“At HQ in Cheltenham,” Anderson continued “some say his meaning is so difficult to establish that Mr Craig may represent Britain’s biggest breakthrough since we discovered double encryption.”
Monty laughed, and catching Craig’s eye, looked at the floor to regain his composure.
“I really can’t stand it,” Natasha whispered. “Let’s go and do some work.”
“Do you have this kind of nonsense in your outfit?” Monty asked.
“We do. But I think it’s fair to say that fewer attend.”
Monty looked up and saw someone moving towards him. “Morning Richard!”
In the open plan office beside the seminar room Richard Jones, an IT specialist, was just starting his day. He sat at his desk, put the high visibility waistcoat he used for cycling into his bottom drawer, switched on his desktop and, rather than stare at it while it booted up, followed his usual routine of going to the office kitchen for the first cup of tea of the day. His boss Peter Whitehead was already there. Beside the kettle there was a microwave, its window streaked brown with burnt food, and a metallic sink filled with unwashed mugs. The draining board was dotted with used tea bags, each one surrounded by a brown patch of dried liquid.
“Morning, Peter.”
“Prepare yourself my dear fellow. Busy morning ahead. We have to trawl all flights incoming UK for three days. Priority job.”
“All of them?”
“Soonest. Report back to the DG himself.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Ours is not to know. You should at least know that by now. We are looking for a Yasir Y-A-S-I-R, with all possible spelling variations.”
Jones sucked in a breath drawing the air across his teeth. “Three days worth of flights at this time of year. That could be over a hundred thousand names. Maybe more.”
“Which, my dear old thing, is why computers were put on this earth. Bags I Gatwick: you do Heathrow.”
The kettle was bubbling now and Whitehead poured the water into two mugs with teabags. Jones opened a small fridge, took out a half empty plastic bottle of milk and smelt it before pouring it in.
Just 20 minutes later Richard Jones was calling across the room to Whitehead. “Got one. Tuesday ex Delhi. BA.” Whitehead came over to Jones desk at a pace just short of a run and leaning over him looked at the screen. There amidst a list of surnames beginning with K was one line highlighted: KHANJASIRMRBA143DEL2035LHR0930.
“Spot on,” Whitehead said under his breath.
“Shall I look for more?”
“Sure. But send me that. I’ll put it upstairs right away.”
It was on the DG’s desk and Monty’s computer, five minutes later.
“Bingo!” Monty said.
Natasha sitting on the chair by his desk stopped scouring the MI5 overnight intelligence reports and looked up.
“Mr Jasir Khan. From Delhi. Makes sense?”
“Not really. No.” She was speaking slowly, thinking it through. “It’s difficult for Pakistanis to get visas for India. Takes months. Is that the only Jasir who came in?”
“I guess they will still be looking for more. But it’s the Jasir we’ve got so let’s start with him. Could he be an Indian national?”
“But then what was he doing in Pakistan. In Baluchistan for God’s sake. No that doesn’t work.”
There was a click as the door opened and they both looked up to see Shami walking in. She approached the desk looking at Monty and put a blue cardboard cup on the desk.
“Cappuccino with an extra shot,” she said. And then she leant towards him and whispered: “and a chocolate brownie. Happy Christmas!”
“You’re a gem,” said Monty as he watched her tight fitting dress swing out of the room.
She didn’t look back as she closed the door. “My pleasure.”
“So where were we?”
“She looks after you rather well,” Natasha said arching her eyebrows.
“She does indeed. So, you were saying he had to get a visa.”
Natasha paused as she tried to regain her concentration. And then her face lit up with a flash of understanding. “He could have a foreign passport. And he could have flown to Delhi. There are flights from Lahore.”
“Indian High Commission?” Monty said lifting his phone.
“Yes. But I guess that should go through the Foreign Office.”
“Can’t wait for that. The DG is in a hurry.”
Energised by at last having something to work with, Monty called Shami and asked her to call the Indian Defence Attaché and put him through.
