He waited for Clare to join him, then turned east. ‘Grinstead is this way. If we follow the line, we’ll find them.’
He led the way, with Clare following a few paces behind. They stopped every now and then, listening, checking the bushes ahead for signs of disturbance, for anything that shouldn’t be there. Overhead, the skylarks were becoming a distraction, and Harry wondered what the penalties were for shooting them.
They came to a bridge. Brick built and sturdy, with metal parapets and ornamental panels, it rose up above the track, throwing a shadow and dwarfing the surrounding bushes and trees with its sheer bulk. There was no sound of traffic passing over its length, only the birdsong, now distant and faint.
‘Unused,’ Clare murmured.
Harry said nothing. If there was anywhere to spring a trap, it was right here. Plenty of hard cover, lots of shadow, good vantage points from on high, tailor made for killing.
He heard a creak of wood.
They had passed an ancient grit bin a few yards back. Made of metal, with two wooden batwing-style doors set at an angle, it was a piece of railway detritus, abandoned and forgotten. Warped now and long since peeled of any paint, the doors were shut.
Except now they were moving.
‘Down!’ Harry turned, bringing up his weapon, instincts and training kicking in. He found Clare standing in his way, and stepped sideways to get a better line of fire. She moved back, trying to drag her gun round to bear on the target, but stumbled on a piece of ballast and lost her balance.
The batwing doors flew open, and the tall figure of Ganic uncurled from inside, grinning triumphantly. He had waited for them to pass before making his move, and now he had them cold. He was aiming at Harry, whom he clearly thought was the bigger danger. But as he squeezed the trigger, one of the doors fell back against his leg.
It was enough to distract him. The gunshot was loud in the cutting, the bullet so close to Harry’s head he swore he felt the wind of its passing.
He stood his ground and returned fire. Two shots, an echo of a third, and Ganic was flung backwards, trying to stay upright, a shocked look on his face as twin red spots showed on his shirt front. He dropped his gun and fell back into the bin, the doors disintegrating as his heavy body crushed them flat.
Clare had cried out. It took Harry a moment to realize that he had only fired twice. Clare had not fired at all.
But there had been a third shot.
He turned. Clare was lying across the track, a bright splash of red on her stomach. She had dropped her gun and was scrabbling in pain at the ground, trying to get up, and staring at Harry, eyes wide in desperation and shock.
‘Don’t move!’
Harry froze. Slowly turned his head. It was Zubac, standing just clear of the bridge and holding a semi-automatic. It had been a classic ambush. Zubac must have been waiting in the safety recess under the bridge, with Ganic taking the rear.
Zubac stepped out from the bridge, feet crunching on the scattered ballast, motioning with his free hand for Harry to drop his gun.
‘Drop the gun, Englishman, or I’ll finish off your bitch right now.’
Harry did so reluctantly, bending slightly to allow the gun to drop carefully. Misfires could also kill. It would be too humiliating to be gut-shot by his own weapon.
‘What do you want?’ He had to keep Zubac talking. Talking was good. Talking allowed for distractions and negotiations. Talking meant life.
‘Want?’ Zubac was looking at Ganic’s body, slumped inelegantly across the grit bin that had been his hiding place. If he was upset by the death of his friend, he showed no emotion.
‘Yes. You didn’t lead us down here for nothing. You could have been away and gone by now.’
‘True.’ Zubac shrugged and looked up at the sky. The skylarks had gone silent. Only the tractor droned on, ragged and distant. ‘It is pleasant here. Tranquil. Is that the word — tranquil?’ He dropped his gaze to Clare. ‘Help me and I won’t let her suffer.’ Harry glanced at Clare, who was groaning softly. Fresh blood glistened wetly on her blouse, with a trail running down her side. If he didn’t get help soon, she would die.
‘Help you how?’
‘Out of the country. With you I can get across the water.’
‘Why me? Hasn’t Soran got you a way out? Deakin? Nicholls?’
Zubac stared at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. ‘You know a lot, Englishman. Maybe too much. Maybe I should kill you right now.’ He lifted the gun and took the first pressure on the trigger.
FIFTY-SEVEN
‘So far so good, then.’ Paulton nodded. Deakin had just relayed the news that Ferris was in the bag and a message had gone to Tate letting him know. He and the others were walking around the lake at the conference centre, avoiding the other groups taking a break from their meetings. Chatting with corporate windbags was the last thing any of them wanted to do right now.
‘As long as Tate does what you said he will.’ Deakin picked up a stone and flicked it into the water. ‘You’ve got a lot more faith in him than I have. What’s to stop him screaming for the cops?’
‘Because it’s not in his nature. I know the way he thinks, believe me.’ Paulton was now relishing the fact that they were depending on his knowledge of Harry Tate to do the right thing. It meant the balance of influence had shifted, allowing him to play a more guiding role in what would follow. ‘He’ll trot after Ferris alone because he’s been conditioned to do so. It’s all he knows.’
‘But if he doesn’t?’ Turpowicz insisted.
‘In that case, there will be a messy confrontation with the police or Special Forces and I fear your two thugs will not return to their homeland. And Ferris will be another casualty of police action.’ He eyed Turpowicz keenly. ‘In which event, Mr Turp, I think we might have need of your specialized military skills.’
‘Me?’ Turpowicz stopped walking.
‘Yes.’ Paulton turned and glanced at Deakin for support. ‘Of the three of us, you alone have the freedom to travel to the UK without lighting up half the security or military networks in the country. You’re what some of my more hip, cool and trendy former colleagues call a “clean skin” — unknown to anyone and able to move freely without arousing interest.’
‘Why the hell would he need to do that?’ Deakin asked. He sounded torn between the desire to remain in control and fascination at what Paulton was saying.
‘Damn right,’ Turpowicz echoed. ‘I like it just fine on this side of the Channel, thanks.’
Paulton kept his eyes on the American’s face. It was a trick he’d learned when about to propose a dangerous course of action to a subordinate. It lent gravity and confidence to the implied request that was about to follow. ‘If the Bosnians fail to stop Tate, then you will have to step in and take over. Unless, of course, you’ve been out of practice too long?’
It was a risky way of provoking a positive response, not least because Paulton wasn’t sure what Deakin’s reaction would be at having matters taken out of his hands like this. Except that it made absolute sense — and he was certain that the former US airborne sergeant’s pride would not let him back down.
‘He’s right.’ Deakin nodded after a few moments. ‘We have to get this turkey off our tail. We’ve already used up three of our five days, and we don’t need Tate on our case along with the Chinese. How about it, Turp?’ He waited for his colleague to agree.
Turpowicz stared at them in turn, then tilted his head. ‘Sure. Why not?’
Paulton smiled broadly. ‘Good man. Shall we go and celebrate, or do you need to go off into the woods and practise those silent kill techniques which I know they teach at Fort Campbell?’
Turpowicz didn’t return the smile. ‘No need. Once taught, never forgotten.’