‘Vanessa Tan,’ Ballatyne intoned quietly. ‘Age thirty, daughter of a Hong Kong Chinese father and English mother. Currently a lieutenant with the Royal Logistics Corps. Did impressively well at Cambridge, came away with two Firsts and decided on an army career. Came out top of her intake, shook off the competition and got herself seconded as a junior aide-de-camp to Deputy Commander, International Security Assistance Force, Afghanistan. She speaks Pashto and Dari, which puts her in the upper point-five per cent of serving personnel in the region.’
‘Really?’ Harry grunted. ‘It’s a miracle she didn’t get assigned to a depot on Salisbury Plain counting bootlaces. When did she run?’
‘Two weeks ago. She failed to report for her flight back to Afghanistan after leave. That’s all we know. She’s reputed to have what some call an eidetic memory. It means she has the ability to recall hundreds, maybe thousands, of images, pictures, graphics, you name it, as well as sounds and objects. She’s a walking bloody digital recording unit, in other words.’
‘Ouch.’ Harry could only imagine what that meant in planning meetings; dozens of maps, schematics, video presentations and data, let alone the reams of stuff an ADC would be handling on a daily basis. And all there to be absorbed and retained, a veritable human databank. ‘Conversation, too?’
Ballatyne shrugged. ‘We don’t know for sure, but colleagues claimed instances when she had recalled pretty much word-for-word discussions which took place days before. That aside, she’s got a head full of battle plans and logistical information, as well as an unspecified amount of detail about forthcoming operations and key personnel in southern Afghanistan. Detail which can’t be changed or erased.’
‘And you want her back.’
‘I don’t. The army does. No arguments.’
Like Pike, then. Tan was someone who couldn’t be allowed to simply go adrift. She was cursed with knowing too much for her own good. He felt an instinct to avoid this one, without knowing why. Perhaps because it was a woman. ‘Haven’t you got a female recovery officer to handle this?’
‘If I had and she was experienced enough, she’d be on it already.’ Ballatyne flicked a glance at the next bench where two girls in shorts and boots were dumping heavy backpacks on the ground. One of them looked across and gave a vague smile. ‘Tan puts Pike right in the shade,’ Ballatyne added, ‘value-wise.’
Harry slid the photo and sheet of paper back in the envelope and put it away inside his jacket. ‘Why did she run?’
‘Does it matter? She’s got a head full of top-secret information which we don’t want anyone else to have.’
‘Somebody must have an idea what spooked her. It might help me find her.’ Somebody always knew, in his experience; friend, colleague, unit chaplain or family member. Look deep enough and there was always a hint. People on the edge dropped clues, gave off vibes, voiced concerns or worries, responded negatively to something they would customarily have treated as commonplace. Whatever had tipped Tan over the edge was unlikely to have been front-line battle trauma, however. As an aide to the regional deputy commander, she’d have been remote from any front-line action. Serving in Kabul didn’t automatically preclude stress or danger, but it wouldn’t have been the kind picked up from ducking bullets or going face first into a darkened alley, not knowing if the bump in the ground you were stepping on was goat shit or an IED — an improvised explosive device — about to erupt beneath your boots.
‘If there is someone she took into her confidence, we haven’t found them yet. She seems to have kept pretty much to herself, although that’s no surprise; as ADC to the Deputy Commander ISAF, she’d have been kept on the run more than most.’
Harry looked at him. The ‘yet’ implied they were still looking, which meant he wasn’t the only one on this. An indication, perhaps, of Tan’s perceived value. Yet Ballatyne seemed remarkably calm about her, as if she were just another member of the forces adrift out in the open.
Ballatyne seemed to read his mind. ‘She’s only unusual in that she’s a woman. The others are just as critical, if not more so; they have detailed equipment information which the brass don’t want let out. We need to find all of them, find out who they’ve been talking to and re-introduce them to the concept of duty.’ He waved a hand. ‘You know the stuff.’
Harry wasn’t sure he believed that, especially with someone like Tan. Anyone with her service background who cut and bolted would never be allowed near the brass again. She’d be watched, followed, monitored round the clock, even kept under lock and key if necessary while her knowledge degraded. Any concept of ‘duty’ had been rendered invalid the moment she’d jumped the fence.
Ballatyne, though, was on a roll. ‘There’s a far bigger problem than her simply deserting.’
‘Go on.’
‘We suspect she might have been targeted by the Protectory.’
NINE
‘That’s campfire stuff.’ Harry had heard the stories, like everyone else. The Protectory was the subject of military water-cooler gossip, up there with UFOs, Area 51 and Elvis sharing a condo in Florida with Michael Jackson. Rumoured to be a group of disaffected ex-soldiers, deserters or discharged, they had allegedly formed a loosely knit band of sympathizers after the first Gulf War to help others of their kind. Shadowy and elusive, their numbers and identities unknown, they were mostly dismissed as the creation of cranks and too much barrack-room chatter. Harry was surprised Ballatyne was giving the matter much credence. Unless he knew a lot more than gossip allowed.
Ballatyne didn’t even blink. ‘I wish it were. But if she’s with any kind of group, I’d rather she was cut adrift before she does any damage.’
‘So you believe the rumours?
‘Doesn’t matter what I believe. Others believe it, that’s my problem.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘About eight years ago a Major Colin Nicholls in the Intelligence Corps went AWOL after being wounded in a firefight in northern Iraq. He was working undercover ahead of conventional forces, and it was his third time down — an unlucky bugger to share a bunker with, if you ask me. He was sent back to the UK and treated; given the usual review and post-op psychobabble, but it didn’t stick; he bugged out before the shrinks could lock him on a programme.’
‘They missed the signs.’
‘Maybe. Don’t forget he was Intelligence; hiding stuff is in their nature. Before Iraq he’d been playing secret squirrel in Northern Ireland, snooping on the Real IRA. Anyway, after his third strike in Iraq he dropped out of sight and nobody’s seen him since; no contact with family or friends, no footprint from bank accounts or plastic. It was like he’d dropped off the edge.’
‘As you said, it’s what they do.’
‘I suppose. Anyway, about twelve months ago a former colleague thought he spotted Nicholls in a restaurant in Sydney, talking to two men. The colleague took a photo on his mobile and sent it in. It’s not a confirmed sighting because the man turned away, but the other two were identified as long-term deserters. Their names had cropped up before in connection with others who’d done a bunk and gone underground. We think they were with Nicholls for a reason.’
‘The Protectory?’
‘Correct. The word is old — it means protecting waifs and strays. Someone’s twisted idea of a joke, if you ask me, considering some of the people they’ll be helping.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Still, it would fit the kind of man Nicholls was said to be: idealistic, apparently; good family; highly intelligent but emotionally a little naive.’