A Loyal Spy

by Simon Conway

  “I remember it all,” Miranda said.

  “Are you going to elude me again?” Saira asked.

  “I can’t,” Miranda replied.

  “You’ve never known a boundary in your life. You used to say that we could do whatever we wanted.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. But she remembered a time when she felt drunk with kissing, when they spent hours merely kissing. There was a part of her that wished that she could lose herself so completely again. Miranda shifted on the bed, dropping her feet on to the carpet. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said, going through the interconnecting door to her own room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She was standing under the shower head with her eyes closed and a bar of soap in her hands and the shampoo flowing out of her hair when she felt a sudden rush of cold air as the glass door opened behind her, and another body stepped into the shower with her.

  “Saira,” she protested.

  “Shhhh …”

  Saira took the soap from her, lathered her hands and rubbed Miranda’s back before reaching around and stroking the inside of her thighs. Miranda sighed as Saira’s hands traveled up her belly, her left hand caressing Miranda’s navel while her right hand lathered her breast.

  She remembered how boldly she had walked down Oxford Street that evening. Saira was right. She’d never given a damn for the consequences of her actions. Why not? she thought. Why not just give in to the moment? That was all she had ever done. She let her head fall back against Saira’s shoulder. But when she closed her eyes, it was not Saira that she imagined stroking her ribs and touching her nipples. It wasn’t even Jonah. It was Nor.

  “Stop,” she said.

  Saira let go of her and stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda told her, “but I can’t.”

  She turned in the shower stall to face Saira and saw disappointment turn to anger.

  “What is it with you?” Saira demanded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Without another word, Saira stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped herself in a towel. She went through into the next-door room and closed the door behind her.

  Miranda dreamed of Nor again, his face and his naked body in the darkness. He reached out to touch her with fingers that were as soft as silk.

  She woke in a curious state of arousal, with no single point of pleasure. Instead the entire surface of her skin glowed. She kicked off the sheet and lay back, struggling to control her breathing. Pleasurable images of the dream filled her head but were followed close on their heels, as so often before, by the urge to flee. She did not want to be there when Saira awoke.

  Miranda got out of the bed and washed her face. She put on a new bra and pants from Top Shop and tiptoed through into the adjacent room. Saira was lying on her back and gently snoring. From Saira’s bag she chose a pair of jeans and a silk shirt. She put them on. From beside the camera she recovered Saira’s sneakers and from the back of the door she took Saira’s tailored black coat with pink satin lining. Saira had left the keys to a hire car on the bedside table beside the tapes. She picked them up and pocketed them. The last thing she did was remove the tape from the camera. She put it in her bag with the other evidence. She would be the one who determined when it was released.

  Minutes later she was walking across the car park, pointing the fob at each car in turn until finally one clicked and flashed and came to life.

  “The British state will taste a tiny portion of what innocent Muslims taste every day at the hands of the Crusader and Jewish coalition to the east and to the west.” It was Jonah talking, his voice strangely flat and toneless on the radio. “Death will find you …”

  She pulled over on to the hard shoulder, and sat for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel, her whole body shaking, while traffic roared past.

  “This new footage released on extremist websites overnight shows another former member of the British Army’s secretive Afghan Crisis Cell confessing his involvement in the death of a senior CIA agent in the 1990s,” the announcer said. “He is also shown engaged in a recent act of sabotage against an Iraqi pipeline and has repeated the threat of an imminent terrorist attack on British soil. We asked both the Ministry of Defence and the Home Office to speak to us but they refused to put anyone up for interview. With me here in the studio I have our Security Correspondent, Brian Judd. Brian, what can you tell us about this latest video?”

  “Well, John, according to a banner headline on the video it was produced by the media section of the Islamic Army of Iraq. I should say that this is not a group that we are familiar with. The video begins with a man of Middle Eastern appearance reading from a statement in which he claims that he is a former British Army officer and a double agent; a jihadist who infiltrated the highest echelons of British military intelligence. He calls himself Ishmael. As I said, he is reading from a written statement and he appears to have been beaten. It is not clear at this stage whether he is a hostage or a willing participant.”

  “And what can you tell us about the attack in Iraq?”

  “I can tell you that it happened. Three days ago, terrorists blew up the main pipeline that carries nearly half a million barrels of oil a day out of southern Iraq. Repair crews rushed to the scene but they are operating in an extremely insecure environment, in dangerous circumstances. According to my sources this attack may cost Iraq hundreds of millions of dollars in lost oil exports before the damage is fixed. The terrorists knew exactly which pipe to destroy and where to find it. That suggests a level of sophistication the like of which we have not seen before. It seems entirely possible that this is indeed the work of an international gang made up of trained former intelligence agents.”

  “And they have repeated their threat against us?”

