‘Al Hamra and co don’t have a shred of evidence against Anzarane,’ de la Mere said after a moment. ‘If they do catch up with him, they’re in for a disappointment.’
Strang extracted the horseshoe of wet silicone and brandished it at his colleague. ‘The only kind of evidence al Hamra needs is proof that Anzarane’s been a guest at the Polisario compound in the Free Zone. If he has that, al Hamra will finger him for Agadir even if he finds out he was on a yoga retreat in Tipperary. The face fits and it’s an unmissable opportunity to implicate the Polisario in an act of terrorism.’
‘So, he gets to raid a Polisario stronghold and then sling some very toxic mud in their outraged faces.’
‘Of all the preening holy warriors on offer, al Hamra had to choose Mansour-fucking-Anzarane.’
‘It’s awkward, certainly. Why did al Hamra give Ms Kocharian a heads-up on this two days before they got to work at the Security Council? I specifically instructed her not to tell Zender, by the way.’
‘She disobeyed – you’re not the alpha male of old, Nigel. Anyway, she told you, which was what al Hamra intended. He knew we’d have to sever our ties with Zender. Now, the obese one no longer feels safe in Marrakech – though he’s quite happy shacked up at the compound with his bit of Grosvenor fluff. What he can’t know is that his bolthole is about to be overrun by Moroccan Special Forces.’
‘You think al Hamra will join the raiding party, trump up a bit of fresh evidence that Mansour was hatching terrorist plots at the compound?’
‘I’m sure he will. Plans of the basement of a certain hotel in Agadir, good-luck emails from his al Bidayat brothers. Just the kind of work the Gnome enjoys.’
‘It’s a neat play, you have to admit – and kudos to you for unravelling it, Iain. I wonder if the shooting in the souk was al Hamra’s doing.’
‘Not his style. Scheming little shit.’
‘He’s got a tad too close for comfort, that’s for sure.’
‘So close that the rancid stink of Operation Anemone is seeping into his nostrils?’
‘I feel in my waters that the answer is no.’
‘Let’s keep your dodgy prostate out of this. In any case, if the raid goes ahead, the IPD400 will likely fall into Moroccan hands. Then Palatine and al Hamra will have a cosy chat and we can book ourselves a couple of suites at Ford open prison.’
‘Why assume Palatine will expose Anemone?’
‘Because he’s taunting Clive.’
‘We do that all the time. He’s very tauntable.’
‘Palatine’s a natural-born whistleblower. Hoping he’ll keep his mouth shut is like giving a teenage boy a blowjob and expecting him not to come.’
‘Speculation. What’s his motive?’
‘You have the imagination of a fig roll, Nigel,’ said his boss. ‘Think of the sequence: within days of the IPD400’s carefully plotted sale to Claude Zender, Palatine flies to Oran. Next, he’s set up his box of tricks on Zender’s network and is trying to hack our servers. Then Silk creeps in and tells us he’s getting sarcastic emails about Anemone. There are plenty of unanswered questions, but I’ve seen enough to guess where this is heading. Palatine’s still nursing a grudge over what happened in Kosovo and he’s decided it’s payback time.’
‘You think he’s having a rootle in the Service file system – looking for something to exonerate himself and expose wrongdoing on our part?’
‘We don’t do wrongdoing, Nigel, just things that are complicated to explain.’
‘Why not do his rootling when he had the IPD400 set up at Imperial?’
‘A festering resentment, eating away at him. There’s no set timetable for acts of revenge – I should know, I have long-term plans for several myself.’
‘Something to look forward to.’
‘And don’t forget that Palatine’s suffered a bad attack of the civil liberties over the IPD400 – he’s been wanting to kill it off ever since he delivered it to Grosvenor. This lets him press the self-destruct button without having to admit that he’s deliberately nixed Sir Peter Beddoes’ prize investment.’
‘In the meantime, he digs up Anemone and realises it could be complicated to explain, as we say in the Service.’
‘You’re a supercilious cunt, Nigel, did you know that?’
‘He hasn’t launched any more raids on the service network.’
‘So Julian says, but d’you think he’d know about it? Whenever he mentions Palatine, his hair stands on end. One day we’ll find him in the basement chanting prayers and sprinkling the servers with holy water.’
