Deception Read online

  Ballatyne didn’t even blink. ‘I wish it were. But if she’s with any kind of group, I’d rather she was cut adrift before she does any damage.’

  ‘So you believe the rumours?

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I believe. Others believe it, that’s my problem.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘About eight years ago a Major Colin Nicholls in the Intelligence Corps went AWOL after being wounded in a firefight in northern Iraq. He was working undercover ahead of conventional forces, and it was his third time down – an unlucky bugger to share a bunker with, if you ask me. He was sent back to the UK and treated; given the usual review and post-op psychobabble, but it didn’t stick; he bugged out before the shrinks could lock him on a programme.’

  ‘They missed the signs.’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t forget he was Intelligence; hiding stuff is in their nature. Before Iraq he’d been playing secret squirrel in Northern Ireland, snooping on the Real IRA. Anyway, after his third strike in Iraq he dropped out of sight and nobody’s seen him since; no contact with family or friends, no footprint from bank accounts or plastic. It was like he’d dropped off the edge.’

  ‘As you said, it’s what they do.’

  ‘I suppose. Anyway, about twelve months ago a former colleague thought he spotted Nicholls in a restaurant in Sydney, talking to two men. The colleague took a photo on his mobile and sent it in. It’s not a confirmed sighting because the man turned away, but the other two were identified as long-term deserters. Their names had cropped up before in connection with others who’d done a bunk and gone underground. We think they were with Nicholls for a reason.’

  ‘The Protectory?’

  ‘Correct. The word is old – it means protecting waifs and strays. Someone’s twisted idea of a joke, if you ask me, considering some of the people they’ll be helping.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Still, it would fit the kind of man Nicholls was said to be: idealistic, apparently; good family; highly intelligent but emotionally a little naïve.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee the Protectory will have helped Tan.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way by having her knowledge sold on the open market, would you?’

  ‘She might have slid off the radar all by herself and gone to ground.’

  ‘Don’t bet on that, either.’ Ballatyne leaned closer as a pair of suited office workers crept by, eyeing the bench covetously as if looks alone would render it vacant. ‘If the Protectory is operating the way we think they are, it’s likely they need a regular flow of operating capital for expenses, accommodation, bribes and travel. It’s a costly business slipping people off the radar. One way of doing it would be by selling the information deserters have. And some of them are very bright bunnies indeed. Bloody scary, the details some of them carry in their heads.’

  ‘Going AWOL doesn’t automatically make a traitor. Someone like Tan might refuse to play along with them.’

  ‘It’s not just about Tan.’ Ballatyne’s eyes were cold. ‘We can’t count on the Protectory passing up on anyone with her specialized knowledge. They go on fishing expeditions for the people they want and they play hard.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We have reason to believe that while he was sunning himself in Thailand, Pike was contacted by a man named Thomas Deakin. He’s a former captain in the Scots Guards who went over the fence six years ago. Since then, he’s rumoured to have tried forming his own group, called Highway Eighty, which as you probably know is the main route out of Baghdad.’ The flinty smile came again. ‘The man clearly has a sense of irony. Anyway, we hear they’ve now merged with the Protectory, although they would appear on the surface to be like chalk and cheese.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘In another life Deakin would be a mercenary. It’s not fighting that frightens him; it’s the lack of freedom to do his own thing. My guess is the Protectory is a useful stepping stone. Nicholls and his crew are probably a bit too soft for the likes of Deakin, too touchy-feely . . . not aggressively commercial enough. In the end, though, they’re the same animal, sharing similar traits; they help other deserters, check them out, give them money, sanctuary, documents and point them towards a new life.’

  ‘A benevolent society.’

  ‘Originally, maybe. But Deakin’s turned them into a regular business; they concentrate on targeting new deserters within days of them leaving, and finding those with saleable talents. They drain them of any specialized knowledge, then sell it to the highest bidder. It’s an attractive deal for someone on the run: just tell us all you know and we’ll give you money, a new ID, freedom . . . and no more fighting.’

