Illegal Action (2 page)

3

LATE MARCH

T
hat morning spring was at its most capricious. The sun shone from a bright blue sky, but the wind came from the north, and its gusts were strong and biting. Walking up into this remote part of Hampstead Heath, Simmons recognised the familiar bench—but not the man sitting on it. He was about to walk on when the man called out. “Jerry,” he said, and lifted an arm in greeting.

Simmons hesitated, hearing his name. “Who are you?” he asked, cautiously coming a little closer.

“Your new contact,” the man said. He tapped the seat sharply. “Sit down.”

The bench was in the shelter of a ring of ancient oaks, bounded by iron railings, on the top of a hill. There was no one on this part of the heath except a few dog walkers in the distance below. Slowly Jerry Simmons moved to the bench and sat down at the far end. “What happened to Andrei?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the heath.

“He’s gone,” said the man tersely. “I’m Vladimir.”

Jerry turned his head slowly and inspected the Russian. He wore a belted raincoat, polished brogues, and a checked cloth cap. He might almost have passed for English, but his accent and high Slavic cheekbones gave him away.

He seemed on edge, which in turn made Jerry anxious. I’m losing my nerve, he thought, remembering his army days, when only ice water had run through his veins. When Jerry had passed the final SAS interview (something he dreaded far more than the forced march, the mock interrogations, any of the physical stuff he was so good at) the sergeant had told him: “You’re not the sharpest knife in the box, Simmons, but we liked your cool. And your size counts. Don’t rely on it, that’s all.”

Now he said to the man, “When I left the hotel I told Andrei that I was finished working for you guys.”

Vladimir shrugged. “Of course you did. But situations change, don’t they?”

Not for me, thought Jerry. When he had left the army he’d been delighted to find the security job at the Dorchester. Sure the money wasn’t terrific, but it was a famous hotel, superbly run, and he’d been well treated. The only injury he’d suffered in his time there had been a bruised knee when he’d slipped on a freshly mopped bathroom floor. It certainly beat four-man night patrols in southern Afghanistan.

His problem had been Carly, wife number three. Now divorced. Three in chronological order, that is, but number one for greed. So it had been a blessing when Andrei had turned up. The job had been a doddle. Just tittle-tattle, names and addresses, comings and goings at the hotel, what the occasional sheikh got up to (gambling, usually, and girls; sometimes gambling and boys). It had been money for jam, even if Carly got most of it.

He’d had a pretty good idea who Andrei was. Organised crime he’d thought at first, but he’d recognised a certain military touch—official, he’d decided. Jerry had never had the slightest fear he was doing anything that might harm Britain. Though by the time he had left the employ of the hotel, lured by a security firm with the promise of better pay and better hours, he was relieved to put his days moonlighting for Andrei behind him.

“I’m not at the Dorchester any more,” Jerry said, trying to sound conclusive, though he was not so naïve as to think Vladimir didn’t know this already.

“I know. Congratulations. You’re working for a very wealthy man.”

Jerry shrugged. He’d never heard of his present employer until he’d become his “driver”—which meant his bodyguard behind the wheel. “Maybe he is,” he said. “I just take him where he wants to go and look after him. That’s all I know.”

“You know more than you think,” said Vladimir.

“What do you mean?” said Jerry. His heart was starting to sink. Vladimir didn’t seem edgy any longer.

“Your new employer is a countryman of mine. I’m very interested in him.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The wind had picked up again, and Jerry stirred uneasily on the bench, feeling cold. Why did I have to get a job with a Russian? he wondered sourly as he waited in vain for Vladimir to break the silence.

At last Jerry sighed. “What are you looking for?” he asked quietly, trying to make it clear he hadn’t agreed to do anything.

“Same as the Dorchester,” said the man on the bench. “And this time there’s only one ‘guest’ to keep an eye on.”

“But this guy doesn’t get up to anything,” Jerry protested. “He doesn’t do nightclubs, doesn’t even go out much to restaurants. A new girlfriend’s around, and he spends most of his spare time with her. Their idea of a big night is ordering a takeaway and watching a DVD.”

Vladimir shook his head knowingly. “But people come to see him on business; sometimes he goes to see people. In his large chauffeur-driven Bentley automobile,” he added pointedly.

Jerry sensed he had already given away too much ground. He looked out at the slope below them, where a man in a green anorak was walking a large frisky Doberman through a patch of yellowed grass. “Most of the people he sees are Russians. I can’t tell one name from another. And I can’t understand a word they say.”

Vladimir snorted. “We’re not asking you for transcripts,” he said caustically.

“What do you want to know?” Jerry demanded. “I’m not a traitor, you know.”

Vladimir did not answer him directly, but said, “It’s a purely Russian affair. Nothing to do with the queen.” Vladimir waved his hand expansively.

Jerry shook his head. “But what if I won’t play ball?”

An expression Vladimir must have been familiar with, for he said, “That is your choice.” He paused, and his eyes were cold slits as he stared at Jerry. “As it would be ours to discuss your former activities on our behalf with the firm that placed you in your post.”

