‘We haven’t found out who the ferret is yet,’ Deane continued. ‘But we will. You could save me some time, though. Give me everything you know and we’ll talk rehabilitation. But don’t take too long. We’re getting close.’
She produced a small square of white card. It held a line of neat handwriting. ‘Tate’s address. I ran a check on him, just in case you’d forgotten how.’
He took the card, although he didn’t need it. Let her think she was one up on him.
As she turned and walked away, he was left wishing he’d got a sniper stationed on a nearby rooftop. If he had, he’d have given the signal to pull the trigger and put the bitch out of his misery.
As she disappeared beneath the trees, he took out his mobile and dialled a mobile number. This couldn’t wait any longer. His future was resting on a knife-edge. It was time to play a massive hunch, to see if he was right. He didn’t know Jardine from a hole in the ground; but he had an intuitive feel for the way somebody in her position might think. And right now she was probably looking for any friends she could find. Tate and Ferris were colleagues of circumstance, he was certain. But that wasn’t enough for someone under the kind of massive stress Jardine would be under. She would want someone much closer.
If he played this right, he would get the information he needed and get rid of a monumental risk at the same time. Two birds, one carefully lobbed stone.
‘Yes?’ It was Keith Maine.
‘I need to see you. Urgently,’ Paulton said, and told him where, and what else he wanted. The last thing he wanted from this man.
‘Jesus — I can’t do that!’ The analyst’s voice was pitched low. He was probably in his office somewhere, on early shift, and terrified of anyone hearing.
‘You can and will.’ Paulton didn’t give him a chance to panic and cut the call. ‘Ten thousand if you come up with what I want. It’s a known name; it will be on the current WAR list.’ Watch and Report, the rolling surveillance log with open access to Five and Six, to avoid agency clashes on suspects and persons of interest. He knew the way both agencies worked, knew that there was every chance that the information he wanted would be there. If his hunch was correct, it might give him a clue to Jardine’s intentions. And wherever she went, so would Tate and Ferris.
Maine didn’t argue. Instead his voice became slightly louder, more open. ‘Very well. But I want to see it before I buy. There are so many fakes about — and I insist on it being in top condition.’ Paulton knew the signs: a work colleague was close by and he was pretending to be taking a call from a collector. But there was a sub-text. What he was really saying was that he didn’t trust Paulton to send the money, and wanted cash in hand.
Paulton named a spot on a public street not far from Thames House, south of the river. Close enough to his work for Maine to feel safe, far enough away to retain a measure of secrecy about who he was meeting.
The promise of money helped, as he knew it would.
Next he dialled another number. Votrukhin answered with a terse hello.
‘The Jardine girl is with Tate,’ Paulton advised him. ‘Have you moved on them yet?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You should do so, soonest. Where Tate goes, Ferris is close by.’ He paused, trying to determine whether any of this could rebound on him. If the Russians collared Jardine and the two men, all to the good. He would get the credit from Deane for Jardine’s demise, and he wouldn’t need the information Maine was getting for him. But he preferred to have insurance in place, just in case. To hell with it. ‘They will be armed and ready, of course.’
Votrukhin grunted. ‘So? You think we will not?’
THIRTY-SEVEN
There was a grey light and a threat of rain outside the windows of Rik’s Paddington flat. Harry got up from the sofa where he’d been sleeping and checked his gun, which had been close by on the floor. He stretched, then showered while Rik went out for coffee and to check the surrounding streets for unusual activity.
Clare had slept in the spare room. Her batteries had eventually run down last night, exhausted by her efforts and the stress she’d suffered over the past few days. He’d let her sleep; they all needed rest and he was convinced nothing else could be accomplished before morning.
But he and Rik had slept in stages, taking turns to watch the streets and check the building regularly for sounds of movement.
‘We need to talk about something,’ he said, when they were all having breakfast. His remark was directed at Clare.
‘Christ, give it a break,’ Clare muttered, tearing off a piece of croissant. ‘Let me get this down first.’ But she didn’t sound as touchy as she had the night before, he noticed. He put it down to wear and tear. The longer this went on, the more she would have to rely on them acting as a team.
‘What is it?’ asked Rik, spooning down a yoghurt. ‘We going nuclear or what?’ His gun, a Ruger SR9, like Harry’s, lay close to hand.
‘In a way.’ Harry looked hard at Clare. ‘How do we stop this black ops team?’
‘What? Why ask me?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m out of the game, remember?’
‘You think?’ Rik countered. ‘What are you doing here, then?’
She didn’t respond, but gave him a sour look.
‘You know them better than we do,’ Harry told her. ‘You know how they work, you said. So, how do we stop them coming after us?’
‘Short of killing them, you mean? Getting a direct cease and desist order from Moscow?’ She thought it over. ‘Finding them won’t be simple. They’re trained, like our guys, to operate alone or in teams of two or three, depending on circumstances. They have no profile, they stay off the embassy circuit and use papers which take long enough to check to allow them to get away if compromised. They’ll be incommunicado, answerable only to their field controller, whoever he is.’
‘Gorelkin. Ballatyne says a man named Gorelkin was spotted coming this way on false papers. He’s high up in the FSB’s Special Purpose Centre.’
Clare blew out her cheeks. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. I’ve heard of him but I thought he’d retired. He’s one of their grey wolves from the old days. A hardliner.’ She frowned. ‘Hang on. He did retire, I’m certain of it. He fell out with his new bosses when the FSB took over from the old KGB. He didn’t like the new touchy-feely approach and thought they’d lost their edge.’
‘Ballatyne said he disappeared for a while, then came back recently.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘It happens. But only in special circumstances.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, think about it: if someone’s needed for something deniable, he’d be ideal. He’s retired and has no provable link to official operations.’
‘That’s a bit lame, isn’t it?’ Rik said. ‘Like anyone would believe it. Once FSB, always FSB, I thought.’
She gave a hint of a shrug. ‘You asked. I told you. They’re deniable or. .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or they’re here without sanction. Completely off the books.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘If the right man gave the order, yes.’ Her tone of voice told them who she thought that right man was. There was only one.
The Russian president.
‘They did Litvinenko,’ said Rik. ‘So why not Tobinskiy?’
‘But this time,’ Harry pointed out, ‘they know the world is watching.’ He thought it over. Tobinskiy had been murdered, according to early suspicions, although there was no guarantee that the UK authorities would come out and say so. The scandal would be immense unless they could provide solid proof to the world’s court of opinion. If not, there would be a diplomatic and trade backlash from Moscow. Without it, they would have to sit on their hands, powerless to make a solid case.
But Clare Jardine was the proof; she was the only witness who could put the Russians at the scene of Tobinskiy’s death. And their clumsy attempt to kill her in Pimlico would only add fuel to the suspicions.