On a return trip later that afternoon during a period of low activity, she had found the gate and the door to the basement flat simple to open, thanks to her earlier intensive training by an MI6 locksmith instructor. Inside, the place was dark and musty, the working surfaces and few bits of furniture layered in dust, indicating several months at least since the last occupation. There was a bed, a table in the small kitchenette and an armchair with sagging springs, but it was enough as a temporary base. She’d been in worse while on assignments abroad.
She’d slept the sleep of the dead.
She slumped in the armchair, a mug of coffee cooling by her side, and stared at the phone’s keypad, letting her mind relax. Calling a number regularly meant you relied as much on familiarity with the sequence of keys as you did on memory. Change the keypad layout and you could get thrown completely until the brain switched to the default of recalling the correct number. She had two numbers at the back of her mind: one she had used regularly, the other only recently. The first one was the one she wanted. But try as she might, it simply wouldn’t click into place. It belonged to a colleague and friend in Six named Alice Alanya. Alice had been a constant in her life for a while, closer than friends, yet not partners. Thanks to her, after returning from Red Station in Georgia, Clare had stayed out of the reaches of MI5 and MI6, moving constantly and staying away from her previous haunts. It had been Alice who had kept her secretly fed with information on potential hazards, at great risk to herself and in spite of the huge error of judgement Clare had made earlier which had led to her posting to Georgia in the first place. That same loyalty had led her to remain a friend after Clare had dealt with Sir Anthony Bellingham, the deputy operations director who had tried to have her silenced to protect himself.
The thought jogged another, darker part of her memory, and she felt instinctively in her pocket for the round shape that had become something of a talisman. She took it out and looked at it.
It was a powder compact. Bright pink and plastic, it was gaudy, cheap and repulsive. But she could no more have left it behind in the hospital than have jumped out of the window. She opened the lid. Inside was the application pad and powder in a shade of orange she couldn’t have worn if her life had depended on it. But that wasn’t the point of it.
Rik Ferris had bought it for her, and it had taken her all of two minutes, even in a post-operative haze, to see the irony. The MI5 IT nerd with the irritating haircut and loud T-shirts had sent it after she had lost her own compact, the one with a concealed blade that had saved all their lives. It hadn’t been a friendly gesture by Ferris, she knew that; but it had been one of appreciation.
She turned back to the mobile phone, hoping the distraction might have released the number. It was almost there, but the digits were floating just out of reach like fish in a pool.
She swore softly. The last person she wanted to call was the owner of the second number. Right now, though, she couldn’t see any option. Alice she could trust implicitly. But she couldn’t recall her home address, only that it was somewhere in north London, the details too scrambled to retrieve. The only way to contact her would be face-to-face in the street, close to where she worked.
The MI6 building.
She dismissed that immediately. Stupid idea. If they were watching Alice, they’d have her on camera before she got close and the heavy squad would scoop them both up. Even a brush contact was risky and likely to compromise her friend.
She ran her fingers across the keypad, and found the digits coming clear and fluidly. At last! It started to ring at the other end. Then a man’s voice answered, familiar and steady against a background rush of traffic.
‘Harry Tate.’
She couldn’t speak. Instead she cut the connection.
TEN
Harry stared at the small screen as he walked along Piccadilly towards Park Lane. The caller had hung up without speaking. He’d expected it to be Rik Ferris but the number on the screen was unfamiliar. Probably a misdial.
It reminded him that Rik was still looking for a way into HM Prison records, and if he became impatient, was likely to start cutting corners and delving into sites and files where he had no business. It was the reason he’d been kicked out of MI5 in the first place: in moments of boredom he’d gained access to files that the security services had wished to remain forgotten. No harm had been done, but, like Harry and Clare, his punishment had been a posting to Red Station and an intended ticket to a quiet oblivion.
He veered into the quieter sanctuary of Green Park and dialled Rik’s number, checking his surroundings. A few tourists were milling about, unfurling maps and sipping drinks, and early walkers and runners were making their way along the paths and across the grass. But nobody was close by.
‘Fong’s Restaurant. We hep yew?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Exactly what you asked,’ Rik replied, and switched to a Yoda voice. ‘No more it is, no less. Up against a hard place I am.’
‘Cut it out,’ Harry growled, ‘or I’ll confiscate your toys. You haven’t strayed from the brief, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. HMP only, just like you said. Honestly, between Five, Six and you, it’s like working in a goldfish bowl.’
‘Blame the digital revolution. It’s for your own good, anyway. I’ve got another brief for you.’ He gave him Tobinskiy’s details. ‘Run up everything you can on him, see if he had any friends in London.’
‘Sure. Anyone in particular?’
‘Yes. See if his world ever collided with Clare Jardine’s.’
‘Seriously?’ Rik sounded surprised. ‘Why would it? Anyway, if it had, it wouldn’t be public knowledge, would it? Ergo, nothing on the web.’
‘Maybe. It’s just a thought. Check his name for any images, and look for her face.’ It was a remote stretch, he knew. But stranger things had happened, such as a known face spotted in a crowd where no mention of them had been made in print. ‘I’m on my way to your place. I’ll tell you more when I get there.’ He had a thought and added, ‘You might also run Clare’s name through the mixer and see if you come up with anything. . friends, school. . social media contacts.’
‘I did that once before, but no joy. I’ll try again, though, see if anything’s leaked out. Are you saying she’s out in the wind by herself?’
‘If Ballatyne’s telling the truth, yes. She cut and ran.’
‘Jesus. That must hurt.’ Rik spoke with feeling. He’d been shot himself not long ago just a few hundred yards from where Harry was standing, and was well acquainted with the pain of a gunshot wound.
‘Put the kettle on. I’ll see you later.’
ELEVEN
‘So, how do we find this damned woman, can you tell me that?’ Sergei Gorelkin didn’t quite pound the table, but it was clear to the three men with him that he wanted to. Although smartly dressed as always, in a neat grey suit and white shirt, befitting his cover as a foreign businessman in London, to those who knew him Gorelkin was ruffled. ‘We have lost two days already. She could be anywhere in the world!’
He and his companions were seated in the corner of the Park Room in the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane. It was mid-morning and reasonably quiet, but a suitable tip to the service manager had ensured that nobody else would be seated near them, guaranteeing privacy.
And they needed it. Having dealt with Roman Tobinskiy, a relatively simple matter for men with the right skills, they were now faced with a much more urgent one: the disappearance of a patient in a room near Tobinskiy’s, who may have heard everything that had happened and could, if pushed, explode her news onto the world’s stage. That, as Gorelkin had warned them more than once, simply could not happen.