Adrian Magson - Execution

‘Maybe she knows that and figures she has nothing to lose.’

Clare awoke suddenly, her heart pounding. A loud noise had ripped into her subconscious, like the crash of a door bursting open. She sat up, panic overtaking her, and was on her feet without thinking. Somebody trying to get in! Then she bent over as pain creased across her middle, an unsubtle reminder that she wasn’t in any fit state for gymnastics.

She breathed in and out, allowing her heart rate to settle. The room was silent and chill, smelling of damp. A gloomy space but not dark. The sickly glow of a street light filtered in across the floor. She’d been dozing in a battered old armchair. She recalled the building work further down the street earlier; tips being filled with rubble, workmen shouting, a cement mixer chugging constantly. Like a small war going on. Then silence when they packed up for the day. And sleep.

She’d been woken by a delayed playback, that was all. The mind playing tricks. She forced herself to relax further and assessed her surroundings. She was alone, the garden door locked and jammed shut against outsiders. The connecting door to the rest of the building had been nailed up by whatever previous tenant had isolated him or herself down here in the basement. There was nobody in the room and she felt angry at herself for losing her grip. This wasn’t her, not this jittery, disconnected heap of jelly who jumped at every slight sound.

She straightened up by stages, like unfolding an old newspaper, stopping at each ragged tug of pain, until she was more or less upright. It took a while. Then she breathed in and out, the taste in her mouth sour and bitter.

Jesus, was this what it was like to be old ? If so she wanted none of it. She checked herself over, a slow examination of her physical extremities first. Legs stiff, arms ditto, stomach burning but not as bad it had been. Sleep had helped. She peeled back the bandage under her waistband. Hissed at the redness of the skin around the gunshot wound, but it was better than it had been. Maybe the effort of getting here had helped, forcing her body to flush with healing power, to fight off infection.

But where was here?

Her inner senses took over, remembering the hospital. Images came to her slowly, an unravelling film reel of her rush from the building and through the shadow-filled streets, overhead lights harsh and painful to the eyes, her feet sore from not having worn shoes for a while. She’d met a German girl — Mitzi? — then gone to a squat, followed by the outdoors again and more walking. Until she found this place.

Pimlico. She remembered now. Near Victoria Station, busy streets, residential and businesses cheek by jowl. Lots of people.

Safety, of sorts.

Other images forced their way in from further back. The hospital smell, night-time, the sound of the men in her room; before that the man across the corridor, Tobinskiy, shouting in Russian, angry and at times incoherent, but according to the nurse, never fully conscious. Educated, though, she would have known that by his use of words, even if she had never heard of him before. Raging at the state, the persecution and murder of his friend, they were trying to kill him, he’d gabbled; sending assassins just like they did with Alexander. Why could nobody see it? Why would nobody believe him? The torrent of words had at times been unintelligible.

He would be next, he’d moaned once. Then they would believe.

She’d wondered for a while who Alexander was, her mind still foggy. She had known, once, she was certain. It lurked on the edges of her mind, a vague whisper of sound, from a briefing or the news. . maybe something she’d read. But it wouldn’t come. Then suddenly it did, in a rush like a floodgate opened: Alexander Litvinenko, former FSB officer, asylum seeker in Britain, journalist and hater of Vladimir Putin. Polonium 210. Radiation poisoning. Photos of Litvinenko in hospital, hunched and dying. Grey going on white.

Now dead.

She eased herself carefully down in the armchair. The elbow crutch was nearby but she ignored it. Sighed with relief when the pain subsided. Felt the mobile phone jammed down between the cushion and the arm.

She picked it up, switched it on. Waited while the icons flickered into life. Checked the amount of power left. Three bars. Not bad but not great. The time on the small screen said 23.15.

There were several missed calls and eight voicemail messages. Jesus, she’d stolen the phone belonging to a talk freak. She ignored them all. Didn’t want to waste power by deleting or checking them.

Tomorrow, she’d call. . who? Still couldn’t recall Alice’s number. Pointless asking directory enquiries or 192; MI6 didn’t encourage easy access for any of their personnel.

Harry Tate? She saw his number in her head, floating past with perverse immediacy, tantalising. Why was that?

She switched off the phone, put her head back. She was hungry, her stomach tight with the need for food and fluids. She should hit the street and find an all-nighter, get something inside her. Maybe in a while. When she felt better.

Seconds later she was fast asleep.

‘We need to step things up.’ Sergei Gorelkin was annoyed, but holding his mood in check. Getting pissy with Votrukhin and Serkhov would serve no immediate purpose other than to make him feel better. He could save that for later. Right now they had to find the Jardine woman and silence her before she got to the press with anything she knew.

He had called them in early to the office in Mayfair. He dispensed with the sweep for bugs; he didn’t have time. Neither did he allow them any breakfast, a distraction from the main topic. He had, however, arranged strong coffee, to ensure they were wide awake and listening.

‘How?’ Votrukhin queried. ‘We don’t have enough feet on the ground, we can’t use the embassy and we’re not allowed near any of the residents.’ These last were deep cover agents unknown to the embassy, but supported at arm’s length in their legends and daily activities. Deeper still and even more remote were the gold standard of spies, the sleepers, although, as some wags in Moscow had been heard to claim, since the fall of communism not even Moscow knew who they were anymore.

‘We hit the streets.’ Gorelkin reached down and picked up a cardboard box from the floor. It was twice the size of a shoe box. He tore off the lid and tipped the box up, spilling out some of the contents, which skidded across the table in a fan.

They were a mix of two shots. Half were photos taken inside a plain corridor, the flare of overhead lights reflecting off a shiny tiled floor. The subject was a woman walking beneath the camera. The format was clearly from CCTV footage, the best few frames frozen for all time. The others were file shots, face-on and serious, like passport shots, but larger and better quality, provided by Paulton, although he hadn’t disclosed where he had got them.

Clare Jardine.

Votrukhin and Serkhov picked up samples and scanned them quickly, committing the images to memory. They hadn’t seen the CCTV stills before, but had handed over the hard drive for Gorelkin to process the moment they got back from the hospital. The images weren’t perfect, but good enough. They showed a young woman in her thirties, possibly older, gaunt in the face and pallid, walking with one hand clasped across her middle, the other holding a metal crutch. She wore dark trousers and a jacket over a white top, and if she was aware of the camera above her head, seemed unconcerned.

‘She’s on the street,’ Gorelkin told them, ‘most likely in central London. As the Englishman told us, she has no family and nowhere to go. She’ll have joined the rabble. So that’s where we look for her, using the people she mixes with.’ He tapped one of the photos. ‘And that crutch is going to make her stand out.’