It was seven the following morning when Harry’s bedside phone rang. He rolled over and took the call, wincing at stiff muscles after the journey back from Germany. It was Ballatyne and he sounded hyped.
‘Some news,’ the MI6 man said. ‘We might have a serious lead on Deakin and his crew. Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath just walked into a south London police station and asked for protection. He says his life is in danger.’
‘I think I know the feeling.’
‘He had a meeting with Deakin and an American in Belgium. They pitched him a deal to provide a ton of information on the latest trial versions of NATO operational networks and communications in return for cash — a lot of it. He agreed in principle, and was told to stay low and given an open-ended account at a hotel outside the city. They said they’d call him with details of the next stage and make a first payment. Can you believe it? “Agreed in principle”. These people amaze me. They think selling secrets is like signing up to a bloody mortgage.’
‘What made him run?’
‘He heard about Pike. Seems they trained together, although he hadn’t seen him for a while. McCreath had been away from his home base playing Action Man stuff with the Air Assault Brigade. He got wounded and decided he’d had enough of being chucked out of helicopters and being shot at, so he went on the run to sort himself out. He got a lead from a mate about the Protectory, and next thing he knows is, he’s been approached by Deakin and offered a way out.’
‘Deakin wouldn’t have told him about Pike, though.’
‘No. He says he heard about it from the same friend. He started to get worried that he might end up in a ditch somewhere, so he ducked out and headed back to England by train and boat.’
‘Why south London?’
‘He used to live in the Brixton area. Probably figured he could go to ground and get lost.’
It was no surprise to Harry. Most runners headed for the familiar by instinct, looking for comfort in any place where they felt safe. They usually didn’t realize that it was the worst thing they could have done until a knock sounded on the door.
‘He claims he saw a face in the crowd on the way over,’ Ballatyne continued. ‘A man named Zubac — a Bosnian. He travels with a man called Ganic. McCreath says they’re enforcers for the Protectory, ex-militia or military, he reckons, and highly nasty. Sounds as if they’re the men who killed Pike and Barrow. If they’re that close behind McCreath, they’ve only got one thing in mind. I’ve cleared your entry down at Brixton. The sooner we question him the better.’
Harry swung out of bed. ‘I’m on my way.’
THIRTY
Milan Zubac was studying a small electronic box on his lap, eyes on a set of coloured lights numbered Level 1 to 5. He was slowly turning a dial on its side. When the level 5 light glowed red he nodded to his friend and former Bosnian army colleague, Zlatco Ganic, who was behind the wheel of their car, an anonymous Vauxhall Corsa.
‘He is here. Time to go.’
Ganic took a last drag of a Marlboro and flicked it out of the window, where it bounced in a shower of sparks before dropping through a drain cover. From where they were sitting, they could see the rear gates of a large building, and through the bars, the colourful flash of police vehicles. It was barely nine in the morning and everything seemed quiet apart from an irregular flow of police cars entering or leaving the compound behind the gates. But they had no illusions; this was a busy station and things would change dramatically the moment they got inside. Once they began, there was no going back.
Ganic gave a wry smile and uncoiled his heavy, six-foot frame ready to get out of the car. ‘This time,’ he said with exaggerated courtesy, ‘I think you should go first, my friend. It is only fair.’
Zubac shrugged and reached for a heavy rucksack between his feet. ‘OK by me,’ he said. ‘You can play the tail of the dog if you like.’ He opened the bag and took out two 9mm Ruger SR9 handguns and half a dozen black cylindrical objects each with two pull rings and a safety lever. American-made M84 stun grenades or ‘flash-bangs’, they held a mix of magnesium and ammonium, and were designed to distract and disorientate anyone in an enclosed space. He passed Ganic one Ruger with a seventeen-shot magazine and a spare, along with three stun grenades, then slung the bag with the remaining handgun and grenades over his shoulder. If they had to use all seventeen shots plus spares, then they were in trouble. But he didn’t plan on that happening. You won in these situations by always going prepared.
They climbed out and checked the street in both directions. Police activity this close to the station was likely to be heavy, and although the car was done with and they wouldn’t be coming back to it, there was no future in being stopped by a policeman or traffic warden for parking in a restricted area before they even began the next stage of their plan. When Zubac was satisfied, he nodded to Ganic and the two men walked along the street and turned in at the barred gates.
Zubac, whose accent was less noticeable then Ganic’s, pressed the call button on the intercom.
‘Yes?’ The voice was tinny, with a faint wheezy quality. Too old to be a cop, Zubac noted. Probably a retired officer reduced to playing security guard.
He read the prepared sentence. ‘Hi. Wilkins and Collier from the MOD, to assist with the interview of Staff Sergeant McCreath.’ Short and sharp, was the advice he’d received from Deakin; sound businesslike and don’t take any shit. They get people coming and going all the time. You’re just following orders like everyone else.
The priority was to get through the gates. Once inside, the rest would be easy.
‘Hold your ID up to the screen, please.’ The man sounded bored, going through the motions.
Zubac did so. This was the weak point. If the guard saw or heard something he didn’t like, they weren’t going any further.
‘OK. Come across the yard to the red door and wait.’
The gates swung open with a whine of an electrical motor. Both men stepped through, walking past a line of empty police vans, patrol cars and a couple of transits with swing-down mesh riot screens. No people, though; the yard was deserted.
Zubac slid his hand inside the rucksack, fanning himself with the fake ID with his other hand to distract attention. He glanced at Ganic and said, ‘Remember, we need directions. After that, anything goes.’
Ganic nodded and stuffed small rubber cones into each ear. Whatever else happened, the next few minutes were going to be very noisy. Zubac would put his in place once they got past the security guard. After that it wouldn’t matter because they would have no need to talk or to listen.
THIRTY-ONE
Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath was looking every one of his thirty-eight years, with a yellowish tinge to his skin and dark hollows beneath each eye. His white shirt and dark slacks were creased, evidence of a long journey without being able to change, and he looked strung out, eyes searching for a way out like a rat in a box. He’d take some stopping, thought Harry, if he decided to get up and go. Operating with 16 Air Assault Brigade in the hills of Afghanistan had toughened up the Signals NCO in a way that playing with communications equipment never would have.
Harry sat down opposite him and dropped a packet of cigarettes on the table. A pair of large constables were stationed by the door, and one of them, with ginger hair and pale skin, shifted his feet.
‘Can’t do that in here, sir.’
Harry looked at him. ‘Don’t worry, officer, I think he’s got more pressing problems than breaking the smoking ban.’ He took out a cheap Bic lighter and slid it across the surface. ‘You want to smoke, go ahead.’
McCreath shook his head. ‘I’m trying to give up. Who are you?’
‘You can call me Harry. I want to help you get out of here in one piece.’ He sat back. ‘I hear you’ve got Ganic and Zubac on your tail.’
