would reach the tipping point; when it would become too urgent for him to hold in any longer what was surely bothering him. Shooting someone for the first time was bad enough, no doubt about it. Not that the second time was any better. And Rik had done it just a few days ago. Worse, he thought he’d killed a woman.
‘Would you have shot him if things had gone bad?’
Harry guessed Rik was referring to Rafa’i. There had never been anything explicit said about dealing with the former cleric once they arrived at the delivery point in west Baghdad; and he had taken it as read that being seen to shoot the Iraqi, no matter that his own people probably wanted him dead before long, would be the worst possible action to take. It had been a simple drop-and-leave mission, and what Rafa’i’s former friends wanted to do with him once they’d heard of his deception and betrayal was up to them. But Harry wasn’t naive; if it had all kicked off the moment they touched down and they’d found themselves under fire from supporters still loyal to Rafa’i, he knew he would have been expected to ensure that there was no comeback.
‘We’ll never know. Probably.’
‘So it does get easier.’
Harry kept his head down, eyes on the papers. It was a question with no easy answer and one he didn’t think he could tackle right now. But he knew this was the tipping point he’d been waiting for.
‘You didn’t kill her.’
A short silence. ‘What?’ Rik’s voice was hoarse. It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. On the surface, he appeared ready for anything, but Harry knew it wasn’t that simple. He was human. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘Your shot didn’t kill her. It went high and to your left. Hit her in the right shoulder.’ Rik had been sitting on the ground, hands already shaking with the adrenalin rush of being in a firefight and the trauma of a gunshot wound from Joanne Archer’s pistol. He’d been calm enough, aiming, then shouting a warning, but it would have been amazing if he’d been able to pull off an accurate kill under those conditions. It had been Harry who’d fired the fatal shots.
‘But I saw her. She fell.’
Harry nodded and looked at him, saw his confusion. . and the beginnings of what might have been relief. ‘Ballistics confirmed it,’ he continued, keeping it casual. ‘I can show you a copy if you like.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
Harry shrugged. ‘There was no point. You wouldn’t have believed me anyway. That kind of thing, after what you’d been through. . you have to be ready to hear it.’ He grinned deliberately. ‘Don’t worry, when your shoulder’s better I’ll take you down the range and teach you how to shoot properly.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘What else do you want me to tell you?’ Harry reached for the summaries again, then stopped and turned back to face Rik. ‘Actually, there is one other thing: no, it doesn’t get any easier.’
Rik didn’t respond, so Harry picked out a summary at random; it was Sgt Barrow. That would do. There was an active mobile number, so he picked up the phone and dialled. It rang out six times before going to a standard robot voicemail. He decided to leave a message. It seemed too simple, somehow, but he wondered if anyone else had thought of it. ‘Graham, my name’s Harry Tate,’ he said carefully. ‘I want to help you. I work in conjunction with the MOD, but I imagine you’re not sure who to trust right now, so I won’t waste time trying to sell you a deal. Call me and we’ll talk. This isn’t as bad as you think.’ He added Rik’s landline number, with the overseas dialling prefix for the UK, then cut the connection. If Barrow was out there and listening, and became desperate enough, he might call back.
Rik was looking at him. ‘What am I — a call centre?’
‘No, you’re walking wounded. If he rings back and I’m not here, I’ll need you to talk to him and find out where he is. Then let me know.’ He paused, remembering Ballatyne’s cold-as-permafrost warning for Rik to keep his nose clean. If he was going to get Rik to help, he needed his understanding of the background to the job, and that included the dangers involved. ‘If we get into this, there’s no straying into official files. Ballatyne knows your history and he’ll be watching.’
Rik had held up a hand. ‘No problem, boss,’ he promised with a sly grin. ‘I’ll be as good as gold.’
‘You’d better. Otherwise I’ll save Ballatyne the trouble and shoot you myself.’
ELEVEN
Anglesey was shrouded by a squally curtain of drizzle as Harry drove along the coast road and turned into a small lane leading to the bungalow where Vanessa Tan’s parents had lived for many years. It was set on a slope, an extended building in mature grounds overlooking the Menai Strait. At any other time he would have enjoyed the scenery and tranquillity away from the city, but right now he had other things on his mind.
After drawing a blank with Barrow’s mobile, he had decided to take a closer look at Tan’s background. It had meant a long drive, but the solitude had allowed him to trawl for ideas and let his brain focus on the best ways of getting to Tan and the other personnel, and, through them, the Protectory. Along the way, he had stopped at irregular intervals, doubling back for short distances to check he wasn’t being tailed. It was basic stuff, and time- consuming, but necessary to ensure he stayed clean.
He parked on the side of the lane just across from the Tan bungalow and studied the building. Set some eighty yards from its nearest neighbour, it looked closed off, remote from the world, with the empty look of something long abandoned. The rain was doing nothing to dispel the air of stolid gloom, aided by the unkempt lawn, weed-filled flowerbeds and paint peeling from the wooden window frames. A glut of moss and leaves had filled the guttering and rainwater was trickling on to the ground from numerous points where the blockage was most acute. He left the car and walked up the open paved drive to the front door. It was fitted with a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fish. He lifted it and let it drop with a hollow
No reaction. He waited, then knocked again. The fish was tarnished, unused, and the letterbox had been sealed shut. No sounds from inside, no sense of movement. He took out his mobile and rang the landline. No good trying Tan’s mobile number, it was showing unobtainable. He could hear the phone ringing inside. It had that empty quality.
‘Can I help you?’
The voice came from the lane behind him. He turned and saw a tall, trim woman in her fifties standing at the end of the driveway. She was wearing a green waterproof and walking boots, and had a lock of wet hair plastered down one cheek, courtesy of the rain. Harry walked back down the drive and smiled to put her at her ease.
‘I’m looking for Vanessa Tan,’ he said. ‘I thought she might be in.’
‘Vanessa?’ The woman lifted one eyebrow. ‘Goodness, she hasn’t been around for years. May I ask who you are?’
Harry took out his wallet and showed her his card with the official portcullis logo in one corner. It was a useful leftover from his MI5 days, although it didn’t say anything about the Security Services in writing.
‘Oh. Government.’ The woman looked impressed. ‘Sorry — only we have to be so careful these days, don’t we?’ She tucked the stray hair back behind her ear. ‘Excuse the state of me — I like walking in the rain. I find it therapeutic. I’m Margaret Crane; the next house up. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Tate. Vanessa left home to go to uni some years back, and that’s the last we saw of her. Maureen, her mother — she died just over a year ago now — always told us Vanessa was doing well, but she never came home to visit, as far as I know.’ She glanced up at the sad-looking bungalow. ‘Such a shame, leaving the place empty like this. I think Maureen must have hoped Vanessa would come back one day, and she’d have this waiting for her. It needs someone living in it, though, rather than simply being patched up. But that’s young people for you, isn’t it? A different sense of responsibility, I suppose.’
Harry saw what she was referring to: a wooden panel had been fitted over one of the smaller windows. It had the appearance of what his father had once called a long-term temporary fix, something that would do until a better alternative came along. ‘So who does the patching up?’
‘A management chap comes round every now and then, but he never says anything. Checks it’s sound, I imagine, does whatever needs doing, then goes away.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of the coast road. ‘There’s quite a few like this, though; empty year-round, never a sight or sound of who owns them, makes you wonder why they bought them in the first place. And they say there’s a housing shortage.’ She shook her head at
