Adrian Magson - Execution

Alanya stopped just a hundred yards from the station and entered a store advertising East-European food. Harry called Rik to tread water and wait for her to emerge, while he carried on walking. He was playing safe in case she had ducked into the store for more than just groceries; she might have done it to check her back. He passed Rik without speaking, and turned the corner and waited behind a builder’s van parked at the kerb.

Moments later his phone rang. It was Rik.

‘She’s coming out, heading your way. Carrying a plastic bag. I’m following.’

Harry watched as Alanya came into view and crossed the road. She appeared unconcerned, walking at the same speed, another worker on her way home, now with the makings of dinner.

He gave her a hundred yards, with Rik following, then crossed to the other side and joined in.

Five minutes later, she entered the block of flats they had scouted out earlier. A single front entrance beneath a canopy, three floors, a smart building, well maintained. Harry joined Rik fifty yards past the block.

There were no signs of other watchers.

‘You going in first or me?’ Rik asked.

‘I’ll do it. I look more like Internal Security. You look more like a cat burglar.’ He was looking at Rik’s clothes for the day, which, unlike his jacket and slacks, were jeans, a nondescript T-shirt and scuffed trainers. His normally spiky hair had been tamed by an application of gel to prevent him standing out.

Rik grinned. ‘Cheers. That’s the kindest thing you’ve said all day. I’ll hold the fort out here.’

Harry nodded, then walked back to the block of flats and through the entrance.

Alice Alanya was waiting just inside. She looked calm.

She was holding a can of Mace in her hand.

‘Why are you following me?’ She was holding the Mace ready, knuckles white. One blast and he’d be on his knees clutching his face, eyes streaming. One well-placed kick if she’d been trained right and he’d be out for the count.

She was good.

Harry already had his MI5 card in his hand. He held it up as her fingers tightened around the can. ‘Official business. If you use the Mace, my colleague will come in and jump all over you.’

It wasn’t true, but might make her think twice.

She blinked, eyes flicking towards the entrance. ‘You mean the scruffy young guy in glasses and trainers? He looks lightweight.’ Up close, she looked fit and capable. The nice bit had sunk beneath the surface.

‘That’s the one. He’ll love you for noticing. Can we go inside. . or somewhere more public?’

‘Who do you think I am?’ She was nervous now, more so than when she’d thought he was just a prowler. Investigators from the Security Service landing on your doorstep usually had that effect, especially when you’re in the same business.

‘You’re Alice Alanya, age 34, Russian language specialist for Legoland,’ he recited, using the MI6 nickname for the quirky building at Vauxhall Cross. ‘I could go on but I’d have to shoot everyone in the building in case they heard.’

She blinked but said nothing. Then she lowered the can. ‘Your mate stays outside, you can come in.’

She led the way up to the top-floor landing and opened one of two doors, switching on the light.

The flat was neat, sparsely furnished, and comfortable. Lots of shelves around the walls, filled mostly with books. Russian and eastern history, travel books, dictionaries, reference works. Other shelves held paperbacks, a mixture of novels and non-fiction; a few crime and thrillers, and one or two literary works. A small TV on a low shelf in one corner, towards the rear, and an exercise bike in another corner with a bottle of water in a holder and an MP3 player and headphones looped over the handlebars. A swivel to the right would give a view out of the front window, but it looked as if the bike had never moved. She liked to focus.

No sign of sharing the space, though. No photographs or discarded clothing, no shoes left lying by the door. One person’s space; private and unencumbered.

‘I live alone,’ she said. She’d been watching his reaction. She dropped her keys on a side table and took her bags through to a small kitchen. ‘Do you want coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee, please,’ said Harry. ‘Strong as you like.’ Sharing preferences was a subtle way of breaking down barriers. But Alanya was MI6; she’d know all about that.

He looked through the front window. No sign of Rik, but he wouldn’t be hanging around. Strangers standing about in this kind of road would attract attention. Especially scruffs in jeans and trainers.

After the roar of a kettle came stirring sounds, then Alice returned. She handed him a mug of coffee, dark as sludge. Her own looked like green tea or camomile. She sat down neatly on a two-seater settee and sipped her drink, gesturing for him to take the armchair opposite. The can of Mace was close by her side.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked. ‘Have I been pinged?’ An in-house term for an alert sounded about an officer’s behaviour.

‘No. Nothing like that. I’m sorry we approached you like this, but we need your help.’

‘Really? You couldn’t go through channels?’

‘It’s not that kind of help.’

She blinked, analysing the statement. Harry let her think about it; he wanted her slightly off-balance, unsure of what this was about. Reactions were easier to assess that way, especially with someone as aware as Alice Alanya.

‘So you don’t want my superiors involved. That means it could compromise me.’ She stared at him. ‘Boy, that’s going to take some persuading.’

‘Clare Jardine.’ He let the words lie without embellishment or explanation. That could come in a second or two. He was interested in reading her face. It didn’t take long. She frowned slightly, the mug halfway to her lips, then lowered again.

‘Clare? I don’t understand.’

She was either exceptionally good or completely and genuinely surprised, Harry couldn’t tell which. Her voice had carried just the right tone of someone having a name from their past thrown at them out of the blue, but a practised liar would manage that easily enough.

‘Have you heard from her in the last six months?’

‘No. Is she all right?’

‘You were friends, though, right?’

‘Yes. More like good colleagues, but we got on. Is there a problem with that?’ She waved a hand in mild exasperation. ‘Look, I went through this before — we all did.’

‘All?’

‘Everyone who worked with her. If you’re really Five you’ll know.’

‘I’m just checking, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Then you’ll also know she left SIS under a cloud.’ She looked away for a second. ‘It’s no secret what she did. If you must know I never blamed her, not like some of the others.’

‘Blamed her for what?’

She paused, then shrugged. ‘Bellingham. What she did to him. That view is on record, if you need to check, so don’t go getting heavy on me. She was set up to be killed, along with the others.’

‘You sure that wasn’t rumour?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Are you kidding me? There’s rumour and rumour. The corridors were buzzing with it. You can’t keep something like that going if there isn’t an element of truth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, after that, she got shot and I haven’t heard from her since.’

Harry sat back. So far she’d been right on the button. Credible and angry in just the right proportions. Except for one thing: she hadn’t mentioned being in contact with Clare after Red Station. The easiest lies were by omission.

‘You heard about the shooting?’

‘We all did. It’s not often a field officer gets shot, past or serving. It rattled a lot of cages. But you probably wouldn’t know about that, would you?’