by Matt Johnson
I also wondered how much a flight to Bucharest was going to set Jenny and me back.
Chapter 19
MI5 office, New Scotland Yard
The paperwork on Toni’s desk was building up.
In the aftermath of 9/11, all priorities had changed. Although the accepted remit of MI6 had been limited to foreign soil, while MI5 concentrated on domestic security, this was being transformed; overlap was now commonplace. For Toni and many other MI5 officers, the effect was a massive shift in focus from Irish terrorism to Al Q’aeda and the large number of suspected operatives and sympathisers who were now domiciled in the UK.
So, in addition to the paperwork, she was spending one evening each week learning Arabic. All her fellow pupils were Secret Service officers. Their tutor was an Iraqi-born MI6 agent. Not surprisingly, the officers compared notes about their work. All reported frustrations at being unable to recruit agents and informants from within the Arab and Moslem communities. They all had heavy workloads and they were all feeling the strain. Many were talking of moving on to pastures new.
Toni was one of them.
One job had been causing her a particular headache. Someone in northern England was providing information to two French journalists who were writing a book that was, allegedly, going to include a chapter on an MI6 Gaddafi operation.
That suspicion stemmed back to February the previous year, when The Sunday Times had published an article claiming MI6 had worked with Al Q’aeda on a plan to assassinate Colonel Gaddafi. It was an embarrassing revelation for MI6. It was thought that the French reporters were going to expose the fact British taxpayers’ money had been used to indirectly fund an organisation hell-bent on attacking Western interests; specifically, the group that had been behind the New York attacks on September 11th.
The source of the Sunday Times article was known to be a Manchester-based Al Q’aeda operative called Al-Liby, who had been given political asylum in Britain. In May 2000, Al-Liby had gone underground following a raid on his home in which a ‘Manual for Jihad’ had been found. Finding Al-Liby and confirming if he was the journalists’ source was now Toni’s responsibility; that was if he was still in the UK. If not, she would be forced to pass the case to MI6. And that was something she would prefer not to do.
It was a similar story with the Chad Collins book, Cyclone. Cristea Publishing – based in Romania, of all places – was a relatively new publishing house and was still something of a mystery. Toni knew it was making waves in the literary world and had signed several wellknown authors. Intelligence Services had paid little heed – nobody had thought it worthy of a personal file; until Cyclone appeared on the shelves and the CIA saw what it contained. That had put the cat amongst the pigeons, and now finding Chas Collins was a priority. He was a ghost – an expert in remaining off the Security Service radar. As Toni saw it, anyone who could get close to the author and learn his sources was likely to see their career benefit.
Now, with Robert Finlay due home from Egypt, she had learned enough to suggest the decision to send him there had been the right one. Even though the intelligence report that Chas Collins was going to be holidaying in Egypt had proved wrong, there was good news from the dive school: Finlay had saved Cristea Publishing’s owner’s daughter from drowning and had, as a result, been invited to her wedding in Romania. Toni now had a second – and probably better – chance to engineer a meeting between the author and Finlay.
Babysitting the Finlay family had, at first, been an unwelcome addition to her growing workload, but she had grown to like them and now it had produced a most unlikely outcome. She allowed herself a smile at a good week’s work, despite the frustrations around finishing the Hastings report.
Debriefing Finlay, however, would also provide an opportunity to secure answers to those frustrating questions – in particular, about the gap in his military file. It was a question that had prompted her to go through his army disciplinary record that very day. There was only one entry: an admonishment for inaccurate recording of expenses.
Yet something still niggled her. It would be easy enough to finish the report and agree with the findings but, on her initial MI5 course, her instructor had impressed upon his students something that had become indelibly engraved on her brain: ‘Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.’
It was a piece of advice she now followed. Until every question was answered to her satisfaction, the file would remain open.
Chapter 20
I decided to use the final morning in the hotel for a decent rest and to make a real attempt to finish my book. It was another warm Egyptian day. In the sheltered area near to the pool, I stripped off down to my shorts.
Despite some of the personal and self-promotional stuff, which I skimmed through, the bulk of the Collins’ book was fascinating. It was an eyewitness account of the author’s experiences during the Afghan-Russian war of the 1980s. As I had been in Pakistan at the time, training Mujahideen fighters to use anti-aircraft missiles, it was especially interesting. The author was certainly well informed. It seemed likely I had served with him, although, from the blurred photographs and descriptions, I wasn’t able to work out who he was.
I was still reading when Anca distracted me. I hadn’t heard her approach and was only aware of her presence when a shadow appeared on the pages.
‘What are you reading that keeps you so preoccupied, Robert?’ she asked.
I lifted the book to show her the cover. She threw her head back and laughed. I figured she didn’t share my taste.
‘You like this book, Cyclone?’
‘So far, so good.’
Anca laughed again. ‘My father-in-law will be very pleased to hear this. Look inside the cover at the name of the publishers.’
I did as she asked. ‘Cristea Publishing Company, London,’ I read out loud.
‘If you remember, my name is Anca Cristea. My husband’s father started the company. He has many businesses; this is one of them.’
