Execution

TWENTY-EIGHT

Clare had made a mistake. She had slipped out of the basement flat just before midday, no longer able to stand the enclosed space. All the while she could hear sounds of movement in the rest of the building, and the construction noise further along the street, she was growing more and more convinced that discovery was not far away. In the end she had had to leave, taking the crutch and the mobile in case she couldn’t make it back again. A lesson learned from her former life: never leave behind anything incriminating, never take anything you don’t need to carry.

She had hugged the buildings, moving vaguely away from the direction of Victoria, where she felt sure that SIS watchers for one would be conducting surveillance for her. Where the Russians would be was beyond her; they did not work to the same set of rules as other intelligence agencies, and that was the greatest danger. They could pop up anywhere.

She had walked for twenty minutes, moving slowly in a zigzag pattern, aware that if she continued for long enough, she would end up completing a circle. It was the way that those being pursued often ended up, walking in what they were certain was a straight line, but which eventually drew them back to their start point.

To get her bearings, she had stopped, trying to picture the layout of the streets in the area. The last thing she needed was to walk out into the open, where a woman with a crutch would stand out.

Then a man had turned a corner on the other side of the street, where three streets converged on a small paved triangle containing a cluster of trees and raised flower beds, and a small toilet block. The man was young and thin, with the gaunt, hard looks and fair hair of an east European. Possibly a waiter or kitchen worker — there were plenty of restaurants in the area employing both. He was dressed in jeans, trainers and a bomber jacket, all bearing the creases of long use and not recent purchases.

She moved into the doorway of an upscale carpet shop, with Persian rugs and no prices, and watched the man as he strolled along the pavement. He was acting casual, but scanning the pedestrians around him just a little too intently. Then he’d stopped a postman and showed him a piece of card, asking a question. The postman took the card and held it at an angle as if to catch the light. He shook his head and handed it back.

Clare felt her stomach go tight.

A photo. The man had showed him a photo.

She debated moving away from him. But that would mean walking along a quiet stretch of pavement with little traffic. She would be exposed, her crutch clearly visible. Maybe she should ditch it. It was acting like a beacon to those who knew she had it; and she was certain that her pursuers would by now have a CCTV still of her. It was what she would have done, and all those in the same business. Get a picture and show it around.

But getting rid of the crutch was a non-starter; she needed its comfort and support in a literal sense, as her muscles were still not able to do the job they had been trained to do. Instead, moving as quickly as she dared, she walked towards him, one eye on the man, the other on a small parade of stores eighty yards away, with a cluster of scaffolding rising to the roof tops.

She began to draw level with the man, watching from the corner of her eye as he stopped and put a phone to his ear. He had his back to her, looking at the ground and kicking idly at a small stone or something, distracted. Her nerves were screaming at her to run, to hobble, to do anything to move faster, to get away. All he had to do was look up and turn his head, and he’d see her!

Then she was past the first scaffold poles and beneath a familiar green awning, and ducking through the doorway into the welcome warmth and smells of coffee and amid the noise and comfort of people.

She ordered an Americano from the barista, spilling a few coins onto the counter one-handed, keeping her back to the door and window. Then she took her drink and slid into a corner seat, juggling the crutch awkwardly past two mothers and their toddlers, expensively casual and blissfully unaware as they discussed schools and husbands, and how hectic their schedules were.

Noisy and shouty but great cover. Clare relaxed. Took out the mobile, opened the back and slid the battery back into place, a cautious move against the phone being triangulated and traced.

One could never be too careful.

The phone vibrated in her hand, and beeped loudly, making her jump. An incoming message.

The two mothers scowled in disapproval as if their me-time had been spoiled, and one of the children watched Clare, waiting to see what she would do.

She ignored them, aware that she was attracting attention but unable to avoid it.

We can help you. Ring me. Pink Compact. So not your colour.

Harry Tate. It had to be. Or Rik bloody Ferris. The reference to the compact was the decider; the identifier to stop her running for the hills. Clever.

She switched the phone off and stuffed it back in her pocket. She needed time to think. To get her mind in order. Peace and quiet hadn’t helped her, in that basement, so maybe this noisy environment, with the threat of discovery not far away, would work instead, getting her brain cells firing on all cylinders.

She took out the pink compact and turned it over, the plastic smooth and comfortable to hold. Amid all the craziness that had happened recently, this was the one normal thing she had in her possession. She stood up and went to the washroom, leaving the crutch against the chair. She was shaking with nerves, and her stomach was sending shivers through her whole body. She’s pushed herself too hard and was now paying the consequences. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth with water, then washed her hands. She needed a shower or a bath; she felt gritty and sweaty, and her clothes were beginning to smell. She’d managed to rinse her underclothes, but that was all. She dabbed on some of the powder from the compact, but gave up when it stuck to the moisture in her skin.

She returned to her table. The women and children were gathering themselves together, like a small tribe moving on to pastures new, scooping up their clutter. She sat and watched them leave by stages, edging towards the door, and sipped her coffee, going over her options.

She ran her fingers across the mobile in her pocket. She’d almost had the number for Alice earlier. It had hung there, taunting her, the digits swimming around like fish in a tank, one second in place, the next confused. Then gone.

The same had happened with another number. But that one was a definite no-no. She had ignored it, knowing it would come to nothing. But then the numbers had come back clearly, and one by one, fallen into line like balls in the National Lottery. And perversely, when what she really wanted was Alice’s number, there they had stayed, tight and ordered in her mind’s eye, waiting to be dialled.

Why couldn’t the number she wanted do that, instead of this. . forbidden one? It had been so tempting to try the keys. Katya Balenkova. The familiar image of the slim face and short blonde hair hovered before her, causing an ache she thought she had long suppressed.

An echo of the ache that had led to her downfall.

But calling Katya would trigger alarm bells in more than one place, of the kind that would end in disaster for both of them. After she had been pulled off the assignment by her controller at Vauxhall Cross, she’d had no news of the FSO officer’s fate and had heard nothing since. For all she knew, Katya might be dead.

She leaned forward to check the street, her view now clearer with the mothers and children gone. The young man had disappeared. She’d been lucky; just a few seconds more out in the open and he would have seen her.

She sat back with a sigh and watched in a detached way as a blue BMW drew up at the kerb and two men got out. They ignored the reserved parking sign for deliveries, and a workman in a yellow tabard and hard hat protesting about needing the space.

The men crossed the pavement and stepped inside. The first was tall and dark, military in bearing. A leader. The second was stockier, heavy across the shoulders. A follower. She labelled them instinctively, businessman and driver. She felt tiredness wash over her. This was taking more out of her than she’d thought possible. She needed to get back to the empty flat; to get her head down and sleep.

The two men ignored her and went to the counter, ordering tea and coffee.

She must have dozed off momentarily, because suddenly they were sitting down, the tall one by her side, the other across from her.

Blocking her in.

The taller man shifted in his seat, bringing him slightly closer.

With him came the familiar smell of peppermint, giving her a jolt of recognition more acute and identifying than a face.

‘Miss Jardine,’ he said softly, looking into his mug of tea with distaste. He placed it to one side and added, ‘You’ve embarrassed us, my colleague and me. Led us quite a dance. Is that how the saying goes?’

Her instinct was to ask him who he was, what the hell he was talking about, to dissemble and act the outraged lone woman accosted by two predatory men. But she knew that wouldn’t work.

He was speaking Russian.