“I’ll deal with Heathrow,” Natasha said. Using the second phone on his desk she called the MI6 switchboard.
“Natasha Knight here,” and then after a short pause. “Sixteen two seventy-five password thebutchersll64. One word. Could you put me through to Special Branch, Heathrow?”
As she waited she watched Monty working at his computer keyboard. He was cross-checking the name Jasir Khan against MI5’s own files.
“Hi, Natasha Knight. SIS. I need help on an arrival yesterday. From Delhi. Name: Jasir Khan. BA 143. You should have CCTV of him coming through passport control.”
She hung up to see Monty shaking his head. “Nothing. No bloody sign of him at all.”
“A clean skin,” she suggested. “A sleeper.”
“Maybe.”
Then Shami was on the phone putting the Indian Defence Attaché through. Monty tried to avoid saying he worked for MI5 and spoke instead of a police investigation into a Jasir Khan. He explained that he could be travelling on a British passport. Could he help with any details they had on his journey through Delhi airport yesterday?
Monty hung up. “He’ll be fine. Sounded helpful.”
“What about the Pakistani High Commission if he travelled through Lahore?” Natasha asked.
“Pakistan is complicated,” Monty sighed. “That’s one we can put through the Foreign Office.”
Craig, his seminar over, was at the door now: “I saw you left early.”
Monty said: “IT is saying a Jasir with a J came in yesterday. Could be our man. But we have nothing on him, nothing at all.”
“So let’s find something.” Craig said. “Banks, mobile phones, passport office, email. Do you need help?” Monty looking at his computer screen and still working the keyboard, shook his head and momentarily raised his eyes towards Natasha. “We’re fine.”
“We just need to know where he lives,” Craig said.
“Quite.” Monty’s phone started ringing and he picked up the receiver and listened. “Thanks.” He said after a few seconds. “Put it all up on my screen.”
“IT has found another one. A Yaseer Ahmed, double e. From Karachi yesterday. Heathrow again.”
“Sounds more likely.” Natasha said. “Karachi makes sense from Baluchistan. It’s their hub.”
And so the process started again as they tried to find any facts they could, and most of all a couple of addresses.
As they worked Craig prepared himself to brief the DG. But first he wanted to start more trawls. Attacking his keyboard with two fingers, he wrote an email asking for the names Jasir Khan and Yaseer Ahmed to be run past all current surveillance operations and for the names of any known suspects whose movements were currently being monitored who were in or near Heathrow yesterday. He sent the message to his departmental group list and headed for the lift wondering whether it was too soon to think about a defensive line for the press office in case something leaked.
*****
Ethel Sugden and Joyce Connolly held two corners each of the single bed sheet and shook it to remove the creases. Then with a practised, familiar movement they moved towards the washing line and hung it out to dry. The two widows were the two longest-standing residents of Quentin House. When they had moved in, back in the early ’70s, the block was for council tenants only. It was white and working class. And that’s how they’d liked it. The good old days. It was ‘right to buy’ that changed eve
rything. The old families sold out. In the early days there were a few young couples, first-time buyers, but after two or three years they were up and off buying something bet ter.
Now they knew no one except each other: a mutual link to times past, to familiarity, to a world they knew.
“That young one’s back. Around midnight he came,” said Ethel.
“Which one?”
“The one two down from me.” Ethel Sugden held a sheet in one hand so that she could point with the other.
“Oh. The quiet one. Yeah, I saw him handing over a load of cash to Patel this morning.”
“Rent.”
“Big roll of it.”
“Well he was back late last night.”
“Sweet Mother. Do you ever sleep? I don’t believe you do,” said Joyce.
“And brought all sorts into the flat. Small hours it was. Probably thought everyone was sleeping.”
“What sort of things?”
“He had a car battery I think. Other stuff too.”
“Never says much does he?”
“The silent type.”
