inside him?’
‘He’s alive, if that’s what you mean.’ The lie came easily. ‘And ready to talk.’
‘Then he’ll be arrested,’ Bellingham replied. ‘As will you. Your friends too. Is Jardine one of them?’
Another name, another point of reference. It confirmed that Bellingham knew who was in Red Station. By itself it might not be enough, but it added background colour for any subsequent enquiry.
‘Yes, she’s out there,’ he said. ‘I’d watch your back, if I were you. You made her some promises then let her down. She’s unlikely to forgive you for that.’
Bellingham’s eye gave a twitch, and he struggled to hold his gaze on Harry’s face. He said acidly, ‘We’ll see. You’ll all serve time in the darkest hole I can find. Believe me, you have no idea what being buried really means!’
A touch of spittle from Bellingham’s mouth landed on Harry’s cheek. He gripped the gun harder and wondered what it would be like to take it out and deliver his own brand of justice on behalf of those Bellingham had consigned to oblivion. The man didn’t have the slightest sense of remorse or fear, even when faced by someone who could bring him down.
Bellingham turned and walked away, his coat tails flapping around him, his head swivelling as he looked for his bodyguard.
But the tall man had disappeared.
SEVENTY-THREE
Harry checked the walkway in both directions. What the hell was happening?
The nearest figure ahead of Bellingham was an old lady with a dog, its nose buried in a discarded fast-food carton. Bellingham always walked down here, Maloney had told him, and always accompanied by his minder. Two hundred yards from the bridge down and two hundred back, without fail. Such a predictable pattern was almost suicidal for a man in his position, but nobody had seen fit to get him to change it.
On the other hand, nobody had tried to kill him, either.
So far.
Judging by his stance and the urgency with which he was moving, Bellingham had only just realized that he was without protection. And he didn’t like it.
Harry set off after him.
He didn’t understand the inconsistency with the bodyguard. It was standard procedure that the principal was never out of his protection officer’s sight. A decent distance might be observed for confidential discussions, but that was all.
Now the game had changed completely.
As he increased his pace, he sensed another figure moving up into his field of vision. He relaxed. It was a woman in a running suit and hooded top, jogging easily along by the inner wall, head down. She had an MP3 player strapped to her upper arm, the wire curling up under the hood, and was fiddling with the player’s retaining strap while keeping up a steady pace. She was thirty yards away from Bellingham and posed no threat.
Harry concentrated on walking as fast as he dared without attracting attention. Maybe he should have got himself a running suit. Now that would have raised a few eyebrows.
The woman runner passed Bellingham without a glance. Bellingham turned his head, eyeing the woman’s trim buttocks. She was twenty yards ahead of him and close to a concrete bench when she appeared to stumble. She threw out one arm, her pace broken, and something fell to the ground. Small, rectangular and white: the MP3 player. There was a faint clatter as it hit the ground and shattered, bits of plastic pinging into the air. Harry heard her cry of dismay as she stooped too late to catch it.
Bellingham was closer than anyone. His body language betrayed hesitation, then he stepped forward to help, his proximity overriding any concern at the disappearance of his bodyguard. He raised a hand to touch the woman’s arm, his rich voice floating back to Harry’s ears, solicitous and soothing.
It was all done very smoothly. One second they were standing alongside the bench, then the woman sat down, the pieces of her player on the ground around her feet, her hand to her face.
Bellingham sat alongside her, one hand reaching out to pat her arm, then dropping to pat her knee. Never mind, the gesture implied. It could have happened to anyone.
The woman didn’t look up, didn’t object to the hand on her leg. Instead, she rubbed her arm where the MP3’s retaining strap was still in place. When she brought her hand away, she was holding something.
She reached down to Bellingham’s thigh, and daylight flashed on shiny metal.
‘No!’ Harry swore and broke into a run.
In a continuous movement, the woman reached up and drew her hand across Bellingham’s front, just beneath his chin. It might have been a caress, the intimate touch of a lover, almost smooth and gentle. But the way Bellingham’s head went back indicated it was anything but.
By the time Harry reached the bench, breathing hard, the woman was eighty yards away and covering the ground in a floating, easy run. Bellingham was still sitting as if stunned.
‘Jesus, what happened?’ Rik Ferris raced up to join Harry, and they stood and stared at the MI6 director. He was bleeding profusely, his body slumped and held in place only by its own downward weight. His thighs and chest were a mess of red, and spurts of blood were pulsating past the layers of fat around his collar and dripping on to the paving slabs beneath.
Clare Jardine happened, thought Harry. Her and her evil bloody powder compact, the blade curved and razor sharp, like a pruning knife. Lethal in the hands of an expert. But he didn’t say anything. He had no proof. In any case, there was no point. Not now.
Instead, he said, ‘Femoral artery and throat. A professional kill.’ He pulled out his mobile — actually, Stanbridge’s mobile, which he’d never got rid of — and looked at the screen. The signal was strong down here; he’d get a 999, no problem. They’d be here in seconds, all bells and whistles. Hell, St Thomas’s hospital was a spit away; they’d almost be able to see the body from the front door.
He turned and threw the mobile over the wall into the river. ‘Bloody things. Never work when you need them.’
‘What?’ Rik, who knew about communications and signals, especially in London, looked towards the river in confusion. ‘But that-’
‘Wasn’t working.’ Harry looked at him, daring him to argue. It was better than looking at Bellingham. ‘Trust me. By the time the medics get here, he’ll be dead. He’s nearly gone already.’
‘I’ve got a phone.’ Rik started to reach for it.
‘Great. Phone them. And while you’re about it, you can explain what you were doing here while a senior MI6 officer was getting his throat cut. A man who, just a couple of days ago, ordered your execution.’ Harry walked away without looking back. A gaggle of early sightseers was approaching a hundred yards away, festooned with cameras and curiosity. ‘Don’t take too long to decide,’ he called back. ‘The heavies will be along soon and looking for anyone with a grudge.’
SEVENTY-FOUR
‘ You were right,’ said Rik, staring out across Hyde Park. It was a week later and they had met at Harry’s suggestion. Somewhere open and public, he’d said. They had been keeping their heads down ever since Bellingham’s death.
‘How so?’ said Harry. He peered into a bag of peanuts and flexed his fingers before selecting one. His injury was now down to a dull ache, and lifting much easier than a few days ago.
‘Down by the river. After you left, a couple of blokes turned up in a black car. Some sort of security, I reckon. They took a look, called an ambulance and carted Bellingham away. He must have been dead — they covered his face.’ Rik rubbed his fingers across a leather satchel on his knee.
