Red Station

FORTY-SEVEN

Harry caught up with Mace as the older man walked unsteadily back towards the office. He looked badly shaken, and Harry didn’t think it was entirely to do with the drink.

‘What did he mean?’ He grabbed Mace’s arm, bringing him up short.

‘About what?’ Mace shook off Harry’s grip and dug in his jacket pocket for a slim packet of cigars. He selected one and unpeeled the wrapper with shaky fingers, then jammed it in his mouth and found a lighter. It took five attempts before he got a steady flame.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ said Harry.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’ He seemed to realize what that could imply and pulled a wry face. ‘But you do know what Higgins is.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ll know he deals in misinformation.’

‘Really? That stuff about teams — that was misinformation?’

Mace spat out a fragment of tobacco leaf. ‘No. That was correct. They both went off the radar at about the same time. Must’ve been a coordinated strike.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Harry fought to remain calm. Something of this magnitude should have been passed to all hands. It was too important, no, too dangerous not to have everyone made aware of. If the Russians had taken out the reconnaissance teams, then they were definitely closer than anyone thought, and probably Spetznaz, their Special Forces troops. He remembered the soldier in the jeep, wearing the GRU insignia. Same community, same abilities.

Same enemy.

It seemed a waste of time mentioning it now.

The strength of Mace’s response came as a surprise. ‘What the hell makes you think,’ the head of station asked bitterly, kicking at a plastic bottle, ‘that I knew?’

Harry couldn’t believe it. He had to have known. Unless…

But Mace wasn’t finished. ‘I picked up on it through a contact in another agency. They thought it was common knowledge among the spook community.’ He looked sour. ‘So it was — everywhere but here. We’re so fucking out on a limb they don’t tell us anything.’

They walked on in silence. Harry was trying to decide whether Mace was lying or not, and if he was, why. But his whole demeanour seemed too angry to be faked.

‘The server,’ said Harry, as they arrived near the office. ‘Clarion.’

‘What about it?’ Mace tossed his cigar aside and watched it bounce in a shower of sparks into the gutter, where it fizzed out in a stream of filthy water.

‘Rik says it’s a blind drop. It takes messages in but they don’t get passed on.’

‘Young Rik should mind his business.’ The words were intended to be harsh, but Mace sounded half-hearted, as though he didn’t have the stomach for a fight.

‘What’s going on?’ Harry grabbed his shoulder and spun the older man round. ‘This isn’t a bona fide station, is it? It’s a blind, like Clarion. We’re here for no other reason than someone back in London wants us to be — and it has nothing to do with gathering intelligence. In fact, anything we do find is ignored.’ He felt certainty grip his stomach and said acidly, ‘What happens to us if the Russians arrive in force, Mace? Or haven’t they given you a protocol for that?’ When Mace didn’t answer, he continued, ‘You’re still waiting to hear, aren’t you? They must know by now, but they haven’t told you. Well, I’ve got news for you: I’ve seen them already. They’re here and waiting for the kick-off.’

Mace reached up and lifted Harry’s hand off his shoulder. His expression was melancholy. ‘I know, lad. I’m not blind — I’ve seen them, too.’

‘So where does that leave us? If Higgins and his bunch are leaving, we should move, too. And what did he mean about getting out being the start of our problems?’

Mace sighed and stared up at the sky as if seeking inspiration. Then he said, ‘It’s complicated, lad. Let me give it some thought, eh? We’ll talk again, I promise. I’ll go tell the others.’ He turned and walked away, his gait heavy.

Harry watched him go. Mace was like a man undergoing a journey of self-discovery and not liking what he saw. It explained the drink, but in his frame of mind, he was no help to himself or anyone else.

He saw an internet bar down the street and went inside. He sat at one of the monitors. For a long moment he considered trying to get through to Thames House and demand some answers. Starting with Paulton, for example. But he knew the security barriers would present themselves, the mere mention of his name launching an automatic firewall.

Frustrated by indecision, he opened up the news channels and clicked on the BBC website, following the link to a fresh news item.

