‘And Barrow?’
‘I’m waiting to hear about that. Ganic and Zubac flew to Berlin immediately after the hit on Pike and caught up with him heading for the Polish border.’
‘Are they going to bring him in?’ Nicholls asked.
Deakin stared at him without expression. ‘What do you think?’
‘There’s gonna be questions about Pike, though. Right?’ Turpowicz looked between the two Englishmen. The UK was their territory, but his question was clearly valid; had it been in the US, there would be a major investigation by both military and federal authorities. Nobody took out two military cops and their prisoner on a public highway without causing a firestorm. Surely the UK was no different.
‘Let them ask. Who cares? Our men are clear and gone. Point is, it works in our favour.’ Deakin spoke calmly, unaffected by what he had ordered done. ‘It sends a message to anyone else who thinks they can stiff us. The word is: don’t. And that includes our clients.’ He smiled and finished his wine, leaving the other two men with no doubts that he was extreme enough to go after anyone who tried to cross him, whatever their nationality or location.
The phone in Deakin’s pocket buzzed, and the sound of voices drifted through from the front section of the bar. Turpowicz and Nicholls stiffened instantly, but Deakin held out a hand to stop them getting alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘This is someone I want you to meet. He’s going to take our organization to the next level.’ He spoke into the phone. ‘Send him in, please.’
‘You didn’t think to warn us first?’ Nicholls looked angry. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Deakin? We’re all equal in this. We should each have a say about who we meet and when.’
Turpowicz nodded in agreement, his eyes bleak. He stayed calm, but said, ‘Not cool, man. You should’ve run it by us first.’
Deakin was unfazed by their reactions. He laid a hand on his chest. ‘Sorry, guys. It was a last minute thing and I didn’t have time. He was in the area, that’s all. I promise, this will be to our advantage.’
Nicholls leaned forward. ‘How do we know we can trust this man? Are you going to vouch for him?’
Deakin gave a flinty smile. ‘Of course, Colin. Why? Do you doubt me?’ He looked at them in turn as if daring them to object. ‘No? Good. We know where we stand then.’
Amid the stiff silence that followed, there was a knock at the door and a man entered. He was in his fifties, conservatively dressed in a suit and tie, with a light coat slung over one arm. He could have been a simple businessman, his nationality northern European but not clearly defined by his clothes. He looked thin, as if he had recently lost weight, but fit and tanned, with neat, grey hair. He smiled at the three men with what looked like genuine pleasure.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, his accent middle-class and English. If he sensed any hostility in the atmosphere, he ignored it. ‘Am I interrupting?’ He chuckled as he took a chair indicated by Deakin, who poured the fourth glass of wine. He took an appreciative sniff, raised the glass in salute and said, ‘My name’s Paulton, by the way. But please call me George.’
THIRTEEN
One kilometre north-east of Schwedt, a small industrial town on the German side of the border with Poland, a small white pickup truck churned along a narrow, isolated track riddled with muddy puddles and wallows. Darkness was coming in fast and the driver’s face was beaded with perspiration as he fought to control the steering wheel. He was praying that he didn’t get a puncture. Running on sidelights only, which were barely enough to show the banks on either side or the potholes in the surface, he was constantly having to wrench the vehicle back on course as he felt the bumper brushing against the tangle of overgrown grass and bushes bordering the track.
‘Come on, come on. .!’ he swore softly, as the truck failed to respond to his foot pounding on the accelerator. The worn-out engine was pinking in protest at the half tank of cheap petrol he’d been sold with the vehicle, a last-ditch attempt to stay clear of bus or train routes, and the noisy heater clamped under the dashboard sounded laboured and tinny. With the approaching night came a curtain of rain sweeping across the countryside towards him, and he was shivering with a mixture of cold and despair that not even the ancient camouflage jacket he’d bought in a market two days ago could stave off.
He checked the wing mirror, but the bouncing vehicle made seeing anything behind him impossible. He thought he’d caught a glimmer of lights back there earlier, but had seen nothing since. Maybe he’d lost the pursuers he knew were on his tail. Or maybe he’d been imagining it, a result of exhaustion. He flicked on the yellow interior light and risked a quick glance at the folded map pinned to the dashboard. Schwedt was behind him, and if he could believe the single dotted line showing just west of the town, the track he was on led towards the Polish border and the river Oder. He was counting on finding a way of crossing the water when he got closer, and avoiding the road where there would certainly be border controls. The pickup was barely roadworthy and would not stand close scrutiny if a bored official decided to give him the once-over.
He checked the mirror again and pulled to a halt alongside a clump of pine trees silhouetted against the sky. He climbed out and watched the track behind him for a moment, straining to hear the sound of a vehicle engine. But there was nothing. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he then went round to the rear of the vehicle. Two sharp kicks and the tail and brake lights were smashed. If anyone was following him, they’d have nothing to fasten on. If, on the other hand, he ran into a border patrol or the police, he was already in deep enough trouble and broken lights would be the least of his problems.
He unzipped his pants and relieved himself against a rear tyre, eyes on the track behind him. It would be just his luck, he thought wryly, to be caught taking a piss. A couple of guys in his unit in Helmand had done the same, to their cost; one got taken out by a sniper, the other had stepped on an IED hidden behind the bush he was watering. Bastard insurgents.
When he was finished, he zipped up and walked away from the pickup, scanning the darkened fields and woodland for signs of life. Other than the up-glow of lights from Schwedt, and the furtive scurry of a fox or rabbit in the undergrowth, he was certain there was nobody about. He sniffed the air, catching a trace of pine sap and a waft of brackish water from the river. Then, as he stepped round to climb back behind the wheel, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead, overcome by a wash of despair.
A man was standing by the front wing, the thin glow of the sidelights reflecting off the gun in his hand.
FOURTEEN
‘You should have taken the deal, Sergeant Barrow.’ The newcomer spoke softly, his accent east European with a faint American inflection. He was from Bosnia, and Graham Barrow had met him before, in the company of the man named Deakin. His stomach went cold. This one’s name was Zubac and he was a killer. And wherever Zubac went, so did his mate, Ganic. Two halves of the same tool. ‘All you had to do was agree to trade what you knew,’ Zubac continued. ‘Now you have. . no value.’
‘Wait.’ Barrow held up a hand. He was breathing fast, eyes sliding sideways as he estimated his chances of making it to the side of the track and the surrounding darkness. Once out there, maybe he’d have a chance. But he knew it was slim. He’d been a long time out of action, stuck behind a desk in GCHQ Cheltenham before his last posting to Sangin, Afghanistan. Quite apart from not being physically capable of taking on monsters like these men, he wasn’t combat fit. He glanced around, trying to see into the darkness. Where the hell was Ganic? ‘I got confused, OK? I thought Deakin was going to screw me and I couldn’t risk going back. Tell him. . tell him I’ll do it.’