Rik joined him and stared at Deakin’s body. ‘You reckon Paulton did this?’
‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not his style.’
Harry was looking towards the access road, where a flash of movement had caught his eye. The grey Mercedes was approaching the gate, unhurried and sleek. It slowed almost to a stop, and Harry saw the oval of a face turned towards them in the rear window. He’d only caught a brief glimpse as the car had passed by, but he’d got an impression of a slim figure, neat and of middle years, dressed in a suit. He’d have blended in perfectly with the trade delegation the manager had mentioned.
He toyed with calling the authorities, but decided against it. From here to a motorway intersection wouldn’t take long in the Merc, and by the time a helicopter got overhead, they’d be in among thick traffic or have switched cars. Operations like this weren’t carried out on a wing and a prayer; they had too much to lose if they fouled up. Maybe the centre’s security camera would pick up the number plate and show the faces of the driver and passenger. Or maybe not.
‘Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him.’ He turned and walked back towards the hotel. He’d call it in from reception. It would take the gloss off the manager’s day, but there was no hiding a murder.
First, though, there was something else he had to do.
George Paulton had an instinct for danger, honed over many years operating undercover in extreme conditions. It was usually signalled by a prickling of his palms, and the last time he’d experienced it, the feeling had saved his life. He had learned never to dismiss it.
That prickling was with him again and he knew he had to leave. Right now.
He was accustomed to living out of a small bag, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and there was no sign of panic as he toured the room, checking that he’d left nothing behind. He used a damp cloth to wipe down everything that he’d touched since the night before, when he’d done another such check, as much a way of easing his impatience than adhering to a self-imposed security routine.
He’d spent the last hour or so trying to get hold of his contact in the Met, and another in MI6, to find out what was happening about the hunt for the Protectory. But neither of them was answering. This lack of knowledge meant he was operating blind, unable to see even part of the picture, let alone all of it. Now it didn’t really matter; it was time to go.
When he was ready, he stood for a moment, settling his nerves. Then he scooped up his bag and headed for the fire escape at the rear of the building. Deakin would be taking care of the bill, so he had no reason to go near the front desk. It would be unwise, anyway, to appear in the front foyer, since the danger, if his instincts were correct, would be centred right there.
He considered Deakin for a brief moment. The former soldier was out walking somewhere, but intuition told him that going in search of him was not an option. Deakin would have to look after himself.
He hurried down the rear stairs, a rush of excitement building in his ears. He didn’t know the source of the danger, but whatever it was, whether the Chinese Deakin had dealt with or Harry Tate, every instinct told him it was very close.
In the ground floor stairwell he passed between pallets of provisions, stacks of conference chairs and folded tables, all waiting to be moved. The atmosphere and decor here was strictly utilitarian, sombre and cool. Figures in white jackets scurried about, not even bothering to look at him. They were back-of-house workers and he was plainly a guest in their view, so they would have no reason to interact.
He stepped outside. Saw a scattering of staff cars and two trucks making deliveries, tail lifts down and boxes stacked. Drivers and kitchen staff intent on their work and someone shouting in Flemish. Otherwise, nobody paid him any attention. He walked across to the edge of the building and looked round the side, where the golf course was spread out before him. He could just see one end of the car park and a portion of the access road at the front. And parked on the edge of the line of cars was the hire car he and Deakin had used to get here. He studied it for a few moments, hearing a vague, internal alarm. And wondering.
He walked along the side of the building, stopping as a young man in a porter’s jacket stepped out from a recess in the wall, puffing out a final lungful of smoke and flicking away the stub of a cigarette.
Paulton smiled and the man coughed, face erupting in a flush as he was caught out in his vice. Impulsively, Paulton stopped and said, ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ He needed a distraction at the front of the building, and what better one could there be than a porter on an errand?
‘Yes, sir?’ The man smoothed his waistcoat, no doubt relieved that he wasn’t in trouble and might even earn himself a tip.
Paulton took his keys out of his pocket and a couple of crisp notes from his wallet and gave the porter some instructions. Then he handed him his bag. The youth nodded, although he clearly didn’t fully understand, but his expression also said that the amount of money he was being offered was enough to do away with any doubts he might have had.
He hurried away to do the guest’s bidding, leaving Paulton waiting, his nerves jangling.
Just then, his phone rang, startling him. He answered it and listened, then said, ‘I know that. I think he’s already here. For the future, I’ll call you when I need to. This number’s out of action as of right now.’ He cut the call, then stripped the back off the phone and took out the SIM card. He bent and pushed the square of plastic into the ground, then tossed the two halves of the phone into some bushes and walked away.
SIXTY-SIX
Harry used the room service chief’s pass-key to open Paulton’s room. There had been no response to knocking, so he had asked the manager to give authorization to enter. He stepped through the door, his gun drawn, and walked around the room, checking the bathroom and a walk-in wardrobe. The decor was plush, restful and very expensive. His feet sank into the thick carpet, reducing his footsteps to a whisper. The place was clean; even the wastebaskets were empty. Only the rumpled bedclothes and some water pooled in the shower-tray betrayed the fact that anyone had stayed here last night.
They had missed him by a whisker. Paulton had been here, according to the manager, making phone calls. Something must have spooked him. He looked out of the window on to the golf course. He couldn’t possibly have seen Deakin being shot, not from here. So what, then?
He checked the drawers and wardrobe, anyway, a brief exercise which, as he expected, told him nothing. The room had been sanitized, the work of a true professional. There was nothing left to indicate who had actually stayed here.
He went back out into the corridor and followed the international signs for the fire escape. They led to the rear stairway and he hurried down, his feet echoing in the stairwell. On the way, he called Rik who was waiting out front.
‘He’s gone. He must still be around the place somewhere. Look for anyone leaving — and watch your back.’
‘Got it.’ Rik kept the connection open and Harry could hear his progress as he passed groups of people talking and a door slamming close by. Harry came out of the stairwell and passed through a fire exit door to the outside. The staff car park. A few cars, a couple of trucks and their drivers, a young man in overalls and carrying a toolbox, a porter throwing a bag into a small red Fiat and climbing behind the wheel, two kitchen workers wearing aprons, lighting up cigarettes.
He walked towards the corner of the building, which would take him to the front car park. Paulton must be here somewhere, he told himself. He couldn’t have vanished into thin air-