Tracers

THIRTY

‘How did you get out of the country?’ It was nine at night and Rik had sent out for a takeaway curry. Hunger had hit them all, and they were sharing the food around the table, washed down with cans of lager.

‘I had a stash of alternative papers for emergencies and an open flight voucher out. Gordon Humphries called it my wild card; it would trump every other ticket and get me a seat out on the pilot’s lap if necessary. I joined a bunch of aid workers and walked on to the first available flight, no questions asked. It was easier than I thought. I got back here on the same papers and. . and that’s where I ran into a brick wall.’

Harry stopped chewing. ‘How do you mean?’

Joanne put down her fork and rubbed her face. Her eyes were dark and her face had developed an unnatural pallor, as if the past few hours had filtered out all her natural skin tone. When she spoke, her voice showed signs of a tremor. ‘I didn’t know what to do. Can you believe that — after all that bloody training? I didn’t even know who I could trust, and with Humphries gone, I was cut loose with no backup.’ She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough losing my principal, I was also out of a job.’

‘But they must have given you a fallback number in case your lifeline to Humphries got compromised or you became isolated?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Only they never told me anything like that. I had the emergency number in Baghdad and one back here in the UK. I figured that was the norm. I mean, I don’t know any spooks, but how many numbers and fallbacks do they need? As soon as I landed here, I dialled the number, expecting to be called in for a debrief. It was dead. I tried for two days but got nothing. Crazy, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I sailed through Immigration without being stopped, then nothing. Some bloody security.’ She stared towards the window. ‘I think I’ve only just realized what I owe Gordon Humphries: he saved my life.’

‘How do you figure that?’ Rik queried.

‘I’m convinced he got wind of something happening and got me out of there. We’d not long had a meeting, yet he called for one on the day of the explosion. I thought it was odd, but didn’t argue.’

‘Good thing you didn’t,’ said Harry.

Nobody spoke for a few minutes after that. Harry and Rik were digesting what Joanne had told them, and the young woman herself was sunk deep in her own thoughts. The two men knew the workings of officialdom fairly well, especially in the darker reaches of the security world, and what they had heard was not so wild they couldn’t believe it, given their own experience of double-dealing in high places. And going by everything Joanne had told them, it was plain she had been employed under very murky circumstances. No wonder she didn’t know who to trust.

‘Why did you clear out of your flat in Finchley?’ Rik asked.

‘It didn’t feel safe,’ she replied. ‘Nowhere did. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I didn’t have a bloody clue what to do.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Put a nine millimetre in my hand and drop me into a firefight, and I’ll be fine. But this. .’ She shook her head. ‘I began to think I was being watched, although I never saw anyone. In the end it got to be too much and I bugged out. I suppose I wasn’t being too rational, was I?’

‘Your instincts weren’t too far off.’ Harry told her about the two callers at her flat. ‘They could have been from Humphries’ department.’

‘If they were,’ she replied, ‘they’d have left a contact number. It’s been like I never existed.’

‘They thought you’d been killed,’ Rik pointed out. ‘The few people who knew about you, anyway.’

‘Well,’ Harry murmured, ‘they certainly know different now.’

Joanne looked puzzled. ‘I don’t see how. They’ve cut all links with me, so I can’t contact anyone. How would they know I’m here?’

‘Bureaucracy.’ Rik was on familiar territory. ‘You used the wild card to get out of Iraq. That would have shown up on a board somewhere, linking it to Six or the army. A number cruncher would have spotted it and backtracked it through the system. Easy.’

‘There’s also the body,’ Harry added, ‘or the lack of one. You were unaccounted for at the compound. It probably took a while but somebody must have finally cottoned on that you’d got out and were on the loose.’ He took out the photo of Silverman again and slid it across the table, face up. ‘Are you certain this is Rafa’i?’

She studied it closely for a while, then nodded. ‘It’s him. The mark on his face was caused by an explosion when he was a boy. He and a friend were playing with an old mortar flare they found in the desert. It went off and that was the result. I’m certain, yes.’ She pushed the photo away as if wanting nothing more to do with it. ‘He had a way of holding his head. . sort of lopsided. It used to make people think he was listening very carefully to what they had to say.’

‘Handy trick for a politician,’ murmured Rik.

‘OK.’ Harry left the photo where it was. ‘But that opens up a whole list of questions.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes. One: if he’s here in the UK, how did he avoid being killed in the explosion? Two: someone must have identified a body as his. Three: who planned the explosion and why?’

‘Four,’ Rik added darkly, ‘how did he get away safely without you holding his hand?’

