neat, short and as an indicator of a person’s health, she looked fine. But there was something under her skin that told another story.
‘All right,’ he said, and placed both hands on the table. What could he lose by telling her the truth? ‘I’m looking for Rik Ferris.’
‘Christ, is that geek still around?’ She tried to make the question casual, but there was something in her expression that didn’t look right. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t shoot himself in the foot a long time ago.’
He was about to suggest she should give Rik a break, but under the circumstances it didn’t seem appropriate, not if Rik had really got himself into something messy. Instead he said, ‘How come you were here? I didn’t imagine you for a plane-spotter.’
She chewed her lip for a moment, then surprised him. ‘I live in the city – not that you’d know that. I’ve been keeping a low profile. I heard you were flying in and wanted to see if it was really you.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘And now you want to know how I knew?’
‘You got it.’
‘A friend placed a search programme in the arrivals data program with a list of names red-tagged.’
‘Names?’
‘People I thought might come looking for me. Six personnel, including you. When your name popped up I came to check it out.’
‘I hope the wait was worth it.’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she said, but there was now a trace of something else in her eyes: a slight softening of the hard shell he knew so well. It was a tiny sign, but an improvement on the protective expression she’d been wearing earlier. ‘I didn’t want any surprises after what I’d been through, and the easiest way to check was to have some warning.’
‘Warning of what? That I might come for you? Why would you think I’d have any part of that?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what to think after London. Whether they’d want to settle scores or not. It wasn’t as if I’d left with a pat on the back and a letter of recommendation, not after what I did.’
‘Is that Bellingham or Paulton?’ It was risky bringing up Paulton’s name, another traitor who’d met an unexplained death. But since cards were being laid on the table, why not?
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ The response was like a bear-trap closing. ‘Paulton was your problem, not mine.’ Her expression went cold again and he decided to leave it. There was nothing to gain by apportioning responsibility – he couldn’t think of it as blame.
‘If it hadn’t been you it would have been me,’ he said, and felt surprised that he’d never voiced that before. He’d thought it plenty of times while tracking Paulton across Europe; what he would do if and when he caught up with him. But he’d never put it into words. Probably because he knew that getting Paulton into any form of custody and facing justice was unlikely to happen.
‘God, get you, Tate. You going all Rambo now?’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I like to think I could be a member of the Justice League. They have more colourful outfits.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, why the interest? Did you really think I’d be the one to come after you?’
‘Why not? You went freelance but stayed in the same game. Anyway, you have a habit of attracting trouble, remember?’
‘Fair point.’ He’d got her shot the last time they’d met. Well, he hadn’t, not directly. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But arguing semantics wasn’t going to get them anywhere.
‘And,’ she added, ‘you turning up here as well was a surprise I could do without.’
‘As well?’
‘Ferris came through here a few days ago.’
Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. How much could he tell her? He knew of her partnership with Katya, an FSO officer, but that didn’t mean she might feel inclined to blab to the authorities.
‘Did you follow him to see where he went?’ he said finally.
‘I was working at the time so I couldn’t. He headed into the city but I’ve no idea where. I know one thing, though: he had company.’
‘Who?’
‘A man and a woman. They looked like a surveillance crew.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. They were on him like limpets but he didn’t know it. Off in one of his own little bubbles, I expect. Why are you looking for him?’
‘Before I answer that, is one of your watcher friends Katya?’
‘I’m not going to tell you that.’ Her face shut down and she looked wary, but it told him all he needed to know.
‘You just did.’
She glared at him and he wondered if being out of Six had allowed her to forget about basic interrogation techniques. Never give away more than you have to; it could cost you your life.
‘She helped,’ she admitted eventually. ‘She has contacts all over. I don’t know who they are but they’re close enough to do as she asks without question. She wanted to protect both our backs.’
‘She works here, too?’
‘She’s on assignment, training up the Belarus government’s protection team. And before you ask, Moscow relaxed the career block they had on her since our episode, and they don’t seem bothered by me being with her.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ It was quite a shift in attitudes for any Moscow agency, Harry thought. At one time a Russian security officer becoming and staying involved with a former member of MI6 would have suffered a career-ending with no way back. ‘They must think highly of her.’
‘And less of me, you mean?’ Her eyes flickered. ‘Maybe you’re right. But we’re not taking it for granted. That’s why it bothers me when you two turn up unexpectedly within days of each other. Are you saying you’re not working together?’
‘Absolutely.’ Harry explained about their gradual drift apart due to work, about Rik losing his mother and, subsequently, the Security Service’s interest in his activities.
Clare stared at him. ‘That’s a bit desperate, isn’t it? No way is Ferris spy material. He probably likes to think he’s Jason Bourne when he looks in the mirror, but not in a million.’
‘You’re being too harsh. I’d trust him any day.’ To get back on course he explained briefly what he knew about Rik’s recent movements, including the CCTV street footage, and the death of Nathalie Baier.
‘Were they a thing?’ Clare looked cynical.
‘I don’t know. Could be, but I doubt it.’
/> He took out his phone and showed her the WhatsApp message from Rik. ‘That’s all I’ve got. And the address in Stepyanka, wherever that is.’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s not there, that’s all.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I’ve already been there looking for him.’
‘Why? He’s not your favourite person, and chasing SIS delinquents isn’t his kind of work.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I just don’t like the idea of him being in my back yard. You either, come to that. I wanted to know what he was doing here.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘No. That bit of Stepyanka is a deserted shit-hole for addicts and people with nowhere else to go. It’s due for clearance any day. When they get round to it it’ll simply shift the problems elsewhere – probably across the Beltway to where all the “nice” people live.’ She made rabbit’s ears around the word.
‘The Beltway?’
‘The circular road around Minsk.’ She explained how she had got there by asking around and had struck lucky. ‘For all I know he ran into trouble. It’s the kind of dumping ground where things happen, people disappear and nobody knows anything.’
‘I want to see it.’
‘You really don’t.’
‘I really do. He wouldn’t have sent me the address if it wasn’t important.’
‘You think he was laying a trail?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I won’t know until I look.’
‘In that case be my guest. But don’t blame me if you don’t come out again.’
‘You could always take me.’
‘Not a chance. Certainly not at this time of night. Anyway I can’t risk being seen with you or Ferris.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m here under sufferance. If anyone catches on to who you are I’ll be out on my ear and Katya will be recalled to Moscow.’
‘Fine.’ Harry stood up. ‘I’ll go myself.’ He gestured at the coffees. ‘It was good to see you again. I hope everything goes well for you and Katya.’
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