Tracers

EIGHT

Jennings watched the former MI5 officer cross the pavement to a muddy Saab parked in a residents-only bay, and felt a prickle of disquiet. Tate was an odd character. He had come on the recommendation of someone trusted, although with the proviso that he’d been round the block a few times and had a reputation for doing things his own way. There was also a whisper about something in his background which would have made interesting reading had his contact in the security services been able to gain access. But that part of his record was sealed. All his contact had been able to tell him was that Tate had left the service in mysterious circumstances, yet without a noticeable black mark, which was intriguing in itself. Since then, he had worked in private security here and overseas, occasionally hooking up with a former MI5 IT and communications expert named Ferris. Ferris also had a sealed record and had left the security service at the same time as Tate.

Tate was a rebel, in other words, used to doing things his own way. Jennings didn’t mind that. For the right jobs, rebels had their uses.

He turned as the door at the rear of the office opened, and a man entered. Dressed in a dark, ill-fitting suit, the newcomer was wiry and intense, with the compact build of a jockey. He looked oddly out of place in the confines of the office, like a caged animal, with eyes of cold grey set in a tanned and weather-beaten face. His mouth curled at one corner as if permanently snarling at the world, and his hair was cropped harshly at the sides and lank on top.

The newcomer went by the name of Dog. It had been his call sign years ago in the back runs of Belfast and Londonderry, when personal names could mean the difference between life or sudden death. Jennings was one of the few people who knew the man’s real name of Gary Pellew, but he’d always thought there was something in his manner and appearance that suited the pseudonym much better.

‘He sounds like trouble,’ Dog murmured. ‘He questions things.’

‘Stay on him,’ said Jennings, ignoring the comment. ‘And keep me informed. I’ll let you know what action to take.’

Dog turned and left without a word, and Jennings knew that his instructions would be followed to the letter. Unlike Tate, Dog didn’t have the same level of skills at tracing runners. But what he did have were certain rare attributes that would never get him any kind of desk job. It was these skills which gave Jennings cause to shiver whenever he was in the man’s presence, although he took great care not to show it.

He was always quietly relieved that Dog was on his side, but never more so than when the man had left the building.

Still, he couldn’t quite dispel an evidently shared feeling of unease about Tate, although he wasn’t about to tell Dog that he agreed with him. What particularly surprised him was the ease with which Tate had managed to track down Matuq. A week or ten days might have been the norm, given the Libyan’s head start. But Tate had hardly given him time to breathe before he was on him like a rash. Maybe he had underestimated the man’s capabilities.

He shook off his concerns and opened the middle desk drawer. Inside was a slip of paper bearing a name and telephone number. The number led to a contact deep inside the Ministry of Information in Libya’s capital city, Tripoli.

It was time to confirm the successful completion of another assignment.