Deception by Adrian Magson Page B

fighting in their homeland and in a dozen different places since. Once locked on to a target, they were lethally committed and had no ‘off’ switch other than Deakin’s word. ‘They tailed him and took the car out on the A12 east of London. They got Pike with a head shot; one of the MPs died, the other’s not going anywhere. Clean job.’ He related the details with a clinical lack of emotion.
    â€˜And Barrow?’
    â€˜I’m waiting to hear about that. Ganic and Zubac flew to Berlin immediately after the hit on Pike and caught up with him heading for the Polish border.’
    â€˜Are they going to bring him in?’ Nicholls asked.
    Deakin stared at him without expression. ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜There’s gonna be questions about Pike, though. Right?’ Turpowicz looked between the two Englishmen. The UK was their territory, but his question was clearly valid; had it been in the US, there would be a major investigation by both military and federal authorities. Nobody took out two military cops and their prisoner on a public highway without causing a firestorm. Surely the UK was no different.
    â€˜Let them ask. Who cares? Our men are clear and gone. Point is, it works in our favour.’ Deakin spoke calmly, unaffected by what he had ordered done. ‘It sends a message to anyone else who thinks they can stiff us. The word is: don’t. And that includes our clients.’ He smiled and finished his wine, leaving the other two men with no doubts that he was extreme enough to go after anyone who tried to cross him, whatever their nationality or location.
    The phone in Deakin’s pocket buzzed, and the sound of voices drifted through from the front section of the bar. Turpowicz and Nicholls stiffened instantly, but Deakin held out a hand to stop them getting alarmed.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ he said. ‘This is someone I want you to meet. He’s going to take our organization to the next level.’ He spoke into the phone. ‘Send him in, please.’
    â€˜You didn’t think to warn us first?’ Nicholls looked angry. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Deakin? We’re all equal in this. We should each have a say about who we meet and when.’
    Turpowicz nodded in agreement, his eyes bleak. He stayed calm, but said, ‘Not cool, man. You should’ve run it by us first.’
    Deakin was unfazed by their reactions. He laid a hand on his chest. ‘Sorry, guys. It was a last minute thing and I didn’t have time. He was in the area, that’s all. I promise, this will be to our advantage.’
    Nicholls leaned forward. ‘How do we know we can trust this man? Are you going to vouch for him?’
    Deakin gave a flinty smile. ‘Of course, Colin. Why? Do you doubt me?’ He looked at them in turn as if daring them to object. ‘No? Good. We know where we stand then.’
    Amid the stiff silence that followed, there was a knock at the door and a man entered. He was in his fifties, conservatively dressed in a suit and tie, with a light coat slung over one arm. He could have been a simple businessman, his nationality northern European but not clearly defined by his clothes. He looked thin, as if he had recently lost weight, but fit and tanned, with neat, grey hair. He smiled at the three men with what looked like genuine pleasure.
    â€˜Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, his accent middle-class and English. If he sensed any hostility in the atmosphere, he ignored it. ‘Am I interrupting?’ He chuckled as he took a chair indicated by Deakin, who poured the fourth glass of wine. He took an appreciative sniff, raised the glass in salute and said, ‘My name’s Paulton, by the way. But please call me George.’

THIRTEEN
    O ne kilometre north-east of Schwedt, a small industrial town on the German side of the border with Poland, a small white pickup truck churned along a narrow, isolated track