Red Station

SIXTY-TWO

Six hours later, they were in a hire car heading north on the A1 to Calais.

Getting on board the Air France evacuation flight had been without incident. Anxious to get all foreign nationals away as quickly as possible, the authorities had ensured that passport control had been brief. Isabelle was waiting, checking people in against a list. At Rik’s request, she had vouched for Clare as an extra passenger, and allowed them to consign their rucksacks to cargo baggage.

The wait in the departure lounge had been short, during which all eyes were fixed on the military vehicles patrolling the perimeter. Then they were ushered on to the plane surrounded by French security personnel and accompanied by a variety of other nationals, all keen to get out of the way of impending trouble. One of them, a Swiss doctor, had seen blood on Harry’s sleeve, and insisted on bandaging his wound.

‘You were fortunate,’ he said with great cheerfulness. ‘Another two centimetres and you would have maybe lost the arm. The concussive effect on bone can be like an amputation.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Harry replied, wincing. ‘You don’t do house calls, do you?’

‘For you, I am afraid not. But you must have this checked… wherever you are going next. Each day, you understand?’

Harry nodded gratefully and sank back in his seat, closing his eyes. He was bewildered by the narrowness of their escape, thanks to Nikolai, and their safe arrival at the airport.

Latham’s battered Hyundai was now concealed behind a large skip at one end of the airport car park, where it would hopefully remain undetected for several days. The guns had been disposed of in a silage pit barely a mile along the road from where they had buried Latham’s body.

After arriving in Paris and retrieving their bags, they had dodged the inevitable press scramble and hired a car. Harry decided that an unobtrusive entry via the channel ports was safer than Heathrow or Eurostar. Clare elected to drive and they headed towards Calais.

As they passed the Amiens-Compiegne intersection, Harry took out Stanbridge’s mobile. He dialled Maloney’s number and wondered if his colleague’s phone was on the watch list.

‘Yes?’ Maloney answered against a background buzz of traffic. He was on foot in the open. He sounded cautious.

‘Can you talk?’ said Harry.

‘Bloody hell! I was getting worried. Where are you?’

‘France, heading for the next available ferry. Can you meet us in Dover?’

‘Sure can. Ring me when you know the time.’ He paused and Harry could tell he was choosing his words carefully. ‘All hell’s breaking loose here. Word got out that some British nationals got caught up in the stampede across the border, and we’re all wondering who. Funny thing is, in-house, your name’s top of the pile.’

‘How did that get out?’

‘Don’t know. Could be someone laying a trail in case it goes public. Is there anyone with you?’

‘Two. One stayed behind to look after things. Another went native.’ Harry decided to leave the news about Mace until later.

‘Right. You sound like you had a bad time. You all right?’ Maloney had clearly picked up something in Harry’s tone of voice.

‘Fine. Got a graze on the arm, that’s all.’

‘The opposition playing rough?’

‘Not theirs. One of ours. I’ll tell you more when I see you. Can you look out a name for me?’

‘Sure. Go ahead.’

‘Latham. Not sure of other names. He worked for Legoland.’ The nickname for MI6.

There was a longer pause. ‘Did you say worked?’

‘He resigned.’

‘Ouch. That’ll cause a rumpus.’

‘He was trying to resign us at the time.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s different. What happened?’

‘He ran into an unfriendly Russian.’

‘I hear there are some about. Well, take care and see you soon.’

Harry switched off the phone and sat back. His arm was throbbing fiercely, a relentless ache which reached down to his fingertips and burned across his shoulders. He nudged Rik and handed him the trauma pack, gritting his teeth while the young man removed his soiled bandage and cleaned the wound.

‘We need to get this looked at,’ said Rik. He applied a fresh dressing and wrapped the arm firmly to avoid excess movement, then folded the dirty bandages into a plastic bag. He passed Harry two tablets and a bottle of water. ‘Swallow these. You’re going to have a bit of a hole there now.’

‘Damn.’ Harry downed the tablets and leaned his head against the seat rest. ‘Bang go my chances of being a male model.’

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

‘Harry! Wake up!’

