‘Neither can I,’ Harry agreed. ‘But it hardly seems normal, does it? Nasir the taxi man’s normal. His kid graduating and getting a car, that’s normal. Not this.’
Twenty minutes later, Harry was in the Saab heading north. He gave the M1 a miss and threaded his way instead on to quieter county roads, using the time to think. Rik was right, this whole business was wild. But then, the activities of terrorists and criminals usually were. . if that was indeed what Silverman was. How he, Matuq and Param could possibly tie in together was, on the surface, impossible. The three of them, given what he knew of their backgrounds, were worlds apart. Yet instinct told him there must be a common factor. All he had to do was find it. The idea that he might be slipping into the kind of territory he had decided to leave behind was disturbing. If there was a terrorist dimension to this, and the situation was going hot, it could escalate rapidly into something beyond his control.
As he eased clear of a built-up area of housing and shops, he checked his mirror, automatically cataloguing the traffic behind. A couple of big trucks, a van and one or two cars. They’d been there for a while, all of them. Nothing to worry him. And why should there be? And yet. .
He felt uneasy. He wasn’t normally given to seeing shadows, yet something about the past few days was beginning to get under his skin. He noted a lay-by coming up. He waited until the last moment, then spun the wheel and braked hard, skidding into a dipped, single-track hollow shielded from the road by a dense layer of bushes. He pulled up and waited, the engine running, watching the mirror.
Nothing. He counted to thirty, waiting for the first signs of a vehicle coming in after him. Most days in most situations, he trusted his instincts. And while the best of alarms occasionally threw up a false flag, the one time you ignored them was usually when something was wrong.
Apart from the hum of cars and the heavier beat of an occasional truck engine, every vehicle continued on by without slowing.
He gave it five more minutes, fighting against the desire to keep moving. Moving was good; moving stopped you becoming an easy target. When you stopped you became vulnerable. After five minutes, he climbed out and went to the boot, reached in and found the metal box. He flipped the dial and opened the lid. The handgun was concealed under a layer of foam. A 9mm Browning semi-automatic variant, it carried no identification marks, the dark steel well worn and showing signs of its passage through many hands. But it was clean and oiled and, as a quick check revealed, ready for use. He made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his pocket.
He got back in the car, wondering whether he should have left Rik in London. But Rik was a computer whizz, not a field man. Harry had taken him to a private range a few times, to give him a workout. He had shown a good eye and a steady hand, and had performed well on a defensive driving course. But it didn’t make him ready to be thrown into a dangerous situation and able to cope instinctively.
Unlike himself. A hangover from being a field officer in the security service was that Harry had left with the unusual proviso of being ‘carded’ — permitted to carry a handgun as a civilian. It meant he was on call by the authorities if the need arose. He’d fought against it at first, determined not to have any kind of umbilical cord tying him to an organization that had tried its level best to kill him. But in the end the offer had been too easy to accept and he’d given in, persuaded against his better judgement that it might be useful. After all, what was the likelihood of him being called? They had better, younger and brighter bodies on their books.
But authorized or not, there was still a risk to carrying an automatic weapon in his car. Especially if he ran into a random police check and was unable to provide proof of his authority quickly enough. It was reason enough not to drag Rik into it. . and one of the reasons he had never told him about being carded. Even so.
He took out his mobile and considered calling him. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and he should warn him to keep an eye out for unusual movement around his flat. But what if Rik overreacted and got himself into a jam? He decided against it. No point in raising the tension unnecessarily. First he needed proof.
A mile ahead of the lay-by, Dog sat astride a trials bike in the forecourt of a petrol station and sipped from a small bottle of mineral water. And waited.
He was dressed in worn, nondescript black leathers and a scratched crash helmet, and was watching for signs of the Saab.
Whatever had caused Tate to pull off the road so abruptly didn’t particularly concern him; he was certain he hadn’t been made, although that might change the longer he stayed on Tate’s tail. But any deviation from the norm was a change in pattern and, in Dog’s experience, such changes often carried unforeseen dangers if you ignored them.
When the familiar car flashed by ten minutes later, he tossed the bottle into a bin and dialled a number on his mobile. When a voice answered, he said, ‘We’re off again.’ Then he switched off the mobile and powered away after the Saab.
NINETEEN
Unaware of Dog’s presence, Harry was soon off the main routes and cruising through quiet back roads. He drove fast, negotiating the bends with ease and flicking past slower traffic and the occasional cluster of houses. All the while he kept an eye out for signs of pursuit, but saw nobody hovering in his wake for longer than seemed normal.
A sign came up for South Acres. A crudely painted sheet of marine ply nailed to a pine tree at the side of the road, it bore an arrow pointing down a narrow, unpaved track. The track disappeared into a thick belt of conifers and seemed to lead to the only dwelling for some distance.
Harry turned round and drove back slowly past the entrance to study the layout. The track bent out of sight after fifty yards, and wherever South Acres was, it lay screened by trees at the top of a rising slope.
A hundred yards beyond the entrance was a scrubby, unkempt field dotted with tufts of couch grass. A few weather-worn poles and uprights lay scattered, with a rusting feed bin on its side, buckled and unused. The paint on the poles was peeling and dull, and if any horses had jumped them, it must have been a long time ago. Another line of trees at the end of the field prevented any view of a house or farm buildings. A newish TO LET sign on a post stood against the fence near the road, with the agent’s name followed by a phone number.
Harry spotted a gap in a group of trees just beyond the field and stopped. He reversed off the road until the nose of the car was screened by folds of soft bracken and the overhanging branches of a beech tree. He checked his watch and nodded towards the sky, where the light was already beginning to fade. Another thirty minutes and it would be safe to take a walk.
He took out his mobile and dialled the number of the letting agent that he’d seen on the post in the field.
‘Dempsey’s. Can I help you?’ The singsong tones of a young woman echoed in the car.
Harry said, ‘I’ve just noticed your panel in a field near a place called South Acres. Is it vacant?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The young woman sounded distracted, as if she’d been about to leave. ‘But that property’s on a short let. Perhaps you could call in the morning? Our Mr Dempsey can tell you-’
‘I don’t have much time,’ Harry interrupted her before she could put the phone down. ‘I’m flying out of Luton this evening and I need to get something sorted in the next day or so, otherwise my wife and daughters are going to kill me. I need to rent a place for at least twelve months, but it’s got to have stabling for three horses.’
‘Yes, sir, but-’
‘What’s your name, miss?’