Red Station

TEN

Mace refused to elaborate further. ‘It’s early days yet,’ was all he would say. ‘No point in going off half-cocked. Let’s just keep our ears and eyes open, shall we?’

Harry left him to his newspaper and walked back to the office. Whatever the rumours, Russian involvement was no surprise — not this close to Moscow’s ragged borders. But he was shocked that London hadn’t briefed him before he came out here.

Unless they hadn’t known.

He was greeted in the office by Fitzgerald. The briefing began with a demonstration of the layout of the building from ground to top floor, using a coloured map showing exits, stairways and a schematic of the alarm system, and the codes to use for out-of-hours working. Before they left the main office, he looked at Harry with a serious expression.

‘Outside of this room, we only talk British Council business. Nothing else. I run regular sweeps, and so far we’ve never found anything. But that doesn’t mean they won’t find a way in. Right?’

‘Sure.’ Harry was accustomed to the paranoia of security people in foreign postings. They had learnt from others’ mistakes over the decades, and nobody took the matter lightly.

Fitzgerald led the way downstairs, talking mundane matters and showing Harry a selection of rooms in the basement for odds and ends of furniture, stacks of leaflets and boxes of promotional literature in several languages. The air smelled of dust and printing ink, and damp cardboard.

‘Our main job here,’ he continued aloud, ‘is to field cultural and educational enquiries, and send out leaflets to interested parties so they can locate contacts and partners. We encourage them to go through their trade delegates in London or the appropriate section of our embassy. There’s a list upstairs of addresses you can give them.’ He beckoned for Harry to follow and moved to a room at the rear, where the walls were lined with metal racks holding more boxes and a selection of conference and exhibition equipment.

He lifted a square of carpet to one side. Underneath was a small metal trapdoor.

Fitzgerald took a metal hook from a nearby rack and inserted it in a slot. He pulled hard and the trapdoor came up revealing a recess dug into the foundations. Reaching down, he tugged hard on something out of Tate’s line of sight. A wooden box slid into view.

Inside, nestling in foam packing, were three handguns, the light gleaming off the oiled metal, and spare clips of ammunition.

He replaced the trapdoor and carpet, then led the way back upstairs. As soon as they were in the main office with the door closed, Harry turned to him.

‘What the hell are they for?’ he demanded. He was aware of Jardine and Ferris watching in the background. They said nothing.

‘They’ve been here from the beginning,’ Fitzgerald replied calmly. ‘The boss said you should know they were there, just in case.’ He turned and beckoned Harry to follow. This room was divided into two offices with glass panelling down the middle. Stuart Mace was sitting on the other side of the glass, talking on the phone. It looked like any bureaucrat’s den, with book-lined walls and filing cabinets, and family photos on the shelves.

‘I’ll take you through our security procedure and protocols,’ said Fitzgerald, moving behind a cluttered desk. ‘Then Rik or Clare will give you a quick tour and drop you off at your digs. You might as well get to know the place.’

‘Just in case?’ said Harry.

‘You got it.’

For the next forty minutes, he listened as he was shown through a succession of procedures, including basic personal safety, building security and local maps. One town map showed buildings marked in red. Most were in the narrow streets on the edge of town to the north, where Harry hadn’t yet been.

‘What are those?’

‘Hostile or possibly hostile locations. My advice is, don’t go there.’

‘Hostiles.’

‘Yeah. This and this,’ he pointed to two buildings closer to the centre, ‘are local security police. They leave us alone most of the time. The others are bandits. Local clans. Don’t mess with them; they have a habit of not returning people who stray into their territory. The cops leave them alone because they’ve got their own private militias.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s the militias in this neck of the woods that control most of what goes on.’

‘What about this place?’ Harry indicated a large red building on the map not far from where they were standing. It was the Palace Hotel.

‘We call it spook central. It’s the only decent hotel in town. The Yanks kip down there along with journos and a few other interested groups like the French, Germans and Russians.’

‘You know any of them — Americans, I mean?’

‘Sure. A couple. Engineers, so they say, although I doubt it. Why?’

‘A man named Higgins was on the flight in. Said he was a journalist.’

‘He isn’t,’ Fitzgerald said shortly. ‘Fat, loud, self-opinionated and sweats a lot?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Yeah. Rik said he’d cadged a lift. He comes and goes, makes a lot of noise about the hard life of a news reporter. Not sure who he’s with, but it’s either CIA or National Security Agency. He might have tagged you but I wouldn’t worry about it.’ He paused. ‘You see anyone else like him?’

Harry thought about the young man at the airport. ‘Not yet.’

Fitzgerald smiled without humour. ‘Don’t worry — you will.’