‘He got cold feet, that’s what went wrong.’ Deakin’s lip curled in derision. ‘Maybe they’re all like that in Signals and the Green Slime: no guts when it comes to carrying through a decision.’
Nicholls ignored the nickname; he was long accustomed to it in a job where name calling was as much for self-protection as it was for denigrating other branches of the military. But the implied insult rankled and he took in a deep breath, eyes growing dark with dislike.
‘Hey, guys, cool it.’ Turpowicz tapped the table and looked from one to the other as an almost electric charge sizzled in the air between them. ‘Shit happens, right? We win some, we lose some. There’ll be others.’
Nicholls eventually nodded and relaxed. Deakin shrugged. He’d rarely shown any great liking for the former major, and they regularly disagreed on the tactics the group should use to earn funds. But he knew not to push him too far. Nicholls was older, but he’d worked undercover for months on end in Iraq and other dangerous locations, and a man didn’t do that without having powerful inner resources and a determination to survive.
The three men sipped their wine while the atmosphere returned to normal. Then Deakin said by way of explanation, ‘Pike turning us down I could put up with; but not after we’d transferred the money. That was taking the piss.’
‘We’ll get it back,’ Turpowicz said quietly. A former bank worker before enlisting in the US military, he handled the financial transactions on behalf of the Protectory and regularly fed a stream of funds through offshore financial centres around the world. It meant the Protectory could have access to money in numerous countries at short notice, for paying helpers, informants and contacts, as well as supplying cash to help the deserters they targeted. ‘I put a reversal code on all the transfers, operable up to seven days after confirmation. One push of a button and the transfer comes right back, minus an abort fee.’ He smiled at his own ingenuity.
‘So push it, then,’ Deakin muttered sourly. ‘Without the info to sell, we’re behind target.’
‘Will do. What about new leads?’ He was referring to their insider in the Ministry of Defence in London, a nameless voice who was their information feed to personnel on the ‘Failed to Report’ list. With the names came all the relevant information about regiments, background, rank and home addresses, allowing the Protectory to get a trace on the missing personnel before they went cold. The fact that only one in twenty FTRs were of a grade worth following up to the fullest extent did nothing to deter their efforts with the remainder. Any serving member of the military had something they could trade, given the right pressure, even if only about senior officers and force strength. The Protectory’s trade was in information, and there were many eager buyers out there.
‘I’m on it. Our man’s having to be extra careful going through the records in case he leaves an electronic footprint. For now, though, we’ve got a few to work on.’
‘How did they do it?’ Nicholls queried. He plainly hadn’t finished with the matter of Pike’s death.
‘Why?’ Deakin countered. ‘Will it help, you knowing that?’
‘He’ll find out eventually,’ said Turpowicz, ‘when it hits the news channels. And I’d be kind of interested, too.’
Deakin relented with ill-concealed reluctance. The Signals NCO would have stood no chance against Zubac and Ganic, the two Bosnian enforcers he’d sent to England to deal with him. They had learned their craft over years of turbulent fighting in their homeland and in a dozen different places since. Once locked on to a target, they were lethally committed and had no ‘off’ switch other than Deakin’s word. ‘They tailed him and took the car out on the A12 east of London. They got Pike with a head shot; one of the MPs died, the other’s not going anywhere. Clean job.’ He related the details with a clinical lack of emotion.
‘And Barrow?’
‘I’m waiting to hear about that. Ganic and Zubac flew to Berlin immediately after the hit on Pike and caught up with him heading for the Polish border.’
‘Are they going to bring him in?’ Nicholls asked.
Deakin stared at him without expression. ‘What do you think?’
‘There’s gonna be questions about Pike, though. Right?’ Turpowicz looked between the two Englishmen. The UK was their territory, but his question was clearly valid; had it been in the US, there would be a major investigation by both military and federal authorities. Nobody took out two military cops and their prisoner on a public highway without causing a firestorm. Surely the UK was no different.
‘Let them ask. Who cares? Our men are clear and gone. Point is, it works in our favour.’ Deakin spoke calmly, unaffected by what he had ordered done. ‘It sends a message to anyone else who thinks they can stiff us. The word is: don’t. And that includes our clients.’ He smiled and finished his wine, leaving the other two men with no doubts that he was extreme enough to go after anyone who tried to cross him, whatever their nationality or location.
The phone in Deakin’s pocket buzzed, and the sound of voices drifted through from the front section of the bar. Turpowicz and Nicholls stiffened instantly, but Deakin held out a hand to stop them getting alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘This is someone I want you to meet. He’s going to take our organization to the next level.’ He spoke into the phone. ‘Send him in, please.’
‘You didn’t think to warn us first?’ Nicholls looked angry. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Deakin? We’re all equal in this. We should each have a say about who we meet and when.’
Turpowicz nodded in agreement, his eyes bleak. He stayed calm, but said, ‘Not cool, man. You should’ve run it by us first.’
Deakin was unfazed by their reactions. He laid a hand on his chest. ‘Sorry, guys. It was a last minute thing and I didn’t have time. He was in the area, that’s all. I promise, this will be to our advantage.’
Nicholls leaned forward. ‘How do we know we can trust this man? Are you going to vouch for him?’
Deakin gave a flinty smile. ‘Of course, Colin. Why? Do you doubt me?’ He looked at them in turn as if daring them to object. ‘No? Good. We know where we stand then.’
Amid the stiff silence that followed, there was a knock at the door and a man entered. He was in his fifties, conservatively dressed in a suit and tie, with a light coat slung over one arm. He could have been a simple businessman, his nationality northern European but not clearly defined by his clothes. He looked thin, as if he had recently lost weight, but fit and tanned, with neat, grey hair. He smiled at the three men with what looked like genuine pleasure.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, his accent middle-class and English. If he sensed any hostility in the atmosphere, he ignored it. ‘Am I interrupting?’ He chuckled as he took a chair indicated by Deakin, who poured the fourth glass of wine. He took an appreciative sniff, raised the glass in salute and said, ‘My name’s Paulton, by the way. But please call me George.’
THIRTEEN
One kilometre north-east of Schwedt, a small industrial town on the German side of the border with Poland, a small white pickup truck churned along a narrow, isolated track riddled with muddy puddles and wallows. Darkness was coming in fast and the driver’s face was beaded with perspiration as he fought to control the steering wheel. He was praying that he didn’t get a puncture. Running on sidelights only, which were barely enough to show the banks on either side or the potholes in the surface, he was constantly having to wrench the vehicle back on course as he felt the bumper brushing against the tangle of overgrown grass and bushes bordering the track.
‘Come on, come
He checked the wing mirror, but the bouncing vehicle made seeing anything behind him impossible. He thought he’d caught a glimmer of lights back there earlier, but had seen nothing since. Maybe he’d lost the pursuers he knew were on his tail. Or maybe he’d been imagining it, a result of exhaustion. He flicked on the yellow interior light and risked a quick glance at the folded map pinned to the dashboard. Schwedt was behind him, and if he could believe the single dotted line showing just west of the town, the track he was on led towards the Polish border and the river Oder. He was counting on finding a way of crossing the water when he got closer, and avoiding the road where there would certainly be border controls. The pickup was barely roadworthy and would not stand close
