Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (27 page)

Harry felt a momentary doubt at the movement of the crowd. It would be too easy to miss Balenkova and her group here, and too easy for the Russian to see Clare first and bolt at the possibility of another approach by MI6.

He checked on Clare’s position, and saw that she had settled on a spot under the cover of a tree near a group of Japanese students, hunched and low-profile, a dark, anonymous figure in the crowd. Harry had also merged into the background, attaching himself to a group of Americans on a whistle-stop tour of Europe, allowing their shift and flow to absorb his presence.

‘They’re out of the hotel and heading for the wheel.’
Rik’s phone message had come after a lengthy wait, just as Harry was trying to think of another way of allowing Clare to contact Katya Balenkova. They had promptly left the small hotel where they were staying and walked to Riesenradplatz to wait for their quarry to arrive.

The American group began to drift away to the south, making noises about finding somewhere cheap to eat, before the restaurants got too busy. It left Harry feeling exposed, and he looked for another group. But none was static enough to provide sufficient cover, so he kept on the move, his mobile in his hand, glancing occasionally at his watch, playing the late-date scenario, but never moving out of sight of Clare’s position.

As he walked past a stall selling ice creams and soft drinks, his phone rang.

‘Harry Tate?’ The voice was male, with a vaguely American accent.

‘Speaking.’

‘A man in Vauxhall said you might need supplies. My name is Richoux.’ The last was a code word identifier, taking the name from the last place the two men had met in London. Ballatyne had been busy making arrangements.

‘Good timing,’ said Harry, and told the caller where he was.

‘Stay where you are. I’m a few minutes away on foot. I know what you look like, don’t worry. I’ll approach from the north, across that roundabout in the centre. We’re old friends and you forgot your briefcase when you visited me. My wife’s name is Inge.’

Harry thanked him and cut the connection. Only spies made a big thing about walking up to somebody in a public place. In the normal world, it happened all the time and nobody questioned it. He continued walking, making a slow tour of the area and keeping Clare in his line of sight. While doing so, he called Rik.

‘Where are you?’

‘Five minutes away. One of the suits stopped the cab and went into a chocolate shop with the male guard. What’s the German for I think my wife’s cheating on me with four other men?’

‘Why?’

‘My driver’s getting arsey about following their cab.’

‘Tell him “
meine Frau betrügt
”
.
He’ll think you’re a total wet, but he’ll enjoy the chase.’

He stopped in the shade of an overhead canopy and waited. He was facing the roundabout ‘Richoux’ had mentioned, where he had seen cars come and go. There were various approach roads but they all fed into this one place. A noticeboard with a map of the area showed the attractions on offer. A number of business cards had been inserted behind the rim, including taxi and limousine services. He plucked one out and stuck it in his pocket.

‘Harry!’ A man in a sports coat and flat cap appeared by his side. He was carrying a black briefcase and made a show of relief at seeing him. Red-faced and chubby, he held the briefcase aloft and made a brief pantomime about how nice it had been to see his old friend, but that Harry had left his briefcase behind and Inge had sent him out on pain of death to get it back to him.

‘Tell her she’s an angel,’ said Harry, playing along. ‘Next time I’m in town, I’ll take her out for dinner. Not you, though – you’ve had your share.’

The two men laughed and ‘Richoux’ glanced at his watch before throwing his arms around Harry, claiming for the benefit of anyone close by that he was late for dinner and had to dash.

Harry watched him go before checking inside the briefcase. It held two soft cloth bags, of the kind up-market shoes were sold in. He could tell by the weight and look that they each contained a handgun and a spare magazine. The briefcase also contained a Yale key attached to a piece of card by a length of string. The card carried an address in the suburbs.

The safe house.

His phone rang again.

‘Just arriving,’ said Rik. ‘They’re in a cream Mercedes
.
’ He read out the number.

Harry turned and saw a cream-coloured cab stop near the wheel and disgorge a group of passengers. Four men and a single woman. Three of the men were soft looking, obviously bureaucrats; the fourth looked alert and fit, moving with athletic ease. A bodyguard.

