Breaking Cover

by Stella Rimington

  ‘Absolutely. But as I say, Geoffrey always comes round in the end – if the person’s any good. And from what I hear, you’ve made a splendid start.’

  ‘Really? Do people think so?’

  ‘Yes, they do. Even Fane says so. And word of your arrival has reached all the Stations. I was in Moscow last week, and then went to some of those ghastly ex-Soviet republics. You were mentioned several times – and very approvingly. You ought to do a tour out there. They’d love to see you.’

  Bruno glanced at his watch and gave an exaggerated look of horror. ‘Golly, I know time flies when you’re having fun, but this is ridiculous. Jasminder, it’s been a pleasure meeting you in the flesh but I must dash or I’ll have my head chopped off by You Know Who.’

  ‘Who is You Know Who?’

  ‘Geoffrey Fane, of course. But let’s meet up some time. Perhaps some evening after work – and we could find somewhere even nicer than this luxurious canteen.’

  Jasminder laughed. ‘That would be great,’ she said.

  Bruno stood and picked up his tray. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Speak to you soon.’

  Jasminder suddenly realised she didn’t know his surname, but he was halfway across the room before she could ask. Damn. It would be the first thing Laurenz would want to know. Still, at least she had met someone who seemed senior and well placed; he had even been in Moscow recently. Best of all, it was someone who seemed wildly indiscreet.

  46

  Nothing surprised Staff Sergeant Wilkinson. He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan and he’d seen it all – the bad and the good and everything in between. Now he had a comfortable job as resident porter at Georgian Apartments on the borders of Islington and Hackney. It was a smart new building, not Georgian in any sense in spite of its name. Most of the flats had been bought off plan with cash by people who intended to let them, not live in them. He’d settled down in the pleasant porter’s flat on the ground floor with his cat and didn’t hope for or expect any more excitement in his life. So when a young woman from the Ministry of Defence turned up one morning and told him that as a matter of national security she wanted to ask him most confidentially about Mr Hansen, the occupant of flat three on the second floor, he was neither surprised, alarmed nor even more than casually interested. He rather took it for granted that in a building like this someone might turn out to be of interest to MI5, because he assumed that was where she came from.

  He told the young lady, Pamela she called herself, that he saw very little of Mr Hansen. He was often away from town and when he was in residence he was out a good deal, sometimes all night. Sergeant Wilkinson presumed he had a lady friend whom he visited but he had never seen her or any other visitor to flat 2/3. Mr Hansen kept a BMW320 in the basement car park and when he drove it out it was usually a signal that he was going to be away for several days. In fact he had taken the car out yesterday morning and was still away. He got very little mail at the flat and did not use the services of Mrs Hollins, the cleaning lady who did for most of the occupants. Yes, as porter Wilkinson had a pass key to all the flats in case of fire or other emergencies but if he used it, a record would show on the keypad in the flat, so the resident would know and Wilkinson would need a good explanation.

  Sergeant Wilkinson readily agreed to phone Pamela’s office when Mr Hansen returned. He tucked her card away safely in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and ‘Pamela’, alias Peggy Kinsolving, walked off with Mr Wilkinson’s mobile number and the registration number of the BMW320 written in her notebook.

  Twenty-four hours later an A4 surveillance team had set up a temporary observation post in a half-built block of flats across the road from Georgian Apartments. The camera was attached to a scaffolding pole and hidden by the tarpaulins that stretched across the construction site. A discreet gap gave the lens a clear view of the front entrance of Hansen’s apartment block and the ramp to the underground garage.

  At ten o’clock the morning after the camera was installed, the monitors in the A4 Control Room picked up the BMW going down into the car park exactly eight minutes before Staff Sergeant Wilkinson telephoned to report its arrival. At about the same time, a few people lounging in parks and cafés and dawdling in shops near Georgian Apartments suddenly began to move purposefully towards various parked cars.

  In the A4 control room in Thames House, Wally Woods phoned Peggy. ‘Your man’s back. We’ve seen his car but we didn’t get a clear picture of him. We’ve got your description but you’re the only one who’s actually seen him in the flesh. Would you come up and help us identify him in case he leaves on foot?’

