Dead Line

by Stella Rimington

  The silence dragged on. Liz had done enough interviews to know about silences - this was one she was not going to break. Eventually Miles said, ‘I guess we just have to watch for anything unusual that crops up. I know, for instance, that there’s at least one senior intelligence officer Damascus has sent over here recently.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘He’s called Ben Ahmad. He was a senior counterespionage officer in Syria. His presence here doesn’t make much sense to me.’

  But it did to Liz. Brookhaven didn’t know that the threat to the conference came from anti-Syrian forces - according to the MI6 source in Cyprus. For that reason, a counterespionage specialist was precisely what Damascus would be sending. Backed up by the muscle Wally Woods and his team had seen arriving at Halton Heights.

  They were slowly descending now, the buildings below seeming to grow larger as they grew closer. Miles was tidying up the lunch things while Liz thought about what he’d said. Yes, Ben Ahmad would be worth having a look at, she decided, making a mental note.

  When they left the Eye the river was full of boats, taking advantage of the fine weather. ‘Back to the farm?’ he asked, and she smiled at the Americanism, then nodded.

  ‘Me too. I’ll walk with you.’

  They went along the South Bank, with its view of Parliament across the river. Miles said, ‘We haven’t talked about you at all. When did you join your service?’

  As they walked, she gave him her own potted history -how she’d answered an advert initially, then found herself progressing through interviews until suddenly she had been offered a job. She’d had no specialist expertise, and would never have predicted during her university years that MI5 was where she would end up.

  ‘You must be doing very well there.’

  She shrugged. She liked Miles, in spite of his rather crude intelligence-gathering technique, but she didn’t need his flattery. She knew she was good at her work: she had strong analytic skills, worked well in the field (especially when interviewing people), and could get along with almost everyone - except, she thought, people like Bruno Mackay, but she hadn’t met many of those. Any pride she took was always tempered by the realisation that her work was never done, and that the successful resolution of one case just meant the introduction of a new challenge. But that was what made it all so interesting.

  They’d reached Lambeth Bridge, and Liz stopped. ‘I’d better cross here,’ she said. ‘Thank you for lunch.’

  ‘A little unorthodox.’

  ‘It was fun,’ she said simply.

  ‘How about dinner sometime?’ Miles seemed slightly nervous.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  As she crossed Lambeth Bridge, watching two barges adroitly miss each other just upstream, she wondered about Miles. Asking her to dinner seemed unequivocal enough, but was it all part of a CIA attempt to cultivate her? If it was, it didn’t matter. She felt quite confident that she could see Miles coming, well, miles off. She had a date, she thought, the first in some time. Nice, but she wasn’t going to get very excited. More interesting, for now at least, was this news of a Syrian counter-intelligence officer in London.

  NINETEEN

  Lucky Sophie, thought Liz, taking in the oak cupboards, the granite tops and the slate floor. The kitchen of the large Edwardian villa seemed enormous and bright, as the sun, low in the sky now, glanced between two tall trees at the bottom of the garden. It was a far cry from Liz’s Kentish Town basement.

  She was sipping a glass of wine while Sophie moved back and forth between the stove and a large chopping block -she’d always liked to cook, Liz remembered. An elegant woman came in through the French windows from the garden, holding the hand of a small pyjama-clad boy. Dressed casually in well-cut trousers and a cashmere cardigan, she was still handsome in her mid-sixties. Liz liked her at once. Watching her sitting in the kitchen with her grandson on her knee, she admired how the older woman seemed to manage to be an attentive and devoted grandmother while simultaneously conducting an adult conversation. While Sophie put the little boy to bed, Liz and Hannah sat on the terrace and talked about Israel, which to Liz’s surprise, Hannah seemed to regard with very mixed feelings. Now Liz took another pistachio from the bowl between them and said, ‘Sophie tells me you’ve made a friend here, from the Israeli Embassy.’

  ‘Yes. Danny Kollek. Have you met him?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I have,’ said Liz. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Quite by chance, really. We got talking in the interval of a play at the Haymarket theatre. He’s very nice. Much nicer than any of the officials I’ve met in Tel Aviv, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Do you know a lot of them, back in Israel?’