The woman was Katya Balenkova.

Harry glanced across at Clare. She had spotted the group, too, but hadn’t moved, which was good. He doubted Katya would see her clearly enough to identify her, which was also good. Any sudden move or a direct approach would be enough to warn Katya’s colleague that something out of the ordinary was unfolding, and he would have to make a move to neutralise the situation. Just as he’d been trained.

The three bureaucrats looked up at the wheel, gesticulating and laughing, clearly intending to take a ride. One of them hustled off, beckoning for the male bodyguard to go with him, no doubt to pay for their tickets. The other two men trailed in their wake, with Katya bringing up the rear and scanning the area like a true professional.

Harry stayed where he was, aware that if she turned now just as he began to move, she might spot him. He rang Clare’s mobile.

She answered with a dull voice. ‘I see her.’

‘Wait for the three suits to get on board,’ he told her. ‘If the male guard goes with them, make your approach. But not too fast.’

‘I’ve done this before, you know.’ She cut the connection. He turned his head and watched as she moved out from under the tree and walked towards the wheel.

Katya had stopped a short distance back from the last people in the queue. She was well clear of the men but watching as they shuffled towards where the cabins arrived at the embarkation platform, laughing and jostling like children on a day out.

Harry felt a sudden jolt.

There was no sign of the male guard.

He moved position slightly. The guard might be the truly paranoid type; the type who might have gone on ahead to check there wasn’t a bomb under the seat set to blow his charges sky-high. Or he might have doubled back to watch their backs.

Clare turned her head and looked back at Harry. She was just thirty yards behind Katya, standing among a small knot of passengers who had just exited the wheel and were clustered together looking for direction. For once she looked uncertain, no longer confrontational, almost lonely. He felt for her, and tried to imagine how he would feel in such circumstances, meeting up with a person he had once been close to; someone he had caused to lose position and prestige, and who might turn and react badly.

Then Clare was moving, striding forward with purpose. She stopped alongside Katya, not so close as to invade her space, but within earshot. Then she was talking; he could tell by the way she held her head, facing slightly away, chin down.

Balenkova took a moment to react, no doubt having had to break her concentration. She turned her head, then snapped it back into position at once, her whole body stiffening.

Contact
.

Harry’s phone rang.

He ignored it. Too much going on here right now. It stopped once to go to voicemail, then started ringing again immediately. He accepted the call.

Ballatyne.

‘Don’t hang up – I don’t care what you’re doing. Just listen.’ The MI6 man’s voice was tense. ‘Keith Maine’s body was discovered thirty minutes ago in a Ford Transit off Kennington Road. He’d been stabbed once with some kind of long spike. On the floor of the van was a lunch box and the cap from a memory stick, but no sign of the stick itself. It looks like he got it out of the building in the lunch box. There was clearly a handover, but the other party didn’t keep their side of the bargain. I checked back with the techs. Maine accessed a travel file in Six and picked up the ticket reference to your name, and copied details of your trip to Vienna. Safe to say that whoever he was working for now has the stick and whatever data it contains. He knows where Balenkova is . . . and where you are.’

Harry swore silently. He’d been here before. If the information had been passed to the two Russians, it wouldn’t take them long to get a team in Vienna to track them down based on Katya’s movements. All they had to do was follow the group’s itinerary.

He cut the connection with Ballatyne without a word. He had to warn Rik to keep his eyes open. But the most vulnerable was Clare – especially right now when she was face to face with Katya herself.

A
whistle sounded, piercing the music and noise from the amusement stalls and other rides. Harry looked round.

Rik was standing near where the cab had dropped Balenkova’s party. He was making a subtle chopping motion with one hand across his throat, fingers out straight. He must have tried to ring Harry but couldn’t get through because of Ballatyne’s call.

The signal was clear.

Abort
.

Behind him, Harry saw why. Four men were getting out of a black Mercedes SUV. Dark suits but definitely not business types. Too alert to be casual visitors. One of them flicked a hand to usher away the other three, their orders to disperse. Then he looked off to one side, where a footpath led through to a green space and an adjoining approach road, and gave a subtle nod.

