Adrian Magson - Execution

She decided to wait. She had time and she needed to rest.

After leaving the squat in Pimlico for the first time, she’d scouted the area carefully, looking for somewhere else to stay. Keeping off the streets was essential until she could sort out what to do long-term. Mitzi had given her the addresses of two nearby squats, but she hadn’t liked the feel of the atmosphere. Too many young guys for a start; mostly foreign and far from home, they had the arrogant air of males on the pull. She could do without the inevitable questions or the aggravation, let alone the danger to her wellbeing if things turned rough.

A walk in the area had soon netted her the two things she needed most: ready cash and a mobile phone. Her own mobile had been lost during the shooting. The money was in a Mercedes, several notes tossed carelessly inside the glove box, and the phone had been scored by a simple brush-past of a busy table in a cafe heaving with lunch-time trade. By the time the phone’s owner realised it was gone, Clare was already halfway down the street, her jacket off and folded under her arm to change her profile.

She was now back in touch if she needed to be, and temporarily solvent. And she had a roof over her head.

The house was a narrow, three-storey building at the end of an alley a stone’s throw from Victoria Station. The basement flat had its own entrance and wasn’t overlooked, with no access points for tenants on the floors above. She’d spotted the wrought-iron gate purely by chance as she’d ducked into the alley to take a breather and check on the money she’d found in the Mercedes. It was the junk mail crammed into the letter box which had caught her attention, a sure-fire sign of an absent or lazy tenant. But she’d had to wait before being able to try the gate. The buildings on either side were dressed with scaffolding and protective sheeting, and builders’ skips were piled high with rubble waiting clearance, reflecting the on-going fashion for re-working the premises by attentive landlords and picky tenants.

On a return trip later that afternoon during a period of low activity, she had found the gate and the door to the basement flat simple to open, thanks to her earlier intensive training by an MI6 locksmith instructor. Inside, the place was dark and musty, the working surfaces and few bits of furniture layered in dust, indicating several months at least since the last occupation. There was a bed, a table in the small kitchenette and an armchair with sagging springs, but it was enough as a temporary base. She’d been in worse while on assignments abroad.

She’d slept the sleep of the dead.

She slumped in the armchair, a mug of coffee cooling by her side, and stared at the phone’s keypad, letting her mind relax. Calling a number regularly meant you relied as much on familiarity with the sequence of keys as you did on memory. Change the keypad layout and you could get thrown completely until the brain switched to the default of recalling the correct number. She had two numbers at the back of her mind: one she had used regularly, the other only recently. The first one was the one she wanted. But try as she might, it simply wouldn’t click into place. It belonged to a colleague and friend in Six named Alice Alanya. Alice had been a constant in her life for a while, closer than friends, yet not partners. Thanks to her, after returning from Red Station in Georgia, Clare had stayed out of the reaches of MI5 and MI6, moving constantly and staying away from her previous haunts. It had been Alice who had kept her secretly fed with information on potential hazards, at great risk to herself and in spite of the huge error of judgement Clare had made earlier which had led to her posting to Georgia in the first place. That same loyalty had led her to remain a friend after Clare had dealt with Sir Anthony Bellingham, the deputy operations director who had tried to have her silenced to protect himself.

The thought jogged another, darker part of her memory, and she felt instinctively in her pocket for the round shape that had become something of a talisman. She took it out and looked at it.

It was a powder compact. Bright pink and plastic, it was gaudy, cheap and repulsive. But she could no more have left it behind in the hospital than have jumped out of the window. She opened the lid. Inside was the application pad and powder in a shade of orange she couldn’t have worn if her life had depended on it. But that wasn’t the point of it.

Rik Ferris had bought it for her, and it had taken her all of two minutes, even in a post-operative haze, to see the irony. The MI5 IT nerd with the irritating haircut and loud T-shirts had sent it after she had lost her own compact, the one with a concealed blade that had saved all their lives. It hadn’t been a friendly gesture by Ferris, she knew that; but it had been one of appreciation.

She turned back to the mobile phone, hoping the distraction might have released the number. It was almost there, but the digits were floating just out of reach like fish in a pool.

She swore softly. The last person she wanted to call was the owner of the second number. Right now, though, she couldn’t see any option. Alice she could trust implicitly. But she couldn’t recall her home address, only that it was somewhere in north London, the details too scrambled to retrieve. The only way to contact her would be face-to-face in the street, close to where she worked.

The MI6 building.

She dismissed that immediately. Stupid idea. If they were watching Alice, they’d have her on camera before she got close and the heavy squad would scoop them both up. Even a brush contact was risky and likely to compromise her friend.

She ran her fingers across the keypad, and found the digits coming clear and fluidly. At last! It started to ring at the other end. Then a man’s voice answered, familiar and steady against a background rush of traffic.

‘Harry Tate.’

She couldn’t speak. Instead she cut the connection.

Harry stared at the small screen as he walked along Piccadilly towards Park Lane. The caller had hung up without speaking. He’d expected it to be Rik Ferris but the number on the screen was unfamiliar. Probably a misdial.

It reminded him that Rik was still looking for a way into HM Prison records, and if he became impatient, was likely to start cutting corners and delving into sites and files where he had no business. It was the reason he’d been kicked out of MI5 in the first place: in moments of boredom he’d gained access to files that the security services had wished to remain forgotten. No harm had been done, but, like Harry and Clare, his punishment had been a posting to Red Station and an intended ticket to a quiet oblivion.

He veered into the quieter sanctuary of Green Park and dialled Rik’s number, checking his surroundings. A few tourists were milling about, unfurling maps and sipping drinks, and early walkers and runners were making their way along the paths and across the grass. But nobody was close by.

‘Fong’s Restaurant. We hep yew?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Exactly what you asked,’ Rik replied, and switched to a Yoda voice. ‘No more it is, no less. Up against a hard place I am.’

‘Cut it out,’ Harry growled, ‘or I’ll confiscate your toys. You haven’t strayed from the brief, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t. HMP only, just like you said. Honestly, between Five, Six and you, it’s like working in a goldfish bowl.’

‘Blame the digital revolution. It’s for your own good, anyway. I’ve got another brief for you.’ He gave him Tobinskiy’s details. ‘Run up everything you can on him, see if he had any friends in London.’

‘Sure. Anyone in particular?’

‘Yes. See if his world ever collided with Clare Jardine’s.’