Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (36 page)

They sat in silence after that, neither having much to say. After working together so long, more often than not in dangerous situations, the two men had developed the art of silent companionship, speaking only when necessary.

Through the thin walls came the sound of boats passing in the channel; small work vessels, engines clattering, the occasional fast launch crashing over the water, and heavier vessels seemingly taking an age to go by and making the ancient building shudder with their noise.

After thirty minutes, with the light fading outside, Votrukhin’s phone rang. He answered it and listened, then shut it off.

‘The boat’s on its way in. We wait inside for a signal.’

Serkhov sucked on his teeth and spat across the room. He’d been getting more and more restless, and didn’t think much of the arrangements. Nothing to eat or drink, in danger of some local idiot dog walker seeing them here and reporting them to the police, and neither of them knowing what was going to happen afterwards.

‘Seems a dull way to leave the country,’ he commented. ‘There was a moment when I thought we might go out like that film . . .
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
, shooting our way out through a bunch of English cops.’

Votrukhin said, ‘You think too much.’

‘No. I’m being realistic. Your trouble is, you believe all the crap they sold you about duty for the country and service, and how being an officer lifts you up the ladder. Me, I stopped listening to that years ago. We’re still at the same shit level we were at ten years back, and it doesn’t look like getting better, after what Gorelkin put us through.’

‘So why are you here, then? You want to die a hero’s death, is that it?’

‘Well, it might be better than wasting away in a foreign prison. Or finding that we’re going to carry the can for Gorelkin’s cock-up and end up in a recycled
gulag
for a few years.’

‘You’ve really got a thing for him, haven’t you?’

‘You mean you haven’t? This whole trip’s been a mess from start to finish. We did Tobinskiy, which is what we came for. But it’s all been downhill from there. No real planning, no backup, no fall-back plan for when the shit hit the fan, like it seems to have done. And now we’re sneaking out like kids raiding a chicken coop – and after what?’

‘We don’t know if it failed. Gorelkin might have got the Jardine woman some other way. Anyway, when did you ever know an operation go perfectly as planned? It’s why they use us, because we can adapt.’

‘Adapt my arse . . .’ Serkhov’s head snapped up at the sound of an engine. It sounded closer and lighter than any before. ‘What’s that?’

‘Probably a tender from the boat to pick us up.’

They both stood up, and it took a moment for both men to realise that the engine noise had come from the rear of the cottage, where they had left their car, not from the sea.

‘Fuck!’ Serkhov swore and pulled out his gun. ‘This doesn’t sound good.’ He stepped across to the window and glanced out. When he turned to Votrukhin, he looked grim. ‘Four men getting out of a car. They’re armed with machine guns.’

V
otrukhin joined Serkhov, pulling out his weapon. He peered out and shook his head. The sergeant wasn’t exaggerating. It was no contest. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and four men with fully automatic weapons. Enough fire power to blow this rotten building off its foundations.

‘Whoever they are, they’re not here to tell us job well done.’ He paused, then did a double-take on the man in the lead, who was signalling his men to spread out, the way a good commander should. ‘Mother of God, I know that man. His name’s Brizsinsky, Breshevsky . . . something like that. He was Spetsnaz. I heard he was in V Section.’

Serkhov looked relieved. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? It means we’re going home. Let the British try stopping us now.’ He stepped towards the door, eager to be gone.

But Votrukhin wasn’t moving. He grasped Serkhov’s arm. ‘Wait. You don’t understand. V Section ran special penetration operations. Fast in, fast out. Really high-level stuff. If they’ve been sent here, it’s not to pick us up.’

Serkhov frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I heard V Section was closed down a few years ago, but a few guys were kept on for special duties.’ He nodded towards the outside. ‘Including Brizsinsky or whatever the hell his name is. Nobody knows where they’re based, and they work completely off the books. They’re ghosts.’

‘I never heard that. How come you know about them?’

‘I’m an officer. We hear things.’

‘What sort of special duties?’ Serkhov’s voice had dropped several notches.

‘They’re called cleaners. They make sure bad mistakes get buried.’

