by Roger Pearce
He sat back and relaxed, imagining Jibril would make his usual tour of the area and return within thirty minutes. A couple of people he recognised entered the main door of Jibril’s house, and he contemplated crossing the floor to boil the kettle. Had he been near the end of his shift, more bored, tired or thirsty, he might have missed Julia Bakkour; if Alan Fargo had not been diligent in circulating the stills Kerr had snatched outside Paddington Green police station on Sunday afternoon, he might not have realised the significance. But because Justin was good at his job, sensitive to the rhythm of the area and alert to the unusual, he spotted Jibril’s lawyer as soon as she turned into the street.
He captured four shots of her as she approached the house and started on the path. She was wearing a business suit and overcoat, carrying a thin attaché case, and Justin guessed she had come straight from her office in Wanstead.
‘Urgent, Mel. I have Julia Bakkour, repeat Bakkour, on foot towards the address. Where is your man now?’
‘South Lambeth Road. Up and down the shops, criss-crossing the street, eyes all over the place. The usual.’
‘She must have come to see him. Stand by.’
Through the magnified viewfinder Justin watched Bakkour turn into the path, search the lopsided intercom plate for number nine and press the buzzer. While she waited, she looked around, uneasy in unfamiliar surroundings. When there was no answer he expected her to call Jibril, but no mobile phone appeared. She buzzed again, hesitated, then walked back down the path.
‘Mel, she’s leaving,’ said Justin. ‘No telephone contact. Watch in case she bumps into him.’
‘Roger that.’
Justin tracked Bakkour down the path and into the street as she retraced her steps to the corner with South Lambeth Road.
‘Coming your way, Mel.’ As he spoke she stopped again, half turning back, undecided. She opened her case, rummaged inside, then withdrew a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.
‘Cancel that. She’s going to leave him a note.’
‘Roger.’
‘Where is Jibril?’
‘Buying vegetables at a street stall. Not hurried. He’ll probably wander around for a while. Usual dry-cleaning game, so we’re keeping back.’
Justin watched the lawyer look around for somewhere to write. She settled for the bus shelter a couple of metres away from the entrance to the path. She wrote rapidly, and before she had finished, Justin had pulled on his jacket and grabbed a bodyset. ‘What’s he doing, Mel?’
‘This is about as far as he normally goes.’
‘They’ve screwed up. This is an opportunity.’
‘Repeat?’
‘I’m going to get the note.’
‘Negative that. It’s probably nothing. Outstanding crap about his detention at Paddington Green. Stay back.’
‘I know the layout, Mel. She’ll leave it in his pigeonhole. No worries. Just give me a heads-up when he’s on the way back.’
Melanie bounced something back to him, but Justin was already on the move, pulling his woollen hat over his eyes. From his bag he grabbed the Pentax and stuffed it into his pocket. Activating the video, he locked the door behind him and dashed down three flights of stairs.
He had sight of Bakkour as soon as he regained the street. One of the residents was walking up the path and she hurried to catch him up.
‘Justin from Mel. Target has turned back. Repeat, subject is returning to the address.’
‘Received.’ Justin watched the tenant unlock the front door as Bakkour flashed the note and tailgated him into the house.
‘How long have I got?’ shot back Justin, as he dashed across the street.
‘Five mins max. Where are you?’
Ten seconds after Bakkour had entered the house Justin was already halfway up the path. He reached the front door as she opened it to leave. Because he was on the move, holding his keys ready as if arriving home, she instinctively held the door for him. ‘Ta,’ he mumbled, head down as he slipped past her.
The note was inside an envelope simply marked ‘9’ and he immediately checked the seal. Bakkour had obviously licked it inside the lobby, for the saliva was still wet. Watching her through the frosted-glass door panel until she disappeared up the street, he eased it open and removed the note.
Melanie was sounding anxious. ‘Where the hell are you, Justin?’
‘Lobby. I’ve got it. Stand by.’
‘He’s three minutes away. Less. We can see her, too. They’ll probably meet.’
‘Is she using a phone? Is she calling him, Mel?’
‘Negative.’
