Adrian Magson - Deception

Harry sat back. It was something at least.

‘Nicholls has come in, by the way,’ Ballatyne told him. ‘Bumped into a group of Intelligence Corps officers at Frankfurt airport and suffered some kind of a mental trauma. Luckily one of them took it seriously and they hustled him away to a medical unit where he was treated and shipped back here. No idea when he’ll be able to talk coherently, if ever, but at least it’s another one down.’ He chewed his lip. ‘No sign of Deakin or Paulton, though. And if Nicholls knows, he isn’t saying.’

‘And the American?’ There had been no mention of Turpowicz.

‘Ah, well there we have some news. He’s been taken off the American AWOL list. He walked into Grosvenor Square the day before yesterday and asked to speak to the US Embassy’s Army Intelligence liaison. He’s probably out of the country by now and on his way to the brig. . or whatever they call it over there. Good riddance.’

‘Do we know why he came in?’

‘No, and right now they’re not telling. He’ll go through a period of questioning, so we might find out later. But I’m not holding my breath.’

‘No problem. We’ll keep looking.’

Ballatyne shook his head and looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, that’s why I called you here.’

Harry waited. He sensed something wrong in the atmosphere.

‘There’s no point continuing, I’m afraid. You’re being stood down. This operation is now terminated. We’ve been given other priorities.’

‘Like what?’ Harry didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. He could guess what it was, in which case he didn’t expect Ballatyne to answer. But he was surprised when he did.

‘Blame Osama. Ever since he got himself caught and killed, all agencies have been ordered to focus on watching for a backlash from his supporters. Sorry, but it can’t be helped. Our remit just got broader and our budgets still got slashed. We’ll have to leave Paulton and Deakin for another time.’

‘Why can’t we do both? They’re out there preying on deserters and selling secrets, and we have to stand back and let them do it? It doesn’t make sense.’

Ballatyne shrugged, his face hardening. ‘It rarely does, Harry, you know that. There’s nothing else I can say.’

‘But they’ll be vulnerable now. With Nicholls gone and Turpowicz off the board, they’ll have to reorganize. And Turpowicz must have jumped for a reason. He was either disillusioned or felt threatened by something — maybe the direction Deakin was taking them in. If we can put the squeeze on him, we stand a good chance of finding out where they are.’

It was like fighting smoke. Ballatyne merely shook his head and repeated what he had said.

‘Fine,’ Harry said at last. ‘I’ll look for them myself.’

Ballatyne shrugged. ‘I can’t stop you doing that, of course. But you’ll have to do it without my help. Sorry. Orders.’

‘What about Cullum?’

‘He was threatened with being dropped from a very great height, but he doesn’t know anything. They made sure of that.’

Harry gave up. It wasn’t Ballatyne’s fault. He decided to walk home, hoping to shed his anger by pounding the pavements. It wouldn’t do his shoe leather much good, but the exercise might make him feel a little less like wrecking something.

As he rounded a corner on to Euston Road, his phone rang.

‘Harry Tate?’ The voice was American. ‘My name’s Greg Turpowicz. Is there any chance we could meet? I’d like to talk.’

‘Have you heard from the Screaming Eagle yet?’ Paulton walked into Deakin’s room without ceremony, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. He was referring to Turpowicz, using the 101st Airborne’s nickname. Dressed in a neat suit and tie, the executive abroad, he strode across to the window overlooking a large expanse of lake and studied the landscape. It looked fresh and clean under the early morning sunlight, inviting a brisk walk. ‘He was supposed to keep in touch, wasn’t he?’

Deakin shrugged. ‘He’s not a rookie; I don’t need to hear from him every couple of hours. What’s the problem?’

It had been two days since Ganic had failed to respond; two days since they had received confirmation that both the Bosnians had gone down, apparently without revealing any information. Dead before they hit the ground, according to Paulton’s contact in the Met Police.

‘The lack of reassuring information is the problem,’ Paulton murmured. ‘He was supposed to get close to Tate and deal with him for good. He has all the information he needs. I’d just relish hearing that he has done that.’

Deakin lifted an eyebrow. For once, he seemed quite calm, while Paulton was the edgy one. They had remained in position, safe in the knowledge that nothing would go wrong, and neither of the Bosnians knew where they were, so could not reveal their location, even if they survived. Turpowicz, on the other hand, did know, although Deakin had professed continued faith in the former American soldier’s ability to stay out of trouble and keep his mouth shut even if he was questioned.

‘You need to chill, George,’ he said. ‘Turp will do the business.’ He grinned malevolently. ‘He has a vested interest in doing things right, anyway. The Yanks are a lot less forgiving of their deserters than the Brits; if they should happen to find out where he is. . well, he’ll spend a lot of time banged up.’

Paulton looked at him. ‘Tom, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say that sounds as if you’ve applied a little undue pressure on our American friend. That’s a bit risky with a man of his background, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. Turp knows which side his bread is buttered.’

‘I’ll take your word for that. Only I would like to hear that he’s still in the game. . merely for my own peace of mind, you understand?’ He waited, eyebrows lifted, until the other man nodded with a sigh.

‘OK. I’ll call him.’ Deakin took out his mobile and touched speed dial. It rang several times before being picked up. ‘Turp? How’s it going? Have you completed the transaction yet?’ He listened, eyes on Paulton, then said, ‘Sounds good to me. You know where to meet up once you’re done? Good.’ He switched off the phone and smiled. ‘He knows where Tate is going to be tomorrow morning. He’ll do it then. Believe me, I’ve seen his work before. Tate’s dead meat. Satisfied?’

‘One of these days I’ll have a proper meeting in an office with an appointment and everything,’ Harry said, as a tall, thin man sat down beside him. ‘Who are the flat tops?’ He was referring to the men he’d spotted trying to blend in with the tourist crowd in Kensington Gardens. They were not doing too well, and were too fit and smart, in an overtly military kind of way.

‘They work for US Army Intelligence. Don’t worry about them, Mr Tate — they’re pretty harmless.’ The man smiled. ‘As a matter of interest, how many can you see?’

Harry didn’t need to look. One was stationed under the trees against the backdrop of moving traffic along the Bayswater Road; a second was standing by the Round Pond watching two swans; and two more were on the move along the Broad Walk in front of Kensington Palace, but never straying too far and trying not to look directly at Harry and his new companion. ‘Four.’

The smile dropped. ‘Four it is.’ The man held out a hand. ‘Greg Turpowicz. It’s good of you to meet with me.’ He sounded relaxed and genial, a man with time on his side. His hand was dry, the grip firm but with the underlying power of a man who kept himself in good physical shape.

‘Good’s got nothing to do with it, Master Sergeant. I need information.’