Secret Asset

by Stella Rimington

  “Yasmina?”

  “Rashid, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Yasmina.”

  “But where are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter—I’m not allowed to tell you. But I am fine. That’s why I have rung. To tell you not to worry. I should be home in just a few weeks.”

  “Are you sure?” Yasmina sounded surprised, and Rashid wondered why. “Is it safe to phone?” she added.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Rashid.

  “It’s just—” she began, then stopped.

  “Tell me, Yasmina.”

  “All right, but you mustn’t let Papa know. Not even that we talked. A man came here looking for you. He said he was from the Benefits—but I don’t think he was. Papa was very upset afterwards.”

  Rashid’s pulse began to race, and his right hand, holding the phone, shook so much that he had to steady it with his left. A passing woman looked at him oddly, and he turned around to face the railing away from her gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked angrily.

  “But, Rashid, I didn’t know how to reach you. You left without warning. You didn’t even take your phone.”

  He knew this was true, and tried to calm his agitation and keep it from turning to rage at Yasmina. She was the only ally he had outside his two comrades in the small house. He knew his parents would never understand; they had probably helped the police as much as they could. And his little brother was just that—little, not even fourteen years old. “Do you know what this man wanted?”

  “Yes, Rashid. He wanted you.”

  In Thames House the trace came through to the monitors immediately. The phone on Judith Spratt’s desk rang. “We’ve got a call to Wolverhampton that we’re tracking now. Think you’ll want to hear this one,” said Lawrence, a junior transcriber, to Judith.

  There had been so many false alarms already—a series of mysterious calls for the Khan father which turned out to be secret arrangements for his wife’s birthday—that Judith was reluctant to get excited. “Is it to the house?” she asked sharply.

  “No. It’s to the sister’s mobile—though A4 say she’s in the house. We think it’s her brother.”

  “Fast as you can then,” said Judith, convinced despite herself.

  Five minutes later, Lawrence came back with a transcript of the conversation, which Judith, now joined by Tom Dartmouth, scanned quickly. “Where was the call made from?” asked Tom.

  “We’re working on it. It was a mobile phone, probably a throwaway,” explained Lawrence.

  Tom looked at Lawrence. “How close a fix can we get on him?”

  Lawrence shrugged. “Can’t say at the moment. Two, maybe three miles?”

  “In any direction?”

  Lawrence nodded and Tom swore softly. “That’s a hell of a big area. Unless he’s in the Highlands or North Wales. In any urban area God knows how many thousands of people there are.”

  “Thanks, Lawrence,” said Judith, and the junior withdrew. She would praise his quickness later, but now she and Tom needed to determine exactly what they had—and what to do next. She looked at Tom, whom she was beginning to like in spite of herself—generally speaking, she liked to get on with things on her own, and found section heads got in the way rather than helped. But Tom’s style was to stand back. He was almost detached, though he offered advice when asked and was always very calm. That suited Judith. She said to him, “Dave was hoping the family would keep quiet—apparently the parents were totally bewildered when he explained what their son was up to. They promised to cooperate completely. But the sister was always going to be the weak link. Now thanks to her, this Rashid bloke knows we’re looking for him.”

  “No bad thing,” said Tom calmly. “If he can screw up this badly when he thinks he’s safe, let’s hope he screws up even more now that he feels hunted.”

  27

  Dave Armstrong was tired. He had volunteered to work with Special Branch checking the letting agencies in Wokingham and he was now regretting it. He could have been back in London, working at his desk, or chatting up Rose Love, the pretty new girl in Investigations who had recently allowed that no, she didn’t have a boyfriend, and yes, she would consider having dinner with Dave sometime, though not soon as she was very busy at work. She had always seemed so intense that he’d been surprised by this softening. Rose was a younger, prettier version of Liz Carlyle, and now Dave had hopes that she might prove more susceptible to his charms. He knew that however hard he tried, Liz would never see him as more than a good friend, colleague and sparring partner.

