Adrian Magson - Red Station

‘You’re talking rubbish, man. Who the hell are — Brasher, was it? — and Gulliver? I suggest you get help. In fact, I’ll get Paulton to arrange it.’ Bellingham began to turn away. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me-’

‘Don’t you want to know about Latham?’

Bellingham’s face barely registered a flicker. But it was enough to betray him.

‘He’s dead.’

Bellingham’s mouth dropped open. He recovered quickly, but Harry knew he’d finally hit home.

‘We buried him face down in a ditch. It seemed a fitting end.’

Bellingham stepped back. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know anyone called Latham. What do you want from me?’ A slight tic had started up under his left eye.

‘You. We want you. And Paulton. Although somehow I doubt we’ll get to him. He seems to have done a runner. But you’ll do for starters.’

‘We?’ The cigar was forgotten now. Bellingham was beginning to look trapped. He looked beyond Harry, sweeping the area with a practised eye.

‘Enough of us to bury you.’ Harry felt the response was over-dramatic, but it seemed appropriate. Bellingham and Paulton had buried him and the others in Red Station; it seemed right to think of retribution in the same terms.

‘Don’t flatter yourselves — any of you.’ Bellingham tossed the cigar into the river and thrust his hand in his pocket. ‘Who the hell would believe you?’

For a second, Harry thought he might be going for a weapon, and got ready to draw the gun in his pocket. It would probably be the last thing he ever did, but he was damned if this man was going to take him down. Then he realized Bellingham would be carrying a panic button. Press once in case of threats from foreign agents or pissed-off security officers. Bellingham wasn’t the gun type; he employed others to do his shooting for him.

He reckoned on having just a few minutes before the summons brought a response. ‘I’ve spoken to Marcella Rudmann,’ Harry said. ‘I think she’ll be looking to have a chat sometime. She’s particularly interested in Clarion.’

‘Don’t be pathetic.’ Bellingham’s voice dripped contempt, his mouth contorted, but he looked haunted at the mention of his server link. ‘You think you can come back here and take me on? You’re deluded, all of you, like that pathetic drunk, Mace. I suppose he’s hiding somewhere, afraid to come out and face the world without a stiff drink inside him?’

‘He’s alive, if that’s what you mean.’ The lie came easily. ‘And ready to talk.’

‘Then he’ll be arrested,’ Bellingham replied. ‘As will you. Your friends too. Is Jardine one of them?’

Another name, another point of reference. It confirmed that Bellingham knew who was in Red Station. By itself it might not be enough, but it added background colour for any subsequent enquiry.

‘Yes, she’s out there,’ he said. ‘I’d watch your back, if I were you. You made her some promises then let her down. She’s unlikely to forgive you for that.’

Bellingham’s eye gave a twitch, and he struggled to hold his gaze on Harry’s face. He said acidly, ‘We’ll see. You’ll all serve time in the darkest hole I can find. Believe me, you have no idea what being buried really means!’

A touch of spittle from Bellingham’s mouth landed on Harry’s cheek. He gripped the gun harder and wondered what it would be like to take it out and deliver his own brand of justice on behalf of those Bellingham had consigned to oblivion. The man didn’t have the slightest sense of remorse or fear, even when faced by someone who could bring him down.

Bellingham turned and walked away, his coat tails flapping around him, his head swivelling as he looked for his bodyguard.

But the tall man had disappeared.

Harry checked the walkway in both directions. What the hell was happening?

The nearest figure ahead of Bellingham was an old lady with a dog, its nose buried in a discarded fast-food carton. Bellingham always walked down here, Maloney had told him, and always accompanied by his minder. Two hundred yards from the bridge down and two hundred back, without fail. Such a predictable pattern was almost suicidal for a man in his position, but nobody had seen fit to get him to change it.

On the other hand, nobody had tried to kill him, either.

So far.

Judging by his stance and the urgency with which he was moving, Bellingham had only just realized that he was without protection. And he didn’t like it.

Harry set off after him.

He didn’t understand the inconsistency with the bodyguard. It was standard procedure that the principal was never out of his protection officer’s sight. A decent distance might be observed for confidential discussions, but that was all.

Now the game had changed completely.

As he increased his pace, he sensed another figure moving up into his field of vision. He relaxed. It was a woman in a running suit and hooded top, jogging easily along by the inner wall, head down. She had an MP3 player strapped to her upper arm, the wire curling up under the hood, and was fiddling with the player’s retaining strap while keeping up a steady pace. She was thirty yards away from Bellingham and posed no threat.

Harry concentrated on walking as fast as he dared without attracting attention. Maybe he should have got himself a running suit. Now that would have raised a few eyebrows.

The woman runner passed Bellingham without a glance. Bellingham turned his head, eyeing the woman’s trim buttocks. She was twenty yards ahead of him and close to a concrete bench when she appeared to stumble. She threw out one arm, her pace broken, and something fell to the ground. Small, rectangular and white: the MP3 player. There was a faint clatter as it hit the ground and shattered, bits of plastic pinging into the air. Harry heard her cry of dismay as she stooped too late to catch it.

Bellingham was closer than anyone. His body language betrayed hesitation, then he stepped forward to help, his proximity overriding any concern at the disappearance of his bodyguard. He raised a hand to touch the woman’s arm, his rich voice floating back to Harry’s ears, solicitous and soothing.

It was all done very smoothly. One second they were standing alongside the bench, then the woman sat down, the pieces of her player on the ground around her feet, her hand to her face.

Bellingham sat alongside her, one hand reaching out to pat her arm, then dropping to pat her knee. Never mind, the gesture implied. It could have happened to anyone.

The woman didn’t look up, didn’t object to the hand on her leg. Instead, she rubbed her arm where the MP3’s retaining strap was still in place. When she brought her hand away, she was holding something.

She reached down to Bellingham’s thigh, and daylight flashed on shiny metal.

‘No!’ Harry swore and broke into a run.

In a continuous movement, the woman reached up and drew her hand across Bellingham’s front, just beneath his chin. It might have been a caress, the intimate touch of a lover, almost smooth and gentle. But the way Bellingham’s head went back indicated it was anything but.

By the time Harry reached the bench, breathing hard, the woman was eighty yards away and covering the ground in a floating, easy run. Bellingham was still sitting as if stunned.

‘Jesus, what happened?’ Rik Ferris raced up to join Harry, and they stood and stared at the MI6 director. He was bleeding profusely, his body slumped and held in place only by its own downward weight. His thighs and chest were a mess of red, and spurts of blood were pulsating past the layers of fat around his collar and dripping on to the paving slabs beneath.