Deception (32 page)

Harry said nothing. If there was anywhere to spring a trap, it was right here. Plenty of hard cover, lots of shadow, good vantage points from on high, tailor made for killing.

He heard a creak of wood.

They had passed an ancient grit bin a few yards back. Made of metal, with two wooden batwing-style doors set at an angle, it was a piece of railway detritus, abandoned and forgotten. Warped now and long since peeled of any paint, the doors were shut.

Except now they were moving.

‘
Down!
' Harry turned, bringing up his weapon, instincts and training kicking in. He found Clare standing in his way, and stepped sideways to get a better line of fire. She moved back, trying to drag her gun round to bear on the target, but stumbled on a piece of ballast and lost her balance.

The batwing doors flew open, and the tall figure of Ganic uncurled from inside, grinning triumphantly. He had waited for them to pass before making his move, and now he had them cold. He was aiming at Harry, whom he clearly thought was the bigger danger. But as he squeezed the trigger, one of the doors fell back against his leg.

It was enough to distract him. The gunshot was loud in the cutting, the bullet so close to Harry's head he swore he felt the wind of its passing.

He stood his ground and returned fire. Two shots, an echo of a third, and Ganic was flung backwards, trying to stay upright, a shocked look on his face as twin red spots showed on his shirt front. He dropped his gun and fell back into the bin, the doors disintegrating as his heavy body crushed them flat.

Clare had cried out. It took Harry a moment to realize that he had only fired twice. Clare had not fired at all.

But there had been a third shot.

He turned. Clare was lying across the track, a bright splash of red on her stomach. She had dropped her gun and was scrabbling in pain at the ground, trying to get up, and staring at Harry, eyes wide in desperation and shock.

‘Don't move!'

Harry froze. Slowly turned his head. It was Zubac, standing just clear of the bridge and holding a semi-automatic. It had been a classic ambush. Zubac must have been waiting in the safety recess under the bridge, with Ganic taking the rear.

Zubac stepped out from the bridge, feet crunching on the scattered ballast, motioning with his free hand for Harry to drop his gun.

‘Drop the gun, Englishman, or I'll finish off your bitch right now.'

Harry did so reluctantly, bending slightly to allow the gun to drop carefully. Misfires could also kill. It would be too humiliating to be gut-shot by his own weapon.

‘What do you want?' He had to keep Zubac talking. Talking was good. Talking allowed for distractions and negotiations. Talking meant life.

‘Want?' Zubac was looking at Ganic's body, slumped inelegantly across the grit bin that had been his hiding place. If he was upset by the death of his friend, he showed no emotion.

‘Yes. You didn't lead us down here for nothing. You could have been away and gone by now.'

‘True.' Zubac shrugged and looked up at the sky. The skylarks had gone silent. Only the tractor droned on, ragged and distant. ‘It is pleasant here. Tranquil. Is that the word – tranquil?' He dropped his gaze to Clare. ‘Help me and I won't let her suffer.' Harry glanced at Clare, who was groaning softly. Fresh blood glistened wetly on her blouse, with a trail running down her side. If he didn't get help soon, she would die.

‘Help you how?'

‘Out of the country. With you I can get across the water.'

‘Why me? Hasn't Soran got you a way out? Deakin? Nicholls?'

Zubac stared at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. ‘You know a lot, Englishman. Maybe too much. Maybe I should kill you right now.' He lifted the gun and took the first pressure on the trigger.

FIFTY-SEVEN

‘
S
o far so good, then.' Paulton nodded. Deakin had just relayed the news that Ferris was in the bag and a message had gone to Tate letting him know. He and the others were walking around the lake at the conference centre, avoiding the other groups taking a break from their meetings. Chatting with corporate windbags was the last thing any of them wanted to do right now.

‘As long as Tate does what you said he will.' Deakin picked up a stone and flicked it into the water. ‘You've got a lot more faith in him than I have. What's to stop him screaming for the cops?'

‘Because it's not in his nature. I know the way he thinks, believe me.' Paulton was now relishing the fact that they were depending on his knowledge of Harry Tate to do the right thing. It meant the balance of influence had shifted, allowing him to play a more guiding role in what would follow. ‘He'll trot after Ferris alone because he's been conditioned to do so. It's all he knows.'

