Tracers

FORTY-FOUR

‘Give me a description,’ Harry replied. He signalled to the other two to be ready to move. They had discussed tactics earlier, and were comfortable with what they had to do. Rik had warned them that if the call came from Marshall, he would already have his technical bods running down the signal. They wouldn’t have much time.

‘I don’t follow. A description of what?’ Marshall, if it was indeed he, spoke slowly, without any sign of tension. It meant he was stretching out the call for as long as he could to allow his people to do their work and get a fix on their location.

‘Of yourself. A thumbnail sketch.’

There was a momentary silence. Then Marshall said, ‘As you wish. I’m slim, clean-shaven, of medium height with fair hair. That enough for you, Mr-?’

‘Not nearly close enough,’ said Harry. ‘Try again.’ He cut the connection and waited.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. It was Marshall sounding mildly contrite. ‘I apologize. That was stupid of me. You know what I look like, don’t you?’

‘Correct.’ Harry hoped the implied humility lasted long enough for him to convince the man that the three of them shouldn’t be shot on sight. ‘You recognized the code I sent you.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘It rang a bell. How did you find out about it, Mr-?’

Harry ignored the baited hook. ‘I have my sources. I also know about the subject of the operation.’

‘What about him?’

Him. Not her. Not it. It was a small slip, but significant. ‘I know where he is.’

‘Really.’ There was another slight delay and Harry decided he’d been on long enough. Then Marshall spoke again. ‘Are you a journalist?’

‘If I were, you’d have read about this over your cornflakes.’

A dry chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Good point. Very well, where do we go from here? Are you suggesting a meeting?’

‘Give me a number I can call tomorrow. A mobile, not a landline.’

‘Actually, I’d rather we had a face-to-’

‘You’ve got ten seconds, then I’m gone.’

Marshall read out a number.

Harry disconnected and walked across the concourse after Rik and Joanne.

They split up and left separately, each merging into the crowd. Harry had already checked for security cameras and told the others where they were. There were probably others they were unaware of, but they wouldn’t be able to avoid them all. They regrouped along Victoria Street and walked north towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace, sheltering among clutches of tourists and office workers.

‘What did he say?’ asked Rik.

‘Not much. He’s trying to figure out whether his day just got bad or even worse.’

‘Did you mention Jennings?’

‘No. I didn’t want to be on too long. I’ll ask him later.’

Rik raised his eyebrows. ‘Later?’

‘I told him I’d call tomorrow. He gave me a mobile number.’ He recited it from memory and Joanne and Rik each made a note. It was a simple precaution; if anything happened to him, they’d have a means to contact Marshall. Whether it made any difference to their situation was debatable, but at least they wouldn’t be left in the dark. He glanced at his watch. They all needed a change of clothes and toiletries in case they had to stay on the move. ‘We need to pick up some stuff. Joanne, can you buy some skivvies from a shop?’

‘Sure. Won’t your places be risky, though? If Marshall’s working with Jennings, he’ll have men on the way there now.’

‘If he’s working with Jennings, we’re stuffed anyway,’ Rik muttered.

‘We need some transport,’ said Harry. ‘Rik?’

‘Sure. I know where I can get a loaner. Mine’s in an underground garage with CCTV. I’ll need to move it.’

‘OK. We’ll stop by on the way.’

He left Rik to make his own way and took off with Joanne for his flat in Islington. They walked by the building twice before he was satisfied there were no watchers, then Harry went up and packed an overnight bag, leaving Joanne downstairs to watch the street. Three minutes later, he left the flat and went down to the Saab.

He drove to Rik’s place, stopping on the way for Joanne to buy some essentials, then circled the block until Rik stepped out from an alleyway and climbed in the back. He was packed and ready.

‘Down to the end of this road and make a right,’ said Rik. ‘There’s a blue two-litre Renault parked next to a yellow skip. You can leave this in its place.’

‘A skip?’ Harry stared at him. ‘You know you’ll be paying for a new set of wheels when we come back, don’t you?’

Rik grinned. ‘No worries. I put out the word with a couple of the local lads. It’ll be safe enough.’

Harry drove off as directed and pulled up alongside a battered yellow skip piled with rubbish and builders’ debris. Behind it stood a dark-blue Renault Laguna. It had a high mileage but looked clean and ready to go. Rik jumped out and moved it, and waited while Harry manoeuvred his car into the vacant space and placed his and Joanne’s things in the boot.

‘Where’s the Audi?’ Harry asked.

‘In a lock-up. After those two bods tagged me from Blakeney, I figured it would be best to play safe. Where to?’

Harry took out the spare mobile. ‘I need to make a call. Head south, will you? We need to stay on the move.’

‘Who are you ringing?’

‘Marshall.’

Joanne was closing the rear door. She leaned forward. ‘Marshall? You said you’d call him tomorrow.’

‘I lied.’ He waited until Rik was driving before touching redial. ‘I don’t want to give him time to set us up.’

‘You said tomorrow.’ Marshall’s tone echoed with a hint of accusation, as if Harry had broken a minor rule of etiquette.

‘Call me impulsive. We need to meet. Go to the Marble Arch underground and wait downstairs near the Oxford Street south entrance. I’ll pick you up.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Not possible. It will take me a good thirty minutes-’

‘Make it ten.’ Harry cut the connection and looked at Rik. ‘Go for it. I’ll explain on the way.’

‘Heavens,’ Rik lisped breathlessly, ‘I love it when you talk tough.’

The underground tunnels beneath Marble Arch smelled of damp, decay and urine, a combination guaranteed to ensure that nobody dawdled on their way through. Most looked neither right nor left, sparing little thought for the bundles huddled beneath cardboard boxes in the darker reaches of the network, or the gaunt individuals lurking by the entrances. Apart from the concourse around the ticket office and the barriers, the walkways were ill lit, the overhead lamps casting a feverish glow and colouring everyone and everything the same drab tones.

