Adrian Magson - Red Station

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ Rudmann seemed very calm, he thought, with no obvious signs of concern at having a man she probably looked on as a renegade in her office.

‘You think I mean you harm?’

She said nothing, but he thought he saw a faint flicker beneath the skin of one cheek.

‘If you think like that,’ he said finally, ‘you should try changing your routine.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You left your flat in Dolphin Square at seven thirty this morning, carrying a burgundy briefcase. Your front door hinges need oiling, by the way. You turned left out of the entrance and left again down St George’s Square, accompanied by your minder. He’s sloppy; he thinks anyone carrying a cardboard box and waving a delivery note is a driver and therefore to be ignored.’

‘You followed me.’ She looked shocked. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

‘I’m in the game, remember? He allowed traffic to get between you when you crossed Bessborough Street. I was close behind you when you got into your cab on Vauxhall Bridge Road, and could see the tiny run in your right leg. You might want to check that when you get a moment.’

Her face went red. Harry wasn’t sure if it was through the obvious lapses in security, or because of the fault in her tights. One thing he would lay money on was that her minder would shortly be joining the ranks of the jobless. But he was past caring how she felt; she, like Paulton and Bellingham, had been arrogant enough to believe themselves fireproof, to the degree that they thought men like Harry Tate were toothless.

‘I think I get the picture,’ she said quietly, and looked at the security guard behind Harry. A toss of her head and he left.

Harry doubted he would be very far away, though. Rudmann and her kind did not lose their badges of office too easily, and a minder was one of the most visible and potent imaginable.

‘All right,’ she said when the door had closed. ‘What do you want?’

‘You know what I want. If you looked at the files on the stick and checked my personnel records, you’ll know.’

‘I looked at them, Mr Tate.’ Rudmann smoothed her skirt over her knee. ‘What I don’t know is why you have come to me… or what you claim to have found.’

‘I’ve just returned from a foreign station set up by Sir Anthony Bellingham of MI6 and George Paulton of MI5. It was conceived as a hole-in-the-wall base to use as a training area. At least, that’s their story. In fact, it was where they sent employees who had defaulted in some way; employees who might prove an embarrassment if their mistakes ever went public.’

‘I see.’

‘If you do, you’re quick off the mark. I was the most recent posting, and I was sent out there while the dust died down after the shooting of the two kids and the armed copper in Essex. They did it to keep me away from the press.’

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken.’ By the way Rudmann avoided meeting his eye, Harry knew she was lying. ‘Setting up a training base is hardly a criminal offence, is it?’

‘Maybe not. But queuing up security service defaulters to act as bait for trainee operatives is one thing; quietly disposing of anyone they saw as a threat, or any officers who threatened to blow the lid on underground or black operations is something else.’

Rudmann blinked. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion.’

Harry ignored her. ‘The first posting was an MI5 analyst named Gordon Brasher. He was sent home after a while and died of a drugs overdose.’

Rudmann’s expression suggested scepticism. He ploughed on. ‘The next was a fast-track MI6 recruit named Jimmy Gulliver. He decided he didn’t want to stay in the middle of nowhere, shovelling forms and leaflets, so he left and came back under his own steam. I believe Gulliver was dangerous because he knew far more than anyone in his position had a right to know. Someone overestimated his capabilities, promoted him up the chain until he cracked, then panicked and sent him somewhere where he couldn’t do any harm. He decided to jump ship and head for home, which made him a loose cannon. He knew things and there was a danger he might talk about Red Station. I mean, it hardly looks good, does it, squirrelling people away in the middle of nowhere on the public budget just to keep them quiet?’

‘Can you substantiate these claims?’ Rudmann’s look was wary.

‘Only one. Apart from a conscience, Gulliver suffered from chronic vertigo. I’m sure if you check his training record, you’ll find he was graded unfit for active work; he got dizzy standing on tiptoe. But someone decided his brain could be useful as long as they didn’t ask him to climb anything higher than a career ladder.’

‘You’ve lost me. What has his condition got to do with this?’

‘Gulliver disappeared on his way back. He never made an agreed rendezvous. Yet his file was closed and he was reported killed in a climbing accident. Question one: with his fear of heights and after months of being posted to Red Station, when all he wanted to do was get back to Vauxhall Cross, would he have really gone climbing? I doubt it. Question two: how did they know to close his file? Files only get closed on death.’

‘I see.’ Rudmann looked at a point above his head for a moment, then said, ‘How do you know about his medical background?’

‘Stuart Mace told me. Mace knew of his problem, had done so since he was a kid.’

‘How?’

‘Jimmy Gulliver was his nephew.’

Her mouth opened but she said nothing.

Harry waited, trying to gauge how much was play-acting, how much was genuine.

‘Carry on.’

‘Mace told me that Gulliver also had a morbid fear of flying, so he chose to drive back to the UK. He hired a car locally with an agreement to drop it off in Calais. Neither Gulliver nor the car ever arrived.’

She tapped a glossy fingernail on the desk. ‘You mentioned trainees were used. What was their function?’

‘They were rotating four-man teams Paulton had in place watching the members of Red Station around the clock, to see that nobody took off or misbehaved. They were nicknamed the Clones by Red Station staff and their job was strictly watch-and-report.’

‘That’s good security, surely, given the circumstances?’

‘Says you. The Clones were changed every few weeks as part of a training schedule. That way they didn’t get close to Red Station and none of the staff knew they were British, much less part of an official operation.’ He shifted in his chair, and wondered what activity was going on in the corridor outside Rudmann’s door. Too late now, whatever it was. ‘But Sir Anthony Bellingham also had a team,’ he continued. ‘They were called the Hit. They had a different agenda. I should say have, because I don’t know if they still exist.’

‘What do they do?’

‘They kill people.’

Marcella Rudmann’s face went pale beneath her make-up. ‘That’s rubbish-!’

‘No. It’s not. They deal with terrorists and war criminals and people who talk too much… like journalists and disenchanted security officers. Do you know what wet work is?’

‘Yes, but our government-’

‘Doesn’t employ such people? That’s bullshit and you know it. Anyway, as soon as the Russians marched across the border, the Clones were ordered to leave.’

Rudmann said nothing, but he could tell by her stillness that he had finally got her full attention. She hadn’t even queried the mention of Russians.

Because she knew where Red Station was.

He told her, anyway, just for the record. ‘Red Station is in Georgia, just south of the border with Ossetia. Remote and off the beaten track; ideal for keeping people out of the public eye. It’s now in what we call a hot zone.’