Adrian Magson - Red Station

His initial research had revealed that a Harry Tate had started out in the army, transferring to the Intelligence Corps with service in Central Europe, before subsequently disappearing off the map. He knew what that signified: the man had most likely been scooped up by one of the security agencies, possibly MI5 or SIS (MI6), and his whereabouts and current role had been sanitized. The two agencies were always on the trawl for good people with useful backgrounds. Candidacy as a spy or counter-spy wasn’t always judged by possession of a good degree and being ‘spotted’ by a friendly Oxford or Cambridge don; they needed their fair share of older people with solid experience in place of a creative CV — especially with the current focus on the war against terror. And Tate sounded just the right type.

If Whelan’s sources were correct, Tate had been the man running the operation. He didn’t have all the details yet, but the story was out there, waiting. The very idea was nearly enough to make him turn and go home, where he could continue trawling through the files for more sources.

But not quite. As he crossed the pavement and on to a path stretching across the park, he saw a figure ahead of him in the gloom. The build looked familiar and he felt a knot of excitement in his chest.

Whelan hopped over a short fence and entered the shadows close to a public convenience. The air was heavy with the aroma of damp earth, rotten vegetation… and toilets. His nose twitched, the Whitehall story suddenly pushed into the background. No way was he going in there; it was a death-trap waiting to happen. Instead, he veered towards a line of trees on the far side, where the back-glow of street lights cast at least an element of warmth and normalcy.

He increased his pace, eyeing the bushes to one side. The figure he’d seen earlier had disappeared. The darkness here was virtually impenetrable, but he saw something out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement against a lighter background. Friend or foe? Warmth or chill? His breathing increased and his blood began to race, buoyed by the thrill of the chase.

He forced himself to slow down. No sense in making himself look too desperate; a quick way of turning the boy off, if anything.

As he followed the path around the darker morass of a pond, picking up the metallic, muddy tang of standing water, he saw the figure more clearly, standing beneath a tree, backlit by distant lights. Medium height, slim, dressed in the loose clothing of the street, easy to slip out of.

Easy to slip into.

His excitement began to build, and he jammed a hand into his trouser pocket. Anxiety and anticipation were the twin fuels which kept him going at times like this, but they could easily become all-controlling. Christ, he was like a sixteen-year-old on his first time! Cool it, Whelan, or you’ll blow it. Although, come to think of it, he reflected with a dizzy chuckle, wasn’t that rather the point?

‘You made it,’ he called. His voice was shaky, breathless, and sounded inane. Like a line from an old movie. Yet what else could he say?

‘I said I would.’ It was the voice from the pub. It had been competing with the din of music and laughter, but he recalled the tight build, the young, handsome face and the strong hands.

Especially the hands.

Not the eyes, though. He felt a touch of unease. The eyes looked… different. Not like the voice and the body language. Yet there had been so much more…

Then it was too late to change his mind, even if he’d wanted to. Sorry, Jamie, he thought briefly, and stepped up close to the youth, his heart pounding. This was too good to waste. Too rare.

The youth responded, moving in close. Whelan took in the scent of aftershave, something lemony and subtle, and the heat of sweet breath on his cheek. He abandoned himself to the feeling of being cherished, of being warmed.

The feeling lasted just three seconds.

Then Whelan felt an ice-cold burning deep in his gut. His legs began to fold, their strength suddenly ebbing away. He felt his bladder loosen, humiliating and hotly wet down his legs. He struggled to hold himself upright, to lock his knees against the downward pressure, but the muscles and sinews wouldn’t obey. Nothing would.

He coughed, but couldn’t understand why.

The youth stepped back. In his hand, a flicker of steel, and on his face, total blankness.

Whelan turned his head away, his last voluntary action. In the sudden, bitter knowledge of disappointment, he was sure he saw Jamie standing off to one side, pale and translucent in the night. Waiting.

Then everything went black.

The Odeon restaurant was empty again, save for Mace. The station chief was sitting near the back wall, at his usual table. He had left instructions at the office for Harry to join him. There had been no reason to refuse, and Harry had seen enough of the town for a while and wanted to see what information Mace might have other than gossip about his colleagues.

As he sat down, Mace called for the old woman. She shuffled out bearing a tray loaded with bowls of food, and placed it on the table.

He stared in surprise. He saw green chicken, egg-fried rice, onions, bean shoots and a mix of what could have been pork and beef.

‘Christ, where did this come from?’

Mace’s eyes gleamed. ‘Best Thai for miles. Actually, the only Thai for miles. Beats me how or why; she must have travelled a bit in a former life. Served it up one day without asking. Never seen anyone else get it, so maybe she fancies me. Tuck in.’ He picked up a spoon and scooped up chicken, bean shoots and rice, humming cheerfully.

Harry wanted to refuse; to tell Mace to stuff his fancy food and get lost, that he wanted to go home. But Mace had his orders, and sending a member of the awkward squad back to London wasn’t part of the agenda. Besides, Harry’s professional side was intrigued to want to find out what was going on here. He sat down and reached for a spoon and plate.

They ate in silence, and Harry was grateful for the first decent meal he’d had in what seemed like days. Airline food and greasy takeaways were beginning to take their toll on his system.

‘You been taking a snoot at the Clones, I see,’ Mace muttered eventually. His eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘Young Rik’s seeing shadows.’

‘You don’t believe him?’ Harry wondered about Mace’s scepticism. Did he know more than he was letting on?

‘Never said that. Just said he shouldn’t let it get to him.’ He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. ‘Bound to be under scrutiny, aren’t we? Stands to reason; we’re the enemy. Anyone who thinks our British Council cover fools anyone needs their bumps felt. Same in London with their trade delegates. We stand out like spare dicks at a wedding.’ He hoovered up more rice. ‘How many did you spot?’

‘Two. Rik says there are four.’

‘That would be about it. They probably hang on the Americans and French tails, too, with regular changeovers to keep ’em fresh. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘They both have intelligence teams here?’

‘Course they do. This close to Mother Russia and the Caspian, they’d be negligent not to. Most of them are so-called oil engineers and the like, but their cover’s paper thin.’

Like Higgins, thought Harry. Different skin but the same animal underneath.

‘So we ignore them?’

‘Ignore them, forget them, stay well away, is my suggestion.’ His eyes locked on to Harry’s. ‘That’s not bad advice, either.’

Before Harry could reply, the restaurant door opened and two men stepped in off the street.

The first was large, like a bear, unshaven and with lank, black hair, but dressed in a smart suit, white shirt and buffed shoes. His shadow filled the doorway. The other man was shorter, slim like a dancer, and dressed in black. He moved round the bigger man, light on his feet, and stood to one side, waiting.