‘This is your second warning.’ Another soft thump, this one above the rear window.
‘What’s going on?’ It was Rickard stirring in the back, his voice thick with sleep.
‘How the fuck should I know? Stan playing silly bastards, probably.’
‘What’s that stink?’ Tucker was watching a spray of liquid dribbling down the windscreen. It shimmered under the street light, colours showing like a rainbow waterfall.
‘The next one comes with something extra,’ said the voice in Brockley’s ear, and for the first time he realized that the speaker was British.
‘Who the fuck is this?’ he demanded. He twisted in his seat and signalled frantically to the other two to eyeball all sides. For the first time on this poxy posting, he was wishing he had a gun. He’d soon see who was going to get something extra. ‘Who are you — and where’s Stan?’
Then it struck him. There was only one person it could be: the latest addition to the group. Tate. Harry Tate. Ex-army officer, according to the brief, transferred to MI5. But a screw-up, like the rest.
Something made him look up. He caught a glimpse of something pale at the edge of the roof, and an object sailed down through the air with a long, flickering tail.
Fire.
‘Christ, get us out of here!’ he yelled.
‘What?’ Tucker hadn’t fully woken up yet. He sniffed and looked about him. ‘Hey — I smell petrol.’
‘Drive, you prick!’ Brockley screamed. ‘Before the bastard cooks us!’
Then the flash he’d seen was right upon them. There was a whoosh above their heads and the rivulets running down the windows flared into tongues of fire, the flickering light eating away at the shadows against the buildings on either side and singeing the rubber seals on the windows.
Tucker swore and turned the ignition, stamping on the accelerator. Seconds later, they hit the end of the street in a four-wheel drift, droplets of burning liquid falling from the car and laying a golden trail behind them.
Up on the roof, Harry watched them go. They’d probably be back, but at least he’d given them something to think about. He left the remnants of his fire-bombs where they were and made his way down off the roof. He debated calling on Clare Jardine but thought better of it. If she followed his advice, she wouldn’t answer anyway.
And he had a few more questions for Stanbridge.
He felt a buzzing at his hip. The Ericsson. He stepped into a doorway and checked the screen.
Maloney. The message was brief.
Both files clsed. why?
Harry stared at the screen, felt a cold wind on his neck.
Even if Brasher and Gulliver had both left the service, their personnel files would have been left open pending lengthy debriefs, to make sure they weren’t going elsewhere with any information they might have stored up. Nobody got out of the game that easily.
He texted back.
Why clsd?
Closed files could only mean one thing. He hoped he was wrong.
He continued walking, and the answer came before he had gone a hundred yards. Maloney must have been taking texting lessons.
The text was clear and unequivocal.
Both dead. 5 — o’dose. 6 — climbng axdnt alps.
FORTY
Harry felt the air go out of him in a rush. After what seemed an age, he tore his eyes away from the screen and forced himself to continue walking. He was getting careless; every second he stayed out here increased the risk of discovery.
He tried to reason through the significance of Maloney’s message. There was no mistaking the words; dead was dead. An overdose and a climbing accident. Maybe Brasher had been depressed following his shock posting and the humiliation of going back. It might have been enough to break anyone of a cerebral nature, especially an analyst. But Gulliver? He recalled what Clare had told him about the MI6 high-flyer. Thirty-two was a young age for an exalted position in the Service… but an even younger one to die.
Two returns, both dead. What were the odds? But it answered another question that had been niggling at his subconscious: how was it he’d never heard of Red Station before? Secrecy may have been their game, but security services staff were notorious gossips when it came to internal rumours. And any staff member returning from a punishment posting in the back of beyond would have had colleagues buzzing around them like flies on an old steak, eager to hear every salacious titbit. News would have leaked out. It always did.
Unless the returnees were in no position to talk.
Stanbridge was exactly where Harry had left him, half prone and hanging off the sink support. In spite of the obvious discomfort, he was asleep, his eyes closed, breathing heavy and ragged.
Harry kicked him in the leg.
‘Wake up, sunshine. Why are your mates tooled up and staking out Clare Jardine’s place?’
Stanbridge came awake angry and resentful. He scrambled to sit up. His wrists were swollen and purplish in colour, and the skin had been scraped off in his struggles to get free.
‘Armed? That’s bollocks. When are you going to let me go?’
‘When you answer some questions. Do you know Clare Jardine?’ When the man nodded, Harry continued, ‘Your mates were sitting outside her flat. They were armed.’
‘Can’t be.’ Stanbridge looked confused, his eyes wide and red-rimmed.
‘Really? Why is that?’
‘Because we’re not authorised, that’s why. Jesus — we’d get shot if we were caught with guns in this place. We’ve got strict orders not to break cover… Who said they were armed?’
Now Harry was confused. The response sounded genuine, and he was certain Stanbridge was too dazed to concoct any lies. Or maybe he wasn’t as dopey as he was pretending.
He squatted down next to him. Time to exert some pressure.
‘Listen, son. I’m pretty pissed off at the moment. I was posted out here on a whim, I’m not allowed to leave and if our information is correct, there’s a shit-storm heading this way in the shape of the Russian army. Now, I’d like to get out in one piece and go home. But with you lot sitting on our tails twenty-four hours a day, I doubt that’s on the agenda. Am I right?’
Stanbridge shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Our orders are to monitor your movements. That’s it. You move, we follow. We log it and report in. But we don’t carry weapons.’
Harry sighed. It was no act; Stanbridge was telling the truth. Clare Jardine must have imagined seeing weapons. Easy enough to do in poor light under stressful conditions. He changed tack.
‘What’s your cover story while you’re here?’
‘We’re supposed to be doing a marketing study for inward investment opportunities.’
Harry nearly laughed. ‘You don’t even look like marketing people.’ Still, as lame as it was, he’d heard worse. It wouldn’t take much to crack their cover if the local security police took an interest. Still, that was the Clones’ worry — them and the people employing them. It provoked another thought.
‘Where do you report to?’
‘London via Frankfurt. It’s a message link, outgoing only. If they need to contact us, they do it by phone to our team leader.’
‘What happens when we leave town?’ He was thinking about his trips out with Clare; he was pretty certain they hadn’t been followed on either occasion.
Stanbridge looked blank. ‘I don’t have any instructions for that. It would be handled by our team leader. He says follow, we follow. Otherwise we stay on the office or stand down until further orders.’
Again, it sounded genuine. Typical security services smoke and mirrors; never let the left hand know what the right hand was doing. So they hadn’t been followed out of town. But why not? Was it because the Clones hadn’t been quick enough to latch on to them? Or had they been told not to? Then he had another thought.
‘Do you know why you’re doing this?’
An immediate nod. ‘Yeah. It’s a module in a training routine; we have to complete it over a set period of time before going on to something else. They don’t tell us how long, though. We wait until we’re told to stand down.’