Red Station

FORTY

Harry felt the air go out of him in a rush. After what seemed an age, he tore his eyes away from the screen and forced himself to continue walking. He was getting careless; every second he stayed out here increased the risk of discovery.

He tried to reason through the significance of Maloney’s message. There was no mistaking the words; dead was dead. An overdose and a climbing accident. Maybe Brasher had been depressed following his shock posting and the humiliation of going back. It might have been enough to break anyone of a cerebral nature, especially an analyst. But Gulliver? He recalled what Clare had told him about the MI6 high-flyer. Thirty-two was a young age for an exalted position in the Service… but an even younger one to die.

Two returns, both dead. What were the odds? But it answered another question that had been niggling at his subconscious: how was it he’d never heard of Red Station before? Secrecy may have been their game, but security services staff were notorious gossips when it came to internal rumours. And any staff member returning from a punishment posting in the back of beyond would have had colleagues buzzing around them like flies on an old steak, eager to hear every salacious titbit. News would have leaked out. It always did.

Unless the returnees were in no position to talk.

Stanbridge was exactly where Harry had left him, half prone and hanging off the sink support. In spite of the obvious discomfort, he was asleep, his eyes closed, breathing heavy and ragged.

Harry kicked him in the leg.

‘Wake up, sunshine. Why are your mates tooled up and staking out Clare Jardine’s place?’

Stanbridge came awake angry and resentful. He scrambled to sit up. His wrists were swollen and purplish in colour, and the skin had been scraped off in his struggles to get free.

‘Armed? That’s bollocks. When are you going to let me go?’

‘When you answer some questions. Do you know Clare Jardine?’ When the man nodded, Harry continued, ‘Your mates were sitting outside her flat. They were armed.’

‘Can’t be.’ Stanbridge looked confused, his eyes wide and red-rimmed.

‘Really? Why is that?’

‘Because we’re not authorised, that’s why. Jesus — we’d get shot if we were caught with guns in this place. We’ve got strict orders not to break cover… Who said they were armed?’

Now Harry was confused. The response sounded genuine, and he was certain Stanbridge was too dazed to concoct any lies. Or maybe he wasn’t as dopey as he was pretending.

He squatted down next to him. Time to exert some pressure.

‘Listen, son. I’m pretty pissed off at the moment. I was posted out here on a whim, I’m not allowed to leave and if our information is correct, there’s a shit-storm heading this way in the shape of the Russian army. Now, I’d like to get out in one piece and go home. But with you lot sitting on our tails twenty-four hours a day, I doubt that’s on the agenda. Am I right?’

Stanbridge shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Our orders are to monitor your movements. That’s it. You move, we follow. We log it and report in. But we don’t carry weapons.’

Harry sighed. It was no act; Stanbridge was telling the truth. Clare Jardine must have imagined seeing weapons. Easy enough to do in poor light under stressful conditions. He changed tack.

‘What’s your cover story while you’re here?’

‘We’re supposed to be doing a marketing study for inward investment opportunities.’

Harry nearly laughed. ‘You don’t even look like marketing people.’ Still, as lame as it was, he’d heard worse. It wouldn’t take much to crack their cover if the local security police took an interest. Still, that was the Clones’ worry — them and the people employing them. It provoked another thought.

‘Where do you report to?’

‘London via Frankfurt. It’s a message link, outgoing only. If they need to contact us, they do it by phone to our team leader.’

‘What happens when we leave town?’ He was thinking about his trips out with Clare; he was pretty certain they hadn’t been followed on either occasion.

Stanbridge looked blank. ‘I don’t have any instructions for that. It would be handled by our team leader. He says follow, we follow. Otherwise we stay on the office or stand down until further orders.’

Again, it sounded genuine. Typical security services smoke and mirrors; never let the left hand know what the right hand was doing. So they hadn’t been followed out of town. But why not? Was it because the Clones hadn’t been quick enough to latch on to them? Or had they been told not to? Then he had another thought.

‘Do you know why you’re doing this?’

An immediate nod. ‘Yeah. It’s a module in a training routine; we have to complete it over a set period of time before going on to something else. They don’t tell us how long, though. We wait until we’re told to stand down.’

A module? They were being used as live targets for training newcomers? Christ, Harry thought bitterly, they’d be handing out MBA certificates in spying next.