‘What if we make a full confession and appeal to Palatine’s notoriously honourable nature?’ said de la Mere. ‘Grovel, plead, flatter – that sort of thing. Al Hamra will play ball, as long as we let him keep Mansour.’
‘How very old school. And once that’s done, we can all walk away from this smelling of grateful fanny.’
‘That’d keep the wife on her toes,’ said de la Mere.
‘She knows what it smells like, does she? Don’t answer that. There isn’t time for the touchy-feely stuff. We’re in an absolute shitstorm of coincidence. First the IPD400 goes AWOL, then Palatine finds out about Operation Anemone, now we’re embroiled in al Hamra’s plan to smear the Polisario and rid himself of Claude Zender.’
‘It was a mistake to dirty our hands with that man in the first place.’
‘You may as well be wise after the event.’
Nigel de la Mere appeared on the point of objecting to this slur, but Strang spoke first. ‘At least Zender’s one of us. A secrets man, understands that the strongest hand is the one you never have to show. He’s not trustworthy, but he’s predictable. It’s the unexploded Palatine I’m worried about. I don’t fancy tuning in to al Jazeera one morning to find him explaining to a forest of mics just what he’s unearthed over the last few weeks. Anemone’s every nook and fanny exposed to public view, Guardian types drooling in the background. He’ll be St James the Impeccable and we’ll be off to hell in a pair of gimp suits.’
‘Plus ça change,’ said de la Mere.
‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?’
‘Probably not, Iain. I’ve never been as devious as you.’
‘Fuck off. There’s only one solution here and it’s as obvious as a dick on a pole-dancer.’
‘If you say so – you’re the Big Chief.’
‘I want to know if you’ve thought of it, Nigel,’ said Strang, leaning back in his chair with a condescending expression that even his imperturbable colleague found odious.
‘If I say it first, it goes down as my idea, is that it?’
‘It’s not going down at all. Not if I can help it.’
‘You want to go nuclear. You want to tip off the Polisario that al Hamra’s planning to raid their base in the Free Zone.’
‘I can’t see any way round it.’
‘We’re going to start a war in the Western Sahara.’
‘There’s already a war in the Western Sahara. We’re doing what we’re paid for, which is to look after the national interest.’
‘Not to mention our careers.’
‘My professional analysis is that no good is served by MI6 suffering public humiliation. If you can think of another military force with a licence to operate in the Free Zone, we’ll ask them.’
‘I know: the UN?’
‘Ha fucking ha. You’ve got a line in to the Polisario, haven’t you?’
‘I’m not going. Christ, Iain, I’m retiring in six months’ time.’
‘Clive’s going. What’s the man’s name?’
‘Manni Hasnaoui – studied IR with me at Balliol.’
‘Good old boys, eh? I’ll find out when the raid is scheduled, you tell this Hasnaoui to get their compound reinforced.’
‘Tell Clive to tell him, you mean.’
‘Face to face. Nothing on record.’
‘Surely the Polisario will just complain to the Security Council, get the raid called off?�
�
‘It’s a risk. Make sure the timing’s right – they mustn’t have a moment to waggle their beards at each other. Anyway, you think they’ll throw up an opportunity to catch the Moroccans with their dicks out in a UN ceasefire zone?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Whatever, we need the disruption. It’s a chance to hose off the telltale filth under cover of a meaningless little skirmish in which we’ve played no obvious part. We may even get the bloody IPD400 back.’
‘What about Zender?’
‘Fuck Zender. Hand him over to Beelzebub.’
Sir Iain Strang went over and lay on his sofa beneath the window overlooking the Thames, chewing violently on his silicone mouthpiece. His lean, thickset body made the sofa look flimsy. After a moment, he swung himself upright.
‘We can’t pussyfoot around with Palatine any more. It’s one thing to be an awkward customer, but he’s crossed the line. There’s going to be a fight out there. Back end of beyond, no one watching.’
‘Jesus Christ, Iain.’
The two men exchanged a look so dark that neither could hold the other’s eye.
‘I’ve lost control of this,’ said Strang. ‘I want it back.’
‘We still don’t know for certain that Palatine’s in the Free Zone with Zender.’
