It mentioned Harry Tate by name.
Paulton breathed softly and read through the document twice. It was speculation. The kind which managed to skate round the facts of what had happened at the inlet that night without actually getting it a hundred per cent right. But it was still close enough to have the conspiracy nuts wetting themselves if they got their hands on it, and it had a name they could feed on. The firestorm would be all-consuming.
He checked the email files. There was nothing to show where the journalist had got his information, and no sign that he had been in touch with anyone else about the detail of his discovery. Thank God, he thought, for journalistic paranoia. After forty minutes, satisfied that Whelan had not disseminated the information further, Paulton left his office and went for a brief walk.
By the time he returned, the portable hard drive with its incriminating files lay at the bottom of the Thames.
FIFTY
‘ Where does Fitz live?’ Harry walked into the office and found Rik staring blindly at his computer screen. He didn’t acknowledge Harry’s presence.
Mace must have told him the bad news. There was no sign of Clare Jardine.
‘Fitz?’
‘Just off the airport road, out of town. Why?’ Rik turned from the screen and jerked a thumb towards Mace’s office. ‘Is it true what he said — the Russians have crossed the border?
‘Apparently. We should check to see if Fitzgerald’s all right. If they come this far, he’ll be stranded. You still got the Merc?’
‘Of course. But he won’t leave his girlfriend and her kid. He told me a while back, he won’t be going home again. He’s got no reason to.’ He jumped up, his face strained. ‘Are we leaving? We can’t stay here, can we? Mace wouldn’t say.’
‘He can’t, that’s why. He’s had no orders.’ Harry studied the younger man’s face, and saw the beginnings of panic building in his eyes. He clapped him on the shoulder. Best give him something else to think about. ‘I want to check on Fitzgerald.’ He picked up Rik’s leather jacket from the back of his chair and tossed it to him. ‘You’ll have to take me.’
He walked downstairs with Rik trailing behind. If Mace heard them leave, he made no attempt to stop them. Harry waited near the Mercedes until Rik caught up and unlocked it, then climbed in.
‘What if we’re followed?’ said Rik, turning the key in the ignition and checking his mirrors.
‘Just drive normally.’ Harry had already checked the street; there was nobody in sight. ‘If we pick up a tail, anyone who knows you will know Fitz and where he lives.’
Rik took a zigzag route through the back streets, bouncing over potholes and scattering rubbish. He held his hand on the horn at every small cross-section, his foot hovering above the brake pedal, creating a stop-go jerking motion which had Harry feeling nauseous after a few hundred yards. When he hit a straight stretch, he drove fast, but Harry thought his reactions were off. In a chase, they’d have been left behind or slammed into a corner by the first truck he failed to see.
There was less sign of military activity on the way, and Harry wondered if the army was being moved out of the town towards the north. If they were, he felt sorry for them; even a small Russian force would be more than a match for the kind of troops he’d been seeing over the past few days.
They arrived in a small outer suburb cut off from the town by a single-carriage ring road. Rik drove down a residential street with two-storey houses on either side. The gardens were small, but neat and free of rubbish. There were sounds of children playing behind the fences, a few toys scattered on steps and flashes of colour that the rest of the town lacked. An elderly woman in black watched without expression from a front door as they cruised by.
Rik pulled into the kerb and indicated the door of a house identical to its neighbours save for a wooden plaque cut from a cross-section of dried hardwood. A number had been scored by a hot iron into the surface. Fitzgerald, Harry thought, importing a touch of home.
‘You want me to check?’ Rik was ready to get out.
‘No. I’ll do it.’ Harry climbed out and walked up the path. A woman along the street was watching him. He knocked on the door. The sound was hollow, reverberating through the building. He stepped over to the front window and peered through the glass. Evening shadows were lengthening across bare floors, and the sparse furniture was already showing a layer of dust. A sock lay on the floor alongside an old newspaper, and a child’s shoe sat forgotten on a sideboard.
Fitzgerald had left in a hurry.
Harry returned to the car and got in.
‘He’s gone. Let’s get back.’
This time, Rik stuck to the main streets. He was cruising along one of the boulevards when he said, ‘Can we drop by and see Isabelle?’
‘Why?’ Harry’s instinct was to say no; they didn’t have time for romance.
‘She might know more than Mace is telling us.’
‘That wouldn’t be hard, would it?’ Harry mulled it over. Rik had a point. The French would have observers out on the ground, and they might be willing to share what they knew. ‘OK. But make it quick.’
Rik took a series of turns and pulled up outside a three-storey office block in a broad, pleasant street lined with trees. A large truck was blocking the way, and several hard-looking men were standing around, watching the approaches. Two men in overalls were carrying boxes from the building and bundling them into the back of the truck. A third man was stacking them against the sides.
‘They’re moving out,’ said Harry. He eyed one of the guards who was staring in their direction, one hand in his jacket pocket. A curl of wire ran up from the man’s collar to behind his ear. He was talking, but standing too far away from the other guards to make himself heard, and Harry guessed he was using a throat microphone. ‘Get out very slowly,’ he warned Rik, ‘and make sure your hands are in plain sight all the way.’
‘What?’ Rik looked at him. The guard had turned and was walking towards them as if he meant business. ‘Oh. Christ.’
‘Take it easy. They’ll know we aren’t here for trouble. Not in a Merc. Just don’t make any sudden movements.’
Rik stepped out of the car holding his arms clear of his body. Harry waited a few beats, then did the same. When he was sure the guard wasn’t going to produce a gun and start shooting, he turned and leaned on the roof of the car to show he wasn’t a threat.
Rik approached the guard, a grizzled-looking man with tanned skin and bunched shoulders. French Special Forces, Harry guessed, capable and light on his feet and likely to be hostile at the first hint of danger. The man listened carefully to Rik, then looked past him and motioned for Harry to move closer.
Harry stayed where he was.
The guard motioned again, but Harry ignored him. Eventually, the man gave up and motioned for Rik to walk towards the building.
This time it was the guard who stayed where he was, eyes on Harry.
Rik emerged five minutes later. He was waved off by a slim, studious-looking young woman in jeans and a cornflower-blue blouse. She stood and watched him walk away, a hand to her cheek.
‘She looks nice,’ said Harry with a wry smile. ‘How come they’ve got her and we get stuffed with a geek like you?’
Rik wasn’t amused. ‘Why did you do that?’ His expression was more puzzled than annoyed.
‘Do what?’
‘That thing with the guard. You might have pissed him off.’
‘I doubt it. He’s a professional; he was trying it on, to get us together away from the car. There was no need — he could see we weren’t a threat.’
‘Christ, you could have fooled me. I thought he was going to pull out a gun.’ He started the car and pulled away from the kerb, did a three-point turn and took the main street into town. As he drove, he put his hand into his pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it over.