Harry felt a momentary doubt at the movement of the crowd. It would be too easy to miss Balenkova and her group here, and too easy for the Russian to see Clare first and bolt at the possibility of another approach by MI6.
He checked on Clare’s position, and saw that she had settled on a spot under the cover of a tree near a group of Japanese students, hunched and low-profile, a dark, anonymous figure in the crowd. Harry had also merged into the background, attaching himself to a group of Americans on a whistle-stop tour of Europe, allowing their shift and flow to absorb his presence.
‘They’re out of the hotel and heading for the wheel.’ Rik’s phone message had come after a lengthy wait, just as Harry was trying to think of another way of allowing Clare to contact Katya Balenkova. They had promptly left the small hotel where they were staying and walked to Riesenradplatz to wait for their quarry to arrive.
The American group began to drift away to the south, making noises about finding somewhere cheap to eat, before the restaurants got too busy. It left Harry feeling exposed, and he looked for another group. But none was static enough to provide sufficient cover, so he kept on the move, his mobile in his hand, glancing occasionally at his watch, playing the late-date scenario, but never moving out of sight of Clare’s position.
As he walked past a stall selling ice creams and soft drinks, his phone rang.
‘Harry Tate?’ The voice was male, with a vaguely American accent.
‘Speaking.’
‘A man in Vauxhall said you might need supplies. My name is Richoux.’ The last was a code word identifier, taking the name from the last place the two men had met in London. Ballatyne had been busy making arrangements.
‘Good timing,’ said Harry, and told the caller where he was.
‘Stay where you are. I’m a few minutes away on foot. I know what you look like, don’t worry. I’ll approach from the north, across that roundabout in the centre. We’re old friends and you forgot your briefcase when you visited me. My wife’s name is Inge.’
Harry thanked him and cut the connection. Only spies made a big thing about walking up to somebody in a public place. In the normal world, it happened all the time and nobody questioned it. He continued walking, making a slow tour of the area and keeping Clare in his line of sight. While doing so, he called Rik.
‘Where are you?’
‘Five minutes away. One of the suits stopped the cab and went into a chocolate shop with the male guard. What’s the German for I think my wife’s cheating on me with four other men?’
‘Why?’
‘My driver’s getting arsey about following their cab.’
‘Tell him “meine Frau betrugt”. He’ll think you’re a total wet, but he’ll enjoy the chase.’
He stopped in the shade of an overhead canopy and waited. He was facing the roundabout ‘Richoux’ had mentioned, where he had seen cars come and go. There were various approach roads but they all fed into this one place. A noticeboard with a map of the area showed the attractions on offer. A number of business cards had been inserted behind the rim, including taxi and limousine services. He plucked one out and stuck it in his pocket.
‘Harry!’ A man in a sports coat and flat cap appeared by his side. He was carrying a black briefcase and made a show of relief at seeing him. Red-faced and chubby, he held the briefcase aloft and made a brief pantomime about how nice it had been to see his old friend, but that Harry had left his briefcase behind and Inge had sent him out on pain of death to get it back to him.
‘Tell her she’s an angel,’ said Harry, playing along. ‘Next time I’m in town, I’ll take her out for dinner. Not you, though — you’ve had your share.’
The two men laughed and ‘Richoux’ glanced at his watch before throwing his arms around Harry, claiming for the benefit of anyone close by that he was late for dinner and had to dash.
Harry watched him go before checking inside the briefcase. It held two soft cloth bags, of the kind up-market shoes were sold in. He could tell by the weight and look that they each contained a handgun and a spare magazine. The briefcase also contained a Yale key attached to a piece of card by a length of string. The card carried an address in the suburbs.
The safe house.
His phone rang again.
‘Just arriving,’ said Rik. ‘They’re in a cream Mercedes.’ He read out the number.
Harry turned and saw a cream-coloured cab stop near the wheel and disgorge a group of passengers. Four men and a single woman. Three of the men were soft looking, obviously bureaucrats; the fourth looked alert and fit, moving with athletic ease. A bodyguard.
The woman was Katya Balenkova.
Harry glanced across at Clare. She had spotted the group, too, but hadn’t moved, which was good. He doubted Katya would see her clearly enough to identify her, which was also good. Any sudden move or a direct approach would be enough to warn Katya’s colleague that something out of the ordinary was unfolding, and he would have to make a move to neutralise the situation. Just as he’d been trained.
The three bureaucrats looked up at the wheel, gesticulating and laughing, clearly intending to take a ride. One of them hustled off, beckoning for the male bodyguard to go with him, no doubt to pay for their tickets. The other two men trailed in their wake, with Katya bringing up the rear and scanning the area like a true professional.
Harry stayed where he was, aware that if she turned now just as he began to move, she might spot him. He rang Clare’s mobile.
She answered with a dull voice. ‘I see her.’
‘Wait for the three suits to get on board,’ he told her. ‘If the male guard goes with them, make your approach. But not too fast.’
‘I’ve done this before, you know.’ She cut the connection. He turned his head and watched as she moved out from under the tree and walked towards the wheel.
Katya had stopped a short distance back from the last people in the queue. She was well clear of the men but watching as they shuffled towards where the cabins arrived at the embarkation platform, laughing and jostling like children on a day out.
Harry felt a sudden jolt.
There was no sign of the male guard.
He moved position slightly. The guard might be the truly paranoid type; the type who might have gone on ahead to check there wasn’t a bomb under the seat set to blow his charges sky-high. Or he might have doubled back to watch their backs.
Clare turned her head and looked back at Harry. She was just thirty yards behind Katya, standing among a small knot of passengers who had just exited the wheel and were clustered together looking for direction. For once she looked uncertain, no longer confrontational, almost lonely. He felt for her, and tried to imagine how he would feel in such circumstances, meeting up with a person he had once been close to; someone he had caused to lose position and prestige, and who might turn and react badly.
Then Clare was moving, striding forward with purpose. She stopped alongside Katya, not so close as to invade her space, but within earshot. Then she was talking; he could tell by the way she held her head, facing slightly away, chin down.
Balenkova took a moment to react, no doubt having had to break her concentration. She turned her head, then snapped it back into position at once, her whole body stiffening.
Contact.
Harry’s phone rang.
He ignored it. Too much going on here right now. It stopped once to go to voicemail, then started ringing again immediately. He accepted the call.
Ballatyne.
‘Don’t hang up — I don’t care what you’re doing. Just listen.’ The MI6 man’s voice was tense. ‘Keith Maine’s body was discovered thirty minutes ago in a Ford Transit off Kennington Road. He’d been stabbed once with some kind of long spike. On the floor of the van was a lunch box and the cap from a memory stick, but no sign of the stick itself. It looks like he got it out of the building in the lunch box. There was clearly a handover, but the other party didn’t keep their side of the bargain. I checked back with the techs. Maine accessed a travel file in Six and picked up the ticket reference to your name, and copied details of your trip to Vienna. Safe to say that whoever he was working for now has the stick and whatever data it contains. He knows where Balenkova is. . and where you are.’