Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (10 page)

Maine looked puzzled. ‘Girls?’

‘Yes. Our Clare preferred the ladies. One of the reasons Six decided to dispense with her services. An outdated view of the world, but what can you expect of those dinosaurs?’

Maine shook his head. ‘But MI6? I can’t do that!’

Paulton’s hand shot out and gripped Maine’s arm once more. The pain was intense. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t, Keith. Can’t doesn’t cut it. And don’t try kidding me you failed, because I have a second source of information – and I
will
check.’

Maine tried to shake loose, but couldn’t. Paulton’s grip was too powerful. ‘You’re asking too much!’ he protested, a whine edging his voice. ‘They’ve put new systems in place ever since you . . . since you left. Anyone trying to access certain files across the intel community triggers an alert. It’s too tight.’

‘Then you had better find a way round it, hadn’t you? You know what the alternative is.’ He took a pen from his pocket and yanked back the sleeve of Maine’s jacket. ‘Send everything you’ve got to this number.’ He scribbled on the man’s arm then let go, stepping back as a young woman carrying a bulging sports bag hurried by. ‘Do as I ask and you can carry on with your masters in blissful ignorance until you collect your pension. Refuse and you can wait for them to come for you. It’s as simple as that. Your choice.’ He turned away.

‘Wait.’ Maine’s voice was a whisper. He looked like a man facing death. ‘Wait. I’ll do it.’

Paulton turned his head, a sly smile of triumph on his face.

‘By close of business today? Especially a photo.’

‘What? No . . . I can’t.’ Then he saw the look on Paulton’s face. He nodded. ‘Very well. What’s the name?’

‘Jardine. Clare Jardine.’

H
arry was walking back to his car when his phone rang. It was Ballatyne.

‘I’ve a possible sighting of Jardine. A female figure walking down Caldicot Road away from the hospital, timed at oh-two-thirty three. She was heading towards Coldharbour Lane, Harry. The imagery isn’t great, taken from a CCTV camera at the far end of a car park, but it’s all I could get so far.’

Harry felt a jolt of something approaching excitement. If it was Clare, it gave him a start point. Instead of having to cover the 360-degree field around the hospital, gradually widening the scope of the search and adding an impossible area of streets, road and buildings, they now had a single direction to focus on.

‘What about inside?’

‘So far, nothing. I’ve put in requests but I’m not holding my breath. The longer we wait, the less likely it is that we’ll get anything. And waiting won’t help her chances.’

‘How did you find this one, then?’

‘I couldn’t get the hospital coverage, so I put one of my whizz-kids on checking out cameras outside the hospital perimeter. He got lucky.’

‘You mean he broke some laws.’ Harry had no doubts that Ballatyne would do whatever it took to find what he wanted. Accessing NHS digital records was clearly not possible without a court order. But having his man hack into local authority or private contractor digital records was less of a problem.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The voice was bland. ‘Did you find anything?’

Harry relayed what Casey had told him. Ballatyne swore softly when he got to the bit about the guard leaving, but didn’t volunteer an opinion. Undoubtedly he would begin an internal investigation, but finding out who the man was, or why he had left, might not be so simple.

‘You’ll have to take it from here,’ Ballatyne said. ‘I’ll see if I can access street cameras in the area, but don’t wait for me.’

‘Are you giving me authority to break down a few doors?’ He was certain Ballatyne had just given the silent nod to do whatever he could to track down Clare Jardine. That could only include using Rik’s skills to the maximum effect.

‘I never said that. I’ll be in touch.’ The phone went dead.

Harry rang Rik. The younger man answered, sounding bored and slightly out of breath. He was a hundred yards south of the hospital campus and had so far drawn a blank on any useful cameras.

‘The ones in place are either busted or giving the wrong coverage.’

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve got a lead,’ Harry told him, and gave him directions to the junction of Caldicot Road and Coldharbour Lane. ‘You take the east side and I’ll take the west. We’ll work our way north until we hit something.’

‘Why north?’

‘I think she’ll make for the city centre. Anywhere else is too open. In her state, she’ll stand out too much. She needs cover, somewhere to hide while she gets help and recuperates.’

‘Fair enough. And if we don’t find anything?’