I smiled. It was a fascinating coincidence.
‘Marica has invited you to her wedding?’ she continued.
‘Yes, I hope to be able to make it, if I can get time off from work.’
‘What do you do Robert? Are you still a soldier?’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘No, my soldiering days are long behind me. These days I work for myself. Nothing glamorous: I work for small businesses – doing the books, paperwork, that sort of thing.’ As I spoke, I realised my answer had started to stray from the one I had given the dive staff. Fortunately, I remembered in time. ‘And I teach people to drive cars,’ I added.
‘Yes, as you say, not glamorous. Anyway, I think you will have a nice surprise at the wedding.’
‘You think?’
‘Yes, Chas Collins, the author of your book, will be there. Maybe he will autograph it for you?’ Anca laughed again, a cheeky laugh I would have attributed more to a teenager than to someone who looked so elegant.
I smiled back. ‘Perhaps he will.’
‘Will you be flying home today?’ Anca asked.
‘Yes, I leave for the airport at lunch time.’
She extended her hand. I stood, placed the book on the lounger and we shook hands. Again, I noticed her grip was surprisingly strong. Her hands were also harder and the skin less smooth than I had expected. The strength extended to her forearms; under her thin, blue dress, the muscular development was clear and defined.
‘I look forward to seeing you again, Robert. Please enjoy your flight.’
As quietly and quickly as Anca had appeared, she was gone.
I watched her descend the steps from the pool area into the hotel foyer. She moved elegantly, the material of the dress accentuating her figure. A nice lady, I thought. No doubt from a good family. I had noticed a large wedding ring shining on her finger. The Cristea son who had married her had secured himself a very good catch.
It was time to settle the bills that MI5 weren’t covering. The hotel bar service was reasonable
and cheap. The dive-school account was likely to be a different matter, however. With the cost of the course, equipment hire and Catherine as guide, I knew I was going to be stung for quite a bit. It had been worth it, though. I felt so much more relaxed than the tense man who had arrived at the resort a week earlier.
Armed with my credit card, I made my way to settle up. But an embarrassing surprise awaited me: at both the hotel and the dive school, I found my bills had been paid in full. Neither would tell me by whom, but it wasn’t too hard to work out.
In the dive-school equipment area, I found Catherine cleaning and filling air cylinders. She winked at me when I asked who had paid. ‘It’s not every day we have a hero here, Robert.’
There was no point in arguing. But I was left with mixed feelings: relief at not heading home with a large credit card bill and slight guilt I didn’t feel worthy of the gesture.
I returned to my room, squeezed the last few items into my suitcase and then boarded the small bus that would drop me at the airport. Two hours later, with the Collins book nearly finished, I was on the plane home.
Chapter 21
London Embankment
Toni Fellowes was in a hurry.
Although it wasn’t a long walk to the MI6 building, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. With no waterproof coat or umbrella, she now found herself dodging from shop canopies to bus shelters, and from trees to doorways in an attempt to avoid the rain.
MI6 HQ, the Secret Intelligence Service building at Vauxhall Cross, was a place people like Toni didn’t get to visit very often. Even with her level of security clearance, Toni was only allowed access under escort. Shaking herself dry, she was compelled to wait in reception until a junior MI6 clerk arrived to see her through the metal detectors, security doors, CCTV and fingerprint access points. The clerk took her security pass, disappeared into a nearby office for a few minutes and then, after returning the pass, led the way.
Howard Green, her contact and host, was waiting in his office. It helped they were on friendly terms. Several times, outside work, they had enjoyed lunch or dinner together. At one point, Toni had hoped the relationship might develop beyond work, but then Howard had mentioned he was married. For her, that had ended the possibility of anything more than friendship between them, although Howard had persisted in his attempt to persuade her otherwise. Eventually, though, he took the hint, and now when they met he was always cordial, even if she occasionally caught him staring at her legs.
No longer a field agent, Howard now managed, supervised and organised the people that did the spying. He was a conduit between information provider and information recipient, running a network of agents who might contribute nothing, but who just might secure intelligence that would reveal activities the UK Government needed to know about. As such, his level of security clearance was high.
Howard had requested the get-together, supposedly to discuss a mutual interest. Toni thought it perfect timing as she needed to secure authority to view the high-clearance personal files relevant to the Hastings report. She hoped that some bargaining might see them both leave the meeting happy.
As the clerk closed the door, Toni was a little surprised when Howard kissed her cheek in welcome. If the act had been intended to lower her guard it wouldn’t work, she thought. But her curiosity was aroused. Her host continued more formally, explaining his current role. He was now responsible for operations in Eastern Europe – specifically Romania and Moldova. He was investigating links between criminal gangs, gun running and the terror groups that purchased weapons through these sources. Toni kept a straight face but, as soon as she heard the word ‘Romania’, she had a feeling she knew where the conversation was leading.
She feigned surprise, however, when he said, ‘Tell me about Robert Finlay.’
‘That’s why you asked me here?’ she said, stalling as she considered how best to answer the questions that would inevitably follow.
‘Yes, his name has come up on my radar. What do you know of him?’
