tenant is a press photographer on the ground floor, named Mario. Comes from Rome. Nice bloke.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, I haven’t seen him around for a couple of days. Must have found a story to cover. I’ve stocked up your kitchen with the basics, so you won’t need to shop for a few days. Not,’ he added, ‘that you’ll find shopping much fun around here.’
‘Thanks. Where do you call home?’ asked Harry. He hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to the younger man yet. If he was a communications specialist, he couldn’t exactly be rushed off his feet, and Harry hadn’t seen much in the way of communications hardware in the office.
‘About quarter of a mile away.’ Rik pointed out to the suburbs. ‘It’s on Novroni. Number twenty-four. Old and scabby, but I’m doing it up to keep myself from going stir-crazy. Clare lives a few blocks that way.’ He indicated north. ‘The other two live on the outskirts.’ He hesitated. ‘Did Mace tell you about the no-comms rule?’
‘Yes. Everything goes through him. Is it set in stone?’
‘You bet. I have access to a server in London, but that’s purely for messages. It’s monitored closely and as bombproof as my granny’s knickers. Mace has a secure terminal in his office, but nobody else gets to touch it. It’s level-Alpha password-protected.’
‘I’ll pretend I know what that means. What about my mobile?’
Rik held out his hand. ‘Here — I’ll show you.’
Harry passed him his Nokia, which he hadn’t used since leaving London. Rik switched it on. He held it up so Harry could see the screen. It was blank.
‘They wiped it before you left. It won’t pick up a signal here, so you might as well dump it. I’ll give you a new one in the morning. It’ll be OK for the local network, but no further.’ He handed the phone back and put the car in gear. ‘It’s not too bad here. You’ll get used to it.’
‘That’s what Mace said.’ Harry wondered when they’d managed to wipe his mobile. At the time of the debriefing, probably, when he’d handed it in at security.
‘He’s right. Welcome to paradise.’
Harry watched him drive away before making his way inside and up three flights of narrow, concrete stairs inlaid with coarse tiles. They were worn down in the middle from the passage of feet over the years, and crackled with grit underfoot. The air was cold and damp, a depressing contrast to the conditions at the airport.
He shivered, wondering if this was a taste of the winter to come.
The interior of the flat was spacious but minimally furnished, like a student’s lodging circa 1968. Most of the items looked as if they had been sourced from a bric-a-brac salesroom. The living room, bedroom and kitchen held the basics, and carried a faint aroma of mildew and cleaning fluid. A wood-burner stood in the living room, black and cold and squat as a beetle, and the bathroom was ancient and damp, echoing to the plunk of water dripping from a furred-up shower-head the size of a soup tureen.
He sat down on the bed and contemplated his future. So far, he’d been a man in motion, one foot in front of the other like an automaton, following orders. Now he was here, he couldn’t see beyond the bleak surrounds of these four walls and the grubby little cowpat of a town outside.
Even Jean seemed too far away to be more than a vague memory.
He leaned back, depressed, suddenly too tired to care, and fell asleep dreaming about the young couple in the Land Rover and a tall gunman with dreadlocks and a pole belching fire.
TWELVE
Mace was in his office by the time Harry got in, feeling worn out from a restless night’s sleep. He tapped on the glass door and walked in, and was surprised to smell alcohol in the air. A half-full glass of amber liquid sat in the centre of the Station Chief’s desk.
‘Come in,’ said Mace, his words heavily precise. ‘Set yourself down and pull up a coffee.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of a filter machine in the corner.
Harry decided against it. The rim of the glass bowl looked toxic.
‘Your digs all right?’ Mace asked.
‘Magnificent. I’ll soon have it looking just like home.’ Harry didn’t bother pretending; he was sure the last thing Mace was concerned with was the well-being of his staff.
‘Good. Good.’ Mace ignored the sarcasm and sat back in his chair, nursing his glass.
‘Is there something you want me to do?’ Harry hoped this wasn’t chancing providence. He felt washed out, his eyes gritty, and wanted nothing more than to get through the day, have a decent meal and get to bed — preferably alone, although he’d have felt a lot happier if Jean was here.
‘Not really. Thought it was about time I let you in on all the gossip.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s say you’re not unique, all right?’ Mace held up a finger. ‘Take young Ferris. MI5 computer bod. Something of a wiz, recruited from university and put to work for the greater good minding other people’s business. Trouble is, he got bored ferreting about in websites and computers belonging to terrorists, trouble-makers and general malcontents, and began using his skills closer to home; people in the government, people in power. One or two of ’em in the security services.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah. He’d have hacked Him too if he could have found His website. He wasn’t all that clever, though. He talked about what he’d done after hours. Silly boy. Should have known he’d get dobbed in by some back-stabber with ambition. Lots of that in this business.’
‘What happened?’ Harry was surprised Ferris wasn’t languishing in a cell somewhere. Hacking any computer was an offence; taking on the security services at their own game was tantamount to suicide.
‘He got tabbed. That’s a fancy name for having your legs taken from under you and sent out here, which is what happened to you. Your file gets tabbed, you’re due for a nasty surprise.’ He showed his teeth in another grin. ‘The people he took a sneaky look at didn’t want him loose on the labour market, so they decided to put him somewhere where they could keep an eye on him. Lucky for him.’
‘Why?’
‘He might have been propping up a patio in SW16, otherwise. They sent him here instead. Some might say there’s not much difference.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Harry felt uncomfortable hearing about the transgressions of his colleagues. He had second thoughts about the coffee and poured a cup. Even loaded with sugar it tasted like sump oil.
‘Why not? Clean sheets makes for untroubled sleep, so my dear old mother used to say. Course, they wouldn’t agree back at HQ, but that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Where was I? Oh, yes: Clare Jardine. Nice girl, but don’t get on her bad side. She comes from Six, along with all sorts of vile habits. She doesn’t do fluffy.’
‘Six?’ Harry was surprised. ‘I thought this was strictly a Five set-up.’
‘It started out that way. Then Vauxhall Cross asked to join the party in case they needed to export one or two of their own clandestine miscreants.’
‘I’m surprised they have enough to warrant it.’
‘You kidding? With over five thousand employees between ’em, it’d be a bloody miracle not to have some lame ducks. You any idea how many Fivers and Sixers get quietly canned every year?’
‘No.’
‘About two dozen at the last estimate, although they’re mostly minor. Some end up behind bars, others get the order of the boot and a rap over the head with the Official Secrets Act.’ He broke off and took a sip of his drink. ‘Then there’s the ones they can’t afford to kick off the end of the plank. Which is where this place comes in.’
‘Go on.’
‘Take young Clare, for instance. Passed all the courses with flying colours, didn’t put a foot wrong in the assessments and practical tests and left everyone else on her intake streets behind. She was only in Six for a year before she got spotted and chucked in at the deep end. Too deep, as it happened.’
Harry stirred his coffee and tried to match the woman he’d met with the kind of officers MI6 trained and ran.