  ‘What about the ones with no saleable talents?’

  ‘That’s where the touchy-feely face comes in. Your average squaddie gets some cash and a promise, and is told to get lost. Helps perpetuate the myth. But there’ve been rumours that they don’t react well to any specialist talent turning them down once they’ve got them in their sights. Two Armoured Regiment bods who’d bunked off after testing a new battle tank were approached but said no. They ended up dead in a drive-by shooting in Melbourne. These people are in it for the money and they don’t play nice.’

  Harry studied Ballatyne’s face. He was too experienced to be giving anything away, but the way he was talking gave a hint of something which made the hairs stir on the back of Harry’s neck.

  ‘You’ve got an insider,’ he said softly. Ballatyne had just revealed a little too much detail for this to be idle speculation. ‘Someone in the Protectory.’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ Ballatyne’s response was bland. ‘We’ve been getting a few hints, that’s all. Stronger than gossip; enough to know that it’s not, as you put it, campfire stuff.’

  ‘And where does Paulton fit in?’

  ‘He and Deakin know each other from way back. Deakin was also spotted hanging around at Frankfurt.’ He produced another photograph from his pocket and held it out for Harry to take. It was the same shot he’d shown him on the day of the shooting in St James’s Park: Paulton crossing a pavement in an anonymous street, about to get in a car.

  ‘I’ve seen this already. So?’

  ‘I know you have.’ Ballatyne gave a knowing smile. ‘I also know you’ve got your little mate Ferris analysing the details to see if he can come up with a location.’

  Harry didn’t rise to the bait. Maybe Ballatyne didn’t get the opportunity to show off much, surrounded as he probably was by Sixers who thought themselves smarter, sharper and more ambitious. ‘And?’

  ‘Forget it – you’re wasting your time. It was taken in Brussels.’ Ballatyne’s finger was tapping on a man standing back from Paulton. He looked to be in his forties, dressed in a pale suit and looking relaxed and fit. ‘This is Deakin. Remember the face.’

  Harry stared at the two men in the photo, trying to remain calm at the knowledge that Ballatyne had been playing him with this photo, drawing him in. It was part of the game; he should have known.

  ‘Paulton’s with the Protectory?’ It was a hell of a jump from waging war on spies, terrorists and anyone threatening the country’s security, to actually helping its enemies gain vital military information. Had he really gone that far overboard? Or had that always been his plan, working towards this goal? The possibilities were unsettling. No wonder someone on Ballatyne’s level had been put on the case.

  ‘Almost certainly. But Deakin’s the one to watch. Nicholls has moved into the background. It’s possible he doesn’t like what’s happened and has cut himself off. He’s an idealist. But Deakin’s an attack dog. He rarely goes anywhere without a couple of Bosnian wingmen with him, guarding his back. They do the heavy lifting.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ Sensing there was nothing more to come, Harry stood up to leave, then turned back. In the background, Ballatyne’s minders stirred. ‘There’s one thing.’

  ‘I know,’ Ballatyne said. ‘Gordon Cullum. He rang me. You upset him.’ He didn’t seem too put out by the revelation.

  ‘Is he
for real?’

  ‘Real enough. He was in Five for years, worked undercover in Ulster back in the early days. He’s now a sort of floating liaison between the MOD and the Intelligence community, used whenever there’s an overlap of responsibilities, like now. He’s due for retirement soon, but he’s solid enough. It’s only a signature, you know, on the form. Bureaucrats need signatures like bees need pollen; it’s how they survive.’

  ‘It won’t happen. Last time I signed on the dotted line for Five, they tried to kill me, remember?’

  ‘Fair point. I can see that would be a problem.’ Ballatyne seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘OK, forget the bloody signature. I’ll sign it for you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So what’s the real problem?’

  ‘Cullum. He feels . . . odd. Could he have known Paulton?’

