TWENTY-FOUR
‘Have you seen this woman?’ Serkhov shoved the photo under the nose of a man sitting in the doorway of a day hostel a hundred yards south of Victoria Station. The doors were locked and the alcove reeked of urine. Serkhov tried not to throw up at the rank body odour coming off him.
‘Say what, pal?’ The eyes were slate grey and unfocussed, his greasy skin a network of veins and ingrained dirt. The neck of a bottle stuck out from his coat pocket.
Serkhov swore silently and gave up. He’d seen drunks like this too many times to be surprised. Back in Moscow they were a feature of the landscape, high on illicit vodka or samogon, and the cheap chacha as it was known in Georgia, all liable to be dangerously toxic. He placed the heel of his hand on the man’s forehead and slammed his head back against the door. He wished instantly that he could wash his hands and turned away in disgust.
Across the street, Votrukhin watched and shook his head. He placed a mint on his tongue, allowing the sharp flavour to spread around his mouth. Given time, he’d have used more subtle methods and picked their targets more carefully, chatting first to gain their confidence, maybe even buying them a drink or two. But time was something he didn’t have, and subtlety an art Serkhov had never possessed.
They had already handed out dozens of photos in the area, and secured the dubious promises of several illegals to hand out more and spread the word about the missing woman to the north and east. For the most part, that meant waiting to see what came back. But in the meantime, doing something was better than nothing, and might keep Gorelkin off their backs.
He turned and walked along the street, Serkhov following a parallel path on the other side. A street sweeper in a bright orange tabard was scooping up some litter. He stopped alongside him, holding out the still of Jardine taken from the CCTV footage.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Have you seen this girl? She’s thought to be in the area. She discharged herself from hospital and could be in danger.’
The man squinted at the photo for a second, then shook his head. ‘No, pal, I haven’t seen her. Like I told the other bloke, there’s a thousand look just like her walk past here every day. Sorry.’
Votrukhin thanked him and was about to walk away when he stopped. ‘The other man? Big with a shaved head?’ If it matched, it would be Serkhov, but he hadn’t been working this area until now — and then only across the street.
‘No. Young guy, spiky hair. Looked like a charity worker but he wasn’t.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Dunno. Something about him. A bit sure of himself, if you know what I mean. I reckon he had copper written all over him. Have you told the cops about her?’
‘Ah, of course. That would be it.’ Votrukhin thanked him and moved away, his antennae twitching. He caught Serkhov’s eye and signalled him to wait, then walked across the street to join him.
‘We have company,’ he announced, scanning the area carefully. ‘A young man with spiky hair, could be police, also showing a photo of Jardine and asking if anyone has seen her.’
Serkhov pushed his lip out. ‘Could it have been one of our drones?’ A name for the more trusted illegals they had recruited to broaden the search across London.
‘No. There’s no way any of them would be mistaken for police — not by a local, anyway.’
‘So who are they?’
‘Security services, I think. MI5, MI6. . even sub-contractors. She disappeared the same night as Tobinskiy died, so it makes sense that they will be looking for her to ask why.’ He felt bad for not dealing with the woman as Serkhov had suggested, when they’d had a chance. Unless they recouped the situation and got to Jardine first, this was going to come back and bite him, he was certain. Team leaders shouldn’t make these kind of mistakes. ‘This is getting too crowded for comfort.’
Serkhov scowled. ‘Do we carry on? If it’s Security, they might spot us before we see them.’
‘We have no choice.’ He fixed Serkhov with a hard stare. Now was not the time for doubts. ‘There might be more of them working the area as a team. Keep your eyes open for anyone flashing photos.’
‘And if they see us first?’
‘Chyornyiy rules, remember? Deal with it.’
TWENTY-FIVE
To Harry, in spite of Fortiani’s beliefs to the contrary, The Grove wine bar looked exactly the sort of place to pick up a spare mobile phone. It was a high-end bistro and restaurant on two floors, standing on a prominent corner spot a few minutes from Victoria Station. One look inside and he’d already spotted several phones prominently displayed where anyone trained in brush-past techniques would scoop them up in an instant. With so much laughter and talk, busy waiters juggling trays of food and drinks, clients coming and going, often from one table to another in pursuit of gossip and connections, it was like an ants’ nest of furious activity.
Just the kind of place Clare would have targeted.
He stood on the corner outside, trying to get a feel for the area. The buildings here were up-scale and neat, the streets open. Not the best place for a fugitive to hide in. While The Grove would have been ideal for a fishing trip, to pick up a mobile phone, Clare would have been looking for somewhere more compact to duck into, with plenty of interconnected run-throughs and preferably without cameras. Victoria was attractive, with thousands of business travellers and tourists to use as cover, but anybody pursuing her would make that the first place to look. And a young woman with a stick would stand out.
He consulted his map and felt his spirits sink. Pick anywhere with a pin. It would take a team weeks to go through the lot.
Rik joined him, shaking his head. ‘Not even any possibles.’
‘Me neither.’
‘We’re not the only ones looking for her, though.’
Harry looked at him. ‘I know. I’ve had a couple of comments. What did you hear?’
‘Four people mentioned guys flashing photos around — photos of a young woman. One said the photo looked like a still from a security camera. No reliable descriptions, but they all said they had foreign accents. A couple I spoke to reckoned they were Czechs or Poles, like illegals.’
‘Or Russians.’
‘Exactly. But the descriptions were of young guys, probably no more than twenty, and not well dressed. The line they were selling said the same thing: the woman had discharged herself from hospital.’
Harry nodded. Any other story would not have elicited the same sympathy or desire to help. But the men doing the asking sounded unusually young. Reliable FSB operators working overseas were usually older, having proved their trustworthiness and picked up a bagful of experience and scars along the way. Twenty was too young.
‘They’ve been clever,’ he concluded. ‘They’re using the street traffic. Doing what we’re doing but on a bigger scale, and using illegals or over-stayers to spread the word. Put out enough photos and someone somewhere will hit pay dirt and get the reward.’
His phone rang and he grabbed it eagerly, hoping it would be Clare.
It was Ballatyne.
‘I’ve spoken to Alanya and checked the operations log. The two men in the Focus were a security surveillance team sent to check her out.’
‘Why?’
‘For the simple reason that she was buddies with Jardine. This business has got everyone in a spin. Deane’s got internal security turning the place inside out for anybody who so much as looked squinty-eyed at Jardine. Alanya happened to be top of the shit list.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She is now. She thinks you’re midway between Superman and a saint, by the way. Personally I think she’s deluded, but there you go.’
‘It’s a strain, I know. Who’s Deane?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that.’