Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (20 page)

‘What about Gorelkin? He’ll go nuts if we dump it.’

‘Gorelkin can go screw himself. We’re the ones in danger here, not him. Now do it.’

Serkhov did as he was ordered and parked the car. Moments later they were walking away from the car, heads down and with their faces partially covered by their mobiles, two businessmen hurrying to a meeting.

But their departure wasn’t entirely unseen. In the shadows, behind a primped-up van with fat tyres and tinted windows, two men stopped trying to open the doors and watched them go, drawn to the interior light of the BMW and the partially open passenger door.

R
ichard Ballatyne was waiting to greet Harry on the second floor landing of a building in Great Scotland Yard. The security guard nodded and left them to it, and Ballatyne walked away trailing a crooked finger.

‘Sorry about the rush,’ he said quietly. ‘But this was an opportunity to get several important heads together on record without going through a full-blown meeting with everyone and their brother from the Sec of State down. We’ve got two gofers on a watching brief from the wider cabinet office and one from COBRA; a sit-in for the Joint Intelligence Committee; Commander John Crampton from CO19 . . . and Candida Deane of the Russian Desk.’ The pause there was, Harry sensed, deliberate. A warning.

‘Nobody from Five?’ His old employers. He was surprised. Anything involving the activities of foreign agents in the country should have had MI5 representatives here in droves, jostling for the prize.

‘No. For reasons I’ll tell you about later, they’ve agreed to let us run with this. But they are still involved.’

‘Great,’ Harry murmured. ‘And Deane? Should I be worried?’

Ballatyne threw a brief smile over his shoulder as he turned a corner in the corridor and walked towards a heavy oak door at the far end. Unlike the others, it bore no number or name plate. ‘Not really – not inside this place, anyway. She’ll be muzzled by the presence of the others, although she might still try to bite. And she’s no friend of Clare Jardine’s. You’d do well to remember that.’

‘Any specific reason?’ Clare had worked the Russian department. It wouldn’t be too surprising if there was history involved.

‘Deane was a protégée of Sir Anthony Bellingham.’

Christ. That was more than reason enough.

Ballatyne opened the door and ushered Harry through, stepping past a tall man with a flat-top haircut and broad shoulders standing just inside. Clearly a minder. The room was functional and spare, with a long table bordered by chairs and a sideboard holding a stack of notepads and, oddly, a Bible. The walls were panelled with oak and hung with pictures that had probably been there since the place was built. It smelled to Harry of paperwork, ink and dry, dusty talk, and possessed all the soul and atmosphere of a coal bunker. Just right, he thought, for disposing of embarrassing issues. It reminded him of another room not far from here, where his own career in MI5 had been consigned to a skip by a committee of faceless suits, before being posted on what had very nearly been a one-way trip to Georgia.

He nodded at the faces around the table as Ballatyne made introductions, instantly forgetting the names of the civil servant attendees. He received a cordial enough smile from Commander Crampton, which told him that the Met’s firearms unit officer didn’t know who or what he was, and a cool look of assessment from Candida Deane, a blonde with a cool, businesslike stare behind large glasses, who undoubtedly did. Crampton looked like a rugby player who had played just a little too close to the ball.

Deane looked even tougher.

‘This is a little off the cards,’ Ballatyne began, once they were all settled, ‘because the situation is a little unusual. You all know the basics, but just so that we’re all up to speed, I’ll outline it in extremely simple terms, to save time.’

‘Just a moment.’ Candida Deane was looking at Ballatyne but flicked an imperious finger towards Harry. ‘Does Tate have clearance for this meeting? I don’t recall his details being submitted for approval.’

Ballatyne appeared to have been expecting the interruption. He merely smiled and said, ‘Mr Tate is a former MI5 officer and has my full confidence. He has completed various assignments for us both here and overseas, and worked with the UN in highly confidential circumstances. He is also carded which, as some of you might not know, means he has been security vetted to carry a firearm. That places him higher on the secure list than many people who habitually sit in this room. May I?’

Deane nodded grudgingly and made a pointed note on a pad in front of her. But not before shooting Harry a final glance of assessment.

