Tracers

ONE

England — September

The cottage lay at the end of a muddy, rutted track, surrounded by trees and bushes. To Harry Tate, it was like something out of a child’s fairytale. Only darker.

A finger of cold air slid down his neck. He looked back towards the Saab, but it was lost beyond a curve in the track. To his right lay an expanse of tall reeds, cigar-top stems rustling in the chilled breeze coming over the dunes off the north Norfolk coast. The area was slipping into shadow as the day began to fade, erasing detail and leaving a leaden dullness in the atmosphere.

He turned to face the cottage. It was a scrubby, stone-built box with a faded green door, a small porch, tiny windows and a slate roof coated with bird droppings. It might have looked quaint once, but now had a forlorn air, in need of a good coat of paint and some work on the weed-strewn flowerbeds.

Beyond the cottage, the track butted into the trees, the ruts old and overgrown. The end of the line. Appropriate, he thought, considering the reason he was here. He checked the windows for movement and the chimney for a telltale plume of grey smoke. Nothing. If there was trouble waiting, it was keeping its head down.

Checking his mobile was secure under a rubber band on the clipboard in his other hand, he flexed his shoulders beneath the UPS driver’s jacket. It was a tight fit but it would have to do. Who looked at a courier’s clothes, anyway? People wanted the goodies, not a catwalk parade.

He knocked and waited, wishing he had the comforting feel of something solid in his pocket. A 9mm Browning would have been good. But this was Norfolk, England, not downtown Baghdad or Kabul.

A scuff of footsteps and the door opened. A man blinked into the dying evening. He was dressed in a Paisley-print dressing gown tied with a silk cord, highlighting a low-slung paunch. Bare, skinny legs ended in a pair of burgundy leather slippers, and a scraggy goatee beard gave him the look of a middle-eastern potentate in a seaside pantomime.

‘Yes?’ Tired eyes flicked nervously past Harry’s shoulder.

Harry smiled genially. Gotcha. Abuzeid Matuq was a bit plumper than the photo in his jacket pocket portrayed, and he was wearing his hair a shade longer than a man of forty-six years who wasn’t a rock star should do. But it was definitely him.

Transferred to London just over a year ago to run a newly established branch of the General Bank of Libya, Matuq had soon slipped into bad company. Once he was out of sight of head office and his beloved Colonel Gaddafi, it hadn’t taken him long to find a whole new direction in his life, and to disappear with a large amount of Libyan money. He was now being sought by bank officials and the Serious Fraud Office. Along with, most likely, the more vengeful elements of the Libyan secret police.

‘Got a delivery.’ Harry slapped the logo on his breast pocket. The light wasn’t brilliant, but he thought Matuq had an unhealthy grey tinge for a man his age. Fat lot of good the money had done him, then, ending up in this drab, shadow-filled hideaway.

‘A delivery? Not for me.’ Matuq shifted slightly, but stayed where he was. It was a reminder for Harry that desperate people sometimes do rash things when confronted by pursuers.

And right now, Matuq was partially shielded by his front door.

Harry got ready to move. There was no telling what the Libyan might be holding in his concealed hand. As one of his old MI5 instructors would have said, even small, furry rodents have sharp teeth when cornered.

‘Uh. . Mrs Tangmere? Stokes Cottage?’ Harry glanced at his mobile and shifted the clipboard until the white blob of Matuq’s face appeared in the centre of the screen. Not quite sharp enough, but it would do. He keyed the button, freezing the face.

‘There is nobody of that name.’ Matuq’s voice was soft, like his appearance, the accent pronounced. His eyes slipped instinctively to the large brown envelope Harry produced from under the clipboard. It was addressed to an imaginary Mrs Tangmere in bold handwriting. Another good lesson learned: it was the detail that got you in, the lack of it that got you found out.

‘Took me ages to find the place.’ He hated this part, having to go through the play-acting just to give him an excuse to leave without alerting Matuq. But finding the target’s location was just one part of the assignment, albeit a critical part; next he had to get the photo to Jennings to prove it. He gestured down the track. ‘Had to leave my wheels down the end and leg it.’

He shivered briefly and smiled again to dispel any impression of threat. Visitors promising violence or incarceration rarely comment on the weather or the state of the roads. Nor do they carry clipboards. Harry was a bit under six feet, but probably looked worryingly big to a small man on the run.

‘Sorry. I cannot help,’ Matuq murmured regretfully, beginning to close the door.

Harry let him. He’d done what he came for. Now he just had to wait for instructions.

‘No problem. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned and walked away as the door closed, followed by the rattle of bolts being thrown. He squeezed a glance across the tips of the reeds in the marsh bed separating Stokes Cottage from the village of Blakeney. The air here was damp and sour, a ghost of mist adding to the chilled atmosphere. He caught a faint shine off the Saab’s roof as he rounded the curve in the track and hoped Matuq hadn’t seen it. A UPS delivery driver with a clipboard was unremarkable; the same man in a mud-spattered car was not.

He dodged puddles, automatically checking the ground for tyre tracks. A single set but not fresh. Matuq must have a vehicle tucked away behind the cottage. If the Libyan decided to split, he’d have a job tracking him down again. Runners, once spooked, rarely allow their pursuers a second chance.

Out over the reed beds, a startled bird took off with a clatter, wings beating the air. Others followed, scattering wildly into the darkening sky. Harry wondered if his presence had set them off. He brushed subconsciously at his neck and lengthened his stride.

This place was already giving him the creeps.