Red Station Read Free Page A

build a credible explanation. But what were his options? Stay and face a public enquiry, the token guilt figure? Resign and be hounded by the press? Or take their dubious offer and work his way back?
    â€˜How long do I have to think about it?’
    â€˜You don’t. You leave today.’
    Against all his instincts, Harry took the offer.
    After leaving Paulton’s office, Harry went home to pack a single bag and make a few phone calls. To friends to say he would be away for a while; to Jean, a slim red-head in her forties who referred to herself with dry wit as the OD – Occasional Date.
    Instead of Jean, he got Felicity, her Sloaney business partner in a west end flower business.
    â€˜Off again? She’ll be sorry she missed you.’
    â€˜Really?’ Harry wasn’t so sure. Jean knew what he did but had never asked questions. Until now, he’d taken it for a judicious lack of interest.
    â€˜Obtuse man.’ Felicity’s voice was friendly, gently reproachful. ‘Don’t you know you’re the only person who makes her smile? Come back soon.’
    He put down the phone amid conflicting emotions; resumed packing to get his mind in gear. The department would deal with the letting of his flat while he was gone, so he boxed up his personal things and left them in the middle of the floor for removal and storage.
    A short taxi drive took him west to RAF Northolt, where he was shunted aboard a military plane and handed a flask of coffee, a bottle of chilled water and a tuna sandwich. He took his seat and found he had two escorts sitting nearby. Military policemen by the look of them, hard and capable. They ignored him completely. He knew that if he tried to get off, they’d have him face down on the cabin floor before he reached the door.
    He ignored them in return. Drank his coffee, ate half his sandwich, saved the rest for later. Not that he liked tuna especially. But better than nothing. He fell asleep thinking of Jean.
    They prodded him awake at Frankfurt. Gummy-eyed, he stared through the window. The plane had stopped behind a military hangar, shrouded in shadow, distant arc lights casting an eerie glow. He was urged down the steps and into a plain, white van reeking of oil and stale sweat. Three minutes later he was in the civilian terminal, where he was told where to collect his tickets for his onward flight. He signed a docket at the desk and turned to see if his escorts were coming, too.
    They had disappeared.

FOUR
    â€˜ I n hindsight, Tate should have had more back-up and support.’ Paulton tossed his listeners an early mea culpa to be going on with. It was chicken bones at best, probably pointless, but might keep them at bay for a while and sit well on the record should a board of enquiry be convened.
    â€˜Is that all you can say? After all that work and preparation?’ Gareth Nolan, Deputy Commissioner for Operations in the Metropolitan Police, scowled across the table. He was clearly intent on levelling blame towards MI5 for the failures. ‘You’re defending the man?’
    They were in an anonymous, polished room in the bowels of a building off Horse Guards Avenue. The flak from the failed operation was beginning to settle around everyone’s ears as the story gradually became public knowledge, and this was not the only meeting Paulton had been called to.
    â€˜It’s not a matter of defence,’ he said curtly. ‘It’s the facts I’m interested in.’
    The senior policeman shrugged it off. ‘It was a bloody cock-up, right from the start! It cost one of my men his life, and two innocent civilians. Your man – Tate, is it? – should be charged with incompetence at the very least! What is he – a trainee, fresh out of university?’
    â€˜ He is a former army officer,’ Paulton said calmly, a defensive stance for the record rather than loyalty to his man. ‘He served with distinction in Kosovo and Iraq,