Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (21 page)

Harry shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t happen. You said they came in on false papers.’

‘Yes.’

‘That means they wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near the embassy. In fact they’d be under strict instructions to stay well away. And a job like this, especially after the Litvinenko scandal, they’d be like untouchables.’

‘Call me slow,’ Ballatyne muttered, ‘but there’s something you’re not saying. What is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Harry shrugged. He had no proof for what he was thinking, merely a gut feel about the way things had worked out. But hiding it wouldn’t solve the problem. ‘How many people knew Clare was in that hospital unit? I mean, really – how many?’

‘A few. A handful, no more. There was no need to spread the news, especially with her background. Why?’

‘A handful. But how many of that handful knew she was someone the Russian hit team wouldn’t – no, couldn’t – ignore . . . someone who had to be traced and silenced?’

The silence was longer this time. Ballatyne shifted in his seat as he digested what he was hearing. Harry didn’t think the MI6 man was being deliberately dumb; he was far too astute for that. But he might have been struggling to accept the fact that the Russians had somebody supplying them with information.

‘You’re suggesting the Russians had inside help . . . where? The hospital? If so, they wouldn’t have needed to bust inside and steal the hard drive. And for the street camera footage: the Met? City of London Police? The London boroughs? The list is a long one.’

‘The Met control rooms would be the quickest.’

Ballatyne gave a dry smile. ‘Did your mate Ferris tell you that? He’ll get you into trouble, that boy.’

‘It makes sense. How else could they have tracked her so quickly? They must have used the same key cameras as your people. Find a start point – outside the hospital in this case – to identify her on screen, then leapfrog camera displays to build up her direction of travel. Lose her on one and you simply go back to the last one to see where she might have changed direction. There are operators who do it all day, every day. They play the cameras like a video game. I know because I’ve used them.’

‘You make it sound easy.’

‘It is if you’ve got a target with a distinctive walk and using a crutch. Clare might as well have been carrying a placard with her name on it.’ Harry stood up. He’d done all he could. If Ballatyne chose to ignore him, there was nothing else he could do. ‘You know I’m right. They’ve had orders to find her and silence her because they know what will happen if she talks. Why else go to all that bother and shoot up Pimlico for a nobody?’

‘As you say, they were desperate.’

Ballatyne was playing dumb again, happy to let him do the running. But without more concrete proof, it was obvious he wouldn’t act on mere speculation.

Harry left him there and walked out. He needed to get proof that there was a bad apple in the woodpile.

He needed to speak to Clare again.

‘W
hat’s this – a level one interrogation?’ Clare looked sour and angry, but she didn’t look as if she had the strength to put up a real fight. Harry had suggested they sit down and go through everything the Russians had said to her in the café, in case there was something they could use to pin them down.

‘You know what it is,’ he said patiently. Rik watched them from across the room, saying nothing. ‘You’ve done this before. Look on it as a debrief.’

She sighed but said nothing, so he continued. ‘If we don’t stop them, they’ll keep going until they find you. You’re a witness; you saw and heard them in the hospital just before Tobinskiy died, and now you’ve seen and met them face to face. You know them. That makes you a liability. You know how they treat liabilities.’ He let that sink in before saying, ‘Try and remember everything they said, no matter how insignificant, from the time they walked in and sat down.’

Slowly, fighting against tiredness, she did as he asked, recounting everything that had happened, from the moment she spotted the young man on the mobile phone across the street, to the second the car stopped outside and the men appeared. It came haltingly and with several backtracks to scoop up details, most of it of no great importance. But Harry kept pushing her to go over things again, in the hope that her professional brain was still active and would click on and begin to rifle through the images and words he needed.

After the first run-through, which lasted thirty minutes, he got Rik to arrange some food. This wasn’t going to be a quick job, and they needed to keep up their energy levels, especially for Clare. But once they had eaten, he got her right back on track.

