Red Station

SIXTY-THREE

It was mid-afternoon before they boarded the first ferry and watched through the window of the forward bar as the grey French coast slipped away. The boat was busy, with the aisles and bars full of foot passengers on day trips and vehicle passengers looking weary after long drives across France.

Clare had been getting more and more restless the closer they got to home, and was drumming her fingers on the table. She had changed into fresh black cargo pants and a dark T-shirt, and apart from an increasing look of unease, could have been a student on vacation.

‘So what’s the plan?’ she queried shortly, eyeing Harry. ‘I take it you’ve got one?’

Harry shrugged. The movement was a painful reminder of his injury and he adjusted his position before replying. ‘Nothing specific. Haven’t figured it all out yet. I want to get back on home soil first. Then we’ll see.’

‘We?’

‘Why not? We can hardly just walk back into work and clock on. It’ll need all of us to put up a front. Someone’s got some explaining to do.’

‘They won’t listen. Why should they?’

‘Someone has to.’ Rik sounded unconvinced, but seemed happy to lean on hope against despair. ‘Maybe we should hook up with the press as a guarantee.’ He looked at Harry. ‘What do you think?’

‘It might be an option. But I think we’ll need more than that. We need to go to someone with enough clout to take positive action. Mace gave me a name — a woman on the Joint Security Committee.’ Harry looked at him. ‘She’ll have influence and she’s accountable. Get to her and it’ll go higher. Leave it to Bellingham and Paulton, and they’ll stamp on it — and us. Red Station will be airbrushed out of existence and we’ll have no protection.’

‘This is mad, what you’re suggesting.’ Clare interrupted harshly. She was staring balefully at a small girl wailing at the next table. ‘Once they have us, we won’t see the light of day. They can’t afford to let Red Station become public knowledge; they’ve already had too much mud slung at them over de Menezes and the terrorist arrests. Can’t you see that?’

Harry studied her, wondering whether she had only just come to this conclusion or if she had been aware right from the start that going back might not be as easy as she hoped. He still wasn’t convinced about her reasons for allegedly trying to get documents from Kostova. Had she really been working him and Nikolai, and hoping to get back in favour with MI6 or did she suspect what might really happen if they strolled back into town?

Rik let out a deep sigh. ‘I’m for trying to sort it out. I don’t want to be on the run forever.’ He toyed with a button before continuing. ‘Having guys like Latham on my back.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘What kind of bloke sets out to waste his own side? And what kind of people employ guys like him? He was going to drop us. If Nikolai hadn’t come along, we’d be-’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Harry cut him off before he could get going. ‘Forget Latham. Forget Nikolai. They’re history, done. Just concentrate on the days ahead. Maloney will help us.’

But the mention of Latham had struck a chord in Harry’s head. It was a good question. How was a man able to turn and kill his own, with no more hesitation than it took to swat a fly? Did soldiering do that to you if you stuck at it long enough? But he knew that wasn’t it. He’d known hundreds of soldiers who had served long and dangerous careers, and they would have no more done what Latham did than flown to the moon. So what, then?

His brain was spinning from the accumulated effects of exhaustion, shock from the bullet wound and their enforced flight. Even so, some thoughts kept slipping through, like fragments of hard matter dropping through holes in a net. And the more that happened, the more they began to coagulate into something concrete.

Rik had been at home the night Stanbridge had died; Harry had seen movement through the window, of that he was certain. He glanced at Clare, who was still staring at the noisy child, her face set. When he’d returned to check on the area around her flat, the place had been in darkness, and he’d assumed she was tucked up in bed.

But was she?

Would an experienced MI6 officer calmly climb into bed after seeing armed men outside her flat? Would she have done so knowing that a colleague was in the vicinity and might drop by to check she was all right?

Except that she had deliberately asked him not to because of the neighbours. Was that the only reason?

And then there was Latham. If the MI6 assassin had been in town that night, why did he leave it for another three days to do something about the people he’d been sent to eliminate? He knew who they were, where they lived and worked. Making a surgical hit, with no footprints left behind, would have been a priority. Waiting three days made no sense.

Unless Kostova had lied about Latham’s arrival.

He reached in his pocket and took out Latham’s passport and wallet. Everything in it was in the name of Graham John Phillips, with an address in Walthamstow. Driver’s licence, two credit cards, paper money, a couple of petrol receipts — even a lender’s card for the local library. There was a photo of Latham with a woman and a child. Harry suspected they were fakes, part of Latham’s cover or legend. Attention to detail; it was something MI6 was good at.

