LITMIR.BIZ

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      After the air-conditioned cabin, the atmosphere outside the plane was muggy, and the walk across the oily tarmac to the terminal was like stepping through a steam room. Beyond the single-storey structure, the distant line of the Caucasus Mountains rose to the north, their jagged peaks hazy against a dirty sky. Elsewhere, the view was of shabby hangars and smaller, unnamed buildings set back from the runway, surrounded by scrubby grass. The tang of aviation fuel hanging in the air mixed disturbingly with the acrid fog of cheap cigarettes.

      The combined aroma made Harry feel nauseous. It wasn’t just the landing though; he’d been cheated of sleep by a fat journalist from Ohio named Carl Higgins, who had insisted on talking non-stop about his family.

      Passport control consisted of a pair of plywood booths with edgy-looking uniformed men inside and soldiers in camouflage outside. To add to the lack of welcome, none of the video screens around the walls appeared to be working and there was no air-conditioning to combat the oppressive humidity. Throughout, the overhead lights were a dull yellow, adding to an atmosphere of heavy gloom.

      After nearly an hour, during which his passport was scoured twice at length from front to back, Harry arrived at the baggage reclaim hall, another shed tacked on to the arrivals hall. He crossed to the window overlooking the landing area, where a team of baggage handlers was abusing luggage off his flight. His own bag was in there somewhere, but he’d long ago given up taking anything of value on foreign trips. Experience had shown that it was better to move lean and light, unencumbered by unnecessary weight.

      Another APC lumbered into view on the far side of the airport. The rear hatch swung open and several armed men in camouflage uniform dropped out and scurried away into a row of bushes. Practice or reaction? The sight made him uneasy.

      He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. Solid and squalid, his father would have said, in need of some exercise, rest and healthy food. He wondered what it was about him that made Jean smile. He knew he looked pasty, with red-shot eyes under a brush-cut of dark hair peppered with hints of grey. Where he was going, the exercise might be guaranteed, but the rest and healthy food might have to wait.

      One of the baggage handlers pulled a black holdall out of the aircraft and drop-kicked it into a wire cage, then held up his arms to acknowledge applause from his co-workers. When he saw Harry watching, he made a short, one-handed gesture. It might have been obscene, might not. Harry responded with a genial tilt of his whisky miniature and went back to waiting for the carousel to start up. At least his bag would be easy to spot, as it now had a large dusty boot-print embedded in one side.

      He yawned and felt his jaw click, and tried not to think about the unseemly haste with which he’d been bundled out 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

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