  ‘Well, not really. Most of those I know are Mossad. They came to talk to me about my husband, Saul - ex-husband I should say - almost as soon as I arrived in Tel Aviv. I expect Sophie told you. Sophie thinks Danny may be Mossad too,’ added Hannah disarmingly.

  ‘Did he tell you he was?’

  ‘No, and I don’t believe it. He’s far too nice and we met quite by chance.’

  Liz said nothing but she was thinking, I bet that was no chance meeting. She’d checked before she came out and Kollek was at the embassy all right, and he wasn’t on the list Mossad provided of their London-based officers. But what Hannah had described was a classic intelligence officer’s pick-up. He’s probably been asked to keep a discreet eye on her while she’s in London, she thought.

  Hannah went on, ‘I’ve told them I don’t want to talk to them anymore.’ She lowered her voice. Why? thought Liz. There was no one to overhear.

  ‘Saul and I split up, you know. He did business throughout the Middle East, probably still does; computer systems. I couldn’t help them much because I didn’t understand the detail, but they told me that though the systems were innocent enough by themselves, they were capable of helping a country develop sophisticated counter-radar weapons.’

  ‘Did he deal with the enemies of Israel?’

  Hannah shrugged and, looking at Sophie who was now back in the kitchen and seemed preoccupied with her daube, she said, ‘Saul wasn’t very choosy about his customers. He was only interested in making money.’

  Liz nodded sympathetically. ‘Is that what Danny Kollek talks to you about?’

  Hannah gave a sudden laugh. ‘Goodness, no. Danny’s only interested in music. Even more than in me,’ she added loudly enough for Sophie to hear. ‘Seriously, he’s just a friend. We have lunch, we go to a concert - there’s nothing professional about it at all. If anything, he’s sympathetic to the movement.’

  ‘The movement?’

  ‘The peace movement. I got involved almost as soon as I arrived in Israel. Everyone seems to think Israel is full of right-wing hawks, determined to keep the occupied territories. But it’s not that way at all. There’s plenty of dissent there. In fact, I’d say most intelligent Israelis are adamantly opposed to government policy. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t think a negotiated settlement is the only way forward. The Likud people are just nuts.’

  ‘And your friend Danny thinks that way, too.’

  ‘Absolutely. But of course his hands are tied. That’s one of the drawbacks, he says, of being at the embassy. He’s not allowed to have an opinion, really. But I can tell he’s on our side.’

  ‘I see,’ said Liz as politely as she could, reluctant to say that this didn’t seem a very professional way for a diplomat to behave. Could this apparently switched-on woman be so easily taken for a ride?

  At this interesting point in the conversation Sophie intervened. ‘Here we go,’ she called from the kitchen, putting a large cast-iron casserole on the table. ‘All I can say, Hannah, is thank heavens you’re not kosher. I had to brown the beef in bacon fat.’

  Thinking afterwards about her conversation with Hannah Gold on Sophie’s terrace, Liz concluded that Sophie had been perfectly right about Danny Kollek. To the professional eye, too many things didn’t fit, quite apart from the impl
ausibility of the whole relationship. Charles Wetherby agreed. ‘He must be Mossad,’ he said. ‘But you say he’s not on the list - he’s undeclared to us?’

  ‘Well, it’s not the first time the Israelis haven’t played by the rules. Presumably his head office have asked him to keep an eye on Mrs Gold while she’s here. But there’s not enough there so far for us to complain.’

  Charles looked at her. ‘What’s the matter? What are you thinking? Is this important?’

  ‘I’m just worried about this peace conference. There’s too much noise around it. Too many odd leads that don’t seem to take us anywhere. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to keep in touch with Sophie Margolis.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles, turning back to the papers on his desk. ‘Do. And keep me informed.’

  TWENTY

  Dear Peggy, thought Liz, as the younger woman entered her office clutching a thick stack of notes. She has been busy. Liz motioned her to take a seat.