  So Peggy spent the next five hours up in the control room, sitting at one of the desks ranged in a line along one wall, gazing at a large TV screen suspended from the ceiling in front of her. The room was busy; several different operations were going on and all the other desks and screens were manned. Peggy found it quite difficult to concentrate on her task, her attention wandering between watching the entrance to the Georgian Apartments and trying to identify the assortment of residents and van drivers coming and going, in and out of the building. Occasionally Sergeant Wilkinson came out, chatting to a van driver or directing someone, but she saw no one who looked anything like Laurenz Hansen. Cups of coffee appeared at her elbow and, at lunchtime, a ham sandwich in its wrapper. Wally Woods liked to make sure guests to the control room were properly looked after – at least those he approved of, and that included Peggy, as a close colleague of Liz’s.

  Out in the streets, cars were moved, the occupants changed, coffee was drunk, takeaways bought and eaten, until suddenly at three-thirty Peggy said ‘That’s him!’ as a tall dark-haired man, dressed in a smart suit and carrying a briefcase, came out of the door of Georgian Apartments, turned right and walked off down the street in the direction of City Road.

  ‘On the move, on foot, heading to City Road,’ said Wally over the microphone as he pressed a button to send the picture from the remote camera to the teams waiting in the cars. Back came pictures from the street as Laurenz headed towards one of them. He walked on, down the City Road in the direction of Old Street tube station. ‘He doesn’t know we’re there,’ said Wally to Peggy. ‘He’s completely relaxed. I thought you said he was a pro.’

  ‘We’re pretty sure he is. But he’s been getting away with it for quite a bit and he probably feels secure.’

  ‘OK. It’s our job to make sure he goes on feeling that way.’

  The little procession went on, sometimes with Laurenz leading, sometimes one of the A4 team out in front, until at Old Street Station, Laurenz took the escalator down to the southbound Northern line with just two observers behind him. The others climbed into the cars that had been following and headed off fast to Moorgate station, the next one down the line, as well as stations further on. And it was at Moorgate that Laurenz got off, walked a short distance to a tall block of flats, let himself in with an electronic key fob and disappeared from sight.

  ‘Couldn’t see the flat number,’ came the report from the team, ‘and it looks like an unstaffed block – no porter.’

  Wally looked at Peggy, eyebrows raised. ‘What next?’

  ‘Could we hang around to see what he does next? And photograph everyone else who goes in.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m going back downstairs to see what we can find out about those flats. Ring Liz if you need us.’

  This meant another long wait for the A4 teams, though the area was ideal for hanging around in – well supplied with cafés and coffee shops, with one right next to the apartment block’s entrance. For an hour and a half no one went in or came out. Then from about five-thirty there was a steady stream of residents letting themselves in, mostly young people in office clothes, and some couples. A few came out, went across the road to a convenience store and went back in again. At half-past six came the first visitor. A young woman, brown-skinned, Indian origin probably, thought Wally, still on duty in the control room, receiving all the pictures. She pressed
a bell and was let in.

  Wally contacted Liz Carlyle, who had rung several times during the afternoon to see what was happening.

  ‘There’s a visitor to the block of flats. It may be the one you’re interested in. Indian-looking young woman, early thirties I’d say. Do you want to come and look at the picture?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the one,’ said Liz when she went to Wally’s room and saw the photograph of Jasminder, standing at the door.

  ‘She doesn’t look too happy,’ remarked Wally, who had not been briefed on who this was or the full background to the case.

  ‘No. She looks miserable,’ agreed Liz. ‘Please will you hang on there and house her if she leaves? And him too if they leave separately.’

  Liz went back to her own floor and found Peggy hovering outside the office. ‘Any news?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Jasminder has gone to meet Laurenz at what appears to be a cover flat. She has got herself well and truly in the net. We need to get Geoffrey Fane and Bruno over here to put them in the picture and it’s time to brief Miles Brookhaven too. Have we heard from Charlie Simmons what he’s made of that phone of Tim’s?’

