Red Station (33 page)

Harry studied the man's face. Felt a glimmer of recognition. Was it the man he recognized or was it the type he'd seen too often before?

Whatever. The rifle said it all.

Harry rolled sideways, aiming to reach dead ground away from the road and Latham's direct line of sight. If he could get on his flank unseen, he'd be able to—

A shot rang out and kicked up earth a foot to his left.

He froze. Latham could see him; probably not completely, but enough to know when he moved.

‘Stand up!' It was a voice accustomed to giving orders. Cold, unemotional.

Harry got to his feet, the gun concealed behind his leg.

Latham had stopped thirty yards away, the rifle barrel lifting. Too far away for a handgun, Harry thought distractedly. But easy meat for a rifle.

Latham knew it, too. He had a trace of a smile on his face.

Harry flicked his eyes sideways to see if he could spot Rik or Clare. But they were nowhere to be seen.

It was a tight situation, and not merely for them. If Latham opened fire on Harry, he'd be exposing his side for the brief seconds it took to aim and pull the trigger. It would be long enough to allow Clare and Rik to take him out and Latham would know that.

Harry watched the rifle barrel lifting towards him, and got ready to throw himself sideways. He wondered how much time Clare had put in on the combat course with a hand-gun.

Nothing like enough, if Latham was all he was supposed to be.

SIXTY

‘
I
t's not going well, I grant you. But it will.' Sir Anthony Bellingham stared out over the river towards Westminster and lit a cigar. The dawn was slow in rising, and a cold wind was scything across the water, chopping the tops of the waves into droplets of spray. He puffed on the cigar until it was burning satisfactorily and glanced sideways at George Paulton. The MI5 man was chewing on a fingernail and looked miserable with worry and cold.

They were alone apart from Sir Anthony's bodyguard standing thirty yards away. It was too soon in the day for the area to be populated by anyone other than those with secrets on their minds, so there was little chance of anyone coming too close.

‘So you said.' Paulton didn't sound comforted.

‘Come on, George, for Christ's sake!' Bellingham spat out a mouthful of smoke. ‘You knew this venture was risky, same as I did. It's what we do, isn't it? It's what gets the blood racing. Is for me, anyway.'

‘I could do without it, thank you.' Paulton's voice was barely registering. ‘You said this was controllable; that you had them watched twenty-four-seven, over and above my watch team. So how is it they've all disappeared into the woodwork apart from Mace? Is your man going to find them or not?'

‘He's not bloody Superman, George. There's the added problem of the Russians to cope with . . . and Tate's not helping. Where in God's name did you pick him up, by the way? The man's a frigging menace.'

‘Does it matter now?' Paulton resented the accusatory tone, implying that this was, by implication of who he employed, entirely down to him.

‘I suppose not.' Bellingham spat out a fragment of tobacco. ‘Do you know what the people in Red Station call your watch team, George? Did I ever tell you?'

‘Is it relevant?'

‘Very. They refer to them as the Clones. Shows how seriously they're taken, doesn't it? Clones. They were supposed to be invisible; unidentifiable. But guess who went out of his way to identify the current batch by drawing them out? Harry Tate, that's who. Drew them out and painted them with a giant bloody cross.'

Paulton said nothing, but stared down at the grey water. He felt sick.

‘Did you hear, by the way,' Bellingham continued, his voice like poisoned silk, ‘that one of your Clones ran into trouble?'

‘Yes. He got dragged into a local argument. He'll be back as soon as he can get a flight out.' Paulton's tone was flat, resentful.

‘Is that what the team leader told you – that he'd be coming back? I wouldn't bet your braces on it.'

Paulton's head snapped round. ‘What do you mean?'

Bellingham tapped ash from his cigar on to the wall, where the wind picked it up and rolled it over the edge into the water. ‘Seems your man – name of Stanbridge, by the way – got bounced while searching Tate's flat. Bit careless of him, I thought.' He smiled. ‘Not that he lived to regret it.'

