Tracers (20 page)

Rik drove hard through the traffic, staying on the move and repeatedly changing direction. It was uncomfortable knowing they might be intercepted at any moment, but Harry was counting on the volume of traffic in broad daylight being cover enough to get where they were going. Even so, he checked the mirrors constantly, watching for signs of unusual interest or a repeat sighting of the same car on their tail.

‘Biker,’ he muttered at one point. A dark green Kawasaki was edging up on the outside, the rider enveloped in anonymous black. Since the killer had used a bike at South Acres, it wasn’t unreasonable to expect the same means might be used here in heavy traffic. It was fast, manoeuvrable and difficult to identify, and would be virtually impossible to follow in the aftermath of a shooting.

A metallic click sounded from the rear seat and he glanced back at Joanne. She had eased her handgun from her pocket and slid it under her thigh. He said nothing. For her, the response was as instinctive as breathing; it was what she’d been trained for.

The bike pitched up hard on their tail, held position for a moment, then blew past in a growl of exhaust, slipping through a gap which barely seemed to exist and streaking ahead before swinging down a side street. By the time they drew level, it was out of sight, leaving a trace of blue smoke hanging in its wake.

Thirty minutes later, Rik drew in to the kerb a hundred yards along from Jennings’ office. There were a few pedestrians about and plenty of vehicle traffic as drivers used the quieter back streets to avoid the usual jams along the Marylebone Road.

Rik climbed out and wandered along the street to check the front door, then strolled back and got behind the wheel. ‘Nobody in yet,’ he reported.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Joanne asked.

Harry unfolded a newspaper. ‘We wait and watch,’ he said. ‘If he’s not already here, he’ll be along shortly. Then we’ll have a chat.’

Time passed, during which Harry concentrated on a crossword and Rik handed Joanne a folder of papers to hold on her knee. If anyone took an interest, they were three people waiting for an appointment. In an area flush with consultants, doctors and all manner of advisers behind silver and brass nameplates, it was a common enough sight and would go unnoticed.

‘When this is all over,’ Rik ventured after a lengthy silence, ‘we could have a drink.’ He turned his head to look at Joanne.

She returned the look steadily, while Harry concentrated on his crossword. As chat-up lines went, he decided, it was less than slick.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Joanne replied neutrally. ‘Thanks.’

Harry frowned and tapped the newspaper with his pen. ‘Twenty down,’ he read carefully. ‘“Calm conversationalist”. What’s that? Ah – I know:
Smooth talker
.’

Rik scowled and said nothing, ignoring the sudden shaking of Harry’s shoulders.

‘Heads up.’ Harry put the paper to one side.

It was fifteen minutes into their watch and a taxi was pulling in to the kerb outside Jennings’ office. Two men got out. They crossed the pavement, the one leading the way tall and broad-shouldered, with heavy brows over a craggy face. He was dressed in a smart suit and dark coat and was lighting a cigarette. He pressed the buzzer on the entry-phone to the side of Jennings’ front door. There appeared to be no answer, so he banged on the door, disposing of the cigarette with an irritable flick of his wrist.

The second man was younger, stocky and wore a plain suit with no coat. He hung back slightly, surveying the street with a casual, almost uninterested glance before turning to scan the front of the building.

Harry recognized the second man’s function. He was a minder, checking out the scenery. ‘Jennings has got an official visitor.’

‘Did he see us?’ Joanne’s view of the men had been obscured by a lamp post.

‘I don’t think so. We’ll soon find out.’

There was a gasp from the back seat. The two men looked round. Joanne had moved to get a better view of the men, and was now staring through the windscreen, her body rigid and all colour draining from her cheeks.

‘What’s up?’ said Harry.

‘That man,’ she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. ‘The one in the dark coat. I’ve seen him before.’

They both turned back to study the man. ‘Where?’

‘In Baghdad.’

THIRTY-TWO

H
arry leaned forward. The man was now in profile. He looked bullish and determined. His colleague had his eyes on an approaching car cruising for a parking space. ‘Are you sure?’

