Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (16 page)

‘Warning noted. What about that other thing I asked you for? The target.’

A longer silence while Ballatyne played with his conscience, then: ‘Jardine’s target was a woman – a Russian. Her name was Katya Balenkova, and she was a captain in the Federal Protective Service, or FSO.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Probably. Give me five and I’ll call you back.’

L
ieutenant Katya Balenkova strode through the arrivals hall at Vienna Schwechat International Airport, scanning faces among the groups of meeters and greeters. Most looked local, with a few business types standing around exchanging pleasantries or deep in conversation on mobile phones. While she couldn’t imagine any of them possibly presenting a threat to the three government financial specialists from Moscow coming along behind her, it was her job to ensure that their passage was unhindered and safe.

She dismissed each person quickly, automatically checking body outlines for the bulge of concealed weapons, and eyes for a look too intense and focussed for this place. When she was certain the way was clear, she turned and gave a signal to Bronyev, her FSO colleague. He nodded and herded the three bankers towards the main concourse and exit, where a limousine would be waiting outside.

She felt almost naked without her service weapon, which they were not permitted to carry on flights for obvious reasons. But it wouldn’t be for long; as soon as they reached the city, she and Bronyev would be issued with side-arms from the embassy’s armoury. It would not be a fact made known to the Austrian authorities who, like most countries, would take a dim view of the carrying of guns on their sovereign soil. But the Russian government’s view was that bodyguards without weapons were like bulldogs without teeth.

She stepped back to avoid the senior of the three men, a particularly loathsome bureaucrat named Dobrev, who had been eyeing her openly ever since they had met the previous day. Overweight and pasty, with gelled hair and a heavy gut like excess baggage, he had made no secret of his intentions on this trip, suggesting that a drink at the earliest opportunity once they reached the convention hotel in Vienna would be an excellent way to show his appreciation for her security services. He had ignored Bronyev’s disapproving stare, resting his pudgy hand on Katya’s arm just a shade too long, snuffling pig-like with pleasure and pressing himself against her.

She had resisted the desire to knee him in the balls, and instead feigned a quick move to check out a nearby cab driver loitering for a fare. Having already been demoted from captain to her present rank of lieutenant after getting caught in a foreign espionage sting – although she had been cleared of any deliberate intent by an enquiry panel – dropping a fat banker to the floor with a Grozny handshake would only make things worse. And she had no wish to see what the job felt like at an even lower rank. Probably shepherding local dignitaries in some God-awful backwater in the Urals, just to make them feel valued and important, a small but vital cog in the machine that was the new Russia.

The official driver from the embassy was waiting by his car, a black Mercedes, as arranged. Katya watched from the side as Bronyev ushered the three men out of the main entrance and across the pavement, under the eye of two policemen who knew an official car when they saw one, even though it carried no pennant on its nose to smooth the way. It was all done with much petty fussing by the bankers, keen to have onlookers notice them and wonder at their importance, even if nobody quite knew what they represented.

So different, she thought, to the charges she had once worked with and guarded so assiduously. Diplomats, ministers and military men of the highest ranks, they knew the game and played it correctly. Grandstanding in public was for special days, parades and national celebrations; every other day out in the open, wherever they were, demanded rigorous adherence to protection rules. That meant no wandering off, continuous movement unless told to stop by their guards, and no ostentation likely to attract the attention of political extremist or terrorists.

And at all times, following the advice of their minders.

It was mostly bullshit now, she realised that. In the main, the men – always men – wore civilian clothes, unless on parade or at a function, and were as faceless as the next man, albeit far better dressed. But wearing a fancy imported suit merely made them envied or resented, rarely if ever a target.

Even so, their lofty positions and crucial jobs had made them valued assets and therefore to be protected at all times and by the best in the business. And Katya Balenkova had been one of the finest to graduate from the FSO academy and training centre.

