Deception (29 page)

‘How do you know this?'

‘I told you: I've got friends. They have connections. Word is that a dribble of information has been coming out of the Protectory for about three months now. Bits here, snippets there; nothing huge, but it's enough to tell them what the group is doing. At first the government didn't want to know; they looked on the Protectory as no more than rumour, a small group of ex-army misfits not worth bothering with. Then about a month ago the decision was taken to shut them down.'

‘Why?'

‘They were becoming the stuff of legend; celebrity renegades, would you believe? Robin Hood and his merry men in desert camos. You know what squaddies are like; coop them up in forward operating bases for weeks on end and they'll talk up Jack the Ripper as a hero. Make it a group helping out deserters and they're like the X-Men and the Magnificent Seven all rolled into one. It gives those with even a vague notion of jumping ship the idea that it might just work if they had somewhere safe to run. That's not good for morale.'

‘Neither is killing deserters who refuse their help.'

‘It might have pushed the MOD's thinking along a bit, but I don't think that was the catalyst. Why would the MOD care about the odd dead deserter? As far as they're concerned, it's a problem solved. Close the files, delete and move on.'

The MOD's decision had nothing to do with Tan's disappearance, either, Harry realized. If what Clare was saying was true, Tan had kicked off at least three weeks ago now, some time
after
the decision had been made to go after the Protectory. But why? Coincidence, or simply a realistic anticipation that the longer the conflict in Afghanistan went on, the situation could only get worse and more high-value targets would leave and be chased down for what they could sell?

‘These friends,' he said, turning to continue walking. Too long in one position here and the police would begin to take an interest. And he hadn't finished with Clare yet. ‘Are they in Six or the MOD?'

She shook her head with an enigmatic smile.

‘OK. The information coming out of the Protectory  . . . do they know who's leaking it?'

‘The main money seems to be on a guy called Colin Nicholls, formerly a major in the Intelligence Corps. He went missing about eight years ago while on leave from Iraq. He found his way into the original Protectory, which was just a bunch of guys helping each other stay below the radar. But they weren't selling anything, not like now.'

So far, so correct. ‘Why Nicholls? There are others in the group.' He told her about the American, Turpowicz, as an example.

‘There are thought to be half a dozen regular members, spread all over, but I don't know any names. Nicholls probably has the best background for feeding information through the system to the authorities without being traced. Maybe after all these years, he's developed a conscience – I don't know. What they have picked up is that he's become disenchanted with the way the others in the group are taking it and wants out. His messages have been sounding increasingly despondent.' She paused. ‘Hasn't Ballatyne been telling you all this stuff?'

‘No. You know they'll go after your friends, don't you?' He wasn't giving away any secrets; Clare and her contacts might be a little naïve to think they could pass her information for ever without being caught, but they weren't completely stupid. In the end, something always gave whistleblowers away, if only the whistleblowers themselves, victims of over-confidence or inflated egos. ‘They'll go on a rat hunt and clear them out.'

‘I know that. So do they.' She sounded subdued. She must have been harbouring the knowledge for some time. ‘They've been thinking of leaving, anyway. Time to move on.'

They had come as far as Birdcage Walk. Harry turned about, then stopped.

‘Thanks for helping Jean, by the way.' It was something he'd been meaning to say. It would never be enough to make them friends, but it warranted something of a truce between them, if not quite full trust.

‘No problem. You helped me in Georgia, got me out of there when you could have left me behind. Consider us quits.' She looked and sounded sincere. Another mood swing or a glimpse of the real Clare? He still wasn't sure.

‘Quits.'

‘So what now?'

‘I thought you were going to tell me. You seem to have a lot of facts.'

‘Basics, that's all. What I do know is, after what happened at Jean's place, you must be top dog on the Bosnians' hit list. They're probably feeling bruised by that failure. We neither of us know where Paulton or the Protectory are hiding out, but from the Bosnians to them is a fairly straight jump, wouldn't you say?'

