‘What particularly about Israel?’ Do you remember any details?’
‘It’s not so easy for me to remember. I’m getting old, eighty-five in three weeks, and the hearing is not as good as it used to be.’
Extricating himself from the kindly Mrs Glover, the detective inspector proceeded to check the cottage. There were some clothes still hanging in a wardrobe, but little else. As he was preparing to leave, she popped her head around the door.
‘He said he couldn’t understand why the people of Israel couldn’t learn to live with each other. I don’t know if that helps. I hope you find him soon.’
Back at his hotel, a pint of their best bitter in his hand, Charles phoned Ed Small.
‘I found nothing at the cottage that helps, although the little old lady next door was talkative. It’s the same story – lovely man, polite, well-spoken. She mentioned that he was popular with the girls as well, but I found that out at Porton yesterday. He was away for a few weeks, apparently overseas and only returned in the last few days to check his mail.’
‘Let me have the dates when he was out of the country. It may give us a lead. In the meantime, you can return to London.’
Chapter 4
Charles Proctor’s time at home was brief. As soon as he had dropped his bags, kissed his wife and patted the dog, Ed was on the phone.
‘I need you up at your Home Office. You’re to meet with a Mary O’Donnell. It seems they have some pretty sophisticated facial recognition equipment that’s able to check on the millions of cameras dotted around the country.’
It took him two hours to negotiate the traffic and then another thirty minutes more to find a parking spot. It was still a five-minute walk away from where he was heading. He could have waved a police pass and parked wherever he wanted, but he did not feel the need to abuse a privilege, at least not on this day as the weather was mild, and the walk would do him good.
He found Mary O’Donnell easy enough, her name securely attached to a small wooden board on the door of her office.
The gold embossing on the lettering belied the office. He imagined an impressive room on the other side of the door. It was not.
It was small, in need of a coat of paint and had no outside windows to the street. The view from the third floor of the building in Marsham Street where she was located was impressive, but she never saw it. Only the artificial lighting and the flickering of the computer screens. It seemed to not worry her.
‘There is no record of a Sam Haberman, an American citizen, leaving England in the last four weeks although there is a clear record of arrival from New York eight weeks ago.’ She was in her late fifties, with hair that had gone grey and obviously no intent on her part to conceal. She had a bizarre and unusual taste in colourful clothing ‒ the home knitted cardigan, an odd shade of mauve. She was munching on a cream doughnut when he entered.
‘Our facial recognition is the best in the world. If we have a clear photo, we should be able to find most people within twenty-four hours unless they’re hiding in a cave or under a rock.’
‘Has Ed Small given you all the information that you want?’
‘He sent it all over to us last night, fingerprints, retinal scan, photos from all angles, plus a full detailed medical history. We don’t need the medical history unless we’re dealing with a body.’
‘This person is very much alive. We need to find out about his movements as soon as possible.’
‘So I gathered from Mr Small. You wouldn’t be able to tell me what he’s done, this person you’re looking for?’
‘Sorry, way above your security clearance level.’
‘That’s okay. I'm just a busybody. It’s not much fun sitting in this office, day in, day out, scanning photos in and waiting for a result. I know the Home Secretary authorised my total cooperation with you and Mr Small. It must be something big. Maybe I’ll read about it in the newspaper one day.
‘It’s big, and one day it may be in the papers,’ Proctor said. ‘I’ll see you get a recommendation for your assistance. It may get you out of this office. For now, we need to find Sam Haberman.’
‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ she said. ‘I take it you have an expense account? In two hours we should start to see some results.’
It proved to be a cheap lunch, Mary O’Donnell had an infinity for McDonalds, including a dessert and a milkshake. Forty minutes later they were back in her office.
‘That looks like him. What do you reckon?’ she said.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘If he faces the general direction of the camera, we may be able to get a retina match. It’s more accurate than fingerprints and a lot easier to obtain.’ She remained focussed on her computer for a few more minutes. ‘There you are. We have a retina match, the left eye. It’s confirmed – that’s your man.’
Quickly, Charles was on the phone to Ed Small. ‘We’ve found him, Glasgow airport. He took a private jet to Dubai, still had to pass through immigration. He travelled with a different name and nationality. That was three days ago. It’s the first official confirmation of him leaving the country. It still doesn’t explain where he went for the three weeks previous, though.’
‘Have you managed to confirm his arrival into Dubai? Ed asked.
‘That’s not a function of the Home Office.’
‘Make sure your suitcase is packed. We need to follow him. If it gets too dangerous, we’ll call in the professionals.’
‘Isn’t it time for them now?’ Charles asked.
‘They’re aware of what we’re doing. It’s best for a couple of flatfoots to sniff around – less visible. The professionals when they come in are packing guns, ready for action. We don’t want to scare our man into acting rashly.’
‘What’s a flat-foot?’
‘It’s what they used to call policemen, cops in New York a hundred years ago. It’s not offensive. Similar to calling your English police a Bobby.’
Never a traveller, Charles Proctor, if he wasn’t at work, was invariably in his vegetable plot at the end of the garden. He had won a prize for his lettuces at the local church fete a couple of years back.