Major Andrew Marshall paused for a moment at the top of the steps to the Oxford Street entrance, breathing in the fresh air of the Marble Arch intersection. The word fresh was relative, but it would be mildly better than what lay below. Before descending the steps he scanned the immediate area, noting people, vehicles and movement. It was just after two o’clock and the lunchtime rush had slowed to a trickle. Elsewhere was the usual bustle of activity. A bundle of passengers scurried off a coach at a nearby stop; a taxi screeched to a halt just behind the railings separating pedestrians from the rush of traffic; a man in a brilliant white djellaba weaved his way between the cars, casually avoiding death by inches and seemingly oblivious to his chances of meeting his Maker sooner than he’d expected.

Over against the central reservation barrier on the northbound side stood a car with its bonnet up. A young woman was staring in dismay at a cloud of steam swirling from the engine, ignored by every other driver. London, thought Marshall, in all its glory. He took a final breath and walked down the steps. He moved lightly for a big man, skilfully avoiding contact with others and glaring as a thin youth halfway down looked up at him, about to tap him for change. Seeing the expression on the major’s face, the youth snapped his mouth shut and shrank back against the wall as the large man with the military bearing strode by.

At the bottom of the steps, Marshall checked his surroundings, scanning faces. He didn’t expect to recognize anyone, but he had a keen eye for detail — especially nervous detail. Satisfied he wasn’t about to be mugged, he stood with his back to the wall by a rack of brochures and watched the human tide flow by.

After a moment, a man in a shabby coat and an old trilby hat appeared from one of the tunnels and shuffled up beside him. He was of medium height but broad in the shoulder. Solid. Marshall couldn’t see the man’s face but he could smell the feral aroma coming off him at six paces. He was contemplating telling him to shove off when the newcomer turned and moved past him, the smell suddenly stronger.

‘This way, Major. Don’t dawdle, now.’ Then the man was off, walking quickly into the network of tunnels leading to the far side of Park Lane.

Marshall followed, carefully not looking for his own men, who had orders to wait nearby. He recognized the man’s voice from the phone call and was impressed by the ease with which the stranger had made contact. But the casual display of professionalism gave him a sinking feeling in his gut, and he realized he’d already been outmanoeuvred.

He increased his pace, intending to be right behind the man when they stopped. There was a limited number of exits from the tunnels, giving the man few options to play with. And unless he was going to morph into a tunnel rat and slip down a drainage gully, he wouldn’t be going very far.

They entered a straight stretch of tunnel, empty save for a tall, gangly youth with a guitar and a voice like a badly tuned violin. A rumble of traffic came from overhead. They were directly beneath the rush of vehicles circling Marble Arch. Metal signs on the walls pointed to numbered exits, and the air here was even heavier and more fetid than it had been earlier, with an extra earthy layer to the range of smells.

Marshall felt oddly disorientated. It was an unpleasant feeling.

They reached a gap in the wall on Marshall’s left. This had no exit number and was blocked by a sliding metal grill pitted with rust. Behind it a flight of steps rose into daylight, the treads covered with leaf mould and litter, long unused. As Marshall drew level with the grill and set his gaze on the tunnel ahead, the man suddenly turned back and kicked the grill aside. Grabbing Marshall by the arm, he bundled him through and pushed him up the steps before he could resist, surprising him with the strength of his grip.

‘Where are we going?’ Marshall spoke as calmly as he could manage, but he’d lost his bearings and felt an instinctive desire to push back. He wasn’t accustomed to relinquishing control in this way.

‘You’ll see, Major. Keep moving.’

They continued upwards, the traffic buzz growing to a roar, and emerged into the open. Marshall was surprised to see they were on the central reservation area of grass and bushes between the traffic flow of Park Lane. Not fifteen feet away was the car — a dark Renault — that he’d spotted earlier with its bonnet raised. The young woman who had been standing by the front was now by the driver’s door looking perfectly calm.

When she saw them appear, she turned and slammed the bonnet.

‘You’ll have to hop over the barrier, Major,’ the man instructed him. ‘And get in the back, would you? We’re going for a short ride.’ As he spoke, he shrugged off the coat and trilby and tossed them on the ground, revealing him to be stocky and in his forties, with a genial face and brown hair. He had an easy smile and seemed relaxed, as if this kind of activity happened every day. Marshall wasn’t fooled; he didn’t doubt for a second that he was ready to move fast if the need arose. ‘Sorry about the God-awful whiff from that coat — but you have to use whatever’s to hand, right?’

Marshall stepped over the barrier as instructed and got into the car alongside a young man with spiky hair and cool blue eyes. He also looked relaxed but alert, hands resting on his knees. Marshall recognized the type; he employed one or two himself.

The young woman slid behind the wheel and started the engine. She was dressed in jeans and a windcheater and looked strong and capable. She was attractive in spite of wearing little or no make-up, and Marshall slotted her into the same category as the two men: not to be underestimated.

The older man dropped into the front passenger seat and signalled the woman to move off before turning to look at Marshall. ‘Apologies for the subterfuge,’ he said, ‘but we wanted some of what my dear old mum called quality time, and I figured you might have brought the odd little helper in tow.’

‘One or two,’ Marshall agreed. He forced himself to relax, knowing that these three people had total control and there was nothing he could do about it. Worse, he didn’t need to look around to know that none of his men was anywhere near. The pick-up had been neat, unfussy and unexpected, and he made a mental note to have a word with the Directorate of Training about reviewing the use of street tactics in London.