Serkhov stared at him for a few seconds as the implication set in. This wasn’t something Votrukhin would joke about. ‘Go fuck a goat. Doesn’t look like there’s going to be a boat after all, does it? Bastards.’ He ejected the magazine, checking the load by feel, then clicked it back into place. ‘
Now
do you finally believe me? We’ve been stuffed.’

Votrukhin nodded. ‘Yes. I believe you.’ He turned and spat on the floor. ‘God, I hate it when you’re right.’

‘Never mind. I had to be at least once.’ He shook his head and spat on the same spot. ‘You think we’ll be heroes back home among the other guys, for what we did?’

‘For knocking off Tobinskiy, you mean?’ Votrukhin shook his head. ‘No, my friend. Nobody will talk about that, ever. They might pretend to miss us when we don’t turn up . . . might even have a dinner at Tinkoff’s in The Arbat with the proceeds of the sale. But that’s about it.’ He was referring to the alleged custom of selling off a fallen comrade’s personal possessions if there was no family to consider. Neither Votrukhin nor Serkov had ever given time to such things as family. Not that either man had much to sell, in any case.

‘I thought that sentimental shit was for officers only.’

‘Not at all. It’s just that the rest of you scum can’t be bothered to celebrate our heroes.’

A few minutes passed, then Serkhov muttered, ‘I would like to have been a hero. So people on the base could point me out to new recruits and say, “There goes Sergeant Leonid Serkhov. He’s got the balls of a bull elephant.” It would have been nice.’

‘Are we talking about courage or size? There’s a difference.’

‘Sergeants can be heroes, too.’

‘I guess. But not often, because they’re mostly useless insubordinate bastards who prefer to get drunk. But it does happen.’

‘Up yours, lieutenant. We sergeants are the backbone of any army, hadn’t you heard?’ Serkhov reached in his pocket and took out the pink plastic powder compact he’d taken from the Jardine woman. ‘I won’t be needing this anymore, will I? Do you think pink brings soldiers bad luck? Is that what went wrong?’

‘No. But carrying that thing does make you look like a girl.’

Serkhov grinned. He bent and placed the compact on the plank where Votrukhin had been sitting. ‘Maybe she’ll get it back some day. The Jardine woman.’

‘Sure, why not?’ Votrukhin slapped him on the arm and took a deep breath. ‘Shall we do this, Leonid? Or should I call you Butch?’

‘No, Fyodor. I’m Sundance. You’re Butch.’

They walked to the door, guns held loosely by their sides, then opened it wide and stepped out into the night.

‘I
t’s over.’ It was Ballatyne’s voice echoing down the wire. He sounded tired. ‘Two bodies were found on the shore near Canvey Island late last night. The descriptions match our two Russians.’

‘What happened?’ Harry felt an odd sense of relief. He’d done enough chasing and shooting recently; all he wanted now was for this to end.

‘The locals heard a lot of gunfire coming from an abandoned fisherman’s cottage. One was a former armourer and recognised automatic fire. He called in some of Crampton’s pals. When they got there they found two dead and a lot of spent shells.’

‘It wasn’t your lot, then?’

‘No. This was an execution; the two dead men got off a couple of rounds each, but if they hit anyone there were no signs of it. A couple of dog walkers further back down the road remember two cars going by at separate times, but it’s a public road and popular with young couples. The cops are trawling any cameras in the area for footage, but they don’t hold out much hope. They’re writing it up as a gangland shooting, to keep the press happy.’

‘It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Why would the Russians eliminate their own people?’

‘Possibly to get rid of an embarrassing situation. If Gorelkin and his two hoods were operating off the books and without official sanction, no matter how high up the orders came from, nobody this side of the next ice age is going to say otherwise. We can’t prove who they were, and Moscow will deny any knowledge until the vodka runs dry. In the end it’ll be forgotten.’

‘And Gorelkin?’

‘Already gone. He was escorted onto a plane at Heathrow by two embassy security types late yesterday afternoon. He didn’t look well.’

‘You didn’t stop him?’