‘Earlier this afternoon,’ Ballatyne continued, ‘two gunmen shot and wounded an unarmed police officer on Pimlico Road, SW1. The officer was answering a call by a member of the public standing on the pavement. The two men had left their car in a reserved bay and entered a Starbucks café in search of a former MI6 operative named Clare Jardine. Miss Jardine left the café pursued by the men. They fired shots at her, which is when the officer was hit, but I understand she managed to escape unharmed.’

‘Who were the gunmen?’ one of the suits from the Cabinet Office queried, pencil poised to make a note. ‘And why would they be after a former officer? Is this a revenge thing?’

‘I was coming to that. They are thought to be Russian FSB operatives, most likely from their Special Purpose Centre, and responsible for the death of Roman Tobinskiy in King’s College Hospital’s Major Trauma Unit three nights ago. As you might know, Tobinskiy was a close friend and associate of Alexander Litvinenko, and shared his disenchantment with the Russian government. He had also made public those views, like Litvinenko. However, the reason for their attack on Miss Jardine was because she was a patient in the same corridor as Tobinskiy and witnessed the men’s presence in the unit.’

‘
Was
a patient?’ Deane lifted an eyebrow as if this was news. All heads swivelled her way, then back.

Ballatyne didn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes. She speaks Russian and had heard Tobinskiy rambling while sedated. It told her enough to know that he considered himself at severe risk – a fact already reinforced by his own shooting in Brighton several days before, which was why he was in the unit in the first place . . . as you know.’ He waited a brief second for the meaning to sink home to the others, then continued, ‘The attacker then was thought to be East European, most likely also FSB or at least a contractor. The moment Jardine heard the two men speaking, she guessed what they were going to do and that they wouldn’t want any witnesses. There was nothing she could do to stop them, so she left the hospital before they could return.’

‘What did they do to Tobinskiy?’ asked a woman from the Joint Intelligence Committee. ‘I mean, I suppose they weren’t there for his health, were they?’

‘No. They weren’t. They held him down in his bed and suffocated him.’

T
here was a stunned silence as they digested the blunt words. The woman from the JIC looked almost embarrassed, as if she had attended the event in person and wished she hadn’t.

Harry glanced around the assembled faces. Only Deane and Crampton seemed less than shocked, and he guessed they had already heard the grisly details.

‘The purpose of this meeting,’ Ballatyne continued, ‘is to bring everybody up to speed so that we’re aware of the ramifications. Tobinskiy was probably killed on orders from Moscow – like Litvinenko. Exactly who stands to gain by it is anybody’s guess. It could be old scores being settled, or a prelude to something else involving friends of the government jostling for position.’

‘That wouldn’t be unusual,’ the woman from the JIC murmured. ‘They’re like a nest of hornets, anyway.’

‘Yes. Either way, we have to handle this with care. More accusations against the Russians of wrongdoings without proof will not help international relations. I’m aware of the need for continued trade talks and negotiations regarding events in the Middle East, and that we must try to avoid fouling the atmosphere. But that is more long-term. What I want to highlight is that our problem is much more short-term and immediate.’

‘Really?’ Deane looked up. ‘Involving the Jardine woman? Where is she, by the way? Do we know?’

‘Just a second.’ The representative of COBRA – the Cabinet Office Briefing Room committee, which dealt with regional and national emergencies – spoke up. ‘I’m unclear as to why this Jardine woman was in this hospital in the first place. Isn’t it a specialised unit? And am I correct in my understanding that she was let go from MI6 following serious disciplinary measures – and accused of a violent attack against another officer?’ He spoiled his supposedly independent stance by glancing at Candida Deane with a faint smirk.

Ballatyne’s face was blank, but Harry knew him well enough to guess that the word ‘bitch’, aimed at Deane, might have floated across his mind. The COBRA representative had clearly been got at.

‘She was there,’ Ballatyne said quietly, ‘because she had been shot and nearly killed while assisting Mr Tate here, in mopping up a gang involved in trading secrets to foreign powers. She saved his life and that of a colleague, and undoubtedly saved many others by bringing down this gang, known as the Protectory. I don’t think it was asking too much for her to be given the best possible treatment in return. Do you?’

