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  Twice she’d spotted the approach of police patrol cars and scurried out of sight just in time, losing herself in the shadows. They looked like standard night-time patrols, but a lone woman might be enough to attract a bored policeman’s curiosity. She had been trained to lie for England, but had no rational explanation for being out by herself, or why she was walking in obvious pain. And with her wallet holding cash, ID and credit cards all locked up in the hospital for safe-keeping, not being able to prove who she was would be a step too far.

  A couple of drunks had appeared out of an alleyway near the Elephant and Castle station, buttoning their flies. They had eyed her with eager, if unsteady interest, and she’d hurried on, leaving them behind. But at the next convenient doorway she’d studied the crutch. It was lightweight, made of aluminium, with a plastic grip and a cuff for the arm and a rubber ferrule on the end. She’d ripped off the ferrule and stamped hard on the aluminium tip, squashing it into a sharp edge.

  Now it was a weapon. She wouldn’t last long swinging it, but a look at the tip might put off all but the most determined of attackers. The rubber ferrule was no longer a perfect fit, but it would do. An SIS instruction drilled into the class had been a simple one: having a weapon didn’t mean you had to use it. But the value of the increased confidence for a field operative, especially in hostile territory, was immense.

  Although she had no easy access to a phone, she had racked her brains for someone to contact. But whatever the gunshot had done to her stomach had also blitzed her memory bank; she couldn’t recall a single name or number of anybody she knew. At first she had panicked, staring out at the street in dread. What if she never regained her memory? How would she survive?

  But she had forced herself to calm down and think logically. It was what she’d been trained to do in moments of high stress. Things weren’t so bad, because she wasn’t totally blank. She’d instinctively remembered the location of the SIS building, and the direction to take for Southwark; and she’d recognised the fact that the two mystery visitors to the unit had been speaking Russian. . and that one of them had wanted to deal with her, the words uttered with all the emotion of ordering a takeaway.

  ‘We could save the bother — do it now.’

  She shivered at the memory, hating knowing how vulnerable she’d felt right then; acknowledging that there wasn’t a thing she could have done to stop them.

  The rest of the journey to the river had been a blank, constantly dodging the most obvious street cameras, other pedestrians, cars and well-lit areas. But she had made it.

  And now she was here.

  She flinched as the door to her temporary refuge inched open, and lifted the crutch in readiness. A girl’s head popped into view. Orange hair with yellow streaks, face piercings and black lipstick. The body followed, tall and lean. Torn denims and Doc Martens. Her name was. . Maisy? Mitzi? She couldn’t remember. Only that she had met her near Charing Cross after crossing the river, sipping soup from a paper cup. She had blagged a cup for herself, then a room here for the night.

  She relaxed again.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Mitzi. The German accent was strong with an American inflection. ‘Are you OK?’

  Clare nodded and got to her feet, using the crutch to steady herself. ‘I’m good, thanks.’ Although Mitzi hadn’t asked, Clare had hinted at a broken rib from a mugging while dossing in south London. It happened all the time out there. ‘I appreciate the help.’

  ‘My pleasure. We have decided to move north — to Bayswater. I hear there’s a place just come up with easy access and no work going on.’ She was in the company of three others, friends from university, all squatting wherever they could. It was fun, for them; something to pass a few weeks in the city before heading back home to Berlin or wherever.

  But not for Clare. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. Things to do.’ She stretched cautiously, feeling the tug of her stomach muscles and a slight pain where the bullet had gone in. It was better than it had been, but not yet ready for taking on an assault course.

  Mitzi nodded. ‘There’s a Starbucks down the street. Pauli is doing the early shift. If we go now, he’ll give us breakfast and coffee.’

  Pauli. Mitzi’s sort-of-boyfriend. Skeletal, moustache, studious type.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ She needed food, anyway. And some thinking time. After eating, she’d find a place to sit and work up a plan.

  If only she could come up with a name.

  FOUR

  To Harry Tate, the Major Trauma Centre at London’s King’s College Hospital in Camberwell looked no different than on previous visits. It was nearly five p.m. on a normal weekday — or, at least, a normal weekday for those not confined here by circumstances outside their control. Yet as he walked through the main entrance, there was a discernible air of unease about the place, as if its pulse was beating a shade faster than normal.

  A security guard at the entrance watched him check in at the unit’s main desk, and another nodded as he crossed the floor to the stairs. Both men had the ex-forces look about them, with that born-in-uniform appearance it’s hard to lose. Harry made his way up two floors to where another guard was sitting behind another desk. Also ex-military, this one was younger and looked edgy. He jumped to his feet at the sound of footsteps, straightening his jacket.

  Along the corridor, two men in suits were talking in subdued tones. Beyond them was a line of red-and-white chequered tape strung between weighted plastic bollards. The men looked towards Harry then turned and walked away.

  He gave the guard the patient’s name and showed his MI5 pass. It was out of date, but he doubted the guard would notice. None of his colleagues had.

  The man consulted a list on the table and nodded. ‘I’ll have to ask you to stay inside the tape, sir. And don’t go anywhere but the room you’re visiting.’