‘
What?
'

‘He's dead, George. As cold mutton. Last seen in a flat rented out to an Italian David Bailey who's been taken into custody for spying . . . or something close to it. Tate moved the body down there after it'd been turned over by the local security police. Clever chap; quick on his feet for an old 'un. Should have recruited him myself, then maybe we wouldn't be in this God-awful mess.'

‘How do you know all this – and why wasn't I told?' Paulton was quivering with a mixture of rage, fear and the chill coming off the river. ‘I don't believe it – Tate's not a killer.'

‘Bollocks.' Bellingham had had enough. He tossed his cigar into the water and turned up his coat collar. ‘Everyone's a killer if you press the right buttons. Stanbridge didn't top himself, did he? Don't worry about it, George. It's all in hand. Latham has his orders. If he doesn't get them in town, he'll do it before they leave the country. One, two, three, out.'

He turned and walked away, leaving George Paulton fuming impotently.

SIXTY-ONE

L
atham's eyes were blank; plain dark flints in an unemotional face. He was gaunt, with bony cheeks and a scrub of mousy brown hair over a wide forehead. Standing there, relaxed and in control, he could have been an athlete waiting for his next event.

Except for the assault rifle.

‘They don't come out,' Latham said easily, loud enough for the others to hear, ‘I shoot you. Then I go looking for them.'

‘Is that your assignment?' Harry asked. ‘To terminate us?' He blinked hard. He was sure he'd seen something moving in the background, some way behind Latham. Wishful thinking, maybe? Or a hallucination?

‘Something like that.' Latham glanced away and lifted his voice. ‘Come on – I don't have much patience! Out here, both of you!'

Harry watched the barrel of the assault rifle. He was trying not to focus on the flicker of movement he'd seen by the side of the road. It had come from the same point where Latham must have emerged from the trees. Had he got help after all?

If it was Clare or Rik, what could they do? They'd have to be quick.

‘Orders from Bellingham, is it?' Harry forced Latham to look at him, to draw his attention away. ‘Or was it Paulton? Has to be one of them, although I can't see Paulton authorizing someone like you.'

Latham lifted one eyebrow and the rifle moved an inch. ‘Careful, Tate. You really shouldn't be rude, not in your position. Getting gut-shot can be very painful, so I'm told.' He feigned a yawn. ‘But you're right: Paulton hasn't got the balls.'

Harry tensed his body and gripped the semi-automatic even tighter. It occurred to him that Latham must know he was still armed. So why hadn't he ordered him to drop his weapon? A random shot from a handgun could still kill you, even over thirty yards. Or was the man so arrogant that he was beyond all caution?

The muzzle of the assault rifle flashed briefly, and the sound of the shot rolled away into the open countryside. Harry felt a sharp tug at his left arm, then he was spinning away, a mixture of messages relayed to his brain and informing him that he'd been hit and that pain was sure to follow.

He dropped to one knee, a stone gouging sharply against the bone, and felt the first wave of agony stitch across his upper body. A flesh wound, he told himself, and felt an impulse to giggle. A Monty Python movie.
Only a flesh wound.
Bloody hell, it was still flesh – and it hurt!

‘One thing I've always been good at,' said Latham chattily, ‘is weaponry. I was a sniper for a bit, in the first Gulf job. Got bored, though. Like shooting ducks off a plank. No real challenge. This is much better.'

There was a movement to Harry's right, and Clare Jardine climbed to her feet. Six feet further on, Rik did the same. They both held their guns pointed at Latham.

Shit!
Harry wished they'd stayed down. They were too far off for accurate shooting, and if they were hoping Latham would freak out, they were wrong. He eased the gun in his palm and got ready to move. He'd get one chance and one chance only.

There was another movement, this time behind Latham. And much closer. A figure loomed up, seeming to float above the ground. It closed in on the killer, as silent as smoke. Then came a faint scuff of sound, of leather on tarmac.

Latham sensed the threat like the hunter he was. He began to turn his head, mouth opening in surprise. The rifle barrel wavered.

