Red Station (3 page)

‘
Gentlemen
.' The voice of the third person in the room cut off Nolan's intended retort, leaving him fuming impotently. ‘Let's press on, shall we?' Marcella Rudmann, chair of a Joint Intelligence Subcommittee overseeing security operations, flipped open a folder in front of her. ‘This business is appalling by anybody's standards. Which is why this meeting involves just the three of us . . . so far.'

The subtle warning did not go unnoticed by the two men. They were in session with one of the most powerful women in Whitehall, against whom arguments were like light rain on a metal roof. She had the Prime Minister's confidence and the support of senior cabinet members.

‘Two civilians dead – one the daughter of a local VIP, we believe – a courageous firearms officer killed and one dead drug-runner. I couldn't care less about the last one, but the other three are going to keep the press on our collective necks for months to come. What are you doing about it?'

‘Doing?' Paulton raised an eyebrow, although he knew perfectly well what Marcella Rudmann was alluding to. A head had to roll and, more importantly, had to be seen to roll. More than that, any source of embarrassment had to vanish quietly, beyond the reach of the press. He felt for a moment the spectre of blame settling around his neck like an icy collar. If anyone had to take the fall, it should be the weasel in uniform across the table from him; it had been his men who had thrown the drugs bust into disarray after many months of work, leaving the MI5 operators and the on-loan firearms officer to deal with the ensuing firefight. There was also the manpower cuts forced on them at the last minute by the Home Office; cuts meaning that resources were tailored to the threat level involved. Intelligence reports had advised that the threat level of the operation in Essex was likely to be low, and therefore required minimum personnel on the ground.

It had been a bad decision, but one Paulton himself had reluctantly agreed to. Outgunned and on foot, Tate and the others hadn't stood a chance. He wondered idly whether senior police officers were issued with swords on which they could fall. Probably not; their health and safety department wouldn't allow them near anything sharp.

‘About Tate.' Rudmann was in her fifties, attractive and poised, but possessed of an aggressive approach which belied her looks. She had a reputation for caring little about individual sensibilities or rank, evidenced by several big-gun civil service carcasses littering the ground behind her.

Paulton forced himself to remain calm. Was it really going to be this simple? Had she just given him a clear, unambiguous signal that the man on the ground was to take
all
the blame? He sighed; he'd be stupid to toss it back in her face. Tough on Tate, especially at his time of life. Forty-something, he seemed to recall.

Better for himself, though. If he was careful.

Nolan wasn't slow to pick up the inference, and snickered in triumph. ‘Tell me, Paulton, what
do
you do with security types you want rid of? You can hardly send them down to the local job centre, can you? Or have them spilling their guts by writing their memoirs.'

Paulton shot him a look of genuine loathing and resisted the instinct to mention the Stockwell tube shooting in 2005, by a police marksman. Instead, he replied, ‘Actually, we execute them. Saves time and paperwork. We could always extend the practice to your lot, if you like. Care to be the first candidate?'

Nolan's face paled and he began to protest. But Rudmann's hand came down flat on the table, the rings on her fingers giving the sharp, flat echo of a gunshot.

‘Your solution, George.' It wasn't a question.

‘You mean here and now?' He was damned if he was going to give her an answer in front of this jumped-up traffic cop – not when it meant admitting he was surrendering the head of one of his officers. It would be tantamount to admitting that he had the guts of a slug. He slid a glance at his watch.

Tate's flight should be taking off anytime now. A few hours and he'd be beyond reach. For good.

Rudmann's hand drifted ominously towards a phone at her side. ‘Make it quick, George. Time's running out.'

He gave in, convincing himself he was fighting his corner but battening down on the tiny worm of self-contempt seeping into his bones.

‘It's taken care of,' he said with feigned reluctance, aware that Nolan would practically soil his pants hearing what he was about to say. ‘We have a place . . . a posting. It's a recent innovation. It will put Tate beyond the reach of the press, or . . .' he hesitated, eyeing Nolan, ‘. . . anyone else who goes looking for him.'