‘But if he doesn't?' Turpowicz insisted.

‘In that case, there will be a messy confrontation with the police or Special Forces and I fear your two thugs will not return to their homeland. And Ferris will be another casualty of police action.' He eyed Turpowicz keenly. ‘In which event, Mr Turp, I think we might have need of your specialized military skills.'

‘Me?' Turpowicz stopped walking.

‘Yes.' Paulton turned and glanced at Deakin for support. ‘Of the three of us, you alone have the freedom to travel to the UK without lighting up half the security or military networks in the country. You're what some of my more hip, cool and trendy former colleagues call a “clean skin” – unknown to anyone and able to move freely without arousing interest.'

‘Why the hell would he need to do that?' Deakin asked. He sounded torn between the desire to remain in control and fascination at what Paulton was saying.

‘Damn right,' Turpowicz echoed. ‘I like it just fine on this side of the Channel, thanks.'

Paulton kept his eyes on the American's face. It was a trick he'd learned when about to propose a dangerous course of action to a subordinate. It lent gravity and confidence to the implied request that was about to follow. ‘If the Bosnians fail to stop Tate, then you will have to step in and take over. Unless, of course, you've been out of practice too long?'

It was a risky way of provoking a positive response, not least because Paulton wasn't sure what Deakin's reaction would be at having matters taken out of his hands like this. Except that it made absolute sense – and he was certain that the former US airborne sergeant's pride would not let him back down.

‘He's right.' Deakin nodded after a few moments. ‘We have to get this turkey off our tail. We've already used up three of our five days, and we don't need Tate on our case along with the Chinese. How about it, Turp?' He waited for his colleague to agree.

Turpowicz stared at them in turn, then tilted his head. ‘Sure. Why not?'

Paulton smiled broadly. ‘Good man. Shall we go and celebrate, or do you need to go off into the woods and practise those silent kill techniques which I know they teach at Fort Campbell?'

Turpowicz didn't return the smile. ‘No need. Once taught, never forgotten.'

FIFTY-EIGHT

‘
I
t's not just me any more,' said Harry, thinking fast, eyes fastening on Zubac's and trying to drill into his brain. ‘The word is out; the Protectory is going to be ripped apart anytime soon. Their time is up along with anyone associated with them: Deakin, Turpowicz, Nicholls, the lot. For you, using any of the conventional ports is out of the question. They'll be watching every exit from here to Inverness.'

Zubac slowly relaxed his grip on the gun, flexing his fingers around the butt as a frown knotted his brow. The barrel dipped as he absorbed what Harry was saying. Then, ‘You better hope not.' He shifted the gun and angled it down at Clare's head. ‘Or I shoot her right now. You think I care about shooting a woman? She is nothing to me. We did it all the time where I come from. It was sport.'

‘OK. OK.' Harry wanted to call his bluff, but he couldn't take the chance. He'd seen what Zubac was capable of. He lifted a hand to placate him, anything to stop him pulling the trigger. ‘Let me think how. First, though, where's the man you took?'

Zubac blinked. ‘Ah, you mean your colleague, the boy?' He tilted his head back towards the bridge. ‘Him I nearly forgot. He's fine. He's my other insurance, in case this one dies too quick  . . . or you refuse to help.'

To emphasize his point, Zubac reached down and placed the gun barrel against Clare's forehead. He took the first pressure on the trigger as Clare stared up at him, looking helplessly past the gun. ‘You like this woman, Englishman? Huh? She's not pretty already; this will make her even less so, I promise you. Difficult to like her much then.' He grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘But at least she won't fight back, yes?'

Harry didn't say anything. He was too busy trying not to look at Clare. Her right hand was moving. He told himself that it was probably a subconscious motor motion, a reaction to shock and pain drawing in the muscles. God knows what she must be feeling.

