Deception ht-3 Read online

  ‘Would you have shot him if things had gone bad?’

  Harry guessed Rik was referring to Rafa’i. There had never been anything explicit said about dealing with the former cleric once they arrived at the delivery point in west Baghdad; and he had taken it as read that being seen to shoot the Iraqi, no matter that his own people probably wanted him dead before long, would be the worst possible action to take. It had been a simple drop-and-leave mission, and what Rafa’i’s former friends wanted to do with him once they’d heard of his deception and betrayal was up to them. But Harry wasn’t naive; if it had all kicked off the moment they touched down and they’d found themselves under fire from supporters still loyal to Rafa’i, he knew he would have been expected to ensure that there was no comeback.

  ‘We’ll never know. Probably.’

  ‘So it does get easier.’

  Harry kept his head down, eyes on the papers. It was a question with no easy answer and one he didn’t think he could tackle right now. But he knew this was the tipping point he’d been waiting for.

  ‘You didn’t kill her.’

  A short silence. ‘What?’ Rik’s voice was hoarse. It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. On the surface, he appeared ready for anything, but Harry knew it wasn’t that simple. He was human. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Your shot didn’t kill her. It went high and to your left. Hit her in the right shoulder.’ Rik had been sitting on the ground, hands already shaking with the adrenalin rush of being in a firefight and the trauma of a gunshot wound from Joanne Archer’s pistol. He’d been calm enough, aiming, then shouting a warning, but it would have been amazing if he’d been able to pull off an accurate kill under those conditions. It had been Harry who’d fired the fatal shots.

  ‘But I saw her. She fell.’

  Harry nodded and looked at him, saw his confusion. . and the beginnings of what might have been relief. ‘Ballistics confirmed it,’ he continued, keeping it casual. ‘I can show you a copy if you like.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘There was no point. You wouldn’t have believed me anyway. That kind of thing, after what you’d been through. . you have to be ready to hear it.’ He grinned deliberately. ‘Don’t worry, when your shoulder’s better I’ll take you down the range and teach you how to shoot properly.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘What else do you want me to tell you?’ Harry reached for the summaries again, then stopped and turned back to face Rik. ‘Actually, there is one other thing: no, it doesn’t get any easier.’

  Rik didn’t respond, so Harry picked out a summary at random; it was Sgt Barrow. That would do. There was an active mobile number, so he picked up the phone and dialled. It rang out six times before going to a standard robot voicemail. He decided to leave a message. It seemed too simple, somehow, but he wondered if anyone else had thought of it. ‘Graham, my name’s Harry Tate,’ he said carefully. ‘I want to help you. I work in conjunction with the MOD, but I imagine you’re not sure who to trust right now, so I won’t waste time trying to sell you a deal. Call me and we’ll talk. This isn’t as bad as you think.’ He added Rik’s landline number, with the overseas dialling prefix for the UK, then cut the connection. If Barrow was out there and listening, and became desperate enough, he might call back.

  Rik was looking at him. ‘What am I — a call centre?’

  ‘No, you’re walking wounded. If he rings back and I’m not here, I’ll need you to talk to him and find out where he is. Then let me know.’ He paused, remembering Ballatyne’s cold-as-permafrost warning for Rik to keep his nose clean. If he was going to get Rik to help, he needed his understanding of the background to the job, and that included the dangers involved. ‘If we get into this, there’s no straying into official files. Ballatyne knows your history and he’ll be watching.’

  Rik had held up a hand. ‘No problem, boss,’ he promised with a sly grin. ‘I’ll be as good as gold.’

  ‘You’d better. Otherwise I’ll save Ballatyne the trouble and shoot you myself.’

  ELEVEN

  Anglesey was shrouded by a squally curtain of drizzle as Harry drove along the coast road and turned into a small lane leading to the bungalow where Vanessa Tan’s parents had lived for many years. It was set on a slope, an extended building in mature grounds overlooking the Menai Strait. At any other time he would have enjoyed the scenery and tranquillity away from the city, but right now he had other things on his mind.

