Paulton continued quickly, ‘Tate’s a plodder and always was. He follows orders but he’s no great strategic thinker. Tan was clearly judged to be too high a value asset to leave out there, so they called in Tate to go after her and bring her in. . something he has been singularly unsuccessful in doing, let me remind you.’
‘You’d better be right about that. We’ve managed to stay below the radar for a long time now; I’d hate to find I was suddenly exposed because you were top of the Security Service’s wanted list.’
‘I wouldn’t be too happy, either,’ Turpowicz added darkly. ‘Which makes me wonder why you’re talking about taking him out. Surely that’ll make them mad enough to come after us?’
Paulton smiled. They were coming round, albeit slowly. ‘Precisely the opposite. Too much trouble at a time when the MOD is already under scrutiny over lavish spending, equipment shortfalls and desertion rates, and they’ll shut down the operation and focus their efforts elsewhere. Believe me, I know the way the drones in Whitehall and the Security Services think. Jumped-up bean counters, most of them; they don’t have the stomach for trouble unless it’s publicly or politically popular — and hunting down deserters has never been either of those. Half the population doesn’t care about soldiers on the run and the other half doesn’t want to know. Not the right form, y’know.’
‘All right.’ Deakin stood up, shrugging off his earlier mood. ‘So how do we get this bugger off our backs once and for all?’
Paulton looked satisfied at having got them both onside. ‘Simple. I’ll give you the home address of Tate’s protege, a man named Ferris. All you have to do is get your men ready. Only this time, no subcontracting the job out to kids or hoping to catch Tate in a drive-by shooting. This is warfare, not a gang-bangers’ spray-fest. Lift Ferris — he’s an IT button pusher, so he’ll be no problem — and Tate will follow. He’s too much of a white knight to leave Ferris out there. When he moves in, your thugs kill them both and we’ve got a clear field to carry on our work.’
Deakin looked unconvinced. ‘But that will expose Zubac and Ganic. Tate will be looking for them.’
Paulton’s response was cool. ‘Sadly, yes. But that’s what they’re for, isn’t it — to take the risks? After all, better they go down than we do.’
FIFTY-ONE
‘I need to speak to General Foster.’
Ballatyne didn’t express any surprise at Harry’s early call the following morning. Maybe, Harry thought, he’d been expecting this all along. Especially as Foster was reported to be in London to talk to an important parliamentary select committee about the progress of supplies and equipment for troops on the ground.
For Harry, talking to Tan’s former boss was the next logical step in the search for the missing lieutenant. She would have been the general’s shadow every pace he took, in Kabul and elsewhere, closer than most and always there whenever she was needed. It was what good aides did: anticipating the unexpected, operating at elbow’s length yet mostly unseen, advising, noting, observing — another set of eyes and ears for their superior. In such circumstances, General Foster would have got to know the young officer better than most, would have acquired even subliminally some information about her that might help them find her. Would have gained, perhaps, an insight into what made her tick.
‘What’s wrong, having trouble sleeping?’ the MI6 man muttered tartly.
‘No. But I am having trouble tracing Vanessa Tan. I might get a lead from talking to Foster.’
‘You can’t,’ Ballatyne said finally.
‘Why not?’ Harry mentally dusted himself off for a fight. This official habit of creating firewalls around figures of power and influence was not going to help, not in this situation. He needed to talk to anyone who had known Tan recently. Her school and university days were gone, her family was non-existent and it was likely that anyone who had known her before her army days would not recognize the person who had gone to war. Without talking to the one person who had been closest to her, he was no further forward in even guessing where she might have gone since jumping the fence.
‘Because he won’t talk. Sorry, Harry, it’s not on the agenda.’
‘He won’t or he won’t be allowed to?’
‘You’ll have to find another way.’ The tone was adamant, final. End of discussion.
Harry cut the connection. He thought he knew what was going on: Foster was being protected from any potential fallout associated with having a key member of his staff deserting. When in doubt, close ranks.
Time to bluff his way forward.
Stepping into the Ministry of Defence Main Building felt like deliberately walking out into rush-hour traffic in Trafalgar Square. In spite of the impressive amount of light coming through the glass acreage of the new development, Harry felt a darkness about the place, although he knew it was his imagination. He headed for the enquiry desk under the watchful eye of the security guards and flipped his Security Services card at the bristle- haired man on duty. It was just nine fifteen and there were a lot of people about, something he was hoping to turn to his advantage.
‘I’m here to catch General Patrick Foster’s press briefing,’ he said. ‘Last minute assignment.’ He’d been surprised to find how easy it had been for Rik to access the General’s timetable.
The receptionist nodded and ran Harry’s card under a scanner. It would probably light up all manner of screens in the MOD and Security Services, but Harry was past caring. What could they do to him other than chuck him out? ‘Room 16A on the ground floor.’ The receptionist nodded towards the security screens and returned his card. ‘Through there and turn right, sixth door along. He’s been talking about fifteen minutes already.’
Harry nodded and passed through the body scanner, then submitted to a security wand check before getting the OK to proceed. So far so good.
He arrived at 16A and stepped inside. The room was light and airy, concealed lighting giving the feel of a conservatory. General Foster was standing behind a lectern facing the door, gesturing towards a screen to one side showing a schematic of force distribution numbers against a background map of Afghanistan. The figures looked impressive, a multiple array of ground capabilities in various colours, an image of the country flooded with personnel. But Harry knew they were less than full; putting up detailed figures of how many men, women and machines were in theatre was as far beyond the instincts of the MOD as asking them to pull their own teeth with pliers. Whatever this press talk was meant to achieve, it was unlikely to be giving anyone — least of all the press — an accurate breakdown of UK and Coalition commitments in the fight against insurgents, but rather a political feel- good image for public consumption.
Foster was droning, his voice dry and automatic, and Harry guessed he was here under orders, to put a man-on-the-ground gloss on the situation for the media. While he would be accustomed to talking, the press was unlikely to be his favoured audience. Like most military men, he would be happier talking to fellow professionals, using a direct language far removed from the discreet, carefully micro-managed words he would be using here and being watched by MOD suits to ensure he didn’t depart from the agreed script. Generals before him had done so, and the control now was far tighter than it had ever been.
Harry checked the room. There were fewer than twenty in the audience, most of them photographers. It must have been disappointing for the MOD press office. Flying in a general all the way from Afghanistan should have generated a lot more interest, but maybe it was an indication of just how much information the press now had on a daily basis; they didn’t need to queue up to see the main man himself to know what was truly going on.
Harry couldn’t see the faces of those sitting in front of him, but he felt sure there was nobody he’d recognize. He slid into a chair and waited.
The talk ended a few minutes later with a few desultory and pre-prepared questions from the media pack. Then a woman from the press office stepped forward and said, ‘That’s it, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we have to wrap it up there. General Foster has a very busy schedule. There are briefing notes by the door for you to pick up on the way out. If you would like to take photos now?’
Harry waited while the snappers did their job, before they headed for the door in a flying wedge, eager to send in their photos and copy and get to the nearest pub. As the numbers diminished, General Foster collected his papers together and walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, head bent listening to an aide feeding him his next agenda item. As the officer neared him, Harry stood up and showed his Security Services card.
‘General Foster, if you have a moment?’ He was relying on a tone of authority to cut through the inevitable smokescreen around the general and confuse the suits and aides into letting him speak long enough to gain the
