Red Station

ELEVEN

Next morning, Harry walked to the office to get a feel for the town. The air was colder, with a heavy layer of cloud hanging over the buildings and reducing the sparse colouring to shades of grey. The atmosphere bore a taste of burnt fuel, which he guessed was cheap heating oil or badly maintained vehicle engines.

He passed few people on the way. A group of soldiers standing around a makeshift brazier eyed him suspiciously but didn’t stop him. Other pedestrians steered clear of the military as if by instinct, crossing the streets with eyes down, intent on being invisible.

After leaving Fitzgerald, he’d been taken by Rik Ferris on a whistle-stop tour of the town, with the communications man pointing out local landmarks. These had been few and far between, mostly given to the town hall, the museum, the railway station… and the so-called hostile buildings referred to by Fitzgerald. Detached houses in the main, these were sheltered behind walls or railings, with security cameras trained on all sides. There had been nothing overt about them to suggest any dangerous presence, such as armed guards, but the metal shutters on the windows, the fresher paint compared with their neighbours and the heavy four-by-four vehicles parked in the alleyways alongside, indicated they were not your average residential premises.

The last stop was outside a three-storey building in a quiet back street.

‘Home sweet home,’ Rik said cheerfully. He handed Harry a key on a plastic tag. ‘Top floor, so you can make as much noise as you like, hold wild parties and stuff like that. Make sure you invite me, though. The only other tenant is a press photographer on the ground floor, named Mario. Comes from Rome. Nice bloke.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, I haven’t seen him around for a couple of days. Must have found a story to cover. I’ve stocked up your kitchen with the basics, so you won’t need to shop for a few days. Not,’ he added, ‘that you’ll find shopping much fun around here.’

‘Thanks. Where do you call home?’ asked Harry. He hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to the younger man yet. If he was a communications specialist, he couldn’t exactly be rushed off his feet, and Harry hadn’t seen much in the way of communications hardware in the office.

‘About quarter of a mile away.’ Rik pointed out to the suburbs. ‘It’s on Novroni. Number twenty-four. Old and scabby, but I’m doing it up to keep myself from going stir-crazy. Clare lives a few blocks that way.’ He indicated north. ‘The other two live on the outskirts.’ He hesitated. ‘Did Mace tell you about the no-comms rule?’

‘Yes. Everything goes through him. Is it set in stone?’

‘You bet. I have access to a server in London, but that’s purely for messages. It’s monitored closely and as bombproof as my granny’s knickers. Mace has a secure terminal in his office, but nobody else gets to touch it. It’s level-Alpha password-protected.’

‘I’ll pretend I know what that means. What about my mobile?’

Rik held out his hand. ‘Here — I’ll show you.’

Harry passed him his Nokia, which he hadn’t used since leaving London. Rik switched it on. He held it up so Harry could see the screen. It was blank.

‘They wiped it before you left. It won’t pick up a signal here, so you might as well dump it. I’ll give you a new one in the morning. It’ll be OK for the local network, but no further.’ He handed the phone back and put the car in gear. ‘It’s not too bad here. You’ll get used to it.’

‘That’s what Mace said.’ Harry wondered when they’d managed to wipe his mobile. At the time of the debriefing, probably, when he’d handed it in at security.

‘He’s right. Welcome to paradise.’

Harry watched him drive away before making his way inside and up three flights of narrow, concrete stairs inlaid with coarse tiles. They were worn down in the middle from the passage of feet over the years, and crackled with grit underfoot. The air was cold and damp, a depressing contrast to the conditions at the airport.

He shivered, wondering if this was a taste of the winter to come.

The interior of the flat was spacious but minimally furnished, like a student’s lodging circa 1968. Most of the items looked as if they had been sourced from a bric-a-brac salesroom. The living room, bedroom and kitchen held the basics, and carried a faint aroma of mildew and cleaning fluid. A wood-burner stood in the living room, black and cold and squat as a beetle, and the bathroom was ancient and damp, echoing to the plunk of water dripping from a furred-up shower-head the size of a soup tureen.

He sat down on the bed and contemplated his future. So far, he’d been a man in motion, one foot in front of the other like an automaton, following orders. Now he was here, he couldn’t see beyond the bleak surrounds of these four walls and the grubby little cowpat of a town outside.

Even Jean seemed too far away to be more than a vague memory.

He leaned back, depressed, suddenly too tired to care, and fell asleep dreaming about the young couple in the Land Rover and a tall gunman with dreadlocks and a pole belching fire.