Red Station

SIXTY

‘ It’s not going well, I grant you. But it will.’ Sir Anthony Bellingham stared out over the river towards Westminster and lit a cigar. The dawn was slow in rising, and a cold wind was scything across the water, chopping the tops of the waves into droplets of spray. He puffed on the cigar until it was burning satisfactorily and glanced sideways at George Paulton. The MI5 man was chewing on a fingernail and looked miserable with worry and cold.

They were alone apart from Sir Anthony’s bodyguard standing thirty yards away. It was too soon in the day for the area to be populated by anyone other than those with secrets on their minds, so there was little chance of anyone coming too close.

‘So you said.’ Paulton didn’t sound comforted.

‘Come on, George, for Christ’s sake!’ Bellingham spat out a mouthful of smoke. ‘You knew this venture was risky, same as I did. It’s what we do, isn’t it? It’s what gets the blood racing. Is for me, anyway.’

‘I could do without it, thank you.’ Paulton’s voice was barely registering. ‘You said this was controllable; that you had them watched twenty-four-seven, over and above my watch team. So how is it they’ve all disappeared into the woodwork apart from Mace? Is your man going to find them or not?’

‘He’s not bloody Superman, George. There’s the added problem of the Russians to cope with… and Tate’s not helping. Where in God’s name did you pick him up, by the way? The man’s a frigging menace.’

‘Does it matter now?’ Paulton resented the accusatory tone, implying that this was, by implication of who he employed, entirely down to him.

‘I suppose not.’ Bellingham spat out a fragment of tobacco. ‘Do you know what the people in Red Station call your watch team, George? Did I ever tell you?’

‘Is it relevant?’

‘Very. They refer to them as the Clones. Shows how seriously they’re taken, doesn’t it? Clones. They were supposed to be invisible; unidentifiable. But guess who went out of his way to identify the current batch by drawing them out? Harry Tate, that’s who. Drew them out and painted them with a giant bloody cross.’

Paulton said nothing, but stared down at the grey water. He felt sick.

‘Did you hear, by the way,’ Bellingham continued, his voice like poisoned silk, ‘that one of your Clones ran into trouble?’

‘Yes. He got dragged into a local argument. He’ll be back as soon as he can get a flight out.’ Paulton’s tone was flat, resentful.

‘Is that what the team leader told you — that he’d be coming back? I wouldn’t bet your braces on it.’

Paulton’s head snapped round. ‘What do you mean?’

Bellingham tapped ash from his cigar on to the wall, where the wind picked it up and rolled it over the edge into the water. ‘Seems your man — name of Stanbridge, by the way — got bounced while searching Tate’s flat. Bit careless of him, I thought.’ He smiled. ‘Not that he lived to regret it.’

‘What?’

‘He’s dead, George. As cold mutton. Last seen in a flat rented out to an Italian David Bailey who’s been taken into custody for spying… or something close to it. Tate moved the body down there after it’d been turned over by the local security police. Clever chap; quick on his feet for an old ’un. Should have recruited him myself, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this God-awful mess.’

‘How do you know all this — and why wasn’t I told?’ Paulton was quivering with a mixture of rage, fear and the chill coming off the river. ‘I don’t believe it — Tate’s not a killer.’

‘Bollocks.’ Bellingham had had enough. He tossed his cigar into the water and turned up his coat collar. ‘Everyone’s a killer if you press the right buttons. Stanbridge didn’t top himself, did he? Don’t worry about it, George. It’s all in hand. Latham has his orders. If he doesn’t get them in town, he’ll do it before they leave the country. One, two, three, out.’

He turned and walked away, leaving George Paulton fuming impotently.