Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (30 page)

He heard the man before he saw him. Whoever he was, he had a clumpy tread and was breathing heavily with a faint wheezing sound, like a worn-out prize-fighter who had encountered too many punches. Rik waited until the last second, then peered out as the man passed beneath a street light. He was short and stocky, dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket. He had close-cropped hair and a developing paunch, but walked with the resolute gait of a man accustomed to long route marches.

The glint of a weapon showed in a hip holster to one side.

As the man drew level with his hiding place, Rik stepped out and hit him across the throat with his gun.

Whatever his physical state, the man had good instincts. He moved to one side the moment he sensed trouble, lifting his forearm to block the attack and uttering a sharp expletive. But he was a fraction of a second too slow. His arm took most of the blow, but the gun barrel glanced off the solid mass of muscle and bone and thudded into his throat. He grunted and made a choking sound and pitched over backwards.

Rik bent and dragged the man into the bushes, picking up the gun which had slipped from its holster. He flipped the body over and took out the man’s shoelaces, then tied his little fingers and thumbs together, palms outwards to prevent him from breaking them, and used the man’s belt to secure his ankles. It wouldn’t last long, but would give them breathing space to get away unseen.

He stopped, hearing footsteps approaching along the street. Another one? He waited, then heard a snuffling sound, and came face to face with a red setter ducking its head beneath the foliage. It stared at him, tongue hanging out, then whined. He wasn’t sure who was most surprised, but was thankful when the dog retreated at a sharp command from a woman walking by just a few feet away.

He allowed her to move away before going back to searching the unconscious man’s pockets. He felt a bulky object in the jacket. It was a shortwave radio. He made sure he didn’t touch the controls and put it in his pocket to dispose of later. Then he set off after the others.

‘Preshkin’s not answering.’ One of Captain Symenko’s lieutenants, a recent addition to the team, had been monitoring the lead man’s progress along the back streets. He had been getting a regular commentary by radio about the direction in which the fugitives were moving, but that had ceased, accompanied by some interference and background static. ‘Hello, Preshkin. Come in,’ he barked, as if to prove it.

‘Leave it.’ Symenko could read the signs well enough; Preshkin had pushed too far ahead and got jumped. He swore, drawing surprised looks from the men in his car. But he had good reason: they were now running blind with only a vague idea where the fugitives might be. But what if they had a car nearby? Then all his fantasies about catching foreign spies – and one clearly traitorous former FSO officer – would be so much dust.

He turned and looked into the back of the Mercedes, at a man sitting scrunched between two of his men. All was not yet lost. He had an ace up his sleeve.

‘Well, Bronyev,’ he muttered, ‘it looks like you may have an opportunity of redeeming your failure to have spotted the treachery in your colleague, Balenkova.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bronyev was angry, but powerless to do anything. As an FSO officer, he had a high degree of leeway over other departments. But Symenko outranked him and his own position had been further weakened, as had been pointed out already back at the embassy, by his claim that he had no inkling of Katya Balenkova’s plan to defect. He had tried arguing that it was not so far a proven defection, but that had carried no weight. If anything, it had made his situation worse.

‘You worked with Balenkova. She knows you. Trusts you.’ Symenko showed his teeth in a nasty grin. ‘Of course, if I hadn’t been told different just a short while ago, I’d even believe you were shtupping her on the side. But that’s not likely, is it – eh? You know why?’

Bronyev made no answer, his face blank.

‘She doesn’t like men, does she?’ Symenko continued. ‘I bet you didn’t know that, did you?’

‘No.’ Bronyev shook his head at a hard elbow in the ribs from the men on his left.

‘No. I thought not. It seems your former colleague has a bit of history in that direction. I’m amazed she was allowed to continue serving. Still, we’ll soon have her back. Then she’ll find out what being a minority really means.’ He tossed a mobile phone into Bronyev’s lap. It was Bronyev’s own. ‘Call her. Tell her to come in. We’ll talk . . . give her a chance to explain herself. No doubt she was overcome by foreign agents and has had no opportunity to break free. That kind of shit. I’ll leave it to you – you know what to say.’