  After drawing a blank with Barrow’s mobile, he had decided to take a closer look at Tan’s background. It had meant a long drive, but the solitude had allowed him to trawl for ideas and let his brain focus on the best ways of getting to Tan and the other personnel, and, through them, the Protectory. Along the way, he had stopped at irregular intervals, doubling back for short distances to check he wasn’t being tailed. It was basic stuff, and time-consuming, but necessary to ensure he stayed clean.

  He parked on the side of the lane just across from the Tan bungalow and studied the building. Set some eighty yards from its nearest neighbour, it looked closed off, remote from the world, with the empty look of something long abandoned. The rain was doing nothing to dispel the air of stolid gloom, aided by the unkempt lawn, weed-filled flowerbeds and paint peeling from the wooden window frames. A glut of moss and leaves had filled the guttering and rainwater was trickling on to the ground from numerous points where the blockage was most acute. He left the car and walked up the open paved drive to the front door. It was fitted with a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fish. He lifted it and let it drop with a hollow boom.

  No reaction. He waited, then knocked again. The fish was tarnished, unused, and the letterbox had been sealed shut. No sounds from inside, no sense of movement. He took out his mobile and rang the landline. No good trying Tan’s mobile number, it was showing unobtainable. He could hear the phone ringing inside. It had that empty quality.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The voice came from the lane behind him. He turned and saw a tall, trim woman in her fifties standing at the end of the driveway. She was wearing a green waterproof and walking boots, and had a lock of wet hair plastered down one cheek, courtesy of the rain. Harry walked back down the drive and smiled to put her at her ease.

  ‘I’m looking for Vanessa Tan,’ he said. ‘I thought she might be in.’

  ‘Vanessa?’ The woman lifted one eyebrow. ‘Goodness, she hasn’t been around for years. May I ask who you are?’

  Harry took out his wallet and showed her his card with the official portcullis logo in one corner. It was a useful leftover from his MI5 days, although it didn’t say anything about the Security Services in writing.

  ‘Oh. Government.’ The woman looked impressed. ‘Sorry — only we have to be so careful these days, don’t we?’ She tucked the stray hair back behind her ear. ‘Excuse the state of me — I like walking in the rain. I find it therapeutic. I’m Margaret Crane; the next house up. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Tate. Vanessa left home to go to uni some years back, and that’s the last we saw of her. Maureen, her mother — she died just over a year ago now — always told us Vanessa was doing well, but she never came home to visit, as far as I know.’ She glanced up at the sad-looking bungalow. ‘Such a shame, leaving the place empty like this. I think Maureen must have hoped Vanessa would come back one day, and she’d have this waiting for her. It needs someone living in it, though, rather than simply being patched up. But that’s young people for you, isn’t it? A different sense of responsibility, I suppose.’

  Harry saw what she was referring to: a wooden panel had been fitted over one of the smaller windows. It had the appearance of what his father had once called a long-term temporary fix, something that would do until a better alternative came along. ‘So who does the patching up?’

  ‘A management chap comes round every now and then, but he never says anything. Checks it’s sound, I imagine, does whatever needs doing, then g
oes away.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of the coast road. ‘There’s quite a few like this, though; empty year-round, never a sight or sound of who owns them, makes you wonder why they bought them in the first place. And they say there’s a housing shortage.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of it.

  ‘Do you know which company?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re local. Menai Management. In the centre of Caernarfon.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t suppose you know if Vanessa has any friends in the area?’

  ‘I doubt it. She was such a quiet girl growing up — and her mother always kept her nose to the grindstone. Wanted her to go to university and get a good job. She was too hard on her, in my opinion, always pushing her to excel, poor kid — as if she might make up for being a bit plain by having a string of letters after her name. Her father wanted it, too, don’t get me wrong, but he died when she was in her teens.’ She looked sad. ‘I’m not surprised she never came back, not once she got away. All that pressure — it was bound to tell in the end. Still, if hard work was the way to succeed, Maureen made sure that was how Vanessa would do it.’ She waved a vague hand towards the bungalow. ‘Makes you wonder why she keeps this place on, though, doesn’t it? If she’s never coming back.’

