‘There’s been a trickle of information coming the other way — from inside the Protectory. You said so yourself. Was that a bluff as well?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There’ve been bits of information, but never enough to help us pin anyone down. The language used sounds like it could be Nicholls, but it’s been coming in through an unusual medium.’
‘Unusual?’ Harry prompted him. It was an MI6 trait, he knew, to keep everyone, even their friends and assets, in the dark wherever possible. It was standard tradecraft, the need-to-know principle. The downside was that it kept people isolated who very often should have known what was going on further down the line.
‘The United Nations Internal Oversight Services office. We have no idea why; it could be that the source once had a contact there or feels it’s the safest way of passing information out. The IOS investigates breaches of conduct and security. Although this business doesn’t involve UN personnel, they’ve been taking this information seriously and passing it on as a matter of concern.’ He pulled a face. ‘Sadly, it didn’t stop with us; the Americans have the information, too, although they’ve shown no great interest so far in doing anything with it. Probably because it involves British forces.’
‘And he’s still feeding information out?’
‘He’s been a bit quiet of late. We’re wondering how long he’s got.’ If Ballatyne was concerned about the fate of the inside man, he was hiding it remarkably well.
He stood up and took a slip of paper out of his pocket, then placed it on the table in front of Harry. It held an address in West Sussex. ‘We’ve had one bit of luck: Soran’s got several lock-ups for keeping stock, most of it genuine. He acts as a wholesaler for household goods in and around London. But there’s one place he was rather coy about. In fact, he denied having anything to do with it until we showed him a rental agreement. Then he caved. It’s one of several units on an abandoned World War Two airfield; Nissen huts the old War Office forgot about.’
‘What does he use it for?’
‘Nothing he was ready to admit to. He said it was just another storage facility for supplies in the southern counties, to save trucking stuff all the way to and from London. I don’t buy it. If the buildings are that old, they’d be no good for storing anything valuable, and too out of the way for regular deliveries. The site is by a section of disused railway line in West Sussex. Remote enough to be ignored, close enough not to disturb the neighbours.’ He gave Harry the directions. ‘I haven’t told the local cops because they’d take several hours to make their risk assessments, then stamp all over the scene. If you’re still on board, you might want to take a quiet look instead.’
Harry picked up the paper. He was still on board and Ballatyne knew it. He hadn’t come all this way simply to give up out of an attack of the snits for not being consulted fully. But after this, that was it. No more.
‘Watch your back, Harry,’ Ballatyne added. ‘Even if Deakin and his friends have forgotten you, the Bosnians won’t have. They’ve got memories like elephants and they hold a grudge like nobody else on the planet.’
Back outside, Harry called Rik. He still wasn’t fit enough yet, but they were a team. He had every right to be in on this next phase. There was no answer. Must have gone stir crazy and slipped out for some air. He rang Clare. She picked up immediately.
‘You ready for some action?’
‘Ooh, Mr Tate,’ she trilled in a tarty voice. ‘You say the sweetest things. Where are we going, then?’
‘West Sussex.’
‘Nice. Are you bringing your big gun?’
Harry ignored her. She was trying to wind him up. ‘Where do I pick you up?’
‘I’ll be at your place,’ her voice returned to normal, ‘when you get back.’
Get back? He glanced around, an uneasy feeling crawling up his neck. It would never have surprised him if she was watching him from across the street. He hung up.
His phone rang immediately. Number withheld.
‘Yes?’
‘. . Tate? Got. .’ The signal dropped out. The voice had been male, gruff, and too brief to recognize. It rang again before he could move. ‘Tate. . again. . your. . friend.’ A jumble of half words, then a burst of static and it was gone again.
He rang Rik. Landline and mobile. No reply.
Something was wrong.
He grabbed a cab and was halfway to Paddington when a text message came through. This time there was no mistake, no garbled words. He told the cab driver to head for his place. He had something to pick up. He looked at the screen again and felt his stomach clench tight.
‘We have your friend. You help us or he dies.’ An address followed.
It was Soran’s storage facility in West Sussex.
FIFTY-FIVE
A narrow farm track led off a secondary road below the A264 in West Sussex towards a cluster of fields dotted with small clumps of woodland. Harry drove down the track, suddenly reminded by the swish of grass on either side of the track near Schwedt, where Sgt Barrow had died. The atmosphere here was very different, though; green and scenic, a pleasant rural setting with none of the history of the former Iron Curtain, a British haven where nothing bad could happen. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
He stopped along the track and got out, studying the fields on either side. All he could hear were a few birds and the subtle swish of wind through the trees and hedges.
Clare joined him and surveyed the surrounding fields. ‘Good location. It’s miles from anywhere.’
‘Precisely. Soran’s probably used this place before for bringing in his people. His place in Hackney was clean; he had to have somewhere else he could use for storage on the way back from the coast.’ He nodded towards a dark shape just visible between two oak trees at the end of the track. ‘Looks like a building.’ He walked to the rear of the car and took out his gun, checking the load. He handed Clare a second semi-automatic and a magazine.
She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Aren’t you worried I might shoot you?’ She inserted the magazine with practised precision. It set off a glint in her eye which he recalled from their time in Georgia. Some people were just turned on by guns, he decided. Or knives.
‘What would be the point?’
‘Fair question.’ She waved the gun, head cocked to one side. ‘A little bird told me you’re carded. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
She looked scornful. ‘So you’ve taken the Queen’s five-penny piece. And after all they did to you.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ Less than he’d thought, in fact, other than being dragged into fights he’d rather not have.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Tosh, Harry Tate. This is meat and drink to you and you know it.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re more complex than you pretend.’
He took out his mobile and brought up the text message from Zubac or Ganic. He held it up so she could read it. She looked at him wide-eyed, and for the first time, he thought he detected a sense of seriousness in her eyes.
‘Christ, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have still come?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Because all roads lead to Paulton. Isn’t that why you’re doing this?’
He set off without answering her question. If she was going to shoot him, now would be the time. But he was counting on her wanting Paulton too much to do it just yet. ‘Keep a lookout,’ he murmured, ‘and try not to shoot any members of the Ramblers Association.’
They left the car and moved down the track, arriving at an open gateway and a cluster of small outbuildings on a level patch of ground. Harry stopped in the shade of an oak tree and studied the layout. He counted five buildings in all, darkened by age and neglect, some sprouting grass from the roof. They still looked usable, and seemed too structured to be farm buildings. He soon realized why; the ground they stood on was at the head of a north-south stretch of land which must once have been a runway. Any brick or concrete buildings had long since been demolished, but someone had obviously forgotten about the Nissen huts used as sleeping quarters or storerooms. Whoever now owned the land had profited by renting them out for temporary storage or as workshops.