Latham was playing with them.
A loud bang followed by an explosion of glass, this time through the upper corner of the windscreen close to Harry’s head. He ducked instinctively and felt ridiculous. Too bloody late for that!
Another bullet buried itself directly into the radiator, and this time they felt the impact go all the way through the vehicle.
The engine stuttered; kicked in again as Clare stamped on the accelerator; ran for a few seconds, then died. Steam began billowing out from under the bonnet, cloaking the windscreen and clouding their view.
‘Out!’ Harry shouted, and reached for the door catch as Clare braked hard. He hit the ground running and aimed two fast shots at the clump of trees, then rolled into a depression at the side of the road. He landed in a heap, half-winded, and looked up at the sky, regaining his breath. Then he rolled over and faced forward.
The tops of the trees where the shooter was firing from were just visible, the thinner branches waving in the breeze. Unless the man was a monkey and wanted to risk climbing to the top, they were protected. But for how long?
‘Clare? Rik? You OK?’ He kept his voice low.
Two responses, both lively, and accompanied by oaths. A good sign.
He checked his gun and considered what to do. Their options didn’t look good. Either Latham would come looking to finish them off before anyone else happened along, or he’d play safe after last night’s exchange of gunfire and wait for them to show their heads.
And take them out one by one.
A shot hit the road surface ten feet to Harry’s right, kicking up chunks of gravel and tarmac. It ricocheted off into the distance like an angry hornet, mashed out of shape by the impact.
A warning shot.
Harry checked his watch. Time was running out. If they managed to slip away but missed the French flight, they might be lucky enough to get another. But Latham would be right behind them.
And right now, their only means of transport was sitting uselessly in the road, leaking fluids.
Footsteps.
Harry froze. He was coming for them.
He peered out over the rise in the ground in front of him. A tall, thin figure was walking casually along the road towards them. He wore a dark combat jacket and blue jeans, and carried an assault rifle in one hand, the barrel pointing forward. For a man who knew they were armed, he seemed absurdly relaxed and unconcerned about any possible retaliation.
Harry studied the man’s face. Felt a glimmer of recognition. Was it the man he recognized or was it the type he’d seen too often before?
Whatever. The rifle said it all.
Harry rolled sideways, aiming to reach dead ground away from the road and Latham’s direct line of sight. If he could get on his flank unseen, he’d be able to A shot rang out and kicked up earth a foot to his left.
He froze. Latham could see him; probably not completely, but enough to know when he moved.
‘Stand up!’ It was a voice accustomed to giving orders. Cold, unemotional.
Harry got to his feet, the gun concealed behind his leg.
Latham had stopped thirty yards away, the rifle barrel lifting. Too far away for a handgun, Harry thought distractedly. But easy meat for a rifle.
Latham knew it, too. He had a trace of a smile on his face.
Harry flicked his eyes sideways to see if he could spot Rik or Clare. But they were nowhere to be seen.
It was a tight situation, and not merely for them. If Latham opened fire on Harry, he’d be exposing his side for the brief seconds it took to aim and pull the trigger. It would be long enough to allow Clare and Rik to take him out and Latham would know that.
Harry watched the rifle barrel lifting towards him, and got ready to throw himself sideways. He wondered how much time Clare had put in on the combat course with a hand-gun.
Nothing like enough, if Latham was all he was supposed to be.
SIXTY
‘ It’s not going well, I grant you. But it will.’ Sir Anthony Bellingham stared out over the river towards Westminster and lit a cigar. The dawn was slow in rising, and a cold wind was scything across the water, chopping the tops of the waves into droplets of spray. He puffed on the cigar until it was burning satisfactorily and glanced sideways at George Paulton. The MI5 man was chewing on a fingernail and looked miserable with worry and cold.
They were alone apart from Sir Anthony’s bodyguard standing thirty yards away. It was too soon in the day for the area to be populated by anyone other than those with secrets on their minds, so there was little chance of anyone coming too close.
‘So you said.’ Paulton didn’t sound comforted.
‘Come on, George, for Christ’s sake!’ Bellingham spat out a mouthful of smoke. ‘You knew this venture was risky, same as I did. It’s what we do, isn’t it? It’s what gets the blood racing. Is for me, anyway.’
‘I could do without it, thank you.’ Paulton’s voice was barely registering. ‘You said this was controllable; that you had them watched twenty-four-seven, over and above my watch team. So how is it they’ve all disappeared into the woodwork apart from Mace? Is your man going to find them or not?’
‘He’s not bloody Superman, George. There’s the added problem of the Russians to cope with… and Tate’s not helping. Where in God’s name did you pick him up, by the way? The man’s a frigging menace.’
‘Does it matter now?’ Paulton resented the accusatory tone, implying that this was, by implication of who he employed, entirely down to him.
‘I suppose not.’ Bellingham spat out a fragment of tobacco. ‘Do you know what the people in Red Station call your watch team, George? Did I ever tell you?’
‘Is it relevant?’
‘Very. They refer to them as the Clones. Shows how seriously they’re taken, doesn’t it? Clones. They were supposed to be invisible; unidentifiable. But guess who went out of his way to identify the current batch by drawing them out? Harry Tate, that’s who. Drew them out and painted them with a giant bloody cross.’
Paulton said nothing, but stared down at the grey water. He felt sick.
‘Did you hear, by the way,’ Bellingham continued, his voice like poisoned silk, ‘that one of your Clones ran into trouble?’
‘Yes. He got dragged into a local argument. He’ll be back as soon as he can get a flight out.’ Paulton’s tone was flat, resentful.
‘Is that what the team leader told you — that he’d be coming back? I wouldn’t bet your braces on it.’
Paulton’s head snapped round. ‘What do you mean?’
Bellingham tapped ash from his cigar on to the wall, where the wind picked it up and rolled it over the edge into the water. ‘Seems your man — name of Stanbridge, by the way — got bounced while searching Tate’s flat. Bit careless of him, I thought.’ He smiled. ‘Not that he lived to regret it.’
‘What?’
‘He’s dead, George. As cold mutton. Last seen in a flat rented out to an Italian David Bailey who’s been taken into custody for spying… or something close to it. Tate moved the body down there after it’d been turned over by the local security police. Clever chap; quick on his feet for an old ’un. Should have recruited him myself, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this God-awful mess.’
‘How do you know all this — and why wasn’t I told?’ Paulton was quivering with a mixture of rage, fear and the chill coming off the river. ‘I don’t believe it — Tate’s not a killer.’
‘Bollocks.’ Bellingham had had enough. He tossed his cigar into the water and turned up his coat collar. ‘Everyone’s a killer if you press the right buttons. Stanbridge didn’t top himself, did he? Don’t worry about it, George. It’s all in hand. Latham has his orders. If he doesn’t get them in town, he’ll do it before they leave the country. One, two, three, out.’
