Deception

FORTY-NINE

‘You trying to be coy by any chance?’ Ballatyne sounded tired. ‘You call and don’t leave a message, my boys see that as a bad sign. Says an asset’s feeling nervy and leaving a trail for others to follow.’

It was the second reference to an asset in quick succession; the first had been by Clare Jardine. ‘Nervy’s right; I got a message to meet you on the Embankment.’

‘Couldn’t have. I was busy.’

‘I know that now.’ Harry told him about the phone call and finding Clare Jardine waiting for him with her trusty little knife.

‘That could have been nasty. She did Bellingham like that, didn’t she?’

‘Thanks for reminding me.’ She had also cut the man’s throat, Harry remembered. Artistry with a blade in the blink of an eye. He felt an echo of a twitch in his leg at the lack of expression on Clare’s face and the thought of what she might have done had Rik not been there. He had no compunction about confirming her part in her former boss’s death because she had been caught on CCTV in the act. It had earned her a place on MI6’s Most Wanted list.

‘What did she want?’

‘Paulton’s head on a plate and me to step aside. But not in that order.’

‘She’ll have to join the queue, won’t she? How did she seem?’

‘Tense. Angry. I’d say she’s got issues — and an accurate inside track on what you and I are working on. She found Jean, she got my home address and phone, and she knows pretty much up to the minute what I’m doing. She even knew you were out of the office.’

‘Christ, what a bloody nerve. We’ve got a chatterbox in the woodpile. I’ll put out an alert and set off a security trawl through her old section.’

‘Good idea. But it was Clare who spotted the Bosnians and warned Jean to get out. I’ve moved her to a safe place just in case.’

Ballatyne grunted. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me is Jardine’s not all bad.’

Harry wasn’t that naive. ‘She helped Jean because she wanted to get to me. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t roast me if the situation came up.’ He realized he was still holding the newspaper which Clare had left behind. She must have thrust it at him as she stood up. Or maybe he’d grasped it subconsciously — he couldn’t remember.

Ballatyne had switched topics. He gave Harry the address of a shop in Dalston Lane, and the name and contact number of an officer in SO19, the Metropolitan Police firearms unit. Harry dug out a pen and wrote it down in the margin of the newspaper. It was that day’s copy of The Times. ‘Be there at eleven thirty tonight. They’re going to turn Soran’s place upside down. They’ll probably find nothing but it might be a good idea if you were in attendance.’

‘What do you expect to find?’ He flipped the newspaper round. Something had been written across the lower half of the page, just above the political and military engagements for the week. It was a mobile phone number.

‘Anything or nothing. Soran’s clever enough to stay below the radar, but even clever people get careless. If he thinks nobody’s going to touch him, it’s time to show him otherwise. Keep Ferris out of it, though. SO19 don’t need any walking wounded as bystanders.’

Harry switched off and found Rik watching him over the rim of his coffee mug. He handed him the newspaper and tapped the number written down. ‘Any chance you could find a subscriber name for that? It’s probably a disposable but try anyway.’

‘Sure. You off somewhere?’

‘I’ve been invited to a party.’ Before Rik could ask, he stood up. ‘Sorry — grown-ups only. And you’ve still got Tan to hunt for.’

‘Spoilsport.’ Rik didn’t look too upset at being left out, though. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas about her. . something a mate suggested. I’ll shout if anything comes up.’

Other than a few early drunks and late workers, none of whom were paying any attention, Dalston Lane was reasonably quiet when Harry walked along the pavement and tapped on the passenger window of a transit van with a cleaner’s logo on the side. A scattering of other unmarked vehicles indicated that SO19 were here in numbers, with a perimeter tight enough to stop anyone from leaving the area if they needed to. As the window went down, he caught the mixed aromas of coffee and body odour and heard the clink of metal from inside the van.

‘Harry Tate,’ he said softly.

‘Good to have you along.’ The man in the passenger seat was heavily built and wearing a helmet and dark boiler suit. He was holding a large metal battering ram, known as a ‘universal key’ between his knees. He nodded towards the front. ‘The boss is along the street in the control car. He asked if you could stay back until we go in and the way’s clear. A unit will block the front of the shop and we’ll hit the rear. Less likely to get cut by flying glass that way when I use this.’ He jiggled the ram up and down and gave Harry a brief once-over. ‘You ever done this before?’

Harry thought back to the last time he’d kicked a door in. He’d been holding a weapon then, and ready to shoot anything that moved. Although he was armed now, this wasn’t quite the same. ‘A few times. But I’ll stay out of your way until you’re in.’

‘Fair enough.’ The man half turned his head. ‘Col? Refreshments for our guest, if you please.’

A hand came out from the back of the van clutching a small plastic cup. It was steaming and smelled of coffee.

‘We’ve got ten minutes, Harry,’ said the voice behind the cup. The side door slid back. ‘Climb in and get that down you.’

Harry thanked him and climbed aboard, nodding to half a dozen helmeted and suited men sitting patiently in the dark. The tension in the air was palpable and someone was humming quietly. He sat and drank his coffee in silence; they didn’t need conversation, and probably had him tagged as a Whitehall watcher sent to monitor proceedings.

His phone buzzed. It was Rik. ‘No joy on the mobile number. You want me to try it to see who answers?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll try it later.’ He switched off at a burst of static on the vehicle’s radio, followed by the order to approach the premises and for cars on the outer perimeter to close in. Harry was surprised by the numbers involved. Ballatyne must have called in some big favours to get this level of help, and was taking no chances. Even if it came up empty, it would send a powerful message to Soran and his associates that they were under the spotlight.

He let the men out and climbed in alongside the driver, who sensed his impatience and glanced at his watch. ‘Give it a minute or so and they’ll be in.’