Harry turned his head to follow the look.

Two more men had appeared between the trees. They were scouting the area, trying to be casual but looking more like attack dogs on the hunt.

Harry turned and walked towards Clare and Katya. Playing out the same scenario as Richoux had done, he lifted his arms in welcome and called her name.

She turned and stared at him in puzzlement, but he gave her no time to object. Placing his arm across her shoulders, he bent as if to kiss her cheek, but instead muttered, ‘Move it. We’re blown.’ Then he led her away, smiling down at her and catching a brief glimpse of Katya’s face, her mouth open in surprise.

As they left the area, one of the men from the car approached on the trot, calling Katya’s name.

‘Wait!’ Clare hissed, struggling against his arm. ‘We can’t leave her!’

Harry increased his grip on her shoulders, making her gasp. ‘There are at least six of them – probably more. What do you want me to do, shoot them all?’

‘No, but—’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘That we had to meet, to talk. She didn’t say much. I think she was in shock.’

Harry looked up and saw Rik standing by the entrance to a café. He turned and disappeared inside. They followed him and found a table at the back. It wasn’t a big place but crowded enough to provide cover for a while. If the men from the car were combing the area, they would look for anyone leaving the site and heading across the open spaces or roads nearby. Staying right under their noses was not the wisest move, but might be enough to fool them.

‘I’ll stay outside,’ said Rik. ‘They didn’t see me.’ He disappeared through the door.

‘Talk me through it,’ said Harry, after ordering drinks and making sure the briefcase was safely out of the way.

Clare still looked angry, but was beginning to calm down as she saw the sense in Harry’s sudden intervention. If the men had suspected Clare was making an approach, they would have scooped them both up immediately, dealing with any legal fall-out later. Or maybe they had orders not to worry.

‘I thought she didn’t recognise me at first,’ said Clare. ‘Then she said my name. That was all. I told her I was being hunted . . . that some men were trying to kill me after Tobinskiy was murdered.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She looked stunned. I said I was a witness and that Tobinskiy’s killers were now after me, and I thought they were under orders from Sergei Gorelkin, who’s in London. She looked at me as if I was nuts.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. She just said “That can’t be”. Then you rocked up.’

Harry wasn’t sure what to do. Either Katya had believed Clare or she hadn’t. Time would tell. A lot would depend on what the men who had come looking for her would say and do – and what their orders were. If they had been briefed against Balenkova, they would probably take her in for questioning. If so, that would be the last they would see of her.

‘I told her where we were staying,’ said Clare, her voice sombre. ‘In the hopes that she was able to contact us later. Sorry.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll move somewhere else.’ He would leave the hotel a contact number in case, isolating themselves from any possible move against them. Something was puzzling him. ‘She said “That can’t be”. What do you think she meant?’

‘Like I told you earlier, I didn’t think Gorelkin was still around. If he is, he’s been brought out of retirement for a special assignment. Katya must have thought the same thing.’

‘She’d know him, then?’

‘God, yes. Everyone in the FSB knows about him – he’s a legend.’

‘What do you think she’ll do?’

‘Gut feel?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think she’ll call.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘I hope she will, anyway.’

Harry said nothing. It was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen Clare. And no wonder. She had been through the ringer recently, and had put up with more than most people ever have to suffer. Now she was hoping that the one person who had ever meant anything to her, someone whose career she had brought to a stuttering halt, would give her a fair hearing rather than simply turn her over to her bosses.

Rik appeared in the doorway. He walked across the floor and took a seat.

‘They’ve gone. There was a bit of a row with Katya, but she used her mobile and was looking up at the wheel. I think she was talking to her mate on board with the three stooges. Then they all left.’ He looked at Clare apologetically. ‘Katya went with them.’

Back in London, in a service office near Marble Arch hired for the day, Sergei Gorelkin was being brought up to date with events. He listened to the call on his mobile, then shut it down and stared across the table at Votrukhin and Serkhov.