  In exchange for her number, Harry left his card with Mrs Crane with a request that she call if she thought of anything useful, and returned to the car. Mrs Crane stood and watched him leave. Maybe, he thought, strange men calling on houses in the area constituted real excitement up here.

  He got the number of Menai Management and got through to the office manager, Ian Griffiths, who said, ‘Sorry, Mr Tate. Can’t help you. There’s a standing order for the management fee, paid up to date. Instructions are to continue until notified otherwise. We don’t have authority to sell, if that’s what you’re after. I can’t give any further information, though, not over the phone and without proper authority-’

  Harry cut the connection and drove into Caernarfon. The man was only doing his job, but he could do without the confidentiality runaround. He found the offices of Menai Management next to a chemist and stepped inside. The staff consisted of a pasty-faced man in his early thirties with a premature comb-over. He was sprawled behind a PC looking bored, and glanced up as Harry entered. He tapped a key, shutting down the screen.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Harry flashed his MI5 card and said, ‘MOD police, Mr Griffiths. I’m trying to trace Miss Vanessa Tan.’

  Griffiths jumped up.’ Oh, you’re the bloke who rang earlier. Police, you say? What’s happened to her, then? Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’ Harry gave him a level look. ‘Are you going to help me or do I need a warrant?’ He looked at the PC humming on the desk and tapped the monitor reflectively. ‘Are all your records computerized?’

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘We’d have to impound that, for a start.’

  Griffiths looked stunned. ‘What? But there’s nothing on there. I mean. . work stuff and a few games, stuff like that. Nothing that would interest the police, though.’ He put a protective hand on the monitor. ‘Um. . what exactly do you need?’

  ‘A contact number or an address. Either would do. I presume you have one?’

  ‘Of course, yes. Standard practice. I’ll just call it up.’ The manager’s throat sounded dry, as if he was having trouble gauging how much damage could be done by having his computer taken away. He slid behind the desk and tapped at the keys, then frowned. ‘That’s odd.’ He tapped again but the frown stayed. He looked up at Harry in a mild state of panic. ‘I don’t understand it; there’s nothing on here. No address, telephone — nothing. But we always have contact details. .’ He stared at the screen as if willing it to give up its secrets. ‘Just the house itself.’

  ‘How long is it since you last looked at the file?’ Harry was sceptical about the man’s air of surprise. Whatever had happened, whether by accident or design, he was willing to bet that a long-term arrangement with automatic payments made through a bank would soon become part of the wallpaper, rarely checked or updated because anything more would be too costly. Until something went wrong.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Griffiths looked embarrassed. ‘A while, I admit.’

  ‘You did some patching work on a window recently. Is that part of the agreement?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, it doesn’t include anything major or structural — we’d have to get permission to do that. But we had instruction to look after the basic skin, if you like, make sure the property’s secure, no burst pipes and so forth. I saw the cracked window on my last visit about three weeks ago — a blackbird had hit it — so I placed a panel of three-ply over it until I get the owner’s agreement to replace the glass.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I suppose I can whistle goodbye to that, if she’s gone missing.’

  He had a thought. It was a long shot, but Griffiths was about the same age as Vanessa Tan, and the catchment area for schools here would probably have covered a fairly wide patch. He took out the photo and said, ‘Is this the owner? You might have known her.’ He was to be disappointed.

  ‘No idea. I never met her.’ Griffiths looked at the photo and made a soft whistling noise. ‘I wish I had, though. Would’ve made life a lot more interesting.’