  ‘Just that he’s finding it difficult but I’ll ring him again tomorrow. Perhaps we should ask him to come down to brief us all. Shall I set up a meeting for the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. Do that. Perhaps we’ll have a bit more on Laurenz by then.’

  Jasminder left the flat in Moorgate by herself at ten-thirty and took the tube to Angel then walked home to her flat. She was accompanied all the way by a team of A4, who commented on how very sad and depressed she looked. Laurenz remained in the Moorgate flat until Liz had Wally stand down the teams at eleven-thirty. She thought it unlikely anything more of interest was going to happen that night.

  47

  The camera outside Georgian Apartments saw Laurenz return at ten the following morning. Then everything went quiet until suddenly at four-thirty that afternoon the feed from the camera came to life. ‘It’s go,’ said Wally Woods into his microphone, as the TVs at one end of the control room flashed, showing the BMW driving up the ramp and turning towards City Road. Minutes later the line from Sergeant Wilkinson buzzed. ‘He’s left in the car and he’s got his overnight bag… told me he’d be away for three days.’

  Wally Woods phoned Liz. ‘He’s off and we’re with him.’

  By now the registration number of the BMW had been fed into the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system and police forces across the country were looking out for it.

  ‘May I come up?’ asked Liz. The control room was Wally’s domain and it was strictly by invitation only for desk officers when an operation was on. He did not like anyone looking over the shoulders of his team and making suggestions, unless he’d asked for input. Liz was always scrupulous in seeking his permission and, as a result, always welcome.

  When she arrived the chase was well under way. The BMW was making its way north, up Holloway Road and Archway Road, possibly heading for either the A1 or the M1. When they knew which it was, the cars would be able to hang back as the cameras would monitor its progress. ‘It’s the M1,’ said Wally, after a short time. ‘Any clues as to where he’s heading?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, Maureen’s in charge out there so we should be fine, even if he gets up to any funny business.’

  Liz knew Maureen Hayes of old. She was an experienced team leader, who’d successfully carried out many operations for Liz, so she sat back comfortably on the old leather sofa that was kept for visiting case officers in the corner of the control room, well away from the operational desks, ready to enjoy the chase.

  The BMW drove fast up the M1 with Maureen and her team in pursuit in three cars. Regular reports were coming in as they passed through successive police areas. Leicestershire had just reported when Maureen spoke. ‘He’s gone up the slip road, junction twenty-one, no indicators. He’s doing anti-surveillance. We’ve overshot. Can you take him, Denis?’

  ‘Roger,’ he replied from a car behind. ‘We’ll take him.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Maureen. ‘See you later.’

  Denis and the third car, driven by Marcus Washington, turned off at junction twenty-one and took up the pursuit as the BMW headed west, twisting and turning along a series of B-roads. They were driving straight into the low sun, dazzling in the flat countryside of Leicestershire. Denis and Marcus were hanging back so as not to be noticed in the quiet roads.

  There was silence for five minutes while the screens showed pictures from the dashboard cameras of shadowy hedges and trees.

  ‘Report, please,’ said Wally.

  ‘Contact lost,’ announced Denis. ‘We’re looking for him but these roads are hell.’

  Liz groaned to herself. She knew it was difficult and in these circumstances you needed a lot of luck. Then suddenly their luck turned. Maureen and her team partner Sally, who had gone off the motorway at the next junction, had found their way back south through the narrow roads and their camera came to life, relaying a picture of the BMW stationary, with the driver standing beside it, stretching and yawning. ‘We have him,’ shouted Maureen triumphantly, and the sighs of relief from the other cars were echoed in the control room.

  The BMW was parked outside a pub in the centre of the small town of Market Bosworth. Pictures were coming in now of the old whitewashed coaching inn with window boxes and hanging baskets full of flowers. Laurenz was standing beside his vehicle and then, as Maureen watched, he got back in and drove down a narrow lane to one side of the building, on which ‘Car Park’ was signposted. By now Denis and Marcus had both reached the town and had stopped a little distance from the inn. It was just after eight.