‘So this is all we have,’ he said, unfolding the piece of paper.
‘Just leave it and get out of there.’
‘I can do this. Keep it coming, Mel.’
The note was in Arabic. Justin rapidly checked the staircase and path, listened for signs of life and stretched the note on the ledge in front of the post boxes.
‘Justin, they’ve met up,’ said Melanie, urgently. ‘She’s coming back to the house with him and they’re in a hurry. Get out now.’
‘Roger.’
The Pentax was the same camera he had used to photograph Bakkour’s diary and business cards. He took it out again now and grabbed three shots of the note.
‘They’ve turned into the street. Thirty seconds.’
‘Roger.’ He put the camera in his pocket, folded the note and carefully replaced it. He spat on his fingers, spread the saliva on the flap and pressed it until the remaining glue bonded.
‘You’ve left it too late, Justin.’ Melanie’s voice was urgent. ‘They’re at the path. You’re gonna have to wing it.’
‘No problem.’ Through the frosted glass he glimpsed the figures of Jibril and Bakkour. ‘Stand by but stay offline till I get back to you, yeah?’ On the first and second landings, Justin remembered, there was a communal bathroom. He would hide himself in the lower one until they had gone past. Sliding the envelope back into the pigeonhole exactly as he had found it, he raced up the stairs to the first floor. The bathroom was occupied. He heard the front door open and low voices in the lobby as he climbed to Jibril’s landing. The upper bathroom was to the right, to the side of the house, and it was free. He bolted the door, pulled the blind over the frosted panel and switched on the light, which also activated a noisy, old-fashioned extractor unit.
He heard them reach the landing, speaking Arabic. There was the clink of Jibril’s keys and Justin pictured him opening the Yale, then the Chubb, just as he had done three days earlier. He kept his hand on the bolt, ready for his escape.
Then there was only Julia Bakkour’s voice, and footsteps on the landing towards him. The door handle rotated and he turned the cold tap on full power until her footsteps receded, then switched it off to listen for Jibril’s door closing.
When he calculated he was clear he silently drew back the bolt, twisted round to flush the toilet, and padded down the landing, covered by the noisy cistern and rattling of the extractor fan. He was cautious on the way down, remembering the creaking stairs to avoid, and checked Jibril’s pigeon hole was empty.
He was back on the street within twenty seconds and reached the safety of the observation post in another minute. He checked the video and called up Melanie. ‘I’m back on line in the OP, Mel. No compromise.’
‘You sure about that, Justin, over?’
‘I’ve got it on stills,’ he said, plugging the Pentax into his laptop.
‘Nice one.’
‘I’m emailing it to 1830 for translation.’ He pressed ‘Send’ and speed-dialled Alan Fargo.
Fargo got back to him in less than ten minutes, as Justin was filming Bakkour leaving the house. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he said. ‘She wrote: “Suit delivery 4.30 on day instructed. Fitting in Afghan shop not Saudi. Await confirm call.”’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘John Kerr just asked me the same thing.’
‘Incomprehensible. Typical bloody lawye
r.’
Thirty-three
Tuesday, 18 September, 18.56, Bill Ritchie’s office, New Scotland Yard
Drinking Diet Coke and checking messages on the move, Kerr bumped into Ritchie in the lift lobby on the ground floor. ‘Any probs?’ he asked as he followed Ritchie into the lift, trying to keep it light.
‘Later,’ grunted Ritchie, punching a button. He fixed his eyes on the floor indicator, acting as if Kerr was a stranger. At the eighteenth floor he ignored Kerr as he walked swiftly down the corridor to his office. He unlocked the door and switched on the main lights. ‘Have a seat.’
‘What’s up?’
Ritchie slumped heavily behind his desk and adjusted the armrest, a sure sign he was annoyed. He launched straight in. ‘What are you and your teams up to?’
Kerr gave a short laugh. ‘We’re into day five after a bombing. Everyone’s working their nuts off.’
‘I’ve seen the tasking schedules,’ Ritchie said, shuffling through his papers, ‘and some of the diary sheets don’t tally with the team surveillance logs.’
