Sleeper Cell

by Alan Porter

  Richard put his head around the usually-locked door of the diplomatic knights’ rooms by the front door. Lord Silverton, Parliamentary Under Secretary for Security and Counter-Terrorism, was in hushed conversation with the former ambassador to Israel. Richard left without interrupting and walked along the corridor to the rear of the building.

  He paused. He had five minutes. Time to make a call, put his mind at rest.

  He ran up the main stairs, past the stern portraits of his predecessors, and into the private flat at the top of the building. Mary, his wife of twenty-seven years, was in Brussels for a conference and the flat was exactly as he had left it. He dialled Ruth’s number as he walked to the bedroom for a change of jacket. It rang until the voicemail message took over. He disconnected the call and dialled again. Gavin answered his phone after three rings.

  ‘Gavin, it’s Richard. I’m trying to get in touch with Ruth. Could you pass the phone to her?’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, she’s not with me. I’m at the bomb site.’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  ‘I left her at the palace.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About two minutes after the bomb.’

  ‘She’s all right?’

  ‘She’s fine. Good ride this morning, nothing out of the ordinary. No one paying any undue attention. She was a long way from the bomb when it went off.’

  ‘You’re certain she’s safe now?’

  ‘She’s in probably the safest place outside of where you are right now. The royal couple were expecting her, so she’s under their protection now.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. Tell her to call me when you see her. Her phone’s off.’

  ‘Probably Palace security being over-cautious. I’ll let her know.’

  Richard dropped his jacket onto the bed and, without replacing it, jogged back down to the Cabinet Room on the ground floor. He had used this light and airy room at the back of the building as the COBR committee room throughout his term as PM. He hated the stuffy underground chamber that the media loved to call COBRA, a place and a name that embodied far too much menace for Richard’s liking.

  Already at the table were Sarah Forsythe, Lord Silverton and Emma Whitehouse. The Foreign Secretary, Oliver Grant, was in Washington and was being briefed separately on any implications for the Foreign Office. As Richard took his place at the table the door opened again and an aide ushered in the head of the Metropolitan Police’s Counter-Terrorism Command. James Thorne was the only person in the room in uniform, and it struck Richard that during his two years as PM, he was the only one who ever had been. It had, to date, been a very peaceful tenure.

  Two large computer monitors stood at the end of the table, onto which were patched feeds from John Nash at the government’s listening facility GCHQ, and David Bates, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  ‘So what do we know?’ Richard said. ‘Let’s start at the beginning so we’re all on the same page.’

  All eyes turned to the man in black uniform at the end of the table. Thorne glanced at his file then began.

  ‘At twelve noon an explosion destroyed part of the Park Hotel on Kensington Road and caused some superficial damage to the Embassy of Israel in Palace Green. We are awaiting reports from the Ambassador. Significant damage was also caused to shops and residential flats opposite the hotel. Search and Rescue are going through the area and the buildings will be made safe and screened so Kensington High Street to the west and Kensington Road to the east can be reopened by the end of the day. A number seventy bus, eastbound, has been destroyed along with six private vehicles in the vicinity at the time. Again, these have been evacuated and screened and will be removed as soon as we can get heavy equipment into the area. Kensington Palace is undamaged.’

  ‘Do we have and reason to believe this was accidental?’ Richard said.

  ‘It’s too early to say, but the explosion being in the hotel’s car park strongly suggests a bomb. We’ve cordoned off the area and have bomb squad technicians on the way.’

  ‘Casualty figures?’ Richard said.

  ‘Unknown within the building,’ Thorne said. ‘Eight are confirmed dead on the main road, with multiple injuries. We are liaising with the Embassy as we speak, but they are unlikely to be very forthcoming. Unless you can pull some strings, PM?’ Richard did not have chance to reply before Sir Malcolm Stevens, MI5’s Director General, arrived.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Traffic’s a nightmare. Where are we?’

  ‘CTC are filling us in on casualty figures,’ Lord Silverton said. ‘So far, not as bad as it might have been.’ Richard caught the hint of a smile in his voice. He’d tried to rid his government of the old networks of Eton and Sandhurst, but there was little he could do about the outside agencies.

  ‘Mortality within the parking garage and the west side of the hotel could push the figures far higher,’ Thorne said. ‘It’ll be several hours before Search and Rescue get through it. There may be more survivors trapped. Hospitals are on a major incident footing and blood is being helicoptered in from surrounding facilities.’

  ‘If this is a bomb, any idea who did it?’ Richard said.

  Those assembled in the meeting room turned to the screen where David Bates was talking to one of his staff over at SIS HQ at Vauxhall Cross. He turned to face the camera.

  ‘No one has claimed responsibility yet,’ he said, ‘but that would not be unusual at such an early stage. We should have credible attribution soon. All live agents in the field have been updated. We’ve got moles in a number of the major players.’

  ‘Was this designed to derail the peace talks?’ Richard said.

