Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (37 page)

The train juddered, waking him with a jolt. He’d been dozing, his thoughts morphing into dreams, the images jumbled and confusing. The two women were still across the aisle, both intent on electronic readers. It reminded him that he should invest in a decent model soon; so much simpler than carrying around the laptop he had been using before this trip.

He put his head back and allowed himself to drift again, his mind sifting abstractly through the potential locations he had seen and considered over the past two years, locations where he could melt into the local fabric and be reasonably assured of safety and comfort; where he could at least be reasonably certain that neither Harry Tate nor any other vengeful hunters would ever find him.

He came awake again with a start. The sleep had been deeper this time, his mouth gummy and dry, his eyes heavy, as if he’d been drugged. He was sure he’d felt some movement close by; another passenger passing in the aisle, perhaps, brushing against his shoulder. He shook his head and looked at the window. But all he saw was blackness and his own pale reflection. God, he looked old. Tired. He yawned and rubbed his head against the seat back, glancing guiltily at the two women across the aisle. But only one was still there, still reading.

He sighed and relaxed. That must have been it: her companion had stood up and stumbled against him with the movement of the train. He closed his eyes, relishing the arrival in Paris, and with it the feeling that, once again, he was beyond the reach of anyone who might wish him harm. Out beyond Paris was an open book, to be explored at leisure. Not quite the result he’d wanted, but not a disaster by any means.

He dozed. He wasn’t sure for how long, but when he opened his eyes next, something had changed. He shook his head and blinked. Everything was dark. The lights had gone out. He started to turn towards the aisle when he became aware of someone close to him. Too close. He felt the proximity of a body and a fan of breath on his cheek.

‘What . . .?’

‘You should have changed the name you came in on, George.’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and lilting. ‘That’s sloppy tradecraft, using it all this time. I got all your train bookings and all Katya had to do was wait and watch.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Paulton tried to push her away, but she’d got him pinned into the corner. And who was Katya? The name was familiar, but he couldn’t recall.

‘Somebody really doesn’t like you, George. They told me where you were – even sent me a photo. You changed your appearance, but you got careless; Grosvenor House has got great CCTV. It got you and your new friends from Troparevskiy Park. The rest was easy. You’re the last one left.’

Another touch, this time running across his leg, and a sharp pain brushed his inner thigh. Before he could cry out, he felt a rush of heat spreading down around his knee.

He wondered if he had wet himself, and felt an instinctive flush of shame.

‘I think it’s time you retired, George, don’t you? Like Bellingham.’ The woman patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t bother getting up. Oh, silly me – you probably can’t now, anyway.’

Then she was gone and the lights came up. He blinked through the glare, saw her walking away from him, the burka flapping as black as a crow’s wing. The connecting door to the next carriage opened and she stepped through. Her companion appeared just beyond her, a glow of light from the toilet cubicle falling across her head. Then she turned and both women stepped inside and closed the door.

Seconds later – at least, he thought it was seconds . . . God, he felt so
tired
for some reason – they came out. Only this time, instead of falling across black cloth, the light fell on uncovered pale skin and hair. One woman was blonde, the other brunette. The clothes had changed, too, and they were now wearing jeans and sweatshirts, the anonymous dress of women all over the world.

Paulton struggled to focus, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Had he fallen asleep and gone into some sort of fugue state? He didn’t think so.
What the hell was happening to him?

More movement. One of the women – the brunette – was walking back towards the connecting door. She stopped just the other side of the glass, but made no move to come through. She simply stood there. And smiled at him.

Paulton swallowed and tried to speak. But his vocal chords felt oddly disconnected. He could see her face clearly now, and for a second he failed to believe what his eyes were telling him. Then recognition came flooding in.
It couldn’t be!

Clare Jardine.

Something, he wasn’t sure what, it wasn’t something he could
feel
, some awful premonition, an association of ideas, a horrible knowledge, made him glance down at his lap. A dark shadow was spreading across his leg, which was starting to feel quite numb. When he concentrated, he saw it wasn’t a shadow, but a bloody red flow that was glistening and pulsing and dripping to the carpet where it was forming a glossy, widening puddle.

He watched, somehow knowing that he was watching his life leaking out of him, but unable to do a thing about it. He lifted his eyes towards the connecting door, imploring.

But all he saw was the reflection of the carriage in the glass.