‘See if Julian’s found a location for the friendoftheplaypen email yet.’
While Nigel de la Mere made the call, Strang looked out at the Thames and combed his shiny black hair.
De la Mere hung up and said: ‘It’s going to take thirty-six hours. Seems Palatine might have scrambled the IPs. And getting things out of Microsoft—’
‘Fuck Microsoft. He’s there. Ask your waters.’
‘Suppose Hasnaoui won’t play ball?’
‘He needs to believe Palatine has seen Mansour Anzarane at their compound and is ready to confirm the Moroccan claim that Mansour is the Agadir Bomber. The Polisario can’t let that happen, or it’ll be several decades before they get another sniff at independence. If Hasnaoui doesn’t buy it, what have we lost?’
‘If he does, we’ve lost the best computer scientist of his generation.’
‘Palatine’s coming after us, Nigel, and he’s armed and dangerous. I won’t have it. Anyway, people say he’s peaked.’
De la Mere shifted in his chair, then started scratching the back of his neck. ‘You really want to do this?’
‘I don’t want to, no. Clive does. So make sure he knows it. Anemone is his fucking mess and it’s all over my shoes.’
Chapter Nineteen
The old Mercedes had reacted badly to its brief excursion off-road: sections of undercarriage kept scraping the tarmac as they drove north. Thirty kilometres out of Smara, they pulled over and hid until the southbound MINURSO vehicle had passed by.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said James.
Salif drove the Mercedes into a gully on the outside of a jink in the road, then they rolled it onto its side. Salif got to his knees and rehearsed the demeanour of a car-crash victim, which he pulled off with no little finesse. Benoit hid behind the Mercedes, while James, Anton and Mikhail lay beside the road twenty yards back from the bend.
‘Ten minutes.’
A delivery truck clattered along and slowed to offer help. Salif pulled his knife and made a run at the driver’s door. The truck swerved and accelerated away, honking indignantly.
‘It looks like a trap,’ Anton said. ‘Only a moron would walk into it.’
James tied the square of black cotton round his face and settled down to wait. The northbound MINURSO Land Cruiser arrived at 9.45. The Mercedes’ undercarriage loomed in its headlights. The vehicle braked hard, then continued at walking pace, tyres crackling on the road. Three men: driver, officer next to him, another in the back. It rolled past, shuddering on its chassis. Salif sat in the road ahead, cradling his face in his hands, then levered himself stiffly up on one knee. He beckoned, then fell onto his side and groaned. The Land Cruiser came to a halt. Mikhail crawled out onto the road, stuffed his T-shirt into the Land Cruiser’s tailpipe and held it there. The engine coughed, then stopped. Silence bloomed in the emptied air. James ran up and rapped on the passenger’s window with the muzzle of the Firestar.
‘Hands up where I can see them! Now!’
The face that looked out at James was pasty white in the Land Cruiser’s cabin lights. He saw the man raise his hands, then heard him saying something. The driver’s hands shot up. The man in the rear hadn’t moved.
‘You want a new hole in your ugly face?’ Anton shouted at him. ‘Ditch the fucking gun.’
Mikhail came round from behind the car and aimed the giant Makarov through the driver’s window.
‘Drop the gun you stupid shit,’ the driver shouted.
‘He talking to me?’ said Mikhail, steadying himself for a shot.
‘He’s talking to the fuckwit in the back,’ said Anton. He banged the glass hard with his handgun and finally they saw the man’s hands come up.
‘Open the door. Step out,’ James ordered the officer.
A tall, fair-haired young man, shivering with fear. James looked at the insignia on his uniform: Finnish Army. Smart idea, that, sending to the Sahara Desert a man who’s been trained to fight in a forest, on skis. James had him lie face down, then disarmed him. Mikhail marched the driver round and threw him down beside the Finnish officer. James heard a thud from the far side of the vehicle and ran round to find that the man in the back seat had got hold of Anton’s gun hand and was banging it against the side of the Land Cruiser. This one was the size of a small bear and was overpowering Anton easily. But just as James was about to drive the point of his elbow into the soldier’s temple, he went down, retching like he’d just had a thistle shoved down his throat.