‘Find the Bosnians, find Deakin and Paulton?' It was a tantalizing thought, but offhand he couldn't think of another. He'd already staked himself out as a goat once, so he might as well try it again. ‘Where can I find you?'

‘You have my number. Just call and I'll come running.' She smiled archly and walked away, her heels going click-clack on the hard ground.

His phone buzzed. It was Rik.

‘Harry, I've got something on Vanessa Tan. But you're really not going to like it. She's dead.'

FIFTY-THREE

H
arry sank into a chair in Rik's flat, and felt a wave of tiredness wash over him. They were too late. The Protectory had got to her after all. But why kill her? ‘How did it happen?'

‘She died in a house fire.'

‘When?'

Rik paused for dramatic effect, then said, ‘Six years ago.'

‘
What?
' Harry was stunned. If Tan was recorded as dead, then how—?

‘It was in Huntingdon, in a squat used by animal rights activists. The others knew her only as Vanessa, a supporter. The police never managed to match it to the address in north Wales, so she was named as Vanessa X by a local newshound. I only spotted the name by chance in a local newspaper archive. There's no photo but the activists gave a good description. One of them said she had a faint Welsh accent.'

Harry sighed. At least it explained what had happened to her after university. ‘That must be when they made the switch.'

‘Well, maybe not. That's the weird thing.' Rik sounded excited. ‘When I was still searching for anything related to Lieutenant Tan, I went through every record I could find on the command structure for ISAF in Kabul. There were pictures of all the officers, from every national force represented – puff pieces, mainly, with links to their careers, training and so on, who they knew, what sports they played, everything but who they were sleeping with. There were even shots of the support staff, right down to security guards, drivers, admin workers, chefs and valets. The only person consistently missing was Tan.'

‘Nothing?' It wasn't impossible but it seemed highly unlikely that one person – even an impostor working by design – could have missed a military photo session every time.

‘There were a couple of entries listing Lieutenant V. Tan as an aide to the Deputy Commander, but no pictures. She doesn't appear in any of the group shots, background photos or staff registers. There's no sign of her in shots of the command staff with local tribal leaders or ministers, which there would have been if she had the local languages. Can you imagine what the more politically correct wonks in the MOD would have made of that one? Here's a young woman in a key position in a war zone  . . . blah, blah, blah.'

He was right. It would have made political capital good money couldn't buy.

‘Even the gallery of leaving parties at the time has nobody who remotely resembles her,' Rik continued. ‘Blondes, brunettes – even a redhead or two – but not a single Anglo-Chinese. I checked the rosters for rotations in and out; nothing there, either.'

‘Regimental records and officer training?' Harry asked, although he could guess the result there, too.

‘She's on the strength, but listed as on temporary secondment to ISAF – but no photo. There's a V. Tan on the officer training rolls, but no further details. It's like she was a cipher; there but not there.' He took a deep breath and added, ‘I, uh  . . . I also took a peek at the MOD flight manifests for trips out to Afghanistan and back.'

Harry looked at him. ‘You did what?' That was dangerously close to restricted territory. Troop movements were jealously guarded for basic security reasons: find a particular member of the military on the move, and you were within an ace of knowing which regiment was going where. Find a specialist and you knew what the concentration and focus was going to be. Allowing access to that sort of information also exposed individual personnel to danger and security leaks.

‘It's OK,' said Rik quickly. ‘I didn't leave a footprint. I used a relay through the regimental records office. It'll stop dead at a terminal with open access. She wasn't on any of the manifests. No outs, no returns.' He sat back, pleased with himself.

‘Good work. So what's your conclusion?'

‘This Vanessa Tan was just a name on a list. A real looker, but not a real person.'

Harry stood up and did a turn around the room. Was that the real answer to this? That Vanessa Tan had been impossible to find because her entire existence had been a hoax? A fabrication? It hardly seemed credible, but stranger things had happened. If it were true, it explained why Ballatyne hadn't wanted him talking to General Foster, and why Foster himself had looked totally blank on hearing her name. He hadn't been included in the plan.