The man said nothing, but flushed under the gaze of the others.

‘What about her now,’ said Deane, filling the gap quickly. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s safe. She’s still recovering from her wounds and this hasn’t helped.’

‘But you can tell us where she is, surely. Unless you think this room is bugged?’

A chuckle went around the table, but Ballatyne stopped it in its tracks.

‘That’s on a need-to-know basis.’ The words were flat and left no room for discussion.

‘So what now?’ Commander Crampton, the CO9 officer, queried.

‘For now, we keep looking for the two gunmen. I’m grateful for your unit’s cooperation, commander, and we’ll conduct an exchange briefing later. What we do if we catch them is not for me to decide, however.’

The meeting broke up shortly afterwards, leaving Deane at the table. The minder remained by the door, giving Harry a clear indication of who he worked for.

‘I object strenuously to having an outside contractor involved in this,’ she said, once the door had closed behind the last of the suits. ‘I take it Tate is a contractor?’

‘Your objection is noted,’ Ballatyne replied, shuffling some papers into a folder and standing up, pointedly refusing to answer her question. He waited while she digested that, then got to her feet and moved to the door.

‘I’ll be making a full report of this, Richard,’ she warned as a parting shot. She threw a last look at Harry. ‘This isn’t over, believe me.’

Once Deane had gone, scooping up her minder on the way, Ballatyne sat down again and looked across at Harry. ‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I’m still trying to figure out why you brought me here. I obviously couldn’t contribute, being an outsider.’

Ballatyne waved a hand. ‘I wouldn’t feel too bruised about what Deane said. She was just sounding off. Anyway, she uses contractors all the time; the bloody asset files attached to the Russian desk are bursting with former military and security spooks. It’s cheaper and reduces costs. You’d be amazed how much extra National Insurance payments can add to the budget every year.’

Harry wasn’t convinced. He’d been ushered here for a reason, like a prize dog at Crufts. ‘I was on show, wasn’t I?’

‘Not at all. Why would I do that?’ Ballatyne looked innocent.

‘I haven’t figured that out yet. To make a point, perhaps.’

Then he had it.

‘What?’ Ballatyne caught something in his face, thoughts betrayed.

Harry thought about formulating his next words with care, but decided it was too late for that. The shit was already sliding off the shovel. If professional sensibilities got bruised along the way, it was too bad. Anyway, he suspected Ballatyne already knew.

‘That was the point you were making: they were too organised and you wanted to make it obvious you knew.’

‘Who – the Russians?’

‘Yes. They had a plan to deal with Tobinskiy, which was one thing. But then they realised Clare had disappeared from the hospital. That shouldn’t have bothered them; by now they should have been long gone, back to Moscow or Minsk or wherever.’

‘So?’ Ballatyne’s expression was bland, waiting.

‘They didn’t; they stuck around. Worse, they went after her, using people on the street as a collective search team. They probably used CCTV footage, too, the same as we did.’

‘That’s quite a suggestion. Are you saying they hacked into the systems?’

‘Why not? If they were desperate enough to go back to the hospital and take the CCTV, the hard drive
and
shoot a security guard in the process, breaking the Computer Misuse Act wouldn’t trouble them one bit, would it?’

‘True. But it’s standard procedure, even for the FSB. They worked the evidence, the same as any cop would do.’

‘But this isn’t their back yard, is it? They came in to do one job. It’s the way they work: fly in a team, do what they have to and fly out again. No local contact, no mess, and most of all, no records. But this lot are different. They’re not residents, yet they knew how to work the terrain, knew the most likely area Clare might head for to hide in a crowd: Victoria. Why not Piccadilly or Trafalgar Square or a dozen other places?’

Ballatyne shrugged. ‘I think you’re reading more into this than is wise.’ But his eyes were glittering as if he were enjoying the idea being unravelled.

‘They weren’t messing around, either,’ Harry continued. ‘They came ready to shoot. They were desperate.’

A lengthy silence from Ballatyne, then: ‘Meaning?’

‘I’m saying they had help. That’s what you were punting in the air . . . to see who reacted.’

‘They probably did have help. There are plenty of long-term embassy people who could have lobbed ideas and local knowledge at them.’