Secret Asset

by Stella Rimington

  “One of Abu Sayed’s associates rang from Holland on the day you were supposed to be at the bookshop. The call was traced, and the Dutch security people sent photographs over. One of them was of Rashid; when they compared the CCTV footage they made a match.”

  Bashir groaned. He had not wanted to go into any shop that evening, but Rashid had insisted. Worried that the little man was losing his nerve, Bashir had reluctantly agreed.

  “Look,” said the visitor, “I don’t want to go into who’s to blame for what. What’s important now is that you listen very carefully to me and do what I say.”

  He stared at Bashir with hard unblinking eyes until Bashir returned his gaze and nodded in submission. Then he said, “There is no reason to think they are on to you. They know about Rashid, yes, but they don’t have any idea where he is. Provided you don’t make any more stupid mistakes, there is no way for them to find out.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Don’t do anything. Doing things is what has almost got you caught. Sit tight. From now on, there is to be no external communication—especially not with Abu Sayed or any of his associates. Leave that to me, do you understand? None of you should be in touch with anyone, except if you need to contact me.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t care how safe those boys think they are or how careful they think they’re being, don’t let them communicate with anyone. No mobile phone, no text messages, not even an Internet café. Is that clear?”

  Bashir nodded again, for he was comfortable following the orders of the Englishman. It was the Englishman, after all, who had initially recruited him. Not Abu Sayed or any other imam. He asked hesitantly, “Can we leave the house?”

  The man thought for a moment. “Yes. It would seem odd to the neighbours if none of you were seen coming in and out. But not all three of you together. And keep Rashid out of the town centre.”

  “Shall I tell him he’s been identified?”

  “How would he take it?”

  Bashir thought of that evening when they had hunted down the boy from the bookshop, how Rashid’s agitation had been transparent beforehand, even though Rashid’s only job was to act as a decoy. He shook his head. “I think it would frighten him very much. He might get panicky.”

  The Englishman nodded. “That’s your answer then.” He got up, and shook hands with Bashir. “If you can just keep your cool, all will be well. There isn’t that much longer to wait.”

  25

  Patrick Dobson was spending a few days at home. He had fractured his wrist falling from a ladder in the garden while pruning a wisteria. Liz had decided that she and Peggy would call on him rather than wait for him to return to work. She had found from experience that there was a lot to be picked up about a person from their home, and she was hoping the journey would not be a waste of time.

  On their drive down, Peggy and Liz had almost got lost, finding themselves following a seemingly endless maze of avenues and drives, each lined by large suburban houses with big leafy gardens.

  At last they came to the Dobson residence, a thirties mock-Tudor house of brown brick, with white plaster gables and beams. Peggy said, “I hadn’t realised MI5 paid so well.” Sometimes with Peggy it was difficult to distinguish innocence from irony, but this time there was no mistaking her tartness.

  Liz laughed. “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that there’s been another source of funds into the Dobson household.”

  Patrick Dobson was not even forty years old, but his home seemed strangely middle-aged. What Dobson grandly called his drawing room had a formality that seemed completely out of keeping for a still youngish MI5 officer. It was panelled in oak and had a large mock Elizabethan fireplace and leaded windows. The sofa on which Liz and Peggy sat was chintz-covered and pillowy soft, the chairs were mahogany, and the carpet was a dull sage green. On the walls hung a mixture of family portraits and watercolours of nineteenth-century colonial scenes—a procession of elephants in Delhi under the Raj, and an antique hand-coloured map of the Imperial City of Beijing.

  “What a beautiful room,” said Peggy Kinsolving admiringly.

  If you like that sort of thing, thought Liz caustically.

  Now Dobson thanked Peggy for her compliment, adding, “This was my wife’s parents’ house. Her father was in the Colonial Service. My wife inherited it after they died.”

  That explains it, thought Liz. She knew about his father-in-law from the file. He had been a district officer in Uganda. Thank God, she thought to herself, we’re not going to have to try and find out how he comes to live in such affluence. There had been a CIA agent in Washington who claimed that his lifestyle was funded by a wealthy wife, when as it turned out it was funded by the KGB, but she did not think they were into that sort of situation with Patrick Dobson.