  “That’s right, John. In his statement the man calling himself Ishmael says: Economic jihad is one of the most powerful ways in which we can take revenge on the infidels at the present stage. The right target may generate a rate of return many times greater than the size of the initial investment. The signs are that this gang intends to pull off a spectacular attack on our infrastructure, possibly on the city of London. The security forces here appear to be concentrating their efforts on securing the Thames Barrier in advance of the coming storm.”

  “That’s because in the earlier video, released several weeks ago now, there was reference to a tidal wave.”

  “That’s right, John. The Barrier seems to be the target. And the warning issued today by the Met Office Storm Tide Forecasting Service of a low-pressure area approaching across the Atlantic, together with a projected higher-than-normal tide, suggests that we may be facing a scenario that tests the Barrier to its limit. If the terrorists chose this moment to attack, London could suffer cataclysmic damage …”

  The sudden whoop of a police siren and a wash of colored lights in the rear-view mirror startled her. There was a police car behind her on the hard shoulder, flashing its lights at her. Terrified, for a moment she thought of running. On her right, lorries thundered by and on her left was an exposed bank of grass. A policeman was approaching. There was nowhere to go. She jabbed at the off switch on the radio. The policeman tapped on the window.

  “Are you all right, madam?” he asked once she’d opened the window.

  “Yes,” she said. “I felt dizzy, that’s all.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Better. I’m OK now.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” the policeman said, “there is a service station just up ahead. We’ll escort you there. You can take a rest.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She drove seven miles in the slow lane to the service station and the police car followed her into the car park, before tooting its horn and leaving. She sat for a while with her head in her hands.

  IN THE CEMETERY

  September 11, 2005

  Miranda stood for a moment by the stile at the back of the graveyard with the Sussex Downs behind h
er and the spire of the early Gothic church before her. The air was full of petals from the wisteria on the cemetery wall. She had no idea what to expect.

  Norma Said was standing by a graveside among the yew trees, wearing a long dark blue cashmere overcoat and court shoes. She looked up as Miranda approached and her eyes were shining. Miranda realized that her cheeks were wet with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I miss him. He was a difficult man …” She tailed off, contemplating her husband’s grave, which was decorated with a fresh bouquet of lilies. “The right hemisphere of his brain, which is what you use for sorting and recognizing faces, was damaged. Towards the end he developed something called Capgras syndrome. He took it into his head that Jonah was being impersonated. In his eyes, Jonah was no longer Jonah. He used to become very agitated on those rare occasions when Jonah visited. He would shout at him. It must have been very hard for Jonah to see his father in that condition.” She shakes her head sadly. “It was typical of my husband that even his delusions were prescient.”

  They stood for a moment.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I thought that it was best to meet discreetly.”

  “The police are looking for me,” Miranda told her.

  “As far as the Secret Service is concerned, my son is a terrorist traitor and you are one of his accomplices.”

  “I don’t believe that Jonah is a traitor,” Miranda said.

  “When I joined the Intelligence and Security Committee, I fully expected to learn things, often unpleasant things. I did not expect them to be so close to home. I admit I underestimated my son. I knew that he was determined. He was a very determined child. When he was small he had a plastic horse on springs that he called Go. Sometimes when he rode it he would pass into a kind of trance and bounce for hours, back and forth, back and forth, with a blankness in his eyes. I found it worrying. I used to have to hold his shoulders down to stop him. What is worrying in a child rapidly becomes disturbing in an adult. I suppose I was taken in by his impersonation of a directionless and unsettled young man. He was my son, but I did not like him very much. When I first read his name in a file, I admit I was deeply surprised. I was forced to reappraise him.”

  “There’s somebody coming,” Miranda observed.

  A serious-looking man in a gray suit approached from the direction of the highly polished black car parked at the cemetery’s main entrance. He stopped just within earshot.

  “Are you OK, ma’am?” he asked, cautiously.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m fine.”

  “Very well,” he said, and retreated to the car.

  “I was unused to protection,” she said, “but then I learned secrets and lies and I grew to believe that the prime minister was right when he said that I must have it. You’d better not stay long. The people who protect me may also be watching me now. I have submitted a letter of resignation. I do not believe that it will be long before the prime minister accepts it.”

  “I think that Jonah is trying to stop a terrorist attack.”

  Norma glanced at Miranda, an impatient glance that said: You don’t get it, do you? “It’s a conjuror’s trick. A plot plucked from the air: an article of faith.”

  “I don’t understand,” protested Miranda.

  “There are forces at work,” Norma Said explained, “forces at the heart of this administration that sincerely believe that the overriding purpose of intelligence is to shape the public mood. They believe that any deception is justified as long as it serves that purpose and then it is not deception at all. In believing this, they expose us to the gravest risk. I’m afraid that during the course of the last decade, under our current leadership, lying has become integral to the functioning of intelligence.”