Harry lowered the side window. From eighty yards away, the coordinated shouting of the teams at the front and rear of the shop, followed by the ram hitting the back door, sounded very loud. It immediately set dogs barking in adjacent premises, and caused one or two lights to go on along the street. Most, however, stayed off; not everyone was keen to be seen joining in the public spectacle, preferring to watch under cover of darkness.

Harry stepped out of the van and walked along the street to the front door, where an officer was standing guard. Two of his colleagues were kneeling on a struggling figure in the middle of the shop, while a third was checking behind the counter and racks with a large flashlight. Harry stepped past them and walked through to the back room, his nose twitching at the spicy atmosphere, where he found a senior officer standing alongside a large man with a bald head. Two armed officers stood in the background. From overhead came the sounds of a search in progress.

‘You break my property, you pay,’ said the balding man, as something tinkled and a man swore. The man’s voice was dull with sleep, enhancing his heavy accent, and Harry thought he recognized the familiar tones of the Sarajevo district of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He’d heard them too many times before, ranging from friendly to downright hostile, ever to forget them. Mostly the latter.

The officer sniffed and looked at Harry. ‘You want a word with him?’

Harry shook his head. Questioning the man wouldn’t help; Soran would undoubtedly use every lever he could to plead a case of unlawful entry and an invasion of his privacy. ‘I’ll take a look around, though,’ he said, and walked up the stairs. He found several officers conducting a room-by-room search, piling anything of interest at the top of the stairs for removal in evidence bags. Most of it looked like junk, although there was a replica automatic pistol which looked real enough to fool anyone.

The living quarters were cramped and dark, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of cooking. It was a man’s space, with no signs of a woman’s touch. Harry knew instinctively that their chances of coming up with anything concrete leading to the two Bosnians who had killed Pike and Barrow and tried to get McCreath were slim. Whatever secrets Soran had were probably well concealed.

He returned downstairs and found the officer and Soran sitting at the room’s central table. Soran was spinning a mobile phone with his forefinger, while the officer was asking about the two young men questioned earlier.

‘They have gone home,’ Soran muttered disinterestedly. ‘They do not live here.’

‘Home? Where’s that?’

Soran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Young men, they move all the time. . change place like I change shirts.’ He scowled and waved a hand, the matter of no importance. ‘Why should they tell me? I am not their keeper.’

‘They work for you?’

‘No. They are painting, decorating. . many jobs like that.’

‘What about phone numbers?’ said Harry, after a nod from the officer.

‘I do not know.’ Soran looked up at him. ‘Who are you?’ He jerked his head at the officer. ‘His name I know. Yours I don’t.’

It was a delaying tactic, a distraction. Harry ignored it. Instead he picked up the mobile phone from the table and pressed the call button. It showed the last few numbers dialled. He read them aloud and the officer jotted down each one in a notebook.

‘Hey!’ Soran rounded on Harry, stabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘You cannot do that! Is private property. I complain through my solicitor.’

Harry gave him a cold look. This man had helped the two who had been watching Jean, had probably provided material assistance to Zubac and Ganic. ‘You go for it.’ He read out the last of the numbers listed, then tossed the phone back on to the table and walked through to the back door, which was sagging off its hinges, courtesy of the metal ram.

Outside, a collection of eager young faces had gathered at the rear gate. From the comments made, he got the impression that they were not unduly upset at seeing C’emal Soran being turned over. He ignored them and made for a small outhouse to one side. It had a substantial door which was out of keeping with the ancient, porous brick walls. It was locked. He went back inside and asked Soran for the key.

‘Is lost,’ the Bosnian replied without even looking at him. ‘Is nothing much in there — storeroom only. I never use.’

Harry nodded, wondering if Soran was being obstructive for the hell of it, or playing a delaying game. ‘In that case, you won’t mind if we open it for you, will you?’ He looked at the officer, who called out for the man with the battering ram and told him to break down the door.

Three heavy blows and the door caved in. It revealed a storeroom with white walls fitted with metal racking piled with cardboard boxes. A camp bed and an armchair were the main anomalies, along with a kettle, milk and two mugs with traces of cold liquid in the bottom. Packets of sugar and tea and an open packet of biscuits lay nearby. Harry touched the kettle with the back of his hand. Difficult to be certain, but he thought it held traces of warmth. Someone had been in here recently. Maybe this was where they had planned on holding Jean, to use her as a bargaining chip.

The man with the battering ram was watching him, and caught on quick. ‘I’ll get one of the guys to take the temperature,’ he said, and spoke into his radio.

Harry nodded. If nothing else, it would prove Soran was lying about the key. He flicked up the thin mattress on the camp bed. Nothing but canvas and the stale tang of unwashed bodies. The armchair was stuffed with foam, lumpy, misshapen and stained, but that was all. He nudged it to one side, then bent and picked up something lying on the floor.

A triangular metal ring.

There was nothing else to see, so he asked the officer to bag up the mugs, biscuit packet and kettle for prints and DNA testing, and left him to it.

He walked back into the building and dropped the ring on the table in front of Soran. It was clear by the man’s expression that he recognized it for what it was. So did the police officer, whose jaw dropped.

‘This is a pull ring from an M84 stun grenade,’ Harry announced. ‘It was found in your locked storeroom along with traces of recent occupation. Hours recent, in fact. This, along with chemical and DNA analysis, is going to put you right at the centre of an attack on a south London police station by Zlatco Ganic and Milan Zubac, where at least two officers were shot dead.’ He turned to leave, while the officer took out a plastic evidence bag and placed the ring inside, his face grim at what Harry had revealed.

Soran was looking sick and licking his lips. He said nothing.

‘You should have got your people to clean up properly,’ said Harry. ‘Big mistake.’