Adrian Magson: Execution

Harry watched him walk away, shadowed by his two minders. He turned as Rik Ferris ambled up and stood beside him drinking a smoothie through a straw. Dressed in jeans and a loose shirt, his noticeably spiky hair covered with a beanie hat, he looked like an escapee from an all-night rave.

‘What did he have to say for himself?’ Rik asked around a hollow sucking noise.

‘He had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.’

‘Serious?’

‘Serious. Either that or he’s taken acting lessons since we last met.’ Harry shook his head and stood up.

‘You think something spooked her?’

‘Or somebody. Maybe she thought they were still coming for her, in spite of Ballatyne’s promise. She’s pretty messed up. She took the compact, by the way.’

‘Really? Christ, she must be in a bad way.’ He sounded dismissive, but had a wry grin on his face.

They walked in silence for a while, Harry chewing over what Ballatyne had said. Or not said. Something serious had been going on at the hospital yesterday. He’d been involved in enough security operations himself to recognise the atmosphere of tension. But if Ballatyne knew anything, he was playing his cards close to his chest. He sighed. It was probably nothing to do with Clare, but he felt concerned. The least he could do was find out where she’d gone.

‘I never thought I’d say this, but I want you to do something totally illegal,’ he told Rik, and started walking towards the underground station.

‘Would this have anything to do with getting into official prison records and seeing if one Jardine C. has been transferred to a secure medical unit somewhere? Only I’m not sure in all conscience that I could do that.’

‘You’d better. If you don’t, I’ll ring your mother and tell her what a bad boy you’ve been.’

‘Gotcha.’ Rik slam-dunked the empty bottle into a rubbish bin. His mother, with whom he was close, believed he was an ordinary office worker, the most dangerous aspect of his work being the occasional paper cut. He didn’t like to give her cause for concern by telling her what he really did for a living.

British Airways flight 779 from Stockholm touched down at Heathrow’s terminal five under a cloudy sky with a puff of tyre smoke and a gentle lurch to starboard. After two hours and ten minutes in the air, some through an uncomfortable stretch of turbulence, the landing received a scattered round of applause from some thirty relieved business delegates returning from a three-day IT conference in Sweden. Most of them had been drinking liberally since leaving Arlanda, taking advantage of the drinks on offer after the eye-watering prices they had encountered in the Swedish capital.

As the seat belt sign went off, the occupant of seat 33A undid his buckle and allowed himself to be hustled off the aircraft, shoulder to shoulder with two corporate managers somewhat the worse for wear and loudly genial as they leaned on him for support. He had introduced himself as Peter Collins, owner of a small computer consultancy in Birmingham, and they had pressed their business cards on him before engaging eagerly in a solid bout of drinking and exchanging anecdotes about the parlous state of the industry.

Collins wasn’t interested in their backgrounds or opinions, and they were soon in no state to remember what little he had revealed to them of himself. And although he appeared to be matching them drink for drink, and his manner becoming just as unfocussed, in reality he spent most of the flight slipping the contents of his miniatures into their glasses, which accounted for their rapid state of intoxication.

Inside the terminal building, faced with this noisy but good-natured group of travellers, all holding British passports, the over-stretched immigration desk personnel gave scant attention to all but the most obvious queries. Peter Collins looked very much like his companions: a middle-aged businessman on the tail end of a business trip and a 30,000-feet bender. What wasn’t apparent was that the recent addition of a slim-line beard had altered his face just sufficiently to make it appear rounder than it really was, and a pair of heavy framed glasses reduced the amount of detail on offer, something he had worked hard to achieve with minimum effort.

With a nod from the immigration officer, he was through and away, slipping through the baggage hall and neatly shedding his two companions as they went hurriedly in search of the toilets.

Had they been watching him rather than focussing on their bladders, they might have noticed that he had also shed the unsteady gait he’d adopted while leaving the aircraft.

Collins timed his entry into the arrivals area among another group of travellers, this time in close conversation with a middle-aged florist from Oslo. She understood very little of what he was saying, but he seemed pleasant enough, adding an early frisson of excitement to her holiday.

The usual meeters and greeters were there in twin lines, studying faces and holding aloft the customary pieces of paper or name cards as he walked out onto the concourse. Collins didn’t bother checking for security watchers; he knew they’d be there somewhere. Probably junior staffers gaining valuable on-the-spot ‘training’, with no real idea of what they were supposed to be looking for. When he saw his name on a small hand-held whiteboard, he veered off from the florist with a brief smile and followed the greeter across the concourse to a waiting car outside.

Once in the back seat, he took off the glasses, which were pinching the bridge of his nose, and scratched vigorously at his beard. It wasn’t the first time he’d grown one in the course of his lengthy career, or worn the heavy frames. In a career which had often taken him into dangerous situations, subtle changes of appearance were all that had stood between success and failure, freedom or captivity. Facial hair was something to which he’d never become accustomed, but right now, back in the UK, where being spotted would mean his chances of surviving longer than a few days would be unlikely, it was a discomfort worth enduring.

‘Take me to the Rivoli at the Ritz,’ he told the driver expansively.

It had been too long since his last visit, and he was about ready to kill for a decent cocktail. Besides, this evening was likely to be the only quiet time he was going to get for a while, if experience told him anything. Following a call out of the blue from a person he thought he’d heard the last of, he now had a job to do. It was a reminder from his past that he could have done without, but there were some people you simply could not turn down. He didn’t yet know precisely what the man wanted — he had been very cagey on the phone — but the fact that the man had called him was reason enough to risk everything by coming back to London, somewhere he hadn’t expected to be for a long time.

Whatever the job, he sensed that it would mean calling in a big favour or two of old acquaintances. He still had one or two here, people he could rely on. . or put pressure on. Either way, first he’d need to brush the dust off his old trade craft and make contact with a man who owed him.

He put it to the back of his mind. First, a drink or two, followed by a decent dinner. He couldn’t accomplish anything until tomorrow, anyway. By early morning he would know more about the job. Then he could get to work.

In a room on the second-floor of the SIS Headquarters building, a hastily-convened meeting was underway. Darkness had blanketed the river outside, producing a glittering row of lights from the embankment on the far side and the occasional running lights of a craft on the water. But nobody in the room had eyes for the scenery; they had seen the view from this floor too often in the past to be intrigued anymore. Most wanted the business over and done with so that they could go home. It had already been a long day.