Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (18 page)

For alarm, read hurt, she thought.
They were actually going to take her out of here.

She didn’t need to look around to know exactly who was in the café. Her training had kicked in and she already knew. There were two baristas behind the counter, with five customers in the place; two at the counter, three at tables. All women. All innocents. If these were the same two men from the hospital, they were unlikely to be here on legal papers and would not react well to confrontation, or to her refusal to go quietly.

It would be a bloodbath.

She could hear the phone ringing out. Just a tiny sound. Or it might have been her imagination. Surely they would hear it, too? They couldn’t be that deaf.

Come on, Tate. For Christ’s sake pick up!

But they appeared to be unaware. Or maybe they didn’t care.

The ringing stopped. She couldn’t hear a voice responding, but she imagined it. A beat or two, the cadence of an incoming call with no voice, followed by another query:
Hello?

‘What are you going to do, shoot them?’ she said. She held her chin down, trying to project her voice down at the phone without the nearest customers hearing her. The last thing she needed was panic.

‘If we have to, we can do that,’ the shorter one replied. He leaned forward over the table, unwittingly putting his face nearer to the phone. ‘We could shoot them all, before you could make a sound.’ He grinned coldly, enjoying the moment.

She swallowed at his nearness.
All he had to do was look down and he’d see the
phone by her leg, the screen clearly lit up.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Of course we would.’ He picked up the powder compact where she’d placed it on the table and studied it, turning it over as if studying a particularly interesting relic. ‘Perhaps I will take this as a souvenir of our visit. I have a girlfriend who likes this trash. What do you say?’

Clare tried to snatch it back, but he was too quick. He sat back and continued toying with the compact, then put it in his pocket, a sly smile on his face.

The tall one said, ‘I hope you realise that it would be quite simple for us to just shoot you here and walk out. Do you really want us to harm them – just because of you? We are new here, the authorities don’t have our faces on their databases and we will never come back. So who cares? Simple.’

‘How did you find me?’ In spite of the threats, Clare was puzzled by the speed with which they had tracked her down. From a standing start, they had moved with amazing speed, in a city where finding a single person should have many taken days.

In response, he dropped a couple of photos on the table. One was obviously a still from the hospital CCTV; she recognised the bland NHS décor even with the grainy finish. The other looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t think why. It had a string of numbers printed across the bottom and could have come from anywhere. It had been taken face-on, a bland head and shoulders shot like a passport, only bigger. She tried desperately to recall where it could have been taken, but her mind was a blank.

She swallowed the rise of fear and despair that rose in her throat. Something about this photo meant something; but she couldn’t think why. And that helplessness made her more frightened than anything else. All she knew was, they had found her so quickly, that all her efforts had been laughable. But there was a core deep inside her that refused to give in. She breathed deeply, watching the tall Russian’s face. He seemed unaware of how much the photo had affected her. Or maybe he assumed she was just acknowledging that she was caught.

‘Where did these come from?’ she asked.

‘We have our sources.’

‘Sources?’ It was a vain hope that he might tell her something, but she had to try.

‘You think we’re amateurs, Miss Jardine? You think I’m going to tell you who got them for us?’ He shook his head slowly, but looked very pleased with himself. ‘Dream on, I think the saying goes in English.’

Clare hoped Harry Tate was listening and scrabbled for a way of conveying to him where they were. It might take too long to respond, but she couldn’t think of another way of doing it.

‘This is Starbucks in Pimlico Road, London,’ she muttered, changing tack and putting on a tone of outrage, ‘not Grozny. You do know the Iranians have a consulate building just along the street, don’t you?’ It was a lie, but she was counting on these two not knowing that. Active units like this would be focussed on finding their target, staying below the local radar, completing their assignment – and getting out fast. What they
would
know, however, was that Iran was nobody’s friend at the moment and the likelihood was that its buildings would have watchers in place and armed police in close proximity, in case of protests and trouble.

Their eyes didn’t waver a jot. They were too good for that. But she sensed something passing between them, like an electrical signal.