  There was a brief silence while Ballatyne chewed that over. Eventually he said, ‘You asked before why Six is on this rather than Five. The answer is Paulton. Thames House was seen as too close to be objective, even after what he did. They could well screw it up by going after him mob-handed, just to put the books straight. That was enough to give us primacy even though this is not our normal area of operations.’ He gave a quizzical look. ‘You sure you’re not letting Paulton become an obsession, Harry?’

  ‘Probably. I get that way with people who try to have me terminated.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He chewed his lip and added, ‘We’ve got professionals you can talk to about that, you know. Just a thought. And remember one thing: we rarely get the resolution we crave.’

  ‘Thanks. Have you finished?’

  Ballatyne tilted his head. ‘Sorry . . . getting philosophical in my old age. Back to Cullum. You’re wondering if he’ll get in the way?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to rely on him in a snow storm.’

  ‘In that case, you won’t have to. I’ll handle the control end of things myself.’

  Harry was relieved. It confirmed what he’d been thinking. Cullum was just filling in and not to be relied on long term. He hadn’t been looking for a holding hand, but someone who wasn’t full of old baggage was far preferable as a contact, especially if all hell broke loose and he needed a quick response. Nothing in Cullum’s attitude had given him that reassurance.

  ‘One thing more.’ Ballatyne wasn’t looking at him now, but staring out over the river towards the London Eye. ‘Your mate Ferris.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘All the information you need is on that data stick. Any more, you ask me and, within reason, I’ll make sure you get it. I know Wonder Boy’s reputation for letting his electronic fingers do the walking; it’s what got him into the last spot of bother. But you’d better make sure he knows that snooping on the peccadilloes of our illustrious members of parliament will be like nothing if he even considers intruding on my bailiwick. Got me?’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Ballatyne turned and looked at him, the light flashing off his glasses and lending his eyes an oddly sinister tone. ‘I’m deadly serious, Harry. If he goes ferreting about anywhere he shouldn’t, if I pick up a hint that he’s been hacking into SIS files, truly nasty things will happen.’

  With that, he stood up and walked away, trailing his security team behind him.

  TEN

  ‘Sounds like someone didn’t want Pike talking,’ said Rik. ‘It was quick work, though, nailing him like that.’

  ‘Too quick,’ Harry agreed. Pike was no anti-surveillance expert; he was a squaddie and would have left a trail a mile wide. Even so, getting someone on to him so quickly would have taken resources and expertise.

  They were sitting over takeaway coffees in Rik’s flat near Paddington. Harry had brought him up to speed on events so far, and was going over what had happened to Pike, and what it implied.

  ‘It would have taken some organizing,’ Harry surmised, ‘and the timing had to be spot on. Hitting someone on the move takes practice . . . or experience. And out in the open, it takes nerve.’

  ‘You saying it was a professional hit?’

  ‘Had to be. One to drive, another to shoot. It shows the Protectory has got the reach and the talent. But Pike wasn’t the first. Ballatyne says at least two others are known to have walked away and died.’ He sipped his coffee and wondered if they had seen him at Pike’s bolthole. He didn’t think so, but he decided to keep his eyes open from now on. ‘Makes you wonder what Pike could have known that made taking the risk to kill him worthwhile.’

  ‘The names and faces of the people who approached him, presumably.’

  Harry couldn’t argue with that. It was the single biggest danger for anyone in the intelligence gathering business, on whichever side of the fence they stood: the moment they came out of the shadows of their cover and stood face to face with their target. If they had overplayed their hand and their contact was actually playing them in turn, they were exposed. He took the data stick from his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘This has all the info Ballatyne can give me on the deserters they think are at risk of being poached . . . if they haven’t been already. And there are sections from Paulton’s personnel file. Can you run the details and see if you can pick up a trace?’

  Rik dragged a laptop across the table with his good arm and plugged in the stick. When a pop-up box asked for a secure code, Harry read out the number from his watch. The file opened to reveal six screen icons, with a name against each one.

  Sgt Barrow G.

  SSgt McCreath G

  Cpl Pike N.

  SSgt Pollock M.

  Lt TAN V.

  Paulton H. G.

