Deception

FIFTY-TWO

‘Cutting it fine, Harry. I was beginning to have my doubts about you.’ Clare Jardine answered Harry’s call on the fifth ring. She sounded amused and even faintly smug, as if she’d been expecting his call all along. ‘I’m glad I was wrong.’

‘What do you want?’ He was only fifty yards from the MOD building, and curiosity had got the better of him.

‘Come on, don’t be like that.’ Her voice took on a more businesslike tone. ‘Look, sorry about the teasing. If we work together, Harry, we can both get what we want. I help you, you help me, friends forever.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Not over the phone. There are too many ears in this city for my liking. Choose somewhere public if it makes you feel safer.’ The amused tone was back, giving Harry cause to wonder at Clare’s mental state, her mood veering from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Horse Guards Parade opposite the lake. Fifteen minutes.’ Horse Guards, where armed police were stationed in cubicles, watching the government’s back and the passing public. If Clare was thinking of trying any of her knife work there, she’d have to be suicidal.

Her laugh echoed down the line. ‘Horse Guards is good. But fifteen? From where you’re standing right now, Harry, it should take about four minutes, tops, a fit man like you. Don’t be late. . and don’t bring the Milky Bar Kid or I might have to give him a slap.’ Then she was gone, leaving him with a prickly feeling on the back of his neck.

He refused to turn round and look; he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

Five minutes later, Clare joined him on the edge of the parade square, within sight of an armed police guard. She was dressed this time in pressed trousers and a smart jacket, every inch the office worker on a break, fitting easily into the background the way she would have been trained. She carried no bag, he noticed, but that didn’t mean she was harmless; he’d seen how quickly she could move and how she could produce her little compact knife faster than many sleight-of-hand artistes.

‘Mmm. . clever,’ she congratulated him, eyeing the guard. ‘You really don’t trust me, do you? And after everything we’ve been through. I’m almost hurt.’

‘No, you’re not. Tell me why I should trust you.’

‘OK. Fair point. Straight down to business, then.’ She set off at a dawdle along the pavement, keeping a body’s width apart from him, hands clasped in front of her. Amazingly, she looked almost demure, as if butter wouldn’t melt. ‘I know Paulton is working with the Protectory,’ she announced. ‘Don’t bother asking how, I just do. He’s a wheeler-dealer and he must have seen them as a prime source of money. Only he doesn’t have any secrets of his own to sell, does he? Who the hell cares about MI5 stuff that’s over a year out of date? And officers or agents he was running have long been pulled out. But he has contacts in all sorts of unlikely places. He must have been storing away names for years, hoping that one day he’d have a use for them. He might not have planned on this kind of use, but he’s resourceful; he knows how the Protectory works: they get their hands on a few prime military personnel who are desperate for a new life and safety away from guns and bullets and IEDs and whatever crap they call their home life, and sell whatever they’ve got in their heads.’ She paused for breath; she’d been talking fast, a professional pitch to sell the idea of chasing Paulton and not letting Harry go. And was that a hint of desperation in her voice?

‘That’s the Protectory. Where does Paulton fit in?’

‘Simple: he’s got something to bring to the table. He knows people who know people and he can get buyers for the kind of stuff on offer. The Protectory’s problem is they don’t have the reach or the contacts and never have. They’re strictly small-time; soldiers cut adrift, looking to flog off a few details here and there. Negotiating without a gun is not their strong point, and they’ve probably been ripped off plenty of times. Paulton’s argument is that he can get them in front of some real buyers. . and in the process take a nice cut for himself. It’s a neat fit.’

She was right. Paulton had been in the security and intelligence game a long time. It was a world away from the kind of spheres Deakin and his friends inhabited. The kind of information that had passed across Paulton’s desk over the years would have included names, positions and locations of people looking to get hold of whatever Britain and her allies were developing in tactical equipment. Names men like Deakin and Nicholls would never even have heard of.

But he still wasn’t sure how knowing this would get him to Paulton. Clare answered that in a way he hadn’t been expecting.

‘I don’t want to tell stories out of school, Harry, but you know Ballatyne’s playing you, don’t you?’

He stopped, forcing her to do the same. He knew this might be a ploy, Clare playing SIS-type mind games to drive a wedge between him and Ballatyne. Divide and rule, as old as the hills. Yet a part of him found it difficult to contradict her outright. ‘Go on.’

