He arrived at his front door and stopped.
It was open.
Bugger. He breathed out in mild frustration. Stanbridge had managed to free himself and leg it. He pushed through the front door. Saw the bathroom light on. The door partly open.
Then came the smell.
Harry gagged. Oh, Christ…
He pushed the bathroom door back until it stopped with a bump. Stanbridge was lying in a foetal position against the wall. He had somehow managed to stretch the clothesline in his struggles to get free, but not enough to protect himself.
He’d been shot in the side of the head.
Harry didn’t bother checking the body. There was a lot of blood and grey matter against the wall and across the floor, and signs of burn marks around the wound. Whoever had done this had stood very close to him before pulling the trigger.
Harry walked out of the bathroom and rang Clare Jardine.
‘I don’t have time to explain,’ he said when she answered. ‘Can you get over here right away?’
‘What?’ She sounded breathless and irritable, as if dragged from a deep sleep. ‘Tate? Is this a joke?’
‘Get over yourself,’ he said brutally. ‘This is a code red. I need help. Now.’
He switched off the phone, tired of her snarky attitude. Code red should get her moving. It meant the shit had hit the fan and there was no time to lose. He thought about calling Rik. No, he’d freak out; he wasn’t trained for this. Fitzgerald, then. If Mace was right about him, he was used to making people disappear off the street. A third-floor bathroom should be right up his alley. Too late now — he’d wait for Clare.
He untied the body from the sink and disposed of the clothes line in a rubbish bag in the kitchen. Then he rolled the body flat, rearranging the clothes. He’d deal with the clean-up operation later.
Jardine was quick. Less than ten minutes later, Harry heard a footfall on the stair. He went to the window to check the street. No cars, no watchers. The early morning light filtering across the rooftops made the flat seem squalid and depressing, and he suddenly wanted to get away from here. He waited until he heard a soft knock before opening the door.
She gave him a cold look, a vein standing out on the side of her face.
Harry was unimpressed. ‘What did you do, take a bus?’
She ignored him and went on the offensive. ‘What’s your problem, Tate? You didn’t have to be so bloody insufferable on the phone.’ She pushed inside without waiting to be asked, and he closed the door and led her to the bathroom. Stood aside to let her see.
She froze when she saw the body, but that was all. No histrionics, no panic.
Tough indeed, he decided, and a stomach to match. Most people would have puked on sight.
‘His name was Stanbridge,’ he said.
She stared at him, eyes wide. ‘Did you-?’
‘Of course not. I caught him searching the place. He told me he and his mates have been called off the job as of this morning. I went out to see if the others were still around, and when I got back he was like this.’
Clare bent to inspect the body. ‘Who would have done it?’
Harry decided to lie. They could worry later about what Stanbridge had told him. ‘I don’t know. But we need to get rid of the body. If whoever killed him makes a phone call, we’ll have the authorities all over us like a rash.’
‘Or his mates.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ He began looking round for something to wrap the body in. There were no plastic bags, which would have made the task easier, so he took a blanket from the bedroom.
He had already decided what to do with the body. The further they moved it, the greater the risk of running into a security patrol. It made sense, therefore, to move it somewhere close.
He placed the blanket on the floor, then grasped the dead man’s shoulders and looked up at Clare.
‘You ready or not?’
FORTY-TWO
‘ We’re discussing the evacuation of all British nationals.’ Marcella Rudmann stared hard at George Paulton as if making a point.
They were in his office, where she had followed him from a crisis meeting between representatives of the Foreign Office, the MOD and the RAF. Paulton had been invited along even though Five had no relevant responsibility or input. He thought Rudmann looked ready for a fight and wondered what had provoked it. Doubtless he would soon find out.
‘So I heard,’ he said smoothly, sitting behind his desk. He indicated a chair, but she ignored him.
‘All British nationals.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For heaven’s sake, man, that place… the Red Station or whatever outlandish designation you’ve given it. What are you doing about the people there?’ Rudmann looked white around the eyes, and he suspected it had less to do with her concern over the personnel in the station and more to do with his less-than-respectful response. Then he realized what she was saying.
She must know where Red Station was.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ He fell back on the old civil service and Whitehall mantra: when in doubt, deny everything. But he felt a dizziness that threatened to knock him off his chair if he didn’t control it. How the hell could she know? Unless Bellingham…
‘Don’t take me for an idiot, Paulton,’ she hissed dangerously, barging in on his thoughts. ‘I saw your reaction when Spake gave his briefing about the line the Russians were most likely to take across the border. It didn’t take long to work out where you had put Tate and the others. Now, what are you doing about them?’
‘Why, nothing,’ he insisted. ‘They will stay in place until we decide they can no longer do any good.’
‘Are you insane? You send people like Tate out there — problem people, you called them — and you think they can stay there in the face of what might be about to happen? What if the Russians scoop them up? It’ll be their biggest intelligence coup in years!’
‘They are professional operatives and will be monitoring the situation on the ground.’ Paulton fought hard to keep his tone level but realized he was sounding pompous. What possible business did this infernal woman have questioning how they carried out operations, he seethed quietly. But he knew the answer: she had the ear of No. 10 and a laissez-aller to the security agencies’ innermost workings.
Fortunately, he had an answer to her meddling. ‘Before you start lecturing me about how far inside the PM’s confidence you are, you’re wasting your time.’
‘What do you mean?’ She flushed crimson with anger.
‘A decision was made less than thirty minutes ago, immediately after the crisis meeting. The station personnel have been told to dig in and report as and when they can. They are more use to us there than running for cover anywhere else.’
‘But the evacuation-’ she began.
‘Will not apply to them,’ Paulton broke in. ‘If their cover has already been compromised, like the Special Forces teams, and they go near the airport, the Russians will be waiting for them.’ He smiled coldly, enjoying telling Rudmann that a decision had been taken without her being present — and that she could never disprove what he was saying.
‘I’ll speak to the PM! This is unacceptable.’
‘Maybe it is. But the Intelligence Committee has no say in day-to-day operational matters such as this.’ His eyes blazed with fire. ‘This is the sharp end of what we do, and it doesn’t always go according to plan. Not everyone ends their day tucked up in bed with a warm cup of cocoa.’
‘Who decided this?’ she demanded, and Paulton could have sworn she almost stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Who advised the PM?’
‘That’s something you don’t need to know.’ He checked his watch. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but I have other matters to deal with.’