Red Station

NINETEEN

The Odeon restaurant was empty again, save for Mace. The station chief was sitting near the back wall, at his usual table. He had left instructions at the office for Harry to join him. There had been no reason to refuse, and Harry had seen enough of the town for a while and wanted to see what information Mace might have other than gossip about his colleagues.

As he sat down, Mace called for the old woman. She shuffled out bearing a tray loaded with bowls of food, and placed it on the table.

He stared in surprise. He saw green chicken, egg-fried rice, onions, bean shoots and a mix of what could have been pork and beef.

‘Christ, where did this come from?’

Mace’s eyes gleamed. ‘Best Thai for miles. Actually, the only Thai for miles. Beats me how or why; she must have travelled a bit in a former life. Served it up one day without asking. Never seen anyone else get it, so maybe she fancies me. Tuck in.’ He picked up a spoon and scooped up chicken, bean shoots and rice, humming cheerfully.

Harry wanted to refuse; to tell Mace to stuff his fancy food and get lost, that he wanted to go home. But Mace had his orders, and sending a member of the awkward squad back to London wasn’t part of the agenda. Besides, Harry’s professional side was intrigued to want to find out what was going on here. He sat down and reached for a spoon and plate.

They ate in silence, and Harry was grateful for the first decent meal he’d had in what seemed like days. Airline food and greasy takeaways were beginning to take their toll on his system.

‘You been taking a snoot at the Clones, I see,’ Mace muttered eventually. His eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘Young Rik’s seeing shadows.’

‘You don’t believe him?’ Harry wondered about Mace’s scepticism. Did he know more than he was letting on?

‘Never said that. Just said he shouldn’t let it get to him.’ He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. ‘Bound to be under scrutiny, aren’t we? Stands to reason; we’re the enemy. Anyone who thinks our British Council cover fools anyone needs their bumps felt. Same in London with their trade delegates. We stand out like spare dicks at a wedding.’ He hoovered up more rice. ‘How many did you spot?’

‘Two. Rik says there are four.’

‘That would be about it. They probably hang on the Americans and French tails, too, with regular changeovers to keep ’em fresh. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘They both have intelligence teams here?’

‘Course they do. This close to Mother Russia and the Caspian, they’d be negligent not to. Most of them are so-called oil engineers and the like, but their cover’s paper thin.’

Like Higgins, thought Harry. Different skin but the same animal underneath.

‘So we ignore them?’

‘Ignore them, forget them, stay well away, is my suggestion.’ His eyes locked on to Harry’s. ‘That’s not bad advice, either.’

Before Harry could reply, the restaurant door opened and two men stepped in off the street.

The first was large, like a bear, unshaven and with lank, black hair, but dressed in a smart suit, white shirt and buffed shoes. His shadow filled the doorway. The other man was shorter, slim like a dancer, and dressed in black. He moved round the bigger man, light on his feet, and stood to one side, waiting.

The big man approached their table.

‘Mr Mace,’ he said genially. His eyes slid over Harry in a rapid assessment. ‘I see you are enjoying our excellent native cuisine.’ He chuckled at his wit and smoothed the front of his suit.

‘Mr Mayor,’ Mace greeted him, and sucked in a bean shoot with relish. ‘Care to join us? There’s plenty.’

‘Thank you. Not today.’ The man looked at Harry again and Mace shifted in his seat.

‘Oh, sorry — rude of me. Geordi Kostova… Harry Tate.’ He looked at Harry and explained, ‘Geordi’s the local mayor. Very important man, hereabouts.’ He turned to the mayor. ‘Harry’s on assignment from England, come to join our little crew.’

‘So? A replacement for Jimmy Gulliver, yes?’

Mace’s smile slipped for a second, but he hoisted it back quickly. ‘Sort of. Head Office likes to rotate new employees. Field experience, you could call it.’

‘I understand. Such a pity Jimmy had to return home. I enjoyed his company. Well, Mr Tate — Harry,’ Geordi smiled and bowed courteously, ‘welcome to our humble town. I hope you will find much to enjoy here.’

‘I’m sure I will. The countryside looks beautiful.’

‘Yes. Very true. But be careful where you go.’ Kostova put a large finger against his nose. ‘Such beauty holds many dangers and our roads are not for the faint of heart.’

Tell me about it, thought Harry. Ploughed bloody fields spring to mind.

Kostova glanced at his watch, a Rolex. ‘Please excuse me, but as mayor, there are many duties I must attend to in these troubled times.’

‘Troubled?’ Harry detected a warning look from Mace but ignored him.

Kostova shrugged, a heft of huge shoulders. ‘Some local land matters,’ he explained in a bored tone. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy your stay.’

He turned and walked out, the slim man falling in behind him like a shadow.

‘He just told us to mind our own business,’ said Harry. ‘Nice.’

‘Not surprised. You notice the other fella?’ Mace scooped up more rice. ‘Geordi’s wingman, goes by the name of Nikolai. Watch out for him. He’s a cutter if ever I saw one.’

‘Why would a small-town mayor need a bodyguard?’

‘Well, apart from status, this area’s full of tribal conflict, that’s why. They’d never think twice about popping off someone like Geordi if he didn’t play fair. Bodyguard, chauffeur, fixer — Nikolai’s always there. See the mayor and Nikolai won’t be more than six feet away.’ He took a swig of water. ‘Geordi has lots of interests, see, outside of being His Worship.’ He smiled sourly. ‘Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? Can’t make a living being mayor of a dump like this.’

‘What sort of interests?’ The suit and Rolex hadn’t been picked up at the local market. And there was something about the man that reminded him of other local politicians he’d come across in the Balkans. Usually well-fed, mostly highly intelligent and never less than devious.

‘Trade, mostly. Anyone wants it, Geordi can get it — for a price. Got lots of contacts all over the region. Some of ’em up north.’ He left the meaning hanging, and concentrated on clearing his plate.

‘How far north?’ Harry prompted. Mace’s abbreviated talk and his oblique references were getting on his nerves.

‘What?’

‘You said contacts up north.’

‘Oh, right. Well, all the way to Moscow, as it happens.’ He tapped a finger on the table. ‘A lot of ’em do around here, if they know what’s good for them.’

‘Official, you mean? Or not?’

‘Official. If they’ve got other friends, they probably keep it very quiet, if they’ve any sense.’

‘So what was that just now — a chance visit?’ He didn’t believe it for a moment.

Mace confirmed it. ‘Geordi doesn’t do things by chance. He’s a planner — a strategist. He wanted to see who you are. He likes to keep close tabs on everyone who drops by his little bailiwick.’ He grinned sourly. ‘He’ll soon have more than he can deal with, I reckon.’

‘Would that include keeping tabs on Carl Higgins?’ He explained about his sightings of the journalist around town.

Mace nodded. ‘He’s another busy bee. The Americans are keeping a watching eye on the situation, like us. Steer clear, is my advice.’

Harry pushed his plate away, appetite gone. He had a feeling Mace still wasn’t telling him everything. ‘So Kostova’s not just the mayor.’

‘No. On the surface, he’s a political appointee. He just put more money into the regional government’s pot than the next man, that’s all. And he’s got mates. Prick any mayor in this neck of the woods and you’ll find their veins running with greed. And deep, deep loyalties.’

‘He dresses very well.’

‘Yeah, he’s a real dandy, is Geordi. Likes to travel, too.’ He stood up, brushing at the front of his jacket. ‘You done?’

Harry nodded. ‘Who was Jimmy Gulliver?’

Mace’s eyes were cool. ‘He was here for a while, same as you. Then he went home. End of story.’ He turned and walked out, leaving Harry staring after him.