  ‘All well with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Tim still cooking up a storm?’

  Peggy turned a light shade of pink, then sighed. ‘We’re onto Jamie Oliver now.’

  Liz laughed, then turned to business. ‘So what have you got?’

  ‘I’ve been looking some more into Sami Veshara, our Lebanese food importer. He leads quite a life. There’s a girlfriend in Paris, so he’s made a couple of trips there recently. And he’s been to Lebanon three times in the last six months - nothing unusual there. But on the last occasion he flew home via Amsterdam.’

  ‘Is that suspicious? Maybe he couldn’t get a direct flight.’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘I checked that. There were plenty of seats that day. He went to Amsterdam for a reason.’

  ‘And what do we think that was?’

  ‘It’s more what Customs and Excise think. I told you about these shipments Veshara’s been making by boat. The Excise people now think they are a cover for something else. Some other boats that don’t come into Harwich; Harrison, the officer I spoke to, has been investigating them and he thinks they drop anchor in a deserted spot further down the coast, then offload the cargo there.’

  ‘What does he think they’re offloading?’

  ‘He doesn’t know for sure, but Amsterdam suggests the obvious. Harrison’s planning to intercept one of them next time they sail. They’ve been coming out of Ostend, and he’s liaising with the port authorities there.’

  ‘Any idea when the next one’s going to be?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Peggy consulted a printed email she had on her lap. ‘Tomorrow night, they think.’

  Liz thought for a moment. It might prove a wild-goose chase, but right now it was the only solid lead they had.

  Liz was beginning to feel sick. It was high tide in the little cove, ten miles south of Harwich on the Essex coast, and though the curving bend of this stretch of shoreline made for a natural harbour, it was still fully exposed to the North Sea. It wasn’t rough but the slow swells lifting and lowering The Clacton, the little Customs cutter, seemed to have a worse effect on her stomach even than the violence of a storm.

  ‘Should be any minute now,’ said Harrison to Liz, who was the only other person on deck, besides the helmsman. Harrison’s team of half a dozen were below, drinking tea, immune to seasickness. The helmsman stiffened, though he kept the boat idling gently in the curve of the little bay, under the shadow of the cliff face that loomed directly above them. A crescent moon darted in and out of the patchy clouds that spread across the sky like fat puffballs.

  Liz had driven up in the afternoon to Harwich, where she’d met Harrison and been introduced to his men. She had been kitted out with a yellow uniform parka, which was warm and cosy - and about three sizes too big. The odd look had come her way during Harrison’s briefing, but no one had asked her why she was there; perhaps they’d been told beforehand not to ask questions, or maybe they were used to unexplained visitors. Harrison himself was a model of discretion, making polite small talk over sandwiches, then excusing himself to get ready. Liz killed the wait before they embarked by reading dog-eared copies of Hello and the Sun, which were lying around in the canteen.

  The helmsman spoke. ‘There’s a boat over there, sir,’ he said, pointing out towards the North Sea. ‘Coming this way.’

  Liz looked seaward and saw a tiny light, like an illuminated pin bobbing against the horizon. The pin grew larger, and Harrison took two steps and banged loudly on the hatch door. A minute later it opened, and the six Customs men came up the stairs quickly. Liz noticed that two of them were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines.

  Looking through binoculars, Harrison spoke to the sailor at the helm. ‘Time to move. But take it easy at first.’

  The pin light was now well into the cove and Liz could make out the shape of a small trawler. Almost a quarter of a mile from shore it stopped, and sat motionless in the water.

  Harrison tapped Liz on the shoulder and handed his binoculars to her. ‘Have a look.’

  She peered through the infra-red glasses, and could see the trawler clearly in an eerie greyish light. It was a fishing boat, with a flat-backed stern and a hoist to haul its nets up. The bow was snub-nosed, and she could read its name on the side - The Dido. The entire vessel couldn’t have been more than forty feet long. There was no sign of anyone on board, though the wheel house was sheltered, so whoever was steering was hidden from view.

  She handed the glasses back to Harrison. ‘She’s sitting pretty low in the water, isn’t she?’

