by Roger Pearce
For additional reading Fargo had brought him the current BG, or Blue Global, a monthly bulletin produced by the Joint Intelligence Committee. Classified ‘Secret’ and printed on light blue paper, the BG laid out British security assessments on key countries worldwide. Membership was restricted to a numbered circulation list headed by the Queen and the Prime Minister. Weatherall’s SO15 Intelligence Unit received two copies, both addressed to Room 1830.
Kerr spooked the surveillance around ten-fifteen, as he was driving along Eversholt Street, just north of Euston station. A dark blue Nissan Almeira had been with him at least since Trafalgar Square, and each time he made a dry-cleaning deviation, the car was there when he rejoined the main drag. It was driver-only, and Kerr could see him speaking into a mike on the hands-free.
This time Kerr would not need a computer check to tell him the watchers belonged to the Anti-corruption Unit. As he anticipated, the traffic came to a standstill along Kentish Town Road, with cars parked each side of the roadway and buses scarcely able to pass each other. In the tailback from the red light just before Fortess Road he cut the engine, ran back two cars to the Nissan, and climbed into the passenger seat before the driver could react.
‘Shouldn’t you be out chasing criminals,’ asked Kerr mildly, ‘and keeping your doors locked?’
The driver was in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and black leather jacket, frantically checking his mirrors as he snapped the glove compartment shut to hide a miniature tracking screen. ‘What the hell? Piss off.’
‘DCI John Kerr,’ Kerr said, flashing his ID, ‘but you know that, don’t you?’ He pretended not to have noticed the screen, which told him they must have attached a tracker to the underside of his Alfa.
‘Get out of the car. Now!’
The driver looked vaguely familiar, but Kerr was searching for definitive evidence of police involvement. He spotted a Met Police time sheet, a mainset with a bog-standard serial number, and a chequered baseball cap for emergency ID tucked down the side of the seat. He checked the wing mirror. ‘Why is Anti-corruption following me?’ he demanded, watching a young woman in standard plain-clothes jeans and sweatshirt get out of a green VW Passat three cars back and begin urgently speaking to herself. ‘You and your lovely assistant, the one calling you up on her throat mike?’
The rubber-heeler tried to sound hard. ‘I’m telling you, leave now or you’re nicked.’
‘I don’t think your commander would want that,’ said Kerr, noticing the traffic ahead begin to free up, ‘not after all we’ve done for you.’ He got out of the car and ran round to the driver’s window. ‘But here’s something you can tell your bosses,’ he said to the startled surveillance officer, reaching in to remove the keys from the ignition. ‘Either put up, or get off my back.’
As the driver hesitated, Kerr dropped the keys into the nearest drain, trotted back to the Alfa and drove off. Horns surged and lights flashed behind the surveillance vehicle as Kerr accelerated into the clear road.
He turned into a side-street, parked behind an unattended truck with Newcastle registration plates, and checked the underside of his car. He found the tracker within seconds, exactly where he had expected it to be. It was a magnetic device known as a ‘lump’, the type Jack Langton and Justin had consigned to the crusher years ago. Kerr couldn’t believe the officers’ stupidity in following him so closely when they could have relied on the signal from the tracker. He quickly removed the device, clamped it to the underside of the truck and drove off, doubling back around Parliament Hill Fields towards Kentish Town Road.
The safe-house was in the roof of a three-storey villa just off the high street. It had a small living room and bedroom with tiny kitchen and bathroom, but it was cleaned regularly and there was enough frozen food to last a couple of days.
Kerr unlocked the briefcase, set his laptop on the living-room table, made a mug of black coffee and organised his papers to the cooing of the pigeons on the roof.
He worked on the time-specific operational material first, then picked up the Blue Global. He scanned the key political judgements about the countries most susceptible to terrorism, particularly from Al Qaeda, and depressing summaries of reverses in the Middle East. In the Appendix there was a Foreign and Commonwealth Office summary of live political issues under consideration by its Europe Department. There was a paragraph on the state of the euro and farming subsidies, an assessment of continuing economic instability in Greece, and a section on what officials judged might be a crucial milestone in Turkey’s long, faltering journey towards full EU membership.
