‘You mean he’s a robot.’
‘I mean he won’t stop until he’s accomplished whatever job he’s on.’
‘Cheers, Major,’ said Rik dryly. ‘Just what we wanted to hear: a government-trained psychopath with a work ethic. Can’t you get him stopped?’
‘I doubt it. He no longer works for us. Not long after this picture was taken, he dropped out of sight. His colleagues said he’d been behaving irrationally – he allegedly tried to kill one of the other guards. He’d also taken to slipping out and doing some freelance night-sniping of insurgents.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘They may have been troublesome, but that definitely wasn’t part of his brief.’
‘He wasn’t all bad, then?’ Joanne’s voice was laden with sarcasm.
‘Sadly, he had a problem differentiating between insurgents and civilians. It’s believed he shot dead at least five innocent locals over a period of several nights. Before they could stop him, he’d gone.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘It’s believed he may have been headhunted by Jennings as long as a year ago. Now we know why.’ He let a few moments go by, then added. ‘Where is Rafa’i?’
‘Safe,’ said Harry. ‘For the time being.’
‘Let’s hope he stays that way. He’s an important man. It would be useful if nothing happened to him while he’s on British soil. I take it there’s no chance of bringing him in for a chat?’ He looked at Joanne Archer; she was clearly the one who knew the Iraqi best.
‘You’re right,’ she replied shortly. ‘No chance.’
‘I see. And what do you plan doing with him?’
‘Get him out of harm’s way,’ she replied. ‘Back to Iraq if that’s what he wants.’
Marshall’s tried to keep a blank face. ‘Ah.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Harry queried.
Marshall had already said too much. It was time to back off and get the machinery working on clearing up this whole sorry mess, starting with the psychopathic Dog. He could leave these three to take care of Rafa’i – for the time being, at least.
‘No. No problem. I wish you luck – it won’t be easy.’ He extracted a card from the back of the notebook and scribbled a number on it. ‘That’s a direct number if you need to reach me. My deputy is Richard Ballatyne. I’ll brief him as soon as I can and we’ll be in touch on your mobile later today.’ He looked at Joanne. ‘I really am sorry, Miss Archer. I wish there was more I could do to rectify things.’
Rik leaned across him and opened his door. It was Marshall’s cue to leave.
FORTY-SEVEN
M
arshall watched the car move away and made a note of the number, although it was probably a waste of time; if the three people he’d just been speaking to were as good as he thought, they’d either get rid of it within the hour or the number would prove untraceable. But it was an instinctive part of him too ingrained to ignore. He also decided to alert Ballatyne of the situation immediately rather than wait. His deputy could at least get the team working on tracing Dog. And trawling through the Asian community networks for signs of Rafa’i.
He took out his mobile and speed-dialled a number. Twenty minutes later, a dark Rover with two men inside slid in to the kerb. Marshall climbed in, told the driver to head for Vauxhall Cross.
The man said nothing, but both looked wary. Marshall didn’t bother taking out his frustrations on them; what was done was done, and he’d been responsible for putting himself in the situation where he could be lifted, anyway.
When they were in sight of the building, Marshall tapped his driver on the shoulder and waited as the car pulled in to the kerb. He liked to walk the last stretch to get the kinks out of his joints and prepare himself. Today was no different, in spite of recent events. As he strolled along the pavement, relishing the brief exposure to the cool air off the river, he wondered about the three people he had just left. Joanne Archer was who she claimed to be; he had no doubt about that. Her anger was too raw, the detail too specific to be faked. But he needed to discover the identities of the two men with her. It wasn’t critical, as he was sure they would emerge soon enough. But he liked to know who he was dealing with.
Of one thing he was already certain: they were professionals. They had about them the unmistakable air of government-trained personnel; they were too calm and controlled to be amateurs, and to have picked him up so easily in a crowded thoroughfare without exhibiting some major tension really took some doing.