  He nodded. ‘Whatever she’s carrying must be heavy. Or else there’s just a lot of it.’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘Okay, let’s move in.’

  The Clacton surged forward, and Liz felt the sting of salt spray and cold wind against her cheek. Her nausea had turned into a familiar rush of excitement. About one hundred yards short of The Dido, The Clacton slowed, and at a command from Harrison, a pair of spotlights positioned on her bow suddenly pierced the darkness, throwing out penetrating streams of light, illuminating the trawler against the background of night like a film set.

  Harrison was ready in the bows with the loud hailer. He had just shouted, ‘This is her Majesty’s Customs and Excise,’ when the engine of the trawler erupted and the boat suddenly turned sharply and headed at speed toward the open sea.

  ‘Go!’ ordered Harrison, and The Clacton accelerated in pursuit. Liz clung on to a brass rail as the boat surged forward. But they didn’t seem to be gaining on the trawler, and she feared they would lose her once they were out in open water. Then ahead of them, heading in an intercepting line, appeared another boat.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘One of ours,’ Harrison reassured her. He gave a short laugh. ‘It always helps to have some back-up when the buggers cut and run.’

  As the other Customs boat drew near, the trawler was forced to turn and slow down, allowing The Clacton to draw ahead of The Dido on its port side. The trawler gave a sudden burst of speed, and for a moment Liz was convinced it would cut through the converging Customs boats and get away. But a rapid sequence of flashes crossed in front of the fleeing boat, and Liz heard the sound of an automatic weapon firing.

  ‘Tracer bullets,’ explained Harrison. ‘That should get their attention.’

  The Dido seemed to hesitate, as if trying to make up her mind, then she slowed almost imperceptibly. As they sailed further out into the open sea, Liz realised that The Clacton and the other Customs boat were forming a ‘V’, which held the trawler trapped between its arms. The two then began to turn almost imperceptibly to port, perfectly in synch, keeping the trawler nestled between them, until Liz saw that they were heading back into the quieter water of the cove.

  ‘Keep alert,’ Harrison called out to the men on the bow. ‘They may try it again.’

  Now down to idling speed, The Dido was covered by searchlights from both Customs boats. There was still no sign of anyone on deck. Harrison stepped to the o
utside rail. Lifting his hailer he called to the trawler.

  ‘We are armed, and will board you by force if you don’t come out. You have thirty seconds to show yourselves.’

  This is like a Western, thought Liz, as they waited tensely. After about fifteen seconds, a man emerged from the wheelhouse; he was followed almost immediately by another man. They both wore black souwesters, with knee-high gumboots.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Harrison commanded. ‘We’re coming aboard.’

  In a moment The Clacton drew alongside. The two armed Customs men stood with their rifles pointed at The Dido, and a third man moved forward, holding a rope in his hand. Carefully judging the gap, he suddenly jumped and landed on the deck of the trawler, then moved to the bow, out of the line of any possible fire. Pulling hard, he brought The Clacton towards him until it bumped the trawler gently. In the stern another officer jumped onto The Dido and between them they brought The Clacton parallel.

  Harrison turned to Liz. ‘You’re welcome to come aboard, but please stay behind me. You never know what they may have waiting below.’

  Following Harrison, Liz jumped from the gunwale and landed lightly on The Dido’s deck. The other Customs boat had drawn up on the far side, and soon there were a dozen officers on board, though Liz noticed that an armed man remained on each Customs boat, covering them. Three of the Customs men on board were also carrying weapons -Glock 9 mm pistols.

  The two men who stood in the glare of the spotlights were Middle Eastern in appearance. The older one was heavy-set with a thick stub of moustache. He looked to be in charge.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Harrison asked him

  He shrugged, feigning incomprehension. When Harrison turned to his companion, he received the same response.

  There was a broad hatch on deck that clearly led below, though it was bolted shut. Harrison pointed. ‘What’s down there?’ he demanded.

  The moustached man spoke for the first time. ‘Is nothing below.’

  ‘Nothing?’