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remembered Bellingham. What some chose to forget, however, was his involvement in creating a covert dumping ground outpost in Georgia, code-named Red Station. It had not been an auspicious time for MI5 or MI6, and the echoes were still rattling around the corridors of both organisations.
    ‘The case against Jardine was never proved,’ he said calmly, relieved that Deane wouldn’t be aware of the initial reason for Clare Jardine’s loss of position in Six: a messy honey-trap operation that had gone badly wrong in all sorts of ways. Those details had been stamped on at a higher security level than Deane was able to access, but revealing them would only have detracted from anything he might say in Jardine’s favour. ‘What is important to remember,’ he continued quickly, as she made to interject, ‘is that Jardine was shot and seriously wounded while saving the lives of two of our people. I considered that sufficient reason to argue in favour of treatment in a secure unit like the MTC at King’s.’ He glanced at Fitzgerald. ‘Others agreed with me.’
    ‘Maybe so. But it still remains to see which side she’s on,’ Deane muttered sourly, sensing a temporary defeat.
    Fitzgerald tapped the table with his mobile, effectively cutting off further argument. There was silence in the room for a few moments, then he said, ‘I suggest that in view of Tobinskiy’s . . . chequered history and the known threats against him, we wait for the results of the tests and decide on our next course of action from there. If the suspicions we probably all harbour are correct and his death came about through the intervention of those chasing him, then it needs very careful handling.’ He frowned and looked at Deane. ‘As well as an immediate investigation into how his presence there became known.’ He turned his gaze on Ballatyne. ‘As a matter of interest, where is Jardine now?’
    Ballatyne kept his face under control to avoid looking at Deane. ‘I wish I knew. She walked out of the unit last night and hasn’t been seen since.’
    As he spoke, he was aware of Deane smiling maliciously in the background.
    ‘It was nothing to do with us,’ she put in bluntly. ‘Bit of a coincidence, though, isn’t it – her going missing like that immediately after a Russian dissident dies.’
    Ballatyne said nothing. There was nothing he could say in response to the loaded inference that she had dropped into the room; that the unexplained death of a Russian in hiding, and the disappearance from the same location of a rogue former MI6 officer could only mean one thing:
    Jardine must have been instrumental in his death.

EIGHT
     
    ‘I don’t know if Jardine’s got herself involved in something, but you’d better find her before somebody else does. The dogs are being let out.’
    Ballatyne didn’t wait for Harry to sit down, but spoke urgently. He was seated at a rear corner table in Richoux’s restaurant along Piccadilly, across from the Burlington Arcade. For once his minders were nowhere in sight, although Harry guessed they wouldn’t be far away.
    He looked around at the gilded interior of the restaurant and said, ‘A move up in the world from Wigmore Street, I see. Is that promotion?’
    Ballatyne grunted. ‘It’s closed for renovations. I got tired of the décor.’ He nodded at the coffee pot. ‘Help yourself.’
    Harry shook his head. ‘Not for me. What did you find out?’ It was barely eight in the morning and he’d already had his quota by the time Ballatyne’s call had come in, suggesting the meeting. He’d sounded stressed, cutting the connection immediately.
    ‘Jardine’s gone on the lam. She walked out of the hospital in the middle of the night without telling anybody, dressed pretty much in the clothes she arrived in. Silly girl’s going to kill herself if someone doesn’t get to her first.’ He frowned. ‘I spoke to the consultants. You’ve no idea what hoops I had to jump through to do that. Anybody