‘Excellent, Keith. Excellent. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? We’ll make a field man out of you yet.’ He took the memory stick before Maine could stop him and handed over the brown envelope. He was counting on Maine being too scared of being outed to his bosses and losing his pension, to have double-crossed him. ‘How did you manage it, by the way?’ He wasn’t really interested in the detail, but allowing Maine to preen was a useful way of deflecting his attention.
Maine almost smirked as he slid his fingers inside the envelope and ran them over the notes. ‘Easy enough, as it happened. There’s a common surveillance log on targets open to all agencies so we don’t trip over each other. Any one agency wishing to move on an individual or organisation merely checks the log to make sure there’s no on-going operation against them, and signs off the details as going “live”. Everyone else steps back until given the all-clear.’
‘The wonders of organisation. Are you certain you left no trail?’
‘Of course. I’m not an amateur, you know.’
Paulton smiled. ‘Of course. Aren’t you going to count it?’ He glanced in the wing mirrors on either side, and felt his blood beginning to race. The street was clear. No pedestrians or vehicle traffic, nobody watching. It was now or never.
Maine bent his head to check the money, the pull too much to resist. As he did so, Paulton reached down again and picked up a steel meat skewer from the floor. The curved end was wrapped with a pad of rag and gaffer tape which he’d arranged earlier, to protect his hand.
‘Wait a minute.’ Maine had noticed something wrong. ‘This isn’t right-’
His protest was cut off sharply as Paulton brought his right hand round and up in a vicious jab, aiming at a point just above the analyst’s belly. With his full shoulder weight behind it, he drove the point of the skewer into Maine’s body, punching through his suit, then his skin, and into his heart.
Maine grunted and turned his head to look at him, his jaw dropping open in shock. His eyes went wide for an instant in accusation, and he mumbled something unintelligible, and tried to shake his head. It wouldn’t work. A bubble of spit appeared at the corner of his mouth, and popped.
Paulton checked his pulse. Nothing. He glanced in the mirrors. Still clear. And no shouts of alarm. He sat back, breathing heavily, and flexed his right hand. In spite of the padding, his palm was going to be bruised to buggery. A pack of ice should sort that out, along with a stiff drink. He figured he owed himself that, at least. Then he needed to check the contents of the memory stick, to see what Maine had come up with.
He reached across and gave the skewer a sharp tug. It took a sharp twist before it slid free of the body with a faint pop, the cloth of Maine’s suit cleaning the metal of most of the blood as it came away.
He smiled and patted the dead man’s jacket back into place. Some things were just so simple. All it took was the brass neck to plan it and carry it through. And neck was something he’d never lacked.
He wrapped the skewer in a rag and put that in his pocket for disposal the moment he saw a rubbish bin, then picked up the brown envelope and tucked it inside his jacket.
As he climbed out of the van, he gave Maine’s shoulder a tug and allowed the body to slump sideways across the seats, so that it was below the level of the windows.
Locking the van carefully, he walked along the pavement to the VW Golf, another borrowed vehicle he’d acquired near Victoria Station. Seconds later, he climbed in and drove away.
FORTY-TWO
Vienna. The old spies’ playground between the wars.
Harry wondered where all the old spies were now. Blown away, probably, by the winds of change that swept off many of the old-style espionage methods of backstreet meetings, dead-letter drops and shadowy confrontations on railway platforms and in smoky bars, to be replaced by electronic eavesdropping, satellite surveillance and computer hacking.
Clare had been silent all the way from the airport, as if nearing proximity to Katya Balenkova was making her shrink in on herself. She had been staring moodily through the window when Rik had spotted the city’s famous Ferris wheel. Clare had immediately asked the taxi to stop along Ausstellungstrasse, a main boulevard running east-west and within sight of the iconic landmark.
The three of them climbed out and stood on the wide pavement, breathing in the fresh air as the taxi took off in search of another fare. They were close to the hotel Harry had booked from the information desk at the airport, and carrying overnight bags only, and Clare had insisted that she was capable of walking.
‘I fancy a go on that,’ said Rik, staring at the wheel, with its clunky-looking but quaint cabins, like small railway coaches, inching their way round into the cool air.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Clare muttered. But she followed his gaze, lifting her head and standing up straighter than she had in a while.
‘No time, children,’ said Harry. ‘We have grown-up stuff to do. According to Ballatyne, Balenkova and her party are not here for long. We have to make contact with her this afternoon, try to set up a meeting.’
‘What if she freaks out and calls the heavy mob?’
Clare made a sound of disgust. ‘Christ, Ferris, where have you been? She is the heavy mob. She doesn’t need help. She’s the best there is.’ Her tone was one of open admiration for the woman.
Harry nodded. ‘She’s right. But if Balenkova does react badly, then better we know sooner rather than leave it too late and lose her.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Rik still had his eyes on the wheel.
‘They’re staying at the Imperial Hotel, near the embassy. But so are some bigger Russian wheels along with their security teams.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Quite. Any approach there would be too risky.’ He looked at Clare. ‘Especially for Katya.’
She nodded. ‘So where, then?’
‘Somewhere open, where she can see you coming. That way she gets to choose whether to stay or go.’ He forestalled her speaking by adding, ‘This is all about her. We need her help, but she has to know who she’s doing it for. Rik and I would stand no chance of a direct approach. She’ll think it’s entrapment.’
‘Cheers.’ Clare looked glum. ‘So I’m the gay stalking horse, am I?’
‘More like a tethered goat, but that’s just my opinion.’ Rik smiled as he said it. ‘Nobody’s getting at you — you know it’s the only way to play it. We’re just there to see fair play, right, Aitch?’ He glanced at Harry.
‘Correct. And if you call me that again, I’ll put you on the wheel and lock you in for the night.’ He lifted his chin towards the area of park where the wheel was revolving at a majestically steady pace. ‘My guess is, they’ll come here sooner or later, because everybody does. But to be certain we need to lock onto her and her group and see where they go.’ He glanced at Rik. ‘You’d best do that. You know what she looks like?’
Rik patted a small, slim leather case. It held his iPad. ‘Sure do. Ballatyne’s man here just emailed it over. I just hope she hasn’t had her hair styled since it was taken, though.’
‘I haven’t seen that.’ Clare scowled at him as if she felt left out.
Rik shrugged and took out the iPad. He switched it on and called up a full-screen photo. It showed a slim woman with short, fair hair and a confident stance. She was frowning slightly, and standing on a city pavement next to a man in a suit. A car number plate at the edge of the scene showed it to be somewhere in Moscow. The man in the suit had the bearing and stolid lumpiness of a bureaucrat, and appeared to be waiting for permission to move. Balenkova was looking off to one side, her jawline determined. She had a curly wire tucked down into her collar and was carrying a small comms device in one hand. She looked every bit the steady bodyguard, in spite of her slim build.
‘She hasn’t changed much,’ Clare remarked. ‘A bit thinner, maybe.’ She turned away from Rik and the photo, anxious to be on the move. ‘Can we do this sooner rather than later?’