Adrian Magson - Deception

‘Can I help?’

Harry flashed his MI5 card and said, ‘MOD police, Mr Griffiths. I’m trying to trace Miss Vanessa Tan.’

Griffiths jumped up.’ Oh, you’re the bloke who rang earlier. Police, you say? What’s happened to her, then? Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’ Harry gave him a level look. ‘Are you going to help me or do I need a warrant?’ He looked at the PC humming on the desk and tapped the monitor reflectively. ‘Are all your records computerized?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘We’d have to impound that, for a start.’

Griffiths looked stunned. ‘What? But there’s nothing on there. I mean. . work stuff and a few games, stuff like that. Nothing that would interest the police, though.’ He put a protective hand on the monitor. ‘Um. . what exactly do you need?’

‘A contact number or an address. Either would do. I presume you have one?’

‘Of course, yes. Standard practice. I’ll just call it up.’ The manager’s throat sounded dry, as if he was having trouble gauging how much damage could be done by having his computer taken away. He slid behind the desk and tapped at the keys, then frowned. ‘That’s odd.’ He tapped again but the frown stayed. He looked up at Harry in a mild state of panic. ‘I don’t understand it; there’s nothing on here. No address, telephone — nothing. But we always have contact details. .’ He stared at the screen as if willing it to give up its secrets. ‘Just the house itself.’

‘How long is it since you last looked at the file?’ Harry was sceptical about the man’s air of surprise. Whatever had happened, whether by accident or design, he was willing to bet that a long-term arrangement with automatic payments made through a bank would soon become part of the wallpaper, rarely checked or updated because anything more would be too costly. Until something went wrong.

‘I don’t know.’ Griffiths looked embarrassed. ‘A while, I admit.’

‘You did some patching work on a window recently. Is that part of the agreement?’

‘Yes. I mean, it doesn’t include anything major or structural — we’d have to get permission to do that. But we had instruction to look after the basic skin, if you like, make sure the property’s secure, no burst pipes and so forth. I saw the cracked window on my last visit about three weeks ago — a blackbird had hit it — so I placed a panel of three-ply over it until I get the owner’s agreement to replace the glass.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I suppose I can whistle goodbye to that, if she’s gone missing.’

He had a thought. It was a long shot, but Griffiths was about the same age as Vanessa Tan, and the catchment area for schools here would probably have covered a fairly wide patch. He took out the photo and said, ‘Is this the owner? You might have known her.’ He was to be disappointed.

‘No idea. I never met her.’ Griffiths looked at the photo and made a soft whistling noise. ‘I wish I had, though. Would’ve made life a lot more interesting.’

Harry thanked him for his help. The fact that they’d never met cut down the need to ask any further questions. He returned to the car. On the way, he rang Rik and asked him to access the phone records for the Tan number. Then he set off back to London. There was nothing to be gained by staying around here. It was a blind, going nowhere.

Thirty minutes later, Rik sent a text.

Subscriber Ms V Tan, address as given. Bills paid by DD — Barclays. Call record shows no outgoing, no voicemail.

Harry switched off the phone. At least the drive back gave him plenty of time to think. Mainly about what had happened to Vanessa Tan, hard-working, nose-to-the-grindstone student with ambitious parents. Had the enforced studies coupled with military service been a push too much, or had something more sinister happened to make her disappear?

He took out the photo and glanced at it as he drove. Something was tugging at the corner of his mind. Something Mrs Crane had said. . and Griffiths, too. But whatever it was wouldn’t come. Instinct told him it was significant, but knowing that didn’t help.

In a small bar in Wandsbek, a district of north-east Hamburg, three men sat around a table in a back function room. One of them was talking quietly on a mobile. The other two waited patiently. The room lights were on and the broad Friedrich-Ebert-Damm outside hummed with the rush of traffic. Four glasses and a chilled carafe of Mosel stood on a tray in the centre, but none of the men had yet taken a drink.

‘It’s done.’ The man on the phone switched it off and dropped it into his breast pocket. Then he reached for the carafe and poured three measures of wine. Thomas Deakin was slim, fair-haired and tanned, with quick eyes and a way of checking his surroundings on a constant rotation. It was unsettling to anyone meeting him for the first time, but a habit those around him had come to accept. He had the antennae of a guard dog and his instincts had served him well since going AWOL — a useful function for a man permanently guarding his back. He hadn’t stepped foot inside the UK since walking away from his unit in the Scots Guards while in transit through Germany, and was constantly on the move from one country to another, regularly changing identities to stay ahead of anyone hunting him. Infrequent meetings in anonymous bars like this, with routes in and out guaranteed and locations never used more than once, were what had kept him out of trouble for so long.

‘Which one?’ The man to his left was in his early forties, whipcord thin, balding and ascetic-looking. Former Master Sergeant Greg Turpowicz, a Texan, had taken his own leave of the US 101st Airborne Division and joined Deakin after surviving too many close shaves in a job he had long ceased to care about.

‘Pike. The Signals wonk. They iced him on the way to Colchester. That’s the British Military Detention Centre,’ he added, for the American’s benefit.

‘What a waste.’ The third man was Colin Nicholls, once a major in the Intelligence Corps. ‘I was counting on getting Pike on board. What went wrong?’ His tone was soft but accusatory. He’d made it clear already that he considered Deakin’s general approach to deserters far too aggressive, and likely to frighten off those who really needed help.

‘He got cold feet, that’s what went wrong.’ Deakin’s lip curled in derision. ‘Maybe they’re all like that in Signals and the Green Slime: no guts when it comes to carrying through a decision.’

Nicholls ignored the nickname; he was long accustomed to it in a job where name calling was as much for self-protection as it was for denigrating other branches of the military. But the implied insult rankled and he took in a deep breath, eyes growing dark with dislike.

‘Hey, guys, cool it.’ Turpowicz tapped the table and looked from one to the other as an almost electric charge sizzled in the air between them. ‘Shit happens, right? We win some, we lose some. There’ll be others.’

Nicholls eventually nodded and relaxed. Deakin shrugged. He’d rarely shown any great liking for the former major, and they regularly disagreed on the tactics the group should use to earn funds. But he knew not to push him too far. Nicholls was older, but he’d worked undercover for months on end in Iraq and other dangerous locations, and a man didn’t do that without having powerful inner resources and a determination to survive.

The three men sipped their wine while the atmosphere returned to normal. Then Deakin said by way of explanation, ‘Pike turning us down I could put up with; but not after we’d transferred the money. That was taking the piss.’

‘We’ll get it back,’ Turpowicz said quietly. A former bank worker before enlisting in the US military, he handled the financial transactions on behalf of the Protectory and regularly fed a stream of funds through offshore financial centres around the world. It meant the Protectory could have access to money in numerous countries at short notice, for paying helpers, informants and contacts, as well as supplying cash to help the deserters they targeted. ‘I put a reversal code on all the transfers, operable up to seven days after confirmation. One push of a button and the transfer comes right back, minus an abort fee.’ He smiled at his own ingenuity.