‘Do you mind if I ask why MI6 have an interest in him?’
‘You first, Toni,’ Howard smiled. ‘I can see the question surprised you. I am prepared to explain, but tell me about him first. I’ve read the digital copy of his PF; and I know the hard copy is booked out to you. I’m hoping you can tell me more than my version shows.’
Again, Toni hesitated. Most of the essential background on Finlay was in his PF – his personal file. There wasn’t much more she could, or wanted, to add. And considering Finlay was what she wanted to ask Howard Green about, it was possibly a fortuitous coincidence, possibly not. She decided to maintain an air of cooperation.
Summarising what she could recall of Finlay’s family history, schooling, education and army and police careers, Toni went through as much as she was prepared to say, including a run-down on the recent attacks on Finlay and his former colleagues, and ending with SO13’s conclusions about the motives behind the attacks.
Howard listened intently, occasionally jotting a note on a small pad that sat on his desk. Toni noticed how he nodded as he listened. If he had read the file, he would know most of what she was saying.
Just as she was finishing, Howard waved his hand, as if a little bored. ‘So you are babysitting him because of the attacks?’ he asked.
‘We are. And Dirt has asked me to confirm the SO13 conclusions before we declare the enquiry complete.’
‘What are your personal thoughts on Finlay, Toni?’
‘He’s a nice man. Loyal. But he has a lack of emotion about him. It’s like things just don’t get to him. You get the feeling he has seen too much in his life and some of it is bottled up inside somewhere.’
‘You like him?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Howard smiled. ‘All in good time, Toni. Do you like him?’
‘Yes, I do, very much.’ Toni was surprised by her own frankness and how quickly she answered the question.
‘Have you recruited him?’
‘No … I haven’t.’
‘Tell me what he was doing in Egypt this past week…’
‘Is that why you’re asking?’
‘Yes. His presence there is my reason for meeting you now. I’m willing to think it is just a coincidence, but Finlay has met up with some very interesting people.’ Howard pulled a small, buff file from a drawer in his desk as he spoke.
He’s lying, Toni thought. Nobody in this profession truly believes in coincidence. ‘His reason for going there is the fulfilment of a dream from his childhood,’ she explained. ‘That much I can tell you. I think Egypt might even have been my idea. He needed a holiday and I suggested it to him.’
Howard flicked open the file. ‘Ever heard of the Cristea family?’
He handed Toni a photograph of a young woman standing next to a swimming pool. To one side of her there was a tough-looking man with short hair and behind them stood Finlay, dressed rather shabbily in an old T-shirt and shorts. There was no mistaking him.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she lied.
Howard snorted, just gently. ‘The woman is Marica Cristea. The man is her bodyguard. Marica is a member of an interesting Romanian family … I find it very difficult to believe you are not aware of them.’
‘Why so?’
‘Cristea Publishing. You have read the security briefing on the Cyclone book, I presume?’
Toni recognised the hint of sarcasm in Howard’s tone. ‘Ah … yes, of course … that Cristea family.’
‘Indeed.’ Howard flicked at the file, impatiently. ‘Look, Toni. I’m going to be up front with you here, and, trust me, it would be best for you if we are straight with each other.’
‘In what way?’
‘By being honest about why you chose that particular resort for your man to take his break in. So … a straight question to which I expect a straight answer: Were you trying to get your man close to the Cyclone author so you could learn the sources of his information?’
‘I’m not sure
I follow?’ Toni answered, doing her best to sound innocent.
Howard huffed. ‘Does Finlay work for you?’
‘Definitely not. I’m just tasked with investigating the attacks on him and his old friends and getting his family resettled.’
‘So why, when I google Robert Finlay, does a search reveal him to be a driving instructor? Is that normal for a cop on an innocent holiday?’
Toni stayed silent. She was rumbled. Silently, she handed back the photograph; she could see her hand was trembling.
Howard saw it too. A smug grin crossed his face. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘OK, here’s the play: you’ve stumbled into something way outside of your job description, Toni, and now it’s time for you to back off, do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘So, you will recall your man and forget about Cristea Publishing?’
‘Of course … I didn’t realise they were the sole remit of MI6.’
‘Don’t get clever with me, Toni. There are forces at work here of which you have no knowledge.’
‘Secrets in a secret world, you might say?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I understand … and I’m sorry if I’ve stepped on any toes.’
‘I’d consider it a personal favour were you to forget about this meeting as well.’
‘OK … might I ask a courtesy in return?’
‘Ask away.’
‘The Finlay PF details the recent attempts on his life and those of his friends. I’m tying up some loose ends. The Anti-Terrorist Squad have Nial Monaghan as being behind it – a vendetta against soldiers his wife supposedly slept with.’
‘Embarrassing for Five to have one of their own go off the rails like that.’
Toni drew breath. ‘Indeed … Monaghan used contacts and the intel system to work his plan. But I can’t access his file or the file of Richard Webb, the Al Q’aeda man he used. Access to both PFs is blocked by Six. I can’t even access his DNA profile to confirm it was Monaghan killed in the car bomb.’