  Dobson sat, neat and upright in a comfortable armchair across from them. He was a short, pie-faced man, with blond hair combed straight back. Wearing a blue blazer, grey flannels, and what looked to be a college tie, he was a model of politeness. But stiff.

  Liz decided she had better kick things off, lest they get bogged down in Dobson’s efforts to rewrite his past. “This shouldn’t take long, Patrick,” she said cheerfully, in an effort to make things less formal.

  They reviewed the bare facts of his CV—his boyhood in South London, his schooling (a scholarship to Alleyn’s School in Dulwich), his time at Oxford, followed straightaway by entry into MI5. Dobson gave only short answers at first, but gradually became more expansive, especially when they arrived at his current job in DG’s office. He spoke so animatedly about this, explaining what a wonderful perspective he got on all the Service’s operations, that for over five minutes Liz was unable to ask a single question.

  She was about to interrupt when a knock at the door did the job for her. A woman came in with a tray—a pot of coffee, cups and saucers, and a plate of biscuits. She was dressed for a smart lunch, wearing heels and a floral frock.

  “Ah, Teresa. These are the colleagues I told you about.”

  She nodded politely, and came forward with the tray. Dobson made introductions, but it was obvious his wife did not want to linger. “I won’t intrude,” she said with a forced smile, looking only at her husband. “I’m just off to the church to do the flowers before the Women’s Institute lunch.”

  “Of course, darling. See you later.”

  Liz sat back down with her coffee, discomfited. If she didn’t take charge, she felt she would soon be lost in this safe suburban world. “If I could just go back to your time at Oxford,” she said. “You were very religious as an undergraduate, I gather.”

  For the first time she sensed Dobson’s antennae quiver. “Only by the standards of the other students,” he said defensively. “I went to chapel every week. I still do—go to church that is. My wife attends as well. I don’t think there’s anything peculiar about it. Do you?”

  Liz said mildly, “Of course not. My cousin’s a deacon and one of his daughters is hoping to be ordained.” Technically, a cousin’s husband had been a deacon, and their daughter’s calling had lasted only until she’d managed to get a boyfriend, but Liz wasn’t going to tell Dobson that.

  He relaxed slightly. “I imagine you’ve seen the chaplain at Pembroke. When I first applied, he said he’d been asked about me. How is he these days?”

  “Fine. At least he seemed that way to me.” However caustic Hickson had been about his ex-pupil, Liz was happy to admit she’d seen him.

  “Was he sober?”

  Liz looked at Dobson impassively. “He was when we talked.”

  “That makes a change,” Dobson said, regaining his confidence. He hadn’t touched his coffee.

  Liz gave a diplomatic smile. “He said you were a Young Conservative at Oxford.”

  “I was interested,” said Dobson with a shrug. “Don’t tell me that’s unusual, too?” For the first time there was an edge to his voice.

  Liz shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s probably me who was unus
ual.” She said, half confidingly, “I was a bit of a leftie at university. I’m surprised I got through the vetting.” She laughed. “It wasn’t the sixties, I grant you, but it was quite a political time. Everyone was worked up about the Palestinians.” She paused. “And Ireland, of course.”

  But Dobson didn’t bite. “The big issue in my day was rent increases,” he said dryly.

  “I see.”

  Peggy had been a non-participant in the interview so far, studiously taking notes. Now she looked up for the first time. “But you’ve got Irish blood, haven’t you?” she asked brightly.

  Dobson stared at her coldly. “I believe one of my grandmothers was Irish,” he said slowly.

  “Did she emigrate here?”

  “Emigrate? What a grand word—I imagine she’d have said she came here for work. The story was,” he said, distancing himself, “that she was ‘in service’ in Galway for an Anglo-Irish family. When they moved back to London she came with them. She met my grandfather, and married him.” He added pointedly, “He was English. Owned a string of garages in South London.” This was said, Liz decided, to disabuse them of any idea that his grandfather had been “in service” too.

