The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Once I had managed to compose myself, we hugged and kissed. I patted Jenny’s tum and made a joke about teaching the sprog to play cricket. I’ve no idea where that came from as cricket had never really been my game.

  It was at that point I decided to confide in Jenny about the document. It had crossed my mind to lie – invent a line of enquiry that meant a trip down the M4. I’m glad I didn’t. Honesty proved the best policy. As I explained where it had come from, my promise to Bob Bridges’ widow and the fact that the translator wanted to see me about it, she mellowed. So long as I promised to be home by the afternoon, she was happy about my going to see Dr Armstrong.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. Jenny limited herself to one glass of the wine, which meant that I had to finish the bottle. We went to bed early, made love like teenagers and then drifted off in each other’s arms.

  Chapter 81

  West London to the Black Mountains in Wales turned out to be a long journey in such a small car. I made good progress, though, the motor whining loudly as I maintained a steady seventy. I had to turn the radio up loud to drown out the combined noise of engine and wind. The music helped pass the time and distracted me from the confused thoughts that were still hurtling around my brain. I couldn’t work out whether I should feel elated or fearful. I was on an emotional high but still I was left with a nagging sense of impending doom. I figured it wouldn’t go away until Toni got back to me with her conclusions over Monaghan.

  Dr Armstrong had suggested arriving about ten, so I had set off just before eight. Being a Sunday, there was very little traffic to slow me down and, as an extra blessing, the regular weekend roadworks on the M4 also seemed to have finished. It was only when I pulled into Membury services that I realised I had missed calls on the mobile. There were six; someone really wanted to speak to me.

  I cursed as I flicked through the phone menu to identify the callers. Numbers withheld – all six. It could have meant calls from a police switchboard, calls from our temporary MI5 home, or, maybe, from Dr Armstrong. There was no way I could tell. Whoever it was, I noticed that the most recent call had been only four minutes before I had pulled into the services car park.

  I decided to grab a coffee and then wait to see if the caller tried again. I wasn’t disappointed. My phone rang as I walked into the services. It was DCI Bowler.

  ‘Where are you, Finlay?’ he asked, the anger evident in his voice. ‘I want everyone in the office. You and Nina are the only people Naomi hasn’t been able to get hold of.’

  I smiled to myself. Here we go again. I had to be economical with the truth. Where I was and the direction I was heading, I could reveal. The reason, definitely not.

  ‘I’m … err … halfway to Wales, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘On my way to Wales.’

  I could hear Bowler’s tone change completely. ‘I’ll call you straight back,’ he said, and without another word hung up.

  I didn’t have to wait long before the phone rang again. A lead had come up on Lynn Wainwright. Bowler explained to me that, overnight, a Gloucestershire Constabulary traffic unit had stopped a Mercedes on the M5, near Gloucester. A woman had been found in the boot after two men had decamped from the car. She claimed to have been slave-trafficked, then put to work at a factory.

  Importantly, she said she had information about a policewoman who was being held captive.

  The local police had contacted the Met incident room that morning.

  ‘It’s a bit of luck you’re that side of the country. Can you get down to Gloucester and interview this girl?’ Bowler asked.

  I was a little surprised to be asked, given my lack of CID experience. ‘On my own?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, on your own, Finlay,’ he replied, angrily. ‘Have you any idea how many sightings the incident room are following up on in an attempt to find Lynn Wainwright?’

  ‘But this comes from a connection with traffickers,’ I protested.

  ‘Which may or may not amount to anything. Look … I’ve volunteered your help to assist the team dealing with her disappearance. It’s a favour to them as you happen to be in the right place. They’ve got people in Manchester, Birmingham and even in France following up on leads. If you talk to this girl and you think there’s something in it, I’ll ask them to send some people down to support you. For now, you’re it, OK?’

