Tracers (29 page)

Harry gave him a cool smile. He guessed Marshall’s air of calm was a deliberate device to needle them, to make one of them come out with something they hadn’t intended to. He decided to save him the trouble. There was only so much beating about the bush that he could stand, and none of them was getting any younger.

‘We know you trawled for, recruited and trained an operative for a special, deep-cover assignment in Baghdad,’ he said. ‘The operation was given the code name Pamper and the person you dropped out there had instructions to protect a high-ranking Iraqi. The operative was trained by Special Forces and told to report back on everything they saw and heard, including voice and image capture. How am I doing so far?’

Marshall said nothing. He returned Harry’s look with a bored shrug. But the tension in his face was suddenly evident. Harry decided he needed to make that tension boil over.

‘This high-ranking Iraqi was classified by the Coalition as something of a golden solution,’ he continued, ‘because of his influence across the political spectrum, which made him highly unusual – and valuable. He was there in case the new government fell apart like an old wooden shed – as pretty much everyone with a brain expects it will do one day. His name was Subhi Rafa’i. Still with me?’

Marshall gave him a wintry smile which gave nothing away. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Is that all? May I go now?’

‘Not by a mile.’ Harry was unfazed by Marshall’s denial. ‘Because of his importance, Rafa’i had a team of local bodyguards and a secure location in a fortified base. They couldn’t surround him with a shield of Coalition troops because that would have compromised his position. With someone so highly regarded, it was taken for granted that he’d also have a ton of enemies, even among his own crowd. So the Coalition decided to go one better; they put in an extra layer of protection – a backstop – in case his own team failed. And that was fine until just recently, when the compound he lived in was bombed, probably by insiders. The place was destroyed and Rafa’i and everyone inside was reported killed. Including,’ Harry added heavily, ‘your deep-cover operative.’

Marshall shrugged. ‘Bombings happen there all the time. Are we going for a drive in the country?’ He gestured out at the passing scenery of west London.

Harry checked outside. A few more minutes and they’d be on the Western Avenue, where the traffic was more open.

‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘your operative wasn’t the only home-team casualty that day. You also lost the handler assigned to the operation. He was killed in what was reported as a random drive-by shooting, although that now looks unlikely.’ He paused for effect, then said softly, ‘His name was Gordon Humphries and he was a senior officer with MI6. We still in the ballpark, Major?’

For the first time, at the mention of Humphries’ name, Harry was rewarded with what seemed to be some genuine reaction. Marshall dipped his head for a moment, jaw tensed.

Finally, he murmured, ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because we were hired to do what we do: to look for someone. In this case, a man called Silverman, an Israeli professor who’d arrived in Britain after a mental breakdown. But that was just a cover story. Silverman turned out to be an Iraqi. And guess what – it was none other than the recently vaporized Subhi Rafa’i. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only people who knew he hadn’t died. Ever since we latched on to him, somebody else has been following us around trying to finish the job.’

Marshall gave him a flat stare. ‘You seem to have a lot of information. That doesn’t mean it’s accurate. Why should I be interested in this?’

‘If you’re not interested, why are you here?’ Harry shook his head in disgust. ‘Get your head out of your backside, Major. Your Operation Pamper has fallen apart at the seams and you don’t even know it. What do I tell you next to convince you we aren’t making up the whole story? You want a description of Humphries’ sister, Sheila?’ He waited but there was no response. ‘Details of the safe house where Humphries used to meet his agents? Or how about some really gritty stuff – like the name of the operative you dumped out in Baghdad and left to die? The one you never bothered going after to find out if she was alive or dead? Oh, the name’s Joanne Archer, by the way. It’ll be on your files.’

Marshall flinched visibly at the name, but said nothing.

‘Stop here.’ Harry recognized the moment for what it was and tapped Joanne on the arm. They had gone far enough. They were drawing level with a side street. Joanne signalled and spun the wheel, pulling in to the kerb. The street was deserted save for two lines of cars. No people, nobody to interrupt them. She turned off the engine.