  He thought of Liz as he finished his interview with the fourth letting agency. What was she up to? She never seemed to be at her desk, and she’d been absent from the most recent meeting of the FOXHUNT operational group. Why was she working in the fourth floor corner conference room, along with that Peggy woman from MI6? Had she been seconded? And to do what? Someone had mentioned vetting updates but that seemed an unlikely job for Liz. She was up to something, but whatever she was doing, she wasn’t telling him about it.

  Looking at his list, Dave saw with relief that there was only one more agency to visit, and blessedly it was within walking distance of the fourth. So he left his car and walked through the new streets of this extension of Wokingham—Milton Keynes without the planning or the trees, he thought to himself.

  He walked deceptively quickly. He was just under six feet tall but was lanky, with long legs, and hair that was a little shaggy by the standards of Thames House. This made him stand out among the more staid senior personnel of the Service, but he fitted in with the people on the streets where he spent so much of his time. Even when he wasn’t outside, he was happier in a parka than a suit, and was largely uninterested in the consequences this preference might have for his future career. Now he cut an anonymous figure, which is how he liked it.

  At five-fifteen the small tidy office of Hummingbird Lettings was winding down for the day. The receptionist had left, and Dave found himself alone in a large room with four empty desks. Then someone began whistling, and a middle-aged man came out holding a cup of tea. He was thin and bony-faced, with greying hair and black NHS spectacles. Starting at the sight of Dave, he sloshed tea from his cup. “We’re shut,” he said automatically.

  Dave smiled broadly. “I’m Simon Willis,” he said. “I rang before.”

  “Oh yes,” the man said, “the gentleman from the…police.”

  “That’s it,” said Dave brightly, “won’t take a minute.”

  They sat down at the desk and the man introduced himself as Richard Penbury but did not shake hands. He looked dispirited, as if he had had a long and unprofitable day. “So how can I help?” Penbury asked, making it obvious that he didn’t think he could.

  “I am making a discreet inquiry,” said Dave, trying his best to sound official, “into the rental of a property to one, possibly two or even three, young Asian males. It might be a small house, or a medium or largish flat.”

  The man was shaking his head even before Dave finished his sentence. Another dead end, thought Dave, wondering how soon he could get back to London. Call it an hour—no, an hour and a half at this time of the day. He could ring Rose from the road and maybe she’d meet him at the Compton Arms. Then dinner and then maybe…

  He brought himself back to earth to find Penbury saying, “No, nothing like that at all. Most of my rentals this year have been repeaters, or long-term lets for properties people have bought for investment—you know, second houses they let out to cover the cost of the mortgage until the place appreciates and they sell it. That’s the theory at any rate, though lately it’s not been quite so simple. Lots of people have got burned, and between you and me, it’s a tenant’s market these days.”

  Why between you and me? thought Dave with some irritation, disinclined to give much credence to Mr. Penbury’s analysis of recent trends in the rental market. Instead of ending the conversation, however, this made him press him on. “Think for a minute pleas
e, Mr. Penbury, especially about any new rentals. Are you sure none were to Asians? It doesn’t matter if they weren’t male.”

  Mr. Penbury took no time to dismiss this as well. “No Asians. I’m certain. There are some in the area, and we’ve rented properties for and to them, but not recently. I’m sure of that,” he added decisively.

  “Let me ask you this: think back to all the rentals you’ve made in the past six months. Was there anything unusual about any of them? Anything that comes to mind—I don’t care if it seems trivial.” He saw the by now familiar look on Mr. Penbury’s face, which indicated the imminence of a dismissive “No,” so Dave quickly added, “Please, Mr. Penbury, this is important or I wouldn’t be bothering you. Please think hard.”

