Free Red Station by Adrian Magson

looking down at them. Up close, Harry could see he was freshly-shaven, and smelled of soap and leather. He was in his forties, with clear, dark eyes and a blunt nose, and held an unmistakable air of authority. He held out his hand and Clare handed him her passport. Without returning it, he held out his hand for Harry’s.
    He took a long time studying the documents, flicking pages back and forth while the soldier waited nearby. The few remaining patrons in the place took no notice, turning their backs and pretending the soldiers weren’t there. What happened to two foreigners was of no concern; they had problems enough of their own. Behind the bar, the owner, a short, squat figure with a balding head, glared sourly at the loss of business.
    â€˜Thank you,’ the officer said in English, then dropped the two passports on the table. With a brief nod, he turned and marched outside, followed by his men.
    Harry picked up his passport and began to stand up, but Clare reached out and touched his hand.
    â€˜Wait. Give it a while.’
    Five minutes later, they heard a shout and the soldiers began clambering aboard their trucks. Moments later, they were gone, leaving the air over the lorry park thick with exhaust fumes.
    â€˜Time to go.’ Clare stood up and paid the waitress, then led the way back outside. Over half the trucks had disappeared, but several drivers were making their way back to the building, laughing or muttering, depending on their luck with the vehicle check.
    â€˜What now?’ said Harry, as they got back in the Land Cruiser. ‘Looks like your contact was scared off.’
    â€˜No, he wasn’t.’ She took out her passport and opened it below the level of the window. A slip of paper fluttered out and fell on her knee. Harry caught a glimpse of some numbers and scribbled words before she folded it and put it away. ‘See?’
    â€˜Neat,’ said Harry. It was, too. To have a contact here at all took some doing. To have a contact who was an army officer was nearly miraculous. He wondered if London knew . . . or cared. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜Not sure yet. Map co-ordinates, I think.’ If she knew more, she clearly wasn’t going to share anything with him.
    He shrugged. Silly games. Let her get on with it. Then his attention was drawn to another vehicle starting up nearby. It was thirty yards away, and had been hidden by other vehicles when he and Clare had arrived. It was a large four-by-four, with two men inside and a smiley face on the rear window.
    The road hog who’d nearly taken them off the road on their way here.
    It charged away with a roar of the exhausts, and Harry watched it go, eyes on the man behind the wheel. It was the big man in the woollen cap.
    It was only when they were back on the road that he suddenly realized that he knew who the man was.
    Carl Higgins.

FOURTEEN
    T hat evening, Harry unscrewed the ancient shower-head and idled time away digging limescale out of the holes with a needle. He found it oddly therapeutic and rewarded himself with a hot shower and a glass of whisky, courtesy of another two miniatures from the flight in.
    It did little to deaden his underlying feelings of dismay, but helped him relax to a point where he could begin to worry about it less.
    He was sinking slowly into a welcoming sleep when he heard a noise outside his door. He wasn’t yet accustomed to the building and all its various clicks and creaks, and whatever had alerted him might be one of those. He lay for a while, analysing the sounds: the wind, a shutter flapping, a passing vehicle, someone shouting in the distance, the creak of a shutter. Normal stuff. He relaxed, eyes growing heavy.
    Then it came again. The scuff of a footstep on the stairs.
    Somebody had moved along the landing.
    He slid out of bed and padded through to the door. At first he couldn’t hear anything. Then he detected a slight murmur, lifting out from somewhere