‘She won’t talk to me. Why should she?’

Another elbow in the ribs from the man on his left made him grunt. In spite of his position, Bronyev turned his head and stared at him. The man was big and solid, with a broken nose. A professional FSB bruiser. ‘You do that again and I promise you your nose will be even less attractive than it is now. I’m an officer of the FSO who has done nothing wrong, so accord me some respect.’

The man looked back at him and sniggered, his breath sour with the smell of onions. Then he followed it up with another dig of his elbow.

Symenko opened his mouth to tell his man to back off; he knew just what members of the FSO were capable of, especially at close quarters. He’d seen plenty of their kind in his time, passing through this city with powerful and important men. And Bronyev was right – he had done nothing wrong.

He was too late.

Without a flicker of warning, Bronyev rammed his own elbow upwards at an angle, using his torso to gain full torque and pushing his bunched fist with his free hand for maximum effect. The result was catastrophic for his attacker; his nose, already badly abused, took the full force of Bronyev’s blow, which snapped his head backwards into the roof of the car. A rush of blood sprayed down the front of the man’s jacket, but he was beyond caring, and lolled loosely in his seat like a stringless puppet.

Bronyev didn’t stop there. Sensing the man on his right beginning to move, he thrust his hand down between the man’s legs and grasped a handful of his testicles, and squeezed.

The man froze, eyes going wide.

‘Enough,’ said Bronyev softly, eyes on Symenko. The captain looked stunned by the speed of his reactions. ‘This is unnecessary and you know it, captain. I have it within my right to report you and your men for brutality against a fellow officer.’

Symenko nodded. ‘Yes. Of course. I was about to stop him.’ He glared at the man on Bronyev’s right, who stopped wincing long enough to signal that he was not moving.

‘Good.’ Bronyev released the man and picked up the phone. He hit a speed dial number and waited while it rang out.

‘I
t’s Bronyev, my colleague.’ Katya had switched on her mobile as they approached the end of the street. Seconds later it had buzzed. She had taken it out and was staring at the screen. ‘They’re using him to try to get to me.’

Harry looked past her and Clare, and saw Rik jogging along the street towards them. He was moving easily and had clearly suffered no damage.

They were standing beneath some trees on the edge of a small park not far from Riesenradplatz and the giant wheel. Between them lay the dual carriageway that was Ausstellungsstrasse, running east-west and connecting to the Praterstern gyratory. It was wide and too well lit, and still busy with traffic – an enormous gulf if the Russians had men staking out the most obvious points to watch.

‘Can you trust him?’ Harry asked.

‘I don’t know. I think so, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He will be under pressure to help them. I’ve put him in a terrible position.’

‘Forget it. It’s done. He can’t do anything for you now.’ He was aware that it sounded harsh, but he knew what the situation would have been like had their positions been reversed. The man commanding the pursuers was responding with whatever he had to hand in order to reel them in; and that included leaning on Katya’s former colleague.

A few minutes ago he had called the number of the taxi company on the card from the amusement arcade. Then he had tried Richoux one more time. Still nothing. The lack of response wasn’t good news; local assets like Richoux were chosen for their knowledge, contacts and reliability, in case an operative needed help on the ground. That help ranged from the provision of equipment, like guns and a safe place to stay, to simple background information on a place or a person which only a local resident could pick up. If an asset was indisposed for any reason, there was always a backup message to explain it. Going off-line in the way Richoux had done meant that he had been intercepted and blown.

End of game.

‘Can they lock in on your mobile?’ He was aware that some phones had anti-tracking devices. He’d never seen the point, since software development invariably put the ungodly just one shade behind the good. But using a mobile that was open to triangulation or tracking the signal would be a sure way of being caught very quickly. And Katya’s colleagues would almost certainly have a search going on right now for her signal.

‘No. The risk is too great for FSO protection officers. All our phones are fitted with blocking software.’ She looked at him with a faint smile. ‘Don’t you have it in your department?’