‘Wha-? What’s the matter?’ Harry scrambled to sit up, shocked out of a heavy sleep by Rik’s voice and a hand pounding on his good arm. He felt awful; his mouth was dry and his head was spinning. He peered through the side window. They were on the autoroute, with the flat, muddy fields of northern France rolling by outside. It looked grey, cold and unwelcoming. Foreign.

‘We’ve got company.’ It was Clare Jardine’s hand on his arm. She was in the front passenger seat, looking past him at the road behind. They had clearly managed to make a changeover without waking him.

‘OK… I’m with it. Who?’

‘Three men in a big Renault. They’ve been there for about five miles now. They’ve been hanging back most of the time — we thought it was just a coincidence. But now they’ve started moving closer.’

Harry turned and peered over the back of his seat. A dark blue Renault was a hundred yards behind on the inside lane. He counted the outlines of three figures inside. Other traffic was sporadic, a few trucks but mostly cars and the odd motorbike. Only the Renault was keeping station with them.

He drank some water, hoping to dull the growing nausea. He was dehydrated and suffering shock; hardly best conditions for dealing with another threat.

So who were they?

‘Could be DST,’ said Clare, reading his mind. ‘Making sure we leave.’ The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire — France’s counter-espionage department — were responsible along with the police for their country’s internal security. It was a job they took very seriously.

‘Could be Latham’s mates.’ Rik was gripping the wheel tightly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It could be anybody.’ Harry rubbed his face with his good hand, trying to coax some life into the skin and get his brain in gear. He was also playing for time and inspiration. If the men were French Intelligence, they might be following them because of their presence on the Air France evacuation flight. Orders would almost certainly have gone ahead prior to take-off as a matter of normal security, alerting Paris to the identities and backgrounds of all foreign nationals on board. And Rik’s young friend Isabelle would have been duty bound to pass on what she knew about them.

If the people in the car weren’t DST, but were part of the Hit, they were in trouble. With no weapons and little chance of avoiding a direct attack, the odds were heavily against them.

He took another look. The Renault had crept closer. The front-seat passenger was heavy-set, with a shaved scalp and black eyebrows. He was holding a mobile to his ear and nodding, leaning forward with his face close to the windscreen. He took the phone away from his ear and said something to the driver.

The Renault accelerated and began to pull out.

Harry watched the move and felt his gut contract. ‘They’re coming alongside.’ He kept his voice casual and reached forward to touch Rik’s shoulder, hoping to instil in him a sense of calm. ‘Hold your speed steady but get ready to brake hard when I say.’

‘Brake?’ Rik’s voice wobbled. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to outrun them?’

‘No. This is their turf and we don’t have the punch.’ Harry didn’t know how powerful the other vehicle was, but instinct told him that it would be an unequal contest. Besides, if they were French law enforcement or Intelligence officers, it would provide just the reason they needed to pull them over.

The other car drew alongside and remained level. The two passengers turned their heads to stare. Harry glanced across. Bullet Head in the front was replicated by the other passenger in the rear, a perfect pair, while the driver was a skinnier version with a bony forehead. None of them looked friendly, and they all reminded Harry of the security guards he had seen outside the SARFA building where Isabelle worked.

He caught the eye of one of the men and smiled. Bonjour, he thought. Now piss off, mes amis.

He realized he was holding his breath and tried to relax. Just as long as the side windows stayed up. That was all he asked. Windows up meant everything was normal; windows down meant they were about to go on the offensive.

The man in the front passenger seat lifted his chin at Harry in a mute query. What are you looking at?

Harry lifted his water bottle in a silent salute. If the three men weren’t interested in them it would mean nothing. If they were… well, it wouldn’t matter much.

The Renault surged away. Two hundred yards ahead, as they approached a junction, the driver began signalling.

Moments later, they were gone.

Harry slumped back and closed his eyes. He could have done without that. His head was pounding and he felt like shit.

In the front, Rik gave a soft whoop and Clare muttered in relief.

‘Bloody kids,’ he murmured. ‘Scaredy-cats.’ Then he went back to sleep.