Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) (12 page)

‘Damn. You never give up, do you? OK. I got one. Her name’s Alice Alanya. She’s a Russian language specialist, thirty-four and single, lives in Harrow, north London. She was friendly with Jardine, but as far as I can make out, no more than that. They shared briefings on a couple of Jardine’s assignments, and Alanya gave her some refresher sessions to keep her language up to date. As far as I can make out without disturbing the water, she was about as close to Jardine as anybody.’

‘Disturbing the water?’

‘I’m having a problem with the deputy head of the Russian desk. It means going through back-channels to avoid her.’ Internal politics. He didn’t elaborate further. ‘I’ll email you a photo in a minute.’

‘Is Alanya clean?’

‘You mean with her surname? There’s no reason to think she isn’t. Her great grandfather was a Russian émigré, but any allegiance to the old country ran out a long way back. She’s just another member of Six, that’s all.’

‘Where do I find her?’

‘She’s a creature of habit. She leaves the building about six thirty unless there’s a buzz on, and gets home via Harrow-on-the-Hill.’ He read out an address. ‘Go easy on her. I don’t want this spreading fire and panic throughout the service. Use my name if you have to but keep it low-level.’

Harrow-on-the-Hill tube station was no more or less prepossessing than any other station Harry had used, although it had the disadvantage of possessing two entrances on opposing sides of the line. The northern exit and ticket hall gave access to the main shops and town centre off College Road; the southern exit gave out onto a back road opposite a small recreational park. Alice Alanya’s home address, a small block of private flats on a residential street to the east, was reachable from either direction.

Harry watched as the flow of passengers walked by from the northbound line. He was checking faces while trying to look bored, occasionally checking his watch like a man on a date. Rik was across the way, doing the same in case Harry missed the target. They had decided to wait at the tube station for her, rather than following her from SIS headquarters, on the grounds that the less time they shared the same space, the less likely Alanya was to pick up on their presence. Even non-field operatives were trained to be alert at all times, in case of being under surveillance from foreign agencies, but according to Ballatyne, Alanya had been involved in special operations because of her language expertise, so she would be even more aware of the need for caution.

Harry checked the print-out of the photo Ballatyne had emailed him. Alice Alanya was slim, about five feet eight inches, with long dark hair, pale skin and a nice smile. He hadn’t been able to think of a better word; she was pretty without being beautiful, but would attract attention from most men without trying.

Which made him wonder why she was single. Ballatyne had been unable to help on that score, as closer questioning of her colleagues would have aroused suspicions and chatter in the office – something he wanted to avoid.

Another trainload decamped and walked by. Equal numbers of men and women, mostly office workers but a few in more casual gear or work clothes. The flow dropped to a trickle, then ones and twos in no particular hurry, some using mobiles. A minute passed by and Harry looked across at Rik, who shrugged and got ready to wait some more.

In the sudden quiet, they heard footsteps. A young woman, walking at normal speed, head up, alert. Shoulder bag, smart suit, white blouse. Officer worker. She was heading for the northern exit.

Alice Alanya.

Harry already had his phone clamped to his ear. He started talking, saying he was on his way and he’d be there in five minutes, an imaginary but entirely plausible conversation heard a hundred times a day. It was a signal to Rik to start walking away, front-running the target to keep his face hidden, but assuming the normal route home unless told otherwise by Harry.

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.

‘W
hy 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?’

She was angry and resentful, Harry noted, lashing out with concern for a friend. He could ignore the fact that she might have – probably
had
– helped Clare out with information after Red Station. But she seemed genuinely unaware of any contact since.

‘Because I’m with Five, you mean?’

She didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Forget it. If you’re not tapping my shoulder about my behaviour, why are you concerned about Clare?’

Harry decided to go with the truth. He’d been hedging enough and it wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘First off,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer with Five. But I am working with Ballatyne’s approval. He’s the one person you can ring if you need verification.’

‘I might do that.’ It was a sign that she recognised the name.

‘I was one of the “others” you mentioned, along with Clare. The place was code-named Red Station in Georgia and Clare and I came out together, along with the scruff outside, whose name is Rik Ferris. He’s also former MI5. We were all let go out of official embarrassment. When Clare got shot it was by a Bosnian called Milan Zubac, working for a group of deserters called the Protectory. She managed to disable Zubac with a compact knife and was lucky to get to hospital in time. She spent the last few weeks in King’s College, at the Major Trauma Unit.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it. How come?’

‘I was with her at the time.’

C
andida Deane, Deputy Director of the Russian Desk in SIS, stepped into the Donovan Bar in Brown’s Hotel in London’s Mayfair, and scanned the tables.

George Paulton waited as her gaze passed over him, paused, then came back. He raised a hand, at the same time checking his watch. Right on time.

Beyond her the doorway was empty. No obvious heavies lurking – a point he’d insisted on, although he knew they wouldn’t be far away. Deane wouldn’t have been able to dump her personal protection altogether without questions being raised by internal security. But the one person she wouldn’t like to be seen meeting in public was a former Operations Director of MI5 who was now on a watch-and-detain list at all ports, accused of offences against . . . he still wasn’t entirely certain what the legalities were of what he’d done, but no doubt government lawyers had done all the necessary paperwork.

He stood up as she approached, and saw her frown as she took in his appearance. It reminded him that although they had met before, it had been a while ago and on different levels. And she had never seen him in this guise before.