‘You’re lying.’ The short one spoke. But he didn’t sound certain.

‘Please yourself. Why don’t you try something, see how far you get before there are more cops with guns here than you can count? Try explaining that to your bosses in Troparevskiy Park.’

The tall one didn’t even blink. But his colleague’s mouth dropped open just a fraction. It was enough to tell her she’d made a mistake, and she cursed herself. Fuck. That had slipped out unbidden. What she had said told them that she was no ordinary person who’d just happened to be in a hospital ward next to one of their own dissident countryman; ordinary people don’t know about the Troparevskiy site, the very secret training base south of Moscow for the FSB’s Special Purpose Centre.

The tall man was studying her like a sample on a lab tray. He asked softly, ‘Who are you, Miss Jardine? Or maybe I should ask,
what
are you? You speak almost fluent Russian and you know things most Russians don’t know.’ He seemed to notice her crutch for the first time, and leaned over and picked it up. He weighed it in his hand and gave a dismissive shrug, then took off the rubber ferule and studied the flattened end. And smiled.

‘Nobody. I’m nobody.’ But she knew it was a futile argument. She’d as good as told them in a few careless words.

Just then a blur of colour moved into view out in the street, catching her eye. The workman in the yellow tabard had stopped a police car and was pointing at the Russians’ car. Behind it, a skip lorry was waiting to move into the kerb.

Sensing this was her only chance, Clare reached across and flipped over the tall man’s tea, spilling it across the table at his colleague.

‘Suka!’
the shorter man yelled, and jumped up as the hot liquid poured into his lap.

It was enough of a gap. Clare stood up and forced her way past him, gritting her teeth against the pain, aware of the tall man reaching out for her, but missing.

H
arry heard the words coming out of the phone and stared at Rik, who stopped pacing up and down at the sound of the familiar voice. He’d automatically switched it to loudspeaker mode the moment he’d answered. They could hardly believe what they’d heard.

‘
This is Starbucks in Pimlico Road, London, not Grozny . . 
.’

‘She’s in trouble,’ said Harry. ‘Where the hell is—?’

‘It’s right here!’ Rik pointed at the street sign above their heads on the restaurant’s wall. ‘We’re in Pimlico Road right now.’ He spun on his heel and looked along the street, then grabbed a waiter coming out of The Grove. ‘Where’s the Starbucks?’

‘Pardon?’ The man looked affronted.

‘The Starbucks in Pimlico Road. How far down?’

The man shrugged off Rik’s hand. ‘I don’t know – maybe two hundred yards down that way.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘On the left, with all the scaffolding.’

But he’d already lost his audience as Harry and Rik took off along the street.

Harry saw the police car in the road while they were still a hundred yards away, and heard the sharp crack of gunshots. Two men appeared from inside a doorway, and raced across the pavement towards a car at the kerb. Men in workmen’s tabards and hard hats stood around in shock, and a figure in uniform lay crumpled in the road alongside the police patrol car.

There was no sign of Clare.

Rik raced ahead, hauling out his gun and shouting at the workmen to get out of the way. They did so, diving back into the shelter of the buildings, a discarded hard hat bouncing and rolling into the gutter behind them. Someone screamed and a car horn sounded as the car the men had jumped into screeched away from the kerb, clipping another vehicle on the way and scattering broken yellow glass as it went.

Rik ran out into the centre of the street and stopped, bringing his gun to bear on the departing car. He aimed, then stopped. It was already eighty yards away and accelerating. Too far for accuracy and a scattering of innocent pedestrians had already formed a random and unwitting human shield around it. One stray shot and he’d have a disaster on his conscience.

Harry slowed to a jog and scanned the people in the area. If Clare was around, she’d either been shot and was still here or she’d already disappeared.

Sirens sounded in the distance and people gathered around the fallen policeman, who was struggling to sit up. A woman in a Starbucks T-shirt stood on the pavement, her face drained of colour and her mouth open in shock.