‘Then you get to let your fingers do the walking.’

‘Yowzer,’ Rik muttered quietly. ‘At last.’

Votrukhin and Serkhov were just as keen to be doing something, but for different reasons. After making their excuses to Gorelkin, they had left the Grosvenor House Hotel and headed south and across the river, on their way back to King’s College Hospital. Votrukhin had outlined his plan as they went, meeting no resistance from Serkhov, who favoured action rather than words.

‘I’m not having that traitorous little Englishman looking down his nose at us,’ he muttered darkly, as Serkhov pulled out into Park Lane. ‘Did you see the look on his face? I wanted to lean across and punch that smile all over the room.’

Serkhov nodded sympathetically as he took the dark blue 3-series BMW skilfully across to the outside lane and squeezed between two taxis aiming for a space on Hyde Park Corner. Ignoring the looks from the other drivers, he accelerated hard and shot across towards Grosvenor Place. One of the training courses in the SPC was extreme offensive and defensive driving, at which he had excelled. ‘You should have given me the nod,’ he said tersely. ‘I’d have followed him out and rammed that phone down his throat.’

Votrukhin gave an appreciative grunt. They were on the same page, Serkhov and him; neither man had enjoyed the lambasting that Gorelkin had given them for not dealing with the Jardine woman, but they could live with that. Operational errors happened in the best run organisations. What counted was putting them right in time and proving their worth for future missions. But having an outsider – a foreign outsider at that – present at the time and smiling at their discomfort was hard to take.

Votrukhin also had a bad feeling about Paulton. Even accepting the Englishman’s previous job, which had required a talent for lies and deceit in spades, there was something in the man’s face that had made him uneasy from the moment he’d met him. Gorelkin seemed unaware of it but Votrukhin had sensed it like an aura – especially when the ex-MI5 man had returned from making his telephone call.

‘Why are you going this way?’ he asked Serkhov. He knew the layout of London well and guessed that the sergeant was heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. It didn’t really matter which one they used, but he was intrigued.

‘Because,’ Serkhov replied, ‘when I joined the centre, I promised I’d spit on MI6 if I ever got close enough. Don’t worry, I won’t actually stop and gob on the building. Even I can handle symbolism.’

‘You’d better not. They’ll have our faces on film in seconds and their FRS systems will light up like St Basil’s Cathedral.’

Facial recognition software was patchy at best, as both men knew, especially in moving vehicles with the play of light off windows. But neither wished to take the risk of being ‘pinged’ by a random lucky shot. The result would be embarrassing for all concerned, and career destroying at the very least for them.

Serkhov glanced across at his colleague. They had worked together several times, forming an effective team. But seniority in the SPC was a divider of men, and there was always a slight hesitation in both men when talking non-operational matters.

‘What is it?’ Votrukhin had noticed the look. Serkhov had something on his mind.

‘I’ve never worked a black operation before. Have you?’

‘No.’ Votrukhin sighed. ‘But it’s what we do, isn’t it? It’s just a name. What’s your problem?’

‘This . . . no contact stuff the colonel talked about –’ he steered through a narrow gap and accelerated hard – ‘it sounds extreme.’

Votrukhin didn’t reply immediately. He’d been having similar thoughts. From what had started out as a tough but straightforward operation – if terminating a man could be called that – it had taken a slightly nasty turn.
Chyornyiy
. The word was so bland, in normal circumstances merely a colour. Yet here and now, it had taken on a completely different tone. Sinister. Now they were cut off from all outside contact, with only Gorelkin and their wits to keep them out of trouble. And Votrukhin wasn’t entirely sure why it had gone this way.

‘It’s extreme only if we get caught,’ he concluded, and focussed on the job in hand. ‘We’d better make sure we don’t, right? Then we can go home.’

Forty minutes later, they pulled into a car park near the hospital and dutifully fed the meter. Only amateurs took chances; it was how they got caught. Then they set about scouting the area outside, trying to find a lead, any lead, that might point towards where the Jardine woman had gone. Inevitably, that proved fruitless, and merely increased the chance of them being noticed. Votrukhin finally led the way back to the hospital.

