Adrian Magson - Tracers

‘I can only apologize,’ he said finally, ‘for everything that has happened to you, Miss Archer. You may accept that or dismiss it as you wish — I can’t say I blame you if you take the latter course. I wasn’t aware you’d survived the bombing. All our information led us to believe that you had died along with everyone else. And when you didn’t report in. .’ He shrugged and rubbed his face with a large hand. ‘I visited your flat once. Pointless, of course, but it seemed the right thing to do. Your landlord said you were away. It’s no excuse, I know, but we were forced to believe the worst. Gordon Humphries’ death didn’t help in that regard, I’m afraid. What do you want from me?’

‘Protection.’ This came from Harry, in the front seat. ‘And rehabilitation for Miss Archer. She’s been left high and dry by your lot for too long.’

‘Of course, that goes without saying. But protection from what?’

‘From whom, actually,’ the younger man, Rik, put in. ‘We’ve got a psychopath on our tail. We think he’s one of yours.’

‘I doubt that.’ Marshall’s instinct was for outright denial. God knows, he wasn’t privy to every backwater operation being conducted by his colleagues, nor the people they employed. Yet something about these three was turning all that he knew upside down. Why not this as well?

Harry pointed at the photo Marshall was holding, his finger on one of the two armed security men in the background. ‘This man has already killed at least three people — possibly four — and had a go at Joanne. We believe he’s got orders to take out Rafa’i. He missed this time, but we think he’ll be back for another try.’ He looked hard at Marshall. ‘Like I said — he’s one of yours. Well trained.’

‘I need more details,’ said Marshall. He was playing for time but it was all he could do. He listened while the two men gave him a concise briefing of everything that had happened so far. It stretched from Norfolk to the capital and nothing they said sounded too far-fetched — which worried him even more. He made notes on a small pad, then studied the photo again, although he really didn’t need to. When he’d first seen the face of the security guard, he had experienced an instant jolt of recognition. It wasn’t good news.

‘I remember this man,’ he told them at last. There was nothing to be gained by denying it. ‘But only because he was attached to my security detail.’

‘Go on,’ Harry prompted him.

‘He stood out. The other men treated him with obvious caution, and a fair bit of respect. It tends to make one take notice. So I checked his record. His name’s Gary Pellew. He’s former Special Forces and goes by the name of Dog. He did valuable work for us over many years in appalling circumstances. It did things to him.’ Marshall dropped the photo and shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, nobody noticed until it was too late.’

‘You mean he’s a head case,’ said Rik.

‘Damaged, certainly,’ Marshall agreed levelly. ‘Not that he would ever acknowledge such a description. He’s fiercely proud of the fact that he’s never failed to carry out an order. If anything, it’s something of a character flaw.’

‘You mean he’s a robot.’

‘I mean he won’t stop until he’s accomplished whatever job he’s on.’

‘Cheers, Major,’ said Rik dryly. ‘Just what we wanted to hear: a government-trained psychopath with a work ethic. Can’t you get him stopped?’

‘I doubt it. He no longer works for us. Not long after this picture was taken, he dropped out of sight. His colleagues said he’d been behaving irrationally — he allegedly tried to kill one of the other guards. He’d also taken to slipping out and doing some freelance night-sniping of insurgents.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘They may have been troublesome, but that definitely wasn’t part of his brief.’

‘He wasn’t all bad, then?’ Joanne’s voice was laden with sarcasm.

‘Sadly, he had a problem differentiating between insurgents and civilians. It’s believed he shot dead at least five innocent locals over a period of several nights. Before they could stop him, he’d gone.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘It’s believed he may have been headhunted by Jennings as long as a year ago. Now we know why.’ He let a few moments go by, then added. ‘Where is Rafa’i?’

‘Safe,’ said Harry. ‘For the time being.’

‘Let’s hope he stays that way. He’s an important man. It would be useful if nothing happened to him while he’s on British soil. I take it there’s no chance of bringing him in for a chat?’ He looked at Joanne Archer; she was clearly the one who knew the Iraqi best.

‘You’re right,’ she replied shortly. ‘No chance.’

‘I see. And what do you plan doing with him?’

‘Get him out of harm’s way,’ she replied. ‘Back to Iraq if that’s what he wants.’

Marshall’s tried to keep a blank face. ‘Ah.’

‘Is that a problem?’ Harry queried.

Marshall had already said too much. It was time to back off and get the machinery working on clearing up this whole sorry mess, starting with the psychopathic Dog. He could leave these three to take care of Rafa’i — for the time being, at least.

‘No. No problem. I wish you luck — it won’t be easy.’ He extracted a card from the back of the notebook and scribbled a number on it. ‘That’s a direct number if you need to reach me. My deputy is Richard Ballatyne. I’ll brief him as soon as I can and we’ll be in touch on your mobile later today.’ He looked at Joanne. ‘I really am sorry, Miss Archer. I wish there was more I could do to rectify things.’

Rik leaned across him and opened his door. It was Marshall’s cue to leave.

Marshall watched the car move away and made a note of the number, although it was probably a waste of time; if the three people he’d just been speaking to were as good as he thought, they’d either get rid of it within the hour or the number would prove untraceable. But it was an instinctive part of him too ingrained to ignore. He also decided to alert Ballatyne of the situation immediately rather than wait. His deputy could at least get the team working on tracing Dog. And trawling through the Asian community networks for signs of Rafa’i.

He took out his mobile and speed-dialled a number. Twenty minutes later, a dark Rover with two men inside slid in to the kerb. Marshall climbed in, told the driver to head for Vauxhall Cross.

The man said nothing, but both looked wary. Marshall didn’t bother taking out his frustrations on them; what was done was done, and he’d been responsible for putting himself in the situation where he could be lifted, anyway.

When they were in sight of the building, Marshall tapped his driver on the shoulder and waited as the car pulled in to the kerb. He liked to walk the last stretch to get the kinks out of his joints and prepare himself. Today was no different, in spite of recent events. As he strolled along the pavement, relishing the brief exposure to the cool air off the river, he wondered about the three people he had just left. Joanne Archer was who she claimed to be; he had no doubt about that. Her anger was too raw, the detail too specific to be faked. But he needed to discover the identities of the two men with her. It wasn’t critical, as he was sure they would emerge soon enough. But he liked to know who he was dealing with.

Of one thing he was already certain: they were professionals. They had about them the unmistakable air of government-trained personnel; they were too calm and controlled to be amateurs, and to have picked him up so easily in a crowded thoroughfare without exhibiting some major tension really took some doing.