  ‘We can’t rule it out, but right now it’s perhaps not the most likely scenario. Any of the groups with the motive to sabotage the talks would likely lack the means. Hassan Nasrallah has his devotees, and Hezbollah make plenty of noise on the internet, especially when it comes to Israel. But there’s no significant support in Britain. Same for the al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade. They’ve been more active in Israel since the leaking of the peace talks and they’ve got support from extremist wings of both Fatah and Hamas, but no credible overseas operatives. Likewise Islamic Jihad: no activity outside the area and no meaningful links to anyone in the UK. To get anywhere near a group the politics and contacts to do what we saw this morning, we’d have to go right the way out to Palestinian fedayeen…’

  ‘Who had links with the IRA…’

  ‘And that’s one hell of a stretch. The IRA splinters are so well infiltrated that it seems impossible that we wouldn’t have known about a plan like this.’

  ‘Which I fear may leave us with the Armageddon scenario,’ Commander Thorne said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘ISIS have sleeper cells in Europe,’ Bates said. ‘It’s a natural progression from near-enemy insurgency to far-enemy terrorist organisation. We’ve expected it for months, and with Britain’s recent support for air strikes on northern Iraq, that looks like the most probable source for today’s events.’

  ‘Do we have any evidence?’ Richard said. ‘The last thing we want to do is give credit to ISIS unless we’re certain. The boost it would give to home-grown sympathisers could be disastrous.’

  ‘I agree,’ Bates said. ‘However, only two groups exist that are capable of an attack like this: completely undetected, right in the heart of the city, with what appears to be a sophisticated bomb.’

  ‘ISIS and al-Qa’ida.’

  ‘Yes. We can rule AQ out – the proximity to the Embassy just doesn’t fit their ideology right now. But it could fit Islamic State. Any allegiance that existed between Israel and ISIS back in 2013 is long dead, and the Embassy would be a good symbolic target if they are stepping up operations.’

  John Nash, over at GCHQ in Cheltenham, cleared his throat and leaned slightly towards the camera.

  ‘We have been monitoring a new organisation,’ he said. ‘We gave them no real credibility as they seemed to have come out of nowhere, but in li
ght of today’s attack we are revisiting what we know of them.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Harakat al Sahm – The Movement of The Arrow. They first appeared on the social media feeds of third-tier ISIS fighters three months ago. They appeared to be nothing more than a sub-sect who shared ISIS ideology. Their Twitter and Facebook accounts attracted a few curious sympathisers, but posts were infrequent, non-specific and clearly not written by anyone on the front line. It was as if they were just populating extremist feeds with links that went nowhere.’

  ‘And that’s changed recently?’ Richard said.

  ‘Chatter has increased in the last twenty-four hours. Again, non-specific. There were symbolic indications of a significant event coming, but nothing – I have to stress that, nothing – that indicated what it might be or that it was aimed at Britain. The reference to ‘the arrow’ would also seem apt. They’re striking out of established IS territory.’

  Richard sat staring out of the window for a moment, his fingers tapping on the desk.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘So IS have got the means to do this and the motive to hit London, but we can’t categorically say that their target was the peace talks.’

  ‘Not categorically,’ Commander Thorne said.

  ‘Then that’s our line: we distance this from the talks. We can not afford to make any link between the two. I think we agree that this has all the hallmarks of a militant Islamist operation but we need a credible attribution. The media are not going to be interested in the subtleties. Call in the best people you have, stop at nothing to get a name. Get a clear motive. We must be in a position to close this down, for it to be a past tense event before the delegates arrive. Something reassuring in time for the morning papers would be good.’

  ‘We’re going to need to make an announcement to the media much sooner than that,’ Sarah Forsyth said. ‘What do we tell them?’

  ‘I’ll make a broadcast later in the day. Fix something for the six o’clock news. For now, we appear to be in full control of the situation and our joint forces dedicated to upholding the rule of law and democracy. I think it’s important that for now we don’t raise the threat level from Severe to Critical either. That risks setting off panic. This must not turn into an excuse for sectarian anarchy.’

  ‘Prime Minister,’ Lord Silverton said. ‘With respect, I think that is a mistake. You need to address the country now. An information vacuum will attract hysteria if it is not confidently filled.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Richard said, ‘get an interim statement drawn up, and circulate it to the news agencies. Frame it as an unexplained explosion; don’t use the word bomb. And make sure the press office toe the line: this is an isolated incident. I will make a statement, but not until we’ve shored up our defences and got on top of this thing.’

  Lord Silverton removed his glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him. ‘And if there’s another attack?’ he said.

  ‘I am relying on you all to make sure there isn’t. Find the culprits. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak to the Israeli Ambassador. God knows what capital they’ll get out of this.’

  4

  Leila Reid’s landline rang at 1.25pm, almost an hour and a half after the bombing. She listened to it cut off mid-way through the third ring and the answering machine click in. Her voice on the recorder was followed by a man’s, but she could not hear what he said. It would be nothing she wanted to hear.

  She kicked the light summer duvet off and lay staring at the ceiling. The bedroom was filled with muted sunlight and stale moveless air. A vague sensation in her stomach told her it was breakfast time.

