Tracers (11 page)

Nothing. He counted to thirty, waiting for the first signs of a vehicle coming in after him. Most days in most situations, he trusted his instincts. And while the best of alarms occasionally threw up a false flag, the one time you ignored them was usually when something was wrong.

Apart from the hum of cars and the heavier beat of an occasional truck engine, every vehicle continued on by without slowing.

He gave it five more minutes, fighting against the desire to keep moving. Moving was good; moving stopped you becoming an easy target. When you stopped you became vulnerable. After five minutes, he climbed out and went to the boot, reached in and found the metal box. He flipped the dial and opened the lid. The handgun was concealed under a layer of foam. A 9mm Browning semi-automatic variant, it carried no identification marks, the dark steel well worn and showing signs of its passage through many hands. But it was clean and oiled and, as a quick check revealed, ready for use. He made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his pocket.

He got back in the car, wondering whether he should have left Rik in London. But Rik was a computer whizz, not a field man. Harry had taken him to a private range a few times, to give him a workout. He had shown a good eye and a steady hand, and had performed well on a defensive driving course. But it didn’t make him ready to be thrown into a dangerous situation and able to cope instinctively.

Unlike himself. A hangover from being a field officer in the security service was that Harry had left with the unusual proviso of being ‘carded’ – permitted to carry a handgun as a civilian. It meant he was on call by the authorities if the need arose. He’d fought against it at first, determined not to have any kind of umbilical cord tying him to an organization that had tried its level best to kill him. But in the end the offer had been too easy to accept and he’d given in, persuaded against his better judgement that it might be useful. After all, what was the likelihood of him being called? They had better, younger and brighter bodies on their books.

But authorized or not, there was still a risk to carrying an automatic weapon in his car. Especially if he ran into a random police check and was unable to provide proof of his authority quickly enough. It was reason enough not to drag Rik into it . . . and one of the reasons he had never told him about being carded. Even so.

He took out his mobile and considered calling him. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and he should warn him to keep an eye out for unusual movement around his flat. But what if Rik overreacted and got himself into a jam? He decided against it. No point in raising the tension unnecessarily. First he needed proof.

A mile ahead of the lay-by, Dog sat astride a trials bike in the forecourt of a petrol station and sipped from a small bottle of mineral water. And waited.

He was dressed in worn, nondescript black leathers and a scratched crash helmet, and was watching for signs of the Saab.

Whatever had caused Tate to pull off the road so abruptly didn’t particularly concern him; he was certain he hadn’t been made, although that might change the longer he stayed on Tate’s tail. But any deviation from the norm was a change in pattern and, in Dog’s experience, such changes often carried unforeseen dangers if you ignored them.

When the familiar car flashed by ten minutes later, he tossed the bottle into a bin and dialled a number on his mobile. When a voice answered, he said, ‘We’re off again.’ Then he switched off the mobile and powered away after the Saab.

NINETEEN

U
naware of Dog’s presence, Harry was soon off the main routes and cruising through quiet back roads. He drove fast, negotiating the bends with ease and flicking past slower traffic and the occasional cluster of houses. All the while he kept an eye out for signs of pursuit, but saw nobody hovering in his wake for longer than seemed normal.

A sign came up for South Acres. A crudely painted sheet of marine ply nailed to a pine tree at the side of the road, it bore an arrow pointing down a narrow, unpaved track. The track disappeared into a thick belt of conifers and seemed to lead to the only dwelling for some distance.

Harry turned round and drove back slowly past the entrance to study the layout. The track bent out of sight after fifty yards, and wherever South Acres was, it lay screened by trees at the top of a rising slope.

A hundred yards beyond the entrance was a scrubby, unkempt field dotted with tufts of couch grass. A few weather-worn poles and uprights lay scattered, with a rusting feed bin on its side, buckled and unused. The paint on the poles was peeling and dull, and if any horses had jumped them, it must have been a long time ago. Another line of trees at the end of the field prevented any view of a house or farm buildings. A newish TO LET sign on a post stood against the fence near the road, with the agent’s name followed by a phone number.

