‘No. They will come back here. You must redouble your efforts to find Jardine.’ He rubbed at the side of his jaw. It was the first sign of nerves that the two men had seen in him, renewing their concern about what this operation had turned into. ‘This cannot be allowed to go any further,’ he muttered. ‘We must end this now.’
‘And if we don’t?’ said Votrukhin. ‘We don’t even know where they are. And every day we stay in London is a day closer to our being identified.’
‘Don’t!’ Gorelkin snapped. ‘I will not have defeatist talk! This is vital work, much more so than either of you two clods can imagine. Now get out there and do your jobs!’
Votrukhin stood up, an angry retort on his lips. But Serkhov grabbed his arm and stopped him.
The two men walked out without a word, leaving Gorelkin staring at something very far away.
FIFTY-FIVE
‘What do you want, Ballatyne? I’m busy.’ Candida Deane barely looked up as Ballatyne stepped into her office, focussing instead on a file she was reading. The soft lighting, essential for all the inner offices of SIS Headquarters like this one, made her features seem less harsh than normal, as if she had been airbrushed.
‘Just a chat.’ Ballatyne wasn’t fooled by the businesslike tone; she was puzzled by his appearance. He pushed the door closed behind him, something that he knew would put her nerves further on edge. Other than the required briefings and meetings which brought all department and desk heads together, he and Deane rarely had reason to speak alone. Even with everything surrounding the Russian hit team and their attempt on Clare Jardine, their encounters had rarely been without other heads involved, and therefore somewhat impersonal.
He sat down without being asked, and crossed his legs, flicking away some imaginary dust. He glanced around the office, which was not yet hers until her superior gave his final notice, and saw signs of her already settling in; a few books, a set of tiny hand-painted Matryoshka dolls, some photographs of foreign places.
‘About what?’ She put down the file and sat back.
‘Your meeting with George Paulton, for one.’
She stared at him, her face showing no emotion, then said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I meet with him?’
‘That’s what I would like to know.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a single photo. ‘But before you go all girly and deny it, take a look at this.’ He dropped the photo on the desk in front of her.
It showed Deane standing in St James’s Park. Alongside her was George Paulton.
‘It’s a fake.’
‘Of course it is.’ Ballatyne allowed a full measure of sarcasm to coat his voice, and put his hands together. ‘As was, I suppose, the old man who jogged by at one point. He was dressed in jogging gear and wearing enormous headphones. He looked as if he was about to die. In fact Paulton was quite rude about him; said something about not having a gun — I have the full transcript which I can give you, but I can see by your expression that you don’t need it.’
Her eyes were like ice and her voice just as frosty. ‘What do you want?’
‘Please let me finish. The old chap’s name is Emil Panowski. He was one of the best Cold War field operatives we ever had, did you know that? You should look him up in the archives. He used to cross the Berlin Wall back and forth like a rat up a drainpipe. He still does the occasional job for us where we need an invisible presence. He’s getting on for eighty, you know.’ He sniffed. ‘He had a full sound recording on you the moment Paulton showed up. Very interesting it was, too.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Deane had gone quite pale, he noted, but she was still defiant.
‘Really?’ He took a small digital recorder out of his top pocket. ‘Perhaps this will convince you.’ He pressed play and Deane’s voice echoed into the room in a sequence of brief utterances.
‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’
‘Tell me I’m wrong, droog.’
‘Find Tate, you’ll find Jardine.’
‘And when I do?’ It was Paulton’s voice this time, before switching back to Deane.
‘Don’t be coy, George. You know what I mean.’
And finally.
‘Whatever you do to her, it had better be permanent.’
Ballatyne switched off the recorder. ‘I got my boys to do a bit of simple editing, I admit, but I think you’ll agree, it’s a game changer. This little selection alone puts you in a meeting with a wanted traitor and enemy of this country; it shows you had knowledge of events and facts that you have chosen not to share with an on-going investigation; and you actively sought the murder of a former MI6 officer — all as a means of gaining promotion. Or did I get the wrong end of the stick?’
Deane’s voice, when she spoke, was shaky. ‘So why haven’t you used it? You want Paulton and the Russians for yourself, is that it? Grab all the glory for yourself?’
‘I couldn’t care less about Paulton. He’s finished, anyway, as I’m sure he must know by now. If Gorelkin doesn’t get him, Harry Tate will.’
‘But?’
‘But he has his uses until then and that’s what I’m focussing on. I want to know where he is.’
‘How would I know that?’
‘Because you’re not stupid, that’s why. You had one of your tails on him from the moment you first met. You’ve had him followed and pinned down ever since. Paulton’s good, but he’s been out of the game too long, unlike your young shadows.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll do you a trade. Give me Paulton and I’ll sit on this recording. And you do nothing — and I mean nothing — to warn him or to make a move against me.’
She made an ugly noise. ‘Like I should trust you.’
‘I agree it’s a bit one-sided, but that’s the offer. Take it or leave it.’
He walked to the door without waiting for her answer, and let himself out.
FIFTY-SIX
‘What is this place?’ Katya Balenkova looked with suspicion at the oak panels and heavy pictures on the wall, made drab by a yellowish light coming in from the outside. It was the room in Great Scotland Yard where Harry had attended the meeting with Ballatyne and the various security-related committees. She sat down gingerly between Harry and Rik. Clare was on her way to a private clinic arranged by Ballatyne, to undergo some tests. She had, in any case, refused to attend anywhere official after arriving back from Vienna, on the simple grounds that she didn’t trust Ballatyne or any of his sort not to lock her up and throw away the key.
‘We call it Room one-oh-one,’ said Ballatyne, settling in his seat at the head of the long table.
Katya gave him a flinty smile. ‘Of course. Where nasty things happen. How appropriate.’
‘You’ve read Orwell?’
‘Of course. It was how we learned about life in the west.’
Ballatyne realised that she was laughing at him. ‘How droll. Don’t worry, the only nasty thing likely to happen here is if you drink the tea. They use it down in Portsmouth to de-scale the hulls of clapped-out destroyers.’ He tapped the table, attracting the attention of Harry and Rik, John Crampton of the Met Police CO19 team, a young male official with a notepad and a lean and tanned individual seated at the far end, dressed in a plain suit straining at the shoulders. ‘Shall we get on?’
‘Who’s the strong silent type?’ Rik was the first to speak, jerking a thumb towards the man at the end.
‘He’s an observer,’ said Ballatyne. ‘Hopefully we won’t need his services, so introductions aren’t necessary. Our singular purpose for holding this meeting is to find a way of locating and stopping the two FSB operatives who killed Tobinskiy and tried to eliminate Miss Jardine. Beyond that, we do not go.’ He glanced at Katya. ‘Miss Balenkova, I understand your position; you don’t wish to operate against your countrymen, although it seems to me that you’re already doing that by being here. However, your presence here is a courtesy. You are not expected to take part in any direct action.’