‘If they stumbled into a minefield, it’s likely one or more would have survived, even if wounded — certainly long enough to keep the tracking devices going and call it in. That didn’t happen. A larger explosion would have been captured on the watching satellites. Nobody has reported one. If they all went down in quick succession, with no time to call it in, there is only one explanation.’
Rudmann made a guess. ‘They were taken out by ground forces.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about our own team?’
‘There’s no news.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It depends how you read it.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘They carried the same markers, but standing orders were to call in regularly. We use a different system to the Americans. Harder to track.’ He opened the door and looked back at her with the steely look which Rudmann recognized as the traditional soldier’s face for politicians when importing bad news. ‘They failed to make the last two scheduled calls.’
Five hours later, an emergency meeting was convened in the Cabinet Office at No. 10. Present were the Deputy PM, the Secretary of State for Defence, Lieutenant-Colonel Spake and Lieutenant Commander David Brill, rushed in by car from Northwood.
‘All of them?’ The Deputy PM looked stunned by the news Brill had delivered, and the confirmation email from the National Security Agency’s liaison officer in London which was in his hand. He looked to Spake for a response which might counter the information, and wondered how to tell the PM.
‘Yes, sir.’ Spake’s confirmation was enough for the Deputy PM. The Special Forces man wasn’t much liked in the corridors of Whitehall; his aura of quiet danger sat uncomfortably alongside the well-fed civil servants and politicians. But his credentials were beyond criticism. ‘Both teams.’
‘How?’ the Deputy PM asked weakly. ‘They were our top men, weren’t they?’
‘My guess is, they were tracked from the moment they went in.’ Spake’s voice was neutral. ‘It was a risky operation anyway, but if they were all spotted so quickly, it could have only been because the Russians already had a detection shield in place. They would have been tracked from the moment they went in. Once they were down, they had nowhere to go.’
The Deputy blinked and glanced quickly at the Secretary of State. He wondered whose signature was the most likely to show up on the paperwork responsible for sending in the Special Reconnaissance team. He was relieved it wasn’t his. That, thank God, had been something he had not been entrusted with.
‘The Prime Minister will be devastated,’ he murmured finally. ‘Devastated.’
‘I’m sure he will. Is that all, sir?’ There was just sufficient bite in his voice to make his feelings clear, before he spun on his heel and made for the door.
The Secretary of State stopped him.
‘Is there anything we can do? For the team, I mean?’
‘What would you suggest?’ Spake kept his back turned, his voice as bleak as Siberian snow. ‘Send in another team to look for them?’
He strode from the room, leaving the two politicians and an embarrassed Lieutenant Commander Brill staring at each other in bewilderment.
THIRTY-THREE
‘ Rudmann’s becoming a nuisance. She’s asking too many questions.’
George Paulton eased his collar around his neck as he spoke. Either he was putting on weight or his shirts were shrinking. He crossed his ankles under the desk and tried to remain calm. Sang froid in the face of adversity was the way to play it, otherwise the hyenas would move in for the kill.
Hyenas like Marcella Rudmann.
‘Ignore her.’ The man standing near the window looked urbane and confident, at ease in a dazzling white shirt and light grey suit. Sir Anthony Bellingham — he rarely used the title — bore another, far more interesting designation: that of Deputy Director (Operations) of MI6 — Paulton’s opposite number in the Secret Intelligence Service. He eyed Paulton with the intensity of an eagle looking at a morsel of food. ‘You worry too much.’
‘So you keep saying. But I don’t have the same… resources that you enjoy.’ It was Paulton’s way of saying power and influence, without actually using those words. For two men on seemingly equal levels, the fact that Bellingham had more of both was a growing source of irritation, a reminder also reflected in the budgetary allocations poured into SIS.
‘Be glad of it, George, be glad of it. It’s working so far, isn’t it, our little experiment? Keeps the dodgy ones out of the way until we know what to do with them. And all in the name of Her Majesty’s security services.’ He grinned comfortably. ‘Reminds me, have you heard anything about your man Tate?’
‘Nothing untoward. Why, have you?’
‘Only that he arrived safely, and has been doing the rounds, getting the grand tour. No indication that he’s planning to do a bunk, at least. Be a bad move if he tried it.’ He scowled. ‘You said he’d do as he was told, didn’t you?’
‘I said he would, as long as he believed it was a genuine posting. If he starts to think otherwise…’ He left the rest unsaid, unwilling to provide guarantees he knew he couldn’t keep. Men like Harry Tate were wild cards in the intelligence community, quiet and diligent most of the time, but apt to go off like a firecracker if something got under their skin.
‘He’d better be a good boy.’ The temperature in Bellingham’s voice dropped several degrees. ‘There’s only one ending, otherwise.’
Paulton clamped his teeth together. He was beginning to wish he’d never agreed to this whole Red Station experiment. What had initially seemed a useful shared Five/Six exercise in budget allocation and a way of keeping potentially awkward intelligence officers under wraps until they were no longer a threat to themselves or anyone else, all under the guise of a live training facility, was beginning to look less and less attractive.
The truth was, he’d been bullied and flattered into it by Bellingham’s smooth talk. But now there was no way out. Even worse was the knowledge that he had agreed to Bellingham’s ‘enhancement’ of the Station scenario by the addition of a second team of watchers. Originally using one team to monitor the movements of the Station’s members, he now knew there was another, far more proactive unit in place, with the unsubtle title of the Hit. They had been used twice so far. He prayed it didn’t happen again.
‘You got something on your mind, George?’
Bellingham was like bloody Merlin, reading his mind. Paulton wondered how much the man knew.
‘I think Rudmann suspects something.’ He paused, not sure how to broach the news about Whelan. ‘Whelan was sniffing around after Tate,’ he added. ‘Rudmann seemed to think he ought to be dissuaded.’ He shot his cuffs, wondering if it was too early for a stiff drink.
‘Did she now?’ Bellingham burst in before he could finish. ‘Getting above herself, isn’t she?’ He scowled, then. ‘Christ, don’t tell me she had anything to do with his death. I’d agree to almost anything nasty happening to that little shite, but we can’t go round knocking off the fourth estate, can we? Well, not yet.’ He smirked and stood away from the window. ‘Come on, George, buck up. Are you going to offer me a drink or what?’
‘Of course.’ Paulton felt faint. The solution had presented itself. Why not let Bellingham believe Rudmann was responsible? He’d never prove otherwise, so why not. He stood up and went to the drinks cabinet.
THIRTY-FOUR
Harry decided it was time to test the Clones. They had been notable by their absence the previous day when he was out with Rik, and he hadn’t seen them when Clare Jardine took him out of town. They might have been assigned to other duties, or replaced by a different team. Yet Rik had said they were always around.
If so, it represented a break in continuity. And that made him uneasy.
‘Why do you want to do that?’ queried Mace, when he suggested a brief tag-and-tail exercise. It wouldn’t take long, but to do it properly, he would need Jardine, Rik and Fitzgerald to act as decoys.