But that had all ended when the British had decided she was a worthy target of a sting – a honey trap, as it had turned out. A visit to London had resulted in a chance encounter with a young woman. The encounter had moved to drinks, to friendship, to meetings . . . and eventually, in Brussels, where the other woman had been visiting on business at the same time as Katya herself had been working, something more.

Later, in Frankfurt, the ground had fallen away beneath her feet when the other woman, Clare, had disappeared, hustled away from outside the hotel where they were staying by two men in suits, obviously guards of another kind.

It was when Katya herself had been called in for discussions on her return to Moscow that she had discovered who and what Clare Jardine was.

An MI6 operative.

Now she found herself bored and resentful. Unexcited by the lowly, tedious routine of safeguarding self-important drones like Dobrev, whose biggest threat, apart from her knee, was the copious amounts of drink he consumed; angry at her fall down the career ladder. And emotions like these, in this job, were dangerous. They led to lack of attention and a lowering of one’s guard.

‘You coming?’ Bronyev was standing by the rear of the car, a faint frown on his face.

She nodded and joined him, climbing in the front passenger seat as her position required, and buckling in for the journey.

Bronyev sat in the back, close to the kerb. Younger than Katya and allegedly fresh out of the academy on his first posting, he was cautious and wary. And ambitious, too. But pleasant enough to work with. And he had more conversation than most male FSO members, whose main topics were limited to Spartak or Dynamo Moscow football teams.

She wondered not for the first time if Bronyev had been slotted into the team to keep an eye on her. Unlike many newcomers to the guards, who were usually full of themselves, he was likeable and considerate, and had confessed to wanting to progress in the FSO ranks by getting some solid experience behind him. But right from the start she had noticed signs about him that gave her cause for concern; there were times when his movements were just too practised, like an operative who had gone through the motions too many times before to be a simple newbie. Inexperienced guards betrayed their lack of skill in small ways: moving in a stop-start motion, as if unsure about who was in control of the speed of progress from car to building; standing in the wrong position and becoming a hindrance to their more experienced colleagues’ line of sight; failing to scope the area in a 360˚ fashion and allowing large gaps to appear in the screen around their charges.

Bronyev, however, made none of these mistakes, and that worried her. She had also caught him watching her, as he had been just now. It wasn’t in a sexual way, which she would have understood; hell, she might have her preferences which left men out of the equation altogether, but he wasn’t to know that. No, she felt he was watching her for other reasons.

She breathed deeply and watched the neat and ordered countryside slip by outside, trying to relax. Three days here, unless there was a change of programme, and she’d be on her way back home. If he had been put in to check on her, she had better not give him anything to report back on.

I
t was nearer fifteen minutes before Ballatyne rang again. His voice sounded oddly dead, free of any natural echo, and Harry guessed the MI6 man was in a sanitized chamber with a secure outside line where not even God would hear a word he said.

‘Sorry about that. More information coming in all the time, some of it you need to hear. First things first, though. I hope I never live to regret this, but I happen to think you might be right about Jardine’s original target. But understand this: this conversation is so far off the record, it’s inaudible except to dogs in Outer Mongolia.’

‘I get it.’

‘Balenkova’s job is the equivalent of our own Diplomatic Protection Squad, only her unit’s got much bigger muscles. Their mandate is vast, with some estimates giving them over twenty thousand members, all military trained. Some are formed into regiments, the best being special forces or Spetsnaz equivalents, with others working in outwardly civilian roles. They cover the president and other government officials as well as important installations such as IT centres, public utilities, nuclear sites and weapons storage and production units. They also travel abroad when needed, and there are reckoned to be anywhere between ten to twenty assigned to any major city with a Russian presence. But they’re not just armed guards with attitude; they’re state security by nature and breeding, going back decades.’

‘KGB?’

‘Yes, but also known variously as the Ninth Directorate and the GUO – I forget what that means.’

Harry wasn’t surprised. The Russians had any number of secretive agencies, most interconnected and linked through the KGB and its forerunners, now through the FSB and its governing body. His work with the security services had not brought him into close contact with individual members, but it had often been said that every single member of Russia’s vast security network was connected by one string or another, like a giant spider’s web. Pull one and the tug was felt right down the line.

