Execution

THIRTY-SEVEN

There was a grey light and a threat of rain outside the windows of Rik’s Paddington flat. Harry got up from the sofa where he’d been sleeping and checked his gun, which had been close by on the floor. He stretched, then showered while Rik went out for coffee and to check the surrounding streets for unusual activity.

Clare had slept in the spare room. Her batteries had eventually run down last night, exhausted by her efforts and the stress she’d suffered over the past few days. He’d let her sleep; they all needed rest and he was convinced nothing else could be accomplished before morning.

But he and Rik had slept in stages, taking turns to watch the streets and check the building regularly for sounds of movement.

‘We need to talk about something,’ he said, when they were all having breakfast. His remark was directed at Clare.

‘Christ, give it a break,’ Clare muttered, tearing off a piece of croissant. ‘Let me get this down first.’ But she didn’t sound as touchy as she had the night before, he noticed. He put it down to wear and tear. The longer this went on, the more she would have to rely on them acting as a team.

‘What is it?’ asked Rik, spooning down a yoghurt. ‘We going nuclear or what?’ His gun, a Ruger SR9, like Harry’s, lay close to hand.

‘In a way.’ Harry looked hard at Clare. ‘How do we stop this black ops team?’

‘What? Why ask me?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m out of the game, remember?’

‘You think?’ Rik countered. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

She didn’t respond, but gave him a sour look.

‘You know them better than we do,’ Harry told her. ‘You know how they work, you said. So, how do we stop them coming after us?’

‘Short of killing them, you mean? Getting a direct cease and desist order from Moscow?’ She thought it over. ‘Finding them won’t be simple. They’re trained, like our guys, to operate alone or in teams of two or three, depending on circumstances. They have no profile, they stay off the embassy circuit and use papers which take long enough to check to allow them to get away if compromised. They’ll be incommunicado, answerable only to their field controller, whoever he is.’

‘Gorelkin. Ballatyne says a man named Gorelkin was spotted coming this way on false papers. He’s high up in the FSB’s Special Purpose Centre.’

Clare blew out her cheeks. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. I’ve heard of him but I thought he’d retired. He’s one of their grey wolves from the old days. A hardliner.’ She frowned. ‘Hang on. He did retire, I’m certain of it. He fell out with his new bosses when the FSB took over from the old KGB. He didn’t like the new touchy-feely approach and thought they’d lost their edge.’

‘Ballatyne said he disappeared for a while, then came back recently.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘It happens. But only in special circumstances.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, think about it: if someone’s needed for something deniable, he’d be ideal. He’s retired and has no provable link to official operations.’

‘That’s a bit lame, isn’t it?’ Rik said. ‘Like anyone would believe it. Once FSB, always FSB, I thought.’

She gave a hint of a shrug. ‘You asked. I told you. They’re deniable or. .’

‘Or what?’

‘Or they’re here without sanction. Completely off the books.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘If the right man gave the order, yes.’ Her tone of voice told them who she thought that right man was. There was only one.

The Russian president.

‘They did Litvinenko,’ said Rik. ‘So why not Tobinskiy?’

‘But this time,’ Harry pointed out, ‘they know the world is watching.’ He thought it over. Tobinskiy had been murdered, according to early suspicions, although there was no guarantee that the UK authorities would come out and say so. The scandal would be immense unless they could provide solid proof to the world’s court of opinion. If not, there would be a diplomatic and trade backlash from Moscow. Without it, they would have to sit on their hands, powerless to make a solid case.

But Clare Jardine was the proof; she was the only witness who could put the Russians at the scene of Tobinskiy’s death. And their clumsy attempt to kill her in Pimlico would only add fuel to the suspicions.

Unless they could silence her for good.

He turned back to Clare, trying to find a way of convincing her to help. He had run several ideas through his mind, but nothing seemed to fit. Because ever since last night, he’d been thinking of only one way to find the two Russians and stop them coming after them. ‘There must be a way to stop them. If we don’t, they’ll keep coming. And if they’ve got inside access to security and intelligence personnel files, they’ll know your details. . and they’ll soon know ours.’

Her eyes were unfathomable, and he wondered if she wasn’t suffering some kind of sensory overload. He would have been in similar circumstances. But somehow he had to reach her.

‘You’re in danger,’ he said. ‘The only way to stop this is to catch the hit team or to blow it wide open. Or threaten to, anyway. Then you have to disappear. For good.’

‘How?’ Her voice sounded distant, tired. Lost.

‘We get in touch with the one person who might be able to help you.’

‘Who?’

‘Katya Balenkova.’

There was no reaction. In fact Clare showed no signs of having heard him. The silence in the flat was total.

‘Clare?’ Rik spoke up, one eye on Harry.

Harry’s phone rang. He ignored it. Now wasn’t the time to break the spell. They had to get her to respond.

‘Are you saying Katya wouldn’t help? Or couldn’t?’ he said carefully. ‘Think about it. She’s in the Federal Protective Service. She might be able to get word to someone who could stop these bozos.’ He didn’t want to mention that there had once been a relationship of sorts between the two women; that in times of dire need you used what you could, real or tentative. Neither did he want to find out that they had parted in hate and he was wasting his time.

The phone was still ringing. Then it stopped, leaving a note hanging in the air.

Almost immediately, Rik’s landline began ringing. And his mobile.

Harry’s radar twitched. Something was wrong.

He reached across and hit the audio button on the landline base. It was Ballatyne. He sounded terse, his voice bursting hollowly in the room.

‘Harry, you have to get out of there. Two men paid an early morning visit to Jardine’s old address. The owners were away, but the place was trashed as if they were searching for something. A neighbour called it in and the address showed a red light. If they’ve got her old address, we’d best count on them having yours and Ferris’s, too. There’s a squad on the way to your place and another on the way to Paddington to intercept, but you’d better not wait. Call me when you can. Now go.’

The phone went dead.