‘I’ve no idea. Tell me what you’re thinking apart from filling your belly and I’ll let you know.’
Serkhov swallowed some tea. ‘This assignment’s going to hell in a bucket, is my opinion. And we’re stuck like a couple of tarts right in the middle of it.’ He hesitated as if suddenly remembering that he was merely a sergeant talking out of turn to an officer, then ploughed on hastily. ‘I know we have to work to orders and in isolation so we can’t spill our guts if we get caught, but what happened to briefings, backup and some help? In any case, I’m not sure the colonel’s being entirely open with us.’
‘How do you mean?’
Serkhov shrugged. ‘The way he’s not allowing us any contact with the embassy or anyone else.’
‘So what? It’s standard operational rules. We’ve worked like this plenty of times before.’
‘Yes, but we’ve always had fall-back positions available. Lose a car and we know immediately from pre-briefs where to go for another one. Here we are in the busiest city in the western world, with more Russians outside Moscow than most places on earth, and we can’t even do that straight away. And we’re now using one-time-only meeting places, like that dump of an office we were in last time.’
‘So you’re getting choosy about where we meet, now? Have you forgotten those places we used in Beirut? Or Athens? They were toilets compared with this.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s like we’re right off the grid all of a sudden and having to survive on our wits, with no chance of backup. But where’s Gorelkin while we’re running our arses off around London?’
‘He’ll be somewhere near, waiting for us to report. It has to be that way, you know it.’ Votrukhin sounded uncertain, even to himself, and felt instantly guilty. Team leaders weren’t supposed to show doubt to those beneath them, no matter how desperate things were. The problem was, he was under exclusive orders from Gorelkin, a senior officer, and those orders included a no-contact rule with anyone outside of their three-man cell. It also precluded any practical displays of initiative, such as getting the hell out of here on the first flight while they still could.
‘And there’s the Englishman,’ Serkhov muttered. ‘What the hell is that all about? He’s ex-MI5 and therefore a sworn enemy. If he betrayed his country and his service, he certainly won’t think twice about dropping us in the shit if it suits him. Has he been cleared through central command to work with us?’
‘I’ve no idea. Why — would you like me to call them up and check?’
‘I bet he hasn’t. The thing is, how do we even know for sure he’s not still employed by MI5, huh?’
Votrukhin shifted in his seat, a worm of doubt in his mind. He’d been having the same thoughts ever since meeting Paulton. It wouldn’t be the first time a team had been sold a fake pony. ‘Don’t even think that, you idiot. Gorelkin’s not an amateur at this game; he’ll have checked him out very carefully. Anyway, I think they know each other from way back. Haven’t you sensed the atmosphere between them? They’ve worked together before, I’m certain.’
‘Big deal. Once turned, a man can be turned again in my opinion. Paulton now knows our faces, full descriptions — even our mobile phone numbers. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’
Votrukhin said nothing. He was supposed to be above such rebellious considerations. And as an officer in the Special Purpose Centre, he should by rights be reporting Serkhov for his words and having him shipped home on the next flight out to face an unpleasant investigation and a period of retraining. Yet much of what the sergeant had said was correct. Something in the way Gorelkin had been acting was like a man waging his own private war, not trusting his men to know any of the background details. All they knew was that after dealing with Tobinskiy, the situation had been going steadily to hell, as Serkhov had phrased it so acidly, in a bucket. And now they were in pursuit of not only a former female member of MI6, but two former members of the Security Services, MI5, who were guarding her.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Votrukhin said finally. ‘That we tell Gorelkin that we’re withholding our labour? That we don’t want to play anymore? He’d have our balls on a stick inside the hour.’
Serkhov looked depressed. ‘I don’t know, do I? I’m just saying. It doesn’t feel right.’ He pushed his mug and plate away and stared out into the street through the condensation on the window. ‘Give me a gun and a bunch of terrorists and I’d be happy. Not this game of round-the-houses.’
FORTY-ONE
George Paulton watched from the cab of a battered builders’ van as the tall figure of Keith Maine appeared at the junction of Lambeth Road and Kennington Road. The analyst was dressed in his usual suit and carrying what looked like a plastic Tupperware box. The pavement behind him was clear, with no obvious signs of pursuit or surveillance. Indications of either would have meant Maine was already being watched, or had panicked and sold Paulton out to the heavy treaders of MI5.
Paulton put the Ford Transit in gear and drove slowly along the street as if looking for an address. Half the skill in appearing normal was to do normal things. Nobody noticed the mundane and everyday activities, the background clutter of people going about their lives and jobs. And builders’ vans were ten-a-penny, not worth a second look, especially when aged and scuffed to anonymity. Not unless the builder he had liberated this van from happened to have made the trip all the way from across the river in Blackfriars in search of his beloved vehicle and saw him.
He timed his arrival just as Maine was beginning to betray signs of nerves. The analyst was looking around and evidently already feeling out of his comfort zone, his face creased with concern.
Maine did a double-take as the van stopped and he saw Paulton beckoning from the driver’s seat. For a second he didn’t recognise who was under the baseball cap and wearing a set of paint-spattered overalls, then he gave a weak smile and climbed in. The smile faded as Paulton set off south and took the first left down a side street.
‘Where are we going?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve got the information. Have you got the cash?’
‘Calm down,’ Paulton replied, taking a right turn, then another left. ‘We need to get off the main street, that’s all.’ He grinned, showing his teeth. ‘We don’t want everybody and his brother seeing our little transaction, do we?’
‘No. I suppose not.’ Maine sat back, careful not to brush against anything dirty, and held onto the door handle.
Paulton pulled into the kerb behind an old VW Golf, and cut the engine. They were situated between two tall buildings here, with no windows immediately overlooking them, a point Paulton had carefully scouted out earlier. There were no street cameras just here either, and he felt as secure as he could be.
He reached down by the seat and produced a heavy brown envelope. He opened it to show packs of cut paper, and peeled them back to show the edges of twenties and fifties. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get small denominations,’ he said, ‘but I figured the smaller the package the better you would like it.’
Maine’s eyes opened wide at the proximity of so much cash. He smiled nervously and opened the lid of the Tupperware box. Inside was a pack of sandwiches and a banana. He lifted the sandwiches and took out a memory stick with a plastic lid. He unsnapped the lid. ‘It’s all on there. I copied the file for you. There’s not much on it. . just a bunch of surveillance logs and the subject’s movements over the past six months, and some historical annotations and comments.’
‘What sort of comments?’
‘Who the subject is, her background, how she first came to be a person of interest.’
Paulton smiled like a tiger. ‘How interesting. That should save me a lot of chit-chat.’ He didn’t bother to explain what that meant.
‘It runs up to five p.m. yesterday. There’s a small delay for overseas traffic from our watchers, so we don’t know if she has moved since then.’