As if by some pre-arranged agreement, the two women each lit cigarettes and leant against the balcony looking over Webber Street.
“How long he been away?” asked Joyce.
“Two or three months. Easy.”
Joyce grabbed her friend’s arm and pointed to the street. “Look there he is now. And that bike’s new and all. He never had a bike did he?”
Jaz, back from Southwark, was locking his bike to a lamppost. As well as the panniers, he had packed his rucksack full. Slowed down by the weight, he started climbing the stairs.
“Do you think he’s been lifting stuff?” said Joyce.
“Bike too I should think.”
Jaz was near the top of the stairs now. He disturbed a pigeon that flew out of the stairwell towards the two women and, seeing them, veered off away from Quentin House. At street level a woman dressed in tracksuit trousers and a hoody was walking down the pavement with white headphone leads trailing from her ears into a pocket. Oblivious to her surroundings she nearly bumped into another woman who wore a black and white scarf to protect her neck from the cold.
Joyce looked back at the washing.
“Not going to dry much in this weather.”
Jaz appeared, but not wanting to brush against the clothes, stood waiting for the women to clear a path.
“Morning.” Ethel said, a tone of suspicion in her voice.
“Yeah. Just need to get through.”
“What’s in there then?”
Jaz looked at his bags and once again was caught unprepared. “Oh. Stuff.”
Joyce cackled: “Stuff is it? Good stuff or bad stuff?”
Ethel joined in her laughter. “And is it your stuff?”
Jaz moved past them, swerving his torso to one side to dodge the clothing line.
“He’s hiding something,” Ethel said as he disappeared into his flat “Should call the police, really.”
Joyce replied: “No point. They’d never turn up. And even if they did, where’s your proof?”
“True enough.”
As they talked Jaz closed his flat door and surveyed his acquisitions. He moved everything into the bathroom and started work. In Baluchistan he’d made countless buckets of explosives. Now he needed just 24 litres of the most powerful he could manage. He pictured the room where the major had taught him how to mix the materials. And the training kicked in. Moving between the kitchen and the bathroom he grew in confidence. I know this, he thought to himself. I can do this. I can do it blindfold.
The thing that worried him most was the sharp, acrid smell. If he opened the windows that overlooked the balcony he feared the two women would be round nosing about and complaining. He switched on the fan in the bathroom and opened a window on the other side of the flat. It would look odd in the cold weather but he needed the air. The stench was overwhelming.
*****
“How can she work without a desk?” As Monty listened to the reply he held the phone away from his face, looked at Natasha and mouthed the words “human resources.” And then added “allegedly.”
She was playing with the blinds behind his desk, yanking at the chord, making the room go light and dark.
“Can you at least ask IT support to give her access to our system?” And then: “Well of course she’s bloody vetted. Oh forget it. Never mind.”
He hung up: “You’ll just have to use mine.”
And they were making progress. By lunchtime IT had searched all three days of incoming flights and there were no more Yasirs or variants.
“Craig wants to take stock - we have an audience,” Monty said opening the door for her.
They found Craig in his office looking at some charts showing the relationship between various government organisations. “The ‘becoming more global’ ideas factory?” Monty asked. Craig looked up, flipping the paper over. “What you got?”
“IT has found two. Yaseer Ahmed. Flew in from Karachi on PIA yesterday. PIA gave us the passport number. Born 11th November ’88. Lives in Barking. Doing Business Studies at London Metropolitan. Clean record. British Passport. Not sure when his parents came over yet, but way back. They run a shop in Gleeson Street. They all live above the shop. Our guy at the mosque in Barking says Yaseer Ahmed is regular there – more so than his parents. Our guy says the family are low key and respected in the community.”
“Do I know our source there? At the mosque.”
“Bloke called Mohammed Iqbal. He’s good.”
Craig shook his head.