Harry looked inside the café. It was empty, one of the small tables and a couple of chairs up-ended, mugs and plates lying broken on the floor.

‘What happened?’ he asked the employee. He had to repeat the question before she answered.

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled hurriedly, her accent Spanish or Italian. ‘Is crazy. One second, two men are sitting with a woman. Next she is rushing out and one of the men is shouting.’ She gestured at her front. ‘His clothes is wet and he is shouting but I don’t know his words. Foreign, I think, not English. Then the men walk outside after her and
paff, paff
– they start shooting and a policeman he is falling and . . .’ She rubbed at her face as tears poured down her cheeks. ‘Why would they do this?’

‘Where did the woman go?’ Harry asked. The sirens were now very close and he guessed he had only seconds before armed response units arrived and the area was cordoned off.

She looked puzzled. ‘What?’

‘The woman – the one with the men. Where did she go?’

‘I . . . I didn’t see.’

‘Did she leave the building? Did they take her with them?’

‘Yes. I . . . I don’t know – maybe. No, wait. She walk out first and disappear. The men are chasing her but she is already gone, I not see where.’

Harry whistled to catch Rik’s attention, and thrust his hand in his jacket as a signal to put his gun away. If the first responders were armed, they would come out of their car zeroing in on anyone with a gun.

‘She can’t have gone far,’ he said, when Rik joined him. ‘But we can’t get caught up in this. Let’s go.’ He walked away across the street. The area here opened out into a small paved triangle with trees and flowerbeds where three streets intersected, and he was heading for the widest area, the most difficult to close off. It was also where he figured Clare would have made for, planning on putting as much distance and confusing scenery between her and the men as she could. Staying on the same street and in direct line of sight of a man with a gun would have been a death sentence.

They crossed the paved area, past a line of bikes chained to a rack; a squat public convenience block with two women frozen to the spot outside the door; then more bikes and some seats. Everything was neat and ordered, tidy and upscale; a bit like a model toy-town, Harry thought. Take out the gunfire and it would have been ideal.

They stopped on the far side, checking the two other streets. Gawpers were converging in numbers to see what all the fuss was about, but nobody was walking away. No woman with a crutch.

‘She can’t have moved that quick,’ said Rik. ‘Not in her condition.’

Harry agreed. She must have gone under cover somewhere. It’s what she would have been trained to do, to get off the radar and keep her head down until it was safe to move on. Having two gunmen on her tail would have been encouragement enough to make it quick.

He spun on his heel, and was staring up at a camera fixed to the top corner of a building when two squad cars pulled up and disgorged armed officers. They each immediately grabbed a likely looking witness and began to question them, isolating witnesses from new arrivals. Others began to seal off the area and direct traffic away.

Harry ignored them. Time was running out. If he and Rik got dragged inside the cordon, they would be caught up answering questions about why they were carrying weapons to go looking for Clare. If she got pulled in, she’d be exposed and vulnerable. They had to get her away from here.

But first they had to find her. There were alleyways and a few side entrances to the shops that she could have ducked into, but checking those out would take too long and be noticed. He studied the onlookers, most of them with their backs turned, staring at the action going on outside the Starbucks, and the people helping the wounded policeman. One of the two women outside the public convenience block had joined the crowd, but the other was still where Harry had first seen her, shifting from foot to foot.

The policeman. He’d been shot by one of the Russians. And where he had fallen was in direct line with where Harry and Rik were standing. And in line with the convenience block.

‘Come on.’ Harry walked across to the woman who was staring impatiently at the locked toilet door.

‘Problem?’ he queried.

The woman looked at him, suspecting a flanking move to get inside first. ‘She’s been in there ages,’ she muttered, nodding at the door. ‘She might be disabled and all that, but really . . . you know?’ She gave a toss of her head and tutted at woman’s inhumanity to woman.

‘Disabled?’

‘Yes. On a crutch. You know, those metal things. Not that she was moving slow. It was just after all that banging and shouting.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, evidently unconcerned by the fact that a shooting had happened only yards away from where she was standing.