‘Bit late in the day to be doing this stuff, isn’t it?’

Stanbridge shrugged with one shoulder. ‘It’s a job. I was leaving the army, they offered and I accepted.’ He looked as if he was about to say something else, then stopped.

Harry leaned forward. ‘What?’

‘What did you do to the others?’

‘Why are you bothered?’ Harry knew the answer to that one.

‘They’re my mates.’

‘I persuaded them to move on, that’s all. Last thing I saw, they were driving like their pants were on fire.’

Stanbridge shifted his position and winced with cramp. ‘You were right… about me in Kosovo, I mean. I was there for a couple of months, then rotated out.’ He coughed. ‘Could I have some water?’

Harry fetched a plastic mug and filled it from the tap. He held it to Stanbridge’s lips at arm’s length. If he tried anything, he’d get clipped. But the man drank greedily, gulping down the water.

When he was finished, he continued. ‘There was another bloke in Kosovo at the same time, called Latham. He was part of a deep-cover team, Special Ops, spending weeks in the hills.’

‘Doing what?’ Harry thought he could guess.

‘Hunting for war criminals. I knew him from years back. He was always looking to get transferred, hoping to pass selection for Special Forces. I never heard if he’d made it, but if he was in Kosovo doing that job, I guess he must have. He’s not a bloke to cross, though. Bloody headcase.’

‘What’s this got to do with us?’

‘Why I came here… to your flat; I told the lads I knew you, but I wanted to check you out, get some ID. I figured I might get some brownie points if I got background info that nobody else had.’ He hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Soon as I clocked you first time, I was sure I knew you — and I was right.’

‘How?’

‘I was in the same convoy as you when we came to that Serb roadblock with the three kids. You were the one who jumped on that Serb APC and took out the gunner… rescued those kids.’

Harry nodded slowly.

‘The lads didn’t believe me. Said you wouldn’t have pulled it off unless you were SAS or something, and why would you be out here now. I told them you’d got a round of applause from the guys in the convoy and free drinks all evening, so what did it matter?’

‘I remember.’ He’d got blind drunk with relief and the aftershock of what he’d done. He hadn’t been a hero; he’d been stupid. One wrong move and half the convoy could have been blown away. He’d been moved out shortly afterwards following a complaint from the Serb Liaison Office. A diplomatic move was the official explanation. Later, he’d heard that a Serb hit squad had been looking for him.

‘So the other lads… they’re OK?’ Stanbridge said.

‘They’re fine.’ He knew why Stanbridge was asking; the answer might have an impact on his own future. ‘I dropped some petrol condoms on their car, that’s all. Singed the paintwork a bit.’

‘Petrol condoms?’ Stanbridge nearly laughed. ‘Shit. Wish I’d seen that. What did they do?’

‘They made a strategic withdrawal at speed. You mentioned this Latham. Why?’

Stanbridge licked his lips and Harry gave him another drink. ‘This business is all messed up now, what with the Russian thing. We got orders to get ready to bug out in the morning and make tonight our last shift. Sounds like something big’s going down.’

‘Lucky you. We can all go home, then.’

Stanbridge shook his head again. ‘We’re being replaced. By another team.’

‘What?’

‘Latham’s in charge.’

A Special Forces man-hunter. Coming here? His spirits sank. ‘What does he look like?’

‘From what I remember, tall, thin — skinny, actually. But fit. Hard. Lives like a monk. Extreme.’

The physical description fitted half the men in town. It wasn’t much help.

‘What’s the new team’s objective?’

Stanbridge shrugged. He was subdued, almost fearful. ‘They didn’t tell us. Just that the other team would take over. Same thing as us, I suppose. Only…’

‘Only what?’ Harry had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he heard next.

‘Guys like Latham… they’re way beyond our kind of exercise. We’re still training, although we occasionally do other stuff, like Close Protection and that. But Latham…’ He stopped.

‘Spit it out, for Christ’s sake.’ Harry wasn’t about to use force, but if something nasty was in the wind, he had to know what it was.

‘Nick Brockley, our team leader, he said he’d heard whispers about Latham’s team. They’re not pleasant. Heavy duty.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They’re called the Hit. Word is, they kill people.’