Adrian Magson - Deception

Harry nodded. That would explain the driver out front. ‘Don’t worry — I’m totally house-trained. Are the men still here?’

The manager turned and caught the receptionist’s attention, and they went into a brief huddle. When he came back, he said, ‘Indeed they are, sir. Mr Phillips is in L24, overlooking the lake, and Mr Goddard is in G18, overlooking the golf course. I am advised by Leon, our customer reception captain, that Mr Phillips is down by the lake. He saw him walking in that direction earlier, accompanied by another visitor.’

‘Thank you.’ Both together. It would be easier than hunting them separately. Harry began to turn away, then stopped. ‘Another visitor, you say. Not Mr Goddard?’

‘No, sir. The gentleman called just as you are now, and asked to speak to him.’ He gestured towards the reception desk. ‘The customer reception captain checked with the room service chief for you just now. Mr Goddard is still in his room. He was heard talking on the phone just a few minutes ago.’

Harry thanked him for his help and walked back outside to join Rik. Which one first — Deakin or Paulton? His instincts were pulling him towards his former boss, but getting Paulton wouldn’t close down the Protectory.

The shuttle bus had gone and the Mercedes was pulling away along the exit road, elegantly powerful. There was one passenger in the back, in shadow. As the car passed by, the driver glanced across, and Harry felt a mild frisson of something pass between them. It was like a small current of electricity, and he knew he’d experienced it before. But where?

Then it came to him: Ballatyne’s minder in Georgio’s restaurant, the first time they’d met. It had been the unspoken recognition between fellow professionals.

‘Christ, surely not.’

‘What?’ Rik looked at him.

‘The lake. Deakin’s down by the lake.’

They ran across the forecourt and over a belt of immaculate lawn past the corner of the building. The lake was spread out before them, the sunlight glinting off the surface, a scattering of water birds throwing small shadows as they floated on the mildest of ripples. A jetty jutted from the bank, with a handful of small boats tied up alongside. Benches were spread out at intervals around the perimeter of the lake, each one sheltered by small open-box surrounds of privet hedge. Only one bench was in use, and that was away from the approach road, with its back to the woods.

Harry led the way across the open ground, eyes fixed on the person sitting on the bench. It was a man in casual dress of shirt and pants. He looked relaxed, slim, one arm along the back of the bench, the other hand in his jacket pocket. He looked as if he might be dozing, no doubt lulled by the warmth of the sun’s rays and the reflection off the water.

Thomas Deakin.

Harry wasn’t taking any chances. He reached for the gun in his pocket, conscious that Rik would be moving away to one side to cover him. Ballatyne had moved mountains and called in debts to ease the way for them both to be armed. But he’d added strict instructions that the weapons must be used only in extreme circumstances.

Harry moved closer and said, ‘Deakin. Show me your hands.’

There was no response.

‘Deakin, show me you’ve heard and understood.’

Then he realized that they were already too late.

Deakin’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep. A trickle of blood had run down the side of his face and stained his shirt collar, and was already attracting a small buzz of flies. The blood was coming from a dark hole just above one ear.

Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. He forced himself not to look round; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. If the man who had shot Deakin was watching from the tree line and had Harry in his sights, there was precious little he could do about it now. Instead, he checked the other side of Deakin’s head. No exit wound. He inspected the wound again. Powder burns were visible around the entry point. Not a rifle from the woods, then.

This had been an execution, up close and personal. Pointed. He remembered what Turpowicz had said about the Chinese middleman, Wien Lu Chi. ‘ Smooth as a snake and probably as dangerous. ’ This was Deakin’s payback for not coming up with the goods in time. Or maybe they’d realized they’d been sold a pup. The Chinese wouldn’t have got their down-payment back, but that would be of less immediate interest than saving face — and sending out a warning to others. Nobody messed with them without paying in full.

Rik joined him and stared at Deakin’s body. ‘You reckon Paulton did this?’

‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not his style.’

Harry was looking towards the access road, where a flash of movement had caught his eye. The grey Mercedes was approaching the gate, unhurried and sleek. It slowed almost to a stop, and Harry saw the oval of a face turned towards them in the rear window. He’d only caught a brief glimpse as the car had passed by, but he’d got an impression of a slim figure, neat and of middle years, dressed in a suit. He’d have blended in perfectly with the trade delegation the manager had mentioned.

He toyed with calling the authorities, but decided against it. From here to a motorway intersection wouldn’t take long in the Merc, and by the time a helicopter got overhead, they’d be in among thick traffic or have switched cars. Operations like this weren’t carried out on a wing and a prayer; they had too much to lose if they fouled up. Maybe the centre’s security camera would pick up the number plate and show the faces of the driver and passenger. Or maybe not.

‘Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him.’ He turned and walked back towards the hotel. He’d call it in from reception. It would take the gloss off the manager’s day, but there was no hiding a murder.

First, though, there was something else he had to do.

George Paulton had an instinct for danger, honed over many years operating undercover in extreme conditions. It was usually signalled by a prickling of his palms, and the last time he’d experienced it, the feeling had saved his life. He had learned never to dismiss it.

That prickling was with him again and he knew he had to leave. Right now.

He was accustomed to living out of a small bag, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and there was no sign of panic as he toured the room, checking that he’d left nothing behind. He used a damp cloth to wipe down everything that he’d touched since the night before, when he’d done another such check, as much a way of easing his impatience than adhering to a self-imposed security routine.

He’d spent the last hour or so trying to get hold of his contact in the Met, and another in MI6, to find out what was happening about the hunt for the Protectory. But neither of them was answering. This lack of knowledge meant he was operating blind, unable to see even part of the picture, let alone all of it. Now it didn’t really matter; it was time to go.

When he was ready, he stood for a moment, settling his nerves. Then he scooped up his bag and headed for the fire escape at the rear of the building. Deakin would be taking care of the bill, so he had no reason to go near the front desk. It would be unwise, anyway, to appear in the front foyer, since the danger, if his instincts were correct, would be centred right there.

He considered Deakin for a brief moment. The former soldier was out walking somewhere, but intuition told him that going in search of him was not an option. Deakin would have to look after himself.

He hurried down the rear stairs, a rush of excitement building in his ears. He didn’t know the source of the danger, but whatever it was, whether the Chinese Deakin had dealt with or Harry Tate, every instinct told him it was very close.