Deception

following, Harry decided this was the first indication that his plan to get the Protectory interested was working. But he needed help. He rang Rik.

‘How’s the arm?’

‘Itching like a bugger. Why?’ Rik sounded bored and irritable.

‘Saddle up, Tonto. I’ve got a tail and I need to find out who he is without letting him know that I know.’

‘Thank God!’ Rik muttered fervently. ‘Where to?’

Harry gave him directions to Schwedt and read out the Passat’s registration number. ‘Get the details on that and grab the first flight available,’ he suggested. ‘Be ready for an overnight stay.’ He had no qualms about billing Ballatyne for the double expense; there were times when operating two-handed was the only option. And having this man on his back was the nearest yet to a definite show of interest from the Protectory. ‘You might do well to hire an automatic, with your arm.’

‘What are you, my mother?’ Rik muttered. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll put the word on the car out with the community; they’ll soon get me a name.’ His fellow-hackers and IT geeks loved nothing more than nosing around in official files where they had no business, each venture a new challenge to be overcome. He paused. ‘Ballatyne’s people could get this, too, you know.’

‘Yes, they could. But he’d have to go through official channels, and it would take too long. And I’m not sure how leak-proof those channels are. Hire something inoffensive and try to be inconspicuous.’ Rik usually drove a vivid blue Audi TT, and his spiky hair and choice of garish T-shirts were hardly unmemorable.

‘Hey — I can blend,’ he protested. ‘I mostly choose not to.’

Harry thought that was rich, remembering how Rik had been canned from MI5 for nosing into restricted records and leaving a footprint, but he let it go. ‘Take my advice and blend. These people don’t mess. Remember what happened to Pike.’

‘Gotcha, boss. That all?’

‘Yes. Ring me when you get close.’

He disconnected and checked the map. Schwedt wasn’t far. Another forty minutes and he’d be there. He put his foot down and watched as the Passat gradually matched his pace. He slotted himself between two large trucks and the Passat began to overtake, then dropped back. Not a professional, he decided, or a cop. Just a man doing a job of work. But who for?

TWENTY-THREE

‘Who the hell is this bloke?’ Deakin was on his laptop studying the photo-snatch sent by Daniels in Scheveningen. It was clear enough to use, and he’d earlier forwarded copies to watchers at the airports of Amsterdam, Rotterdam and, to be safe, Berlin. These were all cities where he had contacts he could use at short notice. Most were gofers, available for simple tasks requiring no elaborate skills other than mobility and freedom of movement in exchange for a small fee. They usually had contacts with the local police, town halls and other agencies. A few were capable of more serious work if it was needed, or knew others they could call on. They cost more but it was a price Deakin was prepared to pay for his prolonged security.

Right now, he was waiting to see if anyone would spot the face.

He and Turpowicz were staying in the Goldenstedt Hotel in Delmenhorst, a southern suburb of Bremen. At two storeys and forty rooms, it was big enough to be anonymous, and close enough to the city’s commercial zones for two foreign visitors to pass unnoticed. He and Turpowicz had made the move from Hamburg as a natural precaution, and would be moving on the following day. Staying ahead of trouble was something that had kept them all free for a long time now, and would do for the foreseeable future.

He traced a map laid out on the table alongside the laptop, trying to second-guess the man’s movements. If the mystery investigator Daniels had warned them about chose to head south towards Antwerp or Brussels, both routes back to the UK, then the trail would go cold. But there was always the Eurostar terminal in London. Someone might pick him up there.

Greg Turpowicz looked over his shoulder at the screen. ‘Certainly looks like a cop to me,’ he muttered. ‘Most likely military. Can your MPs operate anywhere they choose?’

Deakin shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like: since Nine-Eleven everything’s changed. It used to be they had jurisdiction only around British bases. Anywhere else, they’d have to get the local police involved. But now. . now I wouldn’t bet against anything.’ He bent and peered closely at the man on the screen. He was stocky and solid, an ordinary dresser by the look of it, not flashy; one who would blend in anywhere. A hunter. He switched off the screen. ‘I don’t really care who or what he is. He’s chasing a dead man. What I do care about is where he goes next.’ He checked his watch. They had a meeting coming up on the other side of Bremen. And this was of major importance for the group’s financial future. More importantly, if it went according to his plans, it would establish his position as undisputed leader of the Protectory.

Harry Tate entered the town of Schwedt on the main road and let it take him towards the border crossing, which his map showed him was through the centre. He was working on the basis of German logic placing Oderstrasse in the direction of its nearest stretch of well-known water, and wasn’t disappointed. Two minutes later, he saw a sign for a church to his left. He checked his mirror. No sign of the Passat, but that had been the case for the last fifteen minutes. Maybe he’d got a puncture.

He turned left and saw the church rising above the surrounding houses. He parked against the church wall and turned off the engine. ‘Ring this number and I will find you’, the man had told him, before hanging up. That could mean he either lived in the centre of town and spent all his time watching for new arrivals, or he was someone of substance who had others to do his watching for him.

Harry got out and locked the doors, sniffing at the smell of petrochemicals in the air. From a panel on the map, he’d learned that Schwedt had been largely modernized since reunification, and although it had lost some of its population in recent years, it had not entirely ceased being an industrial centre for the region.

Across the road was a small expanse of green. Two elderly women were chatting, while a couple of small children played with a ball. On a bench nearby, an elderly man in working clothes was smoking a pipe over a newspaper. It was peaceful here, and off the main road, secluded.

He decided to take a scouting tour first. It took him all of forty minutes to make a rough tour of the centre and get his bearings. Just before arriving back at the church, he dialled the number of Barrow’s mobile.

‘Ja?’ It was the same voice.

‘It’s Tate. I’ll be at the church in two minutes.’ He switched off and continued walking. When he arrived at the car, an elderly woman was standing alongside it, as if keeping guard. She had grey hair and was poorly dressed in a thin coat and worn, faded shoes, although she carried herself with a certain dignity. Her eyes were ringed with dark shadows, and Harry thought she looked sick.

‘Herr Tate?’ The old woman’s lower lip was trembling slightly, and she looked frightened. Harry wondered what she had to be concerned about.

‘That’s right,’ he replied. But before he could say anything else, the old woman turned and walked away at a surprising clip, leaving him to follow. He had no choice but to hustle after her.

The woman led him down a narrow walkway between houses and gardens, and stopped near a large block of flats. The building was old, unlike its neighbours, and made of concrete; a throwback, it seemed, to another era, and called a Plattenbau, Harry remembered. Originally for workers, most had been torn down or renovated.

The old woman beckoned him inside. A flight of bare concrete steps led upwards, and she wheezed ahead of him, then motioned him along a landing and opened a door. She ushered him inside and pointed to a clean, sparsely furnished room with a table and three hard-backed chairs. The flat smelled musty, and the light was poor, blocked by heavy net curtains. He sat down on one of the chairs.

‘You must wait,’ the old woman told him in heavily accented English. ‘He comes soon.’

‘What’s his name?’ Harry asked, but she shook her head and walked through into a small kitchen area, where she put a saucepan of water on to an ancient stove. Then she produced a small tin of coffee from a cupboard and with almost genteel care, set down a clean mug before him. Her eyes gave nothing away, although he could have sworn the trembling in the old woman’s frame might have been generated by some kind of expectation or