  “She must have had quite a story to tell,” gushed Peggy. Liz, who was beginning to admire Peggy’s skill at drawing people out, sat back and watched. “Did you know your grandmother?” Peggy asked.

  “A bit,” he said reluctantly. “She died when I was a boy.”

  “She must have missed Ireland,” said Peggy sympathetically. “Did she ever go back?”

  “I imagine she went back sometimes.” He hesitated, almost imperceptibly. Liz imagined he was calculating what they already knew, and what they could find out. He’d be surprised, thought Liz, thinking of the day before, when Peggy had proudly shown her a genealogical chart of the Dobson maternal line. It was of almost byzantine complexity, its branches spread out like the limbs of a monkey puzzle tree. That’s when Liz had suggested Peggy ask the questions about the family.

  “Actually,” Dobson admitted, “I went with her once. To Connemara. That’s where she was from.”

  “Family still there?” asked Liz as casually as she could, trying not to trigger a defensive reaction.

  Dobson shrugged. “I would think so. It was a typically Irish set-up—my grandmother was one of seven children.”

  Peggy interjected. “Your grandmother’s maiden name was O’Hare, wasn’t it?”

  Dobson began to nod, then stopped suddenly. “How did you know that?”

  Peggy ignored him, and looking at her notes continued: “And her eldest brother was named Sean, yes?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “He moved north to Londonderry, before the War—if I’ve got things right he was quite a bit older than she was. He had two sons, the eldest named Kieran, and Kieran himself had one son—Patrick. Same name as yours. And he was—is, I should say—your second cousin.”

  Dobson stayed completely silent until Peggy finished. Then ignoring her, he stared at Liz. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger in his eyes. “Yes?” he asked neutrally.

  “Well,” said Liz, sounding matter of fact, “your second cousin was detained and spent twelve months in the Maze. Applicants to MI5 are asked to declare any relative who has been convicted of a crime, spent any time in one of HM’s prisons, or been charged with subversive activity. Yet Patrick O’Hare was not on your form. Can you tell me why?”

  Outwardly Dobson stayed impressively calm. “Is there a point to this?” he asked quietly.

  “We have to be thorough,” she said firmly.

  Dobson looked irritated. “I knew nothing about this cousin of mine. How could I? For goodness sake, I was five years old when it happened.”

  “Of course,” said Liz, and moved quickly on to another topic, to Peggy’s mystification.

  “So what do you think?” asked Liz, as they joined the M3. Peggy liked the comfort of the Audi, but was a little unnerved by the zippy way Liz drove it.

  “I don’t believe he didn’t know about his cousin.”

  “Why not?”

  Peggy pondered this. Dobson hadn’t liked any of the questions about his mother’s Irish roots. Initially Peggy put this down to snobbery—presumably a pig farm in Galway didn’t sit easily for a man now accustomed to a wing chair in Surrey. Yet though it was conceded reluctantly, he had acknowledged his background. Whereas he’d flatly denied any knowledge of his IRA relative.

  And Liz had backed off. Why? Peggy said tentatively, “Weren’t you surprised he didn’t know his second cousin?”

  “It seems a pretty remote connection,” said Liz, staring fixedly at the motorway.

  “Does it?” asked Peggy with genuine surprise, for she had a vast extended family she knew well—too well, she often thought, as she trekked towards yet another wedding, or christening, or family reunion. “I thought everyone knew who their second cousin was.”

  “Not necessarily,” argued Liz. “And anyway, on the application it’s immediate family they’re most interested in. He didn’t have to declare his second cousin even if he knew about him.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Peggy, sticking to her guns. “I still think he was being economical with the truth.”

  Liz smiled, checking the rearview mirror. “Actually, so do I,” she said.

  “Really?” Peggy was surprised. Perhaps Liz had been playing devil’s advocate.

