Deception

SIXTY-FIVE

Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. He forced himself not to look round; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. If the man who had shot Deakin was watching from the tree line and had Harry in his sights, there was precious little he could do about it now. Instead, he checked the other side of Deakin’s head. No exit wound. He inspected the wound again. Powder burns were visible around the entry point. Not a rifle from the woods, then.

This had been an execution, up close and personal. Pointed. He remembered what Turpowicz had said about the Chinese middleman, Wien Lu Chi. ‘Smooth as a snake and probably as dangerous.’ This was Deakin’s payback for not coming up with the goods in time. Or maybe they’d realized they’d been sold a pup. The Chinese wouldn’t have got their down-payment back, but that would be of less immediate interest than saving face — and sending out a warning to others. Nobody messed with them without paying in full.

Rik joined him and stared at Deakin’s body. ‘You reckon Paulton did this?’

‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not his style.’

Harry was looking towards the access road, where a flash of movement had caught his eye. The grey Mercedes was approaching the gate, unhurried and sleek. It slowed almost to a stop, and Harry saw the oval of a face turned towards them in the rear window. He’d only caught a brief glimpse as the car had passed by, but he’d got an impression of a slim figure, neat and of middle years, dressed in a suit. He’d have blended in perfectly with the trade delegation the manager had mentioned.

He toyed with calling the authorities, but decided against it. From here to a motorway intersection wouldn’t take long in the Merc, and by the time a helicopter got overhead, they’d be in among thick traffic or have switched cars. Operations like this weren’t carried out on a wing and a prayer; they had too much to lose if they fouled up. Maybe the centre’s security camera would pick up the number plate and show the faces of the driver and passenger. Or maybe not.

‘Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him.’ He turned and walked back towards the hotel. He’d call it in from reception. It would take the gloss off the manager’s day, but there was no hiding a murder.

First, though, there was something else he had to do.

George Paulton had an instinct for danger, honed over many years operating undercover in extreme conditions. It was usually signalled by a prickling of his palms, and the last time he’d experienced it, the feeling had saved his life. He had learned never to dismiss it.

That prickling was with him again and he knew he had to leave. Right now.

He was accustomed to living out of a small bag, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and there was no sign of panic as he toured the room, checking that he’d left nothing behind. He used a damp cloth to wipe down everything that he’d touched since the night before, when he’d done another such check, as much a way of easing his impatience than adhering to a self-imposed security routine.

He’d spent the last hour or so trying to get hold of his contact in the Met, and another in MI6, to find out what was happening about the hunt for the Protectory. But neither of them was answering. This lack of knowledge meant he was operating blind, unable to see even part of the picture, let alone all of it. Now it didn’t really matter; it was time to go.

When he was ready, he stood for a moment, settling his nerves. Then he scooped up his bag and headed for the fire escape at the rear of the building. Deakin would be taking care of the bill, so he had no reason to go near the front desk. It would be unwise, anyway, to appear in the front foyer, since the danger, if his instincts were correct, would be centred right there.

He considered Deakin for a brief moment. The former soldier was out walking somewhere, but intuition told him that going in search of him was not an option. Deakin would have to look after himself.

He hurried down the rear stairs, a rush of excitement building in his ears. He didn’t know the source of the danger, but whatever it was, whether the Chinese Deakin had dealt with or Harry Tate, every instinct told him it was very close.

In the ground floor stairwell he passed between pallets of provisions, stacks of conference chairs and folded tables, all waiting to be moved. The atmosphere and decor here was strictly utilitarian, sombre and cool. Figures in white jackets scurried about, not even bothering to look at him. They were back-of-house workers and he was plainly a guest in their view, so they would have no reason to interact.

He stepped outside. Saw a scattering of staff cars and two trucks making deliveries, tail lifts down and boxes stacked. Drivers and kitchen staff intent on their work and someone shouting in Flemish. Otherwise, nobody paid him any attention. He walked across to the edge of the building and looked round the side, where the golf course was spread out before him. He could just see one end of the car park and a portion of the access road at the front. And parked on the edge of the line of cars was the hire car he and Deakin had used to get here. He studied it for a few moments, hearing a vague, internal alarm. And wondering.

He walked along the side of the building, stopping as a young man in a porter’s jacket stepped out from a recess in the wall, puffing out a final lungful of smoke and flicking away the stub of a cigarette.

Paulton smiled and the man coughed, face erupting in a flush as he was caught out in his vice. Impulsively, Paulton stopped and said, ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ He needed a distraction at the front of the building, and what better one could there be than a porter on an errand?

‘Yes, sir?’ The man smoothed his waistcoat, no doubt relieved that he wasn’t in trouble and might even earn himself a tip.

Paulton took his keys out of his pocket and a couple of crisp notes from his wallet and gave the porter some instructions. Then he handed him his bag. The youth nodded, although he clearly didn’t fully understand, but his expression also said that the amount of money he was being offered was enough to do away with any doubts he might have had.

He hurried away to do the guest’s bidding, leaving Paulton waiting, his nerves jangling.

Just then, his phone rang, startling him. He answered it and listened, then said, ‘I know that. I think he’s already here. For the future, I’ll call you when I need to. This number’s out of action as of right now.’ He cut the call, then stripped the back off the phone and took out the SIM card. He bent and pushed the square of plastic into the ground, then tossed the two halves of the phone into some bushes and walked away.