‘They’re only using you for one thing: to track these guys down so they can take them out. They don’t have the manpower to do it themselves, and don’t want to get their hands dirty if it all goes public and shit-shaped. So they’ve dressed it up, with Paulton now in the frame in the hope that you can kill two birds with one stone. They knock the Protectory out of the game, you get Paulton. . everyone’s happy.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I told you: I’ve got friends. They have connections. Word is that a dribble of information has been coming out of the Protectory for about three months now. Bits here, snippets there; nothing huge, but it’s enough to tell them what the group is doing. At first the government didn’t want to know; they looked on the Protectory as no more than rumour, a small group of ex-army misfits not worth bothering with. Then about a month ago the decision was taken to shut them down.’

‘Why?’

‘They were becoming the stuff of legend; celebrity renegades, would you believe? Robin Hood and his merry men in desert camos. You know what squaddies are like; coop them up in forward operating bases for weeks on end and they’ll talk up Jack the Ripper as a hero. Make it a group helping out deserters and they’re like the X-Men and the Magnificent Seven all rolled into one. It gives those with even a vague notion of jumping ship the idea that it might just work if they had somewhere safe to run. That’s not good for morale.’

‘Neither is killing deserters who refuse their help.’

‘It might have pushed the MOD’s thinking along a bit, but I don’t think that was the catalyst. Why would the MOD care about the odd dead deserter? As far as they’re concerned, it’s a problem solved. Close the files, delete and move on.’

The MOD’s decision had nothing to do with Tan’s disappearance, either, Harry realized. If what Clare was saying was true, Tan had kicked off at least three weeks ago now, some time after the decision had been made to go after the Protectory. But why? Coincidence, or simply a realistic anticipation that the longer the conflict in Afghanistan went on, the situation could only get worse and more high-value targets would leave and be chased down for what they could sell?

‘These friends,’ he said, turning to continue walking. Too long in one position here and the police would begin to take an interest. And he hadn’t finished with Clare yet. ‘Are they in Six or the MOD?’

She shook her head with an enigmatic smile.

‘OK. The information coming out of the Protectory. . do they know who’s leaking it?’

‘The main money seems to be on a guy called Colin Nicholls, formerly a major in the Intelligence Corps. He went missing about eight years ago while on leave from Iraq. He found his way into the original Protectory, which was just a bunch of guys helping each other stay below the radar. But they weren’t selling anything, not like now.’

So far, so correct. ‘Why Nicholls? There are others in the group.’ He told her about the American, Turpowicz, as an example.

‘There are thought to be half a dozen regular members, spread all over, but I don’t know any names. Nicholls probably has the best background for feeding information through the system to the authorities without being traced. Maybe after all these years, he’s developed a conscience — I don’t know. What they have picked up is that he’s become disenchanted with the way the others in the group are taking it and wants out. His messages have been sounding increasingly despondent.’ She paused. ‘Hasn’t Ballatyne been telling you all this stuff?’

‘No. You know they’ll go after your friends, don’t you?’ He wasn’t giving away any secrets; Clare and her contacts might be a little naive to think they could pass her information for ever without being caught, but they weren’t completely stupid. In the end, something always gave whistleblowers away, if only the whistleblowers themselves, victims of over-confidence or inflated egos. ‘They’ll go on a rat hunt and clear them out.’

‘I know that. So do they.’ She sounded subdued. She must have been harbouring the knowledge for some time. ‘They’ve been thinking of leaving, anyway. Time to move on.’

They had come as far as Birdcage Walk. Harry turned about, then stopped.

‘Thanks for helping Jean, by the way.’ It was something he’d been meaning to say. It would never be enough to make them friends, but it warranted something of a truce between them, if not quite full trust.

‘No problem. You helped me in Georgia, got me out of there when you could have left me behind. Consider us quits.’ She looked and sounded sincere. Another mood swing or a glimpse of the real Clare? He still wasn’t sure.

‘Quits.’

‘So what now?’

‘I thought you were going to tell me. You seem to have a lot of facts.’

‘Basics, that’s all. What I do know is, after what happened at Jean’s place, you must be top dog on the Bosnians’ hit list. They’re probably feeling bruised by that failure. We neither of us know where Paulton or the Protectory are hiding out, but from the Bosnians to them is a fairly straight jump, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Find the Bosnians, find Deakin and Paulton?’ It was a tantalizing thought, but offhand he couldn’t think of another. He’d already staked himself out as a goat once, so he might as well try it again. ‘Where can I find you?’

‘You have my number. Just call and I’ll come running.’ She smiled archly and walked away, her heels going click-clack on the hard ground.

His phone buzzed. It was Rik.

‘Harry, I’ve got something on Vanessa Tan. But you’re really not going to like it. She’s dead.’