  Harry thanked him for his help. The fact that they’d never met cut down the need to ask any further questions. He returned to the car. On the way, he rang Rik and asked him to access the phone records for the Tan number. Then he set off back to London. There was nothing to be gained by staying around here. It was a blind, going nowhere.

  Thirty minutes later, Rik sent a text.

  Subscriber Ms V Tan, address as given. Bills paid by DD — Barclays. Call record shows no outgoing, no voicemail.

  Harry switched off the phone. At least the drive back gave him plenty of time to think. Mainly about what had happened to Vanessa Tan, hard-working, nose-to-the-grindstone student with ambitious parents. Had the enforced studies coupled with military service been a push too much, or had something more sinister happened to make her disappear?

  He took out the photo and glanced at it as he drove. Something was tugging at the corner of his mind. Something Mrs Crane had said. . and Griffiths, too. But whatever it was wouldn’t come. Instinct told him it was significant, but knowing that didn’t help.

  TWELVE

  In a small bar in Wandsbek, a district of north-east Hamburg, three men sat around a table in a back function room. One of them was talking quietly on a mobile. The other two waited patiently. The room lights were on and the broad Friedrich-Ebert-Damm outside hummed with the rush of traffic. Four glasses and a chilled carafe of Mosel stood on a tray in the centre, but none of the men had yet taken a drink.

  ‘It’s done.’ The man on the phone switched it off and dropped it into his breast pocket. Then he reached for the carafe and poured three measures of wine. Thomas Deakin was slim, fair-haired and tanned, with quick eyes and a way of checking his surroundings on a constant rotation. It was unsettling to anyone meeting him for the first time, but a habit those around him had come to accept. He had the antennae of a guard dog and his instincts had served him well since going AWOL — a useful function for a man permanently guarding his back. He hadn’t stepped foot inside the UK since walking away from his unit in the Scots Guards while in transit through Germany, and was constantly on the move from one country to another, regularly changing identities to stay ahead of anyone hunting him. Infrequent meetings in anonymous bars like this, with routes in and out guaranteed and locations never used more than once, were what had kept him out of trouble for so long.

  ‘Which one?’ The man to his left was in his early forties, whipcord thin, balding and ascetic-looking. Former Master Sergeant Greg Turpowicz, a Texan, had taken his own leave of the US 101st Airborne Division and joined Deakin after surviving too many close shaves in a job he had long ceased to care about.

  ‘Pike. The Signals wonk. They iced him on
the way to Colchester. That’s the British Military Detention Centre,’ he added, for the American’s benefit.

  ‘What a waste.’ The third man was Colin Nicholls, once a major in the Intelligence Corps. ‘I was counting on getting Pike on board. What went wrong?’ His tone was soft but accusatory. He’d made it clear already that he considered Deakin’s general approach to deserters far too aggressive, and likely to frighten off those who really needed help.

  ‘He got cold feet, that’s what went wrong.’ Deakin’s lip curled in derision. ‘Maybe they’re all like that in Signals and the Green Slime: no guts when it comes to carrying through a decision.’

  Nicholls ignored the nickname; he was long accustomed to it in a job where name calling was as much for self-protection as it was for denigrating other branches of the military. But the implied insult rankled and he took in a deep breath, eyes growing dark with dislike.

  ‘Hey, guys, cool it.’ Turpowicz tapped the table and looked from one to the other as an almost electric charge sizzled in the air between them. ‘Shit happens, right? We win some, we lose some. There’ll be others.’

  Nicholls eventually nodded and relaxed. Deakin shrugged. He’d rarely shown any great liking for the former major, and they regularly disagreed on the tactics the group should use to earn funds. But he knew not to push him too far. Nicholls was older, but he’d worked undercover for months on end in Iraq and other dangerous locations, and a man didn’t do that without having powerful inner resources and a determination to survive.

  The three men sipped their wine while the atmosphere returned to normal. Then Deakin said by way of explanation, ‘Pike turning us down I could put up with; but not after we’d transferred the money. That was taking the piss.’