  And slowly, if unwillingly, Mr. Penbury seemed to do this. After a long silent period of thought, he said, “There was one property which was a bit unusual. A house on Somerset Drive. The owner used to live there but she’s moved to Devon and we look after it for her. Someone took it on a short-term let this winter—six months. Normally, we wouldn’t do that,” he added, “but what can I say? Better six months than none at all.”

  “Who rented it?”

  “A man, but he was white. He paid all six months in advance. That’s not unheard of, but I wouldn’t say it was normal.”

  “And?” asked Dave, since this didn’t sound so odd that it would have stuck in Penbury’s memory.

  “Well, the thing is it hasn’t been used. The last time I checked—you know, just to make sure everything was all right—no one had been in the house at all. I even asked the neighbours, and they said they hadn’t seen anyone there since the owner moved out.”

  “When was that?”

  Mr. Penbury thought for a moment. “About three weeks ago.”

  “Could I see the information for the tenant please?”

  When Mr. Penbury hesitated, Dave said gently, “I can get a warrant if you like. But it would save us both a lot of hassle if you’d just let me know.”

  Mr. Penbury nodded and got up and went to a filing cabinet in the corner. He came back a minute later with a file. Dave scanned it quickly, but inwardly he didn’t expect to learn much: if this turned out to be a link to the bombers, then the name used, Edward Larrabee, would not be real. “Tell me,” he asked, “do you know the name of these neighbours you spoke to?”

  “I do as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Penbury, pleased for the first time. “The wife plays badminton with my wife. They’re called Dawnton; I think he’s Trevor.”

  “Thanks,” said Dave. “If you wouldn’t mind making a copy for me,” he said, handing over the rental agreement, “I’d be very grateful.”

  Penbury nodded resignedly. “I’ll just warm up the machine,” he said, standing up and heading towards the back of the office.

  28

  To those who criticised Dublin—lamenting its new commercialism, or the destruction of yet another Georgian square—Maddie would react with the defensiveness of a native. But she wasn’t a native, and it was not the virtues of Dublin she admired but the simple fact that it wasn’t Belfast.

  She had left that city as soon as she was able, coming south against the wishes of her parents to read Law at University College Dublin. After taking her degree (a good one; she had worked hard) and qualifying, Maddie had been offered what was supposed to be a short-term placement with a Dublin firm of solicitors. This morning, as she entered the Victorian building of grey stone that housed Gallagher O’Donnell, she realised she had been at the firm for exactly fifteen years.

  What had made her flee Belfast at the earliest opportunity? Her father—even Sean Keaney’s recent death had failed to dent the unalloyed hostility she still wore like mental armour. It was an antipathy she had felt for as long as she could remember.

  Reaching work, Maddie took the creaky old lift to the third floor. She stopped in the outer office where Caitlin O’Hagan, the unhelpful secretary she shared with another partner, sat. “Good morning,” Maddie said. “What have I got today?”

  Caitlin patted her dyed blonde hair, pursed her lips, and looked reluctantly at the desk diary. “There’s a Mr. Murphy coming to see you in a quarter of an hour.”

  “What does he want?” Maddie specialised in conveyancing, working mainly with a few large developers. It was rare to have a new client.

  “I don’t know,” said Caitlin. “He said you’d been highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” said Caitlin, aggrieved that so much should be expected of her.

  Maddie occupied the next ten minutes in phone calls—to her ex-husband about his maintenance payments (late again), and another to the owner of a Georgian town house who was seeking planning permission to convert it into flats. Then Maddie’s phone purred and Caitlin informed her that her appointment was waiting in reception. When Maddie came out, she found a tall shambling figure of a man, putting down the Irish Times and slowly getting up from his chair.

  He looked to be in his late sixties, possibly older. In marked contrast to her mainly young and sharply dressed clientele, this man wore a long raincoat over a thick sweater and shirt. It hung like heavy drapes from its padded shoulders.

  Maddie found her palm engulfed by a hand the size of a large animal’s paw. She looked up into a doughy, weather-beaten face that looked as if it had seen too much of life.

