Red Station

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘ That was a mistake,’ said Harry. ‘I thought you were local. I was about to let you go. We’ve met before. Thing is, where?’

The man stopped struggling. If he recognized Harry, he was hiding it.

Harry finally got it. ‘Stanbridge.’ The man had been in Kosovo attached to the UN. Harry hadn’t known him well; just another name and face in passing. They’d probably shared a truck, an APC or a canteen table. Maybe even a snow-filled shell hole. There had been lots of those.

Stanbridge said nothing. He stared at the floor and began working his wrists again. The skin around the bonds was beginning to turn dark red with the effort and the restricted blood flow, and Harry wondered whether he should ease up on them a bit. On the other hand, he still had no idea what the man was doing here.

‘Tell me what’s going on and I’ll loosen those knots,’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Screw you,’ said Stanbridge.

‘Hardly original, but suit yourself.’ Harry stood up and went through to the kitchen, locking the front door on the way. If Stanbridge was one of the Clones, he didn’t want to risk the other three piling all over him when they came to rescue their mate.

He made coffee, trying to figure out exactly what had brought the man here, to his flat. Why this godforsaken hole? If he was British, the others were, too. Unless he’d gone private.

He gave up and stared out of the narrow window overlooking the back alley. He could just make out the shape of a cat sitting on a crumbling section of wall, cleaning itself, relaxed. Better than a guard dog, he reflected. Quieter, too.

He took his coffee to the bathroom. There was nothing like the aroma of best roasted to make a man feel uncomfortable. A classic softening-up technique, mostly recommended now to people selling houses.

He squatted in the doorway in case Stanbridge had somehow worked a miracle while he was out of sight, and waited. Stanbridge threw him a malevolent look. He had stopped working the bonds so maybe he’d realized he wasn’t going anywhere.

‘OK,’ said Harry. He sipped his coffee, wincing as it touched a cut on the inside of his lip. ‘Let’s pretend you’re not who we both know you are. We’ll forget Kosovo, the UN mission, the crappy weather, the burial sites, the ethnic cleansing — all that. Let’s just agree that I know who you are, and you know me. Right?’

Stanbridge cleared his throat and spat a bloody gobbet on the floor.

‘Tough guy.’ Another noisy sip. ‘So what’s your brief? You here to watch us — you and your mates? They call you the Clones, did you know that?’

‘We know what they call us.’ Stanbridge’s voice was intense, pitched low.

‘Really? How’s that?’ He didn’t really need to ask, but it suited him to keep his prisoner talking. The Clones — if Stanbridge really was one of them — could have only discovered their nickname in one of two ways.

The first was by electronic eavesdropping.

The second was by talking to someone on the inside.

Stanbridge remained silent.

‘What are you doing here?’ Harry continued. ‘Are you watching… or guarding? The former, I bet. There’s no point in us having guardian angels because they’re only assigned to diplomats and politicians… people of value. Last time I looked, I wasn’t on anyone’s preferred employees list.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you don’t. And I’m the ghost of Mahatma Gandhi.’ He shifted his position. The cold from the tiles was making him stiff. ‘It’s a shitty assignment, this, whatever the purpose. I’m guessing you know who I am, right?’

No answer.

‘If so, we’ve got the same employer. Unless you’ve gone over to the other side.’ Stanbridge said nothing, but the way his eyes jumped told Harry that that wasn’t the case. ‘Well, good for you.’

He finished his coffee and dribbled the dregs on to the tiled floor. The smell lifted in the cold air, heavy and tantalizing. It would remain under Stanbridge’s nose for a long time, an irritating reminder of the creature comforts he was missing.

‘Problem is, what do I do about you? If I let you go, you’ll come back. Probably with your mates.’

He stood up. He was wasting his time. Short of outright torture, he couldn’t force the man to talk. And he wasn’t about to get the contents of the cutlery drawer in here just to wind the man up. If you intend to bluff someone, you have to at least have the intention of carrying that bluff to reasonable lengths.

As he turned away, his mobile buzzed.

‘Tate?’ It was Clare Jardine. ‘Have you got company?’ Maybe she was calling to ask him round; vodka and olives between colleagues. Somehow he doubted it.

‘I have, actually. Why?’

‘Three of the Clones are parked in the street outside my place. I wondered if the fourth was on your place.’

‘What are they doing?’ Harry let out his breath slowly. They were sticking close. Was it a precursor to something else? If so, what?

‘No. Just sitting there.’

Harry felt the pull of tension in his gut. They might be waiting to hear from Stanbridge. It wasn’t a good sign.

Jardine said, ‘If they’re security police, they might be planning to pick us up — starting with me.’

Harry debated telling her about Stanbridge. If she was the Clones’ inside source of information, she would already know if they were planning something. But if so, why would she be ringing him?

‘They’re not secret police,’ he told her at last.

‘How do you know that?’

‘They’re British.’

‘That’s absurd!’ She was scornful, snappy. ‘Are we talking about the same men?’

‘Yes. I’ve got their number four in my bathroom. His name’s Stanbridge, he’s former British army and he comes from somewhere near Coventry.’