Red Station - Adrian Magson Harry Tate thrillers

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The living room, bedroom and kitchen held the basics, and carried a faint aroma of mildew and cleaning fluid. A wood-burner stood in the living room, black and cold and squat as a beetle, and the bathroom was ancient and damp, echoing to the plunk of water dripping from a furred-up shower-head the size of a soup tureen.

      He sat down on the bed and contemplated his future. So far, he’d been a man in motion, one foot in front of the other like an automaton, following orders. Now he was here, he couldn’t see beyond the bleak surrounds of these four walls and the grubby little cowpat of a town outside.

      Even Jean seemed too far away to be more than a vague memory.

      He leaned back, depressed, suddenly too tired to care, and fell asleep dreaming about the young couple in the Land Rover and a tall gunman with dreadlocks and a pole belching fire.

      TWELVE

      Mace was in his office by the time Harry got in, feeling worn out from a restless night’s sleep. He tapped on the glass door and walked in, and was surprised to smell alcohol in the air. A half-full glass of amber liquid sat in the centre of the Station Chief’s desk.

      ‘Come in,’ said Mace, his words heavily precise. ‘Set yourself down and pull up a coffee.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of a filter machine in the corner.

      Harry decided against it. The rim of the glass bowl looked toxic.

      ‘Your digs all right?’ Mace asked.

      ‘Magnificent. I’ll soon have it looking just like home.’ Harry didn’t bother pretending; he was sure the last thing Mace was concerned with was the well-being of his staff.

      ‘Good. Good.’ Mace ignored the sarcasm and sat back in his chair, nursing his glass.

      ‘Is there something you want me to do?’ Harry hoped this wasn’t chancing providence. He felt washed out, his eyes gritty, and wanted nothing more than to get through the day, have a decent meal and get to bed – preferably alone, although he’d have felt a lot happier if Jean was here.

      ‘Not really. Thought it was about time I let you in on all the gossip.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Well, let’s say you’re not unique, all right?’ Mace held up a finger. ‘Take young Ferris. MI5 computer bod. Something of a wiz, recruited from university and put to work for the greater good minding other people’s business. Trouble is, he got bored ferreting about in websites and computers belonging to terrorists, trouble-makers and general malcontents, and began using his skills closer to home; people in the government, people in power. One or two of ’em in the security services.’

      ‘Christ.’

      ‘Yeah. He’d have hacked Him too if he could have found His website. He wasn’t all that clever, though. He talked about what he’d done after hours. Silly boy. Should have known he’d get dobbed in by some back-stabber with ambition. Lots of that in this business.’

      ‘What happened?’ Harry was surprised Ferris wasn’t languishing in a cell somewhere. Hacking any computer was an offence; taking on the security services at their own game was tantamount to suicide.

      ‘He got tabbed. That’s a fancy name for having your legs taken from under you and sent out here, which is what happened to you. Your file gets tabbed, you’re due for a nasty surprise.’ He showed his teeth in another grin. ‘The people he took a sneaky look at didn’t want him loose on the labour market, so they decided to put him somewhere where they could keep an eye on him. Lucky for him.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘He might have been propping up a patio in SW16, otherwise. They sent him here instead. Some might say there’s not much difference.’

      ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Harry felt uncomfortable hearing about the transgressions of his colleagues. He had second thoughts about the coffee and poured a cup. Even loaded with sugar it tasted like sump oil.

      ‘Why not? Clean sheets makes for untroubled sleep, so my dear old mother used to say. Course, they wouldn’t agree back at HQ, but that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?’

      ‘If you say so.’

      ‘I do. Where was I? Oh, yes: Clare Jardine. Nice girl, but don’t get on her bad side. She comes from Six, along with all sorts of vile habits. She doesn’t do fluffy.’

      ‘Six?’ Harry was surprised. ‘I thought this was strictly a Five set-up.’

      ‘It started out that way. Then Vauxhall Cross asked to join the party in case they needed to export one or two of their own clandestine miscreants.’

      ‘I’m surprised they have enough to warrant it.’

      ‘You kidding? With over five thousand employees between ’em, it’d be a bloody miracle not to have some lame ducks. You any idea how many Fivers and Sixers get quietly canned every year?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘About two dozen at the last estimate, although they’re mostly minor. Some end up behind bars, others get the order of the boot and a rap over the head with the Official Secrets Act.’ He broke off and took a sip of his drink. ‘Then there’s the ones they can’t afford to kick off the end of the plank. Which is where this place comes in.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Take young Clare, for instance. Passed all the courses with flying colours, didn’t put a foot wrong in the assessments and practical tests and left everyone else on her intake streets behind. She was only in Six for a year before she got spotted and chucked in at the deep end. Too deep, as it happened.’

      Harry stirred his coffee and tried to match the woman he’d met with the kind of officers MI6 trained and ran. He’d got to know a few but they’d mostly been men.

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘You know what a honey trap is?’ Mace’s voice was low.

      ‘I know the theory.’

      ‘Right. It needs two willing parties. Well, one willing, the other as gullible as buggery. The trapper and the trappee. Jardine got badly stung.’

      ‘She was the target?’ It made him wonder why – and what she knew of value.

      ‘Knew you’d think that.’ Mace shook his head. ‘Our Clare was the honey pot.’

      ‘Oh.’ Harry revised his opinion. She clearly had hidden depths.

      ‘Trouble was, she got too close, too friendly.’ Mace shrugged. ‘Big no-no, that. Scale ten on the rectum-quivering chart. She should have made her excuses and pulled out, as the old-time News of the World journos used to say. But she didn’t. She stayed and tried to work the situation . . . and got burned. Turned out the target was setting her up, not the other way round.’

      ‘So why is she here?’

      ‘Like I said, she’s good. And hard-nosed. Don’t let the fact that she’s a woman fool you. She got snitty with her controller when he hauled her in, and threatened to tell what she knew. Seems in between the door and the target’s boudoir, she stumbled on some sensitive information. Nobody’s saying what, but it was enough to get her tabbed and sent her out here to lose her memory.’

      ‘Is it working?’

      ‘It’s fading.’

      ‘And Fitzgerald?’

      ‘He’s just unlucky. Ex-para, one of Five’s heavies for a few years – the kind used to lift someone off the street when they needed it. Then his wife ran off with the milkman, turned his kids against him and he lost the plot. Smacked a colleague who said the wrong thing. They were going to pay him off but he asked for a hard posting instead. This was it. Should have known better, being ex-army. Never volunteer for nothing.’

      Harry looked at him and

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