Harry spotted a gap in a group of trees just beyond the field and stopped. He reversed off the road until the nose of the car was screened by folds of soft bracken and the overhanging branches of a beech tree. He checked his watch and nodded towards the sky, where the light was already beginning to fade. Another thirty minutes and it would be safe to take a walk.

He took out his mobile and dialled the number of the letting agent that he’d seen on the post in the field.

‘Dempsey’s. Can I help you?’ The singsong tones of a young woman echoed in the car.

Harry said, ‘I’ve just noticed your panel in a field near a place called South Acres. Is it vacant?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The young woman sounded distracted, as if she’d been about to leave. ‘But that property’s on a short let. Perhaps you could call in the morning? Our Mr Dempsey can tell you—’

‘I don’t have much time,’ Harry interrupted her before she could put the phone down. ‘I’m flying out of Luton this evening and I need to get something sorted in the next day or so, otherwise my wife and daughters are going to kill me. I need to rent a place for at least twelve months, but it’s got to have stabling for three horses.’

‘Yes, sir, but—’

‘What’s your name, miss?’

‘It’s Donna.’

‘Listen, Donna, you could save my life and I’ll tell your Mr Dempsey what a big help you’ve been. Let me know the name of the current tenants, so I can pop in for a quick look round, would you? If it fits what I want, I’ll do a bank transfer tomorrow, first thing.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Donna sounded interested but cautious. ‘I can’t do that. Mr Dempsey handles the South Acres let. All I know is, it was to a gentleman who wanted a temporary base here for a few weeks.’ Her voice dropped slightly. ‘He insisted on paying for three months, and since the place had been empty for a while, Mr Dempsey let it go as a special. That’s all I can tell you.’

Harry thanked the young woman and rang off. Pity Rik wasn’t here, after all. He could have sent him round in person. She’d have probably salivated all over him and given him whatever information he asked for.

He wondered what kind of person needed an isolated farm as a temporary base. Presumably somebody who needed space around them, and where they were not troubled by neighbours. But for what?

A few vehicles swept by, fanning the surrounding foliage. If anyone noticed the car among the trees, they clearly considered it none of their business. Harry settled back to wait for daylight to fade.

When the light had dropped sufficiently, he got out of the car and closed the door. He checked the gun in his pocket but left it where it was. He didn’t know anything about this place yet, and could be on a wild goose chase. Wandering around the woods at dusk with a handgun could expose him unnecessarily if he chanced on someone innocently walking their dog.

He zigzagged through the trees, following a line roughly parallel to the road. The undergrowth was rampant, with tangles of briar and nettles underfoot, and lots of deadwood slowly rotting into the soil, making progress slow. An occasional curtain of hanging branches stung his cheeks, but although he wasn’t ideally dressed for tramping through the woods, he didn’t need to detour too far off his intended route. Other than the background hum of vehicles along the road, the atmosphere among the trees was quiet and sombre, the air heavy with the aroma of sap, rotten wood and damp earth. He stopped every few yards to listen and check his surroundings.

Eventually he reached the edge of the tree line and saw the field containing the abandoned jump fences. Turning away from the road, he followed a rusted barbed wire fence until he reached another stretch of twisted wire. On the other side of this was a twin set of ruts, a continuation of the track from the road.

Beyond the track was another belt of trees, dark and silent save for the faint rustle of leaves. The undergrowth looked as wild and desolate as the area he had just crossed, with fallen tree trunks and branches littering the ground.

He looked right. The track ran for a few yards before curving sharply left and out of sight. It was tempting, and would allow him to move faster. But following it would leave him out in the open if anyone came along. He decided on the trees opposite, which looked like ideal cover.

