Adrian Magson - Execution

It was them, Harry was certain. But why dump the car under Park Lane? If they had wanted to make it disappear for good, they could have dropped it anywhere south of the river and made their way back north by tube. The chances of it being gone for certain before they had reached the next corner would have been dramatically higher there than near Hyde Park. The Park Lane area was awash with cameras, and only chance had brought two witless thieves along at the right time. And now the police had the car and would be scouring it for forensic details. It made the chances of an arrest considerably higher, although he wasn’t ready to lay bets on it just yet.

‘They must have a bolt-hole nearby,’ he concluded aloud. ‘They probably panicked and left it on impulse. Are there any addresses on the list of Russian properties in that area?’

‘We’re combing through it right now and doing visual checks as we go, to see if we can spot anyone. We’re having to be careful; there’s a chance we could frighten them off if we go in heavy handed.’

‘They won’t go far.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘They’ll want Clare even more now. She’s seen their faces, she heard their voices. . and now they know who she is — or was. And she knows who they are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She says they’re probably black ops personnel.’

‘ Chyornyiy ,’ said Clare. ‘Tell him. He’ll know what it means.’

‘She said they’re chyornyiy .’

A silence. ‘How does she know that?’ But, Harry noticed, Ballatyne didn’t argue.

He related what Clare had told them. When he got to their speculation about someone with access to MI6, Ballatyne began muttering darkly in the background.

‘Leave it with me,’ the MI6 man said finally. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

Less than a mile away, in a rented office they would never use again, Gorelkin was also swearing, but for different reasons.

‘So what is she — SIS? Security Services? No. You’re mistaken. How can that be possible?’ He slammed a hand on the desk in front of him, making the two men with him jump. Votrukhin and Serkhov had witnessed one of Gorelkin’s occasional bursts of temper, and neither wished to come under its spell again. But right now they had nothing to offer in their defence.

‘We don’t know for sure,’ Votrukhin ventured a slight correction. ‘But how else could she know about Troparevskiy?’ He ignored Serkhov’s raised hand. ‘It’s probably no longer a big secret, I know, but she spoke as one who knew what she was talking about.’ He snapped his thumb and forefinger. ‘It came out like that.’

Gorelkin nodded and stared around blindly at the functional office walls, trying to find some solace in the situation. It didn’t work. He knew what the lieutenant meant, and it wasn’t good news. Those in the business would know about Troparevskiy. They wouldn’t have to think about it — it would come automatically. But would they give themselves away quite so easily? Maybe, if they’d been shot in the gut like the woman. He was about to speak again when the door opened and Paulton was ushered in.

‘Mr Paulton,’ Gorelkin murmured, indicating a chair on the other side of the table. It sat squarely between Serkhov and Votrukhin, and he’d planned it that way. He still hadn’t worked out whether Paulton was playing them or not. If he was, he would live to regret it. ‘Now then,’ he said quietly, and leaned forward, not allowing time for the Englishman to settle, ‘would you care to tell us precisely what you know about Clare Jardine?’

Paulton looked relaxed, but something moved in his face. Gorelkin didn’t miss it.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Paulton replied cautiously. ‘I had only the information I was given-’ He stopped speaking when Serkhov reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder. He winced as pressure was applied, and went pale.

‘Let us start again,’ Gorelkin murmured. ‘My colleagues have already wasted enough time chasing shadows. Now we hear that this woman you said came from a care home and was running with Ukrainian gangsters is actually a British Intelligence operative. Would that explain why she also speaks Russian, do you think?’

Paulton tried to shrug off Serkhov’s hand without result until Gorelkin gave the signal to let him go.

‘I stand by what I was told,’ the Englishman insisted. ‘There was obviously an attempt to cover up her real identity while she was undergoing treatment. It’s a public facility and it would be normal for members of MI6 or MI5 to be given cover names.’ He smiled weakly. ‘The press keep a constant eye out for special forces personnel passing through the hospital; the security or intelligence services would rate even higher in news value.’

Gorelkin thought it through. It sounded reasonable enough. He was aware of how voracious the British media was for exclusives, no matter how far that intruded into national security matters. In Russia there was no such laxity permitted. Any journalist who poked too far into the establishment found himself on a short journey to a maximum security cell until they forgot what they had been searching for.

But he still didn’t trust Paulton further than he could spit. ‘Very well. I want you to find out now about this woman. Everything you can tell us.’

‘Of course.’ Paulton stood up, straightening his jacket where Serkhov’s hand had scrunched up the material. He looked flushed now, as if realising just how close he had come to disaster. ‘I’ll get onto it immediately.’

‘How soon?’ Gorelkin asked.

‘Give me half an hour.’

‘Make it twenty minutes. Or I make a phone call.’ The threat was uttered without drama. But he meant it.

Paulton nodded, and Gorelkin and his men watched him go. And waited.

Paulton returned eighteen minutes later. He sat down and folded his hands together, every inch the repentant, even embarrassed, man.

‘You were correct,’ he announced. ‘Clare Jardine is a former MI6 operative.’

‘Former?’ Gorelkin picked up on the word.

‘Yes. She was fired by them for gross misconduct but continued to work in the security field. She was wounded while working with a former MI5 man named Tate, which is why she was being treated in King’s College.’ He stared around at the three of them. ‘But she has no credit whatsoever with SIS or MI5, and is now off the grid with Tate. She’s what some gamers call RTK.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Serkhov.

‘It means,’ Gorelkin murmured, ‘Ready To Kill. You can go and get her.’ He was looking at Paulton while he spoke. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Paulton nodded. ‘Quite correct.’ He slid a piece of paper across the desk. It held three names and addresses.

‘What’s this?’

‘The first is Jardine’s last known address, although I doubt she’ll have gone back there. The second is Tate’s, in Islington. The third is another former MI5 man named Ferris. He’s an IT drone who works closely with Tate.’

Gorelkin flicked the piece of paper towards Votrukhin. ‘Excellent,’ the FSB chief said quietly. ‘Now we are getting somewhere.’ He glanced at his two men. ‘Go. See to it.’

They stood up. Votrukhin looked worried.

‘What are your orders?’ he asked.

‘Take them out, of course.’ Gorelkin was looking once more at Paulton. ‘Take them all out. Then we can all go home.’

‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’ Candida Deane shuddered as if the telling was being forced out of her, and watched the leaves above their heads shifting in the early morning breeze across St James’s Park. It was just after seven and they were alone save for a brace of joggers shuffling round the lake and the distant hum of early rush-hour traffic in the background.