‘You’ve dragged me up here to talk admin?’
Ritchie sifted through the forms. ‘I think you know what I’m getting at. Melanie Fleming. Justin Hine. Alan Fargo. Shown on duty all weekend without a break, overtime through the roof. Jack Langton’s doing all hours, too. What have you got them working on?’
‘I manage a lot of operators, Bill. Surveillance plots all over the place. Jack was working most of Saturday night for MI5.’ Kerr drained his Coke. ‘Look, those officers were almost killed less than a week ago and still want to work for us. To protect the public. They’re dealing with trauma in their own way and for now that means staying on duty. Working. It’s what they want. So where’s the problem?’
‘This isn’t about the paperwork. We both know that.’ The armrest shifted again. Ritchie exhaled heavily and Kerr waited for another of his boss’s in-sorrow-rather-than-anger routines. ‘John, the commander’s on your case and I can’t defend someone who refuses to listen.’ Kerr had been right. Since the arrival of Paula Weatherall in the office next door it was a performance Ritchie delivered with increasing frequency. ‘The Jibril cock-up, then the illegal search in Marston Street. Harrington gave her a very tough time because of you.’
‘And Derek Finch humiliated her in front of me. Is that my fault, too?’
‘Don’t push it,’ said Ritchie. ‘She was going to suspend you until I stepped in, remember? And she’s still thinking about it.’
Kerr crushed the empty Coke can. He looked around him. ‘There really isn’t room to swing a cat in here, is there?’ he said, tapping the plasterboard partition wall. ‘I mean, how do you stick it?’
It was a delaying tactic, a distraction while he decided how to play his boss, whether to confront him or test the extent of his knowledge. Ritchie’s office was next to Weatherall’s, and less than half the size. She had recently had it partitioned to accommodate a ‘leadership and management’ consultant on an expensive short-term contract. Everyone knew it was a sore point with Ritchie. There was standing-room only at the many urgent operational meetings in his office, while Weatherall’s prime real estate next door often lay empty.
‘Don’t change the subject.’
Kerr went for option two. ‘Come off it, Bill. Finch’s lot were holding back from day one. Whoever heard of the Bellies soft-pedalling? I mean, what the fuck is going on here?’
‘MI5 have the lead.’
‘The man is a jihadi, Bill. Finch released a terrorist onto the streets. We both know that.’
‘This is not our business. End of.’
‘Which is so unlike you,’ said Kerr, looking hard at his boss, ‘totally out of sync with the guy who always demanded every sodding detail. It’s also why I don’t believe you.’
‘So get over it.’
‘Why are you holding out on me, Bill?’
‘Ahmed Jibril is a free man,’ said Ritchie. ‘Game over.’
‘Or is MI5 working him up as a source? Is that why they let him out, and you can’t bring yourself to tell me? Are they trying to recruit him?’ Kerr gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Brilliant. How soon before that spark of genius sets the whole fucking city on fire again? I’d better tell the troops to keep standing by.’
‘If you go on like this you risk getting yourself disciplined. I’m telling you, John.’
‘For doing my job?’
‘For insubordination. Is that clear enough?’
They looked at each other in silence, Kerr trying to read the expression of the man he had known for most of his career. He made him wait for an answer, staring across St James’s Park to the Post Office Tower and the lights of north London. Thinking rapidly, Kerr settled for deception. ‘All right, I’ll let it go,’ he said eventually. He tossed the can into Ritchie’s waste bin. ‘And you can tell Ma’am I consider myself well and truly bollocked.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Ritchie sighed and leant forward. He was clearly exasperated. ‘John, you need to be very careful, or I won’t be able to protect you.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Kerr, quietly, wondering if Ritchie knew he had spooked a surveillance team outside Theo Canning’s office just a few hours earlier. ‘Protect me? From what?’ Red flags were popping up in Kerr’s brain. For a second he flashed back to his undercover assignment so many years ago, when for half a decade he had trusted Ritchie with his life. It was inconceivable that his protector would now leave him vulnerable. ‘Come on, Bill. You’re the guy who watched my back day and night for years. What’s different all of a sudden? Jesus, you’ve changed so much.’
