Dead Line

by Stella Rimington

  Also by Stella Rimington

  Open Secret: The Autobiography of the Former Director-General of MI5

  THE LIZ CARLYLE SERIES

  At Risk

  Secret Asset

  Illegal Action

  DEAD LINE

  Stella Rimington

  Quercus

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by

  Quercus

  21 Bloomsbury Square

  London

  WCIA 2NS

  Copyright © 2008 by Stella Rimington

  The moral right of Stella Rimington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN (HB) 978 1 84724 310 2

  ISBN (TPB) 978 1 84724 311 9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Typeset in Sabon by

  Ellipsis Books Limited, Glasgow

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  ONE

  In his flat near the British Embassy in Nicosia, Peter Templeton woke early. For a few minutes he lay staring at the ladder pattern on the wall of his bedroom made by the sun shining through the Venetian blinds. Then, with an anticipatory jolt, he remembered the message he’d received yesterday: the codeword from Jaghir that called him to an urgent meeting. Templeton was MI6’s head of station in Cyprus, and Jaghir was one of his most important agents.

  There was little traffic in Nicosia this early, so when Templeton’s black saloon pulled out of the car park beneath his block of flats it had the street to itself. But within thirty seconds a small, battered hatchback swung round a corner and began to follow closely behind the saloon.

  The two cars went south through the old walled city, a cautious convoy, avoiding the UN Green Line and the Turkish sector in the north. They took the narrow side streets, past old stone houses with ornate balconies, their tall wooden shutters still firmly closed, and shops that were not yet open for business. Driving through an opening in the old Venetian wall, former boundary of a once much smaller city, they crossed the Pedieos River. The two cars proceeded carefully, their drivers alert and tense; another vehicle could have followed their labyrinthine progress, but not without being detected.

  As they emerged from the outskirts of the city, a hinterland of white concrete apartment blocks, the cars accelerated and drove on towards the Troodos mountains. Slowly the road began to climb, and at the base of the range it split, its main artery moving north around the mountain, a smaller track heading in a tortuous zigzag up the mountain itself. In the crook of the junction sat a small cafe, just half a dozen tables in a dusty courtyard under an overhanging tourathes rigged to block the sun.

  Templeton lifted his hand briefly from the wheel in a quick salute to his colleague, and drove on up the track. The hatchback pulled into the cafe’s small parking lot and the driver got out to sit at a table, ordering a coffee when the proprietor emerged blinking in the bright light. But the driver’s eyes watched the road he’d come along. It was barely seven o’clock and cooler here than in Nicosia, but already the temperature was over 30°C.

  As Templeton made his way up the treacherous track that cut through the large stands of umbrella pines lining the mountainside, he kept an eye on his rear-view mirror, but all he could see was the cloud of dust his car was stirring up. It was just three miles to his destination, yet he knew it would take at least another fifteen minutes. He manoeuvred carefully up the incline with its seemingly infinite twists and curves, catching glimpses through the trees of an ancient monastery ahead of him, nestled neatly into a wide ledge halfway up the mountain. Its walls of white ashlar blocks seemed to grow out of the mountain, enfolding a group of buildings, their tiled roofs aged over the years to a dark mocha brown.

  After a final twist of the road, he reached the walls and, driving through an arch, he left his car parked at the base of a short, steep flight of steps. He climbed them slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shade after the blinding sunlight of the hillside. At the top, on a long terrace tiled in white stone, he stopped and gazed down at the road he had come along. Beside him a roofed portico stretched to a large squat chapel with a cloister on one side, from which came the sound of the monks going to prayer. That would keep them occupied for the half-hour Templeton required for his meeting.

  He sat down on the ledge that overlooked the mountainside and the valley below, picking a shady corner where the terrace joined the portico. The air was scented by the dry, dropped needles of the pines and by the thyme growing in cracks in the walls. Perched here, he could see the cafe, not much bigger than a speck. As he waited, the mobile phone in his jacket pocket vibrated.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. He could hear the whirr of cicadas on the hillside below.

  ‘On his way. Alone so far.’

  ‘Okay. Keep me posted.’

  He watched patiently, until far below him he saw dust kicking up in small clouds from the track, then a moving dot that gradually turned into a car, a Mercedes, grey with dust. The noise of its tyres grew louder as it came quickly up the track, and braked with a small squeal next to Templeton’s car.