‘Remember,’ he said, as they approached the entrance to the Major Trauma Centre, ‘this is quick and dirty. We get to the security control centre and shut it off, then get what we need and go.’

‘Are you sure Gorelkin won’t have us shot for this?’

‘No, I’m not. But I’m certain he might have us sent to Afghanistan if we don’t do something positive.’

‘And if anyone gets in our way?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Fair enough.’ Serkhov took out his gun. It was a 9mm Bernadelli P-018. He checked the magazine and slid it back into place, then put the gun away, every movement economical and practised.

Votrukhin produced a Spanish Astra 9mm and did the same. Both guns had entered the UK illegally, shipped in hold luggage with other weapons and ammunition, for which an American with dreams of easy riches was now awaiting trial in the US. If either weapon were lost, it would be traced to a gun shop in Concord, North Carolina. Not that either man was planning on that. As with all members of the elite SPC, Serkhov and Votrukhin were quite capable of dealing with problems quietly using their hands, or with whatever else might come within reach. But sight of the guns and the credible threat to use them would effectively ram home the message much faster than any shouting or physical threats.

Through the entrance, they already knew the way. Skirting the security guard by the desk, they followed the signs to the washrooms. But instead of going in, they veered off and followed the corridor, dropping down another set of stairs to a sub-basement level. Through a door marked STAFF ONLY into another, narrower corridor with dimmed overhead lighting and lined with unused furniture and electrical equipment awaiting clearance. Numbered doors were on either side, all closed. The atmosphere here was deadened and silent, other than the clank and hum of heating being pumped through the overhead venting.

Votrukhin was in the lead, fast and purposeful, checking for security cameras. He spotted one at the end of the corridor. Grabbing a broken chair he held it in front of him, obscuring his features. Serkhov did the same, hoisting an old overhead projector in front of his face. The air smelled of hot plastic and dust.

As they approached a door on their left marked ‘Control Centre – No Admittance’, Votrukhin reached for his gun and dropped the chair. He very carefully tried the door handle. Locked, as he’d expected. Standing to one side, he beckoned Serkhov to move up close. They had a couple of seconds at most if the guard monitoring the screens was awake.

‘Open it and stay out here,’ he said quietly. ‘Anybody comes, stall them.’

Serkhov nodded, then swung his shoulders and heaved the projector at the door with almost casual ease.

The door smashed open under the onslaught, catching the single occupant by surprise and making him utter a squeal of fear. A cardboard mug dropped from nerveless fingers and bounced across the control desk, spilling hot liquid across the buttons. Shock and awe, thought Votrukhin happily. Works every time.

‘Touch anything,’ he told the guard in perfect English, ‘hit an alarm or even speak, and you’re a dead man.’ For emphasis, he placed the tip of his gun to the security officer’s forehead and held it there, finger curled around the trigger. And waited.

‘Y
ou have backup discs for the cameras,’ Votrukhin told the guard softly after a few seconds. The short silence was enough to allow the fear factor to build just enough to make him compliant. Now to give him something to focus on. ‘Two nights ago, from midnight to four. I want that footage.’

There were a dozen screens in two banks of six, showing various locations around the hospital. Every few seconds, the screens would jump to a new location: stairways, entrance, wards, canteens, delivery bay and so on. But it was the outside footage that interested Votrukhin. As far as he could see, though, all the exterior camera angles were close to the building, showing little or nothing of the surrounding streets.

The guard’s mouth moved momentarily, but no sound came out. He was sweating visibly, and the smell of nervous body odour was heavy in the enclosed room. He needed a shave and a haircut. Votrukhin put his age at about forty. He was overweight and looked out of condition. He probably sat in this ghastly bunker most days, slowly dying of inactivity and eating his way towards going home time.

‘It’s OK – I give you permission to speak. I won’t shoot you. Unless you decide to be a hero.’

The guard swallowed and croaked, ‘I can’t.’

Votrukhin’s finger tightened around the trigger. ‘Can’t? That’s a silly thing to say.’

‘I can’t – believe me! I don’t know how to isolate specific time frames . . . or any of that stuff. They haven’t showed me. All I do is monitor the screens. They have an IT guy who deals with backup and storage.’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I’m just here to watch, that’s all.’