Deception (33 page)

He turned towards the bridge. He had to find Rik, or Ganic would have a bargaining tool and they'd be back to square one. And somehow he doubted Ganic would be as patient or as talkative as Zubac.

He stopped before going in, trying to see inside the shadowed structure. It was probably forty feet wide, the ground clear as far as he could see. But there were bushes and weeds growing along the base of the walls, ideal cover for a man to lie in wait. If Ganic had worked his way round and was already in there  . . . Harry shook his head. Pointless worrying. After all, what else was he going to do – turn round and walk away? This had to bloody end some time.

He stepped forward, braced for a movement, a sound. According to the close quarter combat instructors many years ago, it was more a feeling you had to look for, a shift in the atmosphere that gave a hint of the threat to come. If the opposition was good enough, they'd make no sound, have no need to move until they were ready. But the air around them would shift, and that was what they had to look out for. The good students used their instincts and tuned in immediately, picking up the signals. The bad ones ended up dead. At the time, Harry had thought it was instructor mumbo-jumbo, thrown in to make them try harder. But he'd soon learned different.

He heard a groan, then a scrape of sound, like fabric rubbing on something. It was coming from the far side of the bridge, behind the wall.

Was it Ganic, wounded and desperate, but willing Harry on so he could kill him?

It was Rik, arms tied behind his back and ankles held by a wrap-around of rope. Just enough to hold a man still. He looked groggy, his body limp, but he jumped when Harry bent over him. Then recognition flooded his face and he relaxed.

‘Took your bloody time, didn't you?' he moaned, shaking off the ropes when Harry loosened the knots. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight them off all by myself. Jesus, I've got a headache. That bastard Zubac  . . .' He rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. They came knocking not long after you left. I thought it was you and opened the door. Next thing I knew I was having the shit kicked out of me. I don't remember much after that.' He looked up with a start. ‘Where are they? I heard shots.'

‘Zubac's dead. Ganic's free and roaming but wounded. Lie still – you might have concussion. There's a chopper on the way. We need to get back to Clare.' He put a hand under Rik's arm and helped him up.

‘Clare? You mean slice-and-dice Clare, the MI6 sushi chef? What's that crazy bitch doing here?'

‘Saving our bacon, mostly, so stop moaning, you little tick – you owe her. She took a bullet.'

Rik made a sound, stumbling on shaky legs. ‘Long as I don't have to be bessy mates with her. She gives me the creeps.'

They emerged from the bridge and crossed to where Clare was lying. Her breathing was uneven, but she was hanging on.

‘Christ, that looks bad,' said Rik. He looked shocked, dropping the antagonism in an instant. ‘Is she going to make it?'

‘Only if they're quick.' Harry stood and listened, wondering where the chopper would come from. For Clare the seconds were ticking away.

Rik found Zubac's gun. He checked the load, cleaned off some dirt, then sat down on the ground and looked up at Harry.

‘This was a fuck-up, wasn't it? All of it. Was it necessary?'

Harry shrugged. He didn't know any more. They hadn't found the Protectory or Paulton, and one of their tame orcs was out there somewhere with a gun. He took out his mobile and called Ballatyne. This time the man himself answered.

‘You on another killing spree, Harry?' he said drily. ‘I'm not going to have to send you back overseas, am I? The ambulance should be there any minute, by the way. What's the damage?'

‘Clare Jardine's badly wounded, Rik's bashed up but moaning and one of the Bosnians was playing possum. He's out there somewhere, bleeding, but armed and mobile.'

‘Don't worry, there's a police chopper somewhere above you now. Got a camera on board so good he can spot the freckles on a rabbit's arse. Moment they see Ganic they'll have him picked up by a Special Forces team.'

‘No,' said Harry quickly. That was the worst thing they could do. ‘Let Ganic run.'

‘Say again?'

‘They have a car waiting ready to go. They were trying to get back across the Channel. Ganic wasn't the brains of the outfit; that was Zubac's role. Ganic's a soldier. All he knows is they had to get out of the country – he won't be thinking about why. With Zubac dead he'll concentrate on getting back to Deakin  . . . and Paulton.'