Joanne looked away. It was clear by the set of her mouth that she didn’t want to think about it. ‘I don’t have any answers,’ she said finally. ‘Our default agreement was that he’d wait for me to return. Maybe he got spooked by something and slipped away by himself. You don’t hold his kind of position in Iraqi society without developing some instincts for survival. We’d talked it over enough times, so he knew what to do. As to who identified his body — that could have been someone covering for him. . or maybe wishful thinking by somebody wanting to take his place.’

‘You must have got to know him very well,’ said Harry.

‘I suppose. I was told to stay detached, but it wasn’t that simple.’

‘Would he have followed your instructions on security matters?’

She nodded. ‘When we were alone, yes. I couldn’t tell him what to do with the others around, though. Apart from being unacceptable because I was a woman, it would have blown my cover. I had regular one-on-one review sessions with him about what to do if there was an attack and the guards were overcome. He thought it was all a bit unlikely, but he never questioned it. It was for his benefit and survival, after all.’

‘How was it,’ said Harry carefully, ‘that Rafa’i had your mobile number? The one he wrote on the wall.’

She thought back, then said, ‘He asked me for it one day. We’d been talking about London and England, and he said if he ever came to the UK, and I was back here, he’d give me a call. I didn’t think anything of it because it was never going to happen. I mean, we were hardly in the same social circle, right? Anyway, I gave it to him because I couldn’t see any reason not to. It was one of the few normal things to happen. Everything else was. . unreal.’

‘Has he tried to call?’ Harry queried.

‘No. Why would he?’

‘Because he clearly intended to. Why else write the number down?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘Maybe he was psyching himself up,’ suggested Rik. ‘Remember, he might have thought you were dead, too.’

‘Or that you’d got out in the nick of time,’ said Harry. When Joanne looked sharply at him, he added, ‘Think about it: your trusted bodyguard leaves your side for an unscheduled meeting and suddenly the world comes crashing in around your ears. In a situation like that, what would you think?’

She didn’t say anything.

‘Would you recognize him among a crowd?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because you might have to if you ever want to live a normal life.’

Her eyes grew wide at the thought, and the silence in the room lengthened. Then she said, ‘How do you plan to make that happen?’

Harry stood up. ‘There’s only one way. You’re going to help us find him.’ He glanced across at Rik. ‘I’ll go out and check the street.’

Dog was surprised when he saw Harry Tate appear at the front of the building, and slid down in his seat. He was sure the man wouldn’t see him, not from there. But he didn’t want to take the chance of light flashing off his face and giving away his position.

He watched Tate stroll by on the other side and wondered what had made the former MI5 man come out here. Maybe he suspected someone was close by. He was beginning to think that Jennings had made a mistake using this man. He was already causing problems and plainly had highly developed instincts for survival. Dog was certain he’d done nothing to blow his cover, but the only sure-fire thing in his line of work was that fate had a talent for proving you wrong.

He switched his gaze to his wing mirrors and watched Tate stop and turn, his figure outlined by the garish neon of a store window further along the street. Then he began to retrace his steps, head turning to scan the shadows.

Dog gave a cold smile, recognizing the signs. This one’s a hunter. He knows what he’s doing. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and touched the comforting shape of his knife. He drew it out and snicked open the blade, laying it alongside his leg.

Tate walked by, unaware of his presence. Dog felt the thrill of the chase skimming through his veins. He waited until Tate was thirty yards away, then opened the car door and slipped out, closing it again without a sound. The interior light stayed off; he’d removed the bulb earlier.

Dog hadn’t stalked anyone this way in a long while, and enjoyed the renewed rush of excitement it brought him. It made him feel almost light-headed. The sounds and smells were heightened, the slight metallic tang of dampness was sharp in the air, and the distant rumble of late traffic carried an almost startling clarity. He breathed easily, padding along in his quarry’s wake, his rubber-soled shoes leaving no sound for Tate to pick up on.

He ran his thumb along the top of the knife blade. This wasn’t part of his brief, not yet. But sometimes opportunity presented itself, a once-and-only fruit for the picking that was too good to pass up. He picked up his pace, sticking close to the buildings, his breathing coming faster as he closed in on his target.

Then a car swung round the corner behind him and lit up the street with the glare of its headlights. Shit!

At the same moment, no doubt alerted by instinct, Tate began to turn his head.

Dog threw himself into the doorway of a charity shop, rolling into a ball. The car drove by, and Dog pulled his legs up to his chest, adopting the stance of a rough sleeper. The light washed over him, penetrating every crevice of the doorway, but if the occupants of the car had noticed him, they evidently saw nothing to be alarmed about.

Dog waited, knowing his opportunity had gone, and let out his breath in a long, bitter flow of disappointment. So close.

There would be another time, he told himself. Very soon.