LITMIR.BIZ

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ripples.

      ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ Rudmann’s voice was insistent, her eyes digging into his. ‘You know his reputation.’

      ‘He’ll keep.’ Paulton wondered how much power this woman really had. The fact that she was being so blatant in her interest over the shooting was becoming a worry. Maybe she had discovered a way of consolidating her career by riding on the back of a potential scandal.

      ‘I hope you’re right. I told the DPM you had the situation in hand.’

      Paulton felt a further pinprick of annoyance. It was the lack of subtlety as much as the superior attitude; that they felt no hesitation about letting him know they didn’t entirely trust him to do what was required. Had the boot been on the other foot, he knew they’d have been outraged at the suggestion that they couldn’t cope. But he couldn’t help feeling a touch of alarm. Had someone been pointing a finger? Was that it?

      ‘It’s all in hand,’ he confirmed, with a cool undertone. ‘Perhaps the DPM would like proof? We have a satellite going over shortly; I’m sure we could get Tate to look up and wave if you like.’

      Her face stiffened but he was beyond caring. Time was, he’d have been left alone to get on with the trickier elements of his job without interference. Now, politicians were all damage-control experts – especially when they thought their own careers were at risk.

      ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ she muttered, the ice in her voice a clear warning. She began to walk away, then turned and said carefully, ‘Just see that none of this ever goes public, that’s all. Do you understand?’

      ‘How could it?’ he said coldly. ‘Whelan doesn’t know where Tate is.’

      As he left the building, he had a sudden, uncomfortable thought. What did Rudmann mean when she said that none of this affair should ‘go public’?

      Was she referring to Harry Tate . . . or Shaun Whelan?

      Later that day, Marcella Rudmann returned to her office and opened a folder sitting in the middle of her desk. It was a summary file on the life and work of Harry Tate. She skimmed through it, noting a few high points in his army and intelligence career, but nothing to suggest he was or ever had been a star. A plodder, by all accounts; solid, unremarkable, a good and loyal servant who did his job and caused no ripples. In many ways an ideal intelligence officer. There were a couple of blips, though, she noted; one minor, the other surprising.

      The minor one was a report on Captain Harry Tate disarming a drunken member of 2 Para who’d gone on the rampage in a bar in Wiesbaden, Germany, in 1995. It wasn’t the fact that he’d done it that was noteworthy, but that he’d broken the other man’s arm in three places, and none of the man’s Para colleagues had intervened.

      The second notation was very different. In August 1999, Tate had been assigned to a United Nations KFOR unit in Kosovo, looking for signs of ethnic cleansing. Serb forces were suspected of systematically rounding up and ‘disappearing’ numbers of Kosovar Albanians, and the UN desperately needed proof. On a reconnaissance mission in the hills ten miles from Motrovica, they had stumbled on a group of heavily-armed Serb paramilitaries. An armoured personnel carrier stood at the side of the road, its 20mm machine gun cocked and ready to fire.

      The UN convoy was faced with an unenviable choice: back down or make a fight of it to prove their credentials. The senior officer had urged caution, ordering his men to turn back. The alternative route would add hours to their journey, but it was better than a fire-fight and serious casualties.

      But Tate had seen something none of the others had noticed: three small Albanian girls were huddled behind the APC, their clothes torn and dirty. It was clear they didn’t want to be there but were too traumatized to ask for help.

      Tate had argued that the men had taken the girls prisoner, and that they should investigate further. The senior officer – a Dutch Major – had declined, fearing escalation, whereupon Tate had jumped down from his vehicle and walked over to the APC. Ignoring the Serb soldiers, he had clambered up the side, knocked the gunner cold and turned the gun towards the watching Serbs.

      They had handed over the three girls without argument.

      Rudmann pursed her lips. So, she reflected, a good and loyal servant with an occasional spark about him. But that had been years ago.

      Pray God he kept it bottled up.

      She sat back and stared at the ceiling. Part of her brief was to make sure that there were no ‘own goals’ in security operations which could come back to haunt the government later. Like the Essex operation. Getting him out of the way had been an instinctive move, and Paulton had obviously foreseen the need. But her brief gave her considerable power and responsibility – far more than men like George Paulton were even aware of – and she took the work seriously. For that reason, she had sent for Harry Tate’s personnel file, just to be sure he wasn’t a rogue male who might bring disaster on them, no matter what Paulton’s opinion of the man might be.

      She closed the file and summoned her secretary to return it. Harry Tate had once shown a spark of something, but that was all. Sparks didn’t always translate to flame. Even so, he was better off out of the way. For all their sakes.

      ‘Get this back without fuss,’ she told the young woman who entered the room. ‘Remember, no signatures and no record.’

      NINE

      The inside of the Odeon Restaurant was dark and cluttered, a sombre cavern with lots of rough-sawn wood, wall-hangings of indeterminate origin or purpose and smoke-stained varnish. Ethnic, Harry decided, and more bar than restaurant. Maybe it said something about Stuart Mace, the Head of Station, if this was his local watering hole.

      A single figure was sitting at the rear of the room, facing the door and reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee sat by his elbow. He looked up as Harry approached, studied him for a moment, then shouted towards a doorway in the back wall.

      ‘Found us, then.’ Stuart Mace was in his late fifties, with a fleshy face and the tired eyes of a bureaucrat. His hair was silvery grey and swept back in elegant wings. Had it not been for his present location, he could have been a prosperous, if worn-down GP, looking towards retirement and some time on the golf course.

      ‘Thanks to Rik Ferris.’ Harry sat down just as a cup of thick coffee was set before him by an elderly woman in a black apron and a dress covered in small, blue flowers. She left without making eye contact.

      Mace nudged a small jug of cream towards him. ‘Help yourself. Stuff’ll melt your teeth, otherwise. No trouble getting here?’ Mace spoke in economical bursts, as though unnecessary words might spin off and be overheard. Harry had met others with the same habit. Spooks and career criminals, mostly.

      ‘The landing was interesting. And I just got stopped in the street by the military.’

      Mace nodded. He didn’t seem unduly concerned. ‘What did they want?’

      ‘Money. Is that normal?’

      ‘Nothing’s normal around here. They’ve got lots on their minds at the moment – separatist stuff to the north, mostly. They think anyone new in town is out to get them. They’re probably not wrong. You met any of the crew apart from young Rik?’

      Harry poured cream and tasted his coffee. It was muddy and strong enough to float a brick. Sugar made no noticeable difference. He debated mentioning meeting Higgins, but decided to leave it for later. ‘Jardine and Fitzgerald. Unless the watcher at the airport was yours.’

      Mace lifted an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Probably security police. Never mind; gives ’em something to do, watching new arrivals. There are four of us puppies here, now you make five. Enid Blyton would be ecstatic.’ He toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, drumming on the tabletop, then said, ‘I heard about your trouble. Sorry business. Sounds like over-reaction, shoving you out here.’

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