  A moment later, an Arab in a smart light-grey suit appeared at the top of the stairs. He was in his forties, trim and thin, his h
air short but expensively cut, and even in the heat his shirt was crisply pressed, the collar uncreased. Seeing Templeton, he came over to the corner, his eyes alert.

  ‘Salam aleikum, Abboud,’ said Templeton as he stood up to shake hands. He spoke classical Arabic, learned in six months’ intensive tuition at the language school in the hills outside Beirut, then honed to fluency by twenty years of postings in the Middle East.

  ‘Aleikum-as-salam,’ the man named Abboud replied, then switched to English. ‘We are alone, I take it.’

  ‘Entirely,’ said Templeton. He gave a small smile and nodded at the chapel. ‘The brothers are all at prayer.’

  They sat on the ledge, Abboud peering warily down the mountainside. Templeton said, ‘You must have something important to tell me.’ Their next meeting had not been due for a month, but the message from Abboud - Jaghir - had been unambiguously urgent.

  ‘I do,’ said Abboud. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, waving it towards Templeton, who shook his head. Lighting a Dunhill with a gold lighter, Abboud inhaled deeply, then blew smoke in a long snow-coloured stream over the ledge. A hundred yards out a hunting kestrel hovered high over the mountainside, its wings fluttering slightly to steady itself against the movement of the thermals. ‘I was in Damascus last week. Tibshirani called me back.’

  Templeton nodded. Tibshirani was the deputy director of Idarat al-Mukhabarat, one of Syria’s dreaded secret services, and Abboud’s direct superior. He was a man who mixed intellectual sophistication (he had been a postgraduate student at Berkeley in California) and peasant brutality.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘We are having some problems with the Turks. They arrested one of our agents last month in Ankara. It could have consequences - especially here in Cyprus.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘But that is not why I wanted to see you. I had dinner with Tibshirani on my second night. In the old quarter. No wives, though there was some other female entertainment.’ He gave the briefest flicker of a smile. ‘Afterwards Tibshirani started talking about another operation. I thought he was just drunk and being indiscreet - he’s known me since I joined the service - but then the next morning in his office he briefed me formally about it.’

  He paused for a moment, looking down the mountain, then stood up to gain a better view. Satisfied that nothing was coming up the track, he sat down again on the ledge, throwing down his cigarette and grinding it out with the heel of his tasselled loafer.

  He said, ‘You’ve heard about these talks between my country and the Americans.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Templeton. It was a sore point in Whitehall, since the British had been excluded from the discussions.

  ‘It’s commonly thought they are going nowhere - without Israeli involvement, it’s said, the Americans cannot agree to anything. If they do, the Jewish lobby will just block it in Congress. That’s what the media says, at any rate.’

  This was true. The original enthusiasm that the two hostile governments were actually talking to each other had gradually given way to a widespread cynicism that nothing of consequence would emerge from the ‘secret’ meetings the whole world now knew about.

  Abboud tugged at one of his cuffs and stared out at the arid valley towards Nicosia. The kestrel was lower in the sky now, moving patiently above the slope, like a gun dog working a field. He said, ‘I tell you, my friend, this time the on dit is wrong. For once talks may lead to something - the administration in Washington seems determined to break the impasse in the Middle East at last, even if it means standing up to Israel. They want a legacy and they have chosen this to create it.’

  Was this why Abboud had called an urgent meeting? wondered Templeton. It was all interesting stuff, but hardly worth the risk each man had taken coming here.

  Sensing Templeton’s impatience, Abboud held out a reassuring hand. ‘Do not worry - I am coming to the point. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.’ He looked at his watch, a sliver of gold that glinted in the harsh, still-rising sun. ‘In two months’ time there is going to be an international conference in Scotland. You may know about it. It has not attracted much interest so far because only the moderates have agreed to attend. But my government wants progress. We need a settlement for the stability of our country. So we have decided to attend. I am to be part of our delegation, which is why Tibshirani told me the story.’ He raised his eyes to the sky.

  ‘What story?’