  Just in case, I asked the DCI if Naomi Young could fax Gloucester HQ the photographs of the Relia murder suspects. He promised to do so. I grabbed a scrap of paper from the floor nearby and wrote down their names. We would need to know if the escaped slave girl recognised them.

  Bowler also updated me on the reason for the office meeting I was now excused from attending. There had been a breakthrough in the enquiry. Interpol had DNA confirmation the second suspect from the hideaway we’d discovered was definitely Marius Gabor. The dead gunman had been fingerprinted and was now known to be Constantin Macovei. Both men were from Romania and had been confirmed as employees of the Cristea syndicate. DNA from the priest hole had also been matched to the scene of Relia’s murder.

  We had our suspects.

  I was returning to the car, take-away coffee in one hand, when my phone rang again. This time it was Toni Fellowes. I hoped it was better news about Monaghan.

  ‘Hi Finlay … where are you? I rang Jenny; she said you were headed down to Wales to see a friend.’

  ‘That’s right. You didn’t tell her what we discussed yesterday?’ I felt my heart pound.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good. She accepted my explanation about the Cristeas not being anything to worry about – in this country anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ Toni answered. ‘Look, why I’m calling – I had a meeting last night to sort out the idea that had come up about why your friends were killed.’

  ‘Not really friends, Toni. There was only one of them I actually knew. And I have to say I’m not sure I agree with you about Monaghan and the others.’

  ‘Well, no matter, now. What I wanted to say is not to worry … and no need to call Kevin Jones about it. It looks like the alternative idea was a false lead, no basis at all. I’m sorry I even mentioned it to you.’

  ‘You mean that the Anti-Terrorist Squad were right? It was Monaghan behind it?’ My voice trembled as I flopped back into the car seat. I briefly closed my eyes.

  ‘Yes … it looks that way. I mean, well … it is that way. It’s certain now he was behind it.’

  ‘What was the alternative theory?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh … nothing. My researcher had this crazy theory about stolen treasure from Afghanistan.’

  ‘Is that what “Al Anfal” is, some kind of treasure?’

  ‘No … it turned out to be just another terrorist group. Your friend Bridges was on an operation that took them out. I’m sorry, Finlay. I must have scared you.’

  ‘You did … just a bit. Do you still want to see the document?’

  ‘No … I know all about it now. It’s a work of fantasy, just an old man’s dream of making the world all one under Islam. If I were you, I’d stick it in the confidential waste.’

  ‘That’s all it is? So, what Collins said in the book about the Increment men having a fall-out isn’t right?’

  ‘No … just one more thing he made up. There’s one other thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s an apology.’

  ‘What for this time?’

  ‘Taking my eye off the ball. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’ve had some distractions of my own lately. I must have rattled you a bit … I’m sorry.’

  ‘For making me think we’d got it wrong, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. For making you think there was another reason for the deaths of your friends.’

  I accepted the apology, and we ended the call. But, in the back of my mind, I was wondering if Julian Armstrong would share Toni’s opinion on Al Anfal.

  Chapter 82

&nb
sp; To describe the road to the Armstrong house as a lane was being generous to its design, its surface and its incline. The 2CV swayed gently over rocks and through the ruts as I made steady progress up the mountain.

  ‘Ty Eira’ – Armstrong’s house – really did feel like it was on top of the world. The views of the surrounding Black Mountains as I got out of the car were magnificent. Looking west I could see the familiar tip of Pen y Fan poking through the clouds. To the south was Sugar Loaf mountain and to the east, Ysgyryd Fawr, the Skirrid, all names and places I remembered from exercises during my SAS days. The pale-green slopes looked imposing and beautiful from this distance.

  ‘Robert Finlay?’ A voice from the door to the house startled me for a moment. I had been away in a world of my own.

  I turned to where Julian Armstrong was standing. In his hand he clutched the cardboard document folder I had given to Rupert Reid. I waved. ‘Yes … nice place.’ I opened the ironwork garden gate. The rusty hinges squeaked, loudly.