A few years back, he and his wife had ventured to Spain on a package holiday, but she had been sick after eating paella from a dodgy-looking restaurant down close to the beach in Marbella.
‘Never again,’ she had said and, apart from that, there had been few trips across the Channel.
He had to attend the occasional conference in Paris, or Berlin or Rome to discuss terrorism and methods to combat, although he never enjoyed them much. If it weren't for those trips, his passport would have been invalid.
His wife expressed concern when he said he was off to Dubai. It was the Middle East. She had heard all the negative stories. He said it was related to his police work, and he would be back in a couple of weeks at the latest. She acquiesced. He was close to retirement, and the travel allowance could only be beneficial.
***
Charles Proctor had to admit that the flight, business class to Dubai, courtesy of the American taxpayer was a vast improvement on sitting in the back of the plane as he invariably did. With Scotland Yard, it was always the cheapest seats - no exceptions.
The flight proved to be a pleasant relief after the damp, drizzling rain in London when he had left. The heat as he exited the airport on arrival in Dubai took his breath away for an instant. It was as if he had been hit in the face with a steam iron, so extreme was the change from the air-conditioned luxury of the airport terminal.
Ed Small was waiting in the foyer of the hotel when he arrived. The Holiday Inn in Dubai sufficed for their purposes. It had been a good hotel in its day, but it was looking tired and had seen better days.
‘We’ve received confirmation that the plane landed here, and then left soon after,’ Ed said. ‘Sebastian Coster, an English citizen, passed through immigration in Dubai. They take photos here at immigration, as well as retinal scans. It’s our man, Haberman.’
/> The heat was bothering them both, even in the relative cool of the hotel. Ed’s excess weight caused him concern whereas Charles had spent his life in a cold and damp country.
‘Where is he now?’ Charles asked.
‘He could be anywhere within the Emirates.’
‘That doesn’t help us.’
‘We’re going to need some help. We’re monitoring the airports, but it may be possible to exit the country on the dhows that are moored alongside the river. A large number of them are not averse to smuggling, so moving our man for a price would not be difficult.’
‘We can’t follow then.’
‘I believe it may be time to call in some professional help,’ Ed replied. ‘I’m told there is a woman who is ideal.’
‘This is a male-dominated country, what can she do?’ Charles expressed concern.
‘I’m told she is exceptional, and that she can move around more freely than a man in these societies. Any luck on Haberman exiting the UK three weeks previous?’
‘Mary McDonnell, our contact at the Home Office has found him exiting through Southampton airport and crossing over to France. He used a different name.’
‘What name did he use?’ Ed asked.
‘Simon Asquith, English passport. He returned two weeks later.’
‘Do we know where he went in France?’
‘It’s almost impossible to trace. He had a British passport entering the European community. It’s an area as large as America, he could have gone anywhere. Unless he used credit cards, he’d effectively be off the radar.’
‘Let’s not focus on that for now,’ said Ed.
‘I agree, but we can’t go asking questions here. Two flat-foots would stand out like pimples on a baby’s bum.’ The American agent and the British policeman were forming a solid professional relationship, a relationship based on mutual trust and respect. Charles’ humorous riposte to Ed’s earlier flat-foot reference was a clear indication.
‘I can get Mossad to scout around,’ Ed said.
‘Are you serious?’
‘They go wherever they want. It may be best if we go to Tel Aviv. I have a contact there that I trust – senior operative in Mossad, decent person, a friend. He will help without asking too many questions. Are you up to another trip?’
‘Sure, why not.’ For a person who had avoided travel, Charles was enjoying his time in the Middle East.
***
Unable to fly direct from Dubai, they had to connect in Amman, Jordan. It was ten hours later after departure that they checked into the Intercontinental Tel Aviv: Ed on the sixth floor, Charles, one floor up.
‘What can I do to help?’ Uri Weizman, Ed’s contact at Mossad, asked as they sat in the bar on the outside terrace.
A moderate Jew, both his grandparents on his mother’s side, had died in Auschwitz. He was sympathetic to the plight of the Palestinians but careful to conceal. Weren’t they receiving the same treatment that his grandparents had received under Nazism? The current political party in power was too extreme for his tastes, but, as an employee of a covert organisation such as Mossad, it was best to keep personal opinions to a minimum.
In his fifties, he was no longer as agile as he had been in his youth, a bullet in the thigh while rescuing a foolish extremist Israeli belonging to some obscure sect.
The extremist had crossed over into Lebanon in an act of defiance. The fool deserved to be killed, but it was Uri Weizman and his colleagues who had been charged with the responsibility of bringing him back safe and sound to his family. Three perfectly good Israelis had died in the rescue of a prejudiced and intolerant idiot. It still irked him when he thought back to that day. His days in the field were concluded due to the injury, and he was consigned to a desk.
‘Sam Haberman, you indicated that he may not be who he appears to be,’ Ed said.
‘The Sam Haberman we have is at least forty years older than the one you are referring to. What’s the interest, the truth?’
‘He was working in a secret laboratory in America. He took something of great value. We need it back.’
‘That’s a little vague.’
