black operations is something else.’
Rudmann blinked. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion.’
Harry ignored her. ‘The first posting was an MI5 analyst named Gordon Brasher. He was sent home after a while and died of a drugs overdose.’
Rudmann’s expression suggested scepticism. He ploughed on. ‘The next was a fast-track MI6 recruit named Jimmy Gulliver. He decided he didn’t want to stay in the middle of nowhere, shovelling forms and leaflets, so he left and came back under his own steam. I believe Gulliver was dangerous because he knew far more than anyone in his position had a right to know. Someone overestimated his capabilities, promoted him up the chain until he cracked, then panicked and sent him somewhere where he couldn’t do any harm. He decided to jump ship and head for home, which made him a loose cannon. He knew things and there was a danger he might talk about Red Station. I mean, it hardly looks good, does it, squirrelling people away in the middle of nowhere on the public budget just to keep them quiet?’
‘Can you substantiate these claims?’ Rudmann’s look was wary.
‘Only one. Apart from a conscience, Gulliver suffered from chronic vertigo. I’m sure if you check his training record, you’ll find he was graded unfit for active work; he got dizzy standing on tiptoe. But someone decided his brain could be useful as long as they didn’t ask him to climb anything higher than a career ladder.’
‘You’ve lost me. What has his condition got to do with this?’
‘Gulliver disappeared on his way back. He never made an agreed rendezvous. Yet his file was closed and he was reported killed in a climbing accident. Question one: with his fear of heights and after months of being posted to Red Station, when all he wanted to do was get back to Vauxhall Cross, would he have really gone climbing? I doubt it. Question two: how did they know to close his file? Files only get closed on death.’
‘I see.’ Rudmann looked at a point above his head for a moment, then said, ‘How do you know about his medical background?’
‘Stuart Mace told me. Mace knew of his problem, had done so since he was a kid.’
‘How?’
‘Jimmy Gulliver was his nephew.’
Her mouth opened but she said nothing.
Harry waited, trying to gauge how much was play-acting, how much was genuine.
‘Carry on.’
‘Mace told me that Gulliver also had a morbid fear of flying, so he chose to drive back to the UK. He hired a car locally with an agreement to drop it off in Calais. Neither Gulliver nor the car ever arrived.’
She tapped a glossy fingernail on the desk. ‘You mentioned trainees were used. What was their function?’
‘They were rotating four-man teams Paulton had in place watching the members of Red Station around the clock, to see that nobody took off or misbehaved. They were nicknamed the Clones by Red Station staff and their job was strictly watch-and-report.’
‘That’s good security, surely, given the circumstances?’
‘Says you. The Clones were changed every few weeks as part of a training schedule. That way they didn’t get close to Red Station and none of the staff knew they were British, much less part of an official operation.’ He shifted in his chair, and wondered what activity was going on in the corridor outside Rudmann’s door. Too late now, whatever it was. ‘But Sir Anthony Bellingham also had a team,’ he continued. ‘They were called the Hit. They had a different agenda. I should say have, because I don’t know if they still exist.’
‘What do they do?’
‘They kill people.’
SIXTY-NINE
Marcella Rudmann’s face went pale beneath her make-up. ‘That’s rubbish-!’
‘No. It’s not. They deal with terrorists and war criminals and people who talk too much… like journalists and disenchanted security officers. Do you know what wet work is?’
‘Yes, but our government-’
‘Doesn’t employ such people? That’s bullshit and you know it. Anyway, as soon as the Russians marched across the border, the Clones were ordered to leave.’
Rudmann said nothing, but he could tell by her stillness that he had finally got her full attention. She hadn’t even queried the mention of Russians.
Because she knew where Red Station was.
He told her, anyway, just for the record. ‘Red Station is in Georgia, just south of the border with Ossetia. Remote and off the beaten track; ideal for keeping people out of the public eye. It’s now in what we call a hot zone.’
By Rudmann’s expression, Harry guessed she was reviewing recent events and coming to grips with what he had told her. She shook her head. ‘I’ll need verification of the location later. Please continue.’
‘Not all of the Clones made it out. One of them got left behind.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was murdered. Shot in the head. Then the Hit came in. Bellingham and Paulton must have decided that with the Russians on the way, it would be an ideal moment to get rid of all links to Red Station and forget we ever existed. If anyone had asked questions, they’d have blamed Russian forces or the local militia.’
‘This is speculation,’ said Rudmann quietly. ‘Do you have a grain of proof to substantiate these claims?’
‘Proof that there was such a place as Red Station? Of course. And proof of the personnel. You’ve already seen the copy files off the data stick; they came directly from a remote server here in London. One of those messages is from Mace, reporting the Clone’s murder.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not a direct link to Vauxhall Cross or Thames House; they were too clever for that. But it will be to Bellingham. He was the only one with access. The server’s code-name is Clarion. Bellingham’s mistake was checking it on a regular basis to monitor messages. We’ve got his trail mapped out for every call he made; times, dates and names.’
‘We? Who else is involved?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s confidential.’
She considered that for a moment. ‘You say a member of the observation team — these Clones? — was killed. I need his name.’
‘Stanbridge. Ex-army. I don’t know his first name. You can cross-check with service records for Kosovo; he served there with the UN.’
Rudmann made a brief note, although Harry was sure their conversation was being recorded.
‘If I read between the lines, you seem to think it was this second team — the Hit — which was responsible. Why would they do that… kill one of their own?’
They had finally reached the tricky part. Did he tell Rudmann that it was most likely Clare Jardine who had killed Stanbridge, or allow the blame to settle on a dead killer? He couldn’t prove it either way with absolute certainty, so what did it matter?
‘If it was the Hit who killed him, there were only two reasons I can think of: they found out that Stanbridge had talked to me, or Stanbridge recognized Latham and knew what his function was. In actual fact, Latham was the Hit. This was a job they couldn’t trust to more than one man. In Latham’s narrow world, Stanbridge was a liability to get rid of.’
‘And you’re suggesting that Latham was after you?’
‘Not just me; all of us. We were lucky to get away.’ Those of us who did, he thought. She could find out about Mace’s death herself, if she wanted.
‘I see. Where is Latham now?’
‘He ran into some trouble.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
