by Matt Johnson
‘Costello,’ I gasped. ‘So, there’s no mistake then?’
‘None; it’s as I said. The one you had trussed up in the tower block was Dominic McGlinty, a hired gun that Costello uses from time to time.’
‘We guessed as much. Costello would have put up a better fight.’
‘Indeed. And whilst there is no picture of them together, you will note from the time and date on the prints that they were taken only yesterday.’
‘The Arab is the kid from the embassy then?’
‘I believe so. The Security Service code-name for him is “White Dove”.’
‘Cute. An angel of death, disguised as the bringer of life.’
‘He is believed to be Iranian.’
‘That fits. You think he is the brains behind the bombers?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘He’s got the ROSE files?’
‘It seems likely. We must find him and eliminate him.’
‘Easy as pie,’ I scoffed. ‘Number one, I don’t have any contacts that might help me find him. Secondly, I’m now on compassionate leave so I can’t even use the police computer to help.’
‘I could help you there.’
‘And how might you do that?’ I asked.
‘Special Branch have had him under observation since he landed at Heathrow some time ago. They were tailing him to see what he was up to. Nobody expected it to lead them to Costello. An arrest team was called in when they observed the meeting taking place but before they could summon help, both Costello and the Iranian had fled the scene.’
‘Do Special Branch have a name for him?’
‘Selahattin Yildrim.’
‘Will they be able to locate him again?’
‘I expect so. They are familiar with the places he frequents and they are monitoring hotels and guest houses. It shouldn’t take too long before he is back on their radar. My contact in the Branch will provide the information we need.’
It looked like I had been right about the embassy connection. And Monaghan had clearly been hard at work; he certainly had some good friends.
‘Perhaps our luck is changing,’ I said. ‘If we’d managed to grab McGlinty, I doubt if he would have led us to this Yildrim character. Costello’s too clever to have let McGlinty in on that information. This way, we’re another step closer to finding those files.’
‘We are, yes.’
I changed tack. ‘OK, given that we’ve now established a connection between the people trying to kill us and the Iranian Embassy, why is it just me, Skinner and Bridges that they’ve come after?’
Monaghan appeared slightly taken aback by the question. ‘You’ve given that some thought too?’ he said.
‘Two attempts on me suggests they have a very short list. There are a lot of other ex-special forces people, so why focus on me?’
‘I don’t know … apart from the embassy, there doesn’t seem to be any obvious link.’
I probed further. ‘Could it be that just our three files were stolen?’
‘No, there were others.’
‘Mac Blackwood?’ I asked, watching Monaghan’s face closely for a reaction. There was none.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said coolly. ‘I should have told you. I didn’t realise you knew Mac.’
‘In case you forgot, Mac did all the window research for the embassy. It’s starting to come together, isn’t it?’
I couldn’t help but allow a tone of accusation to enter my voice. Monaghan’s failure to spot the link was annoying. Everything was starting to point back towards the embassy. I just didn’t know how the Iranian had managed to get our files.
Monaghan started to gather up the photographs.
‘Give me the one of the Iranian,’ I held out my hand to take it. ‘I’d like Kev Jones to take a look at it.’
Monaghan seemed reluctant to give me the photo. In the event I picked it up myself and tucked it into my inside pocket before finishing off my drink and heading for the street.
With the cause of our trouble now identified, it looked like I was in this until the bloody end. And bloody it might just be.
Chapter 60
Grahamslaw’s morning wasn’t going well. A lengthy debrief with the two interrogation teams had produced little in the way of new ideas on how to get the two suspects to talk. He had just suggested a new interview plan for McGlinty when the office telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver, hoping that it would be Mick Parratt calling in with his report from Northern Ireland. It wasn’t. It was MI5. They were ready to try and put some pressure on Hewitson, the second prisoner.