  “You are suggesting that there is no plot?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. There may be a plot. There is certainly a threat. There are files full of worst-case scenarios. The vulnerability and interdependency of modern society means that any disruption to the infrastructure has the potential to cause mass civilian casualties. There are genuine terrorists, of both the homegrown and overseas varieties, who mean this country harm. There are individuals like myself and my son, who, for whatever reason, have become embarrassing or surplus to requirements. The ingredients are all at hand. What I am saying to you is that it suits certain individuals who seek preferment within the intelligence services to nurture and encourage an apocalyptic plot, a threat to the very fabric of this nation, so that in foiling it at the very last moment they provoke a strong national reaction—the righteous indignation of the tabloid press—and in so doing hand to their political masters the means to advance draconian legislation at home and project massive force overseas. You have to understand that the belief persists within certain sections of the administration and the Secret Service, even now, after all that has happened, that countering terrorism involves defeating a global insurgency. Afghanistan, Iraq—these are simply moves in a long war, a multigenerational conflict in which preemptive attack and regime change must be used to defeat terrorism and spread liberal democracy throughout the world.”

  Miranda opened her mouth and abruptly closed it again.

  “It has been my intention since I joined the committee to control the Secret Service,” Norma Said declared, “to shift its powers to separate, smaller agencies and to make each of them separately accountable, and in doing so to dilute their powers.” She shook her head wistfully. “I had not counted on the resourcefulness or ruthlessness of my adversaries. I have been blocked at every turn. And now, by manufacturing a plot and implicating my son in it, they have managed to discredit me.”

  “What should I do?” Miranda asked.

  “A senior intelligence official within MI6 is behind this. His name is Topcliffe, though he goes by the code name Fisher-King. I do not know the exact details of the conspiracy that he has manufactured but I do know that he will stop at nothing to ensure his own preferment.”

  Miranda was suddenly aware of movement behind her and, turning, saw the American FBI agent Mikulski with his hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket. He seemed to have materialized from the nearest yew tree—not moving, just standing there, half hidden, expectantly waiting.

  “This is Mr. Mikulski. I believe that you have met him before. He tells me that he is not a member of any conspiracy. He says that he is simply interested in the truth. In my experience, America gives us the worst of itself and the best of itself. I sincerely hope that Mr. Mikulski is a product of the latter.”

  “It’s good to see you again,” Mikulski said.

  She stared at him, unsure of what to say. There was a pause. “I didn’t kill Monteith,” she said, “or Andy Beech or anyone else for that matter.”

  “That’s not really what I’m here about.”

  “Then what are you here about?”

  “Can you tell me where Jonah is, Miranda?”

  “I’m looking for him myself.”

  “What about Nor ed-Din?”

  She paused. “If he comes, then perhaps …”

  Mikulski nodded. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

  “We must not let terrifying threats cause us to degrade what is valuable in our society,” Norma Said told them. “God go with you.”

  Mikulski walked in the direction of the stile and after a moment’s hesitation Miranda followed. When she caught up with him, he said, “I don’t know whether by luck or skill, but you’ve done well to evade capture. What have you got for me?”

  “Items that were planted in Jonah’s study …”

  “Show me.”

  They sat side by side in the rental car and he quickly leafed through what she had to offer. The postcard, the tide tables, the ship’s diagram, the coordinates. It didn’t seem like much.

  “The time of tomorrow’s high tide is highlighted,” Miranda told him. “Whatever they are planning, it’s for tomorrow night.”

  “I see that.�
��

  When he came to the diagram of the ship Mikulski frowned.

  “It’s a Liberty ship,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “A Liberty ship. It’s a distinctive profile, like a child’s imagining of a ship. They were hastily constructed freighters used to move supplies across the Atlantic during the Second World War. Tin cans really. They’ve got one in Baltimore harbor. It’s a floating museum. My grandfather worked in the port. He used to take me on it as a child. What about the coordinates?”

  “They mark a point about a mile and a half off the coast of Sheerness in the Thames Estuary.”

  He handed the things back to her. He seemed mildly disappointed. “What else can you tell me?”

  She told him about the death of Monteith at the hands of Alex Ross in the bomb-making factory and finding Beech’s body on Barra. She told him what she had learned about Threshold and Graysteel.

  When she mentioned Graysteel, he became briefly animated and asked, “Have you heard the term Those Who Seek The End?”

  “No.”

  “They’re a loose-knit group of powerful people linked to the security industry,” he said, “CEOs, policy-makers, politicians and the like. They are extreme in their views. Let me give you an example. They argue that military and economic functions should be reunited, as in the time of the British Empire when firms like the East India Company were the main instruments of foreign policy, cutting deals and making war. They believe that the commercial security companies that are increasingly responsible for our defense in America and overseas should have a much greater say in the running of the state. Some call them a millenarian cult. Personally, I regard their activities as treasonous. I believe that Richard Winthrop answers to them.”

  She explained that all reference to Winthrop had been removed from Jonah’s collage.