  ‘Fine. What’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. Thank you.’ He handed over a visitor’s badge on a clip, his face carefully blank. ‘If you’d return that before you leave?’

  Harry walked down the corridor, forced by the tape to stick to the right-hand side. Turned the corner and saw the two men just disappearing into a room on the left down at the end. The tape ended there, secured to a hook in the wall. A bundle of bed linen lay crumpled on the floor just outside.

  As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of another man inside, and heard the rumble of voices followed by the flash of a camera.

  He shrugged and stopped outside the room where a former MI6 officer named Clare Jardine was recovering from a wound to the stomach. She’d been shot saving his life, although he doubted that had been her real intention. Even so, he figured he owed her the occasional visit, whether she liked it or not. The last one had been about ten days ago, before setting off on another assignment. She hadn’t been pleased to see him. Prickly by instinct and nature, it was what he’d come to expect of her.

  He pushed open the door.

  The room was empty.

  He walked back out to the nurses’ station. There was nobody in sight save for an Asian man mopping the floor and humming. He continued on to the desk down the corridor.

  The guard shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t have anything to do with patient movements. Maybe she’s been discharged.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been; she’s not well enough.’

  ‘Like I said, sir, I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to check downstairs in Admin.’

  Harry looked back down the corridor, at the tape strung between the bollards. ‘She wasn’t caught up with what’s going on here, was she? Those men and the tape. . something happened. Was she part of it?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir.’ He held out his hand for the visitor’s badge.

  But Harry hadn’t finished. He turned and walked back towards Clare’s room.

  ‘Sir?’ The guard’s voice echoed after him. ‘Can you come back, please?’

  Harry ignored him. Pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him. If the guard got
really excited, he had only a few seconds before help came.

  The bed had been stripped, leaving no sign that it had been occupied recently. Neither was there any of the usual monitoring equipment that seemed to be in every room here, and which he’d seen on previous visits.

  He crossed quickly to the bed and checked under the mattress. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he was being driven by instinct. Something had taken Clare Jardine out of this room, he was certain of it; what it was he had no idea. But part of his former job with MI5 had involved tracing missing persons. Looking for the smallest clues left behind by their passing was as instinctive as breathing.

  Nothing under the bed. He checked the wardrobe, a slim, utilitarian model. Nothing there. The bedside cabinet was open and empty. On his last visit it had contained a plastic powder compact in a shocking shade of pink. It had been an ironic gift from Rik Ferris, his colleague and also a former MI5 officer. It was an acknowledgement of the fact that Clare had used a knife blade concealed inside a metal compact and saved their lives from the Bosnian gunman who had shot her. Clare liked cold steel.

  The irony was that she didn’t do pink — and she didn’t do plastic. Neither had she any love or respect for Rik Ferris. It was a chemical thing. In spite of that, she had kept the compact. The fact that it was gone told him that she had left of her own free will.

  The door burst open and the security guard came barrelling in. Behind him another man loomed in the corridor, bigger and meaner. Neither looked ready to take no for an answer.

  ‘I think you’d better leave, sir,’ the first guard said, and held the door open wide. He was breathing heavily. ‘Otherwise we call the police.’

  Harry walked past him and out into the corridor, just as the door across the way opened and a head popped out. It was one of the men in suits he’d seen earlier. He eyed Harry, then the guards, assessing details, before retreating inside without speaking.

  Harry walked back downstairs, shepherded by the bigger guard, and explained his problem to an admin assistant on the front desk. She tapped her keyboard, checked a couple of screens, then looked at him with an air of studied patience.

  ‘Well, her name’s on the list. Are you sure you went to the right room?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been here three — no, four times. Upstairs, turn the corner, second room from the end on the right.’ He jerked a thumb at the guard. ‘He can tell you.’

  He received a doubting look and a shrug in return. ‘Well, I can only go by what it says here. Sorry.’ She turned back to her work.

  ‘Can I talk to the nurses on duty while she was here? They’ll confirm it.’

  The assistant shook her head. ‘That’s not allowed.’

  Harry took out his card. ‘In that case, let me speak to your supervisor.’

  The assistant took the card, and without looking at it stood up and walked away, her back rigid. She returned moments later with a large man in a smart suit and rimless glasses, checking his watch with a faint scowl of impatience.

  ‘Mr Randolph’s the unit manager,’ the receptionist announced, and disappeared behind her monitor with a smug smile.

  ‘Can I help?’ Randolph glanced at the card. ‘Mr Tate.’

  ‘Did she explain the problem?’

  ‘Uh, no. What’s your query?’

  ‘My query,’ Harry replied patiently, taking back his card, ‘is that a patient I’ve been visiting is no longer upstairs in the trauma ward. Jardine C — female.’

  ‘Really?’ Another scowl, this one at the assistant. He shuffled behind the desk and tapped the keyboard. More taps and huffing, watched by the assistant who yawned and stared balefully at Harry. ‘She was here, you say?’

  ‘Yes. About ten days ago when I last saw her. The nurses on duty then will remember.’