Marshall looked momentarily alarmed. ‘Why have you stopped?’ His voice was steady, but there was no hiding the tension around his eyes. Or the way he turned to look down at Rik’s hands, still resting on his lap.

‘Don’t worry, Major,’ said Harry calmly. ‘We’re not going to burn you. We just wanted you to meet your special operative, that’s all.’

Marshall frowned, relief giving way to the beginning of anger. ‘How?’

At a nod from Harry, Joanne turned in her seat. ‘Hello, Major,’ she said evenly. ‘Or should I call you Boss?’

A few miles away, Dog was sitting astride his latest acquisition, a dull-green Kawasaki. It had new plates, courtesy of another bike left unattended in a street in Southwark, and would do him for the time being. As well as the false plates, he had added a courier’s pannier and covered the tank with a leather jacket that held maps, disguising the original lines and appearance from a chance sighting by its former owner.

He’d finally heard from Jennings and now had fresh instructions. There had been a change of priorities, the lawyer had informed him. Dog had taken the information without comment; orders were orders and he would follow them through without question. Jennings had revealed with some reluctance where he was staying, and Dog had tucked the information away for later use. He didn’t mind secrecy, but it was beginning to irk him that he was being left out of the loop as if he were of little importance.

He was tucked in a side street across from the river, within sight of a familiar cream and green ziggurat dominating Vauxhall Bridge. He felt safe enough here, slightly out of the public eye, although he needed to keep a watch for roving police cars, most of which would be armed response units. This area of the riverside was notoriously sensitive and covered by CCTV cameras that had nothing to do with the Congestion Charge or trapping speeding motorists. This was the MI6 headquarters, and was probably numbered among the three or four most secure establishments in London; getting too close would be a grave error of judgement.

He eased his shoulders inside his leather jacket and breathed easily, biding his time. If anyone asked what he was doing here, he was merely waiting for his next assignment. If the same person got really awkward and pushed it, they would suffer momentarily, but he’d be away and gone before they even hit the ground.

He patted his side pocket, checking the familiar shape inside, then concentrated on watching the cars and faces moving along the street in front of him.

FORTY-SIX

‘
H
ow do I know you are who you claim?’ Even to himself, Marshall sounded pompous, and wished instantly he could have taken the words back. If this was a scam, it was a very elaborate one. His only excuse for such a response was that he was still trying to get over the shock of what he’d just heard.

The woman seemed unconcerned by his scepticism. ‘Fair comment, Major,’ she replied, and reached into a pocket. She passed over a photograph, slightly crumpled, but still clear.

It showed a street scene, and two men sitting at a café table. Marshall felt a prickly sensation crawl up his neck as he recognized himself, his companion and the location. He studied the photo and tried not to let his emotions show. The other man had been a friend as well as a colleague. It had been a bad time all round, and if there were any way he could have done things differently, he would have. But it was too late for that.

He handed the photo back, but Joanne Archer shook her head. ‘Keep it. I’ve got spares.’

Marshall fought to keep his voice level. He felt sick; the kind of sickness that makes a man wonder how he’d ever got into this vile business. ‘How did you . . . get this?’

‘I took it on an Olympus digital camera.’ Her voice was in briefing mode, flat and unemotional. ‘I was less than thirty feet away – I could have drilled you both if I’d been working for the opposition. Where you were sitting was called Café Osman and it’s located in the western suburbs of Baghdad, in the Jihad district between the centre and Baghdad International Airport. The quickest way out there from the city centre is on Highway 10 and down Ishmail Street – unless you’re lucky and get to drop in by chopper. It’s a mainly Sunni area but there are Shi’a as well. Most of the time they get on, but earlier that day the Mehdi Army had made a strike in retaliation for some Shi’ite killings a few days before. The US marines were there in force to back up the Iraqi police, which is how you and Gordon Humphries got to enjoy coffee and a chat. Actually, you were only there for a few minutes because Humphries and I had a meeting not long after in a safe house nearby.’

‘I know, but—’ Marshall tried to stem the flow of words, to say something that, however useless, would show he wasn’t uncaring. But the young woman was not to be denied her debriefing. Especially, it seemed, this part of it.