  “No, I don’t think he told the truth,” said Liz, as she merged onto the M4, cutting over quickly into the fast lane. “But it’s nothing to do with his family tree.”

  “What then?”

  “Dobson said he was only five when his cousin was interned.”

  She paused as she changed lanes, and Peggy did a mental calculation. Patrick Dobson had been born in 1968; his namesake cousin had been interned in 1973. “But Dobson was only five,” Peggy said, then held her breath, trying not to gasp as Liz accelerated around an enormous HGV.

  “I’m sure he was,” said Liz crisply. “But internment lasted four years. So how did Dobson know which year his cousin was put in the Maze? I didn’t tell him; you didn’t either. And yet think of his exact words. He didn’t say ‘I was just a kid when this man I never knew got put away.’ He was very specific: ‘I was five years old when it happened.’” She flashed a sideways smile at Peggy. “So no, I don’t believe him either. But what we don’t know is whether he lied for a purpose, or just because he’s got a hang-up about his forebears.”

  26

  Rashid knew nothing of the Englishman’s warning that his identity had been uncovered, and Bashir had conveyed none of his own alarm, though he had stressed to Rashid and the other conspirator that they were not to be in contact with anyone.

  And Rashid would have obeyed this unquestioningly had he not been worried about his sister Yasmina. She was sixteen, and vulnerable; he had tried in the last two years, since his own increasing involvement with Islam, to watch over her, grown concerned as she entered adolescence, grown even more concerned when she began to make friends with boys, especially English boys—Rashid knew, even if his parents had not realised, that Yasmina was a pretty girl.

  She adored him, her elder brother by three years, but he found it difficult to influence her. Her nature seemed so outgoing and her interests so different from the religious principles he now adhered to.

  He had no scruples about leaving the household so abruptly, for his parents no longer featured in his mental galaxy. He didn’t hate them, no, he pitied them, for he saw how they, as first-generation implants in an alien society, had lost all sense of their origins and their faith. They would not ever be truly welcome in this new “home” either, he concluded with some bitterness.

  He thought of the young man from the bookshop Bashir had killed. What kind of Muslim could he have been, to work for Western masters? Had he no shame? Did he not recognise his betrayal of his faith, of his brothers in Islam?

  Rashid had not done the killing himself—it was understood that, smal
l as he was, he might have trouble finishing the job quickly. And inwardly, he knew he might have been too scared. He was not by nature violent. Bashir seemed to sense this, for he had told him often enough that his instinctive aversion to violence meant he was a very strong man, to be willing to undertake violence in the name of Allah.

  So he had served as the fatal decoy, distracting the boy with his falsely friendly greeting while Bashir sprung out from an obscured doorway at the back of the warehouse which ran along the alley and, running quickly, stabbed the bookshop boy once, hard, in the lower back. As Rashid stood lookout, Bashir had swung his arm around the neck of the already slumping figure and, propping him up, in one violent motion slit his throat.

  Now in the early afternoon, after midday prayers in the sitting room and a lunch of soup and bread, Bashir had said he could go out. “Don’t go far,” he said. “And stay out of shops.”

  “Of course,” said Rashid, but within five minutes he was catching the bus into the heart of Wokingham. He got off as soon as he reached an area dense with shops, and in the next street he found one selling mobile phones. He bought the simplest model, pay as you go, and a ten-pound voucher for it.

  Just beside the shop was an alley leading into a small courtyard, and there he tried to dial, but there was no signal, and when he looked at his watch he realised he had already been gone almost an hour. Bashir would soon be worried. Back at the bus stop, he waited impatiently for over ten minutes; he did not want to use his phone there, where several people were standing in the queue.

  At last the bus came. He got off one stop early and walked quickly, his concern about being away too long outweighed by his urgent need to phone Yasmina. He broke into a run and when he was within a street of Somerset Drive, stopped by some railings and dialled Yasmina’s mobile phone. He was far more worried about Bashir’s anger than he was about the police. He felt perfectly safe, since his throwaway phone was untraceable—he knew that. Bashir used them, whenever he called the contact point.