He spent the next forty minutes skimming the regular batch of routine confidential threat assessments, circulars and intelligence briefings. There was a critical status review of Contest, the British government’s international counter-terrorism strategy, and a domestic security paper from MI5.
It was only when he broke off to make more coffee that bells started ringing in his head. Had he been in his office at the Yard, swamped by the daily frenetic email and telephone traffic, it was unlikely he would ever have made the connections. He flicked off the kettle and raced back to the table, riffling through the Blue Global Appendix until he found the section on Turkey. Marked ‘Secret – UK Eyes Only’, it was a single paragraph disclosing discussions scheduled for Monday, 1 October, in London between British ministers and senior EU officials to assess Turkey’s political and economic prospects within the enlarged European Union. But it was the heading that really grabbed Kerr’s attention: ‘Europe Department – Turkey Assimilation’, followed by a bracketed FCO link ‘ED-TA’.
He needed Fargo to help him make sense of things. His friend picked up on the first ring. ‘Al, I think I just unravelled ED - TA,’ said Kerr. ‘Check out your BG, page fifty-three in the Appendix. Look at the header.’
He heard rustling, then a low whistle as Fargo skimmed the text. ‘And Jibril’s code is “ED - TA minus four”. If that’s an operational order, four days back from the first of October sets the next attack next Thursday. Is this all about scuppering Turkey in Europe?’
‘An attack linked to Turkey gives the press all weekend to sabotage any EU aspirations. If we’re right about this, we have less than forty-eight hours,’ said Kerr.
‘And these talks are secret,’ said Fargo. ‘So, are we saying they blackmailed Attwell for the date?’
‘I think it’s likely, yes.’
‘Right.’
Kerr heard Fargo take a deep breath. Then there was silence as both men absorbed the implications. Kerr’s mind was suddenly a kaleidoscope of competing thoughts. They whirled him from his rescue of Melanie at Hackney, through Robyn’s information about children trafficked for sex and the terrible image of child rape in Knightsbridge. And when those images faded he found himself wrestling to explain why a Home Office minister should show such personal interest in the kidnap of a young British girl. Every lead, from Jibril’s safe-house to the fate of several young girls, to the compromise and blackmail of Robert Attwell, took him back to Marston Street. And when the churning stopped and his mind settled, he realised there was a gap.
‘While you’re on, Al, did you get the readout on that Russian’s call log?’
‘Yeah, an hour ago but I didn’t want to disturb you. Most of it confirms what we already knew from Karl. Calls into the Russian trade delegation in Highgate, a couple to the London embassy, one incoming from Moscow while he was resting up at the Dorchester. Sorry to disappoint you, John, but there’s nothing startling about Anatoli Rigov.’
‘Except he was a guest at that weird party,’ said Kerr, shuffling the papers back into the briefcase. ‘A murder scene. I need to speak with Karl again. Can you fix it for me, Al? And tell him to bring Olga along.’
‘I already tried and he’s not picking up,’ said Fargo.
‘OK, let’s get hold of Olga. If Karl gets back in touch in the meantime, don’t tell him. Make it somewhere neutral – say, Starbucks in Kensington High Street.’
&n
bsp; ‘No problem.’
‘I’m on my way back. Look, this Rigov guy’s job is to build UK trade links, right? How long was he in London?’
‘Karl picked him up from Heathrow a week ago last Friday. He flew out from Farnborough by private jet on Tuesday. Back to Moscow.’
‘So, less than five days, with a weekend in between. Who did he see?’
‘No one, apparently. I checked with my contact in Foreign Office Protocol. Her office has no record of any meetings with ministers or officials. Rigov seems to have spent his time holed up in the Dorchester and the Russian Embassy.’
‘Except for that party when Karl tracked him down,’ said Kerr. ‘Which makes me think the trade thing is a cover. I think Mr Rigov is in a completely different line of business. There has to be much more to this guy than we’re seeing right now.’