The figure behind him suddenly became clear.

Nikolai.

The Russian moved with the precision of a dancer, weaving slightly to stay out of Latham's line of sight. He covered the last few feet in a rush, then he was on the killer like a wraith, one arm wrapping around his head, clamping him rigidly in place, the other swinging round and up beneath the ribs with a deadly flash of silver.

He's a cutter, if ever I saw one
. Mace's words came back to Harry.

Latham's mouth opened wide, his eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Harry as the improbable happened.

A grunt from both men and another thrust of the knife. A muffled thump as it was driven home. Latham reared up on his toes, chest thrust outward in pain, a brief, almost balletic move that was over even as it began. He coughed once.

Then his eyes fluttered. And closed.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

‘You should go. Now.' Nikolai kicked some brushwood over Latham's body. Under his instructions they had dragged it in among the trees, to a small depression in the ground. Moments before, he had wiped his blade on the dead man's combat jacket, then searched the body for anything that might identify him.

‘These should not be left here.' He handed a wallet and a passport to Harry. Nikolai's accent was noticeable, but the English was fluent, confident.

Harry passed his gun to Clare, took the documents and put them in his pocket.

‘Why did you do this?' he asked. He wondered how the Russian had got here. He must have followed them . . . or Latham.

‘Because it would not be helpful if you or your colleagues came to harm here.' The eyes were without expression, cold. Then he said, echoing Kostova's words, ‘We have enough problems without your Foreign Office asking questions about missing . . . tourists.' There was no humour in the deliberate euphemism.

Harry nodded. ‘Thank you. What now?'

‘His car is behind the trees. Take it and go. I will take care of the rest.'

‘How did you know about him?'

Nikolai shrugged. ‘It is not important. Go.' He turned and walked away, and was soon lost behind the trees.

Harry took a deep breath as a wave of nausea overtook him. The wound in his arm was beginning to throb. He signalled to the others to collect everything from the Toyota, then led them through the trees and out the other side to where a battered Hyundai off-road vehicle stood waiting. It had a smashed headlamp and side window, with bullet holes in the bonnet and wing. Not bad shooting, he reflected. Especially in the dark and under pressure. Pickering, his first weapons instructor, would have been proud.

‘We need to get rid of the guns,' he said, and leaned against the car, sucking in air. Nikolai was a hundred yards away by some bushes, shrugging on a camouflage jacket. A crash helmet lay at his feet and a glint of metal showed through the leaves.

He'd come by trail bike.

Clare stared at Harry. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes. Just tired, that's all.' He checked the rear of the vehicle in case it contained anything incriminating.
As if
, he thought wryly,
anything could be more incriminating than a car riddled with bullets.
He wanted to throw up but decided it would be very uncool right now. Concentrating on something mundane would take his mind off it.

He found a small holdall tucked away under a waterproof sheet. Inside was a change of clothes, a wash-kit and a plastic Ziploc bag. Just as he'd hoped: Latham believed in travelling prepared for emergencies. The Ziploc contained a miniature trauma pack, with enough bandages and dressings to keep his injured arm protected until he got back to England. Or fell over trying.

He joined Rik in the back seat and dumped the Ziploc in his lap. ‘Read the instructions and play nurse, and I'll promise not to scream.' He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the blood on his arm.

‘What?
Christ, man . . .
!' Rik looked horrified, but took the bag and found a pair of scissors. He cut away Harry's sleeve and exposed the wound, and Harry saw he was missing a small chunk of flesh. But no broken bones.

That was OK, he decided. It was a flesh wound after all.

Then he fainted clean away.

SIXTY-TWO

S
ix hours later, they were in a hire car heading north on the A1 to Calais.

Getting on board the Air France evacuation flight had been without incident. Anxious to get all foreign nationals away as quickly as possible, the authorities had ensured that passport control had been brief. Isabelle was waiting, checking people in against a list. At Rik's request, she had vouched for Clare as an extra passenger, and allowed them to consign their rucksacks to cargo baggage.