Joanne pulled her rucksack across the seat and took out the framed photograph she had been so keen to hang on to. Turning it over on her knee, she took out a small knife and slid the blade through the backing sheet. Ripping away a section of the dark paper, she revealed a small square of black plastic taped to the inside. It had one corner cut off and a golden oblong in the centre.

‘It’s a memory card from a camera.’ Harry looked at Joanne for confirmation, remembering what she had told them about taking photos in Baghdad. ‘Is this from where I think it’s from?’

‘Yes. Can you get me to a chemist? One with a digital photo printer? Then I’ll show you.’

‘What about those two?’ Rik queried, gesturing towards Jennings’ office. ‘And Jennings?’

Harry thought about it. ‘They can keep. I think Jennings has skipped, anyway. Let’s check this out first.’

Ten minutes later, the three of them were in a pharmacy just off Great Portland Street, huddled round the monitor of a customer-operated digital photo-lab. Joanne slid the memory card into a slot, then tapped the screen when the pop-up menu appeared. She waited until rows of photo thumbprints appeared, then selected one by touching the screen.

‘Who are they?’ Rik queried. He bent to peer at the row of pictures. Most of the shots appeared to have been taken in an area flooded with bright light, the backgrounds all suggesting sandstone and bare rendering. The picture quality of one or two looked poor, but others were crystal clear.

‘Just people,’ Joanne replied shortly. She selected the number of copies and then hit PRINT and waited before retrieving the card from the slot. ‘I could get arrested for doing this.’ She looked at them in turn with a wry smile. ‘But then, you two would know that, wouldn’t you?’

They said nothing. This was all moving at a fast pace, but while Joanne was helping them, they weren’t about to suggest that what she had done might have contravened the Official Secrets Act.

The copies of the photo inched with agonizing slowness out of the machine, and Joanne slipped them in her pocket while Harry paid the assistant. They left the shop and returned to the car.

‘This is him,’ said Joanne, passing one of the photos between the front seats.

The snap showed two men sitting at a street café table. One was stocky, running to fat and in his fifties, with unremarkable features. The other was a strict contrast: large and bullish, with powerful arms and big hands, and a strong, angular face. They were both dressed in tan-coloured trousers and pale shirts, and on the table in front of them were small coffee cups and glasses of water. The tables around them were deserted. Two more men were in the background, both wearing casual clothes, flak jackets and dark glasses. They were staring off to each side away from the café scene. Both carried sub-machine guns and wore side arms.

‘Iraq?’ Rik guessed.

‘Yes. It was in the suburbs, about halfway between the safe house and the compound. There was a market nearby and I was supposed to arrive fifteen minutes later, but I got there early. I’d decided to go to the market and act normal, like I was supposed to. To be honest, I needed the distraction.’

‘So they weren’t expecting you,’ said Harry.

‘No. As usual, I was dressed as a local, so they wouldn’t have recognized me. I was surprised to see them. There had been a bunch of killings in the area and the streets were flooded with US troops. I think that’s why they were able to sit there like that. Everyone else was indoors except for a few locals and me. When I spotted them, I couldn’t resist it – I took a quick shot. It looked so bizarre.’

Rik stared at her. ‘You walked around with a camera on you?’ He didn’t have to say how dangerous that had been. If she had been stopped in a random search by Coalition forces or Iraqi police, her cover would have been blown in an instant.

‘I hid it under my clothes,’ she explained. ‘They wouldn’t have dared touch me.’ She shrugged. ‘It was a risk worth taking.’

‘Why did you take the shot?’

‘I don’t know. Instinct, I think. I’d got used to keeping records of everybody I saw, both in and outside the compound. This was just part of it. Humphries always told me to be aware of everybody and everything around me. To remember faces and names – especially of the people I met, whichever side they were on. He came across as a bit of a cynic but I think he’d learned by experience never to miss a trick. I did it without thinking.’

Harry pointed at the plumper of the two men in the photo. ‘This is Humphries?’

‘Yes. I don’t know the other man’s name. After I got the shot, I went straight to the safe house and waited. Humphries arrived alone dressed in local clothes. If he saw me near the café, he never said. But I remember he didn’t seem happy.’