‘I must have been out of the room when they lectured us on that one,’ he said. A thought occurred to him. ‘If their role is protection, what made Balenkova a target for an approach?’

‘Christ, you’re going to get me shot, you know that?’ Ballatyne gave it a few seconds, then said, ‘Balenkova first got lit up when she was working personal protection with a team of about twenty men and women, assigned to shadow a small but important group of military personnel. These were all high-ranking officers with responsibilities for communications, weapons and strategy, including nuclear installations. Balenkova and her colleagues were the elite of the FSO, proficient in languages and top-level protection. They went everywhere with their charges, including overseas. The psych evaluators we employ to tell us clever stuff about our friends and enemies reckon they would hear and see things we can only dream about. Each one of them probably carries more secrets buried in their brains than any other members of the security apparatus.’

It explained a lot. Who wouldn’t want to try draining one of these super-guardians of information, especially the intimate details of what the top military personnel had been chatting about over dinner and drinks when their barriers were down? Even gossip and scuttlebutt was useful if applied correctly. It was a spy’s daydream.

‘So Clare was assigned to get close to Balenkova and milk her.’

‘Yes. Balenkova’s name popped up again when she accompanied a couple of generals from the Northern Command to London for talks. She was seen as a possible target.’

‘Why?’

Ballatyne hesitated. ‘It’s not what you think. Balenkova was friendly, outgoing and there to smooth the way for talks while protecting her charges. She speaks excellent English and knows how to mix it with people. But she was heard to make some remarks off the record that our psychological profilers judged to show a degree of disenchantment with the regime in Moscow. It was too good a chance to miss, so Jardine was told to make an approach, get friendly and build a rapport. It began in London and travelled across to Brussels as the Russians moved around. There was another meeting three months later, in Paris this time, when the Russians were talking to the French, and a final one in Frankfurt. That’s when Jardine got her chain yanked. She’d gone too far and got noticed. She’d got involved.’

‘Did her handlers know in advance?’

‘What – that Balenkova was gay? Apparently not. They didn’t know Jardine was, either. One of those things. Equal opportunities and inclusivity and all that, we’re not supposed to ask anymore.’

‘So where do I find this Balenkova?’

‘You’re really hot on this one, aren’t you? What makes you think she even cares about Jardine, let alone that she’ll help you? Word is, she got busted down the ranks as a security measure after Jardine got close.’

‘I don’t know. But Clare might try to contact her. If she does it might give us a lead on where she is.’

‘Balenkova might simply turn her whereabouts over to the wet team, have you considered that?’

‘In that case, we’ve nothing to lose by asking. You know she’ll get nothing out of me.’

‘Let’s hope not. Trouble is, I don’t know where she is. If I had a hotline into the FSO database, I’d tell you. But I don’t.’

A dead end. Or was it? Ballatyne had a habit of storing information and acting on it later.

‘Another bit of news,’ Ballatyne continued, ‘is that Tobinskiy died choking on his own vomit.’

‘Seriously?’

‘That’s the public version. Truth is, there are small signs that question the facts; minute signs of bruising on the lips, which could have come from a hand placed over his mouth; and marks on his shoulders suggesting he might have been restrained, although the medical staff logged two occasions when he had to be held down for fear of hurting himself, so that’s not proven. He was nauseous, anyway, and vomiting had been recorded, but I’m told it’s easy to induce in a patient suffering gunshot wounds and running a fever. It’ll keep the conspiracy theorists busy for years.’

Harry digested the information, the scene running in his mind. For a man in a weakened physical condition and suffering a bullet wound and pumped full of drugs, it would have been a simple job physically to hold him still and complete the task. Quite what it would have called for mentally was another thing altogether. Killing was hard enough; killing a man in his hospital bed required a detachment and cold-bloodedness that he hoped he never acquired.