Red Station

SIXTY-ONE

Latham’s eyes were blank; plain dark flints in an unemotional face. He was gaunt, with bony cheeks and a scrub of mousy brown hair over a wide forehead. Standing there, relaxed and in control, he could have been an athlete waiting for his next event.

Except for the assault rifle.

‘They don’t come out,’ Latham said easily, loud enough for the others to hear, ‘I shoot you. Then I go looking for them.’

‘Is that your assignment?’ Harry asked. ‘To terminate us?’ He blinked hard. He was sure he’d seen something moving in the background, some way behind Latham. Wishful thinking, maybe? Or a hallucination?

‘Something like that.’ Latham glanced away and lifted his voice. ‘Come on — I don’t have much patience! Out here, both of you!’

Harry watched the barrel of the assault rifle. He was trying not to focus on the flicker of movement he’d seen by the side of the road. It had come from the same point where Latham must have emerged from the trees. Had he got help after all?

If it was Clare or Rik, what could they do? They’d have to be quick.

‘Orders from Bellingham, is it?’ Harry forced Latham to look at him, to draw his attention away. ‘Or was it Paulton? Has to be one of them, although I can’t see Paulton authorizing someone like you.’

Latham lifted one eyebrow and the rifle moved an inch. ‘Careful, Tate. You really shouldn’t be rude, not in your position. Getting gut-shot can be very painful, so I’m told.’ He feigned a yawn. ‘But you’re right: Paulton hasn’t got the balls.’

Harry tensed his body and gripped the semi-automatic even tighter. It occurred to him that Latham must know he was still armed. So why hadn’t he ordered him to drop his weapon? A random shot from a handgun could still kill you, even over thirty yards. Or was the man so arrogant that he was beyond all caution?

The muzzle of the assault rifle flashed briefly, and the sound of the shot rolled away into the open countryside. Harry felt a sharp tug at his left arm, then he was spinning away, a mixture of messages relayed to his brain and informing him that he’d been hit and that pain was sure to follow.

He dropped to one knee, a stone gouging sharply against the bone, and felt the first wave of agony stitch across his upper body. A flesh wound, he told himself, and felt an impulse to giggle. A Monty Python movie. Only a flesh wound. Bloody hell, it was still flesh — and it hurt!

‘One thing I’ve always been good at,’ said Latham chattily, ‘is weaponry. I was a sniper for a bit, in the first Gulf job. Got bored, though. Like shooting ducks off a plank. No real challenge. This is much better.’

There was a movement to Harry’s right, and Clare Jardine climbed to her feet. Six feet further on, Rik did the same. They both held their guns pointed at Latham.

Shit! Harry wished they’d stayed down. They were too far off for accurate shooting, and if they were hoping Latham would freak out, they were wrong. He eased the gun in his palm and got ready to move. He’d get one chance and one chance only.

There was another movement, this time behind Latham. And much closer. A figure loomed up, seeming to float above the ground. It closed in on the killer, as silent as smoke. Then came a faint scuff of sound, of leather on tarmac.

Latham sensed the threat like the hunter he was. He began to turn his head, mouth opening in surprise. The rifle barrel wavered.

He was alone after all.

The figure behind him suddenly became clear.

Nikolai.

The Russian moved with the precision of a dancer, weaving slightly to stay out of Latham’s line of sight. He covered the last few feet in a rush, then he was on the killer like a wraith, one arm wrapping around his head, clamping him rigidly in place, the other swinging round and up beneath the ribs with a deadly flash of silver.

He’s a cutter, if ever I saw one. Mace’s words came back to Harry.

Latham’s mouth opened wide, his eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Harry as the improbable happened.

A grunt from both men and another thrust of the knife. A muffled thump as it was driven home. Latham reared up on his toes, chest thrust outward in pain, a brief, almost balletic move that was over even as it began. He coughed once.

Then his eyes fluttered. And closed.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

‘You should go. Now.’ Nikolai kicked some brushwood over Latham’s body. Under his instructions they had dragged it in among the trees, to a small depression in the ground. Moments before, he had wiped his blade on the dead man’s combat jacket, then searched the body for anything that might identify him.

‘These should not be left here.’ He handed a wallet and a passport to Harry. Nikolai’s accent was noticeable, but the English was fluent, confident.

Harry passed his gun to Clare, took the documents and put them in his pocket.

‘Why did you do this?’ he asked. He wondered how the Russian had got here. He must have followed them… or Latham.

‘Because it would not be helpful if you or your colleagues came to harm here.’ The eyes were without expression, cold. Then he said, echoing Kostova’s words, ‘We have enough problems without your Foreign Office asking questions about missing… tourists.’ There was no humour in the deliberate euphemism.

Harry nodded. ‘Thank you. What now?’

‘His car is behind the trees. Take it and go. I will take care of the rest.’

‘How did you know about him?’

Nikolai shrugged. ‘It is not important. Go.’ He turned and walked away, and was soon lost behind the trees.

Harry took a deep breath as a wave of nausea overtook him. The wound in his arm was beginning to throb. He signalled to the others to collect everything from the Toyota, then led them through the trees and out the other side to where a battered Hyundai off-road vehicle stood waiting. It had a smashed headlamp and side window, with bullet holes in the bonnet and wing. Not bad shooting, he reflected. Especially in the dark and under pressure. Pickering, his first weapons instructor, would have been proud.

‘We need to get rid of the guns,’ he said, and leaned against the car, sucking in air. Nikolai was a hundred yards away by some bushes, shrugging on a camouflage jacket. A crash helmet lay at his feet and a glint of metal showed through the leaves.

He’d come by trail bike.

Clare stared at Harry. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Just tired, that’s all.’ He checked the rear of the vehicle in case it contained anything incriminating. As if, he thought wryly, anything could be more incriminating than a car riddled with bullets. He wanted to throw up but decided it would be very uncool right now. Concentrating on something mundane would take his mind off it.

He found a small holdall tucked away under a waterproof sheet. Inside was a change of clothes, a wash-kit and a plastic Ziploc bag. Just as he’d hoped: Latham believed in travelling prepared for emergencies. The Ziploc contained a miniature trauma pack, with enough bandages and dressings to keep his injured arm protected until he got back to England. Or fell over trying.

He joined Rik in the back seat and dumped the Ziploc in his lap. ‘Read the instructions and play nurse, and I’ll promise not to scream.’ He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the blood on his arm.

‘What? Christ, man…!’ Rik looked horrified, but took the bag and found a pair of scissors. He cut away Harry’s sleeve and exposed the wound, and Harry saw he was missing a small chunk of flesh. But no broken bones.

That was OK, he decided. It was a flesh wound after all.

Then he fainted clean away.