Adrian Magson - Red Station

The big man approached their table.

‘Mr Mace,’ he said genially. His eyes slid over Harry in a rapid assessment. ‘I see you are enjoying our excellent native cuisine.’ He chuckled at his wit and smoothed the front of his suit.

‘Mr Mayor,’ Mace greeted him, and sucked in a bean shoot with relish. ‘Care to join us? There’s plenty.’

‘Thank you. Not today.’ The man looked at Harry again and Mace shifted in his seat.

‘Oh, sorry — rude of me. Geordi Kostova… Harry Tate.’ He looked at Harry and explained, ‘Geordi’s the local mayor. Very important man, hereabouts.’ He turned to the mayor. ‘Harry’s on assignment from England, come to join our little crew.’

‘So? A replacement for Jimmy Gulliver, yes?’

Mace’s smile slipped for a second, but he hoisted it back quickly. ‘Sort of. Head Office likes to rotate new employees. Field experience, you could call it.’

‘I understand. Such a pity Jimmy had to return home. I enjoyed his company. Well, Mr Tate — Harry,’ Geordi smiled and bowed courteously, ‘welcome to our humble town. I hope you will find much to enjoy here.’

‘I’m sure I will. The countryside looks beautiful.’

‘Yes. Very true. But be careful where you go.’ Kostova put a large finger against his nose. ‘Such beauty holds many dangers and our roads are not for the faint of heart.’

Tell me about it, thought Harry. Ploughed bloody fields spring to mind.

Kostova glanced at his watch, a Rolex. ‘Please excuse me, but as mayor, there are many duties I must attend to in these troubled times.’

‘Troubled?’ Harry detected a warning look from Mace but ignored him.

Kostova shrugged, a heft of huge shoulders. ‘Some local land matters,’ he explained in a bored tone. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy your stay.’

He turned and walked out, the slim man falling in behind him like a shadow.

‘He just told us to mind our own business,’ said Harry. ‘Nice.’

‘Not surprised. You notice the other fella?’ Mace scooped up more rice. ‘Geordi’s wingman, goes by the name of Nikolai. Watch out for him. He’s a cutter if ever I saw one.’

‘Why would a small-town mayor need a bodyguard?’

‘Well, apart from status, this area’s full of tribal conflict, that’s why. They’d never think twice about popping off someone like Geordi if he didn’t play fair. Bodyguard, chauffeur, fixer — Nikolai’s always there. See the mayor and Nikolai won’t be more than six feet away.’ He took a swig of water. ‘Geordi has lots of interests, see, outside of being His Worship.’ He smiled sourly. ‘Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? Can’t make a living being mayor of a dump like this.’

‘What sort of interests?’ The suit and Rolex hadn’t been picked up at the local market. And there was something about the man that reminded him of other local politicians he’d come across in the Balkans. Usually well-fed, mostly highly intelligent and never less than devious.

‘Trade, mostly. Anyone wants it, Geordi can get it — for a price. Got lots of contacts all over the region. Some of ’em up north.’ He left the meaning hanging, and concentrated on clearing his plate.

‘How far north?’ Harry prompted. Mace’s abbreviated talk and his oblique references were getting on his nerves.

‘What?’

‘You said contacts up north.’

‘Oh, right. Well, all the way to Moscow, as it happens.’ He tapped a finger on the table. ‘A lot of ’em do around here, if they know what’s good for them.’

‘Official, you mean? Or not?’

‘Official. If they’ve got other friends, they probably keep it very quiet, if they’ve any sense.’

‘So what was that just now — a chance visit?’ He didn’t believe it for a moment.

Mace confirmed it. ‘Geordi doesn’t do things by chance. He’s a planner — a strategist. He wanted to see who you are. He likes to keep close tabs on everyone who drops by his little bailiwick.’ He grinned sourly. ‘He’ll soon have more than he can deal with, I reckon.’

‘Would that include keeping tabs on Carl Higgins?’ He explained about his sightings of the journalist around town.

Mace nodded. ‘He’s another busy bee. The Americans are keeping a watching eye on the situation, like us. Steer clear, is my advice.’

Harry pushed his plate away, appetite gone. He had a feeling Mace still wasn’t telling him everything. ‘So Kostova’s not just the mayor.’

‘No. On the surface, he’s a political appointee. He just put more money into the regional government’s pot than the next man, that’s all. And he’s got mates. Prick any mayor in this neck of the woods and you’ll find their veins running with greed. And deep, deep loyalties.’

‘He dresses very well.’

‘Yeah, he’s a real dandy, is Geordi. Likes to travel, too.’ He stood up, brushing at the front of his jacket. ‘You done?’

Harry nodded. ‘Who was Jimmy Gulliver?’

Mace’s eyes were cool. ‘He was here for a while, same as you. Then he went home. End of story.’ He turned and walked out, leaving Harry staring after him.

George Paulton eyed the bodies assembled in the large room and sensed his spirits stirring. An emergency meeting had been called and the air of excitement was palpable. He noticed a number of eyes normally dulled by the mundane, gleaming with an inner fire.

Of the men and women here, at least six were involved in the Middle Eastern and Central European desks of their various agencies, while others were co-optees, on standby for whatever specialist information they might harbour in their little grey cells and black portfolios. He noticed the Deputy Director of Special Forces, Lieutenant-Colonel Spake, tall, tanned and dangerous-looking, standing at the back of the room. Near him, another man in a dark suit who could only be American, and further along, a face he seemed to recall from a GCHQ meeting a few months back. There were also people from the Foreign Office and the MOD, and the heavy figure of Sir Anthony Bellingham of MI6.

Marcella Rudmann rapped on the table and everyone found a seat and settled down. Bottles of water were uncapped and glasses rattled, but it was clear that everyone — like Paulton — was intrigued.

Almost everyone, anyway, he reflected, staring at Spake. The officer seemed slightly bored, a sure sign that he knew more than anyone else. Interesting.

Rudmann cleared her throat, waiting for silence. For a brief moment, she caught Paulton’s eye. He looked away, preferring not to face her. News of Shaun Whelan’s sordid demise had filtered quickly into the wasp-nest of Westminster, and he realized he might have moved just a shade too fast in dealing with that particular problem. Not that anyone could prove anything; another stabbing was hardly news. But a gay older man knifed while cruising on Clapham Common might be sufficient to rattle a few cages among the moral majority. Especially as that man was a well-known journalist.

‘Just over eighteen hours ago,’ Rudmann began, ‘we received information that Georgian Forces were moving north into the breakaway region of South Ossetia.’ She indicated a stack of folders on a side table. ‘Full details are contained in the briefing notes, so please refer to them later. Due to circumstances, this briefing is exactly that — brief. We’ll call further meetings as and when the situation develops.’ She glanced at Spake and added, ‘I’ll ask the Deputy Director of Special Forces to take up the briefing.’ She nodded at the army officer with a faint flush of her cheeks, and sat down.

Paulton smiled to himself. Jesus, the bloody woman was almost salivating. He stored the thought away for future reference.