‘If there is we don’t have access,’ said Fargo.
‘Which makes me doubly suspicious. So let’s open another channel. Who’s our friendliest European ally, these days?’
‘I’ll try the French.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Dodge’s team pitched an agent for them on Eurostar last month.’
‘I won’t hold my breath.’
Fargo came back to Kerr while he was still on the road back to the Yard. ‘Olga can meet you tomorrow morning, ten o’clock in Starbucks. Turn left out of Kensington High Street station and it’s on the corner of Allen Street. And she asked me to give you a message. Yuri Goschenko is taking her to another of his special parties this Thursday evening.’
‘Where?’
‘She says he won’t tell her.’
Forty-seven
Tuesday, 25 September, 18.47, Chiswick
The fall-back house for the blackmail operation after the compromise of Marston Street was in Chiswick. Detached, on three storeys, it lay unobtrusively halfway down a quiet crescent lined with cherry trees, not far from the cricket ground and within a ten-minute walk of the Thames. Despite the wide black double doors topped with a semicircle of painted glass, it was less grand than the Knightsbridge address, with smaller rooms, lower ceilings and comparatively modest furnishings.
By the time Claire Grant arrived early on Tuesday evening Harold was already waiting in the sitting room with a tumbler of neat whisky. The room was cosy, about fifteen feet square and wood-panelled, with a landscape above the marble fireplace, dusty glass chandelier and threadbare rug over polished floorboards. There were two deep leather armchairs, each with its wine table, and a matching sofa. A decanter of malt whisky and two crystal glasses stood on an oak table in the far corner.
The minister had come straight from the Home Office and threw her coat on the sofa. Harold stood and kissed her on both cheeks. She let him ease her into the adjacent armchair facing the door. ‘You look ready for a drink,’ he said.
‘Harold, what the hell is this all about?’ She had to wait while he refilled his glass and poured one for her. ‘Not too much,’ she cautioned. ‘I have to vote tonight. Where is everyone?’
‘It’s just us.’ Harold laid a line of cocaine on her wine table and dropped into his armchair. ‘They want us to have a chat. They’re so pleased with the public display of support for Michael Danbury. Delighted. Really. And as for the TV appearance, very impressive. Top notch, actually.’
‘Bollocks. Danbury’s a complete dickhead.’ Grant leant over to snort her coke.
‘Believe me, Claire, they know how difficult this is for you.’
‘So what the hell have they done with her?’ demanded Grant. She stared at Harold, calmly sipping his malt. ‘Come on, what’s the deal? Get to the point, Harold. This is dangerous territory.’
‘It’s a little late to worry about that, my dear.’ Harold laughed and made a face. ‘We do what is required. And I’m afraid we have some more business to conduct.’
‘We?’
Harold was already reaching into his jacket pocket. He produced a folded sheet of paper and waved it in small circles as he spoke. She wished he had allowed time for the drug to kick in. He infuriated her when he was in this mood, making coercion sound like an enticement. ‘You, actually. Sorry,’ he said, sounding like a man put upon.
Seeing that Harold was waiting for her to take the note from him, she sat back in the armchair and crossed her legs. ‘No more, Harold. It’s too fucking risky.’
‘A most urgent requirement for the London end,’ he said, still waving the note in the air. ‘A final call upon your services, apparently.’
‘You promised that last time.’
She gave in, sliding forward for the paper. There were two names, with the precise details necessary for the visa applications. When she had read them she looked sharply across at Harold. ‘These are extremists like Ahmed Jibril, yes?’
‘Students like him. Travelling from Islamabad,’ said Harold, soothingly. ‘Their presence is required here imminently for special duties.’
‘For terrorism.’
‘For a purpose devised by our masters, my dear.’
‘They’re forcing me to connive in extremism.’
‘They have not said that, so how are we to make such a judgement? You authorise it as a special-category approval again, prepared and recommended by the appropriate civil servant, just as before.’
‘But it’s too soon after Jibril. If this gets out . . .’