‘It’s the best I can give you at the present moment. We need to find him, and those he may be working with.’
‘I’ll not ask any more questions for now. I’ll need to know in due course.’
‘Sure, in due course,’ Ed replied. ‘What we need to do now is to find him. I’ve sent you all his details. We know he has used three names and two nationalities so far. One as Sam Haberman, an American citizen, and two, English, passports in all three names.’
‘He used an English name, Sebastian Coster, to enter Dubai,’ Charles said. ‘He came in on a private jet.’
Charles and Ed had finally dressed for the climate. Open neck shirts and lightweight trousers were suitable casual business attire in Israel.
‘He could be anywhere,’ Uri said. ‘Assuming he was an Israeli by birth, he would not have much trouble affecting the appearance of an Arab. Does he speak the language?’
‘We’re certain he speaks Arabic as fluently as Hebrew and English,’ Ed said.
‘That’s sound about right, especially if he came from the north. There’s a fair degree of tolerance up there. It’s a pity they can’t act in that manner throughout the whole country.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ Charles asked.
‘I’ve got people all over the Emirates looking for him,’ Uri said. ‘We’ll find him soon enough. Let’s plan our move from there.’
‘I need a woman to go undercover once we find him,’ Ed said. ‘Would you have any problems if we use our own person?’
‘Is it Yanny?’ Uri asked.
‘That’s the name. I’ve not met her, but I’m told she is something special.’
‘Special? You could say that,’ Uri said with a degree of excitement. ‘She’s a knockout, and one of the toughest fighters we’ve ever met. She’s certainly welcome.’
‘Everyone seems to know her. What’s her story?’ Charles was intrigued.
It was Uri who answered. ‘She is half German, half West African – Senegal if I remember correctly.’
‘Senegal is correct,’ Ed said.
‘She was conscripted out of university by the German military to go undercover in Afghanistan,’ Uri explained. ‘She was in Helmand Province dressed in a burka, working close to a Taliban bomb factory when she took a bullet in the stomach, nearly killed her. Subsequently, she was employed by an American company run by Steve Case to go into hostile countries to rescue Western expatriate hostages. She’s been in Iraq, Somalia, Nigeria, and some other countries. No inhibitions to shoot and she’s a deadly shot. Speaks numerous languages, blends in anywhere she wants to go.’
‘She sounds a remarkable person,’ Charles said.
‘She is. She’s also a very private person. Don’t ask her for her life story, and never ask about her undercover activities.’
‘Steve Case, I know,’ Ed said.
‘He’s a good man in our books, more of an organiser,’ Uri replied. ‘Not so much in the field these days, although he had a rough time in Afghanistan.’
‘What do you mean? What was he doing in Afghanistan?’ Charles asked.
‘Never ask him, either. The Taliban grabbed him off the street. Their best torturer went to work on him. They got him out barely alive.’
***
With time on their hands, Ed busied himself with CIA business while Charles took the opportunity for some sightseeing. The second night at the hotel and Uri unexpectedly turned up as they were about to sit down for a meal. ‘He’s left the country,’ he said.
‘We need to follow him,’ Ed replied.
‘Neither you nor Charles would be able to follow him. He’s gone off the beaten track. It’s almost as if he is trying to conceal his final destination.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Ed asked.
‘We can use our people, or do you want to bring in Yanny?’
‘W
here did he go?’ Charles asked.
‘His final destination, that’s not so easy. Our trail went cold after he crossed into Iran,’ Uri said.
‘How did he get there?’ Ed asked.
‘He took a flight over to Kish Island and checked into the Dariush International.’
‘Kish Island? I’ve not heard of it,’ Charles said.
‘Neither have I,’ Ed echoed.
‘It’s a duty-free zone,’ Uri replied, ‘situated in the Straits of Hormoz. It’s located a few kilometres off the mainland of Iran. They set it up in an attempt to rival Dubai, a holiday resort these days. I’m told it’s a beautiful place to visit – although, with my Israeli passport, I wouldn’t be welcome. It’s only a short flight from Dubai.’
‘And then what?’
‘We know he checked into the hotel using the name of Sebastian Coster. He stayed there for two nights and left. He ensured payment for fourteen, so as far as the Iranian authorities are concerned, there is no issue from their side. After the first two days, the trail goes cold.’
‘Did you have a tail on him?’ Ed asked.
‘We did, but he lost him.’
‘I thought you were the best at following people.’
‘We are, but we can’t be held responsible when a crazy taxi driver runs into the side of our man’s car down some narrow alley they call a street.’ Uri was a little touchy with unwarranted criticism, especially from the CIA, who had a litany of unfortunate incidents.
‘How’s Yanny with the language in Iran?’ Uri added.
‘I’ll need to check, but I can almost guarantee she’ll be fluent,’ Ed replied.
‘As long as she covers up, she’ll be able to move around freely,’ Uri said.
***
Ed moved fast. He found out that Yanny Schmidt had been at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia after a successful operation close in to the Green Zone in Baghdad. She had come out unscathed, but some terrorists aiming to attack American government interests had not fared so well. She had shot two at point-blank range.
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 5