He gave in, convincing himself he was fighting his corner but battening down on the tiny worm of self-contempt seeping into his bones.
‘It’s taken care of,’ he said with feigned reluctance, aware that Nolan would practically soil his pants hearing what he was about to say. ‘We have a place . . . a posting. It’s a recent innovation. It will put Tate beyond the reach of the press, or . . .’ he hesitated, eyeing Nolan, ‘. . . anyone else who goes looking for him.’
‘What sort of place?’ Rudmann had been fingering her watch, no doubt late for another meeting. But she stopped at this latest revelation.
‘A branch office. I don’t want to disclose the precise location, but it’s not in this country.’
Nolan’s eyebrows shot up to join his receding hairline. ‘How? Five doesn’t have jurisdiction out of the country.’ He looked at Rudmann for support.
‘Actually, you’d be surprised where we have jurisdiction.’ Paulton gave him his nastiest smile, pleased to have taken the policeman by surprise. ‘But that’s all I’m saying.’ He waited for Rudmann to insist. This one should be a definite no-go area, even for her.
She nodded. ‘Very well.’ She closed the folder before her and stood up. ‘That’s all, gentlemen.’
Nolan looked crestfallen at being frozen out, but hurried away, no doubt eager to begin spreading tales. Paulton watched him go, determined not to share even the same corridor space with the man in case he was tempted to do something physical.
He turned and faced Rudmann. Her expression was a mask.
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.’
SIX
Harry Tate celebrated his birthday with a miniature of Bell’s whisky while waiting for his bag to come off the plane. Between sips, he was trying to convince himself he’d been born lucky.
There was little talk in the drab terminal; most of his fellow passengers were in deep shock after an aborted first landing. About to drop on to the runway, the pilot of the Antonov AN 24 had suddenly hauled the nose up without warning, the ageing engines screaming under full power as they fought to claw the aircraft back into the thin air above Mukhrani airport, Georgia. Cries of alarm in several languages had joined the sounds of tumbling crockery in the galley. But the near-stall manoeuvre had paid off, dragging them in a juddering curve away from the airport and out over the open countryside, vibration shaking every rivet and leaving behind a heavy flow of muddy exhaust fumes like a giant crop-duster.
As they had circled for another try, the reason for the go-around became clear: a green armoured personnel carrier was sitting squarely in the middle of the single runway. A volley of swearing had echoed from the flight deck, followed by a burst of radio chatter. Then silence. Nobody in the cabin spoke, the atmosphere changed instantly from dulled relief at journey’s end to one loaded with tension at the implications of what might be happening on the ground.
Whatever the outcome of the radio exchange, the aircraft circled and lined up again. With minimum fuss, it sank on to its landing path and touched down with a heavy thump, causing several overhead lockers to open and cascade a variety of hand-luggage on to the heads below.
As they flashed past the APC, which had pulled back on to the grass, Harry recognised it as a Cobra, an image dredged up from a distant weapons-recognition class. Perhaps the local tourist board had decided that meeting