Red Station

THIRTY-NINE

The atmosphere inside the car was foetid. Two of the men were snoring gently, the third was keeping watch and trying not to join his colleagues.

Nick Brockley was bored with this assignment. He’d been here too long and wanted to get out. Either home or Iraq. At least Basra offered some excitement. But they had been told to remain in their position until morning.

They called this gig a training exercise, but there was little variation and the training aspect offered nothing in the way of a challenge. Surveillance was an art learned best on hot targets, not these unsuspecting misfits. Brockley and his colleagues knew perfectly well what the people in Red Station were here for, and it wasn’t for being top of their class.

The briefing files on each person had been cursory and lacked specific detail other than the basics needed to help the watchers identify their targets. But they’d heard enough from the previous team to know that they had each screwed up in some way. They had been consigned to this dump until they got recalled or jumped ship. It was the jumping ship — and every other movement they made — which had to be recorded by the team of watchers, and noted for later evaluation.

So far, other than a couple of authorized trips out of town and the daily journeys to work and back, there had been nothing to get excited about.

He shifted his weight to ease an ache in his back, a hand-me-down from too many days and nights on watch, and peered upwards. He wondered what the Jardine woman was doing. Having a bath, most likely, or lounging around in her jammies, all soft and smelling of soap. He shifted in his seat, the image burning in his brain. He wouldn’t mind seeing some of that; she was quite fit… for a spook. Small rack under that jacket, but a nice arse to compensate. The others reckoned she was butch but he could overlook that. She was still better than most of the women he knew back home in Brighton.

His phone buzzed, making him jump.

He checked the screen. Stanbridge. He’d said he wanted to check out Tate, the latest addition to the bunch of Security Service losers, and Brockley had agreed. There was bugger all else to do, so why not, if it kept him quiet. He’d told him to stay off the phone until they met in the morning. So what was he playing at?

‘What?’ He nudged Tucker with his other elbow. Time to wake them up, anyway. Maybe send them off for a brisk stroll round the block.

‘This is your first warning.’

It was a voice Brockley didn’t recognize. The hairs stirred on the back of his neck.

‘Stan? What the fuck are you playing at?’

There was no answer. Instead, he heard a soft thump on the roof of the car. He looked up through the windscreen. A pigeon, maybe? The place was full of the bloody things. Flying vermin.

A trickle of clear liquid ran down the side window.

‘Stan? You daft git-’

‘This is your second warning.’ Another soft thump, this one above the rear window.

‘What’s going on?’ It was Rickard stirring in the back, his voice thick with sleep.

‘How the fuck should I know? Stan playing silly bastards, probably.’

‘What’s that stink?’ Tucker was watching a spray of liquid dribbling down the windscreen. It shimmered under the street light, colours showing like a rainbow waterfall.

‘The next one comes with something extra,’ said the voice in Brockley’s ear, and for the first time he realized that the speaker was British.

‘Who the fuck is this?’ he demanded. He twisted in his seat and signalled frantically to the other two to eyeball all sides. For the first time on this poxy posting, he was wishing he had a gun. He’d soon see who was going to get something extra. ‘Who are you — and where’s Stan?’

Then it struck him. There was only one person it could be: the latest addition to the group. Tate. Harry Tate. Ex-army officer, according to the brief, transferred to MI5. But a screw-up, like the rest.

Something made him look up. He caught a glimpse of something pale at the edge of the roof, and an object sailed down through the air with a long, flickering tail.

Fire.

‘Christ, get us out of here!’ he yelled.

‘What?’ Tucker hadn’t fully woken up yet. He sniffed and looked about him. ‘Hey — I smell petrol.’

‘Drive, you prick!’ Brockley screamed. ‘Before the bastard cooks us!’

Then the flash he’d seen was right upon them. There was a whoosh above their heads and the rivulets running down the windows flared into tongues of fire, the flickering light eating away at the shadows against the buildings on either side and singeing the rubber seals on the windows.

Tucker swore and turned the ignition, stamping on the accelerator. Seconds later, they hit the end of the street in a four-wheel drift, droplets of burning liquid falling from the car and laying a golden trail behind them.

Up on the roof, Harry watched them go. They’d probably be back, but at least he’d given them something to think about. He left the remnants of his fire-bombs where they were and made his way down off the roof. He debated calling on Clare Jardine but thought better of it. If she followed his advice, she wouldn’t answer anyway.

And he had a few more questions for Stanbridge.

He felt a buzzing at his hip. The Ericsson. He stepped into a doorway and checked the screen.

Maloney. The message was brief.

Both files clsed. why?

Harry stared at the screen, felt a cold wind on his neck.

Even if Brasher and Gulliver had both left the service, their personnel files would have been left open pending lengthy debriefs, to make sure they weren’t going elsewhere with any information they might have stored up. Nobody got out of the game that easily.

He texted back.

Why clsd?

Closed files could only mean one thing. He hoped he was wrong.

He continued walking, and the answer came before he had gone a hundred yards. Maloney must have been taking texting lessons.

The text was clear and unequivocal.

Both dead. 5 — o’dose. 6 — climbng axdnt alps.