Deception (28 page)

Ballatyne didn't express any surprise at Harry's early call the following morning. Maybe, Harry thought, he'd been expecting this all along. Especially as Foster was reported to be in London to talk to an important parliamentary select committee about the progress of supplies and equipment for troops on the ground.

For Harry, talking to Tan's former boss was the next logical step in the search for the missing lieutenant. She would have been the general's shadow every pace he took, in Kabul and elsewhere, closer than most and always there whenever she was needed. It was what good aides did: anticipating the unexpected, operating at elbow's length yet mostly unseen, advising, noting, observing – another set of eyes and ears for their superior. In such circumstances, General Foster would have got to know the young officer better than most, would have acquired even subliminally some information about her that might help them find her. Would have gained, perhaps, an insight into what made her tick.

‘What's wrong, having trouble sleeping?' the MI6 man muttered tartly.

‘No. But I am having trouble tracing Vanessa Tan. I might get a lead from talking to Foster.'

‘You can't,' Ballatyne said finally.

‘Why not?' Harry mentally dusted himself off for a fight. This official habit of creating firewalls around figures of power and influence was not going to help, not in this situation. He needed to talk to anyone who had known Tan recently. Her school and university days were gone, her family was non-existent and it was likely that anyone who had known her before her army days would not recognize the person who had gone to war. Without talking to the one person who had been closest to her, he was no further forward in even guessing where she might have gone since jumping the fence.

‘Because he won't talk. Sorry, Harry, it's not on the agenda.'

‘He won't or he won't be allowed to?'

‘You'll have to find another way.' The tone was adamant, final. End of discussion.

Harry cut the connection. He thought he knew what was going on: Foster was being protected from any potential fallout associated with having a key member of his staff deserting. When in doubt, close ranks.

Time to bluff his way forward.

Stepping into the Ministry of Defence Main Building felt like deliberately walking out into rush-hour traffic in Trafalgar Square. In spite of the impressive amount of light coming through the glass acreage of the new development, Harry felt a darkness about the place, although he knew it was his imagination. He headed for the enquiry desk under the watchful eye of the security guards and flipped his Security Services card at the bristle-haired man on duty. It was just nine fifteen and there were a lot of people about, something he was hoping to turn to his advantage.

‘I'm here to catch General Patrick Foster's press briefing,' he said. ‘Last minute assignment.' He'd been surprised to find how easy it had been for Rik to access the General's timetable.

The receptionist nodded and ran Harry's card under a scanner. It would probably light up all manner of screens in the MOD and Security Services, but Harry was past caring. What could they do to him other than chuck him out? ‘Room 16A on the ground floor.' The receptionist nodded towards the security screens and returned his card. ‘Through there and turn right, sixth door along. He's been talking about fifteen minutes already.'

Harry nodded and passed through the body scanner, then submitted to a security wand check before getting the OK to proceed. So far so good.

He arrived at 16A and stepped inside. The room was light and airy, concealed lighting giving the feel of a conservatory. General Foster was standing behind a lectern facing the door, gesturing towards a screen to one side showing a schematic of force distribution numbers against a background map of Afghanistan. The figures looked impressive, a multiple array of ground capabilities in various colours, an image of the country flooded with personnel. But Harry knew they were less than full; putting up detailed figures of how many men, women and machines were in theatre was as far beyond the instincts of the MOD as asking them to pull their own teeth with pliers. Whatever this press talk was meant to achieve, it was unlikely to be giving anyone – least of all the press – an accurate breakdown of UK and Coalition commitments in the fight against insurgents, but rather a political feel-good image for public consumption.

Foster was droning, his voice dry and automatic, and Harry guessed he was here under orders, to put a man-on-the-ground gloss on the situation for the media. While he would be accustomed to talking, the press was unlikely to be his favoured audience. Like most military men, he would be happier talking to fellow professionals, using a direct language far removed from the discreet, carefully micro-managed words he would be using here and being watched by MOD suits to ensure he didn't depart from the agreed script. Generals before him had done so, and the control now was far tighter than it had ever been.

Harry checked the room. There were fewer than twenty in the audience, most of them photographers. It must have been disappointing for the MOD press office. Flying in a general all the way from Afghanistan should have generated a lot more interest, but maybe it was an indication of just how much information the press now had on a daily basis; they didn't need to queue up to see the main man himself to know what was truly going on.

Harry couldn't see the faces of those sitting in front of him, but he felt sure there was nobody he'd recognize. He slid into a chair and waited.

The talk ended a few minutes later with a few desultory and pre-prepared questions from the media pack. Then a woman from the press office stepped forward and said, ‘That's it, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid we have to wrap it up there. General Foster has a very busy schedule. There are briefing notes by the door for you to pick up on the way out. If you would like to take photos now?'

Harry waited while the snappers did their job, before they headed for the door in a flying wedge, eager to send in their photos and copy and get to the nearest pub. As the numbers diminished, General Foster collected his papers together and walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, head bent listening to an aide feeding him his next agenda item. As the officer neared him, Harry stood up and showed his Security Services card.

‘General Foster, if you have a moment?' He was relying on a tone of authority to cut through the inevitable smokescreen around the general and confuse the suits and aides into letting him speak long enough to gain the officer's attention.

Foster slowed, eyeing the card and then Harry, his concentration broken. He stopped.

‘What is it?' Up close, he was tanned and lean, exuding confidence and gravitas. He would have to, given his job, Harry thought, and realized he was only going to get one punt at this.

As he opened his mouth to reply, a minder in a suit tried to intervene, placing a hand on Harry's chest and pushing without even bothering to look at his card. ‘That's not possible. Step back. Apply through the press office in the approved manner.'

