Adrian Magson - Execution

‘You know the powers that be will want a quid pro quo from her?’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘Thanks. Call me when you get in,’ he added curtly. ‘We need a debrief.’

In London, in the Mayfair office where they had held their first meeting, Sergei Gorelkin was raging. News that Jardine was still at large had been compounded by hearing that Katya Balenkova had defected and the FSB team sent after her was a man down.

‘Federal Protective Service officers do not defect, Symenko!’ he shouted down the phone, slamming a fist down on the table. ‘The FSB does not lose personnel!’ He gripped the handset hard enough to crush it, eyes glinting like pieces of ice. ‘This is unacceptable! If you do not find these women and the men helping them, I will have you replaced, do you hear me?’

Across the table from him, Lieutenant Votrukhin and Sergeant Serkhov stayed very still. To comment now, even to move at the wrong moment, would be to invite disaster. They felt a measure of sympathy for the man Symenko, on the other end of the phone, but only insofar as his being the focus of Gorelkin’s anger meant they, for the time being, were not. They knew, however, that it would not last for long. If Jardine and Balenkova managed to get back to London, their peaceful world would shatter in an instant.

‘Fucking idiots!’ Gorelkin slammed the phone down, bouncing it clear across the table so that Serkhov had to retrieve it. ‘You two had better upgrade your efforts, I can tell you. That incompetent donkey Symenko won’t be able to stop them leaving Vienna, which means they will be back here by tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Might they decide to go somewhere else instead?’ said Votrukhin hopefully, who was wishing he could get on a plane to Moscow right now. Anything was better than staying with this sinking ship. He was now in full agreement with Serkhov; that Gorelkin was following some kind of secret agenda, and they were trapped like flies in his web until he let them go. Worse, he couldn’t help but feel that Gorelkin had finally lost control of the situation, and he and Serkhov were in danger of being dragged down with him. But getting out was not a luxury they could afford.

‘No. They will come back here. You must redouble your efforts to find Jardine.’ He rubbed at the side of his jaw. It was the first sign of nerves that the two men had seen in him, renewing their concern about what this operation had turned into. ‘This cannot be allowed to go any further,’ he muttered. ‘We must end this now.’

‘And if we don’t?’ said Votrukhin. ‘We don’t even know where they are. And every day we stay in London is a day closer to our being identified.’

‘Don’t!’ Gorelkin snapped. ‘I will not have defeatist talk! This is vital work, much more so than either of you two clods can imagine. Now get out there and do your jobs!’

Votrukhin stood up, an angry retort on his lips. But Serkhov grabbed his arm and stopped him.

The two men walked out without a word, leaving Gorelkin staring at something very far away.

‘What do you want, Ballatyne? I’m busy.’ Candida Deane barely looked up as Ballatyne stepped into her office, focussing instead on a file she was reading. The soft lighting, essential for all the inner offices of SIS Headquarters like this one, made her features seem less harsh than normal, as if she had been airbrushed.

‘Just a chat.’ Ballatyne wasn’t fooled by the businesslike tone; she was puzzled by his appearance. He pushed the door closed behind him, something that he knew would put her nerves further on edge. Other than the required briefings and meetings which brought all department and desk heads together, he and Deane rarely had reason to speak alone. Even with everything surrounding the Russian hit team and their attempt on Clare Jardine, their encounters had rarely been without other heads involved, and therefore somewhat impersonal.

He sat down without being asked, and crossed his legs, flicking away some imaginary dust. He glanced around the office, which was not yet hers until her superior gave his final notice, and saw signs of her already settling in; a few books, a set of tiny hand-painted Matryoshka dolls, some photographs of foreign places.

‘About what?’ She put down the file and sat back.

‘Your meeting with George Paulton, for one.’

She stared at him, her face showing no emotion, then said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I meet with him?’

‘That’s what I would like to know.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a single photo. ‘But before you go all girly and deny it, take a look at this.’ He dropped the photo on the desk in front of her.

It showed Deane standing in St James’s Park. Alongside her was George Paulton.

‘It’s a fake.’

‘Of course it is.’ Ballatyne allowed a full measure of sarcasm to coat his voice, and put his hands together. ‘As was, I suppose, the old man who jogged by at one point. He was dressed in jogging gear and wearing enormous headphones. He looked as if he was about to die. In fact Paulton was quite rude about him; said something about not having a gun — I have the full transcript which I can give you, but I can see by your expression that you don’t need it.’

Her eyes were like ice and her voice just as frosty. ‘What do you want?’

‘Please let me finish. The old chap’s name is Emil Panowski. He was one of the best Cold War field operatives we ever had, did you know that? You should look him up in the archives. He used to cross the Berlin Wall back and forth like a rat up a drainpipe. He still does the occasional job for us where we need an invisible presence. He’s getting on for eighty, you know.’ He sniffed. ‘He had a full sound recording on you the moment Paulton showed up. Very interesting it was, too.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Deane had gone quite pale, he noted, but she was still defiant.

‘Really?’ He took a small digital recorder out of his top pocket. ‘Perhaps this will convince you.’ He pressed play and Deane’s voice echoed into the room in a sequence of brief utterances.

‘I think I know where the Jardine woman is.’

‘Tell me I’m wrong, droog.’

‘Find Tate, you’ll find Jardine.’

‘And when I do?’ It was Paulton’s voice this time, before switching back to Deane.

‘Don’t be coy, George. You know what I mean.’

And finally.

‘Whatever you do to her, it had better be permanent.’

Ballatyne switched off the recorder. ‘I got my boys to do a bit of simple editing, I admit, but I think you’ll agree, it’s a game changer. This little selection alone puts you in a meeting with a wanted traitor and enemy of this country; it shows you had knowledge of events and facts that you have chosen not to share with an on-going investigation; and you actively sought the murder of a former MI6 officer — all as a means of gaining promotion. Or did I get the wrong end of the stick?’

Deane’s voice, when she spoke, was shaky. ‘So why haven’t you used it? You want Paulton and the Russians for yourself, is that it? Grab all the glory for yourself?’

‘I couldn’t care less about Paulton. He’s finished, anyway, as I’m sure he must know by now. If Gorelkin doesn’t get him, Harry Tate will.’

‘But?’

‘But he has his uses until then and that’s what I’m focussing on. I want to know where he is.’

‘How would I know that?’

‘Because you’re not stupid, that’s why. You had one of your tails on him from the moment you first met. You’ve had him followed and pinned down ever since. Paulton’s good, but he’s been out of the game too long, unlike your young shadows.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll do you a trade. Give me Paulton and I’ll sit on this recording. And you do nothing — and I mean nothing — to warn him or to make a move against me.’