Adrian Magson - Red Station

By Rudmann’s expression, Harry guessed she was reviewing recent events and coming to grips with what he had told her. She shook her head. ‘I’ll need verification of the location later. Please continue.’

‘Not all of the Clones made it out. One of them got left behind.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was murdered. Shot in the head. Then the Hit came in. Bellingham and Paulton must have decided that with the Russians on the way, it would be an ideal moment to get rid of all links to Red Station and forget we ever existed. If anyone had asked questions, they’d have blamed Russian forces or the local militia.’

‘This is speculation,’ said Rudmann quietly. ‘Do you have a grain of proof to substantiate these claims?’

‘Proof that there was such a place as Red Station? Of course. And proof of the personnel. You’ve already seen the copy files off the data stick; they came directly from a remote server here in London. One of those messages is from Mace, reporting the Clone’s murder.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s not a direct link to Vauxhall Cross or Thames House; they were too clever for that. But it will be to Bellingham. He was the only one with access. The server’s code-name is Clarion. Bellingham’s mistake was checking it on a regular basis to monitor messages. We’ve got his trail mapped out for every call he made; times, dates and names.’

‘We? Who else is involved?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s confidential.’

She considered that for a moment. ‘You say a member of the observation team — these Clones? — was killed. I need his name.’

‘Stanbridge. Ex-army. I don’t know his first name. You can cross-check with service records for Kosovo; he served there with the UN.’

Rudmann made a brief note, although Harry was sure their conversation was being recorded.

‘If I read between the lines, you seem to think it was this second team — the Hit — which was responsible. Why would they do that… kill one of their own?’

They had finally reached the tricky part. Did he tell Rudmann that it was most likely Clare Jardine who had killed Stanbridge, or allow the blame to settle on a dead killer? He couldn’t prove it either way with absolute certainty, so what did it matter?

‘If it was the Hit who killed him, there were only two reasons I can think of: they found out that Stanbridge had talked to me, or Stanbridge recognized Latham and knew what his function was. In actual fact, Latham was the Hit. This was a job they couldn’t trust to more than one man. In Latham’s narrow world, Stanbridge was a liability to get rid of.’

‘And you’re suggesting that Latham was after you?’

‘Not just me; all of us. We were lucky to get away.’ Those of us who did, he thought. She could find out about Mace’s death herself, if she wanted.

‘I see. Where is Latham now?’

‘He ran into some trouble.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘So sue me.’

‘You killed him.’ It was a statement.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Very well.’ She brushed at her hair, a small charm bracelet tingling on her wrist. ‘I’ll have to verify what you’ve told me, of course. It might take some time.’

He stared at her. ‘Is that all? You’ll look into it?’

‘Is there something else?’ For a second, she looked faintly alarmed, and Harry wondered how closely aware she had been of the decisions made by Bellingham and Paulton over the past few months. The civil service and government was a notoriously small community and as incestuous as a bunch of alley cats. It was inconceivable that she or some of her colleagues hadn’t been at least partly aware that something was going on in the woodpile. But suspicions didn’t amount to definite knowledge. And he couldn’t go down the route of divisive thinking, he reminded himself. He had to trust someone, at least part of the way, otherwise he’d go quietly mad.

‘Is something going to be done about them?’ he demanded quietly. ‘About what happened… setting up Red Station… the murder of Brasher and Gulliver?’ He suddenly found an impulse to shout this bloody woman out of her immaculately coiffed and manicured air of control. Instead he kept his voice even.

She nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand. That’s all you need to know.’ She reached out and pressed a button on the telephone console. The door opened and the security guard stepped in.

Harry stayed where he was. ‘There’s also the shooting,’ he said, ‘for which I was sent out there.’

Rudmann nodded at the security guard, and he retreated and closed the door.

‘That is still under investigation. What of it?’

Harry told her what Maloney had discovered about the over-flight photos and the Land Rover; how the shooting of the man, at least, might not be as innocent or as accidental as it had seemed. Rudmann made more notes on a pad.

‘I’m not saying it wasn’t a disaster,’ he finished quietly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened and those people shouldn’t have died. But neither was it the simple lash-up that everyone assumes. Cuts were made to manpower on economic grounds and because the Prime Minister was due to visit Stansted.’

‘I’m not sure that has any relevance.’ She dropped into denial mode, the government’s default position.

‘But the PM was at Stansted the next day?’

Hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘You know that? Or you checked?’ She wouldn’t know all his engagements.

‘I checked.’

‘Why?’

Rudmann looked uncomfortable at the probing, but couldn’t avoid the question.

‘You had doubts,’ said Harry. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘Pity you didn’t ask more questions, then,’ Harry retorted bluntly. ‘You should have asked about Red Station, too. It might have saved some lives.’

She showed no emotion, but said, ‘We will be reviewing all the facts, I promise.’

It seemed to be the best answer he was going to get, and he decided not to outstay his welcome. He reached the door and turned to look at Rudmann. She was watching him, hands folded on the desk before her, a perfect mandarin, unemotional, impassive.

He wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

‘This won’t go away,’ he told her. ‘It will come out… who set it up, who knew about it. People like Bellingham, they’ll talk. You can’t sweep it under the carpet.’

Rudmann returned his stare. ‘What do you want, Mr Tate?’

‘Me? I want my life back. Simple as that. Not too much to ask, is it?’

Marcella Rudmann sat and waited for confirmation from the front desk that Harry Tate had left the building. When the call came, the security man asked if she wanted Tate followed.

‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘He’ll spot whoever you send after him.’

She cut the connection and made two calls, then walked along the corridor to a small office at the end. It was windowless, drab and overheated, and contained a single desk holding an array of audio equipment. A man in shirtsleeves sat waiting.

He stood up when she entered. His name was Everett and he was a senior officer in Home Office Security and had Rudmann’s full confidence.

‘Did you get all that?’ she asked.

Everett nodded. ‘Nice and clear.’ He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll get it transcribed right away.’ He paused. ‘Tate’s a bit of a time-bomb, isn’t he? Is it true what he said — about your front door?’

‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll arrange it today. I’m more concerned about what he claims about Red Station. If it’s true, it’s appalling.’ She looked at her hands as if wanting to wash them clean, and paced across the office and back. Everett waited for her to speak. ‘I’ve just had confirmation that George Paulton has disappeared,’ she said finally. ‘I always had my doubts about that man. And the police have now identified the man they believe was responsible for Shaun Whelan’s death. It wasn’t a mugging. The killer is a subcontractor for the security services.’