Red Station

TWENTY-SIX

‘ I need a mobile. A throwaway, no contract.’

Harry collared Rik as soon as he got back to the office. The others were out of earshot and Mace was on the phone with his back turned. There was no way of knowing if the young comms man would help him, or whether he’d simply go straight to Mace. But there was only one way to find out.

‘Why?’ Rik grinned. ‘ET not thinking of phoning home, is he?’

‘Don’t ask. Someone I need to talk to.’

‘Not wise, man. Not wise.’ He pointed a finger towards the atmosphere. ‘They’ll track it.’

‘No, they won’t. I won’t be on long enough. You going to help me or not?’

But Rik wasn’t listening, too intent on showing his skills. ‘Keywords, you see. You use any keywords, it won’t matter how long you’re on. They’ll have your footprint. Then you’re toast.’

‘OK, I promise I won’t use any keywords,’ Harry growled. ‘Good enough?’

‘Fine. It’s your neck.’ Rik sucked on his teeth like a plumber giving an estimate. ‘There’s a place in town. A kiosk. Sells bootleg cigarettes and chacha, among other things. He’ll have what you need. The guy’s name is Rudi. But don’t touch the chacha — it’s toxic.’

‘What the hell is chacha?’ He wasn’t really interested but it might be prudent to keep Rik onside.

‘It’s vodka, mostly made with grape juice, but they also use fruit like oranges or mulberries. The best quality isn’t bad, but the rest is crap.’ He checked to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘The good stuff is Mace’s favourite tipple. He sticks fruit juice in it to hide it but he’s kidding himself.’

Harry stored away the information. Mace’s drinking habits were nothing more than an exploitable weakness. In his profession, such a chink in his armour might affect all of them. ‘Where do I find this Rudi?’

Rik gave him directions to a street about ten minutes’ walk away. ‘But seriously,’ he added. ‘They’ll track you.’

‘Yeah, I know. You said. Keywords.’ Harry had a thought. ‘What about Hotmail? That’s not traceable, right?’

‘Only like sticking a flag up a very tall pole.’ Rik was scornful. ‘If they’re monitoring email traffic out of this area, they’d go through the Hotmail first. They might not know who was sending an individual message, but they’d soon find out.’

‘How?’

Rik shrugged. ‘By doing what they normally do: quoting the war against terror. It’s the modern “Open Sesame”, isn’t it? They’d have instant access to whatever records they needed. It’s too risky. You’d do better to stick with texting.’ He smiled slyly. ‘You do know what texting is, don’t you?’

Harry knew. He’d been on a communications update course. He remembered the instructor saying that texting in code was almost impossible to spot unless a specific device was being monitored.

‘Does this Rudi speak English?’

‘Of course. He’s a wheeler-dealer; he likes to score.’ Rik scowled. ‘I’d better come with you. He gets jumpy if he thinks the cops are around. Most of the stuff he handles isn’t kosher, you know? That’s why it’s cheap. I’ll check it out for you, so let me know when.’ He gave Harry a steady look. ‘You did this all by yourself, though. I don’t want London giving me a load of crap for your misdemeanours — I’m trying to live down enough of my own.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You seriously think they’re going to let you back?’ Harry gave him the benefit of a six-inch stare. ‘I wouldn’t count on it, sunshine. They’ve got long, nasty memories and they don’t forgive easily.’

Rik swallowed. ‘You think?’

‘I know. Let’s go.’

‘What, now?’ Rik glanced towards Mace’s office. ‘What’ll I tell the boss? He doesn’t like any of us going off without a reason.’

‘Fuck him.’ Harry was still mad at Mace over his visit to Kostova’s house. Mace had contributed in putting another black mark on his record, for what purpose, he didn’t know. Maybe it was part of his nature, to worm a bit of excitement out of working in this miserable place. It was bad enough getting carpeted as the man in charge of an operation that bombed; God alone knew how they’d react when they heard he’d enjoyed the hospitality of a political figure with known links to Moscow.

But he had to consider Rik. It would be unfair to drag him into it. ‘Tell him I need your help in buying a coat. It’s cold here and I don’t want to die of hypothermia.’

From down the street, the kiosk looked rundown and colourless, slotted into a derelict space between two other shops. A stained canvas awning cast a shadow over the makeshift counter, covered with faded stickers advertising a variety of products, most of them unavailable on the open market.

After stopping to buy a plain padded coat from a general clothing store, Harry had followed Rik’s lead and now stood fifty yards from the kiosk, watching the flow of customers — mostly men in rough working clothes and heavy boots — and eyeing the occasional vehicle passing by. None of the cars stopped and they saw no signs of watchers. Or, come to think of it, thought Harry, the Clones. Most of the customers accomplished their purchase with the minimum of chat, sliding money across the counter and retrieving their purchases before scurrying away.

‘He trades in cigarettes, booze, fuel, electronics and perfumes,’ Rik explained, anticipating Harry’s question. ‘And whatever toxic substances he can get.’

‘You know that from experience, do you?’

Rik hissed briefly. ‘Don’t use it, never have. I get my kicks from a keyboard. If you ask Rudi, he’ll get it. All it needs is the right money.’

‘You said fuel. Is that what I can smell?’

‘Yeah. It stinks, doesn’t it? Worse than chip fat. Don’t worry — you’ll get used to it. The gangs siphon it from a spillage pipe at a refinery over to the east and sell it cheap on the streets. It smells so bad because they haven’t finished the refining process, which is why anyone who uses it too much blows out their engines.’

‘Regular little capitalist, isn’t he?’ Harry settled his shoulder against a wall, prepared to wait until Rik said it was safe to move.

‘So,’ said Rik, sensing a moment for casual chat, ‘have you managed to get it on with our Clare yet or has she given you the moody like she does everyone?’

Harry stared at him. Rik obviously didn’t know about her. ‘You serious?’

‘Just asking. You know why she’s here, don’t you?’

‘Is it relevant?’

‘Not really. Just gossiping. She overcooked a honey-trap and went all the way, according to chit-chat.’ He fluttered his eyebrows. ‘And we British don’t do that, do we? Go all the way, I mean.’

‘You reckon?’ Harry watched as an army truck slowed near the kiosk. The driver was alone, probably checking out the place to see if he could make a buy without being seen.

‘Anyway, it went sour and the suits didn’t approve. She got tabbed out here.’

The lorry speeded up and disappeared at the end of the street, belching exhaust fumes.

‘What about you?’ Harry asked. He didn’t need to hear Rik’s story, but the more he learned about his colleagues, the less he might have to worry about.

‘Me? That’s no secret. I got my sticky fingers into a couple of restricted files and they decided I was better off somewhere far away.’ He shrugged, smiling coyly. ‘Stupid, really. They can’t keep me here forever, can they?’ He shifted his feet as the flow of shoppers across the street dwindled. ‘Out of sight, out of the way, I suppose. It’s the limit of their thinking.’

‘Consider yourself lucky they didn’t settle for a more permanent option,’ said Harry. ‘You don’t find many computers in solitary.’

Rik scowled as if the idea had occurred to him before. ‘I suppose. It’s still like being locked up, though, being in this shithole. I mean, who thought of putting an office out here?’

‘Nobody with a sense of humour.’ It was the first time anyone had voiced an opinion about being here. Harry gave it a couple of beats. So far he’d tested the water with the phone; now was the time to push the envelope. He said, ‘Did you know Jimmy Gulliver?’