Adrian Magson - Tracers

They were nearing the last batch of recordings when Karen tapped the screen. ‘Is that him?’

Sure enough, Silverman’s figure appeared in the background, partly obscured by a group of Japanese businessmen in dark suits. He was standing still, head down and apparently relaxed, by the entrance to a pharmacy. He seemed to be alone, the sports bag lying at his feet.

‘He’s waiting for a pick-up,’ said Harry, recognizing the man’s body language. Impatience, anticipation and wariness all bound together.

They sat frozen, waiting to see what would happen next. It was clear from Silverman’s increasing shift of position that he was growing nervous, throwing regular glances around with sharp movements of his head, the light flashing off his spectacles. After following his progress through the terminal, it was almost an anti-climax to know that this part of the chase was over, that in the next few seconds or minutes they would either learn the next stage of his journey or lose him altogether.

‘How about this one?’ said Karen.

A younger man had appeared on the opposite side of the picture, filtering slowly through the crowd. He carried no hand luggage, and was dressed in jeans and a dark windcheater, another greeter killing time while awaiting an incoming passenger. There was nothing overt to suggest he was connected with Silverman, and he could have been on his way to the pharmacy, except that, from their commanding position overlooking the scene, he seemed to be on a collision course with the waiting professor and kept looking towards him each time he was forced off-course by the flow and press of the crowd.

‘Ten quid says it’s him,’ breathed Rik, but there were no takers.

The man was in his late twenties or early thirties, solidly built with the springy walk of someone very fit. He was clean-shaven, with glossy, swept-back hair and a Mediterranean appearance, but they couldn’t see enough of his face to get a clear picture.

At the last second, rather than entering the pharmacy, the newcomer skirted a family group huddled together around a trolley. He stopped at one side of the entrance, idly flicking through a carousel of travel items. Then he ducked his head, as if spotting something of interest nearer the ground. The movement brought him closer to Silverman but shielded his face from the camera.

Then they saw the professor’s body tense. He began to turn his head, but stopped suddenly, before looking back down at his feet. The newcomer, now less than a foot away, must have said something.

‘Got you,’ breathed Harry. He clapped a hand on Karen’s shoulder, drawing a triumphant giggle.

Suddenly, as if galvanized by decision, the younger man turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Moments later, after hopping from foot to foot, Silverman followed, scurrying through the flow of people like an erratic missile bearing down on its target.

Karen turned to her chart. ‘I don’t need to follow this any more,’ she said confidently, ‘but just in case. .’ She called up another recording and hit the PLAY button.

‘Where’s he going?’ said Harry.

The new picture showed a panoramic view of the terminal building shot from one end. The foreground was a bustling mass of people, while further back, the screen seemed flooded with a greyish aura of light. There was no sign of the young man.

Karen pointed at a figure which might have been him, but he was too far away for a clear view. Then she tapped the edge of the screen as Silverman hurried into view, pushing his way with difficulty through a knot of schoolchildren. ‘He’s heading for the main exits.’

She reached across and grabbed a hard drive from a box. ‘This is from an auxiliary camera outside the main exit.’ They waited to see if Silverman would deviate from his course. He didn’t.

‘Some bloody professor he is,’ Harry murmured cynically, and Rik nodded in agreement. They were both thinking the same thing: whatever Jennings’ briefing paper might have said, Silverman was no simple academic fleeing under the burden of emotional trauma.

This bore all the hallmarks of something far more professional.

‘Still no sign of a Mini,’ said Harry. It was nearly twenty hours later and he and Rik were walking along a quiet back street in Harrow.

It was after six and the light was fading, the predominantly residential area morphing into shadows and yellow lights, and the homeward rumble of through traffic. The houses on each side were part of a small redevelopment, neatly terraced and upmarket, with a variety of large potted plants flanking the doors to give an illusion of greenery. Glossy vehicles were parked on hard standings immediately in front of each house, although none looked as if they were used much.

Only one house showed a vacant space, and had done since their first drive-by earlier that day.

‘She might have dumped it,’ said Rik. ‘If she’s in with Param, they’d know it would be too hot to keep for long.’

They had left Karen and her banks of screens late the previous evening, hopeful possessors of a tenuous lead to Silverman’s whereabouts after he left Heathrow’s Terminal Two. A private cab had arrived minutes after they had watched a tape of the area immediately outside the main exit. It followed a brief period of doubt, during which they thought Silverman must have ducked into a waiting vehicle. But then the younger man had appeared, prowling along the pavement and gesturing animatedly with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

‘Can we get a print of that?’ Harry had asked, tapping the screen. It was the first full-face view they’d had of Silverman’s greeter, and would be useful when they caught up with the two men. He was convinced that the way the man had kept his face carefully averted from the cameras until now was too deliberate to be accidental.

‘Of course.’ Karen’s fingers danced across the keyboard. The screen blinked and a printer hummed into life. She continued to run the recording and they watched the younger man gesticulating, shoulders hunched and a finger stabbing the air excitedly. In the entrance behind him, Silverman was glancing anxiously around, the bandaged hand a small white flag in the gloom. Although the two men had still not spoken openly, it was clear they were together.

It was even clearer that Silverman, if that was his real name, was under the control of someone who knew his tradecraft.

Two minutes later, a white people-carrier cab nosed in to the kerb, and the younger man leapt forward to open the rear door. Gesturing at Silverman, who scuttled across the pavement and into the car, he jumped in after him and slammed the door. A lurch of the vehicle and they were gone.

‘There’s a number on the roof,’ said Rik.

‘Got it.’ Harry noted the time on the recording and moved away, slipping his mobile from his pocket.

‘You can use one of these if you like,’ suggested Karen, nodding at a phone on a desk across the room. She seemed disappointed at the prospect of her part in the chase being over.

‘Thanks,’ said Harry with a smile. ‘Best not.’ Using one of the landline phones would leave a trail. With no way of knowing how often a phone audit was run on the lines in this building, it was safer if there was no obvious record of them having been here. There wasn’t much they could do about the camera over the front entrance, but they would just have to trust to luck and human fallibility.

He returned five minutes later. ‘The dispatcher says the driver who made the pick-up is due to clock on shortly.’

In the event, they had heard nothing more. They had decided to call it a day, not even allowing the discovery of a flat tyre on Rik’s car to dull their elation at finding Silverman’s trail.