Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  Armoured cars, Harry thought, spotting the remains of a half-track vehicle rusting into a patch of weeds. The access doors of the building were too small to have allowed anything bigger.

  There was little sign of life save for a dog sniffing at a fence a hundred yards away, and one elderly woman dragging a three-wheeled barrow loaded with planks of wood.

  Clare took the photo from Harry and approached the old woman, holding it up for her to see. Harry waited in the background. Whatever she said he’d be none the wiser and he didn’t want to spook the old lady.

  She shook her head and gestured briefly at the buildings as if suggesting Clare should take her pick. Then she walked away with a show of speed, dragging the barrow.

  ‘She said people come and go. Mostly vagrants, some immigrants from the south, and others are people of bad character. She doesn’t ask questions and didn’t want to be seen talking to us.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Harry was looking down at the ground, where a glaze of mud had coated the surface like brown icing on a cake. It highlighted several sets of tyre tracks. Off-road rubbers, he guessed, like those on heavy SUVs. And either side of these were the deeper imprints of a larger vehicle. ‘These look recent.’

  Clare studied the marks. ‘You’re right. But who?’

  Harry was uneasy. It was a feeling he’d learned not to ignore. Some places carried their own aura that weighed heavily on the atmosphere like a lead cloak. He could think of some cemeteries and a couple of former concentration camps he’d visited that had the permanence of a dark cloud overhead as if unable to escape their history.

  They were only halfway down the road between the buildings but he decided they’d gone far enough.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and turned back towards the gates.

  Clare said, ‘I thought you were going to look around.’

  ‘No need. This is the place. I can feel it.’

  ‘Really? Your hunter’s sixth sense?’ She might have been teasing but he didn’t think so. She had a look about her; a look he’d seen before.

  ‘You got it, too.’

  She nodded. ‘Something. Where to now?’

  ‘Back to the hotel,’ he said. ‘I need to get some kit.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m coming back later, before dark. I’ll get a cab.’

  She glanced at him and he sensed an immediate antagonism. ‘So you’re done with the little woman now? I’m no longer needed by the great and magnificent Harry Tate?’ The breath hissed between her teeth. The old Clare, he remembered; quick to anger and busting for a fight.

  ‘If I’ve thought of you as anything,’ he replied evenly, ‘it’s never as a little woman. I need to check out these buildings but I can’t do it with you and a big shiny car sitting outside. I’ll pick up more if I’m alone. Besides, you were right earlier: me coming here is a threat to you and Katya. I owe you more than that.’

  Her breathing eased, ruffled feathers calmed by the logic of field-craft. Conducting a search for someone – and it was nearly always a someone – was best done without distractions, where listening to the atmosphere was of prime importance. And in a place like this dead zone, with its jungle of shadows and creaks and groans, picking out the presence of people needed absolute focus.

  ‘Fair enough. But what if you bump into some opposition?’

  ‘I’ll have to use my old-world charm.’

  ‘Like that’ll work.’ She reached across and tapped the button to the glove box. Inside was a leather washbag with a zip. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Take it. I meant what I said about this area – it’s not a safe place.’

  Harry lifted the bag out. It was heavy and he knew instinctively what it contained. The pistol was clean and shiny but showed signs of use, with a faint pattern of abrasions in the frame and grip.

  ‘It’s Katya’s personal back-up piece,’ Clare explained. ‘For someone in her job Stepyanka’s not the only place in this city to go without one. It’s not registered but I’d rather you didn’t lose it.’

  Harry checked the safety and placed it in his coat pocket. ‘Count on it,’ he promised.

  ‘And call me when you’re done. You won’t get a cab coming out here to pick you up.’

  ‘But will they bring me here?’

  ‘If you pay them up front, yes. But don’t expect them to wait.’

  Harry was looking into the glove box. Moving the leather bag had revealed something else.

  It was a plastic powder compact in a shocking shade of pink.

  Clare didn’t do pink, he knew that much about her. He also knew that the compact had been a gift from Rik Ferris, delivered to her hospital bed back in London.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ she muttered, and leaned across to slam the glove box shut. ‘Not a word.’

  Harry didn’t. But he was smiling.

  When Harry returned to the zone, it was in a cab which dropped him off a quarter of a mile back from the entrance. Daylight was bleeding away, leaving a mist of cold air hanging over the buildings and trees, and the feeling that snow wasn’t far away. If the driver was curious about the Englishman’s presence in this remote and unwelcoming spot, he didn’t ask before turning and heading back towards the city.

  Harry stepped into the cover of some trees by the gates and waited, eyes on the exhaust residue from the disappearing cab. He was fairly sure he’d left London without being tagged, but he wasn’t about to get complacent. There were too many variables at play here, and if Cramer wasn’t keeping an eye on his progress, someone else might be. Someone he hadn’t yet spotted.