‘I don’t have a department. Life’s much simpler that way.’

As Rik joined them, a light coloured Mercedes cruised to the kerb and stopped. It was a taxi. The driver looked across at them with a questioning lift of the head. Stopping for an unknown pick-up on the edge of a park was a risky business in any city, even Vienna. But taxi drivers have to make a living, too.

Clare stepped into the light, her arm through Katya’s. The driver nodded and beckoned them aboard, listened to the destination Harry gave him, and set off for the Praterstern and the south.

The area known as Favoriten was a mixed residential and commercial zone, the cultures of its residents leaning heavily in favour of Turks, Croatians and Serbians, all workers who had populated the area over many decades. The safe house had been chosen, Harry guessed, for this very reason. In an area where incomers were frequent and varied, and their backgrounds often too obviously tragic to question, nobody would pay much attention to a few more moving among them. Hopefully, it would only be for one night, before moving out again the following day.

He got the driver to drop them off not far from the exit from the A23, which ran north-south through the district, near a collection of large apartment blocks. They waited for the Mercedes to disappear before turning and following Harry along the street to one block of five set among parkland.

‘We should check it out first,’ cautioned Rik, as they surveyed the building from the shadows beneath a belt of trees. It was neat, bland and four storeys high, with bedding and washing blowing out from verandas along its length. Nearly every window showed a light, testament to the working day being over and a sign of normality. But entering this place without care was asking for trouble, especially with Richoux having gone silent.

Harry agreed. ‘I’ll go with Katya. You stay here with Clare.’

He and Katya set off, walking close and slowly, like a couple returning home, their bags and the briefcase close enough to resemble shopping to throw anyone off-guard. Once off the street they followed a neat pathway to the main entrance, and inside, used the stairs. Both had their hands on their guns, aware that if trouble was waiting for them, they would have split seconds to react and fight their way out.

The apartment that was their safe house was on the first floor. They walked past it once, studying the lock for signs of a forced entry. It looked good, and after reaching the end of the corridor, they turned and went back.

Harry knocked while Katya stood to one side.

No answer.

He inserted the key and pushed the door. It stuck for a second, then opened, releasing a gust of warm, stale air. Harry stepped inside, dropping his bag and moving swiftly forward along a short hallway into an open living room. Katya slid past him and checked out a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom.

‘Clear,’ she said, and returned to join him.

Harry dialled Rik’s number and gave the all-clear to come in.

‘We need food,’ said Katya. ‘I saw a store along the next street where we were dropped off.’

Harry nodded. It made sense. Going out in a group to eat would attract attention. They were clearly not Turkish, and their clothes in a well-lit restaurant would mark them out immediately as foreigners, and therefore a subject of interest. ‘Good idea. Cold meats, preferably, and bread. Coffee, too.’ He held up his mobile. ‘I need to make a couple of calls.’

Katya nodded and went out.

As soon as Rik and Clare arrived, Harry dialled Ballatyne’s number. It rang without answer. He tried again in case he’d misdialled. Still no response.

‘Problem?’ Rik was standing by the kitchen door, watching him. Clare had gone into the bathroom.

‘Could be, but I don’t know what. Ballatyne isn’t picking up.’

Rik delved into his bag and opened his iPad, waiting for a connection. Seconds later, he was tapping away one-handed on the screen’s virtual keyboard.

‘What are you doing?’ Harry queried.

‘Just checking something. Won’t be a minute.’

Harry left him to it and took a walk round the apartment. He wondered how many people had used this place before. It was minimally furnished, with two single beds, chairs, table, small sofa and cupboards. No carpet but a simple tiled floor. It reminded him of British army accommodation around the world: basic, unfussy, plain and cheerless. There was probably a specialist department somewhere in Whitehall, with an order book full of details about such furniture very similar to this.

He turned off the room lights before approaching the windows, and checked the view of the parkland and street outside as carefully as he could. There was too much shadow and darkness to be certain of anything, however. He considered that ironic seeing as how he had been relying on that very thing to survey the apartment building before coming in.