Adrian Magson - Red Station

‘One thing I’ve always been good at,’ said Latham chattily, ‘is weaponry. I was a sniper for a bit, in the first Gulf job. Got bored, though. Like shooting ducks off a plank. No real challenge. This is much better.’

There was a movement to Harry’s right, and Clare Jardine climbed to her feet. Six feet further on, Rik did the same. They both held their guns pointed at Latham.

Shit! Harry wished they’d stayed down. They were too far off for accurate shooting, and if they were hoping Latham would freak out, they were wrong. He eased the gun in his palm and got ready to move. He’d get one chance and one chance only.

There was another movement, this time behind Latham. And much closer. A figure loomed up, seeming to float above the ground. It closed in on the killer, as silent as smoke. Then came a faint scuff of sound, of leather on tarmac.

Latham sensed the threat like the hunter he was. He began to turn his head, mouth opening in surprise. The rifle barrel wavered.

He was alone after all.

The figure behind him suddenly became clear.

Nikolai.

The Russian moved with the precision of a dancer, weaving slightly to stay out of Latham’s line of sight. He covered the last few feet in a rush, then he was on the killer like a wraith, one arm wrapping around his head, clamping him rigidly in place, the other swinging round and up beneath the ribs with a deadly flash of silver.

He’s a cutter, if ever I saw one. Mace’s words came back to Harry.

Latham’s mouth opened wide, his eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Harry as the improbable happened.

A grunt from both men and another thrust of the knife. A muffled thump as it was driven home. Latham reared up on his toes, chest thrust outward in pain, a brief, almost balletic move that was over even as it began. He coughed once.

Then his eyes fluttered. And closed.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

‘You should go. Now.’ Nikolai kicked some brushwood over Latham’s body. Under his instructions they had dragged it in among the trees, to a small depression in the ground. Moments before, he had wiped his blade on the dead man’s combat jacket, then searched the body for anything that might identify him.

‘These should not be left here.’ He handed a wallet and a passport to Harry. Nikolai’s accent was noticeable, but the English was fluent, confident.

Harry passed his gun to Clare, took the documents and put them in his pocket.

‘Why did you do this?’ he asked. He wondered how the Russian had got here. He must have followed them… or Latham.

‘Because it would not be helpful if you or your colleagues came to harm here.’ The eyes were without expression, cold. Then he said, echoing Kostova’s words, ‘We have enough problems without your Foreign Office asking questions about missing… tourists.’ There was no humour in the deliberate euphemism.

Harry nodded. ‘Thank you. What now?’

‘His car is behind the trees. Take it and go. I will take care of the rest.’

‘How did you know about him?’

Nikolai shrugged. ‘It is not important. Go.’ He turned and walked away, and was soon lost behind the trees.

Harry took a deep breath as a wave of nausea overtook him. The wound in his arm was beginning to throb. He signalled to the others to collect everything from the Toyota, then led them through the trees and out the other side to where a battered Hyundai off-road vehicle stood waiting. It had a smashed headlamp and side window, with bullet holes in the bonnet and wing. Not bad shooting, he reflected. Especially in the dark and under pressure. Pickering, his first weapons instructor, would have been proud.

‘We need to get rid of the guns,’ he said, and leaned against the car, sucking in air. Nikolai was a hundred yards away by some bushes, shrugging on a camouflage jacket. A crash helmet lay at his feet and a glint of metal showed through the leaves.

He’d come by trail bike.

Clare stared at Harry. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. Just tired, that’s all.’ He checked the rear of the vehicle in case it contained anything incriminating. As if, he thought wryly, anything could be more incriminating than a car riddled with bullets. He wanted to throw up but decided it would be very uncool right now. Concentrating on something mundane would take his mind off it.

He found a small holdall tucked away under a waterproof sheet. Inside was a change of clothes, a wash-kit and a plastic Ziploc bag. Just as he’d hoped: Latham believed in travelling prepared for emergencies. The Ziploc contained a miniature trauma pack, with enough bandages and dressings to keep his injured arm protected until he got back to England. Or fell over trying.

He joined Rik in the back seat and dumped the Ziploc in his lap. ‘Read the instructions and play nurse, and I’ll promise not to scream.’ He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the blood on his arm.

‘What? Christ, man…!’ Rik looked horrified, but took the bag and found a pair of scissors. He cut away Harry’s sleeve and exposed the wound, and Harry saw he was missing a small chunk of flesh. But no broken bones.

That was OK, he decided. It was a flesh wound after all.

Then he fainted clean away.

Six hours later, they were in a hire car heading north on the A1 to Calais.

Getting on board the Air France evacuation flight had been without incident. Anxious to get all foreign nationals away as quickly as possible, the authorities had ensured that passport control had been brief. Isabelle was waiting, checking people in against a list. At Rik’s request, she had vouched for Clare as an extra passenger, and allowed them to consign their rucksacks to cargo baggage.

The wait in the departure lounge had been short, during which all eyes were fixed on the military vehicles patrolling the perimeter. Then they were ushered on to the plane surrounded by French security personnel and accompanied by a variety of other nationals, all keen to get out of the way of impending trouble. One of them, a Swiss doctor, had seen blood on Harry’s sleeve, and insisted on bandaging his wound.

‘You were fortunate,’ he said with great cheerfulness. ‘Another two centimetres and you would have maybe lost the arm. The concussive effect on bone can be like an amputation.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Harry replied, wincing. ‘You don’t do house calls, do you?’

‘For you, I am afraid not. But you must have this checked… wherever you are going next. Each day, you understand?’

Harry nodded gratefully and sank back in his seat, closing his eyes. He was bewildered by the narrowness of their escape, thanks to Nikolai, and their safe arrival at the airport.

Latham’s battered Hyundai was now concealed behind a large skip at one end of the airport car park, where it would hopefully remain undetected for several days. The guns had been disposed of in a silage pit barely a mile along the road from where they had buried Latham’s body.

After arriving in Paris and retrieving their bags, they had dodged the inevitable press scramble and hired a car. Harry decided that an unobtrusive entry via the channel ports was safer than Heathrow or Eurostar. Clare elected to drive and they headed towards Calais.

As they passed the Amiens-Compiegne intersection, Harry took out Stanbridge’s mobile. He dialled Maloney’s number and wondered if his colleague’s phone was on the watch list.

‘Yes?’ Maloney answered against a background buzz of traffic. He was on foot in the open. He sounded cautious.

‘Can you talk?’ said Harry.

‘Bloody hell! I was getting worried. Where are you?’

‘France, heading for the next available ferry. Can you meet us in Dover?’