‘What sort of place?' Rudmann had been fingering her watch, no doubt late for another meeting. But she stopped at this latest revelation.

‘A branch office. I don't want to disclose the precise location, but it's not in this country.'

Nolan's eyebrows shot up to join his receding hairline. ‘How? Five doesn't have jurisdiction out of the country.' He looked at Rudmann for support.

‘Actually, you'd be surprised where we have jurisdiction.' Paulton gave him his nastiest smile, pleased to have taken the policeman by surprise. ‘But that's all I'm saying.' He waited for Rudmann to insist. This one should be a definite no-go area, even for her.

She nodded. ‘Very well.' She closed the folder before her and stood up. ‘That's all, gentlemen.'

Nolan looked crestfallen at being frozen out, but hurried away, no doubt eager to begin spreading tales. Paulton watched him go, determined not to share even the same corridor space with the man in case he was tempted to do something physical.

He turned and faced Rudmann. Her expression was a mask.

FIVE

‘
I
wasn't going to insist,' Rudmann said quietly after Nolan had gone. ‘Especially in front of that odious little creature. But there are others who will. Is it wise sending Tate to this . . . posting?'

It suddenly occurred to Paulton that she might already know about the place he was referring to. He couldn't think how, but she undoubtedly had contacts he wasn't aware of; resources he didn't know about. It was an unsettling thought. ‘The PM, you mean?' He caught a hint of perfume and wondered vaguely what it was. And where she daubed it.

‘Probably not. But his office. They will want to be sure Tate isn't going to pop up somewhere foreign and start talking. That really would be a disaster – for everyone.'

‘He won't.' Paulton mentally gagged at the idea; it would be a career killer. The decision to tell her something – anything – was easily made. It might keep her off his back and satisfy others that a head had rolled; that all was well in the world. Most would see it as a classic display of self-defence – a civil service skill customarily absorbed on the first day in the job. Not that Tate would appreciate the subtlety. ‘He's been assigned to the modern equivalent of Fort Zinderneuf. It's remote, unpleasant, and he'll be monitored to ensure he doesn't go AWOL. It should suffice.'

‘I see.' She gave him a sharp look. ‘You'd planned this already.'

‘I thought it might be on the cards, yes, after . . . previous incidents. It's a precautionary measure.'

‘How astute. But why? What's so special about Tate?'

He paused for several beats, wondering how much to tell her. Thrown a small bone, it might be enough to put her off-track for the time being.

‘Nothing, as such,' he said finally, choosing his words with care. This could come back and bite him on the arse if he said the wrong thing. ‘Tate's old school; knows things we'd rather he didn't get prised out of him by a clever hack. He's one of those intelligence officers who crept up on the outside rails without being noticed; diligent, solid, good at his job, does what he's told most of the time.'

‘But?'

‘He can be bolshie when he thinks he's right. It's best we keep him out of the way.' He could have added that Harry Tate had refused to play the game of musical chairs which passed for a career path around here, but he'd been around long enough and deep enough to know where several skeletons were buried. Even if he didn't know that he knew. It might be a good time to ensure it stayed that way.

The main fact was that Tate, good and obedient servant that he was, was feeling justifiably annoyed at being left dangling out in the Essex marshland. Reason enough to move him out of anyone's sight and hearing before he exploded.

Rudmann seemed satisfied. ‘How long will he be there?'

‘For as long as we think fit. He'll be allowed back eventually – subject to safeguards, of course. No contact with home and hearth, all communications with Thames House to come via his head of station. Even his family won't know where he is.' Not that Tate had any, he recalled. Divorced and likely to stay that way. An odd fish. Probably a drinker, on the quiet. With a shudder, he realized the man actually had the potential to be the worst kind of spook to have on your hands when the shit hit the fan.

‘Who else knows about this place?' Rudmann dragged him back.