‘A couple of days later, Humphries was dead.’ She waited while this sank in. When she saw Marshall wasn’t going to speak again, she continued. ‘He was dead and I was adrift. I’m only guessing, Major, but I believe that before he died, he got wind of something big happening and got me out of the compound by calling a briefing at the safe house.’

Marshall blinked, his throat dry. ‘Go on.’

‘Unfortunately, he never made it to the meet, so I bailed out, then found the compound had taken a hit. Suddenly, I had no principal, no handler and I was alone in hostile territory. Is that enough for you?’ Her eyes sparked with anger. ‘I can describe the training camp here in the UK and give you facials on each of the instructors if you like. The adjutant in particular was a sneaky bastard. He used to report anyone who made so much as a single complaint.’ She sat back and waited, the briefing over.

Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He felt drained. It all rang too true to be a hoax, and this young woman had the distinct sound of the genuine article. Worse – she
was
the genuine article. There was also something in her eyes, no matter how neutral her tone, which gave a hint of powerful emotions kept in check. It was a sign Marshall had seen before in those with experience of intense combat or dangerous undercover work. If she was who she claimed – and he had no reason to doubt her – she was a very special person indeed. The thought did nothing to ease his feelings of guilt for the ways things had gone.

‘I can only apologize,’ he said finally, ‘for everything that has happened to you, Miss Archer. You may accept that or dismiss it as you wish – I can’t say I blame you if you take the latter course. I wasn’t aware you’d survived the bombing. All our information led us to believe that you had died along with everyone else. And when you didn’t report in . . .’ He shrugged and rubbed his face with a large hand. ‘I visited your flat once. Pointless, of course, but it seemed the right thing to do. Your landlord said you were away. It’s no excuse, I know, but we were forced to believe the worst. Gordon Humphries’ death didn’t help in that regard, I’m afraid. What do you want from me?’

‘Protection.’ This came from Harry, in the front seat. ‘And rehabilitation for Miss Archer. She’s been left high and dry by your lot for too long.’

‘Of course, that goes without saying. But protection from what?’

‘From whom, actually,’ the younger man, Rik, put in. ‘We’ve got a psychopath on our tail. We think he’s one of yours.’

‘I doubt that.’ Marshall’s instinct was for outright denial. God knows, he wasn’t privy to every backwater operation being conducted by his colleagues, nor the people they employed. Yet something about these three was turning all that he knew upside down. Why not this as well?

Harry pointed at the photo Marshall was holding, his finger on one of the two armed security men in the background. ‘This man has already killed at least three people – possibly four – and had a go at Joanne. We believe he’s got orders to take out Rafa’i. He missed this time, but we think he’ll be back for another try.’ He looked hard at Marshall. ‘Like I said – he’s one of yours. Well trained.’

‘I need more details,’ said Marshall. He was playing for time but it was all he could do. He listened while the two men gave him a concise briefing of everything that had happened so far. It stretched from Norfolk to the capital and nothing they said sounded too far-fetched – which worried him even more. He made notes on a small pad, then studied the photo again, although he really didn’t need to. When he’d first seen the face of the security guard, he had experienced an instant jolt of recognition. It wasn’t good news.

‘I remember this man,’ he told them at last. There was nothing to be gained by denying it. ‘But only because he was attached to my security detail.’

‘Go on,’ Harry prompted him.

‘He stood out. The other men treated him with obvious caution, and a fair bit of respect. It tends to make one take notice. So I checked his record. His name’s Gary Pellew. He’s former Special Forces and goes by the name of Dog. He did valuable work for us over many years in appalling circumstances. It did things to him.’ Marshall dropped the photo and shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, nobody noticed until it was too late.’

‘You mean he’s a head case,’ said Rik.

‘Damaged, certainly,’ Marshall agreed levelly. ‘Not that he would ever acknowledge such a description. He’s fiercely proud of the fact that he’s never failed to carry out an order. If anything, it’s something of a character flaw.’