  ‘I’ll check them out,’ said Rik. ‘You want me to print the summaries?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll need to read up on them.’

  Two minutes later, he was absorbing the basic details of each of the missing personnel and paring them down to even barer essentials.

  Sergeant Graham Barrow of the Intelligence Corps was thirty-five years old, divorced and in debt. He was listed as a specialist in counterintelligence and electronic warfare, industry and army trained in electronic countermeasures and penetration systems. He’d spent time in GCHQ in Cheltenham, working with their experts on building protective security and the use and counter-use of satellite technology, and had extensive knowledge of the security measures surrounding some of the country’s most sensitive installations, including nuclear sites and strategic arms depots. His FTR – Failed to Report – notification was dated two months ago.

  Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath, 38, widowed with no family, was from 251 Signals Squadron like Pike, but attached to 16 Air Assault Brigade. Extensively trained in operational networks, he had been testing a new and critically important forward battlefield communications system when he had been wounded by an IED and returned to the UK for treatment and recuperation. Two weeks into his stay, he had walked out of Selly Oak Hospital and disappeared. His FTR was dated six months ago.

  Staff Sergeant Martin Pollock, 39, of the Royal Armoured Corps. Divorced, no children. After working in every branch of the corps, from battle tanks to reconnaissance units, and with extensive service in Iraq and Afghanistan, he had transferred to the Joint Chemical, Biological and Nuclear Regiment, where he had been undergoing specialist instruction. The summary did not specify what that instruction was, but the name was enough to make Harry’s blood run cold. Like most orthodox military men, he disliked the very idea of chemical or biological weapons. Pollock’s FTR was dated two months ago while training in Germany.

  Lieutenant Vanessa Tan, 30, single, no family. Of all the missing personnel, she probably had the widest exposure to strategic information, including current battlefield plans and thinking. If she had the eidetic memory Ballatyne claimed, then anything that had passed before her eyes, whether plans, proposals, strategy or Force distribution, was firmly lodged in her head. Add to that the untold hours of conversations she would have been privy to in her work as ADC to the Deputy Commander ISAF, and the
flow of paperwork it would have produced, taking in UN, American and Joint Task Force personnel, from General David Petraeus on down, and it was a hell of a lot of exposure. But nothing technological. Did that make her any less saleable? He didn’t know.

  He flicked through the notes and saw that the absentees’ homes were being monitored along with known family members, a reminder of how much the MOD and government valued their retrieval. A margin note stressed the difficulty involved due to the spread of the families, with a question mark regarding extra funds to be made available to cover the inevitable shortfall if the hunt continued for too long. Phone and email logs were being trawled for clues, and mobiles were being tracked for possible signals. These were proving difficult to follow due to the variety of networks involved in the UK and overseas.

  Harry wondered aloud how long any of them had got.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If what Ballatyne says is true, Deakin and his crew don’t beat about the bush. If they think someone knows too much about them, but isn’t keen on joining, they take them out. If these four have been approached already and haven’t jumped on board, they’ll be living on borrowed time.’

  ‘How real do you reckon Paulton’s involvement is? Doesn’t sound very likely to me; getting his hands dirty with deserters, trauma victims and misfits.’

  Harry didn’t have an answer to that one. He’d been thinking about Paulton more or less constantly. He’d have been happier being able to give Rik some specific clues to follow, rather than the supposition he was working on. He’d shown him all the names the MI5 man had used, but was almost certain they would lead nowhere. Paulton was too canny; he’d work on the old adage of never revisiting old territory. That included using old aliases and code names. The risk of bumping into figures from his past was too real. And wherever Paulton was right now, he wouldn’t be living in a straw hut with a donkey for transport, the ageing white man standing out like a tart at a tea party. He’d feel trapped and ultimately vulnerable, something a man with his background of intrigue and double dealing would find intolerable. Wherever he was, it would have to be close to good lines of communication, multiple routes in and out and surrounded by a community where he could blend in and become part of the backdrop. The invisible man.