LITMIR.BIZ

      FIVE

      ‘I wasn’t going to insist,’ Rudmann said quietly after Nolan had gone. ‘Especially in front of that odious little creature. But there are others who will. Is it wise sending Tate to this . . . posting?’

      It suddenly occurred to Paulton that she might already know about the place he was referring to. He couldn’t think how, but she undoubtedly had contacts he wasn’t aware of; resources he didn’t know about. It was an unsettling thought. ‘The PM, you mean?’ He caught a hint of perfume and wondered vaguely what it was. And where she daubed it.

      ‘Probably not. But his office. They will want to be sure Tate isn’t going to pop up somewhere foreign and start talking. That really would be a disaster – for everyone.’

      ‘He won’t.’ Paulton mentally gagged at the idea; it would be a career killer. The decision to tell her something – anything – was easily made. It might keep her off his back and satisfy others that a head had rolled; that all was well in the world. Most would see it as a classic display of self-defence – a civil service skill customarily absorbed on the first day in the job. Not that Tate would appreciate the subtlety. ‘He’s been assigned to the modern equivalent of Fort Zinderneuf. It’s remote, unpleasant, and he’ll be monitored to ensure he doesn’t go AWOL. It should suffice.’

      ‘I see.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘You’d planned this already.’

      ‘I thought it might be on the cards, yes, after . . . previous incidents. It’s a precautionary measure.’

      ‘How astute. But why? What’s so special about Tate?’

      He paused for several beats, wondering how much to tell her. Thrown a small bone, it might be enough to put her off-track for the time being.

      ‘Nothing, as such,’ he said finally, choosing his words with care. This could come back and bite him on the arse if he said the wrong thing. ‘Tate’s old school; knows things we’d rather he didn’t get prised out of him by a clever hack. He’s one of those intelligence officers who crept up on the outside rails without being noticed; diligent, solid, good at his job, does what he’s told most of the time.’

      ‘But?’

      ‘He can be bolshie when he thinks he’s right. It’s best we keep him out of the way.’ He could have added that Harry Tate had refused to play the game of musical chairs which passed for a career path around here, but he’d been around long enough and deep enough to know where several skeletons were buried. Even if he didn’t know that he knew. It might be a good time to ensure it stayed that way.

      The main fact was that Tate, good and obedient servant that he was, was feeling justifiably annoyed at being left dangling out in the Essex marshland. Reason enough to move him out of anyone’s sight and hearing before he exploded.

      Rudmann seemed satisfied. ‘How long will he be there?’

      ‘For as long as we think fit. He’ll be allowed back eventually – subject to safeguards, of course. No contact with home and hearth, all communications with Thames House to come via his head of station. Even his family won’t know where he is.’ Not that Tate had any, he recalled. Divorced and likely to stay that way. An odd fish. Probably a drinker, on the quiet. With a shudder, he realized the man actually had the potential to be the worst kind of spook to have on your hands when the shit hit the fan.

      ‘Who else knows about this place?’ Rudmann dragged him back.

      ‘Six. But nobody else.’ He held his breath, aware that he was on thin ice. What if she asked why this had not come up before?

      ‘I see. How often do you . . . use it?’

      ‘Rarely, so far. As I said, it’s fairly new. Experimental, you might say.’ He forestalled further questions by asking, ‘Is there anything else?’

      Rudmann shook her head. There was something of the prude in her expression, as if finding something about him and his world which she did not like. Even so, it was evident that she was fascinated by what he had just told her.

      ‘What on earth do you call this place?’

      ‘There is no official designation.’

      ‘Why not?’

      He shrugged. ‘If nobody has logged it, nobody will find it.’

      There was a lengthy silence, then, ‘But you must have a name for it.’

      ‘Yes. We call it Red Station.’