  The mobile on her bedside cabinet rang, a perfect mimic of an old-fashioned dial phone. Awake now, she reached out and peered at the screen. No name and not a mobile number she recognised. She pressed Answer. She could do with telling someone to go fuck themselves.

  ‘DS Reid? Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s DCI Lawrence.’

  ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  ‘Afternoon, and it’s not a good one. Where are you?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Well get up; we need you here.’

  ‘At CTC? Didn’t you fire me six months ago?’

  ‘You weren’t fired, Reid. You’re on suspension.’

  ‘We both know it’s coming. You just haven't found a legal way to do it yet.’

  ‘Think of it as you wish. Anyway, we’re suspending your suspension. We’ve got a situation.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Where have you been?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘There’s been an explosion near the Israeli Embassy.’

  ‘Shit.’ Leila sat up. ‘And Counter-Terrorism’s on it?’

  ‘We’re convening in anticipation. Commander Thorne’s at Downing Street now. We’re putting together the Executive Liaison Group.’

  ‘I’m not cleared for ELG work.’

  ‘No, but you are still cleared for investigations on the ground, and you’re still the best this department’s got.’

  ‘Thorne’ll never go for that.’

  ‘He’s already signed off on it. It’s not an open door back to your old job, but it’s a chance to show you’re still an asset.’

  ‘An asset.’

  ‘Leila, we need you here. What did Moore say on 911? ‘A good day to bury bad news’? Well this could be your good day to bury a bad reputation.’

  ‘No, Michael. I’m sorry, but I’m just not playing politics any more. Not again. Goodbye.’

  Before her old boss could reply she disconnected the call and threw the phone back onto the cabinet. She planted her feet on the cool wooden floor and sat for a moment staring at the points of bright sunlight forcing their way through the curtains.

  The phone rang again.

  It would ring eight times before going to voice mail.

  She stood and drew back one of the curtains. Hard, merciless sunlight streamed in through the dusty windows and formed a hot pool at her feet. In another half hour it would have moved far enough to start baking the front rooms of her small but adequate Victorian terrace in Upper Tooting. By nightfall the whole house would be an oven. She stepped back out of the sun, still unwilling to answer the phone.

  The fifth ring. He was persistent.

  Should she answer? Should she go back? Was there anything they could offer her to make things right again? She had already decided weeks ago that she would let her suspension run its course then resign, assuming they hadn’t found a way to fire her in the meantime. It had crossed her mind that she could return for a while, knowing that she would be sidelined from any major investigations, then sue for constructive dismissal. But she had grown dull these last few weeks.

  Six.

  She wanted to move on, maybe go back to the Middle East. She needed an edge, grit in her shoe, something to make her feel again.

  Seven. She picked the phone up, her thumb hovering over the screen.

  Eight.

  She hit Answer.

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ she said as soon as the phone connected. ‘Why did you tell me Thorne’s approved my coming in when he hasn’t?’

  Michael Lawrence breathed heavily at the other end.

  ‘I’m going to hang up now,’ Reid said.

  ‘OK, wait… He said he wants to assemble the best team we’ve got. He didn’t mention you, and nor did I. I figured once you’ve proved your worth to the investigation, he’s more likely to get you back here full time.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

  ‘Again? That sounds hopeful.’

  ‘If you don’t lie to me again.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘How did I know that the guy who hung me out to dry in an IPCC inquiry wouldn’t want me back on the team? What do you think? Plus, you’re calling from your own person cell, not the desk phone. My caller ID didn’t recognise your number. It’s a big clue you’re not
dealing straight.’

  ‘Fine. You want the truth? I need you back here. Or rather, I need you out there, feeding back useful intel without getting bogged down in false trails. You understand this business better than anyone.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? Assuming I agree.’

  ‘Just go to the site. Get a feel for it. You’ll know within five minutes whether this fits with you. If it does, call me. If not, you can go back to bed.’

  ‘I’ll take a look. You’ll have my answer within the hour. And call whatever monkeys you’ve got manning the perimeter at the Embassy. Tell them I’m on my way.’

  ‘Already done. I’ll speak to you in an hour.’

  This time Lawrence hung up first.

  She ran down to the kitchen and threw a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. She dressed from whatever she could find in the basket of clothes waiting to be ironed and splashed cold water over her face. She resisted the usual urge to turn on the radio, preferring not to have her first impressions of the morning’s event filtered by the news media. She had to get this fresh. An explosion (that was the word Lawrence used – not bomb but explosion – so it might yet prove to be nothing) near both the Israelis and the Palace would have the media in a frenzy of speculation. They had rolling news to fill, and they would fill it with whatever they could come up with on the spur of the moment. None of which helped her. Intuition was fragile in the face of innuendo.

  With a slice of dry toast in her mouth, she quickly assembled the tool roll that she always carried in the field: a leather pouch containing lock picks, multi-bladed knife, highly illegal mini cell jammer, Oasis monocular, a tube of Super Glue (useful for closing deep cuts), two pairs of forensic gloves, £200 in £20 notes and a tiny can of mace, just in case. The gun cleaning kit was still in the car, not that it was much use without a gun.

  She didn’t bother to dead-lock the door behind her. Ten to one she’d be back by three o’clock.