business partner, a committed Sloane Ranger who knew everybody who was anybody and was vital to the business.
‘Well, I am,’ Harry agreed, ‘and Felicity’s a romantic.’ He accepted the large glass of red wine Jean handed him, and the kiss that followed. Since his divorce, Jean was the nearest he’d come to a long-term relationship, although neither of them had made any moves towards taking it to another level. Jean teasingly introduced him as her occasional date or OD, which suited them both.
She sat on a leather-covered footstool in front of him and chinked glasses. Her eyes were light brown, the gaze disconcertingly direct. ‘You look tired. What’ve you been up to, Charlie Brown?’
He knew she didn’t want the fine print; she knew better than that. But she’d heard about the shooting in St James’s Park and Rik’s wounding, and had put two and two together. ‘Rik and I had to take someone overseas. It was a long flight and I’m glad to be back.’
‘Long? Iraq long or Afghanistan long?’ She knew Harry’s previous area of operations, if not the precise details, and she knew he was still connected with the intelligence community, albeit by a long cord. She was also perceptive, armed with a former military wife’s expertise at telling the difference between job tiredness and the slow wind-down from operational stress.
‘Iraq. Baghdad.’ Ballatyne would have had kittens hearing him admitting this to anyone, but he didn’t care. He smiled and took a sip of his wine, feeling himself relax. ‘Is this a Merlot? It’s very smooth and. . let me see — fruity with a touch of blackberries.’
‘You are so full of bullshit, Harry Tate,’ Jean said with a laugh, and leaned forward for another kiss, bringing a faint smell of lemons. ‘It’s a Shiraz and you know as much about wine as you do about flower arranging, so don’t change the subject. I just like to know you’re OK, that’s all. How’s Rik?’
‘Trying to avoid his mother’s phone calls and getting stroppy, which is a good sign.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Is that something cooking?’ It reminded him that he hadn’t sat down to eat properly for a couple of days. The ration pack he’d been handed on the flight back from Baghdad had been uninspiring, and had found a good home in the stomach of the private contractor in the next seat.
Jean lifted an eyebrow. ‘You mean you want to
Harry gave an elaborate shrug and fought hard to keep a straight face, burying his nose in his glass. ‘Well. . eventually. Why, what are you suggesting?’
She stood up and took his glass off him. ‘Follow me, International Man of Mystery, and if you’re a very good boy, I’ll show you.’
SEVEN
The Langham Place Starbucks had a line of office workers waiting to collect their morning fix of caffeine from the end of the counter, and a middle-aged man in a rumpled pinstripe suit. He was sitting and flicking impatiently through a travel brochure with the dislocated nervous look of a patient about to see his dentist. He looked up as Harry stepped through the door and gestured for him to come over.
‘Tate? Good of you to make it. Gordon Cullum.’ He gestured to the chair and put the brochure to one side, then sat back without offering to shake hands, eyes flicking over Harry, assessing. The table was in a corner, away from its nearest neighbour, and Harry guessed Cullum had used this place before.
‘Who sent you?’ he asked.
‘You know who.’ Cullum gave a hint of a sneer, keen to demonstrate that as far as he was concerned, playing security games wasn’t necessary. ‘Ballatyne.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Not mine to ask and they don’t tell. He’s Six.’
Which meant Cullum was not. Five, probably.
‘You have some information for me,’ Harry said, keeping it simple. He’d never met Cullum, didn’t know his history. For all he knew, he and Paulton might have been secret bridge buddies, in which case this was a waste of time.
‘Yes.’ Cullum delved in a pocket and produced a data stick on a key ring. He placed it on the table but kept it close by. ‘How was Baghdad?’
‘Hot. Unfriendly. Same as always. What’s on the stick?’
Cullum sniffed. ‘Never been, myself. Belfast was more my time. So you got him there, then — Rafa’i? Back with his own kind.’
The man’s only trying to be friendly, Harry told himself, although he questioned the man’s lack of tact — in here, especially, less than a sticky bun’s throw from the BBC and its wasp’s nest of journalists. He decided to humour him. ‘The last I saw, he was back home and walking.’ He nodded at the data stick. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Cullum ignored the question. ‘That was good work, especially after what you went through with Paulton.’ It sounded genuine but his eyes gave him away. The praise was hollow; he didn’t care one way or another. This was just a job to be ticked off, one among many in a busy day. He finally tapped the stick. ‘In here is the information Ballatyne asked for. It’s all in the file: names, units, dates, backgrounds. It will ask you for an unlock code. That’s whatever you agreed with Ballatyne.’
‘Does it include Paulton?’
‘What about him?’
‘I need whatever you’ve got; family, friends, contacts, where he went to school.’
‘Why would you need that?’
‘Because it’s how I find people.’
Cullum chewed it over then nodded, playing the generous benefactor. ‘It’s all there. Heavily edited, of course, but there’s plenty to be getting on with.’ He slid the stick across to Harry. ‘I can imagine what you’ll do when you find him.’
‘Really. And what’s that?’
‘Well, some would like him to fall under a bus, but that’s not my decision. There’s a note for interested parties should you need it, and a form to sign. You can print it off.’
‘A form?’ Harry wondered if he was about to be offered his old job back. That would be a shocker. He wasn’t sure he could take that.
‘We’re assigning you a nominal position of WO-Two.’ Cullum smiled thinly, and took a card out of his pocket. It showed Harry’s MI5 file photo. ‘I know you were a captain in a previous life and it’s a bit of a step down, but an officer would be all wrong for what you’ll be doing. It’s a cover in case a situation arises.’
‘Situation?’
‘You know what I mean.’ He folded his chubby hands on the table, the lecture over and enjoying the brief power it gave him.
Harry pocketed the data stick and card and stood up. ‘Forget it.’
‘What?’
‘I won’t be signing anything, now or later.’
Cullum scrambled to his feet. He was shorter than he’d looked. ‘There isn’t room for compromise, Tate,’ he muttered. ‘This isn’t some kind of lone warrior mission, you know. We need that form signed.’
Harry’s phone rang. He checked the screen. Ballatyne.
‘Harry.’ The MI6 man’s voice was flat. ‘We’ve got a problem. Are you alone?’
‘I’m with Cullum. We’ve just finished,’ he added heavily. Cullum looked annoyed. He must have guessed it was Ballatyne. He turned and walked out without a word, scooping up the travel brochure as he went.
‘Good. Lose him and get down to Victoria Embankment Gardens. Urgent.’
‘He’s gone. What’s up?’
‘Pike and his escorts never made it to Colchester.’