Monty ran his finger down a pad checking off the items one by one. “We don’t have his mobile records yet, but the request is in. DVLA. Licence issued 2008. Can’t find any car insurance, but we are still looking. Do you want the school stuff?”
“Not really. Unless there is something unusual.”
“He did ‘A’ levels.”
“That is unusual. Where?”
“All in Barking. Local school I guess.”
“What about our files? Anything on him?”
“No.”
“And the other one?”
Monty looked over at Natasha. “She’s been on him,” he explained to Craig.
Natasha leant down to a coffee table beside her chair and picked up a thin sheaf of papers. The top sheet was covered in her own handwriting.
“Jasir Khan. Flew in from Delhi yesterday. On BA. Your files, nothing. Schools nothing. Utilities, no record. Even health nothing,” she paused as she found another sheet. “Passport’s a yes. Born 15th February ’87. Passport office say it was issued because his father lived here as a British national. No record of the mother. We have run the father’s name but can’t find any record of him in last 10 years. Maybe he has gone back to Pakistan.”
Craig looked at Monty: “Ask the High Commission in Islamabad to check it. Where does he live?” Craig asked.
“Coming to that. Passport office and DVLA have him in Galsworthy Street, Ealing. Insurance too. He drives a silver Mondeo by the way. But I ran that address and found a Dave Skeet living there.”
“Local mosque?”
“Nothing.”
“But we have someone there?”
“Sure. But he came up blank. Skeet is an LSE student and the land registry say it’s a studio flat so I wonder if Jasir Khan’s still in Ealing. Or at least at that flat.”
“Maybe they share it. Probably screwing each ...”
Monty cut him off. “We’ll ask the police to check it. See if they are living together.”
“Credit card?”
“The bank says it needs a warrant. It is trawling its systems now so that as soon as we get one it can give us what we need. The mobile companies are being easier, but are not yet back to us.”
Craig stood up and paced around the space behind his desk. “So what do we do?”
“We need more. Keep digging. Wait for a clearer picture,” Monty replied.
N
atasha stayed silent. This was MI5 territory now.
“Sod it. Ask the police to arrest him.” Craig said.
“Which one?”
“The first one. Ahmed. The DG said he is worried. CCTV DNA and all that. The little bedside list.” He shot a glance at Natasha. “He’s in and out of the mosque. The other one isn’t on our radar screen. And Ahmed flew in from Karachi. Can’t see too many jihadis choosing to wander around India. ”
“But we don’t have anything on him. What could they charge him with?”
“Well I don’t have to charge him do I? I can just bloody well question him. Remember? They’ve been talking about it in Parliament.”
“But what about community reaction?”
“I know, I know. We’ll have a community impact assessment done. In fact could you make sure that happens? Anyway, it’s about time the so-called community worked out whose side it’s on. And yes, we’ll also have to tell the home secretary’s office. I know the drill.”
“For all we know he could look after handicapped kids and run an interfaith dialogue centre.”
Craig sat back at his desk: “Decision taken. Discussion over. It’s Priority One remember? Organise it. Task it to the police. I’ll tell the DG.”
“What if the police say they don’t have enough evidence?”
“Just refer them to me.” And then as they left the room, as an afterthought. “And Natasha you stay on the other one OK? And keep me posted.”
*****
Jaz was back on the streets riding his bicycle on the south bank of the Thames heading towards Westminster Bridge. The explosive mix needed time to settle. Which gave him the chance to do his last bit of gathering. Not that he needed to buy anything this time. These last items would be free and, according to Ravi, surprisingly easy to collect.
As he cycled past the ancient brick walls of Lambeth Palace on his left, the white square block of St Thomas’ Hospital came into view on the other side of the street. To minimise the chance of being caught on CCTV he went past the main entrance and down to an underpass beneath the building. Red and yellow ambulances were parked on the side, each one decorated with a black Maltese cross. A woman wearing a hijab walked out of a side door holding the hand of a small boy. Jaz wondered which one was ill. A paramedic came out behind them.
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