Adrian Magson - Red Station

They had handed over the three girls without argument.

Rudmann pursed her lips. So, she reflected, a good and loyal servant with an occasional spark about him. But that had been years ago.

Pray God he kept it bottled up.

She sat back and stared at the ceiling. Part of her brief was to make sure that there were no ‘own goals’ in security operations which could come back to haunt the government later. Like the Essex operation. Getting him out of the way had been an instinctive move, and Paulton had obviously foreseen the need. But her brief gave her considerable power and responsibility — far more than men like George Paulton were even aware of — and she took the work seriously. For that reason, she had sent for Harry Tate’s personnel file, just to be sure he wasn’t a rogue male who might bring disaster on them, no matter what Paulton’s opinion of the man might be.

She closed the file and summoned her secretary to return it. Harry Tate had once shown a spark of something, but that was all. Sparks didn’t always translate to flame. Even so, he was better off out of the way. For all their sakes.

‘Get this back without fuss,’ she told the young woman who entered the room. ‘Remember, no signatures and no record.’

The inside of the Odeon Restaurant was dark and cluttered, a sombre cavern with lots of rough-sawn wood, wall-hangings of indeterminate origin or purpose and smoke-stained varnish. Ethnic, Harry decided, and more bar than restaurant. Maybe it said something about Stuart Mace, the Head of Station, if this was his local watering hole.

A single figure was sitting at the rear of the room, facing the door and reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee sat by his elbow. He looked up as Harry approached, studied him for a moment, then shouted towards a doorway in the back wall.

‘Found us, then.’ Stuart Mace was in his late fifties, with a fleshy face and the tired eyes of a bureaucrat. His hair was silvery grey and swept back in elegant wings. Had it not been for his present location, he could have been a prosperous, if worn-down GP, looking towards retirement and some time on the golf course.

‘Thanks to Rik Ferris.’ Harry sat down just as a cup of thick coffee was set before him by an elderly woman in a black apron and a dress covered in small, blue flowers. She left without making eye contact.

Mace nudged a small jug of cream towards him. ‘Help yourself. Stuff’ll melt your teeth, otherwise. No trouble getting here?’ Mace spoke in economical bursts, as though unnecessary words might spin off and be overheard. Harry had met others with the same habit. Spooks and career criminals, mostly.

‘The landing was interesting. And I just got stopped in the street by the military.’

Mace nodded. He didn’t seem unduly concerned. ‘What did they want?’

‘Money. Is that normal?’

‘Nothing’s normal around here. They’ve got lots on their minds at the moment — separatist stuff to the north, mostly. They think anyone new in town is out to get them. They’re probably not wrong. You met any of the crew apart from young Rik?’

Harry poured cream and tasted his coffee. It was muddy and strong enough to float a brick. Sugar made no noticeable difference. He debated mentioning meeting Higgins, but decided to leave it for later. ‘Jardine and Fitzgerald. Unless the watcher at the airport was yours.’

Mace lifted an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably security police. Never mind; gives ’em something to do, watching new arrivals. There are four of us puppies here, now you make five. Enid Blyton would be ecstatic.’ He toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, drumming on the tabletop, then said, ‘I heard about your trouble. Sorry business. Sounds like over-reaction, shoving you out here.’

‘You could say that.’ Harry couldn’t help a touch of bitterness; he was still trying to get to grips with what had happened and the speed with which he’d been shuffled out of London.

‘Or was it that you didn’t play the game and relied on the wrong people?’

‘Say again?’ He was only half listening, trying to work out whether sitting here with this man was part of his punishment. He was also surprised to hear Mace talking so openly about who they were. There might not be any other customers but it was sloppy tradecraft for a man of his seniority.

Mace read his mind. He flapped a hand to indicate the four walls around them. ‘You gonna tell me this is breaching rules and regulations? Walls have ears and all that bollocks?’ He sniffed. ‘One, the walls don’t speak English; two the old woman’s as deaf as a dead dog — she relies on picking up vibrations like a bat. Anyway, Fitzgerald regularly gives the place a going-over with his electronic sweepers. It’s clean.’

Harry shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do. As I was saying, you telling me you never got dumped on in the army? That they don’t have self-serving shits in uniform who’ll shaft you soon as look at you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Bloody right. I’m surprised a man your age hasn’t learned life’s most valuable lesson: make sure you’ve always got an exit strategy — even if that means dumping on someone else before they do it to you. Never mind, you’ll get over it.’

Harry nodded. Mace was right. It didn’t make him feel any better — or bring him any closer to what his purpose was in being sent here, other than getting him out of the way. But placing him on garden leave in Brighton or Harrogate could have done that. Unless they knew something he didn’t.

‘So what exactly am I here for?’

Mace blinked. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I know why… I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

‘You’re here because you screwed up. Same as the rest of the security services’ fuckwits out here.’ He flapped a hand. ‘I mean, look at the place. Who’d volunteer for this?’

‘Nice to be appreciated.’

‘No need to get touchy; I’m the biggest fuck-up of all. Difference is, they don’t want me back in London and I don’t want to be there. Place is a snake pit. You’d think they might forgive once the dust has settled. It’s not as though officers with your kind of experience are thick on the ground.’

Harry let that go, but his curiosity was aroused. So Mace had tripped up, too, along with the others. Christ, what was this place — a penal colony for spooks?

‘How long will I be here?’

‘Didn’t you ask — what’s his name… that self-serving little shite, Paulton? He’s the one sent you.’

‘I would have, but considering the speed I got bounced with, we weren’t really on normal speaking terms.’

Mace chuckled. ‘Not too surprised, are you? They don’t want to get tainted, see. Better to get you out of the way where you can’t do their pension entitlement any harm. Bastards. A few years ago, a couple of incidental deaths wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow, not in the grand scheme of things. Things’re different now, though; risk assessments, health and safety, rules of engagement — we’re all accountable. It’s like working in a glass case. Still, at least you got a travel slip to foreign climes, such as they are.’

‘So how long?’

‘Easy. You stay here until they decide you can go home… or a public enquiry is convened and you get dragged in front of the cameras as the sacrificial idiot.’

‘Is that likely?’ Right now he was dust under the carpet. The only question was, how long could he stay that way?

‘Who knows? Until then, you pretend you’re attached to the British Council and promote British interests, culture, language and way of life and generally act like a boring and bored administrative wonk. In actual fact, you’ll do what you’ve been trained to do: keep your eyes open, your ears pinned back and report back on whatever looks interesting.’