At Paddington Green Police Station, Grahamslaw waited patiently as the Sergeant Custody Officer scribbled away on the custody record. The poor man was sweating profusely, his left hand rubbing the back of his neck as he attempted to ease the tension of running a busy custody suite. He seemed to be working as fast as he could. Grahamslaw didn’t try to rush him; he was all too aware of the time it now took to look after ordinary prisoners, let alone terrorism detainees. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act requirement to write everything down made it even worse.
Spending your working day looking after prisoners wasn’t something Grahamslaw envied. Inside the sealed suite of cells and interview rooms, the atmosphere was stale and the shortage of windows meant that you wouldn’t see daylight for hours.
He was grateful that things had been a lot easier in his day. Although he had enjoyed his time as a uniformed Sergeant, he often found himself questioning the sanity of anyone wishing to do the same these days.
His thoughts were disturbed as three of his own anti-terrorist detectives appeared across the desk in front of the distracted Custody Sergeant. They were from the interview team to whom he had just been speaking.
The Sergeant raised his gaze from the paperwork laid out before him. ‘Come to have another word with one of your two?’ he asked.
‘Hewitson,’ said the DI. ‘We need him for questioning. We’ll have him out to our own interview rooms downstairs. No solicitors still.’
The Sergeant pulled a prepared ink stamp out of the drawer to his left.
The DI raised his hand to stop him. ‘Nothing on the custody record this time, Sarge.’
The Sergeant scowled. Grahamslaw could see from his reaction that he wasn’t impressed. He had been through this kind of dispute before. As custody officer, he was required to book a prisoner out properly and yet here was someone telling him to flout the law.
‘Why?’ the Sergeant asked, as he stared at the DI.
‘We’ve interviewed him on tape many times, Sarge, and like all good terrorists he says absolutely nothing. There’s nothing to be gained by another formal interview. This time we just want to talk to him. I promise you, there’ll be no rough stuff. We won’t be long. Just show a cell visit down to me and pretend he’s still in the cell.’
The Sergeant did as he was told. Experience had taught him it didn’t pay to argue, he knew the damage it could do to his career. He replaced Hewitson’s record in the drawer.
Michael Hewitson was in a jam with no way out. Grahamslaw had spent two days trying to get that message through to him. Being woken up in the early hours to find a gun pointed up your nose was enough to rattle most men, but Hewitson had said nothing, not even so much as a ‘no comment’ to the series of questions that the interviewing team had put to him. Even when confronted with the forensic evidence he had stayed silent. There was no doubt that he feared the IRA more than prison. It was now time to let the Security Services have a go at him.
The Sergeant opened the cell door and then returned to his desk.
Hewitson was resting on the blue plastic-covered mattress that lay on the cell bench. Save for the wooden toilet seat, it was the only comfort the tiny room contained.
‘Come with us,’ said the DI, as Hewitson stood up.
Grahamslaw watched impassively as one of the detectives slipped a set of rigid handcuffs onto Hewitson’s wrist, turned him around and then locked them behind
his back.
‘Can’t I have them in front?’ he asked.
‘Not this time,’ replied the Detective.
Hewitson followed as the DI led the way. A second detective held his right arm and a third walked behind. Grahamslaw trailed along, a few feet behind the group. They passed the door to the interview rooms and then entered a lift. The DI pressed the lowest button and, as the lift started to descend, Grahamslaw saw there was a look of confusion on Hewitson’s face. He had noticed the change from the normal route to the interview rooms.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
The three policemen stood, stony faced. They made no attempt to reply although they had clearly heard him. Hewitson didn’t repeat his question. Grahamslaw smiled to himself. The detectives were playing their parts perfectly. The change in tack would have caused confusion. Likely as not, Hewitson’s heart rate would be increasing as the uncertainty of his situation sank in. Until now, the interviewing officers had been quite reasonable to him. They had warned him, cajoled him, threatened and tried to trick him, but always they had talked. The silent treatment was a new tactic, something that might unsettle him and get him talking. For the first time during his period of detention, Michael Hewitson would be afraid.