‘Can't do that, Harry. The man's a cop killer.' Ballatyne sounded adamant. ‘We let him get among the public with a gun and we'll all end up in Parkhurst. There could be a bloodbath.'

‘Then get me to him before he can go anywhere.'

‘To do what? You're not the executioner here, Harry.'

‘He'll tell me where Deakin is hiding. Pinpoint his location and get me close behind, and I'll follow him in before he gets anywhere public – but you have to be quick.'

‘Then what?'

‘Then it's over.'

Ten minutes later, Harry was seated in the body of a British Chinook fitted out with medical equipment. He could do nothing but watch while the crew of army medics got on with their job, evaluating the extent of Clare's injury and keeping her alive before they took to the air. She was still losing blood from the bullet wound in her side, and her skin was a frightening shade of grey. The chief medic was on the radio feeding through the details of her wound and current state ready for their arrival and Clare's transfer to an emergency unit, while his colleagues busied themselves monitoring her condition and keeping her as still as possible against the build-up of vibration as the aircraft got ready to lift off.

Across from Harry, Rik was staring at her, his face a vivid array of colours from where Zubac and Ganic had subdued him for transport to the abandoned airfield. He had a patch of blood on his chest, but a medic had pronounced it a minor leakage from his shoulder wound which, Rik had explained, was caused by a carefully placed kick from Ganic on the way down.

One of the helicopter crew members waved at Harry and signalled for him to get out. Harry unclipped his belt and jumped down, and the crew member hurried him away from the noise and dust of the down-draught.

‘You're to wait here,' he shouted. ‘They've spotted your man less than half a mile away. He's down and not moving. Another helicopter will pick you up in three minutes. Stand well back and keep your head down.' He clapped Harry on the shoulder and jumped back into the fuselage, then the Chinook wound up and lifted off, enveloping Harry and everything around him in a stinging spray of soil, dust and tiny bits of gravel.

SIXTY

G
anic was lying to one side of the trail, face up, arms flung out to his sides.

As the police helicopter assigned to pick Harry up slid alongside the old railway cutting, Harry could see that the Bosnian's hands were empty. He checked the cutting in each direction. Nobody about. But just beyond where he was lying, the remains of an old vehicle crossing were just visible where a track met the railway at right-angles.

There was no sign of a getaway car. Zubac's suspicions had been correct: Soran had failed to keep to this part of the plan.

‘Drop me here,' he said, pointing to the top of the slope leading to the track, where long grass would make a soft landing and give him some cover if Ganic was still a danger.

The pilot nodded and lost height, and Harry dropped from the doorway and rolled, feeling the impact through his legs. He stood up and took out his gun, then stepped over the wooden fence rail and crouched at the top of the slope just above where Ganic was lying. He hadn't moved.

The helicopter pulled away, the down-draught fanning the surrounding vegetation and lifting Ganic's jacket.

Harry mentally crossed his fingers, then slid down the slope. Holding his gun two-handed, he fixed the sights on the man below. Any movement and he was going to start shooting, and to hell with Ballatyne's reaction.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ganic's gun lying nearby. Too far for the Bosnian to reach out for it, even if he'd wanted to. It was covered in blood, with a trail of bright red splashes leading back in the direction of the bridge. Ganic's shirt front was awash with red, too.

His eyes were open, watching as Harry approached. He showed no expression. But a blink showed he was still conscious.

‘You're a tough man to stop,' said Harry.

‘Fuck you, Englishman.' Ganic's whisper was faint, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ‘You lucky.'

Harry squatted down alongside him, showed him the gun. He felt no emotion at seeing this man down; Ganic had planned on taking Jean and killing Rik, and had a long list of bodies to his name, including the officers in Brixton. In the grand scheme of things, his time was long overdue.

‘Where's Deakin?'

A red bubble formed at the corner of Ganic's mouth. He shook his head and coughed, his face twisting with pain. The bubble popped and a string of reddened saliva slid down the side of his chin.

‘Come on, what's the point of defending him? Deakin stiffed you; he left you here with no car and no way out.' He nodded in the direction of the crossing, which he could just see from here. Ganic must have seen it, too, before he fell. An empty track with no car in sight. It had probably been the last straw for a dying man. ‘What do you owe him?'