  He gave it twenty minutes before making a move, then made a final check that he was ready. He was wearing a grubby coat and a tattered ski hat, and a pair of boots that had seen their fair share of wear and tear. A scarf completed the outfit. A new mobile phone was concealed in the lining of the coat, just in case he ran into trouble. A visit to a re-cycled clothing store pointed out by Clare had equipped him for merging into this particular landscape more than his own clothes ever would. The absence of any local language skills was something he couldn’t disguise, but he wasn’t planning on chatting with anyone. A head-down, unreceptive manner and a visible lack of anywhere better to be would suffice. He’d used the tactic before and providing he didn’t run into any cops or security forces looking for papers, he’d get by.

  He flicked on a torch in his coat pocket and caught a brief glow through the fabric. In his other pocket was the semi-automatic belonging to Katya. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

  The buildings looked ghostly and forbidding in the grey light, but he could just make out the far end of the access road. There was maybe another hour to go before darkness. He scouted around inside the entrance until he saw part of an old hand-trolley lying in a heap of discarded rubbish. The frame was rusted and twisted out of shape, useless for bearing any load, but the wheels, with hard rubber tyres eaten away in parts by the elements, still worked. In an area where reason didn’t necessarily make sense to anyone from the outside, it would be perfect cover.

  He started walking, unsteadily and veering off-course occasionally, listening to the clank and rumble of the wheels bumping along the concrete road and echoing off the buildings either side. Anyone inside would have to be deaf not to notice, which was what he was counting on. If they had no interest they would leave him alone, too intent on their own dire situation to do anything. If they were here for other reasons, and therefore on the lookout, they would watch and wait. Hopefully they would see his shambling figure pushing a pile of rubbish and not give him a second look.

  He was halfway down the road, hugging the verge and stopping to pick up some random piece of detritus while listening for any faint sounds going on around him, when he saw a drab figure appear out of a building on the left-hand side. It was an old man, heavily bearded and dressed in bundled layers of clothing. He was half-dragging a large sack, grunting at the effort. As he reached the middle of the road, two figures stepped out f
rom the side of a building on the right-hand side and stopped him.

  Harry left the trolley and stepped off the road, his heartbeat ratcheting up a few notches. The two men were dressed in heavy winter clothing and balaclavas, and moved with the easy precision of guards on duty. They didn’t look like cops. One of them pointed at the sack and said something, his chin lifting in query. The old man shook his head and muttered a hoarse reply, and tried to walk past them, using his shoulder to block them from getting at his sack.

  The next few seconds were brutal; the first guard lashed out with a backhander, sending the old man spinning away, while the second guard stepped in fast and kicked the sack from his hand. Both then used their fists until he dropped to the ground and huddled protectively into a ball.

  Their fun over, the two men walked away laughing, and disappeared between two buildings.

  Harry debated moving away, but he couldn’t leave the old man out there. He pushed the trolley ahead of him and stopped alongside him. He was conscious but clearly terrified. Harry held out a hand and helped him to his feet. With a muttered thank you, the old man picked up his sack and scurried away along the road, casting backwards glances towards the building where the two guards had gone.

  Harry was about to move on when a voice spoke. It was one of the guards, no doubt come back for a bit more fun. He was standing a few feet away, his colleague just behind him, and gestured at the trolley.

  Harry halted and played dumb. His gamble on them being too bored to repeat their cruel game hadn’t paid off. Up close he saw that the man had his hand on the butt of a weapon just visible inside his coat. An assault rifle, he guessed, on a sling. Something short. The other man stayed back, eyes flicking from Harry to the approach road and back. But what were they doing here?

  The first man spoke again, harsher, more threatening. Harry ducked his head to hide his face and tipped the trolley, spilling the rubbish he’d collected onto the road. They were messing with him to pass the time but he didn’t want to give them an excuse to prolong the agony.

  The first man kicked through the bits and pieces, then said something to his colleague. They both laughed and gestured for him to get going.

  Harry gathered up the rubbish and hurried away. He was no more than thirty yards further on when three more figures emerged from a second building. They were bunched together and heading away towards the far end of the road. Two men and a woman.

  Harry shuffled to a stop, pretending to adjust the load on his trolley. A glance back down the road showed that the two armed men were watching, but showed no signs of joining in. When one of them nodded before disappearing between the two buildings, he realized they were part of the same group.

  One of the three had turned and was watching him. Tall, broad-shouldered and lithe, he was too upright to be part of the destitute community. The other man and the woman continued walking.

  Harry bent and picked at something on the road surface, openly sniffing at it before secreting it with deliberate care inside his coat. He left the barrow and walked to the fence at the side of the road, pulling at his fly and coughing repeatedly. Leaning on the fence with one hand, he peered under his arm and saw the man shake his head and turn to follow the other two.

  He breathed deeply. The last thing on his mind was relieving himself. But where he was standing he was looking through the fence at the building the three figures had just left. It looked no different to any of the other dilapidated structures along here, save for one thing: it had a large shiny padlock on the front door.

  This was the place. He knew it. And the two guards were a security patrol. They must have established a perimeter around this and the buildings on either side to keep unwelcome visitors away.

  The temptation to take a closer look inside the fence was pulling at him, but he resisted it. At least one of those three was jumpy enough to turn back without warning.

