Red Station

SIX

Harry Tate celebrated his birthday with a miniature of Bell’s whisky while waiting for his bag to come off the plane. Between sips, he was trying to convince himself he’d been born lucky.

There was little talk in the drab terminal; most of his fellow passengers were in deep shock after an aborted first landing. About to drop on to the runway, the pilot of the Antonov AN 24 had suddenly hauled the nose up without warning, the ageing engines screaming under full power as they fought to claw the aircraft back into the thin air above Mukhrani airport, Georgia. Cries of alarm in several languages had joined the sounds of tumbling crockery in the galley. But the near-stall manoeuvre had paid off, dragging them in a juddering curve away from the airport and out over the open countryside, vibration shaking every rivet and leaving behind a heavy flow of muddy exhaust fumes like a giant crop-duster.

As they had circled for another try, the reason for the go-around became clear: a green armoured personnel carrier was sitting squarely in the middle of the single runway. A volley of swearing had echoed from the flight deck, followed by a burst of radio chatter. Then silence. Nobody in the cabin spoke, the atmosphere changed instantly from dulled relief at journey’s end to one loaded with tension at the implications of what might be happening on the ground.

Whatever the outcome of the radio exchange, the aircraft circled and lined up again. With minimum fuss, it sank on to its landing path and touched down with a heavy thump, causing several overhead lockers to open and cascade a variety of hand-luggage on to the heads below.

As they flashed past the APC, which had pulled back on to the grass, Harry recognised it as a Cobra, an image dredged up from a distant weapons-recognition class. Perhaps the local tourist board had decided that meeting incoming aircraft with light armoured vehicles was the latest way to impress visitors.

After the air-conditioned cabin, the atmosphere outside the plane was muggy, and the walk across the oily tarmac to the terminal was like stepping through a steam room. Beyond the single-storey structure, the distant line of the Caucasus Mountains rose to the north, their jagged peaks hazy against a dirty sky. Elsewhere, the view was of shabby hangars and smaller, unnamed buildings set back from the runway, surrounded by scrubby grass. The tang of aviation fuel hanging in the air mixed disturbingly with the acrid fog of cheap cigarettes.

The combined aroma made Harry feel nauseous. It wasn’t just the landing though; he’d been cheated of sleep by a fat journalist from Ohio named Carl Higgins, who had insisted on talking non-stop about his family.

Passport control consisted of a pair of plywood booths with edgy-looking uniformed men inside and soldiers in camouflage outside. To add to the lack of welcome, none of the video screens around the walls appeared to be working and there was no air-conditioning to combat the oppressive humidity. Throughout, the overhead lights were a dull yellow, adding to an atmosphere of heavy gloom.

After nearly an hour, during which his passport was scoured twice at length from front to back, Harry arrived at the baggage reclaim hall, another shed tacked on to the arrivals hall. He crossed to the window overlooking the landing area, where a team of baggage handlers was abusing luggage off his flight. His own bag was in there somewhere, but he’d long ago given up taking anything of value on foreign trips. Experience had shown that it was better to move lean and light, unencumbered by unnecessary weight.

Another APC lumbered into view on the far side of the airport. The rear hatch swung open and several armed men in camouflage uniform dropped out and scurried away into a row of bushes. Practice or reaction? The sight made him uneasy.

He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. Solid and squalid, his father would have said, in need of some exercise, rest and healthy food. He wondered what it was about him that made Jean smile. He knew he looked pasty, with red-shot eyes under a brush-cut of dark hair peppered with hints of grey. Where he was going, the exercise might be guaranteed, but the rest and healthy food might have to wait.

One of the baggage handlers pulled a black holdall out of the aircraft and drop-kicked it into a wire cage, then held up his arms to acknowledge applause from his co-workers. When he saw Harry watching, he made a short, one-handed gesture. It might have been obscene, might not. Harry responded with a genial tilt of his whisky miniature and went back to waiting for the carousel to start up. At least his bag would be easy to spot, as it now had a large dusty boot-print embedded in one side.

He yawned and felt his jaw click, and tried not to think about the unseemly haste with which he’d been bundled out of the madness of London. It must have broken civil service records for speed and efficiency, especially in Human Resources and Travel. He hadn’t even been asked to surrender his weapon, but told they would send it on in a secure bag.

They were clearing the decks before the press got to him. It was the MI5 way. Move the man, move everything associated with him. Sanitize and deny. Avoid awkward questions and embarrassing answers.

It may have been dressed up as a new posting, but he was beginning to regret his decision already. He had followed orders, the same as always.

He felt hungry. Remembering the sandwich they’d given him at Northolt, he took out the other half and bit into it with dull enthusiasm. It prompted a reminder of his escorts from London. They may have disappeared from sight, but he didn’t believe he was being allowed to move without being observed.

To test the theory, he kept his head down, blanking out the activity around him and recapping who he had seen so far. He discounted the obvious ones — hard-nosed, copper or army types — because they were usually innocent. His money was on a young bloke with a buzz-cut lounging around near the main doors, pretending to be waiting for an incoming passenger.

Thirty minutes later, as Harry carried his bag towards the main exit, the man with the buzz-cut was using a mobile phone on the far side of the arrivals area.

‘He’s just leaving,’ he said quietly. ‘Heading for the cab rank.’

‘Has he talked with anyone?’ The voice on the other end was calm but clipped, establishment English. No background noise. A quiet office close by the Thames.

‘No.’

‘Good. Did he see you?’

‘No way. He was busy sucking on a miniature of whisky. He hadn’t got a clue.’

‘If you believe that,’ the voice said with cold contempt, ‘you’re an idiot. The only way Harry Tate would have missed spotting a tail was if he was unconscious and blindfolded.’