Adrian Magson - Deception

The Mercedes drew level with them and slowed.

Collins glanced across, expecting to see the car cruise by, but the bonnet was now close alongside, keeping pace. He felt a jolt of alarm when the rear nearside passenger window slid down and he saw a face appear. ‘Hey, what the fuck’s this idiot playing at?’

‘Who?’ Wallace was fiddling with the radio. He looked round, squinting through the smoke from his cigarette.

The first bang was shocking in its intensity, and Collins felt the back of his head showered with glass fragments. He ducked instinctively and felt the car wobble as his grip faltered. Wallace shouted something, but the words were lost in the sudden roar of road noise coming through the shattered rear door window and the increase in engine noise as Collins automatically hit the accelerator.

Then Collins saw the blood. It was sprayed across the mirror, on the roof and even across the side of Wallace’s face. And something warm was trickling down the back of his neck. We’ve been hit! He whipped his head round to check the back.

‘Pike! You OK?’

But Pike was slumped back, the side of his face gone and his one good eye staring up at the roof.

Another two bangs very close. A car horn blared loudly and Collins realized it was him; he’d hit the button with a reflex action. Then the Mercedes surged away, leaving them behind, and Collins was fighting to hold on to the steering wheel as the shredded offside tyres began a terrifying whump-whump-whump , bits of rubber flew past the side windows and the air was filled with the screech of tortured wheel rims on tarmac.

Seconds later, before Collins could slow down, the steering wheel was ripped from his grasp and the car began a lazy, unstoppable spin and roll, and everything blurred into in a sickening whirlwind of broken glass, gravel, ripped metal and the sickly smell of blood and spilled diesel.

‘Felicity calls you my International Man of Mystery.’ Jean Fleming helped Harry take off his jacket and hung it up. A tall and willowy redhead who ran an upmarket flower business just down the road from her Fulham flat, she accepted Harry’s unexplained absences with equanimity and never asked about where he had been. As the widow of an army officer killed in Iraq, she knew that questions rarely brought a true answer and never true peace of mind. She possessed an irreverent sense of humour and a throaty laugh which made Harry’s toes curl. Felicity was her business partner, a committed Sloane Ranger who knew everybody who was anybody and was vital to the business.

‘Well, I am,’ Harry agreed, ‘and Felicity’s a romantic.’ He accepted the large glass of red wine Jean handed him, and the kiss that followed. Since his divorce, Jean was the nearest he’d come to a long-term relationship, although neither of them had made any moves towards taking it to another level. Jean teasingly introduced him as her occasional date or OD, which suited them both.

She sat on a leather-covered footstool in front of him and chinked glasses. Her eyes were light brown, the gaze disconcertingly direct. ‘You look tired. What’ve you been up to, Charlie Brown?’

He knew she didn’t want the fine print; she knew better than that. But she’d heard about the shooting in St James’s Park and Rik’s wounding, and had put two and two together. ‘Rik and I had to take someone overseas. It was a long flight and I’m glad to be back.’

‘Long? Iraq long or Afghanistan long?’ She knew Harry’s previous area of operations, if not the precise details, and she knew he was still connected with the intelligence community, albeit by a long cord. She was also perceptive, armed with a former military wife’s expertise at telling the difference between job tiredness and the slow wind-down from operational stress.

‘Iraq. Baghdad.’ Ballatyne would have had kittens hearing him admitting this to anyone, but he didn’t care. He smiled and took a sip of his wine, feeling himself relax. ‘Is this a Merlot? It’s very smooth and. . let me see — fruity with a touch of blackberries.’

‘You are so full of bullshit, Harry Tate,’ Jean said with a laugh, and leaned forward for another kiss, bringing a faint smell of lemons. ‘It’s a Shiraz and you know as much about wine as you do about flower arranging, so don’t change the subject. I just like to know you’re OK, that’s all. How’s Rik?’

‘Trying to avoid his mother’s phone calls and getting stroppy, which is a good sign.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Is that something cooking?’ It reminded him that he hadn’t sat down to eat properly for a couple of days. The ration pack he’d been handed on the flight back from Baghdad had been uninspiring, and had found a good home in the stomach of the private contractor in the next seat.

Jean lifted an eyebrow. ‘You mean you want to eat ?’

Harry gave an elaborate shrug and fought hard to keep a straight face, burying his nose in his glass. ‘Well. . eventually. Why, what are you suggesting?’

She stood up and took his glass off him. ‘Follow me, International Man of Mystery, and if you’re a very good boy, I’ll show you.’

The Langham Place Starbucks had a line of office workers waiting to collect their morning fix of caffeine from the end of the counter, and a middle-aged man in a rumpled pinstripe suit. He was sitting and flicking impatiently through a travel brochure with the dislocated nervous look of a patient about to see his dentist. He looked up as Harry stepped through the door and gestured for him to come over.

‘Tate? Good of you to make it. Gordon Cullum.’ He gestured to the chair and put the brochure to one side, then sat back without offering to shake hands, eyes flicking over Harry, assessing. The table was in a corner, away from its nearest neighbour, and Harry guessed Cullum had used this place before.

‘Who sent you?’ he asked.

‘You know who.’ Cullum gave a hint of a sneer, keen to demonstrate that as far as he was concerned, playing security games wasn’t necessary. ‘Ballatyne.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Not mine to ask and they don’t tell. He’s Six.’

Which meant Cullum was not. Five, probably.

‘You have some information for me,’ Harry said, keeping it simple. He’d never met Cullum, didn’t know his history. For all he knew, he and Paulton might have been secret bridge buddies, in which case this was a waste of time.

‘Yes.’ Cullum delved in a pocket and produced a data stick on a key ring. He placed it on the table but kept it close by. ‘How was Baghdad?’

‘Hot. Unfriendly. Same as always. What’s on the stick?’

Cullum sniffed. ‘Never been, myself. Belfast was more my time. So you got him there, then — Rafa’i? Back with his own kind.’

The man’s only trying to be friendly, Harry told himself, although he questioned the man’s lack of tact — in here, especially, less than a sticky bun’s throw from the BBC and its wasp’s nest of journalists. He decided to humour him. ‘The last I saw, he was back home and walking.’ He nodded at the data stick. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Cullum ignored the question. ‘That was good work, especially after what you went through with Paulton.’ It sounded genuine but his eyes gave him away. The praise was hollow; he didn’t care one way or another. This was just a job to be ticked off, one among many in a busy day. He finally tapped the stick. ‘In here is the information Ballatyne asked for. It’s all in the file: names, units, dates, backgrounds. It will ask you for an unlock code. That’s whatever you agreed with Ballatyne.’

‘Does it include Paulton?’

‘What about him?’

‘I need whatever you’ve got; family, friends, contacts, where he went to school.’