Tracers

FORTY-SEVEN

Marshall watched the car move away and made a note of the number, although it was probably a waste of time; if the three people he’d just been speaking to were as good as he thought, they’d either get rid of it within the hour or the number would prove untraceable. But it was an instinctive part of him too ingrained to ignore. He also decided to alert Ballatyne of the situation immediately rather than wait. His deputy could at least get the team working on tracing Dog. And trawling through the Asian community networks for signs of Rafa’i.

He took out his mobile and speed-dialled a number. Twenty minutes later, a dark Rover with two men inside slid in to the kerb. Marshall climbed in, told the driver to head for Vauxhall Cross.

The man said nothing, but both looked wary. Marshall didn’t bother taking out his frustrations on them; what was done was done, and he’d been responsible for putting himself in the situation where he could be lifted, anyway.

When they were in sight of the building, Marshall tapped his driver on the shoulder and waited as the car pulled in to the kerb. He liked to walk the last stretch to get the kinks out of his joints and prepare himself. Today was no different, in spite of recent events. As he strolled along the pavement, relishing the brief exposure to the cool air off the river, he wondered about the three people he had just left. Joanne Archer was who she claimed to be; he had no doubt about that. Her anger was too raw, the detail too specific to be faked. But he needed to discover the identities of the two men with her. It wasn’t critical, as he was sure they would emerge soon enough. But he liked to know who he was dealing with.

Of one thing he was already certain: they were professionals. They had about them the unmistakable air of government-trained personnel; they were too calm and controlled to be amateurs, and to have picked him up so easily in a crowded thoroughfare without exhibiting some major tension really took some doing.

That thought suddenly prompted a faint jump of memory. It was from a while back, and he couldn’t be certain, but while he’d been looking at the older man, Harry, he’d felt a stirring of something familiar. He didn’t know the man, he was certain of that. But he knew of him. All he had to do was remember where from. He took out his mobile and dialled another number. It might be a wild goose chase, but it was worth a try. Know your enemy and you held the advantage. It was a maxim he didn’t always agree with, but this time he was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Instructions issued, he pocketed the mobile and thought about the girl, Archer. He felt a measure of sadness for her. And guilt. That there was a need for people like her was irrefutable; that it had to be young women such as she was, in his opinion, less so. Unfortunately, his concerns at the time had been overruled, to the extent that he had been prevented from ever meeting her, or even seeing her file and photo. But would he have stopped her going if he’d met her? What would he have done, he wondered, if it had been his own daughter recruited and trained for such a task, then abandoned to her fate?

A familiar figure in a pinstripe suit passed him by, nodding briefly in recognition. Something to do with Planning or Analysis, Marshall thought vaguely. They all looked the same after a while, the intelligence community’s faceless army.

Ahead of him, a motorcycle courier pulled in to the kerb and took out a map. A couple of American tourists took photos of the river and a delivery van bumped by, its unsecured roller shutter clattering. After the story he’d just heard, such everyday noises and colour seemed trivial.

Absorbed by his thoughts, Marshall was only vaguely aware of the soft swish of leathers and heavy footsteps crossing the pavement. The motorcycle engine was still rumbling, and the smell of its exhaust tickled his nostrils. It took a moment for him to realize that the courier was now behind him and coming up fast-

Marshall began to turn. But he was too late. He rocked to a blow low down on his left-hand side, followed by a sharp, cold pain going right through his body. As he opened his mouth to protest, he felt a weakness spreading to his limbs, beginning in his hips and going all the way down to his feet. He staggered and reached round to his back, but that only made the pain worse. He felt dizzy, and a rush of congestion building in his throat. He coughed, saw an impenetrable darkness closing in, blotting out all sights and sounds, and wondered how he could have been so careless after all this time.

Marshall began to feel very cold. He didn’t feel his knees hit the pavement, didn’t hear the cry of alarm from the woman tourist. All he could think of was the things he hadn’t yet accomplished.