  ‘That won’t be any help, I’m afraid.’ Randolph seemed relieved to have found another hurdle to throw in his way. ‘Following a review of resources, most of the staff from two weeks ago have been rotated to other duties.’

  ‘So that’s it? You lose a patient and can’t tell me anything?’

  Randolph stretched his chin out and sniffed. ‘It’s not that simple, sir — and we don’t actually “lose” patients here. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Have you checked the. . uh, patient’s home address? Maybe she discharged herself.’

  ‘With a gunshot wound to the stomach?’ Harry’s voice dropped to a dangerous level. ‘Are you serious?’

  The guard clamped a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Harry turned and looked him in the eye. It was enough to make the man back off.

  Randolph, the seasoned bureaucrat, interjected quickly. ‘Mr Tate, there are hundreds of patients passing through this hospital at any one time. Perhaps you should address your concerns to the appropriate authorities.’

  ‘Authorities? What the hell does that mean? You’re in charge — so I’m asking you.’

  ‘That unit — the one upstairs — is, strictly speaking, under the control of the Ministry of Defence. Because the patients are nearly all military, the consultants and staff have specialist responsibilities. We merely supply a service.’ He looked rather pleased with that summary and glanced again at his watch. ‘Look, I must go — I have a staff meeting waiting.’

  Harry recognised the dead hand of officialdom guiding the man’s attitude. He wasn’t going to get anywhere here. Better to go higher up, to someone who might know something. The one person who knew Clare Jardine’s background.

  Richard Ballatyne.

  FIVE

  ‘You haven’t been in touch.’ Richard Ballatyne’s tone was as neutral as his grey two-piece suit, befitting his position as a head of operations in the Secret Intelligence Service, known otherwise as MI6. He eased himself down on the bench alongside Harry with a sigh and took off his glasses, rubbing his face.

  ‘No need, was there?’ Harry shifted over to give him room and watched as the intelligence officer’s suited minder strolled past a few feet away. The man was new to Harry, albeit a clone of the previous hard-case, with a suitably square chin and watchful eyes. Ballatyne must have worn out the old one. Another man, slightly younger, in jeans and a soft jacket, with the sloppy appearance of a street rat, lounged on a bench twenty yards away. Who’d have thought, Harry pondered; MI6, equal opportunity employers. He knew their presence wasn’t Ballatyne’s choice, but since his predecessor had died at the hand of a rogue former special forces soldier, extra measures had been introduced by his superiors.

  ‘True enough. That was good work in Kosovo. Messy but. . useful.’ He was referring to an assignment Harry and Rik had undertaken for the UN, weeding out an assassin tracking down personnel suspected of being guilty of rape several years ago in the beleaguered region. They had also succeeded in unmasking the guilty rapist, the shock waves of which were no doubt still rattling the innermost ranks of the UN in New York, but unknown by the world at large.

  ‘We try to please.’

  They were seated in Victoria Embankment Gardens, a stone’s throw from the Thames and the steady roar of morning traffic along the Embankment. It was one of two preferred meeting places for Ballatyne, the other being an Italian restaurant in Wigmore Street that Harry had never seen open for business.

  ‘They’ve chopped the trees back since our last chat,’ Ballatyne commented, nodding towards the clear view of the London Eye turning lazily across the river. ‘Pity. I liked them in full leaf. It’s like sitting in a goldfish bowl now.’

  ‘Your choice, coming here,’ Harry pointed out. ‘You could always invite me to your office and show me your certificates.’

  Ballatyne grunted. They both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Ever since being placed on a hit list by his former boss, rogue MI5 Operations Director George Paulton, and narrowly escaping with his life, Harry had been let go by the security agency. It had been more out of embarrassment than any doubts about his character or loyalty. Ballatyne, however, had shown fe
w qualms about using his skills, although it would probably never include being allowed inside the hallowed portals of SIS headquarters.

  ‘So what’s the big flap?’ Ballatyne asked, brushing a stray hair from his immaculate suit. ‘I was out of the country until yesterday evening, and dropped at least three active files and a second permanent under-secretary from the MOD because of your call.’

  ‘I hope he was worth it.’

  ‘She, actually. And yes, it was. The woman’s a professional tick, like most of her kind, but we can’t always choose the people we get to work with, can we? Now, spill.’

  Harry took a deep breath and said, ‘Clare Jardine.’

  Ballatyne muttered an obscenity. ‘What about her?’

  Harry stared at him. He’d rarely heard Ballatyne swear, but this had been uttered with unreserved sincerity. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘We’ll see. What’s she done now?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  Ballatyne looked pained. ‘Please, Harry — I don’t have time for riddles.’

  ‘She’s gone. Disappeared.’

  ‘She can’t have.’

  ‘She has. I went to see her yesterday afternoon. She was there ten days ago, but now she isn’t. There were security guards and suits in the place, and lots of safety tape. Something was going on. Is it anything your lot would know about?’

  ‘Come off it, Harry. We might not be your favourite people, but we’re not responsible for every bad deed in the world. Anyway, Jardine’s off our hands, you know that.’ Harry must have looked doubtful, because he added heavily, ‘In official Six jargon, she is no longer a person of interest.’