Harry looked down at the hand, then eased it away, applying just enough pressure on the tendons with his thumb to draw a gasp from the man. He dropped the hand and looked straight at General Foster, estimating that he had about five seconds before the minder got over his surprise and wounded pride and yelled for back-up. Another three and security guards would be jumping all over him. ‘General, I need to ask you about Lieutenant Tan. Have you any idea where she might have gone?'

Foster's eyes were a dark shade of green, Harry noted, full of intelligence and, no doubt, the weightiness of his position in the war against the Taliban, coupled with his role as a military diplomat. But there was a disturbing blankness in there, too, echoed by the frown edging his brow, and Harry experienced a moment of startling revelation.

The general said, ‘Sorry – I think you need to speak to personnel on any issue like that.' Then he was gone, surrounded by his acolytes, and Harry was left with two large security guards hustling him towards the exit.

As he stepped out into the sunlight over Whitehall, Harry realized he'd been wrong. His assumption about the senior officer being protected from any fallout and therefore off-limits to Harry was way off-target. The simple fact was, General Patrick Foster, Deputy Commander Afghanistan and Lieutenant Vanessa Tan's immediate boss, hadn't got the faintest idea of who Harry had been talking about.

FIFTY-TWO

‘
C
utting it fine, Harry. I was beginning to have my doubts about you.' Clare Jardine answered Harry's call on the fifth ring. She sounded amused and even faintly smug, as if she'd been expecting his call all along. ‘I'm glad I was wrong.'

‘What do you want?' He was only fifty yards from the MOD building, and curiosity had got the better of him.

‘Come on, don't be like that.' Her voice took on a more businesslike tone. ‘Look, sorry about the teasing. If we work together, Harry, we can both get what we want. I help you, you help me, friends forever.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Not over the phone. There are too many ears in this city for my liking. Choose somewhere public if it makes you feel safer.' The amused tone was back, giving Harry cause to wonder at Clare's mental state, her mood veering from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Horse Guards Parade opposite the lake. Fifteen minutes.' Horse Guards, where armed police were stationed in cubicles, watching the government's back and the passing public. If Clare was thinking of trying any of her knife work there, she'd have to be suicidal.

Her laugh echoed down the line. ‘Horse Guards is good. But fifteen? From where you're standing right now, Harry, it should take about four minutes, tops, a fit man like you. Don't be late  . . . and don't bring the Milky Bar Kid or I might have to give him a slap.' Then she was gone, leaving him with a prickly feeling on the back of his neck.

He refused to turn round and look; he didn't want to give her the satisfaction.

Five minutes later, Clare joined him on the edge of the parade square, within sight of an armed police guard. She was dressed this time in pressed trousers and a smart jacket, every inch the office worker on a break, fitting easily into the background the way she would have been trained. She carried no bag, he noticed, but that didn't mean she was harmless; he'd seen how quickly she could move and how she could produce her little compact knife faster than many sleight-of-hand artistes.

‘Mmm  . . . clever,' she congratulated him, eyeing the guard. ‘You really don't trust me, do you? And after everything we've been through. I'm almost hurt.'

‘No, you're not. Tell me why I should trust you.'

‘OK. Fair point. Straight down to business, then.' She set off at a dawdle along the pavement, keeping a body's width apart from him, hands clasped in front of her. Amazingly, she looked almost demure, as if butter wouldn't melt. ‘I know Paulton is working with the Protectory,' she announced. ‘Don't bother asking how, I just do. He's a wheeler-dealer and he must have seen them as a prime source of money. Only he doesn't have any secrets of his own to sell, does he? Who the hell cares about MI5 stuff that's over a year out of date? And officers or agents he was running have long been pulled out. But he has contacts in all sorts of unlikely places. He must have been storing away names for years, hoping that one day he'd have a use for them. He might not have planned on this kind of use, but he's resourceful; he knows how the Protectory works: they get their hands on a few prime military personnel who are desperate for a new life and safety away from guns and bullets and IEDs and whatever crap they call their home life, and sell whatever they've got in their heads.' She paused for breath; she'd been talking fast, a professional pitch to sell the idea of chasing Paulton and not letting Harry go. And was that a hint of desperation in her voice?

‘That's the Protectory. Where does Paulton fit in?'

‘Simple: he's got something to bring to the table. He knows people who know people and he can get buyers for the kind of stuff on offer. The Protectory's problem is they don't have the reach or the contacts and never have. They're strictly small-time; soldiers cut adrift, looking to flog off a few details here and there. Negotiating without a gun is not their strong point, and they've probably been ripped off plenty of times. Paulton's argument is that he can get them in front of some real buyers  . . . and in the process take a nice cut for himself. It's a neat fit.'

She was right. Paulton had been in the security and intelligence game a long time. It was a world away from the kind of spheres Deakin and his friends inhabited. The kind of information that had passed across Paulton's desk over the years would have included names, positions and locations of people looking to get hold of whatever Britain and her allies were developing in tactical equipment. Names men like Deakin and Nicholls would never even have heard of.

But he still wasn't sure how knowing this would get him to Paulton. Clare answered that in a way he hadn't been expecting.

‘I don't want to tell stories out of school, Harry, but you know Ballatyne's playing you, don't you?'

He stopped, forcing her to do the same. He knew this might be a ploy, Clare playing SIS-type mind games to drive a wedge between him and Ballatyne. Divide and rule, as old as the hills. Yet a part of him found it difficult to contradict her outright. ‘Go on.'

‘They're only using you for one thing: to track these guys down so they can take them out. They don't have the manpower to do it themselves, and don't want to get their hands dirty if it all goes public and shit-shaped. So they've dressed it up, with Paulton now in the frame in the hope that you can kill two birds with one stone. They knock the Protectory out of the game, you get Paulton  . . . everyone's happy.'