Chapter 61
Once the lift door opened, the DI led the way along a long corridor. Fluorescent lighting and vinyl floors gave the MI5 floor at Paddington Green the appearance of a hospital. It even had that same antiseptic smell. Unlike a hospital, though, the corridors were quite empty. No people, no trolleys, nothing at all to indicate recent use. As the group walked along, their footsteps echoed.
Hewitson’s expression had changed again. He was starting to look nervous.
‘A man could disappear in a place like this,’ quipped one of the detectives. ‘Who would miss him? Who would even care?’
The mind games had started.
They came to a stop at a door on the right-hand side. The DI knocked. From inside, Grahamslaw heard a muffled voice and then the door was opened for them. As the group entered, Grahamslaw saw Hewitson glance at the layers of sound-proofing on the heavy door. Once inside, it swung closed with a heavy thud. It was a large room, devoid of furniture or decoration with one notable exception. In the centre sat an old dentist’s chair.
A voice came from behind the group. It was the man who had opened and closed the door. Hewitson turned to face him. Grahamslaw smiled to himself. The MI5 officer was wearing a white coat. A little extra to add tension to the role play.
‘Mr Hewitson, I presume?’ said the officer.
‘Yeah … yes. What … what is going on…? Where am I?’
The MI5 officer was about fifty with grey hair. Beneath the white coat, he wore what looked like an expensive suit and a military looking tie.
He spoke again. ‘Don’t be afraid, Mr Hewitson. I want to ask you some questions. Give me the answers I need and you will be returned to your cell.’
Hewitson was starting to get agitated. His voice rose. ‘And if I don’t, what you gonna do, tie me to that chair and beat the crap outta me I s’pose?’
The MI5 officer continued, his voice calm and assertive. ‘In a moment I will ask these officers to remove your hand-cuffs. If you would care to look at the chair, which I agree is for your use, you will note that there are no straps on it that could be used to tie you up as you suggest.’
The act was perfect. Grahamslaw was convinced, even though he knew it was a ruse. The MI5 officer exuded the menace of someone used to getting what he wanted. The tension in the room was now palpable.
Hewitson suddenly began to shout. ‘If you touch me, how you going to explain it to a court? Soon as I see a brief, I’ll tell what you did. You know I know nothing, why ask?’
One of the detectives walked up behind him. Hewitson jumped and, as he did, Grahamslaw saw that beads of sweat had formed on his face. The detective slipped a small key into the handcuff lock and gently removed them. The MI5 officer waited until the handcuffs were removed before speaking again.
‘Mr Hewitson you may use the chair if you wish. Do not be afraid. I’m going to request that these officers join me as we leave the room. In a few moments, it will be just you, this nice chair and the four walls. Make yourself comfortable. All I ask is that you answer my questions honestly. Is that clear? As for you showing the marks of torture to a solicitor, I assure you that you will do no such thing.’
Hewitson was silent and his face was tense and still, apart from his blinking eyes. The impact of the words clearly wasn’t lost on him.
The interviewer continued. ‘You will not leave this room, Mr Hewitson.’
For a moment, Hewitson seemed to panic. He glanced at the door, as if checking for a chance to escape.
As Grahamslaw exited through the door and made his way to the observation room, he felt a sense of satisfaction that progress was being made. Hewitson didn’t seem to realise it, but the skilled military interviewer had already got him talking. The use of fear had played tricks with his mind and his confidence was low. It was only a question of time before he cracked.
But Hewitson didn’t crack. Just like McGlinty before him, he kept up the front. He said nothing apart from the occasional ‘no comment’. The questions kept on coming. Where had he been recruited? Who had recruited him? Who were his contacts? Who had prepared the car bomb? Did he know who his target was? The interviewer kept at him for nearly an hour. Hewitson didn’t even seem to listen to most of the questions. After a while, he accepted the invitation to sit on the ‘dentist’s’ chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, he commented. Soon, the hypnotic voice of his interrogator sent him to sleep.
