Red Station

THIRTY-THREE

‘ Rudmann’s becoming a nuisance. She’s asking too many questions.’

George Paulton eased his collar around his neck as he spoke. Either he was putting on weight or his shirts were shrinking. He crossed his ankles under the desk and tried to remain calm. Sang froid in the face of adversity was the way to play it, otherwise the hyenas would move in for the kill.

Hyenas like Marcella Rudmann.

‘Ignore her.’ The man standing near the window looked urbane and confident, at ease in a dazzling white shirt and light grey suit. Sir Anthony Bellingham — he rarely used the title — bore another, far more interesting designation: that of Deputy Director (Operations) of MI6 — Paulton’s opposite number in the Secret Intelligence Service. He eyed Paulton with the intensity of an eagle looking at a morsel of food. ‘You worry too much.’

‘So you keep saying. But I don’t have the same… resources that you enjoy.’ It was Paulton’s way of saying power and influence, without actually using those words. For two men on seemingly equal levels, the fact that Bellingham had more of both was a growing source of irritation, a reminder also reflected in the budgetary allocations poured into SIS.

‘Be glad of it, George, be glad of it. It’s working so far, isn’t it, our little experiment? Keeps the dodgy ones out of the way until we know what to do with them. And all in the name of Her Majesty’s security services.’ He grinned comfortably. ‘Reminds me, have you heard anything about your man Tate?’

‘Nothing untoward. Why, have you?’

‘Only that he arrived safely, and has been doing the rounds, getting the grand tour. No indication that he’s planning to do a bunk, at least. Be a bad move if he tried it.’ He scowled. ‘You said he’d do as he was told, didn’t you?’

‘I said he would, as long as he believed it was a genuine posting. If he starts to think otherwise…’ He left the rest unsaid, unwilling to provide guarantees he knew he couldn’t keep. Men like Harry Tate were wild cards in the intelligence community, quiet and diligent most of the time, but apt to go off like a firecracker if something got under their skin.

‘He’d better be a good boy.’ The temperature in Bellingham’s voice dropped several degrees. ‘There’s only one ending, otherwise.’

Paulton clamped his teeth together. He was beginning to wish he’d never agreed to this whole Red Station experiment. What had initially seemed a useful shared Five/Six exercise in budget allocation and a way of keeping potentially awkward intelligence officers under wraps until they were no longer a threat to themselves or anyone else, all under the guise of a live training facility, was beginning to look less and less attractive.

The truth was, he’d been bullied and flattered into it by Bellingham’s smooth talk. But now there was no way out. Even worse was the knowledge that he had agreed to Bellingham’s ‘enhancement’ of the Station scenario by the addition of a second team of watchers. Originally using one team to monitor the movements of the Station’s members, he now knew there was another, far more proactive unit in place, with the unsubtle title of the Hit. They had been used twice so far. He prayed it didn’t happen again.

‘You got something on your mind, George?’

Bellingham was like bloody Merlin, reading his mind. Paulton wondered how much the man knew.

‘I think Rudmann suspects something.’ He paused, not sure how to broach the news about Whelan. ‘Whelan was sniffing around after Tate,’ he added. ‘Rudmann seemed to think he ought to be dissuaded.’ He shot his cuffs, wondering if it was too early for a stiff drink.

‘Did she now?’ Bellingham burst in before he could finish. ‘Getting above herself, isn’t she?’ He scowled, then. ‘Christ, don’t tell me she had anything to do with his death. I’d agree to almost anything nasty happening to that little shite, but we can’t go round knocking off the fourth estate, can we? Well, not yet.’ He smirked and stood away from the window. ‘Come on, George, buck up. Are you going to offer me a drink or what?’

‘Of course.’ Paulton felt faint. The solution had presented itself. Why not let Bellingham believe Rudmann was responsible? He’d never prove otherwise, so why not. He stood up and went to the drinks cabinet.