Tracers

EIGHTEEN

The atmosphere in the car was tense as they headed towards Paddington, both men trying to come to grips with the revelation about Silverman’s nationality, and the fact that they had either been fooled along with Jennings or had been lied to by him.

Harry was fast coming to believe it was the latter.

‘You think Nasir was mistaken?’ said Rik finally.

‘What? No, I don’t,’ said Harry. ‘Unless Silverman’s fluent in Nasir’s local dialect.’ It was a possibility, yet instinct told Harry that a man like Nasir was unlikely to make such a mistake. Whatever Silverman’s words had been, they had plainly convinced the taxi driver that he was listening to one of his own countrymen.

‘Great. So our absent-bodied professor moves like Action Man, and instead of Hebrew, he speaks like an Iraqi.’

Harry stared out at the passing traffic. ‘I think because he is one. We can forget anything Jennings told us. He’s got some explaining to do.’

‘Unless we screwed up.’ Rik looked worried at the prospect. ‘Could we have latched on to the wrong man coming through the airport?’

Harry had no such doubts. ‘If we’re going by the description, it was Silverman — we’re not that careless. He had the bandage and the facial marking. And it’s Arabic, by the way.’

‘Huh?’

‘The Iraqis speak Arabic. And some Kurdish.’

‘So now you’re a linguist?’

‘I’m all manner of things.’ He chewed his lip. ‘It would help if we could get a line on who owns the Suzuki.’

‘No problem. I can do that. But I’ll have to stop — unless you want to drive?’

‘No. We’ve got time.’ Harry still hadn’t thought about what to do next. He needed a few moments to make a decision.

Rik pulled to the side of the road and retrieved his laptop from the boot. He switched it on and connected via his mobile to the Internet. Harry didn’t bother watching — he’d seen it all before and it still left him cold.

Minutes later Rik scribbled a note on the slip of paper with the Suzuki’s registration. ‘It’s listed to a B. Templeton, South Acres, near Kensworth, Luton. No known recent sale.’

Harry nodded. Unless the car had been stolen or sold without paperwork, it was a start. ‘Sounds like a farm.’

‘Or a caravan site. My auntie had a mobile home at a place called South Acres. Down at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. We used to go there for summer holidays. . until it fell over the cliff in a high wind.’ He glanced across and closed the laptop. ‘Are we going to take a look?’

‘Not we. Me. Drop me at my place and I’ll get my car. I need you to be on standby back here. And just in case we get the call to find Yvonne Michaels, you can start researching her background.’

Harry took the piece of paper and studied it. It would be easy to drop the assignment here and now; to forget about Silverman and go find other work. There was plenty out there if you knew where to look. But would it really be that simple? Quite apart from the fact that he and Rik were now linked by proximity to two murders, he was intrigued by what they had so far unravelled. Could he really put aside what he knew and forget it?

They travelled in silence for a while until Harry said quietly, ‘There’s something seriously off about this.’

‘What?’ Rik glanced at him.

‘All of it. Two runners die right after we find them, and an Iraqi comes into the country on a false ticket and goes into a covert huddle. What the hell has Jennings got us involved in?’

‘You think they’re linked?’ Rik looked nervous. ‘Terrorists? An Al-Qaeda cell?’ He let out a long breath at the possibility. ‘Sounds a bit wild. I can’t see Param as a pal of Osama.’

‘Neither can I,’ Harry agreed. ‘But it hardly seems normal, does it? Nasir the taxi man’s normal. His kid graduating and getting a car, that’s normal. Not this.’

Twenty minutes later, Harry was in the Saab heading north. He gave the M1 a miss and threaded his way instead on to quieter county roads, using the time to think. Rik was right, this whole business was wild. But then, the activities of terrorists and criminals usually were. . if that was indeed what Silverman was. How he, Matuq and Param could possibly tie in together was, on the surface, impossible. The three of them, given what he knew of their backgrounds, were worlds apart. Yet instinct told him there must be a common factor. All he had to do was find it. The idea that he might be slipping into the kind of territory he had decided to leave behind was disturbing. If there was a terrorist dimension to this, and the situation was going hot, it could escalate rapidly into something beyond his control.

As he eased clear of a built-up area of housing and shops, he checked his mirror, automatically cataloguing the traffic behind. A couple of big trucks, a van and one or two cars. They’d been there for a while, all of them. Nothing to worry him. And why should there be? And yet. .

He felt uneasy. He wasn’t normally given to seeing shadows, yet something about the past few days was beginning to get under his skin. He noted a lay-by coming up. He waited until the last moment, then spun the wheel and braked hard, skidding into a dipped, single-track hollow shielded from the road by a dense layer of bushes. He pulled up and waited, the engine running, watching the mirror.

Nothing. He counted to thirty, waiting for the first signs of a vehicle coming in after him. Most days in most situations, he trusted his instincts. And while the best of alarms occasionally threw up a false flag, the one time you ignored them was usually when something was wrong.

Apart from the hum of cars and the heavier beat of an occasional truck engine, every vehicle continued on by without slowing.

He gave it five more minutes, fighting against the desire to keep moving. Moving was good; moving stopped you becoming an easy target. When you stopped you became vulnerable. After five minutes, he climbed out and went to the boot, reached in and found the metal box. He flipped the dial and opened the lid. The handgun was concealed under a layer of foam. A 9mm Browning semi-automatic variant, it carried no identification marks, the dark steel well worn and showing signs of its passage through many hands. But it was clean and oiled and, as a quick check revealed, ready for use. He made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his pocket.

He got back in the car, wondering whether he should have left Rik in London. But Rik was a computer whizz, not a field man. Harry had taken him to a private range a few times, to give him a workout. He had shown a good eye and a steady hand, and had performed well on a defensive driving course. But it didn’t make him ready to be thrown into a dangerous situation and able to cope instinctively.

Unlike himself. A hangover from being a field officer in the security service was that Harry had left with the unusual proviso of being ‘carded’ — permitted to carry a handgun as a civilian. It meant he was on call by the authorities if the need arose. He’d fought against it at first, determined not to have any kind of umbilical cord tying him to an organization that had tried its level best to kill him. But in the end the offer had been too easy to accept and he’d given in, persuaded against his better judgement that it might be useful. After all, what was the likelihood of him being called? They had better, younger and brighter bodies on their books.

But authorized or not, there was still a risk to carrying an automatic weapon in his car. Especially if he ran into a random police check and was unable to provide proof of his authority quickly enough. It was reason enough not to drag Rik into it. . and one of the reasons he had never told him about being carded. Even so.

He took out his mobile and considered calling him. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and he should warn him to keep an eye out for unusual movement around his flat. But what if Rik overreacted and got himself into a jam? He decided against it. No point in raising the tension unnecessarily. First he needed proof.

A mile ahead of the lay-by, Dog sat astride a trials bike in the forecourt of a petrol station and sipped from a small bottle of mineral water. And waited.

He was dressed in worn, nondescript black leathers and a scratched crash helmet, and was watching for signs of the Saab.

Whatever had caused Tate to pull off the road so abruptly didn’t particularly concern him; he was certain he hadn’t been made, although that might change the longer he stayed on Tate’s tail. But any deviation from the norm was a change in pattern and, in Dog’s experience, such changes often carried unforeseen dangers if you ignored them.

When the familiar car flashed by ten minutes later, he tossed the bottle into a bin and dialled a number on his mobile. When a voice answered, he said, ‘We’re off again.’ Then he switched off the mobile and powered away after the Saab.