  There was something familiar about the man, but she couldn’t place it, and the name rang no bell. But then in Dublin, Murphy was not exactly a remarkable surname.

  She ushered the man into her office, then closed the door. “Will you have tea or coffee?”

  “I will not,” he said as he sat down. His voice was low and soft.

  From behind her desk, Maddie glanced at the man and lined up her notepad and pencil. She clasped her hands and conjured up a professional smile. “So how can I help you, Mr. Murphy?”

  “It’s Maguire,” the man said slowly. “James Maguire.”

  Then Maddie understood why he seemed familiar. It had only been a glimpse or two—the tall shaggy figure climbing the stairs behind her sister, then later leaving the Belfast house without a word of goodbye. But she remembered the raincoat.

  She felt herself begin to tremble, for no reason that she could define. She hadn’t shared her father’s enemies any more than she had shared his politics, but she had known who they were. Hence her astonishment the day when Maguire had come to see her father, that day her father was dying.

  So what was the man doing here now, and under a false name? She felt a chill as she looked at her father’s enemy across the desk. Was this to be the moment that had haunted her childhood: a sense of certain visitation, the masked men bursting in, the gun drawn and fired as she and her parents sat in front of the television, sitting there of an evening just like normal people. Only normal people didn’t grow up waiting for that summons, that knock at the door.

  She wondered what she should do as she watched her visitor, trying all the time to still the sense of panic. Call out to Caitlin in the ante-room? Before the woman had even got up from her desk, this man could be on her. Pick up the phone and ring the Garda? Before Maddie had begun to dial he could have a gun out. She thought of her daughter, and fear began to shake her, almost noisily, like a rattle in an empty box. Sweet Jesus, she thought, this is not the way I want to die.

  And then suddenly the man’s face creased like worked leather into a gentle smile. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, for he must have seen the fear in her eyes. “I wasn’t sure you’d agree to see me if I used my real name.”

  It took a moment for Maddie to gather herself. “Well then, Mr. Maguire, what do you want with me?”

  “It’s about your father,” he said simply. “Maybe you remember my visit on the day he died. He asked me to come.”

  She looked at him silently.

  “He made certain requests of me. But I’m hampered, you see, by not knowing enough.”

  “I doubt
I can help you,” she said, her voice still shaky. “I kept myself well out of my father’s affairs.”

  For a moment Maguire gazed at her, as though summing her up. “He wanted me to get in touch with some professor he knew. A sympathiser to the cause, you understand.”

  Maddie shrugged. “As I said, I stayed out of my father’s business.”

  Maguire ignored this. “He was Irish, this man, but I believe he spent some time teaching at Oxford.”

  Maddie gave a harsh laugh. “It doesn’t sound very likely. My father was not an educated man, Mr. Maguire.”

  He looked at her, unconvinced. “He was very clear about it. It was his dying wish that I get hold of this man. I’d hardly be bothering you otherwise, now would I, Miss Keaney?”

  Maddie felt irritation overcome any residual sense of alarm. Why was this man dragging her into whatever mucky errand he’d agreed to carry out for her father? She wanted no vestige of that sordid business in her life. “Why didn’t you ask my father when you saw him?” she demanded.

  “My dear,” said Maguire, oblivious to how this made Maddie bristle. “Your father was barely conscious when I saw him.” He had shaken off his hangdog look and was staring at her intently. “I’m not sure he remembered the name himself by that stage. The only thing he said to me was ‘Ask Kirsty Brien.’ You know her, don’t you?”

  “She used to be my best friend,” said Maddie dully, her heart sinking. She tried to think of her former best friend with equanimity, but it was difficult.

  They’d met at University College Dublin and for a time been inseparable, despite all manner of differences between them. Kirsty was tall where Maddie was short, Kirsty was blonde where Maddie had mouse-coloured hair, Kirsty was strikingly pretty where Maddie—she knew this, no one had to tell her—was at the very best “not bad.”