I should have seen this coming, thought Jerry, way back when he’d first met Andrei, that evening in the Dorchester, when the Russian said he was locked out of his room and Jerry had been sent up to let him in again. Andrei had given him a bottle of champagne from the minibar as thanks, which Jerry—strictly against the rules—had accepted, hiding it in his locker deep in the bowels of the hotel.

Then the next night he had bumped into Andrei in the pub on South Audley Street where Jerry liked to unwind after working hours. And on the night after that. They’d become friends, which meant Andrei paid for all the drinks, the odd meal they’d had together, once even for a girl. When Andrei had made his offer of a cash retainer in return for information that was not much more than hotel staff gossip, it seemed a natural extension of his generosity.

Yet now, three years later, it was coming home to roost. “Of course you must decide,” said the Russian Vladimir, with apparent indifference and no pretence of friendly persuasion.

Jerry considered his options. There weren’t any. Brigadier Cartwright wouldn’t give him five minutes to clear his desk if he discovered he’d been taking cash on the side—even if it had been before Jerry joined the firm. Particularly when he discovered it was cash from a foreign government. With a black mark from the brigadier, Jerry would never find a cushy job again. He’d enter middle age reduced to being cheap hired “muscle.” As a bouncer in a nightclub if he was lucky. More likely in a pub somewhere, throwing out the drunks.

“Okay,” he said at last, reluctantly. “But the money had better be good.”

“Meet me here again in a week,” declared Vladimir. “The same time. I will give you your orders then.”

“And the first payment,” said Jerry trying to extract some small satisfaction.

4

L
iz pulled the duvet up to her chin, stretched out her legs and reached out to switch on the eight o’clock news. She briefly wondered whether to get up and make a cup of coffee, and just as quickly decided against it. In all the years she had worked with Charles in Counter-Terrorism, she had never really relaxed, even on a Saturday morning. Counter-Terrorism operations came up suddenly out of the blue and needed a fast response. She was usually home late, often away from home altogether, but the sudden excitement, the tension, were what she had loved about the job.

Admittedly her private life had become a mess. Her small flat in Kentish Town, once much loved, had become dowdy. Things broke down and she never had time to fix them; the tide of muddle had advanced inexorably. In the four months since she’d moved to Counter-Espionage everything had changed. The job wasn’t without interest, but the pace was slower, more nine to five.

She had used her unaccustomed spare time to get her life in order. The peeling wallpaper in the bathroom had been replaced with tiles. The whole flat had been repainted and a smart new stainless steel washer-dryer had replaced the stuttering old thing she had inherited when she bought the flat. The goose-down duvet she was cuddling was bought on a whim, but was the most satisfactory of all her improvements.

Now from the comfort of her bed, she contemplated the elegant new bedroom curtains and the uncluttered carpet and thought about the weekend ahead.

Most of it would be spent with Piet. He was Dutch, an investment banker with Lehman’s in Amsterdam. Every third Friday he came to London for a meeting in Canary Wharf and he would stay in London for the weekend. Friday night he went out to dinner with his colleagues but at lunchtime on Saturday he would appear at the basement door in Kentish Town, clutching champagne or a bottle of perfume he had bought on his way through the airport, and he and Liz would spend the rest of the weekend together. This was an arrangement which suited them both perfectly. It was warm and happy and undemanding.

If Piet knew what Liz did (and she suspected he did as she had met him at a colleague’s Christmas party), he never asked. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. They laughed a lot and ate good food. They talked about music and plays and the state of the world, and everything except work. Today they were going to a late-afternoon concert at St. John’s Smith Square. Then they’d have dinner somewhere and Piet would come back and share the goose-down duvet. Liz curled her toes in anticipation. They would stay in bed late in the morning and then after a pub lunch, Piet would make for the airport and back to Amsterdam.

All in all, a heavenly prospect. Thank goodness for counter-espionage, she thought, though still there in a small corner of her mind was her first love, counter-terrorism and working with Charles. She hoped all was well with him. And Joanne, she mentally added—conscientiously.

5

W
ally Woods was too tired to sleep. He’d worked seven shifts in four days, which would have been beyond a joke in the old days. They’d been camped out in South Kensington for the last two weeks, trailing an Iranian who specialised in late-night partying. Dennis Rudge had come down with flu and there hadn’t been any option but to stand in for him.

Rudge had struggled back at last that morning, looking like death and blowing his nose, so Wally had gone home. He drove, dazed with fatigue, up to Crouch End, where he’d found a bad-tempered note from his wife, who had already gone to work. “Dear Stranger” it began, which didn’t sound too good. He caught three hours’ kip only to wake up, groggy, to find Molly, his dog, licking his face and whimpering for a walk.

There was nothing for it. He’d never get back to sleep. So he showered and shaved and dressed, then took Molly in the car and drove down here, to Hampstead Heath, where there was plenty of room, even for a Doberman with energy.

