Chi putting the pressure on, is he?’ He opened a miniature of whisky and poured it into a glass. ‘I told you getting into bed with the Chinese was a risky business. They don’t play like the rest of us, believe me.’
‘It’s not him,’ Deakin growled. ‘I sent Zubac and Ganic after McCreath. They missed him.’
‘Never mind. It wasn’t necessary, anyway. What happened?’
Deakin told him in a few brief sentences, ending with a description of Harry Tate.
Paulton paused mid-sip. ‘Did you say Tate?’
‘Yeah,’ said Turpowicz. ‘He’s a warrant officer with the army. One of the recovery officers they send after deserters.’
‘I know what recovery officers do.’ Paulton stared reflectively into his glass. ‘How long?’
‘Huh?’
‘How long has this Tate been in the picture?’
‘He first turned up in The Hague,’ said Deakin, ‘chasing Pike’s trail. Then he found Barrow not long after the Bosnians had dealt with him. The man’s like a bloody sniffer dog.’
‘I thought you said Pike was dead.’
‘He is. They were checking his back trail. Don’t worry, it’s a dead end. Like Barrow.’
‘That’s two of two,’ said Paulton enigmatically.
‘What does that mean?’
‘The odds. Two of two is what an old boss of mine called lousy odds — unless they were on your side. Two good contacts meant we were in business. Two bad ones and we were in trouble. This feels like trouble.’
‘And what exactly was your business?’ asked Turpowicz. ‘You never really said.’
Paulton smiled. ‘No, I didn’t, did I? Let’s say I was in a similar line of work to this man, Tate.’
‘A man hunter? Spy catcher?’ Turpowicz was quick off the mark. ‘Don’t tell me. . MI5? Special Branch?’
‘Something like that. Do you know what Tate looks like?’
‘Sure.’ Turpowicz turned to the laptop and switched it on. The machine booted up and he found the shot of Harry Tate. Paulton bent and studied it carefully, then walked over to the window and peered out while the other two men waited. He seemed to have gone very still, as if frozen in mid-thought, but neither of the other two seemed to notice.
‘So how do we stop him?’ said Deakin. ‘Can he be called off?’
Paulton shook his head. ‘Not by me, he can’t. I don’t have the reach. People like Tate are independent. They follow their own lines of enquiry. Stopping them is not that simple.’
There was a lengthy silence. Turpowicz was the first to speak. He said with a nervous laugh, ‘Hell, you sound almost like you know the guy.’
‘Me?’ Paulton turned and shook his head, glancing briefly at the laptop screen, then checked his watch. ‘Shall we have lunch? I’m famished.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
As Paulton followed the other two men downstairs, he was reflecting on how quickly and dramatically the past could come back and haunt you. Even with a quick glance at the laptop, he’d had no trouble recognizing his former MI5 subordinate, Harry Tate. The realization made satisfying his appetite the last thing on his mind, but he wasn’t about to let these men know the size of the problem they were facing. Not that Tate was unstoppable — no man was. Paulton had once described him as solid and resolute, outwardly a plodder, the kind of man who crept up on the fence; the kind you never saw coming until it was too late. It had been meant as a criticism, a dismissal of a man he had seriously underestimated. How ironically prophetic that had turned out to be. His gut tightened unpleasantly at the memory, and what it had led to. He’d made a mistake with Tate. It had brought serious consequences, especially for Paulton’s fellow conspirator and opposite number in MI6, Sir Anthony Bellingham. He had suffered a particularly nasty fate on London’s Embankment, a spit away from the SIS headquarters, courtesy of one of his own disgraced officers, Clare Jardine.
Paulton was damned if he would make that mistake again.
He caught up with Deakin and Turpowicz just as they reached the restaurant, and drew them out of earshot of the maitre d’.
‘Those men you use — the Bosnians?’
‘What about them?’ Deakin looked defensive, expecting more criticism.
‘Tell them not to leave the country.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we need them to cover your tracks. This man Tate isn’t going to stop.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Take my word for it — we must take him out of the picture.’
‘That’s what I was going to do,’ Deakin looked pointedly at Turpowicz, ‘but others disagreed.’
‘It’s too risky, that’s why,’ the American insisted. ‘Go after Tate and it’ll bring down the big battalions on our heads. There’ll be nowhere to hide.’ He stared hard at Paulton. ‘Or is there something you’re not telling us?’
‘No.’ Paulton kept calm, his face blank. ‘But I know the type of man Tate is and I know how this will end if we don’t stop him now.’ He knew he was too experienced to betray any misgivings he might have; he had, over the years, kept greater secrets from better and far keener intellects than these. But he was realistic enough to know that if he didn’t handle this very carefully, it could all go very badly indeed. The fact that he knew Harry Tate was going to come out; these things always did. And being the men they were, even with his long-time acquaintance of Deakin, if they suspected there were personal reasons for a man hunter to be on his trail, they’d dump him in a heartbeat. He’d be too much of a liability to keep around for their continued survival, as small and self-contained as the organization was. He had joined them, promising to bring specialized contacts and resources, because he had seen an unrivalled opportunity to profit by the kind of assets they had passing through their fingers. It was something he did not want to lose. He was looking forward to many years of productive life yet, and for that he would need a regular supply of operating capital and the means to keep himself out of trouble.
‘We’re all ears, George,’ Deakin prompted him impatiently. ‘How do we get to Tate and how do we stop him for good?’
Paulton gave a knowing smile. ‘We distract him. Everyone’s got a weak point, and Tate’s no different. We hit him where it will hurt and draw him out. Then we take him out of the picture. And I think I know just the way to do it.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘I wish I’d been there.’ Rik Ferris looked disgruntled at having missed out on some fun. Harry had called at his flat to bring him up to date on events and to see how he was progressing with his trawl for information on Vanessa Tan.
‘Good job you weren’t,’ said Harry. ‘You’d have slowed us down.’ He smiled to show he was joking and took a pair of pistols out of a leather briefcase he’d brought with him. They were German H amp;K VP70 semi- automatics.
Rik’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Jesus — what’s this?’
‘The difference between life and death.’ Harry handed him a magazine. ‘Nine millimetre, eighteen-round mags, courtesy of a now defunct south London gang. If Zubac and Ganic come after us, we’re going to need them.’
‘How did you get hold of them?’ Rik picked up one of the guns and checked the mechanism. Both weapons had the patina of past use, but were clean and ready to go.
‘Ballatyne pulled some strings. They’re not logged to anyone, but if we have to lose them, make sure they stay lost.’
‘You think they’ll come, even after what they did in Brixton?’
