Shortly afterwards, he went into his office and closed the door.
It was a long, frustrating day. Harry spent most of it working with Clare to follow up on the report they had given to Mace the previous day, checking all the international news channels for any details on what was happening in the north. There seemed precious little solid detail and he guessed the lid was being held down deliberately while talks went on in the background.
‘London said good work,’ Mace announced after lunch. ‘Your report ties in with the latest satellite images. They’re building a picture of movements and distribution from both sides and will let us know later what the state of play is. Pity you didn’t get unit IDs.’
‘The fact that they weren’t wearing any should tell us something,’ said Clare. ‘They’re most likely local militia. They’ll be heading further north by now.’
‘Can’t you ask Kostova?’ said Harry, looking at Mace. ‘He might tell you.’
Mace pursed his lips. ‘He might… if there was something in it for him.’ He turned and went back into his office, leaving them to monitor internet and radio reports for further news.
Rik Ferris drifted by and tapped a finger on Harry’s desk. ‘That, um… thing OK?’ He was referring to the phone.
‘Fine, thanks.’ If Rik was hoping he would say who he’d been calling, he was out of luck. But the comms man seemed to have something else on his mind. He made a point of hanging around, switching from foot to foot until Harry looked up at him and nodded at the coffee table.
‘Something bothering you?’ he asked, when the kettle was hissing loudly enough to shield his words. He threw a tea bag into a mug. If Rik was having a crisis of conscience about helping him get hold of a clean mobile, he needed to know now, before Mace found out.
Rik waited until Clare left the room, then jerked his head and walked back to his desk. Fitzgerald was downstairs doing an electronic sweep through the building.
‘I got an email,’ Rik explained. He spun his monitor round so that Harry could see the screen. ‘Read it.’
The email was from someone called Isabelle in a company named SARFA. It had been sent at eleven a.m. It read: You must leave. We are going tomorrow. Others are leaving, too. My boss says they are coming. I. xx
‘Isabelle?’
‘She’s a friend,’ said Rik. ‘French. She’s with SARFA — supposedly a French non-governmental outfit, but everyone knows it’s a cover for DGSE.’
The Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure — French espionage service — was known to have agents operating worldwide. It was well-funded and resourced, and highly efficient. Harry hadn’t expected to come across them here, although the proximity of the Med no doubt gave them a good enough reason to be monitoring the region.
He eyed Rik. ‘Have you been sleeping with the enemy?’
‘I wish.’ The words came out with feeling, and the younger man blushed. ‘Drinks only, so far. We meet up from time to time and talk shop.’ He realized belatedly what that might imply, and added hastily, ‘I don’t mean we talk anything — you know… classified.’
‘I should hope not. What does she do?’
‘She’s their comms officer.’ He stared hard at Harry. ‘Should I tell Mace, do you think? She’s obviously referring to the Russians. I mean, if the French are bugging out, and others are going, too, that’s bad news, right?’
‘The only bad news,’ Harry pointed out, ‘is if you don’t tell him about your contact and he finds out later.’ The email from Isabelle hadn’t been sent over a secure line, which meant anyone checking the files later might wonder why it had not been passed on.
Rik looked relieved. ‘You’re right. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.’
Harry left him to it and went in search of a meal. He was tired and hungry and still had no news from Maloney. He discovered a small family-style restaurant not far from the station, and ordered what a group at the next table were eating. It tasted like mutton stew.
It was late by the time he returned to his flat. Darkness was shrouding the town and the few people still about hurried along with their heads down. Even the military patrols had disappeared, no doubt hustled indoors by the cold winds scything between the buildings. As he turned the corner at the end of his street, Harry glanced instinctively towards his flat.
A glimmer of light flared briefly in one window.
THIRTY-SIX
Harry stepped into the shadow of the building and waited. He could see no obvious watchers at street level, and only one ancient Renault with a flat tyre thirty yards away. Even the local burglars weren’t that desperate.
He retraced his steps, circling the block to approach the building from the rear. It meant making his way along a narrow back-alley with no lights and littered with rubbish, but it was safer than going through the front door. When he reached the rear entrance leading to his block, he stood and surveyed the area for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone showed themselves.
Nobody did. He walked up the back path and eased open the door into the rear corridor.
The air here was heavy with the smell of dust and damp, and the sharper tang of cat’s urine. The tinny sound of a radio seeped through the thin walls from the block next door. He closed the door softly behind him, wary of a lookout on the stairs.
He counted to thirty, then moved forward. Winced as his foot crunched on a piece of grit. He stopped, but nobody responded, then moved on, stepping carefully past a jumble of shadows which he knew from an earlier inspection was a collection of household goods abandoned by former tenants. Nothing useful as a weapon, though — not unless he decided to threaten the intruder with a broken tumble dryer.
He took the stairs two at a time, moving slowly. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested at the effort, and he pushed down with his hands on his knees to give himself a boost. His shoes encountered more grit, but it was too late to stop now. Thirty seconds later, he was outside the door to his flat. He turned his head to listen, placing his ear against the grainy wood.
He counted to twenty. Not a sound. The intruder had either bugged out already or was very good at keeping quiet.
He reached out and tested the door. It wasn’t locked. He nudged it further and it swung open to reveal a faint glow of a flashlight coming from the bathroom.
He stepped inside, flexing his hands. It had been too long since he’d engaged in any form of unarmed combat, and he hoped it didn’t come to that. Being knocked on his arse by a local crackhead looking for a quick score would be too humiliating. But something told him this was no crackhead. As he moved away from the door, his foot nudged something solid. It was too late to remember a small footstool-cum-table standing against one wall.
It made a hollow clunking noise.
The flashlight snapped off.
Harry hit the wall switch. Sod what the training manual told you about using the dark; whatever was heading his way, he preferred to see it coming.
A blur of movement was all the warning he got as a tall figure burst out of the bathroom. The man was solidly built, dressed in dark clothing and holding a black torch in one hand. He wore a black ski cap on his head.
There was no time for finesse. Harry lashed out instinctively, turning his body to deliver a kick to the side of the advancing man’s knee. His foot connected, drawing a grunt of pain from the intruder. But it wasn’t enough to stop him. The man’s momentum carried him forward, forcing Harry back. He threw up his arms to block the attack, but the man was too quick, slamming a fist into the side of his head. Harry felt the wall behind him and bunched his shoulders, launching a low, straight jab at the intruder’s mid-section. It drew a satisfying whoosh of expelled breath, but the man kept coming, using his elbows and fists to jab at Harry’s head in a series of rapid strikes and following up with a painful knee to the ribs.
Harry felt dizzy and breathless. The other man was younger, fitter and stronger, and if he kept this up, Harry