‘There's no need for that,' he said. ‘I'll help.' It was bullshit, of course, as they all knew. Zubac would no more allow them to go free than he would give himself in to the police. First Clare, then Rik, then Harry; all expendable in exchange for his freedom. And with Harry, Zubac had a score to settle. ‘So what was the plan, then, before this? If you've got a vehicle, it would help.' Keep him talking, opening the idea that he could get away even now.

‘There is another car with fresh plates. In the town called Grinstead.' Zubac had trouble with the ‘Gr'. ‘One kilometre east from here, by crossing  . . . but not used any more. You understand, crossing?'

‘I understand. All you have to do is walk along the track until you reach it.'

Clare had brought her hand down to her hip, moving with excruciating slowness. It must have been agony. Harry kept his eyes on Zubac's face, demanding his full attention. He had no idea what Clare was up to, but if she could distract him long enough  . . .

‘That's easy enough. You get the car and then what? What did Soran say to do next? What was the plan?'

Zubac spat to one side. ‘Soran is going to be dead man,' he muttered. ‘The Renault he gave us was supposed to be good. It was shit machinery with shit engine, fit for scrapyard. So maybe there is no car in Grinstead and he cheat us. That is why you will help.'

Christ on a bike, Harry thought. What a time to lose confidence in your supply line.

‘There will be other cars, no problem. I can get one.'

Clare's hand had disappeared. She was now trying to move her body, to roll slightly. Was she going for a back-up weapon  . . . or was the pain so acute that she was trying to ease it? Whatever, the final movement was sufficient to catch Zubac's attention.

He glanced down with a muttered query.

Harry began to move, his gut lurching. It was no good; he would be too late. All it would take was the pressure of Zubac's finger—

Fortunately, Zubac was even slower to react. Clare gave a grunt and her hand came out from under her body trailing a glint of silver. She brushed the back of Zubac's hand, leaving behind a heavy veil of blood as the blade of her compact knife sliced deeply through the skin and extensor tendons. The Bosnian cried out in pain and tried to pull the trigger, but his fingers were useless and the gun fell on to Clare's face. As it slid to her side, she scooped it up in a flash and thrust it into his chest, screamed furiously, and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession.

Zubac was thrown backwards by the force of the shots.

By the time Harry got to her side, Clare had dropped the gun and was nearly unconscious. He made her comfortable and checked her airways were clear, then tore off his shirt and used his belt to hold a wad of the cloth against the wound.

As he worked on trying to save her, she watched him, her eyes unnaturally bright. If there was a message in there, he failed to see it. But then she whispered something and it was simple, desperate.

‘Help me  . . .' Then she passed out.

Harry took out his phone and rang Ballatyne's office.

‘One woman with a gunshot wound,' he told the man who answered, and gave him his location. ‘She needs urgent medical attention. Ground access is rubbish – a chopper would be quicker. Tell them to look for a railway cutting near a bridge. Landing area is good.'

‘Understood, sir. Air ambulance on the way. I'll tell Mr Ballatyne. Any opposition likely?'

‘There was – they're both dead.'

‘Very good, sir.' The man cut the connection and Harry switched off his phone, not sure if his final words had been an acknowledgement or a congratulation.

Rik. He had to find Rik. Must be under the bridge if Zubac had been telling the truth. As he scooped up his gun and stood up, Harry glanced back along the track, eyes drifting towards the grit bin where he had shot Ganic.

But Ganic was no longer there.

FIFTY-NINE

H
arry jogged across to the bin, staying low. The skin on his neck was prickling with anticipation, expecting the slam of a gunshot. But nothing came. He scanned the area, hoping for some signs showing where the Bosnian had gone. How the hell had the man survived the two shots? He must have the constitution of an elephant.

But he wasn't bulletproof. There were blood spots on the ground. More on the remains of the bin's wooden doors and the grass leading towards the slope. It didn't look as if he was bleeding profusely, but still more than enough to have slowed down or stopped most men in their tracks.

And no sign of his gun.

A tangle of bushes littered the slope, some at head height and covered with greenery. Too dense to see anything clearly until you were right on it, by which time it was too late. If Ganic was up there waiting, it would be suicidal going up after him. He'd have done this kind of fighting before. All the Bosnian had to do was wait and Harry would walk right on to his gun.