Hewitson had saved them time. As their prisoner drifted off, the MI5 officer pressed a small, green switch. An invisible gas seeped, inexorably, into the room through small jets in the ceiling. Hewitson’s breathing slowed as his natural sleep artificially deepened. He experienced no sensation of presence or pain as a hypodermic needle gently eased into a vein in his right arm. The contents of the syringe would stimulate him sufficiently to enable him to talk. As he spoke, he would now answer honestly. He would suffer no pain and would remember nothing. The MI5 officer had, at least, been truthful in that respect.
Later, when he woke up, his mouth would be dry and he would feel groggy. By then he would be back in his cell. He would think that he had fallen asleep during the interrogation and that the interviewers had, once again, given up. And he would be completely unaware of having revealed anything and everything useful that his memory could recall.
Chapter 62
In a quiet corner of the King’s Head, we could have been two dads comparing holiday photos.
‘I know that face … just give me a moment or two.’ Kevin stared intently at the picture in my hand.
‘Monaghan says he’s Iranian.’ I tilted the photo to try and catch the light from the bar. ‘Think he could be the kid from the embassy?’
I’d started being really careful now that I knew Grahamslaw was suspicious. A pub had seemed as good a place as any to meet. Kevin was familiar with the King’s Head in Ilford and knew that its quiet alcoves would mean we could safely watch our surroundings. In a previous life, Kevin and I had been taught how to look out for surveillance, but we were ten years out of date. Technology, in particular, had improved. Truth was, a satellite could be watching us for all we knew, maybe even listening to our conversation.
Kevin slammed his pint on the table. ‘Got it!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well c’mon,’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Who is it?’
‘Well, I’m not saying for definite, but he looks more like a boy I had to do an obbo on back in the late seventies, early eighties. But if it’s him, he’s changed a lot with age.’
‘So you’re not sure?’
Kevin sighed. ‘No, I’m not. And anyway it couldn’t be him.’
‘Why not?’
‘That boy’s Irish. Thought you said this one’s Iranian.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s what Monaghan said. His name is Yildrim.’
I was starting down the road of confusion again. I was sure Kevin was going to confirm the picture as being the surviving terrorist from the embassy. Now he was confusing him with some Irishman. This was no help.
‘I can’t remember his name.’
‘Look, Kev,’ I said, a little impatiently. ‘This is a Special Branch photo. They say he’s an Arab. Monaghan says he’s an Arab. Now start thinking Iranian Arab instead of Irish.’
‘OK, but I’m telling you. There was a young IRA kid who looked like an Arab. Black hair, big nose, thin lips. It sure as hell looks like him … wish I could remember his name.’
‘OK, Kev, I’ll tell Monaghan what you’re saying. He might be an Arab; we don’t know. Alternatively, Monaghan might be wrong … and he might be an Irishman who looks like an Arab … but we can’t remember his name. He’ll be well impressed with us.’
‘You said Monaghan gave you the photo, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Well, more I took it rather than he gave it.’
‘Funny.’ Kevin looked puzzled. ‘Even if it’s not the Irishman, you would have thought he would have seen the resemblance. It was Monaghan that ordered the obbo.’
I tucked the picture back in my jacket pocket just as the barmaid appeared to collect our empty glasses. ‘I’ll ask him,’ I said.
Chapter 63
Grahamslaw was livid. He slammed the telephone receiver down at the end of the call from his surveillance team. ‘Where the fuck does a fuckin’ inspector from fuckin’ Stoke Newington get copies of Special Branch pictures. Will somebody fuckin’ tell me?’
Mick Parratt looked up from the set of papers he was studying. ‘Ever noticed how much you’ve been swearing lately guv’nor?’
The off-the-cuff remark short-circuited Grahamslaw’s anger. It was one of Parratt’s skills, to diffuse a tense moment. It complemented Grahamslaw, helped make them a good team.