No return air ticket, though. Nothing to show how or when he was moving on. Maybe it was the way Latham preferred to operate, taking whatever means of travel came to hand according to circumstances.

He sensed he was under scrutiny. He looked up. Clare was watching him. She glanced at the wallet and papers on the table, but said nothing and looked away.

‘Excuse me.’ She stood up and grabbed her rucksack, then walked out of the bar.

Harry watched her go. Her body was rigid with tension, but she was light on her feet, like an athlete about to face a tough challenge. He noticed a length of cord hanging from one of the side pockets of her rucksack. He wondered what she used it for. A make-do washing line, probably. He’d done the same many times when staying in fleapit hotels with no facilities He sat bolt upright, the movement jarring his arm. The washing line.

It was Clare who had told the others in the office about Stanbridge’s death; how Harry had tied him to the bathroom sink… with a clothesline. It hadn’t registered at the time, his mind too focussed on the man’s death. Now it had come back and was staring him in the face.

He had untied Stanbridge’s body and disposed of the clothesline before Clare arrived. How could she have known about the clothesline?

He stared after her, a leaden feeling growing in his stomach. He recalled Fitzgerald’s words on the phone. Watch the girl, though; I think she’s bad.

There was only one way she could have known.

Clare had been inside his flat. Seen Stanbridge.

Killed him.

He ran through the sequence of events, his tiredness gone. The moment he had rung her and told her about capturing the Clone, she must have been desperate to find out whether the man knew her real role in Red Station: that she was the inside source of information.

It explained something else: when she heard Harry was planning to question him, she’d told him that the men outside her flat were armed — a guarantee that he would take it seriously enough to go and see for himself. Yet Stanbridge had been adamant that they did not carry weapons. It also explained why Clare hadn’t wanted Harry to call on her. Trained to think on her feet, she’d already been planning to leave her flat and go to Harry’s. With him out of the way watching the other men, she had a clear field to quiz Stanbridge and find out what he knew… and how much he’d told Harry.

Then she had silenced him.

Something else slipped into place. When he’d called her after finding Stanbridge’s body, she had sounded breathless. Why breathless if she had been sleeping?

Because she wasn’t at home. He’d called her on her mobile. No wonder she had arrived so quickly — she was already out and on the move!

He waited for her to return, chewing it over and coming to the same conclusion every time. He would have to face her with it. It wouldn’t be pretty right here — there were too many people about. They’d have to go up on deck, somewhere quiet. But it had to be done before they got to London.

Thirty minutes later, there was still no sign of her.

Rik said, ‘She’s been gone a long time.’

‘Too long,’ Harry agreed. He added, ‘That bag that arrived for me from London.’

Rik nodded. ‘What about it?’

‘Did Clare ever get one?’

Rik thought about it. ‘I never saw one.’ He paused. ‘But she had some ammo. One dropped out of her bag once.’ He shrugged. ‘I put it back. Figured it was above my pay grade, stuff like that.’

Harry stood up. ‘You take the sharp end, I’ll do the rest. Check everywhere, including the washrooms.’

‘I’ll get arrested.’

‘So improvise.’

They split up. Harry found the nearest washrooms and asked a female member of staff to check on his lady colleague. He gave her a description. Black cargo pants, dark T-shirt, athletic build, no make-up.

The woman came back out shaking her head.

‘There’s only a few kids in there,’ she told him. ‘Are you sure she came to this one?’

‘No, not really. Maybe I got it wrong.’

‘You could try the ones on D deck. They’re not so busy.’

Harry was about to leave when he glanced down at the woman’s hand. She was holding a flat plastic case in one hand. It looked new. ‘What’s that?’

She glanced down. ‘Oh, I found this by the sinks. Someone’s going to be kicking themselves; they’re new on sale in the shop today. It’s a travel make-up kit… hardly used.’

Harry took it off her and opened it. She was right — it was barely touched and the mirror was clean. Every woman’s compact he’d ever seen had been a mess.

Make-up. Appearance. Disguise.

Harry thanked the woman and handed back the compact, then toured the rear half of the boat on all decks. He scoured the bars, the cafeteria, the cinema and the restaurant, and went out on the open deck, checking the club-style chairs and the plastic deck seats. He was looking for a new face.

Still Clare Jardine’s face, but no longer plain.

He eventually returned to where they had been sitting. Rik was back, looking worried. ‘I checked everywhere. Can’t find her.’

Harry nodded. ‘Me too.’ There was no doubt about it.

Clare Jardine had done a runner.