Red Station

SEVENTY-ONE

Harry leaned on the wall overlooking the Thames and watched a plank floating downriver. It swirled almost majestically, flashing bright against the grey wash, then was gone, consumed by the fierce undercurrent.

A bit like me, he reflected, that plank. Thick, weather-worn and likely to be dragged under when not expecting it.

He looked to his left and saw a familiar face strolling along the riverside walkway. He cut a smart figure, an unhurried, well-fed man in an expensive suit; an anachronism compared with the fleeting, toned and anxious office workers hurrying by elsewhere.

Sir Anthony Bellingham. It had to be.

Behind Bellingham, a tall man in a dark suit wandered along at the same pace, eyes on the road, the walkway and the river. Bellingham’s bodyguard.

Harry waited. There was plenty of time. He’d come a long way for this. He glanced at the nearest camera focussed on the length of the riverside walkway. It would have a clear view of everyone passing by; of their faces, clothes, what they carried and even their conversation if the operators had a good lip-reader handy.

Across the river were more cameras. Most would be concentrated on the several hundred square metres surrounding the stone building of the MI5 complex, known as Thames House. One or two might be temporarily offline; according to Rik Ferris, the number of cameras inoperative in London at any one time was staggering. Maintenance cuts, mostly, aided by the occasional brick lobbed by a disgruntled resident or an aggrieved motorist.

As if on cue, Rik Ferris appeared in the background beyond Bellingham. He was dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, and holding a drinks bottle. He jogged easily, a spring in his step, covering the ground with ease. He looked fit and Harry was surprised; a few good nights’ sleep had worked wonders.

Bellingham paused to stare across the river and took a cigar from his top pocket. He carefully unwrapped it, placing the cellophane film in his pocket, then reached for a lighter. It flashed as he stroked it with his thumb.

Probably gold and heavy, thought Harry. Not designed to impress, though; just the way the man was. The flame flared, followed by a puff of grey smoke which hung momentarily around the spy chief’s head before swirling and disappearing on the river breeze.

Harry had rehearsed this moment in his head several times. With Paulton gone, Bellingham must have considered himself safe. He could go about his daily business until it was time for him to go, a faithful and loyal servant of her majesty’s civil service. Then he could slide into a comfortable, index-linked retirement and disappear off the face of a planet he had only ever served beneath the surface.

All would be well with the world.

Not a chance, Harry had decided. Not a bloody chance. He had weighed the pros and cons, looked at what kind of a life awaited him if he did what was expected of him. He, too, could move back into the fold, all sins forgiven, the records expunged. Say no more, all done and dusted. He could see out his service until retirement called.

Only it wouldn’t be quite as comfortable as anyone imagined. It would carry, for a start, the images of that night in Essex, when bad decisions had left three people dead — one of them a good policeman, one an innocent girl.

Not all the bad decisions were his, he knew that; cutting the manpower at a crucial moment was the most dam- aging, leaving him badly outgunned. But he still hadn’t forgotten his own moment of inaction, that split-second of hesitation just before the gunman on the boat had opened fire. Even though Maloney had confirmed a few days ago in a pub off the Charing Cross Road that a few seconds would have made no difference whatsoever, it was still with him.

He took a deep breath and felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He’d sliced a hole in the fabric and fitted a special holster — more of a sack, really — so that the gun barrel, with its suppressor, wouldn’t snag.

Pulling it out would take half a second. Levelling it would take even less, and less still to pull the trigger. A spit of sound, the explosion of gasses muffled to little more than a cough by the suppressor, and even that would be lost in the noise from the traffic and the rush of the river. Then he’d be gone, walking away as casually as he could manage. In minutes he could be in Waterloo Station, shrouded by crowds of commuters.

But Bellingham wouldn’t be going anywhere.

He had tried to argue Rik Ferris out of his part in what was to follow, but to no avail. Bill Maloney had insisted on running interference, too. If anyone saw what happened, and attempted to interfere, they would be mugged by a hooded figure in a tracksuit or a heavily-built lout in jeans and a donkey jacket. Neither would be recognizable and neither would hang around afterwards to answer questions.

The worst of it was, in a way that made him wonder and smile, he knew both of them were relishing their part in it.

He walked towards Bellingham, keeping an eye on the bodyguard. The man was looking down at the water. Harry took a deep breath, trying to walk softly, taking the weight off his heels, the way they’d trained him. Trouble was, he sounded like one of the guardsman outside Buckingham Palace, his footsteps echoing off the walls like gunshots.

Bellingham looked up as Harry approached, a dribble of smoke coming from his lips. If he had concerns about his personal security, he was careful not to show it, eyes steady.

‘You want something?’ He sounded belligerent, a fact reflected in his stance. Up close, he smelled of soap and cigar smoke.

‘You know who I am?’ Harry knew he’d been recognized. The MI6 director must have a good memory. Or maybe he’d been checking through MI5 personnel records to see who else he could despatch to the back of beyond for ‘training’ purposes.

Then it hit him: he had met Bellingham before.

He was the man with Paulton when he’d had his debrief prior to leaving for Red Station. At the time, he had said nothing, remaining in the background, a suited figure with a bland face. Paulton had done all the talking.

The MI6 man nodded. ‘Tate, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’

Harry paused, surprised by Bellingham’s easy reaction, his apparent self-control. He’d expected to have to introduce himself at least. But maybe this proved just how hands-on Bellingham was in the Red Station set-up, and how well he knew its personnel.

‘Where did you expect me to be? In a Russian lock-up? Or disposed of in a quiet gully by the Hit?’

‘The what? Hit? No idea what you’re talking about.’ Bellingham glanced at his cigar, flicked some ash off the end. Harry noted that he also took the opportunity to check for his bodyguard.

‘You should know. You sent them after us. His name was Latham.’

‘Really? Why would I do that?’

‘You know why.’ Harry breathed easily. Bellingham was playing it just the way he’d expected: deny and counter-attack. ‘They were supposed to kill us; Mace, Ferris, Clare Jardine, Fitzgerald and me. The members of Red Station. With the Russians coming over the border, you and Paulton decided it would be a good idea to clear the decks. After all, who else would anyone blame?’ He waited, but there was no reaction. He added, ‘Did Latham arrange for Gordon Brasher to take an overdose? And for Jimmy Gulliver to have a climbing accident?’

‘You’re talking rubbish, man. Who the hell are — Brasher, was it? — and Gulliver? I suggest you get help. In fact, I’ll get Paulton to arrange it.’ Bellingham began to turn away. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me-’

‘Don’t you want to know about Latham?’

Bellingham’s face barely registered a flicker. But it was enough to betray him.

‘He’s dead.’