Execution

TWENTY-FIVE

To Harry, in spite of Fortiani’s beliefs to the contrary, The Grove wine bar looked exactly the sort of place to pick up a spare mobile phone. It was a high-end bistro and restaurant on two floors, standing on a prominent corner spot a few minutes from Victoria Station. One look inside and he’d already spotted several phones prominently displayed where anyone trained in brush-past techniques would scoop them up in an instant. With so much laughter and talk, busy waiters juggling trays of food and drinks, clients coming and going, often from one table to another in pursuit of gossip and connections, it was like an ants’ nest of furious activity.

Just the kind of place Clare would have targeted.

He stood on the corner outside, trying to get a feel for the area. The buildings here were up-scale and neat, the streets open. Not the best place for a fugitive to hide in. While The Grove would have been ideal for a fishing trip, to pick up a mobile phone, Clare would have been looking for somewhere more compact to duck into, with plenty of interconnected run-throughs and preferably without cameras. Victoria was attractive, with thousands of business travellers and tourists to use as cover, but anybody pursuing her would make that the first place to look. And a young woman with a stick would stand out.

He consulted his map and felt his spirits sink. Pick anywhere with a pin. It would take a team weeks to go through the lot.

Rik joined him, shaking his head. ‘Not even any possibles.’

‘Me neither.’

‘We’re not the only ones looking for her, though.’

Harry looked at him. ‘I know. I’ve had a couple of comments. What did you hear?’

‘Four people mentioned guys flashing photos around — photos of a young woman. One said the photo looked like a still from a security camera. No reliable descriptions, but they all said they had foreign accents. A couple I spoke to reckoned they were Czechs or Poles, like illegals.’

‘Or Russians.’

‘Exactly. But the descriptions were of young guys, probably no more than twenty, and not well dressed. The line they were selling said the same thing: the woman had discharged herself from hospital.’

Harry nodded. Any other story would not have elicited the same sympathy or desire to help. But the men doing the asking sounded unusually young. Reliable FSB operators working overseas were usually older, having proved their trustworthiness and picked up a bagful of experience and scars along the way. Twenty was too young.

‘They’ve been clever,’ he concluded. ‘They’re using the street traffic. Doing what we’re doing but on a bigger scale, and using illegals or over-stayers to spread the word. Put out enough photos and someone somewhere will hit pay dirt and get the reward.’

His phone rang and he grabbed it eagerly, hoping it would be Clare.

It was Ballatyne.

‘I’ve spoken to Alanya and checked the operations log. The two men in the Focus were a security surveillance team sent to check her out.’

‘Why?’

‘For the simple reason that she was buddies with Jardine. This business has got everyone in a spin. Deane’s got internal security turning the place inside out for anybody who so much as looked squinty-eyed at Jardine. Alanya happened to be top of the shit list.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘She is now. She thinks you’re midway between Superman and a saint, by the way. Personally I think she’s deluded, but there you go.’

‘It’s a strain, I know. Who’s Deane?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

Harry had a sudden thought. Clare worked the Russian section and Alice Alanya was a Russian language specialist. ‘He’s Head of the Russian desk, isn’t he?’

‘I told you-’

‘I know — you can’t tell me otherwise you’d have to send round one of your hotshots to shoot me. I get that. But who else would have an interest in this Tobinskiy business? Does this Deane know there’s a Russian wet team out there?’

Ballatyne breathed heavily down the phone. It was enough to tell Harry that he was correct. ‘She, actually,’ he said finally. ‘And if she does know she’s not saying. Her name’s Candida Deane. She’s deputy head while her boss is off sick. It’s an open secret that she’s hoping he stays that way.’

‘So she’s ambitious.’

‘With good reason; from the Russian desk to the upper reaches of the totem pole is an easy stretch. It carries more responsibility, it takes more budget and it has a lot of history. Bets are that she’ll make it, and she won’t care who she burns on the way, me included. I never told you any of that, of course.’

‘She sounds like a toughie.’

‘Like a junk yard dog. She’s not to be messed with, Harry. She’s one of the new breed; all MBAs and focus meetings and barbed wire knickers. But she’s no shrinking violet. She likes to collect trophies and she’s built a team around her who think the same way.’

‘Warning noted. What about that other thing I asked you for? The target.’

A longer silence while Ballatyne played with his conscience, then: ‘Jardine’s target was a woman — a Russian. Her name was Katya Balenkova, and she was a captain in the Federal Protective Service, or FSO.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Probably. Give me five and I’ll call you back.’