  ‘We have information that certain parties are working to disrupt the process. We know of two individuals acting to prevent any peaceful solution to the current stalemate. They intend to blacken the good name of Syria and thus to destroy all trust at the conference.’ ‘How will they do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I can tell you my friend that if they succeed there will be a bloodbath in the region.’

  ‘Do you know who they are, who is directing them?’

  ‘I know they have connections to your country, and I know their names. But Tibshirani does not know who is controlling them. He does not think it is the British.’ He smiled, a gleam of white teeth in the sunlight. Then he gave Templeton two names, reciting each one twice, quite slowly, to make sure there was no misunderstanding. Nothing was committed to paper by either man.

  ‘Okay,’ said Templeton, having memorised the two names. ‘Where does this information come from?’

  ‘That I cannot tell you.’ Abboud laughed as he saw the irritation spreading across Templeton’s face. ‘But only because I do not know myself. Believe me, it’s not worth my trying to find out; I already know more than I should. I believe it to be true, and so does Tibshirani. But listen to me; here is the most important thing. These people, these two parties who are working against us - my colleagues are going to move against them before they can do harm.’

  ‘Move?’

  Abboud merely nodded. They both knew full well what this meant.

  ‘When will they “move”?’

  ‘Soon, very soon. They will do it in the UK. Secretly. So it will not be known who has acted. My side does not want anything to disrupt this conference. We see much for Syria to gain - we hope to get back our country from the Israeli invaders. So my superiors consider that action against these people is worth the risk if it keeps the conference alive. Personally, I fear that if they make a mistake it may have the opposite effect, which is why I am telling you. But now I must go,’ said Abboud, standing up.

  Templeton stood up too, looking out down the mountainside. The kestrel was no longer circling; it must have found its prey.

  TWO

  Liz Carlyle was not in the best of humours as her taxi came to a grinding halt in a traffic jam in Trafalgar Square. She had spent the morning at the Old Bailey giving evidence in the trial of Neil Armitage, a scientist who had been arrested in Cafe Rouge in St John’s Wood, in the act of handing over a briefcase of top-secret documents to a Russian intelligence officer.

  It was her first time as a witness in court, an experience that once had rarely come the way of MI5 officers, though now with frequent arrests of terrorists, it was more common. Liz had not enjoyed it. She was at her happiest when she was using her analytical and intuitive skills to make sense of complicated intelligence - working to put the case together that led to arrests. Court no. 1 at the Old Bailey was not her natural environment, and she had found it surprisingly stressful.

  Knowing that her identity and appearance would be protected, she had expected to sit behind some sort of screen. Instead, the court had been cleared of the press and the public and she’d emerged from a rear door straight into the witness box, where she stood directly facing the defendant in the dock. Although he didn’t know her name, he knew he was there largely because of her work. She felt like an actress entering from the wings onto a stage, without a script, exposed and not in control. For one used to working in the shadows, it had been an unnerving experience.

  So she was not best pleased when, just as she was recovering with a strong coffee an
d the Guardian crossword puzzle, her boss, Charles Wetherby, had rung to ask her to go and represent the service at a meeting in Whitehall.

  ‘It’s about that Middle East peace conference in Scotland,’ he had said.

  ‘But Charles,’ she had protested, ‘I hardly know anything about it. Aren’t the protective security lot dealing with that?’

  ‘Of course. They’ve been working on it for months and they’re completely on top of it. But they’ve got no one available to send this afternoon. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be decided at this meeting. The Home Office have called it at the last minute just so they can demonstrate they’re in charge, before the Home Secretary goes to Cabinet tomorrow. I knew you’d have finished in court and you were close by, so I volunteered you.’

  Thanks very much, Liz had thought ruefully, for dumping this on me after the morning I’ve had. But though she was irritated, she couldn’t feel cross with Charles for long. She’d worked with him for a good part of her ten years in MI5, and he was everything she admired - calm, considered, professional and without vanity. He made people feel part of a committed team, working with him as much as for him. It was more than admiration, she had to admit to herself. She was strongly attracted to him and she knew he cared about her too. But it was an unspoken affection, an invisible thread that neither acknowledged. Charles was an honourable man - one reason why she admired him -and he was married to Joanne. And Joanne was very ill, terminally ill perhaps. Charles, she knew, would never contemplate leaving her, and Liz couldn’t have respected him if he had.