Her initial tiredness now gone, Clare didn’t react well. ‘Look, Tate, what are you hoping for?’ she burst out. ‘That they gave me their names and unit numbers? Their email back in Moscow so we can exchange greetings? It doesn’t work like that. They were a black ops team. I’ve seen their type before and know the way they work. They threatened to shoot me; they didn’t tell me how they’d found me, only showed me the photos they’d used. That was the tall one – he was the one in charge.’

‘Photos. From CCTV cameras? They’d have got those from the hospital hard drive.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’ Then her face froze and she sat up. Thoughts of the photo had triggered other thoughts . . . and one specific memory.

‘What?’

‘Christ, I’ve been stupid,’ she whispered. Her face flushed and she turned away. ‘He showed me a photo, but it wasn’t from any CCTV. And I’ve just remembered where I’ve seen it before – or one like it.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was a black and white, full facial, blown up to postcard size. It had a number series across the bottom.’ She looked up at Harry. ‘It was my file photo from Six. I recognised the style.’

Harry sat back. This was worse than he’d thought. How the hell could a team from Moscow get a personnel photo from inside MI6? There was only one way.

‘I asked him where the photos had come from,’ Clare continued. ‘But he just looked smug and said he wasn’t going to tell me.’

‘What did he say – the exact words?’

She frowned, struggling to recall. Then it came to her. ‘He said something like, “You think I’m going to tell you who got them for us?” Like it was his own big secret and he was enjoying himself. Then he told me to dream on.’

‘Was this in English or Russian?’

‘Russian.’

Harry looked across at Rik, who shook his head in wonderment. They were both analysing the words. ‘You think I’m going to tell you who got them for us.’ The meaning was clear: the Russians didn’t have a direct insider after all. But they had the next best thing: somebody with access to MI6 who could get them information through other means. Quite what level of access that was remained to be seen.

Harry’s phone rang. It was Ballatyne.

‘We caught a lucky break. The BMW from outside the café in Pimlico was spotted heading along the Edgware Road in north London less than an hour after the shooting.’

‘So you got them?’

‘We got the driver and his mate . . . but they weren’t Russian hit men. Just two local neds who happened to be scoping the underground car park in Park Lane for easy pickings. They saw two men in suits park the car and walk away, leaving the keys in the ignition and the doors open.’

‘They wanted it gone.’

‘Absolutely. And the thieves obliged. They didn’t get far, though. An armed unit recognised the car’s description and they were in the bag.’

‘Did they give a description of the Russians?’

‘Yes. One tall and slim, one short and chunky – like a wrestler, they said.’

It was them, Harry was certain. But why dump the car under Park Lane? If they had wanted to make it disappear for good, they could have dropped it anywhere south of the river and made their way back north by tube. The chances of it being gone for certain before they had reached the next corner would have been dramatically higher there than near Hyde Park. The Park Lane area was awash with cameras, and only chance had brought two witless thieves along at the right time. And now the police had the car and would be scouring it for forensic details. It made the chances of an arrest considerably higher, although he wasn’t ready to lay bets on it just yet.

‘They must have a bolt-hole nearby,’ he concluded aloud. ‘They probably panicked and left it on impulse. Are there any addresses on the list of Russian properties in that area?’

‘We’re combing through it right now and doing visual checks as we go, to see if we can spot anyone. We’re having to be careful; there’s a chance we could frighten them off if we go in heavy handed.’

‘They won’t go far.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘They’ll want Clare even more now. She’s seen their faces, she heard their voices . . . and now they know who she is – or was. And she knows who they are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She says they’re probably black ops personnel.’

‘
Chyornyiy
,’ said Clare. ‘Tell him. He’ll know what it means.’

‘She said they’re
chyornyiy
.’

A silence. ‘How does she know that?’ But, Harry noticed, Ballatyne didn’t argue.

He related what Clare had told them. When he got to their speculation about someone with access to MI6, Ballatyne began muttering darkly in the background.

‘Leave it with me,’ the MI6 man said finally. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

Less than a mile away, in a rented office they would never use again, Gorelkin was also swearing, but for different reasons.