‘Why bother? He was here as a private citizen, and nobody wants to pursue a case of entering the country under false papers, which is all we’d get him on. We have to watch the pennies these days. In any case, my guess is he’s going back to a far worse punishment than anything we could dish out. How’s your neck?’

‘My neck’s fine. We were lucky . . . they weren’t trying to kill us, just put us off.’ Harry was convinced that the ramming hadn’t been accidental. The timing had been too perfectly executed, when all their attention was on the car in front. It had taken skill, but even Bruce had agreed that it was possible, given the right training.

‘You still think that?’

‘I do. Any news about Paulton?’

‘He’s keeping his head down if he has any sense. There’s now a charge out on him for suborning a member of the security services to gain information under the Official Secrets Act, and the murder of the same individual.’

Harry let it slide. There was something Ballatyne wasn’t telling him; something to do with Paulton, he was certain. Maybe it would come out in time.

‘And Deane?’

‘Resigned. She’s decided to pursue another line of deviousness elsewhere.’

‘Did you have anything to do with that?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

Harry changed tack. ‘I tried calling Clare. She’s not answering. Do you have the address of the clinic where she’s being treated?’

‘I do, but I hear she left the clinic and has gone away with Balenkova. I think they’re off somewhere hot for some rest and recuperation. Can’t say I blame them, to be honest. Don’t worry, Harry, I’m sure she’ll call one day.’

Harry wasn’t sure. Clare had no reason to call him. What had been between them was an incident in history, now over and done. She had a future to work on. All the same, he couldn’t forget the words she had uttered in Vienna, about Paulton:
‘If you don’t get him, I will.’

T
he 20.00 hours Eurostar pulled out of St Pancras right on the button. George Paulton relaxed for the first time that day, after scanning the rest of the Business/Premier carriage. It was nearly deserted, as he’d hoped, with only a group of French business types further back, already fading fast towards sleep as conversation ceased and tiredness took over.

He watched the lights flickering by outside, and wondered how everything had gone so horribly wrong. By rights he should have been staying in London now, dining out wherever the mood took him, his freedom assured by order of the Home Secretary, his case made secure by pressure from the movers and shakers in the security departments, like Candida Deane.

But that was not to be. Deane had dropped off the radar, and no amount of digging had found her. The fact that she was refusing his calls meant one thing only: his value had dropped to nil in her eyes and she no longer wished to be associated with him. Instead, he was slinking out in the night to an uncertain future and with an even bigger price on his head than ever before.

But at least he was alive, which was a fate better than Gorelkin could look forward to. If he knew the kind of masters the old spy faced back in Moscow, payment would be very short and sharp indeed.

Trying to play Gorelkin had been a huge mistake; he should never have responded to the Russian’s call in the first place. The man had been born devious and it was in his DNA to keep his real cards behind his back. But the opportunity to buy himself back into the country had seemed too good to miss.

Now that was all in the past.

He fought to keep a lid on the rage that was bubbling away inside him. All jobs carried a tally, good and bad, and he had gained so little coming here; no redress with Tate, no settling of scores with Jardine . . . and most of all, not even the pleasure of turning the tables on those in the security establishment who had turned their backs on him so easily and left him out in the cold.

His thoughts were disturbed by the connecting door at the end of the carriage behind him sliding open. Footsteps shuffled along the aisle, one set, maybe two. He settled instinctively deeper into his seat, reducing his profile, and became vaguely aware of two figures stopping at a set of four seats across from him. He watched in the reflection in the glass as they sat down across from each other, placing bags on the table between them. Two women, he noted, oddly dressed.

It took a moment for him to realise that they were covered from head to toe in black burkas, with only their eyes visible. They were speaking softly in French, the words muffled beneath the cloth, too soft to pick up. North African Muslims, he guessed, returning to Paris after a visit to London.

He ignored them and found himself drifting, his earlier anger now fading, deflected by the interruption. A good thing, he decided; agonising over what had not been accomplished was pointless; he’d learned that years ago. Now he had to face the future, wherever that might be. He had money enough, depending on where he finished up, but he would have to put his mind to one or two schemes he’d been considering in order to keep the funds coming in.