‘Any review will show the background papers to have been recommended by your trusted official, just like his, and we both know how vague these intelligence assessments can be. A terrorist or agent out of control, who can tell, these days?’
‘Well, I can’t bloody well do it.’
‘As I remind you every time,’ said Harold, with another short laugh, ‘we respond to direct orders, not indirect consequences.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ The minister gulped at her drink, close to panic. ‘I can’t take any more dead bodies, Harold. It’s too much.’
‘And when did you discover your shiny new scruples, exactly?’ Harold was looking down at his hands, his voice low. ‘Our masters’ friends call the Danbury girl English Rose. God alone knows what they’ve planned for her, but she’s tied inextricably to you.’ When he looked up, she saw menace in his face. ‘So, come, my dear, no more hypocrisy. Of course you can. And will.’
‘No. They have to let me go, Harold.’ Grant was pleading now. ‘You have to make them.’
‘Try to relax.’ Harold took his empty glass to the drinks table. ‘Perform this one more duty and your precious skin is saved. I promise.’
‘Then they leave me alone, yes?’
‘Trust me.’ Harold turned with his whisky. ‘Look, I’m chained to them for life, but for you it’s different. The night after tomorrow they will release you from any further obligation. On Thursday you will drink champagne, part as friends, and watch your career soar to the heavens.’ He put the glass down and removed his jacket. Grant let him take her hand, lean over and kiss her on the lips. ‘Everything all right at home?’
‘Christ, Harold, you could fuck me to within an inch of my life before David noticed anything.’
Harold pressed a button on the wall and smiled. ‘Would you like me to?’
Before she could react the door opened and a woman stood before them. She was heavily built, in baggy black trousers and a short-sleeved white blouse stretched over her bloated stomach. The minister had seen her before and glared nastily. ‘What the hell do you want?’
The woman spoke directly to Harold. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Harold, lightly clasping Grant’s hand. ‘I think now would be a good time.’
The woman looked down the hallway and reached out her plump arm in a beckoning gesture. They heard a faint voice, little more than a whimper, then Sara Danbury was standing in the doorway, red-eyed and weeping. They had dressed her in a plain cotton shift and her ballet shoes. She wore a woman’s bright red lipstick and rouge, but looked tiny against the woman’s bulk.
&
nbsp; Grant recoiled in her chair against Harold’s arm, as if the child was about to attack her. ‘Oh, no, Harold. Don’t let them do this to me,’ she wailed, as the awful realisation struck her. ‘Please. I’m begging you.’
Harold was stroking her hand now and making shushing sounds as the woman led the child to the drinks table. ‘She is here to serve you, my dear,’ he whispered soothingly, ‘so you must sit still and enjoy.’
Grant froze as the woman awkwardly closed Sara’s fingers around the whisky decanter.
‘I have to work tonight,’ was all Grant could say. Then she managed another glare at the woman. ‘Don’t you listen? I said I don’t want any more, you fat bitch.’
Ignoring her again, the woman positioned Sara by Grant’s wine table. Her mind already blurred by whisky and cocaine, Grant tried to get up, but Harold’s restraining hand rested on her shoulder as Sara began to pour into the empty glass.
The terrified child splashed whisky onto the table, but neither Harold nor the woman checked her. Grant was aware of Harold taking a couple of steps backwards. Then a video camera appeared in the woman’s hands and she began filming her. ‘Say “cheese”,’ she mocked, as she trapped the government minister being served whisky by the kidnapped child.
The woman led Sara from the room as quickly as they had come, leaving Grant alone with Harold again. She lurched forward in the armchair, face in her hands, distraught.
Harold moved in close, stroking the nape of her neck. ‘It’s just their little piece of insurance,’ he murmured, ‘and you know how to make things right.’
Grant was quietly sobbing, her head rising and falling in her lap. ‘I’m finished.’
‘Nonsense.’ The piece of paper Harold had given her lay in the fold of the armchair where she had left it. He reached down and gently pressed it into her hand. ‘Two more students, my dear,’ he breathed, ‘then both of us can have her and everything will be normal again. I promise.’