‘Six. But nobody else.' He held his breath, aware that he was on thin ice. What if she asked why this had not come up before?

‘I see. How often do you . . . use it?'

‘Rarely, so far. As I said, it's fairly new. Experimental, you might say.' He forestalled further questions by asking, ‘Is there anything else?'

Rudmann shook her head. There was something of the prude in her expression, as if finding something about him and his world which she did not like. Even so, it was evident that she was fascinated by what he had just told her.

‘What on earth do you call this place?'

‘There is no official designation.'

‘Why not?'

He shrugged. ‘If nobody has logged it, nobody will find it.'

There was a lengthy silence, then, ‘But you must have a name for it.'

‘Yes. We call it Red Station.'

SIX

H
arry Tate celebrated his birthday with a miniature of Bell's whisky while waiting for his bag to come off the plane. Between sips, he was trying to convince himself he'd been born lucky.

There was little talk in the drab terminal; most of his fellow passengers were in deep shock after an aborted first landing. About to drop on to the runway, the pilot of the Antonov AN 24 had suddenly hauled the nose up without warning, the ageing engines screaming under full power as they fought to claw the aircraft back into the thin air above Mukhrani airport, Georgia. Cries of alarm in several languages had joined the sounds of tumbling crockery in the galley. But the near-stall manoeuvre had paid off, dragging them in a juddering curve away from the airport and out over the open countryside, vibration shaking every rivet and leaving behind a heavy flow of muddy exhaust fumes like a giant crop-duster.

As they had circled for another try, the reason for the go-around became clear: a green armoured personnel carrier was sitting squarely in the middle of the single runway. A volley of swearing had echoed from the flight deck, followed by a burst of radio chatter. Then silence. Nobody in the cabin spoke, the atmosphere changed instantly from dulled relief at journey's end to one loaded with tension at the implications of what might be happening on the ground.

Whatever the outcome of the radio exchange, the aircraft circled and lined up again. With minimum fuss, it sank on to its landing path and touched down with a heavy thump, causing several overhead lockers to open and cascade a variety of hand-luggage on to the heads below.

As they flashed past the APC, which had pulled back on to the grass, Harry recognised it as a Cobra, an image dredged up from a distant weapons-recognition class. Perhaps the local tourist board had decided that meeting incoming aircraft with light armoured vehicles was the latest way to impress visitors.

After the air-conditioned cabin, the atmosphere outside the plane was muggy, and the walk across the oily tarmac to the terminal was like stepping through a steam room. Beyond the single-storey structure, the distant line of the Caucasus Mountains rose to the north, their jagged peaks hazy against a dirty sky. Elsewhere, the view was of shabby hangars and smaller, unnamed buildings set back from the runway, surrounded by scrubby grass. The tang of aviation fuel hanging in the air mixed disturbingly with the acrid fog of cheap cigarettes.

The combined aroma made Harry feel nauseous. It wasn't just the landing though; he'd been cheated of sleep by a fat journalist from Ohio named Carl Higgins, who had insisted on talking non-stop about his family.

Passport control consisted of a pair of plywood booths with edgy-looking uniformed men inside and soldiers in camouflage outside. To add to the lack of welcome, none of the video screens around the walls appeared to be working and there was no air-conditioning to combat the oppressive humidity. Throughout, the overhead lights were a dull yellow, adding to an atmosphere of heavy gloom.

After nearly an hour, during which his passport was scoured twice at length from front to back, Harry arrived at the baggage reclaim hall, another shed tacked on to the arrivals hall. He crossed to the window overlooking the landing area, where a team of baggage handlers was abusing luggage off his flight. His own bag was in there somewhere, but he'd long ago given up taking anything of value on foreign trips. Experience had shown that it was better to move lean and light, unencumbered by unnecessary weight.

Another APC lumbered into view on the far side of the airport. The rear hatch swung open and several armed men in camouflage uniform dropped out and scurried away into a row of bushes. Practice or reaction? The sight made him uneasy.