Ganic swallowed, but said nothing. The helicopter had gone, and Harry guessed it had landed to conserve fuel. Overhead the skylarks had started up again, and a pigeon added its melancholy tune to the landscape.

‘Milan?' The man's voice was fainter, his breathing faster. ‘Where's Mil  . . . Milan?'

‘He's dead.'

Ganic's eyes swivelled. ‘You?'

‘No. Not me.'

‘Then  . . . the
woman
?' He tried to laugh, but choked noisily instead.

Harry waited for him to recover, and his breathing to settle. ‘He took his eyes off her.'

Ganic coughed, liquid burbling in his throat. ‘Bloody fool,' he murmured. ‘He always talked too much.'

‘Deakin,' said Harry, sensing Ganic's clock was fast running down. ‘Where do I find him? And Paulton.'

‘Do not  . . . know  . . . Pault  . . .' Ganic swallowed. ‘Turpowicz. American airborne  . . . Nich  . . .' He seemed to run out of names, as if it had all been too tiring.

‘But Deakin. Where does he hide out?'

Ganic's head flopped sideways. For a moment, Harry thought he'd gone. But when he bent closer he was surprised to pick up a flutter of breathing. ‘Deakin  . . . is English  . . . asshole,' Ganic whispered.

Then he died.

SIXTY-ONE

T
wo days passed during which Clare Jardine hovered between life and death, her every heartbeat monitored in an intensive care centre. The bullet from Zubac's gun had done a lot of damage, causing serious blood loss. But she was tough in body and spirit, and the consultants finally emerged to pronounce her past the worst. It was expected that she would survive as long as no infections set in.

There was also the revelation that Osama bin Laden had finally been run to ground in Pakistan and killed by US Special Forces. There had been no let up ever since the news broke, and every broadcast brought fresh details about the capture and the ramifications for the West.

Harry wasn't sure whether to be relieved or satisfied about either event. Bin Laden himself was a distant figure, more news-feed image than a real person. The danger facing the West came from radicalized followers who were unknown and therefore highly dangerous, and likely to want to make a statement of support.

As for Clare, he still wouldn't trust her as far as he could jump, but she had saved Jean and himself when she didn't need to, and he was grateful for that. She had also unwittingly saved Rik Ferris, who had grudgingly given her a thank you in acknowledgement by sending her a new powder compact made of bright-pink, girly plastic. No blade attached.

‘She can recover in a prison ward,' Ballatyne announced tersely. He had called a meeting at Georgio's. Ballatyne's male minder was in tow as usual, and gave Harry a familiar nod.

Harry was dismayed by the comment. ‘Isn't it a little late in the day for that?'

‘Jesus, hardly. She killed her boss, a serving MI6 officer, remember? That's a long prison term right there.'

‘Oh, you mean her boss the corrupt, murdering MI6 officer who wanted us both dead,' Harry pointed out evenly. ‘She did us a favour and you know it. Bellingham would have walked, otherwise.'

Ballatyne looked mildly shocked. ‘Surely you're not defending her, Harry. Did she get under your skin that much?'

‘No. She saved my life and she saved Jean. Call me old-fashioned like that, but I can't help it. You'd do the same.'

‘Maybe so. But the law's the law.'

‘Bollocks.' Harry leaned threateningly towards him. Ballatyne's minder got to his feet, although it was to pour himself a glass of water. He raised the glass in the background in a mock salute and grinned, then turned away. ‘What's the point of locking her up? It won't accomplish anything.'

Ballatyne shrugged. He appeared to have no ready argument, which made Harry question how serious he had been in the first place. ‘Maybe not. I'll see. No promises, though.'

Harry sat back. It was something at least.

‘Nicholls has come in, by the way,' Ballatyne told him. ‘Bumped into a group of Intelligence Corps officers at Frankfurt airport and suffered some kind of a mental trauma. Luckily one of them took it seriously and they hustled him away to a medical unit where he was treated and shipped back here. No idea when he'll be able to talk coherently, if ever, but at least it's another one down.' He chewed his lip. ‘No sign of Deakin or Paulton, though. And if Nicholls knows, he isn't saying.'