Gorelkin flicked the piece of paper towards Votrukhin. ‘Excellent,’ the FSB chief said quietly. ‘Now we are getting somewhere.’ He glanced at his two men. ‘Go. See to it.’
They stood up. Votrukhin looked worried.
‘What are your orders?’ he asked.
‘Take them out, of course.’ Gorelkin was looking once more at Paulton. ‘Take them all out. Then we can all go home.’
THIRTY-SIX
‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’ Candida Deane shuddered as if the telling was being forced out of her, and watched the leaves above their heads shifting in the early morning breeze across St James’s Park. It was just after seven and they were alone save for a brace of joggers shuffling round the lake and the distant hum of early rush-hour traffic in the background.
‘Really? Is that why you called this meeting?’ George Paulton sniffed at the air, one eye on the perimeter roads of Horse Guards and Birdcage Walk. Not that he could do much about it if Deane had summoned a snatch squad to take him in. He was too old for running and wasn’t about to fling himself in the duck-shit filled water in a desperate attempt to kill himself rather than face the ignominy of prison. But he didn’t think she had finished with him — at least, not yet. She had too much invested in using him for her own ends, as no doubt calling this meeting would prove.
‘Isn’t that enough to start with?’
‘So why don’t you pick her up? I thought you wanted the kudos.’
‘No,’ she corrected him patiently. ‘As I understood it, you saw it as part of a package to sell me in exchange for my help to rehabilitate you.’ She eyed him from behind her large glasses, her cool stare unblinking and steady. It reminded him that this woman was ambitious, experienced and nobody’s fool. The thought made him uncomfortable.
‘So it’s a benefit trade-off, is it?’
‘If you want to call it that.’
‘But what could I do with her? Jardine has no value to me. She’s just a washed-up MI6 killer with a dubious history.’
Her face showed interest. ‘That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. Bellingham sent her to Red Station, didn’t he? Some misdeed or other.’
‘To join other miscreants, yes.’ Paulton knew what was coming; he’d been waiting for it. It showed he was back in the bargaining business on the upper side.
‘Why? What did she do that was so bad? It must have been serious, for him to see it as an alternative to dismissal. . or prison.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘No.’ Her face clamped shut with a spark of irritation. ‘Those files are sealed and I can’t gain access at my level.’
‘That’s a shame.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s place that one on the table as well, shall we? A little amuse bouche — a taster for the main event. You get me what I want, and I’ll tell you everything I know about Clare Jardine’s plunge from grace.’ He smiled, pleased at the imagery.
‘Will it be worth hearing?’
‘Oh, I think so. Believe me, once you hear, you’ll want her far more than I ever could.’
Deane made a sharp noise. ‘Come off it, Paulton. You and I both know I’m not the only one. What about your friends.’ She lowered her voice as a couple of student types in baggy shorts and beanie hats sloped by. ‘They want her and they’re expecting you to deliver. Tell me I’m wrong, droog.’
Paulton felt a cold shiver down his back. He didn’t need to ask who she meant by ‘they’.
She had used the Russian word for friend.
He revised his opinion of her. Bellingham had been more astute at spotting her potential than he’d given him credit for. This woman really was dangerous.
‘Sorry. You’ve lost me.’
‘Bollocks. You know who I mean. Must be nice in Kensington Palace Gardens at this time of year.’
The location of the Russian Embassy in west London.
It was like a door slamming in his face. If she genuinely suspected him of working for the Russians, there was no way that she would ever sanction his return to the UK. The best he would get was a fast ticket to a maximum security cell; the worst was a bullet behind the ear.
Unless.
‘They’re not my friends, I promise you,’ he said calmly. ‘In fact, they’d see me dead in a moment if they saw any immediate benefit to it.’ He paused as an elderly man shuffled slowly past, wheezing heavily. Dressed bizarrely in tight jogging bottoms, huge trainers and a long vest, he wore a set of huge, battered headphones and a Manchester United scarf, and looked close to expiring.
‘Christ,’ Paulton muttered, watching him, ‘the things you see when you haven’t got a gun.’ He waited for the ancient to move away before changing the conversation. ‘What would you give to see Jardine go down, Candida? She killed your boss, didn’t she? Your mentor, Sir Anthony Bellingham.’
Deane’s eyes flickered, betraying her feelings, and she said, ‘I could pick her up today if I wanted to. Right now, in fact. What can you offer?’
‘Actually, that’s not quite true, is it? You have nothing to hold her on.’ He allowed another jogger to go by, then added, ‘Given a public hearing, Jardine would make sure Bellingham’s past misdeeds with Red Station came out. Mine, too, I grant you, but that’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
‘How noble of you.’
‘But your present masters wouldn’t allow it. Too much stink attached. It’s one dirty little secret they would rather forget about. On the other hand, the longer she’s out there, the more she gets under your skin.’ He saw that strike home, and felt calm again. Deane wanted Jardine, all right; like a drunk wants another drink. But prison wasn’t enough. She wanted her dead. And if he read her correctly, she was expecting him to arrange it. ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do. But there’s got to be a quid pro quo.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Good. So where is she?’
‘A man named Tate has her hidden away. He’s former MI5.’
‘I know who Tate is. I should do — he used to work for me.’ He took a deep breath. Somehow he’d known it might come down to this. But how had Deane found out? ‘You know this for a fact?’
‘I was introduced to him yesterday. Ballatyne was parading him at a meeting like a pet ridgeback.’
‘Ballatyne? Do I know him?’ He’d been out of the loop too long. People had moved on or moved up, the civil service version of musical chairs. The game had changed.
‘He worked with a man named Marshall in Operations. Marshall died and Ballatyne moved into his chair.’ Her tone of voice betrayed her innermost thoughts on that one. ‘Ballatyne’s clever, though. And committed. I’m having to watch my back with him.’
‘It comes with the trade.’ His voice was bored. ‘You were talking about Tate.’
‘Apparently he helped Jardine escape from the two gunmen who shot the hell out of Pimlico and wounded a policeman.’ She leaned forward. ‘Find Tate and you’ll find Jardine.’
‘And when I do?’
‘Don’t be coy, George. You know what I mean. I know you’ve arranged things like it before.’ The use of his first name gave no hint of intimacy; the subject under discussion was too chilling for that. ‘Whatever you do to her, it had better be permanent. Remember, I want all of them: Jardine, the Russian gunmen and their boss. . and the name of the insider.’
‘Insider? I don’t follow.’
‘Oh, I think you do. You see, I’ve just been informed that somebody has been ferreting through our files, plucking out details. Now, I have no proof, of course, but I’m willing to bet your testicles that he or she is working for you.’
Paulton said nothing. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Maine wasn’t a field man, and not clever enough to have avoided leaving any traces of his searches. It was a pity, but he was going to have to ruin Maine’s collecting habit for good. He’d have to let him fall, a casualty of battle. Just as long as he did it without dropping himself in a cold, lonely cell.