  They were turning off the road between two concrete pillars with a rusted archway overhead. Harry’s eyes were drawn to the person in the lead. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, the figure was fiddling with something, his attention focussed as if not part of the group. Then it became clear. He pulled back his hoodie and plugged a pair of headset buds into his ears, before flicking the fabric back around his head.

  It was Rik Ferris.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Harry stopped near the spot where the three figures had turned off and leaned on the barrow, playing an old man by breathing heavily with one hand in the small of his back. He made sure the scarf was covering the lower half of his face.

  Through the entrance lay a small park bordered by a gravel path. It looked dismal and unkempt in the fading light, no doubt a distant memory of what might once have been a gathering point for workers. The three figures had broken into a trot, with Rik in the lead, their feet throwing up spurts of gravel. Rik was clearly dictating the pace, which wasn’t fast, while his two companions looked as if they could run all day.

  Harry heard voices raised in anger and moved closer to a hedge surrounding the park. Two drunks were arguing on the other side, with one of them trying to snatch a bottle from his companion. They were dressed in layers of ragged clothing and seated on a bench, the ground around them littered with discarded bottles and other trash.

  The three runners paid them no attention. Drunks like these were part of the landscape and unlikely to be any threat. If they were driven off now they’d be back again later.

  Harry watched Rik. He seemed relaxed although he doubted he was enjoying himself. He’d never known Rik volunteer for any kind of exercise, but he realized that there was possibly a lot he didn’t know about his friend. Such as why, if he wasn’t here voluntarily, he didn’t simply run away? He may have been a techie but he was no fool. Rik knew how to move quietly if he had to, and find a way of disappearing. The only logical explanation was that the two people with him had some control over his movements.

  The three runners were beginning to turn at the top of the park before coming back towards the road. Harry went back to the trolley and trudged back the way he’d come, stopping occasionally to pick at something on the ground or scoop up some discarded piece of junk.

  By the time he reached the entrance to the zone and turned for a quick look, he saw the three figures walking back to the building they had left. Once he was out of sight he took out his mobile phone and called Clare. He needed a lift back to the city.

  He was back again early the following morning. This time he was carrying some extra pieces of equipment: a military grade cold-weather sleeping bag and a groundsheet, and enough basic rations to keep him going for a while. One thing he’d learned in the army was that however much thought went into an operation, it inevitably took longer than planned. And if he wanted to get Rik out of here in one piece, it had to be done carefully.

  He made for the park, pushing the barrow which he’d retrieved from the bushes by the entrance, stopping occasionally to root about in the long grass by the roadside until he had enough junk to conceal his survival kit. He ambled through the gate and sat on one of the benches beside the path, where he had a good all-round view, especially of the approach. He’d seen few people out this early; a man dragging two lengths of timber behind him on a pair of old pram wheels, and the two loud drunks from before on the far side of the green, locked once more in their own world of bad booze and discord.

  But no sign of the two armed guards.

  A flicker of movement showed near the entrance to the park and he glanced across briefly. One figure – no, three. Damn. Rik had company again. It was a complication he didn’t need. He recognized his friend instantly, out in front and jogging slowly, twin wires trailing from his ears. Wired for sound, Harry wondered, or in touch with the two behind him, an electronic leash with no escape?

  He studied the two others. A man and a woman, around thirty years of age. The man had the face of a bruiser. Military, he guessed, or used to be. The woman was chunky, with gingery hair.

 
The two Clare had seen at the airport?

  They were similarly dressed and looked far more at ease in their movements than Rik, who looked unsteady on his legs, his feet scuffing along the gravel as if unwilling to commit. They, however, looked as if they would win a foot chase backwards and still have plenty in reserve. Guards and watchers, he decided. Trying to talk to Rik was going to be more difficult than he’d thought.

  He didn’t look up as the rapid slap of feet on the path approached and sped by, the three shadows now bunched closer together. The man and woman had moved up alongside Rik as they approached, forming a blocking manoeuvre as they became aware of Harry’s presence. It was an obvious ploy to anyone versed in close protection work; stay close but be ready to react. He wondered if the move was designed to protect Rik or to stop him talking to anyone.

  That was when Harry realized these two were armed. As the woman, who was nearest, passed by, her top shifted to reveal the bulk of a webbing holster in the small of her back. Harry couldn’t see the man’s weapon, but there was the outline of a harness stretched across his shoulders.

  They did three tours of the park. Each time they reached open ground between the benches, the guards dropped back, shortening their stride and moving closer together. The woman glanced towards Harry a couple of times, and he saw her mouth moving, although whether in commentary to her companion or over comms to tell Rik to keep going he had no way of knowing.

  As they were approaching the entrance to the park on the third tour, the woman turned to Rik and signalled with her open hand twice in the air. Was that a ten? Then she and the man jogged out of the entrance and back down the road.

  Harry stayed where he was. Moving now would draw attention to himself, and these two might be replaced any second by the two armed guards. Besides, homeless people didn’t have agendas or appointments; they were captives of a non-routine day save for eating when and where they could, finding somewhere to sleep, maybe looking for handouts or an undemanding job of work.