ARE SPOOKS PROTECTING THEIR OWN?

In a dramatic revelation today, a journalist working for a local London newspaper has revealed that just hours before his press colleague and friend, freelance investigative reporter Shaun Whelan, was fatally stabbed in an alleged mugging on Clapham Common a week ago, he had claimed to have proof of an attempted cover-up of the fatal shooting in Essex two weeks ago, during which two civilians, a police officer and an alleged member of a drugs gang were killed. The unnamed journalist, who has asked for anonymity while his claims are being investigated, says he was in a local pub when Whelan, 58, revealed what he had discovered. He also claimed to know the name of the MI5 officer in charge of the attempted drugs intercept, and that the officer has been quietly spirited away by his superiors to avoid what is being described as their worst operational failure in years, certainly since the fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes at Stockwell Tube station in 2005. Whelan did not reveal to his friend the name of this officer. ‘Shaun,’ said the man, ‘always played his cards close to his chest. He was a thorough professional, and would not have made these claims without being able to substantiate them later.’

Asked if he thought Whelan might have become a target because of his determination to uncover the truth about the shootings and name those responsible, the journalist thought that it was possible. ‘Shaun had previously expressed concerns about his safety,’ he said, ‘and he once told me he thought he was being followed by men who might be members of the security services and “friends” of the disappeared MI5 officer.’

Both MI5 and the Metropolitan Police have declined to comment pending the outcome of their investigation.

Harry was appalled. This was him they were talking about! How the hell had it got this far? Was he now suspected of orchestrating the death of a journalist?

He logged off and paid the bill. He had to get back to the office.

As he stepped out of the internet bar, he glanced to one side, his attention drawn to a line of pennants fluttering in the wind. They were adorning a car-hire forecourt next to the cafe where he had found Mace. Something about the place tugged at his memory, but it took a few moments before it registered.

He took out his mobile and rang Rik.

‘Where’s the best place to hire a car around here?’ he said. ‘If I wanted to go on a long trip.’

‘What?’ Rik sounded shocked, his voice dropping. ‘Hey — you’re not thinking of bugging out, are you? If you are, I’ll go halves.’

‘Relax,’ said Harry. ‘I need a name, that’s all.’

‘There’s only one place worth trying. Are you at that cafe I told you about, near the train station?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ve found it. It’s the place next door.’

Harry walked back up the street to the site with the pennants. There were several vehicles on display, nearly all four-by-fours, most showing signs of a hard and brutal life. But no customers. He entered a small, bare office in one corner of the yard, and hit a bell on the counter.

A fat, balding man in greasy overalls appeared through a rear door, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘American?’ He clearly had no problem identifying foreigners, and Harry assumed that whatever the rental price had been, it had just taken a hike upwards.

‘You rented a car to an Englishman named Gulliver,’ he said, and spelled out the name. ‘A few weeks ago. He was supposed to take the car to your brother in Calais. Do you know when he arrived?’

‘Why you ask?’ The man’s eyes flicked past Harry to the yard outside. He seemed relaxed, but wary.

‘Because he never got home. His mother’s worried about him.’ He shrugged and smiled easily. ‘The family asked me to look into it… before our government takes the matter up with your Interior Ministry.’

The man stared at him for a long moment, then tossed the rag to one side. He licked his lips. ‘Why they do that? Is no concern to me what he does. Maybe he go for a holiday somewhere. Not my problem.’

‘Actually, it is your problem. You were the last person to see him. Want the police coming here and asking questions?’ He took out his wallet, counted out some US dollar notes. The man watched without expression. But his eyes stayed on the money.

‘All I need,’ said Harry quietly, ‘is to know when and if he arrived at your brother’s place in Calais.’ He stopped counting and slid the notes halfway across the counter, but kept his hand on them. ‘A phone call would do it. That’s all. Then I’m gone.’

The man shrugged. ‘Is easy. I don’t need to make phone call. He never arrive. Car is missing.’ He reached out and tugged the money from under Harry’s hand. ‘Maybe your friend is a thief.’