Then he had an idea and cursed himself for being slow off the mark. He'd missed an opportunity to get here much faster than this. What was it Mrs Crane had said about her?

‘ . . . as if she might make up for being a bit plain by having a string of letters after her name.'

If there was one thing he wouldn't have called Vanessa Tan, it was plain. He found Mrs Crane's telephone number and rang her.

‘Mr Tate?' She sounded surprised to hear from him. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Mrs Crane, do you have a PC?'

‘Well, of course. We're not in the Stone Age up here, you know. I was just using it, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?'

‘I want you to look at a picture and tell me what you think.' When she agreed and gave him her email address, he got Rik to send her the jpeg of Vanessa Tan from the memory stick.

Moments later, she said, ‘Right. Got it. Just let me open the attachment. I don't suppose you've found her, have you? Oh  . . . goodness.'

‘What's wrong?'

Mrs Crane sounded puzzled. ‘Who is this?'

It was all Harry needed. But he had to have confirmation without feeding her any hints.

‘Do you recognize her?'

‘No, I don't  . . .' She hesitated, then said, ‘You think it's Vanessa, don't you?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Sorry, Mr Tate, but I think you've been given the wrong information. Whoever this woman is, it's definitely not Vanessa Tan. Not in a million years.'

After thanking Mrs Crane and hanging up, Harry sat down to consider the possibilities of what they had stumbled over. Suddenly several bits of the puzzle were falling into place. The unexplained disappearance of a very bright and promising young female army officer; the absence of any solid background details, friends or family; the lack of any clues to her whereabouts.

‘How the hell did they do this?'

Rik shrugged. ‘Easy enough, given time and access.'

‘Could you do it?'

‘Sure. Whoever set this up would've been on the inside, with a lot more facilities, but I could manage, given time and some privacy.' He smiled knowingly. ‘I could get your name in there if I had to. Put you on the general staff, all braid and creased trousers.'

‘How?' Harry felt sure he was going to regret asking, but he had to know. And Rik was the only one who would tell him.

‘I'd have to access certain servers and files which I won't frighten you with by naming, then I'd go in and enter your name as having served, say, on the HQ staff in Desert Storm. I'd throw in a few photos of you sitting on a gun turret and smiling, or enjoying a brew-up with the lads in the desert, then link it all in with your regimental records. And if I was really clever, which I am, I'd make sure your name was included in movement records from the UK to Iraq and back; maybe even add a bit of gloss by showing you'd been evac'd out and treated in hospital for shrapnel wounds.' He sat back and grinned. ‘Everyone loves a hero with some metal ballast. It's not really that hard – just a matter of filling in blanks.'

‘But the photo.'

‘That's where they fell short: they wouldn't have had a recent shot of Tan, so they just took the first one they could get of an Anglo-Chinese woman of roughly the same age. Maybe they managed to get hold of any existing shots of her as a girl and wiped them. What they didn't reckon on was that you'd show the file photo to someone who'd known her, or that that anyone would bother looking beyond the basic facts they'd put on the records.'

Harry swore. He'd been on one long wild goose chase. There never had been a Lieutenant Tan. The original had died in a fire after leaving Cambridge. And now he knew why: her place in the big wide world had been taken by a fiction – an invention – used to lay an elaborate bait for the Protectory. It wouldn't have taken much; false entries in the army records, a glowing CV that painted a picture of a high-flyer with an elephantine memory, and the closest possible connections to the high command in Afghanistan. And just enough detail to make her seem real if anyone should run a cursory check.

‘There's a clincher,' added Rik. ‘I checked Tan's original application to university – her real one. She never studied languages, and even if she'd been to Kabul, there's a reason she wouldn't have been pictured with locals: in contrast to the old cobblers you were fed, she couldn't speak Pashto or Dari. She had some Cantonese from her father, and a bit of French, but that was it. And there was no record of a special memory to help her graduate, either. Whatever qualifications she got, she'd had to work hard for.'