Red Station

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘ Gulliver? Not much. He wasn’t here long enough to break the ice. Clare got on with him, though. He bunked off without warning.’

‘I thought he was recalled.’

‘No. He’d had enough. That’s what Mace said, anyway.’

‘What about Gordon Brasher?’

‘Heard of him. Some sort of analyst. He was before my time.’ He grinned. ‘Another member of the escape committee. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondering.’ Harry made a show of checking the street to break the trail of discussion. ‘So what sort of files did you access?’

‘The wrong sort. Some individuals… but mostly operational stuff. I heard about a couple of things on the grapevine… operations that had gone sour. I was intrigued about what goes on at the outer edges.’ He looked at Harry. ‘The areas you work in, I guess. I’m in support; we don’t get to see the exciting stuff at first hand.’

‘Think yourself lucky,’ said Harry. ‘Most of the time it’s boring and repetitive. The rest is unpleasant.’

‘Yeah, well it doesn’t always go to plan, does it? I mean, there was one file I found… the original documents were all there, written up. So I had a trawl through. There was this amazing stuff about a long-term drugs op leading all the way from Kandahar to London. Five guys had been working the line for nearly a year. Then, just as it was going critical, they were pulled out without explanation. Most of the product ended up on the streets of London and Birmingham. It was coded like Blackpool rock, so they could track it all the way. Bloody criminal.’

Harry nodded. ‘It happens. How did they find you out?’

‘I talked to a mate and he blabbed. It was stupid of me. I said I’d been looking for hero stuff… you know — SAS missions, that kind of thing. They couldn’t prove otherwise because I didn’t leave any footprints.’

Harry thought Rik had been lucky. They’d shovelled him out of London because there was a chance he might have stumbled on something he shouldn’t have. No matter how clean he’d wiped his trail, the suspicion would have remained. To have charged him would have risked exposing a serious lack of security, as well as revealing something they wanted kept quiet. Far better to send him somewhere isolated and keep him out of the way.

Like they had with himself.

‘How do you keep your hand in?’ he asked casually. It was unlikely that someone like Rik wouldn’t be tempted to indulge whenever the opportunity arose. But it wouldn’t be in office hours; he’d be too easily seen entering screens he had no business using.

‘When I can.’ The reply was wary. He nodded down the street, ‘There’s an internet cafe about a hundred yards down there, called Maxis. It’s usually full of security cops, sniffing out deviants and such, but it’s safe. I use it whenever I need a fix without every keystroke being logged. Why?’

‘No reason.’ Harry noted the name for future use. He looked across the street. ‘Let’s do this, shall we?’

Rik checked it was clear, then led the way to the kiosk. Their approach was watched by a sharp-faced young man with several days’ growth of beard and a ponytail. Harry took it to be local street-chic.

‘Hey, Rudi,’ Rik said, and bought a pack of cigarettes. He turned to Harry and murmured. ‘You need to buy some, too. Shows goodwill.’

Harry pointed at a pack of Marlboro. The man flipped it across the counter and took the money without speaking.

Rik signalled for a light. As he leaned over to suck in the flame, he said, ‘My friend needs a cell.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Rudi lit a cigarette, too, and gave Harry a quick once over, squinting through the smoke. ‘You calling local?’ His accent carried a faint American twang.

‘No. Is that a problem?’

‘For me, no. But some cells have limited range, you know? For good signal you need top device. It cost more.’ His eyes had brightened with interest.

‘How much?’

Rudi bent down, revealing a bald patch. He resurfaced and slid an Ericsson T68 between two piles of magazines. ‘Best I got at the moment. You could ring the moon with that, no problem.’

The phone looked new, except for a faint scratch on the screen. It was either a clever copy or stolen from some luckless businessman. Either way, it was better than what he had. ‘How much and how long will it last?’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean the battery.’

Rudi grinned good-naturedly. ‘I get you, man. It last maybe three days. For that I give you good price. One hundred dollars US.’

Harry heard Rik give an intake of breath. ‘What?’

‘Don’t touch it.’ Rik gave Rudi a reproving look. ‘A model that good but that cheap? It’s probably got someone on its tail who wants it back. Three days means it was lifted locally.’

‘Hey, what you saying?’ Rudi protested mildly. ‘You want to ruin my business?’ He shrugged. ‘Eighty dollars. Best price.’

‘I’ll take it.’ A few days wouldn’t matter; he was hardly going to be using it non-stop. He took out some dollars and slid them towards Rudi. The phone was good enough for his purposes, and instinct told him he wouldn’t get a better deal anywhere else.

A dusty Volvo had turned into the street, heading towards them. One person inside. Square shoulders, short hair.

Rudi took the money and folded it into his pocket. ‘Sure thing. But you know…’

‘Yeah, I know. No keywords and we’ve never met before.’ Harry picked up the Ericsson and walked away, tossing Rik the pack of Marlboro.

The Volvo rumbled by, spitting out gravel from beneath the tyres. Up close, the driver was in his fifties, with heavy jowls. He wore a thick jacket, ragged at the elbows, and was checking door numbers on the other side of the street.

Harry breathed out but kept his head down.

Rik seemed unaware of the car and fell into step alongside him.

‘You want something?’ said Harry. For what he was about to do, he didn’t need an audience.

‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ Rik’s face fell but he peeled away obediently. ‘Don’t be too long, though,’ he said. ‘Mace likes to know where we are.’

Right, thought Harry. And why is that, I wonder? He hurried away, punching buttons until he found the SIM card directory. As he suspected, it contained a list of names and numbers, the former mostly Anglo, the latter with dialling codes he vaguely recognized. American.

Great. Knowing his luck, the mobile probably belonged to Carl bloody Higgins of the CIA.

He found a tiny basement bar beneath a small supermarket. It was grubby and workaday, of the type where the clientele looked as though they preferred minding their own business. He bought a coke and bagged a corner table, then switched on the mobile and waited while it searched for a signal. If it didn’t work, he’d go back and cut off Rudi’s ponytail.

He knew the number he had to dial by heart; he and Bill Maloney had spent a lot of time calling each other before, during and after operations. He thought over what he wanted to say. It had to be as lean as possible, as every second spent on the line increased the risk of discovery. Using a clean phone would avoid his name or number popping up on a monitor somewhere and sounding alarms all over London.

Need yr hlp. Rd 1. It wasn’t elegant, not by the standards he’d seen kids texting each other, but he wanted brevity, not prizes. Hopefully, Maloney would recognize his call sign. He had a moment of doubt as he pressed the SEND button, but let it go. As long as Maloney received the message and didn’t ignore it.

Or worse, call the dogs down on him.