‘He didn’t say why?’

‘No. He seemed distracted, like he was just going through the motions. But it was a stressful time and I figured he had a lot on his plate. He was probably running other ops in tandem with mine. Anyway, we did the briefing and he left. He didn’t ask for the memory card and I didn’t offer it. It was the last time I saw him.’

Harry pointed at the other man in the photo. ‘What about him?’

‘I never saw him again either – until now. Three days later, Humphries called me to another briefing. He said to go to the safe house and wait. It was the day the compound was bombed.’

Harry nodded. ‘And the day he was killed.’

‘Yes.’

‘He must have known something was up.’ Harry spoke with quiet conviction. ‘Why else call another meeting so quickly after the last one?’

Joanne shrugged sadly. ‘We’ll never know now, will we?’

‘It would help,’ said Harry slowly, as if teasing his thoughts into words, ‘if we knew something about Humphries: family . . . places he knew . . . where he lived. Did he ever say anything about his background?’

Joanne shook her head. ‘I don’t remember. But how would that help us? He’s dead.’

‘Because he’s your only point of reference to this mess. It won’t do any good going back to the training camp – they’ll deny any knowledge and call the cops. Trying to find your way back up the chain of command would end the same way. We’d get blocked all along the line and you’d finish up being investigated for the death of your friend Cath. If we can find out who Humphries worked for, we might be able to get to someone who can help you and sort out what’s going on with Rafa’i.’

Joanne shrugged. ‘He never talked about himself, except . . .’ She paused.

‘What?’

‘He once told me that he had a twin sister, Sheila. She’s a teacher in a primary school in Essex. It was at one of our meetings, after we’d finished a briefing. I got the impression they were close and shared a house.’ She closed her eyes. ‘He even mentioned the village . . . God, where was it?’

They waited but nothing came. Finally, Harry said, ‘Don’t push it. It’ll come.’

‘OK. But she won’t know anything. People like Humphries aren’t supposed to talk about their work, are they?’

‘You’d be surprised what spooks talk about,’ said Rik. He sounded almost irritated. ‘Half the secrets published in the press come about through family members spilling the beans.’ He sat back with a heavy sigh.

Harry turned to look at him. Irritation wasn’t Rik’s usual demeanour. ‘Something bothering you?’

‘Matuq,’ Rik replied. ‘And Param. I can’t get it out of my mind.’

‘What about them?’

‘I keep thinking about what you said before, about there being a connection. They
couldn’t
have known Rafa’i. It doesn’t fit.’

‘They didn’t have to. It’s not the victims who are the connection; it’s Jennings.’ When they both looked puzzled, he explained by asking, ‘What was stolen at any of the locations?’

‘Nothing,’ Rik said.

‘Exactly. There’s another similarity: they were killed on or near the doorstep and the killer didn’t hang around afterwards. Same with South Acres: in and out, two men down, no messing. Then gone.’

‘Except,’ Rik pointed out, ‘we don’t know what happened to Rafa’i.’

‘Yeah.’ Harry frowned. ‘I don’t get that. But I still think it’s the same pattern and the same man. He specializes in fast entries and exits and doesn’t hang about. He’s not there to steal anything – that’s not his job.’

‘So what is it, then?’ Joanne looked at the two men in turn, although something in her face told them she already knew the answer.

‘He’s a specialist,’ Harry replied. ‘He kills people.’

THIRTY-THREE

R
ik stopped the Audi at the end of the track leading to Stokes Cottage and climbed out. Everything seemed quiet; no scene of crime vans, no figures in forensic suits, no support units, no press corps. As still as the grave.

‘We need to split up,’ Harry had suggested earlier. He was still puzzled at the total absence of news about Matuq’s murder. Rik had checked online, but not even the local papers had any coverage. It was the same with Param’s death, although there was a brief mention of an assault in the area, but with no details. Yet this was at a time when knife crimes were headline news, with every attack splashed across the front pages providing further embarrassment to a Home Office already under considerable pressure to halt the rise in street crime.

Harry had rung Dempsey’s, the letting agent responsible for handling South Acres. When he came off the phone, he was even more confused.