That thought suddenly prompted a faint jump of memory. It was from a while back, and he couldn’t be certain, but while he’d been looking at the older man, Harry, he’d felt a stirring of something familiar. He didn’t know the man, he was certain of that. But he knew
of
him. All he had to do was remember where from. He took out his mobile and dialled another number. It might be a wild goose chase, but it was worth a try. Know your enemy and you held the advantage. It was a maxim he didn’t always agree with, but this time he was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Instructions issued, he pocketed the mobile and thought about the girl, Archer. He felt a measure of sadness for her. And guilt. That there was a need for people like her was irrefutable; that it had to be young women such as she was, in his opinion, less so. Unfortunately, his concerns at the time had been overruled, to the extent that he had been prevented from ever meeting her, or even seeing her file and photo. But would he have stopped her going if he’d met her? What would he have done, he wondered, if it had been his own daughter recruited and trained for such a task, then abandoned to her fate?
A familiar figure in a pinstripe suit passed him by, nodding briefly in recognition. Something to do with Planning or Analysis, Marshall thought vaguely. They all looked the same after a while, the intelligence community’s faceless army.
Ahead of him, a motorcycle courier pulled in to the kerb and took out a map. A couple of American tourists took photos of the river and a delivery van bumped by, its unsecured roller shutter clattering. After the story he’d just heard, such everyday noises and colour seemed trivial.
Absorbed by his thoughts, Marshall was only vaguely aware of the soft swish of leathers and heavy footsteps crossing the pavement. The motorcycle engine was still rumbling, and the smell of its exhaust tickled his nostrils. It took a moment for him to realize that the courier was now behind him and coming up fast—
Marshall began to turn. But he was too late. He rocked to a blow low down on his left-hand side, followed by a sharp, cold pain going right through his body. As he opened his mouth to protest, he felt a weakness spreading to his limbs, beginning in his hips and going all the way down to his feet. He staggered and reached round to his back, but that only made the pain worse. He felt dizzy, and a rush of congestion building in his throat. He coughed, saw an impenetrable darkness closing in, blotting out all sights and sounds, and wondered how he could have been so careless after all this time.
Marshall began to feel very cold. He didn’t feel his knees hit the pavement, didn’t hear the cry of alarm from the woman tourist. All he could think of was the things he hadn’t yet accomplished.
FORTY-EIGHT
‘
I
hate this waiting.’ Rik scuffed his feet on the grass and tossed away the dregs of a coffee. They had left Harry’s Saab just off the Bayswater Road and were sitting near the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The Renault had served its purpose and was now in an underground car park in Mayfair, gathering fines. There were a few people about, mostly walkers and tourists, but they had good all-round scope to see anyone approaching.
‘It’s only been an hour,’ Harry murmured calmly, staring up at the sky. He had his head back in an attitude of total relaxation, as if they were out for a picnic rather than waiting to see whether Marshall rang back or turned up in person with a squad of armed men.
‘I know. But it’s not like we’re up for a job interview, is it? If we’re hung out to dry for all these killings, Marshall’s our only chance of getting to the bottom of it, and of Jo getting her life back.’ He slam-dunked his cardboard mug into a litter bin. ‘And then there’s old Ruby Rafa’i. Think what HM Government’ll do if he gets slotted on our turf.’
‘Subhi,’ Joanne corrected him. ‘His name’s Subhi.’ Her voice was flat, on the verge of confrontational, and it was clear that she, too, was reaching the limits of her patience.
Harry said nothing. The waiting was always the worst. It would get to each of them in different ways. That and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Rik said, ‘Why don’t we turn the tables and ring him? For all we know, he’s spent the last hour having us traced and spotted.’
Harry reached into his pocket and tossed Rik his mobile. ‘You think he’ll tell you, go ahead.’
As Rik dialled the number, Joanne stood up, thrusting her hands in her pockets. She did a nervous jog on the spot and flexed her neck and shoulders, her rucksack on the ground at her feet.
Rik switched the phone to loudspeaker and waited. After ten rings, it was answered by a man with a gravel voice. ‘
Yes?
’ No identity, no indication of who he worked for.
‘Is Major Marshall there?’
‘
Marshall isn’t available. Who shall I say is calling?
’
‘He said he’d be in touch . . . him or someone called Ballatyne.’ Rik rolled his eyes as a voice rose in the background and the line became muffled. Then the speaker came back. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to call back later.’ The connection was cut.