‘The bigger the man, the easier his balls come to hand,’ said Anton, dropping knee-first into the MINURSO soldier’s midriff.
James signalled to Salif and Benoit to roll the Mercedes back onto the road. He found zipties in the back of the Land Cruiser and they tied the hands of the three MINURSO men. James took the Finnish officer and his driver over to the Mercedes and bundled them into the rear seat.
‘Do what I say, or you will be killed,’ he said. ‘Understand?’
They nodded emphatically. It was much easier to listen to the tall Englishman than to look at the Arab in the front seat, who was rasping the blade of a hunting knife across the pad of his thumb and examining them from above his shemagh with amusement in his eyes. James slammed the rear door shut and the MINURSO Land Cruiser drew up alongside. He climbed into the back seat next to the bear-like soldier. This one was Finnish, too, and his eyes were cast down. Well, thought James, for a man who can probably uproot a twenty-foot fir tree, it’s humiliating to be reduced to a gagging wreck by a skinny Ukrainian in a garish Bermuda shirt.
With the MINURSO Land Cruiser up front and the Mercedes rattling along behind, they drove until they reached the sign that read Poste Militaire 309, Provinces Maroc du Sud; then they turned off the road, doused their headlights and continued until they were about a mile from the fort. They got the MINURSO men out of their uniforms and handed them round: Mikhail was wider in the girth than the driver and couldn’t do up his trousers, but Anton looked almost dashing in the captain’s uniform, and James reckoned he would pass muster. The two Finnish soldiers had been carrying PIST 2003s, a variant of the Walther P99. James strapped one on – Anton already had the other. There wasn’t a lot of ammunition to go round, but if they got into a spray-and-pray, James figured they may as well shoot themselves and have done with it.
Salif made the three MINURSO soldiers lie face down in the sand.
‘Benoit has to stay and guard them,’ said James.
Salif nodded and summoned his nephew. James handed over Firestar, then blindfolded their captives – he didn’t want them to know they were leaving a gangly teenager in charge. Benoit checked over the Firestar, evidently keen to demonstrate that he was perfectly famil
iar with a handgun. James walked back to the MINURSO Land Cruiser.
‘You think Benny-boy can hold them?’ said Anton.
‘Of course. We’ll be in position by ten-thirty.’ He drew a diagram of where he wanted them. ‘Stay well to the right of the barrack room door, so they can’t see you from inside.’
In the glove compartment of the Land Cruiser was a thick sheaf of paperwork: standing instructions, letters of authority to border personnel, complete with official stamps in violet ink, permits from the Moroccan military allowing them to cross restricted zones, and even a letter from the future president of the Sahrawi Republic ordering that the bearers be given safe passage through the Free Zone.
‘Make the sergeant look at these,’ said James. ‘Keep him busy.’
He and Salif set off at a jog.
The fort came into view, stark and luminous in its dome of arc light. They circled round to the southern end and crouched down to wait. The men inside were arguing, and James heard a bang. The door was kicked open and a soldier came out, stripped to the waist, boots unlaced. He spat and muttered something. There was a shout from inside and he made an obscene gesture, then stomped along the wall of the building – a big man with a spreading waist and shoulders covered with thick black hair. He came to a door and unlocked it with a key from a set attached to a loop of twisted wire cable. He went in and they heard the sound of boxes being heaved around.
The MINURSO Land Cruiser swept onto the concrete apron and into a broad right-hand sweep that ended thirty yards from the barrack room door. The vehicle rocked to a standstill and Anton stepped out with all the swagger of a tinpot dictator arriving at his birthday parade. Mikhail stayed put and kept the engine running. Anton slapped the MINURSO paperwork down on the bonnet of the Land Cruiser, then looked over at the fort. The soldier came out of the storeroom with a crate in his hands. Anton turned his back and started to leaf through the documents.
The tall, shaven-headed sergeant emerged, buckling on a holster. The soldier with the crate stood by the door to watch. Anton turned to face the sergeant and saluted briskly. The sergeant gave a sloppy imitation in response – the insolence calculated to remain just within the bounds of what could be ignored without loss of face. Anton stared into his close-set eyes, then indicated the papers laid out on the bonnet of the Land Cruiser.
Little Sister (A James Palatine Novel) Page 28