Adrian Magson - Tracers

Marshall stepped over the barrier as instructed and got into the car alongside a young man with spiky hair and cool blue eyes. He also looked relaxed but alert, hands resting on his knees. Marshall recognized the type; he employed one or two himself.

The young woman slid behind the wheel and started the engine. She was dressed in jeans and a windcheater and looked strong and capable. She was attractive in spite of wearing little or no make-up, and Marshall slotted her into the same category as the two men: not to be underestimated.

The older man dropped into the front passenger seat and signalled the woman to move off before turning to look at Marshall. ‘Apologies for the subterfuge,’ he said, ‘but we wanted some of what my dear old mum called quality time, and I figured you might have brought the odd little helper in tow.’

‘One or two,’ Marshall agreed. He forced himself to relax, knowing that these three people had total control and there was nothing he could do about it. Worse, he didn’t need to look around to know that none of his men was anywhere near. The pick-up had been neat, unfussy and unexpected, and he made a mental note to have a word with the Directorate of Training about reviewing the use of street tactics in London.

‘We have a problem,’ Harry explained to Marshall, as the car surged into the traffic flow. He wanted to get straight down to business in case Marshall had a tracking device on him. If he did, they’d soon have someone on their tail. . and there was no time to do a body search or go through his clothing to find it. ‘Oh, by the way, my name’s Harry, the one next to you is Rik and this lady is. . well, I think you probably know who she is.’

Marshall studied Joanne’s profile but shook his head. ‘Actually, I don’t. Perhaps you could introduce me.’

‘Really?’ Harry was surprised. He checked the major’s face for signs that he was lying. But unless he was a world-class actor, he appeared to be telling the truth. It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. ‘OK, fair enough. But before we do that, we want to know about a man called Jennings.’

Marshall shifted in his seat. ‘What about him?’

‘You know him, then?’

‘It would seem I must. I take it you’re already aware of that fact. My question is, how?’

‘We saw you outside his office.’

‘Ah. Careless of me.’ Marshall’s voice was heavy with irony. ‘I really should stay off the streets. So?’

‘Is he official?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Has he ever been?’

Marshall waggled his head from side to side before replying. ‘I suppose, technically, once. But he and the establishment parted company some time ago. He preferred the opportunities presented by the private sector. I believe the terms and conditions for his special kind of expertise are a great deal more rewarding, financially speaking. The public purse is not unlimited, unfortunately.’

‘How sad. What expertise?’

‘He arranges things. A kind of events organizer, I think someone once called him. How do you know him?’

‘We’ve worked for him a couple of times. Strictly freelance.’

‘Really? I hope you counted your fingers afterwards. What sort of work?’

‘Finding people. It’s what we do.’

Marshall looked puzzled. ‘Just that — you find people? Is there a living to be made from it?’ He raised his eyebrows in innocence as Rik snapped his head round. ‘Seriously — I’m interested.’ He smiled, seemingly as calm as if he were at his favourite club, enjoying a chat with fellow members over a glass of best malt.

‘We do OK.’ Harry flicked a glance over Marshall’s shoulder through the rear window. Joanne was taking them along the Bayswater Road as they’d planned. ‘There are a lot of missing people out there.’

‘So I’m told. I take it the ones you trace are not your run-of-the-mill change-of-life absconders, though.’

‘Dead right. Killers, rapists, defecting bingo callers, we get ’em all.’

‘How droll.’ Marshall flicked something off his trousers and adjusted the crease. ‘I suppose I should ask how you come to know about Operation Pamper? Or was it something you picked up during the course of your work?’

Harry gave him a cool smile. He guessed Marshall’s air of calm was a deliberate device to needle them, to make one of them come out with something they hadn’t intended to. He decided to save him the trouble. There was only so much beating about the bush that he could stand, and none of them was getting any younger.

‘We know you trawled for, recruited and trained an operative for a special, deep-cover assignment in Baghdad,’ he said. ‘The operation was given the code name Pamper and the person you dropped out there had instructions to protect a high-ranking Iraqi. The operative was trained by Special Forces and told to report back on everything they saw and heard, including voice and image capture. How am I doing so far?’

Marshall said nothing. He returned Harry’s look with a bored shrug. But the tension in his face was suddenly evident. Harry decided he needed to make that tension boil over.

‘This high-ranking Iraqi was classified by the Coalition as something of a golden solution,’ he continued, ‘because of his influence across the political spectrum, which made him highly unusual — and valuable. He was there in case the new government fell apart like an old wooden shed — as pretty much everyone with a brain expects it will do one day. His name was Subhi Rafa’i. Still with me?’

Marshall gave him a wintry smile which gave nothing away. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Is that all? May I go now?’

‘Not by a mile.’ Harry was unfazed by Marshall’s denial. ‘Because of his importance, Rafa’i had a team of local bodyguards and a secure location in a fortified base. They couldn’t surround him with a shield of Coalition troops because that would have compromised his position. With someone so highly regarded, it was taken for granted that he’d also have a ton of enemies, even among his own crowd. So the Coalition decided to go one better; they put in an extra layer of protection — a backstop — in case his own team failed. And that was fine until just recently, when the compound he lived in was bombed, probably by insiders. The place was destroyed and Rafa’i and everyone inside was reported killed. Including,’ Harry added heavily, ‘your deep-cover operative.’

Marshall shrugged. ‘Bombings happen there all the time. Are we going for a drive in the country?’ He gestured out at the passing scenery of west London.

Harry checked outside. A few more minutes and they’d be on the Western Avenue, where the traffic was more open.

‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘your operative wasn’t the only home-team casualty that day. You also lost the handler assigned to the operation. He was killed in what was reported as a random drive-by shooting, although that now looks unlikely.’ He paused for effect, then said softly, ‘His name was Gordon Humphries and he was a senior officer with MI6. We still in the ballpark, Major?’

For the first time, at the mention of Humphries’ name, Harry was rewarded with what seemed to be some genuine reaction. Marshall dipped his head for a moment, jaw tensed.

Finally, he murmured, ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because we were hired to do what we do: to look for someone. In this case, a man called Silverman, an Israeli professor who’d arrived in Britain after a mental breakdown. But that was just a cover story. Silverman turned out to be an Iraqi. And guess what — it was none other than the recently vaporized Subhi Rafa’i. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only people who knew he hadn’t died. Ever since we latched on to him, somebody else has been following us around trying to finish the job.’