  ‘I’m wondering if he’s going to stay the night,’ said Maureen. ‘It looks very cosy,’ she added rather longingly.

  ‘Give it a few minutes, then park in the car park and go in and have a look-see.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Maureen, and five minutes later she drove down the narrow lane into what turned out to be a small, walled yard at the back of the building. She tucked her car into a space in the corner and she and Sally got out and strolled towards the back door of the inn, looking for the BMW. It wasn’t there.

  ‘Sorry to tell you this, but the target car isn’t here. I can’t understand it. There’s no way out except the way we came in.’

  In the stunned silence Sally said, ‘Wait a minute… look. There’s a row of lock-up garages. They’re sort of old lean-to barns, against the back wall of the building.’ In the twilight it was easy to miss them. ‘He must have put it in one of those. It’s the only possible explanation.’

  After a glance at Wally, Liz broke in, ‘That means he must use this place a lot if he has the key to a garage. It probably also means he’s staying the night but we’d better not count on it.’

  ‘Go in,’ instructed Wally, ‘and see what’s going on.’

  It was busy inside. A small crowd was standing at the bar, some drinking, others waiting to be served. A number of people were sitting at tables eating supper. Sally went off to the Ladies while Maureen stood at the bar. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Laurenz sitting at a small table in the corner, scanning a menu. Sally’s route back from the cloakroom passed directly beside his table. She took Maureen’s place at the bar and ordered two Diet Cokes while Maureen went off to the Ladies on the same route, passing the small table where Laurenz was now ordering food from a waitress. The resulting photographs of him sitting at the table came back clearly to the Control Room.

  After they had finished their drinks the two women went back to their car and were replaced at the bar by Denis and his partner.

  ‘We’re going to park in the street,’ said Maureen. ‘If we stay here any longer we might get blocked in. This place is very busy. He hasn’t got his overnight bag with him and he hasn’t had time to go up to a room. I don’t think he’s staying.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Wally.

  From Marcus
came, ‘I’m moving up closer. It’s getting dark and this place is not very well lit.’

  Denis came out, having finished his drink, and reported that Laurenz was getting his bill. Cars were beginning to leave the car park now as the diners and drinkers started to drift home. The A4 cars got into position to head off whichever way the BMW turned when it came out of the car park. It was not going to be an easy follow on these unlit roads in the dark. They watched as more cars left the car park but there was no sign of the BMW.

  In the control room pizzas had arrived and been eaten at the big central table and Liz was becoming anxious. She knew perfectly well that if anything had happened they’d have heard about it but she couldn’t resist asking Wally, ‘Could you find out what’s going on?’

  As she spoke, Maureen’s voice came through from Market Bosworth. ‘We can’t sit here much longer. The pub will be closing soon and this place will be quiet as the grave in another half hour.’

  ‘OK,’ replied Wally. ‘I think it’s time to find out what’s going on in that place. Liz, are you OK for Maureen to go in and enquire if he’s staying the night?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the only option. Let’s hope there’s someone sensible in there.’

  Maureen disappeared inside the inn and in Market Bosworth and London the tension was crackling. After twenty minutes she came out, got into her car and said, ‘We’ve been had. He left at ten; he must have snuck out the back. And we’re looking for a black Mercedes saloon.’ And she read out the digits of a number plate. Immediately, without waiting for any further explanation, the control room flashed the number to Number Plate Recognition and all police forces.

  Maureen went on, ‘Mr Hansen rents two garages. He keeps the Mercedes in one and leaves the BMW in the other. His explanation is that he has to drive long distances up to Scotland with passengers and he needs the bigger car. But he uses the smaller one while in London. He’s in the oil business apparently. He wanted two garages because it’s too difficult to shuffle the cars about when the car park is full. The manager thought it was OK. He paid six months’ rent, cash in advance. He showed them his driver’s licence and gave them a mobile number, which I have.’ And she read out the number. ‘I left the manager a card and told him to ring us when Mr Hansen comes back for the BMW or if he hears from him.’