  ‘Do I call you Robert or Finlay?’ he asked. ‘Rupert Reid tells me most people just use your last name.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I replied.

  My host was one of life’s great enthusiasts. Everything about him exuded energy. He spoke quickly, moved hurriedly and did everything at speed. He even seemed able to make the kettle boil faster than anyone I had ever met. In the space of just ten minutes he gave me a guided tour of the house, a description of the outbuildings and a potted history of the local area. He couldn’t have been more thorough if he had been an estate agent trying to sell the place.

  There was no-one else at home. I saw the doctor’s eyes sadden as he described how his wife had died of cancer just two months after they had finished making their home habitable. They had spent their last few weeks together, at the house, enjoying the views and taking ever-shortening walks as Mrs Armstrong’s strength had waned. In every room there were photographs of them together, from university days through to her final walk.

  I’d noticed the Bob Bridges’ document was now lying on a small table just inside the front door. Finally, we returned to the front room and he picked it up.

  ‘I suppose we should talk about this?’ he said. ‘It is what you drove all this way for.’

  ‘Did you manage to translate it?’

  ‘I’m nearly halfway through it. Wasn’t easy, mind. It was written by different people, different languages and several dialects of those languages. Before I explain what it is, I need you to answer me a question, and please be honest. Can you tell me where you got hold of this document?’

  I decided, instantly, to tell the truth. If the document was of any significance, I suspected Dr Armstrong would return the compliment.

  ‘A friend of mine died,’ I answered. ‘He had it amongst his personal effects. It was in a box left over from his time in the army.’

  ‘Special Forces was he, your friend?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Like you, I would guess, Finlay?’

  I didn’t respond. Not being sure how much Rupert Reid had divulged, I didn’t allow myself to be drawn on the suggestion.

  ‘Have you ever heard of “Al Anfal”?’ Armstrong continued.

  ‘Rupert Reid asked me the same question.’ I said. ‘We thought it might be some kind of treasure … or an old terrorist group.’ I wondered now if Toni’s claim was about to be trashed.

  ‘It’s neither, although it would have great value in the right hands. You’re quite sure you’ve never had any contact with Al Anfal?’

  ‘No, none at all. It’s not a thing, then?’

  ‘No, it’s not a thing.’

  ‘I was planning to look it up on one of the internet search thingies, but I haven’t had the chance.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You type that name into a search engine and I guarantee that someone at GCHQ or similar will know about it.’

  ‘GCHQ? Are you telling me this is a document they’d be interested in?’

  ‘Yes … and no. It’s a secret document, yes … but it’s not a UK secret. I wouldn’t mind betting that each and every secret service in the world would love to get their hands on this. I’m just surprised it’s never surfaced before.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not fiction, a work of fantasy, maybe?’ I quoted Toni, already thinking that her explanation was unravelling.

  ‘Definitely not. I could see how it might be mistaken for such but, trust me, it’s the real deal.’

  ‘You think the Intelligence Services will be looking for it?’

  ‘If they know about it, yes. That’s why I decided not to use the internet to try and validate its authenticity. I prefer to use my reference books, in any event.’

  ‘Is it authentic?’

  ‘Based on what you say was its source, yes it certainly is.’

  We talked for nearly an hour. Armstrong’s analysis was incredible to hear. It meant that whatever Toni Fellowes said or believed, the Al Anfal document was real.

  My host confirmed Rupert’s analysis that the document was actually called ‘Political Jihad’. It contained guidance, ideas and historical anecdotes explaining how long-term takeover could only really be achieved by political means. Armed action was only justified where such a course supported a strategic aim. It represented an incredible insight into the true plans of people like Osama Bin Laden.

