As if on cue, Rik Ferris appeared in the background beyond Bellingham. He was dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, and holding a drinks bottle. He jogged easily, a spring in his step, covering the ground with ease. He looked fit and Harry was surprised; a few good nights’ sleep had worked wonders.
Bellingham paused to stare across the river and took a cigar from his top pocket. He carefully unwrapped it, placing the cellophane film in his pocket, then reached for a lighter. It flashed as he stroked it with his thumb.
Probably gold and heavy, thought Harry. Not designed to impress, though; just the way the man was. The flame flared, followed by a puff of grey smoke which hung momentarily around the spy chief’s head before swirling and disappearing on the river breeze.
Harry had rehearsed this moment in his head several times. With Paulton gone, Bellingham must have considered himself safe. He could go about his daily business until it was time for him to go, a faithful and loyal servant of her majesty’s civil service. Then he could slide into a comfortable, index-linked retirement and disappear off the face of a planet he had only ever served beneath the surface.
All would be well with the world.
Not a chance, Harry had decided. Not a bloody chance. He had weighed the pros and cons, looked at what kind of a life awaited him if he did what was expected of him. He, too, could move back into the fold, all sins forgiven, the records expunged. Say no more, all done and dusted. He could see out his service until retirement called.
Only it wouldn’t be quite as comfortable as anyone imagined. It would carry, for a start, the images of that night in Essex, when bad decisions had left three people dead — one of them a good policeman, one an innocent girl.
Not all the bad decisions were his, he knew that; cutting the manpower at a crucial moment was the most dam- aging, leaving him badly outgunned. But he still hadn’t forgotten his own moment of inaction, that split-second of hesitation just before the gunman on the boat had opened fire. Even though Maloney had confirmed a few days ago in a pub off the Charing Cross Road that a few seconds would have made no difference whatsoever, it was still with him.
He took a deep breath and felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. He’d sliced a hole in the fabric and fitted a special holster — more of a sack, really — so that the gun barrel, with its suppressor, wouldn’t snag.
Pulling it out would take half a second. Levelling it would take even less, and less still to pull the trigger. A spit of sound, the explosion of gasses muffled to little more than a cough by the suppressor, and even that would be lost in the noise from the traffic and the rush of the river. Then he’d be gone, walking away as casually as he could manage. In minutes he could be in Waterloo Station, shrouded by crowds of commuters.
But Bellingham wouldn’t be going anywhere.
He had tried to argue Rik Ferris out of his part in what was to follow, but to no avail. Bill Maloney had insisted on running interference, too. If anyone saw what happened, and attempted to interfere, they would be mugged by a hooded figure in a tracksuit or a heavily-built lout in jeans and a donkey jacket. Neither would be recognizable and neither would hang around afterwards to answer questions.
The worst of it was, in a way that made him wonder and smile, he knew both of them were relishing their part in it.
He walked towards Bellingham, keeping an eye on the bodyguard. The man was looking down at the water. Harry took a deep breath, trying to walk softly, taking the weight off his heels, the way they’d trained him. Trouble was, he sounded like one of the guardsman outside Buckingham Palace, his footsteps echoing off the walls like gunshots.
Bellingham looked up as Harry approached, a dribble of smoke coming from his lips. If he had concerns about his personal security, he was careful not to show it, eyes steady.
‘You want something?’ He sounded belligerent, a fact reflected in his stance. Up close, he smelled of soap and cigar smoke.
‘You know who I am?’ Harry knew he’d been recognized. The MI6 director must have a good memory. Or maybe he’d been checking through MI5 personnel records to see who else he could despatch to the back of beyond for ‘training’ purposes.
Then it hit him: he had met Bellingham before.
He was the man with Paulton when he’d had his debrief prior to leaving for Red Station. At the time, he had said nothing, remaining in the background, a suited figure with a bland face. Paulton had done all the talking.
The MI6 man nodded. ‘Tate, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’
Harry paused, surprised by Bellingham’s easy reaction, his apparent self-control. He’d expected to have to introduce himself at least. But maybe this proved just how hands-on Bellingham was in the Red Station set-up, and how well he knew its personnel.
‘Where did you expect me to be? In a Russian lock-up? Or disposed of in a quiet gully by the Hit?’
‘The what? Hit? No idea what you’re talking about.’ Bellingham glanced at his cigar, flicked some ash off the end. Harry noted that he also took the opportunity to check for his bodyguard.
‘You should know. You sent them after us. His name was Latham.’
‘Really? Why would I do that?’
‘You know why.’ Harry breathed easily. Bellingham was playing it just the way he’d expected: deny and counter-attack. ‘They were supposed to kill us; Mace, Ferris, Clare Jardine, Fitzgerald and me. The members of Red Station. With the Russians coming over the border, you and Paulton decided it would be a good idea to clear the decks. After all, who else would anyone blame?’ He waited, but there was no reaction. He added, ‘Did Latham arrange for Gordon Brasher to take an overdose? And for Jimmy Gulliver to have a climbing accident?’
‘You’re talking rubbish, man. Who the hell are — Brasher, was it? — and Gulliver? I suggest you get help. In fact, I’ll get Paulton to arrange it.’ Bellingham began to turn away. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me-’
‘Don’t you want to know about Latham?’
Bellingham’s face barely registered a flicker. But it was enough to betray him.
‘He’s dead.’
SEVENTY-TWO
Bellingham’s mouth dropped open. He recovered quickly, but Harry knew he’d finally hit home.
‘We buried him face down in a ditch. It seemed a fitting end.’
Bellingham stepped back. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know anyone called Latham. What do you want from me?’ A slight tic had started up under his left eye.
‘You. We want you. And Paulton. Although somehow I doubt we’ll get to him. He seems to have done a runner. But you’ll do for starters.’
‘We?’ The cigar was forgotten now. Bellingham was beginning to look trapped. He looked beyond Harry, sweeping the area with a practised eye.
‘Enough of us to bury you.’ Harry felt the response was over-dramatic, but it seemed appropriate. Bellingham and Paulton had buried him and the others in Red Station; it seemed right to think of retribution in the same terms.
‘Don’t flatter yourselves — any of you.’ Bellingham tossed the cigar into the river and thrust his hand in his pocket. ‘Who the hell would believe you?’
For a second, Harry thought he might be going for a weapon, and got ready to draw the gun in his pocket. It would probably be the last thing he ever did, but he was damned if this man was going to take him down. Then he realized Bellingham would be carrying a panic button. Press once in case of threats from foreign agents or pissed-off security officers. Bellingham wasn’t the gun type; he employed others to do his shooting for him.
He reckoned on having just a few minutes before the summons brought a response. ‘I’ve spoken to Marcella Rudmann,’ Harry said. ‘I think she’ll be looking to have a chat sometime. She’s particularly interested in Clarion.’
‘Don’t be pathetic.’ Bellingham’s voice dripped contempt, his mouth contorted, but he looked haunted at the mention of his server link. ‘You think you can come back here and take me on? You’re deluded, all of you, like that pathetic drunk, Mace. I suppose he’s hiding somewhere, afraid to come out and face the world without a stiff drink
