Tracers

TWO

In the car, Harry checked the picture on his mobile against the hard copy in his pocket before sending it on the next stage. If Jennings was on the ball, he should have instructions within minutes. Then he could be out of here, with or without a package.

He yawned and shifted the passenger seat back and placed a foot on the dashboard, knuckling the tiredness from his eyes. There were times when he felt too old for this business; covert surveillance and tracking was for youngsters; those who were time-rich, who didn’t find themselves thinking of all the better things they could be doing instead of getting stale and stodgy in the front seat of a car while the world slipped by outside. Not that forty-something was old, exactly. He probably needed some TLC and a good holiday. With Jean, preferably. He leaned forward and checked his face in the mirror. Could do with a shave; hair still good — a bit long on top maybe but no traces of grey among the light brown; teeth not bad, either.

He lowered the window a fraction, allowing the smell of salt and decay to drift in. He shifted uneasily and eyed his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see here: the reeds, some woodland and dull, camouflage-coloured undergrowth. Beyond that and out of sight lay the coastline of dunes and the cold North Sea. The overall impression was unwelcoming and unnaturally quiet, as if all life had been turned off at the mains.

He eased the door open and stepped back out, treading with care in the mud. Out here was a steady rush of low-level noise produced by the breeze among the trees and rushes. Apart from that, there was nothing visual to disturb the scenery: no people, no movement, no vehicles. Just a car engine rumbling faintly from somewhere over by the village. He left the Saab and strolled the few yards back to the main road, using up time while waiting for Jennings to call back.

To his right, the road was empty, burrowing into the gloom before abruptly turning a corner as it followed the line of the coast. To the left, a hundred yards away towards the village, a white utility van stood on the grass verge, a red warning cone near the offside tail-light. The rear door was open, showing a jumble of tools inside. A long metal mains key stood against the side of the van. There was no sign of the driver.

He strolled back to the Saab and climbed in, taking a ten-day-old copy of the Telegraph off the back seat as he did so. He’d already tried the crossword but wasn’t in the mood. He flicked through the pages for something of interest. Another bombing in Baghdad and the death of a so-called major Iraqi figurehead; a critical setback to the handover of full power, according to the leader writer, who was clearly deluded enough to believe that one man was all it needed to solve the problem. Harry felt a surge of relief that he was no longer a part of that whole sorry mess. All in the past, thank God.

He thought about Matuq, wondering if he’d have to take him back. He didn’t like taking in runners, whatever their alleged background or problems. It changed the whole dynamic of the hunter-prey situation. Tracing them was one thing; it was done remotely, avoiding all physical contact until the last possible moment. Doing the knock wasn’t always necessary, either, depending on the client’s requirements. But sharing car space with the target afterwards and having to listen to them justifying their actions was a step too far.

The phone buzzed. Jennings.

‘You may leave.’ The voice was smooth and bland, smug even, and Harry pictured him behind his executive desk in west London, pinstripe suit and polished brogues on display, self-satisfaction turned up high.

‘You sure about that?’ The last thing he needed was to drive all the way back to London only to have to come out here again because of a change of heart.

‘I’m sure. Someone else will handle it from here.’ A click and Jennings was gone.

Harry switched off the phone and placed it on the central console. Jennings had few obvious social skills and seemed determined not to improve them; maybe he’d been dropped once too often as a baby. He tossed the paper over his shoulder, distracted. Something was niggling at him. Something about the call. But it wouldn’t come.

He reached up to check the rear-view mirror, settling himself for the long drive back. He’d stop somewhere for a meal, if he saw a place open. Something with chips. Or salad.

In the mirror, two bursts of light flared briefly against the darkening sky.

The source was from the top of the track near the cottage. There was no sound, but Harry knew instantly what it meant.