‘Bloody hell.’ Rik stared at the phone in disgust. ‘Is that what we pay our taxes for – to call back later?’ He tossed the phone back to Harry, who reached out and plucked it from the air without moving from his position.
After five more minutes, Harry stood up and looked around. Rik was right to be impatient. This was all taking too long. Marshall should have got back to them by now. Every minute they stayed out in the open, they were at risk.‘Let’s move,’ he said. ‘Back to the car.’ He looked at the other two. ‘If anything happens, we split up and meet in two hours at the Kensington Hilton.’ It was the first place he could think of, but well placed if they were forced to split up and regroup, and busy enough inside to keep a low profile.
They were halfway back to the car when Harry’s patience finally folded. If Marshall was serious about helping Joanne get her life back and pinning down Jennings, he should have been in touch by now. He dialled the number on the card.
‘Yes?’ A man’s voice answered after a few rings.
‘It’s Harry,’ he said. ‘Is Marshall there?’
‘Wait one.’ The voice disappeared abruptly and Harry guessed the man had pressed the mute button. He waited, counting off the seconds, and was about to switch off the phone when the man came back on. He sounded sombre. ‘Get to a secure location and wait. You’ll be contacted shortly.’
‘Wait. What’s the—?’ But the phone was dead. He slipped it in his pocket and looked at the other two. ‘Something’s up. They want us to find somewhere secure and wait for a call.’
‘No way.’ Joanne looked edgy. ‘We’ve waited long enough. Why should we trust any of them?’ She stopped, forcing the two men to do the same, and clutched her rucksack close to her chest. ‘You’re putting too much faith in Marshall. Don’t forget he’s in the same department as the people who left me to rot. Why should I trust him just because you do?’
Harry studied her carefully. He was puzzled by her change of mood. She had reacted with less anger or emotion when faced with Marshall than he’d expected. In most people it would have conjured up at least some degree of heat. But not her – until now. Delayed reaction, maybe.
‘He’s all we’ve got,’ he pointed out. ‘If you have any better ideas, let’s hear them.’
She didn’t reply, but turned and walked quickly away along the path.
Rik watched her go. ‘You know who she reminds me of?’
Harry nodded. ‘Clare.’ He’d been having the same thoughts. Young, prickly and aggressive, Clare Jardine had exhibited the same kind of impatience and lack of trust.
He hoped Joanne didn’t show her annoyance in the same cold, ruthless manner.
FORTY-NINE
H
arry’s mobile rang fifteen minutes later. They were seated at a corner table of a deserted lounge in a four-star international hotel along the Bayswater Road. The Saab was out the back, tucked discreetly behind a laurel bush. A porter had departed to get them some coffee. Harry glanced at the screen, but the number was withheld.
‘Major?’ he replied.
‘I’m afraid not. Who is this?’ The voice was hard-edged, the accent neutral.
Harry hesitated. If it wasn’t Marshall, there was only one person it could be: his deputy, Richard Ballatyne. ‘My name’s Harry,’ he replied, and glanced at his watch. Anything over a minute was pushing their luck; if Marshall was leading them on, he could have an active unit abseiling down around their ears before they knew what had hit them.
But the caller had anticipated that. ‘Relax, Mr Tate,’ he said brusquely. ‘Nobody’s playing tricks here.’
Damn. They had his name.
Harry was stunned. ‘We know about Ferris, too,’ the man told him. ‘Marshall recognized your face from that business in Red Station, Georgia, and we ran a search of known associates. Harry – if I may call you that? – I’ve got some bad news.’
‘Go on.’ Christ, he thought, what was worse than knowing you were no longer invisible and that the massed forces of the State could pick you up whenever they felt like it?
‘Andrew Marshall is dead.’
The words took a long moment to assimilate. Dead? But how? They’d only been speaking a short while ago. The waiter chose that moment to arrive, and Harry signalled at Rik to get rid of the man. Even just one side of this sort of conversation was hard to disguise. Rik caught on quickly, taking the tray before the waiter could begin to unload it and hustling him out of earshot with a hefty tip.