Adrian Magson - Deception

‘They missed the signs.’

‘Maybe. Don’t forget he was Intelligence; hiding stuff is in their nature. Before Iraq he’d been playing secret squirrel in Northern Ireland, snooping on the Real IRA. Anyway, after his third strike in Iraq he dropped out of sight and nobody’s seen him since; no contact with family or friends, no footprint from bank accounts or plastic. It was like he’d dropped off the edge.’

‘As you said, it’s what they do.’

‘I suppose. Anyway, about twelve months ago a former colleague thought he spotted Nicholls in a restaurant in Sydney, talking to two men. The colleague took a photo on his mobile and sent it in. It’s not a confirmed sighting because the man turned away, but the other two were identified as long-term deserters. Their names had cropped up before in connection with others who’d done a bunk and gone underground. We think they were with Nicholls for a reason.’

‘The Protectory?’

‘Correct. The word is old — it means protecting waifs and strays. Someone’s twisted idea of a joke, if you ask me, considering some of the people they’ll be helping.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Still, it would fit the kind of man Nicholls was said to be: idealistic, apparently; good family; highly intelligent but emotionally a little naive.’

‘There’s no guarantee the Protectory will have helped Tan.’

‘I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way by having her knowledge sold on the open market, would you?’

‘She might have slid off the radar all by herself and gone to ground.’

‘Don’t bet on that, either.’ Ballatyne leaned closer as a pair of suited office workers crept by, eyeing the bench covetously as if looks alone would render it vacant. ‘If the Protectory is operating the way we think they are, it’s likely they need a regular flow of operating capital for expenses, accommodation, bribes and travel. It’s a costly business slipping people off the radar. One way of doing it would be by selling the information deserters have. And some of them are very bright bunnies indeed. Bloody scary, the details some of them carry in their heads.’

‘Going AWOL doesn’t automatically make a traitor. Someone like Tan might refuse to play along with them.’

‘It’s not just about Tan.’ Ballatyne’s eyes were cold. ‘We can’t count on the Protectory passing up on anyone with her specialized knowledge. They go on fishing expeditions for the people they want and they play hard.’

‘Go on.’

‘We have reason to believe that while he was sunning himself in Thailand, Pike was contacted by a man named Thomas Deakin. He’s a former captain in the Scots Guards who went over the fence six years ago. Since then, he’s rumoured to have tried forming his own group, called Highway Eighty, which as you probably know is the main route out of Baghdad.’ The flinty smile came again. ‘The man clearly has a sense of irony. Anyway, we hear they’ve now merged with the Protectory, although they would appear on the surface to be like chalk and cheese.’

‘How so?’

‘In another life Deakin would be a mercenary. It’s not fighting that frightens him; it’s the lack of freedom to do his own thing. My guess is the Protectory is a useful stepping stone. Nicholls and his crew are probably a bit too soft for the likes of Deakin, too touchy-feely. . not aggressively commercial enough. In the end, though, they’re the same animal, sharing similar traits; they help other deserters, check them out, give them money, sanctuary, documents and point them towards a new life.’

‘A benevolent society.’

‘Originally, maybe. But Deakin’s turned them into a regular business; they concentrate on targeting new deserters within days of them leaving, and finding those with saleable talents. They drain them of any specialized knowledge, then sell it to the highest bidder. It’s an attractive deal for someone on the run: just tell us all you know and we’ll give you money, a new ID, freedom. . and no more fighting.’

‘What about the ones with no saleable talents?’

‘That’s where the touchy-feely face comes in. Your average squaddie gets some cash and a promise, and is told to get lost. Helps perpetuate the myth. But there’ve been rumours that they don’t react well to any specialist talent turning them down once they’ve got them in their sights. Two Armoured Regiment bods who’d bunked off after testing a new battle tank were approached but said no. They ended up dead in a drive-by shooting in Melbourne. These people are in it for the money and they don’t play nice.’

Harry studied Ballatyne’s face. He was too experienced to be giving anything away, but the way he was talking gave a hint of something which made the hairs stir on the back of Harry’s neck.

‘You’ve got an insider,’ he said softly. Ballatyne had just revealed a little too much detail for this to be idle speculation. ‘Someone in the Protectory.’

‘Nothing like that.’ Ballatyne’s response was bland. ‘We’ve been getting a few hints, that’s all. Stronger than gossip; enough to know that it’s not, as you put it, campfire stuff.’

‘And where does Paulton fit in?’

‘He and Deakin know each other from way back. Deakin was also spotted hanging around at Frankfurt.’ He produced another photograph from his pocket and held it out for Harry to take. It was the same shot he’d shown him on the day of the shooting in St James’s Park: Paulton crossing a pavement in an anonymous street, about to get in a car.

‘I’ve seen this already. So?’

‘I know you have.’ Ballatyne gave a knowing smile. ‘I also know you’ve got your little mate Ferris analysing the details to see if he can come up with a location.’

Harry didn’t rise to the bait. Maybe Ballatyne didn’t get the opportunity to show off much, surrounded as he probably was by Sixers who thought themselves smarter, sharper and more ambitious. ‘And?’

‘Forget it — you’re wasting your time. It was taken in Brussels.’ Ballatyne’s finger was tapping on a man standing back from Paulton. He looked to be in his forties, dressed in a pale suit and looking relaxed and fit. ‘This is Deakin. Remember the face.’

Harry stared at the two men in the photo, trying to remain calm at the knowledge that Ballatyne had been playing him with this photo, drawing him in. It was part of the game; he should have known.

‘Paulton’s with the Protectory?’ It was a hell of a jump from waging war on spies, terrorists and anyone threatening the country’s security, to actually helping its enemies gain vital military information. Had he really gone that far overboard? Or had that always been his plan, working towards this goal? The possibilities were unsettling. No wonder someone on Ballatyne’s level had been put on the case.

‘Almost certainly. But Deakin’s the one to watch. Nicholls has moved into the background. It’s possible he doesn’t like what’s happened and has cut himself off. He’s an idealist. But Deakin’s an attack dog. He rarely goes anywhere without a couple of Bosnian wingmen with him, guarding his back. They do the heavy lifting.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ Sensing there was nothing more to come, Harry stood up to leave, then turned back. In the background, Ballatyne’s minders stirred. ‘There’s one thing.’

‘I know,’ Ballatyne said. ‘Gordon Cullum. He rang me. You upset him.’ He didn’t seem too put out by the revelation.

‘Is he for real?’

‘Real enough. He was in Five for years, worked undercover in Ulster back in the early days. He’s now a sort of floating liaison between the MOD and the Intelligence community, used whenever there’s an overlap of responsibilities, like now. He’s due for retirement soon, but he’s solid enough. It’s only a signature, you know, on the form. Bureaucrats need signatures like bees need pollen; it’s how they survive.’