‘No. Time has moved on . . .’
‘Did someone slice your balls off when they made you chief? You’re not the same man. Ask anyone who knows you . . .’
‘. . . but you don’t seem to have bloody noticed,’ continued Ritchie, his voice rising.
‘Is that why Karl Sergeyev had to go?’
Ritchie suddenly looked wrong-footed. ‘DS Sergeyev had his vetting removed because of his relationship with a prostitute,’ he said evenly, as if reciting the party line.
‘This happened late Friday night. Early hours of Saturday, in fact. Weatherall’s not on the grapevine. And I know you’re not, either, these days. So how did she find out about it so quickly?’
‘Phone call.’
‘Bollocks. Karl was in the sack all weekend.’
‘From the Foreign Office. A formal complaint about his conduct from the Russian Embassy.’
Kerr looked incredulous. ‘What – for shagging?’
‘For being obstructive. Exceeding his brief.’
‘Well, that’s not the story Weatherall gave Karl,’ retorted Kerr. ‘Karl told you what he saw that night in Marston Street, didn’t he?’
‘None of your business,’ said Ritchie, looking away.
‘He gave you his principal’s call log, didn’t he? The Russian minister, Anatoli Rigov? Told you that place was a security risk? He did everything a good protection officer should do and you still let Weatherall stab him in the back.’
‘John, I’m telling you for the last time. Go and do your job. Keep away from things that don’t concern you.’
Was it a warning or a tip-off? Or was his one-time mentor issuing a threat? Ritchie looked tired, a man who carried too many secrets. The voice had suddenly lost its edge, making it impossible to decide whether he was speaking as senior officer or friend. But Kerr’s inner voice told him to keep it light and move on, so he stood and stretched his arms wide. ‘Blimey, you can practically touch the walls on either side. Tell me, Bill, how the hell do you get anything done in here?’
‘What about doing some work in your own office for a change,’ Ritchie said, shuffling the papers again, ‘clearing this mess up?’
‘No chance of that tonight,’ smiled Kerr. ‘I’ve got choir practice.’
As Kerr wrestled with his boss, Anatoli Rigov arrived back at Farnborough airfield a
nd boarded his luxurious Learjet. He already felt relaxed, reclining his seat as the attractive flight attendant poured a generous tumbler of his favourite vodka. There was another vacancy to fill in the British signals organisation, but otherwise he felt at ease with the world as the plane taxied down the runway. Rigov had delivered a more powerful strain of an existing E.coli bacterium, and his victim was a British traitor, not a Russian dissident. He had done nothing to arouse suspicion; neither poison nor victim would point an accusing finger at Moscow. The attendant returned his smile and strapped herself into her jump seat. The engines roared as Rigov downed his vodka in one. His lunch would attract none of the attention surrounding other murdered enemies of the Russian state, and now he could look forward to dinner. Problem solved, he thought as the Bombardier streaked into the sky. Mission accomplished.
Thirty-four
Tuesday, 18 September, 20.23, Dolphin Square, Victoria
Every Tuesday evening, between seven and eight-thirty exactly, the combined choir of MI5 and MI6 practised in a church close to Dolphin Square in Victoria. The choir held concerts for Service families, friends and other trusted insiders at Easter and Christmas. It also sang at occasional special events, such as memorial services for heads of both agencies, normally in the privacy of the Guards Chapel in Wellington Barracks.
Kerr knew this because Willie Duncan had told him at one of the surveillance tasking and co-ordinating meetings at Thames House. Duncan managed a couple of surveillance teams in A4, the MI5 surveillance unit, the people Jack Langton had been called out to assist the previous Saturday night. The operators in A Branch watched, listened and engineered. But they never commissioned a job of their own accord. They were the MI5 underclass, the blue-collar guys, B-list techies with A-class skills, who did exactly as they were tasked. Duncan went along to choir practice because it was a welcome break, he said, from the fatigue and monotony of shift work, and raised the spirits from the daily grind of watching and listening.