He liked to walk on the heath. It was a natural, uninhabited space, which had only one thing in common with North London around it—anything could happen there, and did. Its different areas—woodland, rough meadow, a string of ponds, Parliament Hill with its panoramic views of the City of London—afforded constant variety to his walks. Parking in The Grove, opposite a row of elegant Georgian mansions, he put on his anorak, and walked down a tree-lined lane, with Molly on her lead. The wind was picking up and the sun was obscured by cloud. Where
is
spring? he wondered, still feeling stiff after so many hours on duty, sitting in a parked car.

When they reached the bottom by the boating pond, where the heath began, he let Molly go. And it was as he watched the dog lope off—funny how unthreatening a Doberman’s trot was, considering the fear they inspired in people—that he saw the man. Trudging past the men’s pond, then turning and heading up the hill along a path much favoured by dog walkers and joggers, his back to Wally—which paradoxically was what gave him away.

It sounded strange, as Wally knew from trying to explain to his wife, but after twelve years of following people for a living, the way they looked from behind did for Wally just what fingerprints did for a forensic technician. The traits were just as individual, just as telltale. So when he saw that slow gait, like that of a man walking to get married to someone he didn’t love, Wally knew at once he’d watched that back before.

And who it belonged to: Vladimir Rykov, trade attaché at the Russian Embassy. Wally had followed him before—to a restaurant in Charlotte Street, to a meeting at the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall, once on a Saturday to an Arsenal match in their last season at the old High-bury ground.

But what was Rykov doing here in the middle of a working day? Steady on, he told himself, he’s probably going for a walk, just like you are, only without a dog. After all, the Russian Trade Delegation was only a few hundred yards away, perched on Highgate West Hill above the heath, a gruesome fenced-off compound of sixties modules.

But there was something deliberate about Rykov’s progress. He was going somewhere, with a purpose, Wally told himself after following him for less than a minute. As he climbed the path, Rykov veered right, and walked across the rough grass towards a group of trees, known locally as Boadicea’s Tomb. A stand of large oaks backed by towering pines, planted in a circle and ringed by iron railings. High up, the tomb was impossible to approach unseen. There was a bench on its north side where the Russian now sat down.

Wally turned away, calling to Molly. He fussed with her for a while, keeping his head down. Two minutes later, he stole a quick glance up the hill and saw that a man had joined Rykov on the bench.

In another part of the heath, nearer the men’s pond, it might have been a cruising encounter, but not here—and besides, the men sat far apart on the bench. Rykov seemed to be doing the talking, though from this distance it was hard to tell. But it was a meeting, not some chance encounter; of that Wally was sure. Why in such a remote place? Because Rykov didn’t want to be seen—presumably neither did the other man.

He’d loitered enough. There were other dog walkers around, but people didn’t forget a Doberman, so Wally followed Molly along the same path Rykov had climbed. He only stopped walking when he was sheltered by a dip from the view of the bench. He waited for what seemed an eternity, stamping his feet to keep his circulation flowing in the sharp wind, letting the dog sniff rabbit holes. He was rewarded for his patience when Rykov came into view descending the hill, followed thirty seconds later by the other man.

Wally didn’t hesitate. There was no point in following Rykov—he could find him any time. But who was this other man? He was six feet or so, short back and sides, and wore a windcheater that highlighted a powerful build. Unlike Rykov, he didn’t look foreign—not at this distance at any rate—but there was something distinctive about the man. Ex-army, thought Wally. And he quickly put Molly back on her lead, then moved down the field, trying to act like just any other dog owner who had finished the morning’s exercise.

Ahead, Rykov disappeared towards the path between the dog pond and the men’s pond in the direction of the Trade Delegation. The other man went right, skirting the pond, heading towards the low green grass of Parliament Hill. Wally picked up the pace, though careful to keep a good 200 yards between them. The tennis courts and buildings of a sixth-form college loomed ahead, but the man swerved left suddenly and Wally half-sprinted to catch up. He reached the road just in time to see the man emerge from a crowd of teenagers, sprint across the road and hop on to a double-decker bus. It chugged away in a swirl of black exhaust. Cursing, Wally looked around hopelessly for a cab.

Then London Transport came to the rescue, in the form of another bus, right on the heels of the earlier one. Wally ran to the stop, the bus pulled up, and he had both feet on and was reaching for change to pay his fare when the driver started shaking his head. “Not on my bus, mon,” he said, in indisputable Jamaican tones. The driver pointed an accusing finger at Molly.

“I can bring a dog on the bus,” Wally protested.

“Not that dog and not my bus. No way.”

“She won’t do any harm,” Wally said, grabbing the dog’s lead tight. He could see passengers staring at him and the dog.

“That’s what you say,” said the driver, keeping a careful eye on the Doberman. “But that’s no Seeing Eye dog for sure. Them’s dangerous. You get off now, mon, or I’m not starting.”

He pointed to the pavement fiercely and when Wally tried to argue, simply shook his head. Molly, who disliked arguments, uttered a noise somewhere between a yawn and a yelp, then licked her lips. A drop of saliva fell on the platform. Some of the passengers muttered and Wally, recognising a lost battle, got down, groaning with frustration. The bus moved off.

The leading bus had by now long disappeared in the direction of central London. There was still no taxi in sight. “Come on, Molly,” said Wally, “let’s go home.” But who the hell was the man?