Crossing the track into a denser thicket, he eventually reached a high stone wall. The top layer showed signs of crumbling, with broken fragments lying in a jumble at the base. Moss covered the stones, filling the gaps with fuzzy bundles like small, hairy bugs, and the air reeked of damp and the permanent absence of sunlight. The structure was too high to see over, but Harry spotted a point where a stone had fallen out. He stepped across and peered through the gap.

What had once been an elegant, two-storey farmhouse stood a few yards away, with the track running across between it and the wall. Beyond the house stood a collection of ancient barns and outbuildings, the latter with moss-covered walls and iron stains from large reinforcing cross-bolts in the stonework. A rusted iron fence ran along the front of the house, and inside it, the remains of a flowerbed now peppered with weeds and tufts of rampant, coarse grass.

Rust seemed to be the predominant colour among all the outbuildings, from the corrugated metal sheets of the roofs, which had sagged away, exposing their metal trusses to the elements, to an ancient tractor standing against the barn wall. Its rubber tyres were gone, perished to husks, the engine block a solid, rusted lump beneath a dull, red bonnet. The smokestack was skewed drunkenly to one side, as rotten as soft bark.

Behind the tractor Harry could just make out the front wing of a car.

A yellow Suzuki four-wheel drive.

The farmhouse was dark save for a single, naked bulb burning in one of the upstairs rooms. Harry froze at a flash of movement. A man was standing in the lit room, his back to the window. He was gesturing at someone out of sight. He wore a plain white shirt with the sleeves buttoned to the wrists. He shook his head and turned to stare out of the window, eyes on the trees right where Harry had been walking moments before. A dark patch was just visible on his face.

Silverman
.

Harry stayed absolutely still. If he moved now, Silverman couldn’t fail to spot him. Then he realized the man’s attention was caught by something down at the front of the house. Silverman said something, and seconds later he was joined by another figure who looked down and smiled briefly before turning away and pulling Silverman after him.

It was the young man from the airport.

Harry lifted himself on his toes and peered in the direction the two men had been looking. As he did so, he heard a crunch from the other side of the wall, followed by a cough and the throaty sound of somebody spitting. He waited, not daring to move and feeling the strain up the back of his legs.

A man walked by not ten feet away. He was moving slowly along the gravel drive, head swinging to check the scenery. Even in the poor light, Harry saw he was dressed in a bomber jacket and jeans, was heavily built and swarthy, in need of a shave.

He waited for the man to turn away, then dropped slowly to a crouch, his breathing light but his heart pounding.

The man on the other side of the wall was clearly a guard. While the shotgun he carried across his chest might have been for shooting vermin or rabbits, the semi-automatic tucked prominently into the side of his belt was anything but.

TWENTY

H
arry thought about his next move, waiting for the man to walk away. Treading on a branch now would be a dead giveaway, and a shotgun blast among these trees could still be lethal. Gut instinct told him he should drop this assignment and get out fast. There were departments that dealt with this kind of stuff; he’d worked in one himself and knew the score. A phone call to the right number would initiate a scramble of men and transport, and in no time at all this place would be surrounded and contained.

If he did that, however, he would never know what lay behind the events of the past couple of days. A puzzle like that could gnaw away at you, driving a person mad with speculation.

He could do both, he reasoned. Call it in to Jennings and wait around to see what happened. See what the lawyer had in the way of clout.

He made his way back to the car and dialled the number. If things went disastrously wrong, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing he had fulfilled his part of the contract. If it all turned out to be a fuss over nothing, well, he’d have to live with it.
Former MI5 man cries wolf.
He’d had worse things said about him.

A motorbike with a loud exhaust clattered by on the road. It was loud enough to shock a number of birds out of the trees, forcing Harry to abandon the call and redial. He noted with relief that there seemed to be less traffic going by now. If he had to get away from here in a hurry, he didn’t fancy waiting for someone to let him out into a long line of commuter traffic. Not with a man waving a shotgun behind him.