of the madness of London. It must have broken civil service records for speed and efficiency, especially in Human Resources and Travel. He hadn’t even been asked to surrender his weapon, but told they would send it on in a secure bag.
They were clearing the decks before the press got to him. It was the MI5 way. Move the man, move everything associated with him. Sanitize and deny. Avoid awkward questions and embarrassing answers.
It may have been dressed up as a new posting, but he was beginning to regret his decision already. He had followed orders, the same as always.
He felt hungry. Remembering the sandwich they’d given him at Northolt, he took out the other half and bit into it with dull enthusiasm. It prompted a reminder of his escorts from London. They may have disappeared from sight, but he didn’t believe he was being allowed to move without being observed.
To test the theory, he kept his head down, blanking out the activity around him and recapping who he had seen so far. He discounted the obvious ones – hard-nosed, copper or army types – because they were usually innocent. His money was on a young bloke with a buzz-cut lounging around near the main doors, pretending to be waiting for an incoming passenger.
Thirty minutes later, as Harry carried his bag towards the main exit, the man with the buzz-cut was using a mobile phone on the far side of the arrivals area.
‘He’s just leaving,’ he said quietly. ‘Heading for the cab rank.’
‘Has he talked with anyone?’ The voice on the other end was calm but clipped, establishment English. No background noise. A quiet office close by the Thames.
‘No.’
‘Good. Did he see you?’
‘No way. He was busy sucking on a miniature of whisky. He hadn’t got a clue.’
‘If you believe that,’ the voice said with cold contempt, ‘you’re an idiot. The only way Harry Tate would have missed spotting a tail was if he was unconscious and blindfolded.’
SEVEN
There were more military personnel outside the terminal building. All armed, looking alert or bored depending on rank, and most looked as if they had been dressed and assembled in a rush.
There were no takers for cabs at the rank, and only a single vehicle waiting; a dusty Mercedes with a crumpled wing. The driver was a young man with spiky hair, oval spectacles and a faded Def Leppard T-shirt. He lifted his chin as Harry caught his eye, and popped the boot. Harry handed him a slip of paper with the office address, and the man pursed his lips and nodded. He seemed about to say something when a large shadow loomed over them.
‘Hey, Tate – you got the only ride left! Care to split the fare?’ It was Higgins, the American journalist. He was sweating profusely and clutching a large overnight case and a plastic duty-free bag. His suit looked as if it had been used to bed down a donkey.
‘Sure. Climb in.’ Harry could have done without the company, but refusing the suggestion would have made him stand out.
‘Jesus, what a shit-heap!’ was Higgins’ opening comment as they left the small airport and headed out along a narrow perimeter road. He banged on the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Hey – does this thing have air-con? Stinks like a dead beaver in here.’
The driver tapped a button on the centre console, and a fan stirred lazily but with little effect.
As they turned on to the main road, Harry looked back. There were no other vehicles in sight. If his watcher from the airport was still there, he must have borrowed Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.
During the journey, which changed from a scattering of commercial units and residential blocks around the airport, to occasional farms and clusters of low houses in open, gently-climbing countryside, Higgins complained at length about the trip, the flight, the landing and the lack of facilities. The only thing he appeared not to have an opinion on was the over-abundant display of military personnel and vehicles in the area. Stationed at crossroads and junctions, they were watchful but unthreatening.
As they cruised into the drab outskirts of a medium sized town, Higgins took up a running commentary about the country and the people, little of it complimentary. Harry wondered if the driver spoke English. He occasionally found the man’s eyes flicking up to the mirror and meeting his with a quizzical expression, although he remained silent.
The town, set in the cooler air among low foothills, was unsophisticated and raw, and reminded Harry of a western frontier town from a Sergio Leone film. A maze of narrow streets intersected by several empty, tree-lined boulevards, it boasted a bare handful of four-storey buildings which would have been considered for demolition anywhere else. Some of the streets were bordered by large, rubbish-strewn gutters on either side, with planks laid across the gap for pedestrians, who seemed to use the street like a walkway and paid little attention to surrounding traffic. Overhead, electric wires sagged between the buildings, barely high enough to avoid the radio aerials of the large trucks pounding through and dousing everything in heavy exhaust fumes. The people looked grey, shuffling along with little signs of conversation, moving between the shops which ranged from garish to utilitarian and shabby.
Two hours after leaving the airport, the driver turned on to one of the boulevards and stopped outside a hotel boasting an awning and a cluster of tables with parasols on the pavement outside.
Higgins looked at the driver and shifted his bulk forward to pound on the back of his seat. ‘Hey, Spikey – how did you know where I was staying?’ He turned to Harry without waiting for a reply. ‘Did I say where I was staying?’
Harry shrugged. The driver merely smiled in the mirror.
Higgins swore at the lack of reaction and nudged Harry with a beefy elbow. ‘See this dump? It’s called the Palace. My bathroom at home is bigger than this. Say, where are you staying, Tate? You here, too?’ It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that the hotel might have guests other than himself.
‘No,’ said Harry with quiet relief. ‘My firm made other arrangements.’
‘Your firm? Oh, you in oil or something? You never said.’
‘You never asked.’ Harry wanted the man out of the car.
Higgins appeared not to hear him. ‘I know a lot of guys in the oil business. Mostly engineers. They work on the pipeline going from Baku on the Caspian all the way through to the Med. Anyway, I gotta go. See you around, Tate. Maybe we’ll have a drink sometime. Watch out for bed-bugs – they’re built like fuckin’ raccoons.’
He levered himself out of the car and tramped heavily into the hotel, his jacket tails flapping like a tent. He had made no offer to share the fare. Harry let him go. The peace and quiet was worth it. He made a mental note to avoid the Palace Hotel and signalled the driver to move on.
Three minutes later, the Mercedes stopped outside a plain-fronted, three-storey building rendered in a sickly cream coating speckled with dust. There were few vehicles or pedestrians about, but two soldiers were standing on the nearest corner.
As Harry pulled out some notes, the driver turned and draped one arm over the back of his seat.
‘And they have the fucking cheek to wonder why everyone hates them.’ His voice was heavy with disgust, his accent was from somewhere south of