  The doctor’s interpretation was that Al Anfal was more of a philosophy than an organisation, more of a policy than a plan. One chapter was called ‘Al-fath, the One Hundred Year Plan’. Armstrong explained that ‘Al-fath’ meant conquest. The chapter detailed an argument for wanting America – the great Satan – to attack Iraq and Iran, Egypt and Syria. And it suggested the same for Libya and the several other African countries. The aim was to create a power vacuum into which Islam could move and, thereby expand the areas that it covered. In the greater scheme of things, the documents showed that events like 9/11 were a distraction, and sometimes a bait, to entice Western powers into the Middle East.

  The document, as a whole, was a very long-term plan to gain control of countries from the inside. It was devilishly straightforward, yet required infinite patience. It also needed to be kept absolutely secret.

  ‘You could call it a guide book on political control,’ he explained, ‘or to put it in simple terms, a step-by-step manual on how to take over the world.’

  I laughed quietly at the ‘James Bond’ type plot suggestion. ‘A mate of mine was thinking of selling it to the newspapers,’ I said.

  Armstrong held both his hands up in a gesture of horror. ‘No … no, you mustn’t do that.’

  ‘Too sensitive?’

  ‘If I were you, I would distance myself from it as quickly as possible. This document has the word “danger” written on every bloody page.’

  ‘Would simple possession of it put someone at risk?’ I was starting to think about the searches that had being going on – men in suits checking the homes of my old mates, looking for something.

  ‘Only if it was known you had it. The authors would certainly kill to protect it and, I’ve no doubt, the Security Services would be prepared to kill to get their hands on it.’

  ‘Or to keep knowledge of its existence a secret?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘So we’re now at risk.’ I said.

  ‘Only if it is revealed that we know about it.’

  ‘So, what do you suggest?’

  ‘Destroy it … and then forget you ever saw it.’

  ‘It’s that sensitive?’ I asked.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Finlay, this is why I needed to discuss this in person rather than over the telephone. If I’m right about this text, and I’m certain I am, then we have to destroy it. If I take it to the Security Services they are going to want to know where it came from, who had it and all the background. You want to be answering those types of questions?’

  ‘I guess not,’ I answered.

  What Armstrong was saying ma
de perfect sense, but I was too distracted. Toni had said her researcher, Nell, had an alternative theory on the deaths, and Kevin shared the idea. What if they were right? What if the document was the reason for the attacks? Anyone found with a copy would be toast.

  ‘Could we send it to MI5 anonymously?’ I asked, thinking – even as I spoke the words – that I was being naive.

  Armstrong just stared at me, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Burn it,’ I said.

  Chapter 83

  Time was pressing. I would have to move quickly if I was to get to Gloucester, do the interview and then get back to London.

  As I left, Armstrong was already lighting up his log burner. The more I had listened to what the Doctor said, the more I realised why Bob Bridges had kept the document. If Bridges had managed to get even the smallest part of it translated then he would have known it would be of huge importance to the Security Services and of even greater interest to the press. It had value, if he could find a buyer. Perhaps, like Kevin, Bridges had imagined it was going to be a nice little contribution to his pension.

  Flicking the phone menu through to Kevin’s number, I tapped the call button. The connection failed. No signal. Kevin wasn’t going to be best pleased, but I knew I had made the right decision. I didn’t have time to keep calling so I typed him a quick text.

  ‘Call me ASAP.’

  It took me about an hour to reach Gloucester. The drive through the winding lanes of Monmouthshire and the Forest of Dean was scenic, if not as spectacular as the Black Mountains. Gloucester HQ was a fairly new building just south of the main city in an area called Quedgeley. I found it easily by following the local signs.

  After parking the Citroen, I checked my phone. Kevin had replied.

  Later OK? Bit busy watching Billy’s porn collection. I smiled to myself. If they were still doing that on the morning of the wedding, it was going to be an interesting day in Hereford.

  The PC on the front counter at Gloucester was expecting me. No sooner had I introduced myself than I was shown through into an interview room and asked to wait. ‘Superintendent Russell wants to speak to you, sir,’ he said, before offering to fetch me a tea.