‘So what is she – SIS? Security Services? No. You’re mistaken. How can that be possible?’ He slammed a hand on the desk in front of him, making the two men with him jump. Votrukhin and Serkhov had witnessed one of Gorelkin’s occasional bursts of temper, and neither wished to come under its spell again. But right now they had nothing to offer in their defence.

‘We don’t know for sure,’ Votrukhin ventured a slight correction. ‘But how else could she know about Troparevskiy?’ He ignored Serkhov’s raised hand. ‘It’s probably no longer a big secret, I know, but she spoke as one who knew what she was talking about.’ He snapped his thumb and forefinger. ‘It came out like that.’

Gorelkin nodded and stared around blindly at the functional office walls, trying to find some solace in the situation. It didn’t work. He knew what the lieutenant meant, and it wasn’t good news. Those in the business would know about Troparevskiy. They wouldn’t have to think about it – it would come automatically. But would they give themselves away quite so easily? Maybe, if they’d been shot in the gut like the woman. He was about to speak again when the door opened and Paulton was ushered in.

‘Mr Paulton,’ Gorelkin murmured, indicating a chair on the other side of the table. It sat squarely between Serkhov and Votrukhin, and he’d planned it that way. He still hadn’t worked out whether Paulton was playing them or not. If he was, he would live to regret it. ‘Now then,’ he said quietly, and leaned forward, not allowing time for the Englishman to settle, ‘would you care to tell us precisely what you know about Clare Jardine?’

Paulton looked relaxed, but something moved in his face. Gorelkin didn’t miss it.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Paulton replied cautiously. ‘I had only the information I was given—’ He stopped speaking when Serkhov reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder. He winced as pressure was applied, and went pale.

‘Let us start again,’ Gorelkin murmured. ‘My colleagues have already wasted enough time chasing shadows. Now we hear that this woman you said came from a care home and was running with Ukrainian gangsters is actually a British Intelligence operative. Would that explain why she also speaks Russian, do you think?’

Paulton tried to shrug off Serkhov’s hand without result until Gorelkin gave the signal to let him go.

‘I stand by what I was told,’ the Englishman insisted. ‘There was obviously an attempt to cover up her real identity while she was undergoing treatment. It’s a public facility and it would be normal for members of MI6 or MI5 to be given cover names.’ He smiled weakly. ‘The press keep a constant eye out for special forces personnel passing through the hospital; the security or intelligence services would rate even higher in news value.’

Gorelkin thought it through. It sounded reasonable enough. He was aware of how voracious the British media was for exclusives, no matter how far that intruded into national security matters. In Russia there was no such laxity permitted. Any journalist who poked too far into the establishment found himself on a short journey to a maximum security cell until they forgot what they had been searching for.

But he still didn’t trust Paulton further than he could spit. ‘Very well. I want you to find out
now
about this woman. Everything you can tell us.’

‘Of course.’ Paulton stood up, straightening his jacket where Serkhov’s hand had scrunched up the material. He looked flushed now, as if realising just how close he had come to disaster. ‘I’ll get onto it immediately.’

‘How soon?’ Gorelkin asked.

‘Give me half an hour.’

‘Make it twenty minutes. Or I make a phone call.’ The threat was uttered without drama. But he meant it.

Paulton nodded, and Gorelkin and his men watched him go. And waited.

Paulton returned eighteen minutes later. He sat down and folded his hands together, every inch the repentant, even embarrassed, man.

‘You were correct,’ he announced. ‘Clare Jardine is a former MI6 operative.’

‘Former?’ Gorelkin picked up on the word.

‘Yes. She was fired by them for gross misconduct but continued to work in the security field. She was wounded while working with a former MI5 man named Tate, which is why she was being treated in King’s College.’ He stared around at the three of them. ‘But she has no credit whatsoever with SIS or MI5, and is now off the grid with Tate. She’s what some gamers call RTK.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Serkhov.

‘It means,’ Gorelkin murmured, ‘Ready To Kill. You can go and get her.’ He was looking at Paulton while he spoke. ‘Isn’t that right?’