‘I live alone,’ she said. She’d been watching his reaction. She dropped her keys on a side table and took her bags through to a small kitchen. ‘Do you want coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee, please,’ said Harry. ‘Strong as you like.’ Sharing preferences was a subtle way of breaking down barriers. But Alanya was MI6; she’d know all about that.
He looked through the front window. No sign of Rik, but he wouldn’t be hanging around. Strangers standing about in this kind of road would attract attention. Especially scruffs in jeans and trainers.
After the roar of a kettle came stirring sounds, then Alice returned. She handed him a mug of coffee, dark as sludge. Her own looked like green tea or camomile. She sat down neatly on a two-seater settee and sipped her drink, gesturing for him to take the armchair opposite. The can of Mace was close by her side.
‘What’s this about?’ she asked. ‘Have I been pinged?’ An in-house term for an alert sounded about an officer’s behaviour.
‘No. Nothing like that. I’m sorry we approached you like this, but we need your help.’
‘Really? You couldn’t go through channels?’
‘It’s not that kind of help.’
She blinked, analysing the statement. Harry let her think about it; he wanted her slightly off-balance, unsure of what this was about. Reactions were easier to assess that way, especially with someone as aware as Alice Alanya.
‘So you don’t want my superiors involved. That means it could compromise me.’ She stared at him. ‘Boy, that’s going to take some persuading.’
‘Clare Jardine.’ He let the words lie without embellishment or explanation. That could come in a second or two. He was interested in reading her face. It didn’t take long. She frowned slightly, the mug halfway to her lips, then lowered again.
‘Clare? I don’t understand.’
She was either exceptionally good or completely and genuinely surprised, Harry couldn’t tell which. Her voice had carried just the right tone of someone having a name from their past thrown at them out of the blue, but a practised liar would manage that easily enough.
‘Have you heard from her in the last six months?’
‘No. Is she all right?’
‘You were friends, though, right?’
‘Yes. More like good colleagues, but we got on. Is there a problem with that?’ She waved a hand in mild exasperation. ‘Look, I went through this before — we all did.’
‘All?’
‘Everyone who worked with her. If you’re really Five you’ll know.’
‘I’m just checking, that’s all.’
‘Fine. Then you’ll also know she left SIS under a cloud.’ She looked away for a second. ‘It’s no secret what she did. If you must know I never blamed her, not like some of the others.’
‘Blamed her for what?’
She paused, then shrugged. ‘Bellingham. What she did to him. That view is on record, if you need to check, so don’t go getting heavy on me. She was set up to be killed, along with the others.’
‘You sure that wasn’t rumour?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Are you kidding me? There’s rumour and rumour. The corridors were buzzing with it. You can’t keep something like that going if there isn’t an element of truth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, after that, she got shot and I haven’t heard from her since.’
Harry sat back. So far she’d been right on the button. Credible and angry in just the right proportions. Except for one thing: she hadn’t mentioned being in contact with Clare after Red Station. The easiest lies were by omission.
‘You heard about the shooting?’
‘We all did. It’s not often a field officer gets shot, past or serving. It rattled a lot of cages. But you probably wouldn’t know about that, would you?’
She was angry and resentful, Harry noted, lashing out with concern for a friend. He could ignore the fact that she might have — probably had — helped Clare out with information after Red Station. But she seemed genuinely unaware of any contact since.
‘Because I’m with Five, you mean?’
She didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Forget it. If you’re not tapping my shoulder about my behaviour, why are you concerned about Clare?’
Harry decided to go with the truth. He’d been hedging enough and it wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer with Five. But I am working with Ballatyne’s approval. He’s the one person you can ring if you need verification.’
‘I might do that.’ It was a sign that she recognised the name.
‘I was one of the “others” you mentioned, along with Clare. The place was code-named Red Station in Georgia and Clare and I came out together, along with the scruff outside, whose name is Rik Ferris. He’s also former MI5. We were all let go out of official embarrassment. When Clare got shot it was by a Bosnian called Milan Zubac, working for a group of deserters called the Protectory. She managed to disable Zubac with a compact knife and was lucky to get to hospital in time. She spent the last few weeks in King’s College, at the Major Trauma Unit.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it. How come?’
‘I was with her at the time.’
TWENTY
Candida Deane, Deputy Director of the Russian Desk in SIS, stepped into the Donovan Bar in Brown’s Hotel in London’s Mayfair, and scanned the tables.
George Paulton waited as her gaze passed over him, paused, then came back. He raised a hand, at the same time checking his watch. Right on time.
Beyond her the doorway was empty. No obvious heavies lurking — a point he’d insisted on, although he knew they wouldn’t be far away. Deane wouldn’t have been able to dump her personal protection altogether without questions being raised by internal security. But the one person she wouldn’t like to be seen meeting in public was a former Operations Director of MI5 who was now on a watch-and-detain list at all ports, accused of offences against. . he still wasn’t entirely certain what the legalities were of what he’d done, but no doubt government lawyers had done all the necessary paperwork.
He stood up as she approached, and saw her frown as she took in his appearance. It reminded him that although they had met before, it had been a while ago and on different levels. And she had never seen him in this guise before.
‘Thank you for coming, Miss Deane,’ he said politely, and sat down again. ‘I thought you might appreciate the ambiance here.’
She glanced around, in spite of herself. The walls were lined with Terence Donovan photographs, while behind the bar, with its high stools, was a startling stained glass window depicting St George of dragon-slaying fame. He wasn’t particularly bothered whether she liked it or not, but if he had made a serious error of judgement in coming back to London and arranging to meet her, he at least wanted to have a pleasant memory to take away with him.
They ordered; she took a vodka and tonic, no ice, while he asked for a second Donovan Martini, their signature drink. He figured he could afford the slight fuzziness it would bring and he had a lot of catching up to do.
‘I’m not a traitor,’ she said calmly, as soon as they were alone. ‘And I won’t do anything that makes me into one. Get used to it.’
Paulton lifted an eyebrow. ‘Ouch. So defensive.’ He picked up his drink and raised it in an ironic gesture towards her. ‘Salut.’
‘Just so we’re clear on that point, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m clear on it, don’t worry. It’s why I contacted you in the first place. I’m already out in the cold as it is; why tie my future to someone who might just get found out for some other offence further down the line?’
Deane said nothing.
‘Thing is,’ he continued, ‘I know how ambitious you are. You’ll use me, the service and anyone else you come across to get what you want.’ She looked ready to protest, but he waved a conciliatory hand. ‘Not that I blame you; a top job in Six is worth having. And we all do what we think is right to get to the top of our respective dog piles, don’t we?’