Harry accepted the warning with a nod. There had always been rumours about teams operating on the grey fringes of the security community; shadowy groups of individuals apparently moving in the half-light of black operations, trained to kill when the call came, when all else had failed. It was canteen gossip wherever you went, mostly romantic chit-chat, a spawn of the Bond movies where licences to kill were dished out to hardened veterans when the need arose and deniability was paramount.
‘An alternative justice, is that what you’re saying? A bullet is cheaper and quieter than a trial — and more guaranteed?’
‘You got it.’ Mace sounded almost his old self. He didn’t look proud of it. But neither was he looking as if shame or guilt were going to overcome him any time soon. Too late for that. Angry, though; he looked that and more.
‘Risky, wasn’t it?’ Harry was referring to Red Station.
‘Maybe. Bellingham got involved because he got tired of having to answer Joint Intelligence Committee enquiries every time an operation went wrong or an agent turned bad. He wanted cleaner solutions.’ Mace sighed, shook his head. ‘You still think I dobbed in Jimmy?’
‘No.’ Harry couldn’t see it, not now. But if not Mace, then who — and how? They were supposed to be isolated, out of touch, Mace’s the only terminal linked to London.
It was Mace who provided the answer. ‘I knew Jimmy was driving back. Thought he was insane, personally. But I didn’t tell London immediately. Should have… but I didn’t. He needed time to think. I hoped he’d see sense on the way back and get out for good.’
‘What did you tell the others?’
‘That he’d been recalled. I had to tell London eventually, but I waited until I was sure he was on his way. Then I gave the job to someone else, using my terminal.’ His face took on a look of self-loathing. ‘I wasn’t feeling well. No excuse, but I couldn’t face going through all the palaver. I told them to send it among a whole load of useless chaff, saying he was on his way back. Big mistake, as it turns out. The worst.’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘The way I planned it, London might have missed it for a while, giving Jimmy more time to sort himself out. But it went by itself, didn’t it? A message like that stood out like tits on a duck.’
‘Who?’ Harry repeated.
‘The only other person who got close enough to find out what he was doing. Bloody Sixer.’ His face twisted with bitterness.
Suddenly Harry knew.
Clare Jardine.
‘You’re too late, you know,’ Mace continued, reading his expression. ‘She’s probably long gone. She’s a bright girl, I told you. She’ll have seen the writing on the wall days ago. She knew that even if she helped London by keeping an eye on the rest of you, they’d never trust her — not fully. She’ll be halfway to Timbuktu by now.’ His eyes went cold. ‘You’ll never find her. Why do you think she got close to thugs like Kostova and Nikolai? She needed help so she could disappear. Like I said, bright. A survivor.’
So Kostova had been telling the truth. But how had Mace found out? Maybe that was his passport to staying here when everyone else was baling out: feeding Kostova bits of information.
Christ on a bicycle, Harry thought tiredly, they’re all as bad as each other.
But he wasn’t interested in Jardine or Mace; not now.
He was after a bigger fish.
‘Where do I find Bellingham?’ he said quietly. ‘How can I get to him?’
Mace didn’t answer straight away. He picked up the bottle and went to fill his glass. His hand shook as he upended it. The bottle was empty. He tossed it across the room, where it shattered on the floor.
Then he told Harry what to do.
FIFTY-FOUR
Clare Jardine’s block was in darkness. Harry checked his watch. It was just after midnight.
He called Rik at the office. ‘Follow the destruct sequence,’ he told him.
‘What about Mace? He’s supposed to authorize that.’
‘Mace isn’t in a fit state to authorize his own name. Do it.’
‘OK. Everything?’
‘Records, files, hard drives, the lot. Don’t worry about the BC stuff — just everything else. Can you do it?’
‘Bloody right I can. It’ll be fun. What I don’t wipe forever, I’ll burn or hit with a hammer.’
Harry cut the call and climbed the stairs. The air smelled clean, of flowers. Different to his place. The stair treads were lined with rubber, and were clean. Somebody must sweep it regularly, although he couldn’t quite picture Clare Jardine behind a broom.
Standing over someone with a whip was more her style.
He knocked gently on her door and stepped back so she could see him through the peephole.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded, flinging open the door. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and looked rumpled. She clearly hadn’t slept.
‘Nice to see you, too,’ he muttered. ‘Care to invite me in or shall we have a slanging match out here?’
She stood aside. He stepped past her into a comfortable, if minimally furnished flat. It was not unlike his own in size, although there were a few feminine touches. Not many, but enough to be noticed. He concluded that she either didn’t have the nesting gene or had placed it on hold.
‘We’re leaving,’ he said. ‘You coming?’
‘We?’
‘Rik and me. Mace is staying and Fitzgerald’s gone native. They’ll have to take their chances.’
She shook her head, eyes blank. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Why? You think Kostova will look after you? Or Bellingham?’
Her face tightened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been cosying up to Kostova and Nikolai. And you’ve been feeding information back to Bellingham in London.’
‘That’s rubbish. Who the hell do you think you are-’
‘Save the wounded outrage,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the time. You’ve been working on Kostova to get you some papers. Bellingham’s made you some promises in return for your help, but you don’t believe him. Frankly, I don’t blame you. But you thought you’d set up an alternative escape plan by getting a new passport from Geordi Kostova. He hasn’t delivered, has he?’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Maybe. But I’ve met people like him before. He found out what you are and he’ll promise anything to get what he wants. But his demands will never stop. You know that as well as I do. What did he ask you for in return — the keys to Vauxhall Cross?’ He shook his head, hating this line of attack. But he had to shock her into seeing reason. ‘What he doesn’t know is that you’re not an active agent in the real sense. Which puts you out of the loop. You haven’t told him that, have you? What did you tell him — that you could get him something to take to Moscow and get himself some promotion?’
‘I’ve been working him, you fool!’ she snapped, her voice was low and trembling with anger. ‘Finding out exactly why he’s here. Him and his creepy friend, Nikolai. It’s what I was trained for… what we were all trained for — even you. The rest of you may have resigned yourselves to your fate, but I haven’t!’ She turned away from him. ‘I’m not going to stay in this shithole for ever. I’ll do whatever it takes to get back.’
‘Whatever it takes? Including tapping up the only Russian intelligence officer for a hundred miles? You thought you’d do that for the good of Queen and country?’ He stopped; he didn’t want to alienate her entirely. ‘Did Bellingham put you up to it?’
By the way she looked at him, he knew he’d hit the button.
‘What did he promise you?’ he asked gently. ‘Home and absolution? A welcome back into the fold?’
‘Why not?’ she said hotly. ‘Anything’s better than staying here.’ She clutched her arms around her. ‘He said I could have my old desk back if I got close to Kostova.’ She looked at him. ‘I don’t mean that close — I know what you’re thinking.’