The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  There were none.

  Snow switched on the radio and tuned it to the BBC’s news channel. There was a discussion going on between the presenter and a security analyst. The presenter was complaining that recent events had left the public with no confidence in the police or the intelligence community. First had been the catalogue of errors that had led to the unlawful killing of Fèlix Rubió. And then, trumping even that disaster, had been the bombing of Westminster Tube station and the assault on the Houses of Parliament. How could anyone feel confident that they were protected when things like that were allowed to happen? What was being done to make sure that there was no repeat?

  Pope knew the analyst. He rode a desk for a trendy Whitehall think tank. The man had no operational experience and had bluffed his way into a lucrative career as a talking head on news shows thanks to a series of guesses and speculation that occasionally proved to be correct. Pope had no respect for him.

  He started a monologue about how he understood the public’s frustration, that his ‘sources’ were frustrated, too, and that there would need to be progress soon.

  ‘What a twat,’ Snow growled.

  ‘Turn it off,’ Pope said.

  Snow did as he asked. Pope reached into his jacket, withdrew his pistol and, keeping it below the line of the windows, checked the magazine and pushed it back into its housing with a click.

  Ten minutes.

  Two miles away, Munro and Stokes were readying themselves to break in to the mosque. They had skirted the perimeter of the building, confirming Pope’s intelligence. It was well covered by CCTV cameras and would not be easy to infiltrate without leaving evidence that they had been there.

  The wall that had been damaged by the car had not been fixed, and it had been a simple thing to move aside the temporary wire fence and slip through the broken teeth of the opening. They pulled on their balaclavas and gloves and hurried into the grounds. They saw the CCTV camera and knew that they would be seen on the footage. But that wouldn’t matter. It would be impossible to identify them.

  There was a secondary entrance on this side of the building. It was secured behind a wire cage, but Munro was able to pick the lock so that it could be pulled aside. The door itself was flimsy, and the lock had been shattered with a single firm kick. The two agents raised their torches and went into the dark interior beyond.

  Snow dropped Pope on Hartington Street and Kelleher on Greame Street. They had been spotted together once, and it would risk suspicion if they were seen together again. This was hardly the street for a late-night romantic promenade. Hartington Street ran north–south, two streets to the west of Rosebery Street. He was carrying a small shoulder bag with the kit that he thought he might need. He turned onto Alison Street and walked east, crossing Beresford Street and then Rosebery Street. Street lamps flickered on and off, and the moon was obscured by a slow-moving stack of silvery cloud. Visibility was more limited than before. That was helpful.

  He saw Kelleher at the mouth of the alley. She stepped around an overturned bin and pulled on her balaclava. Pope reached the alley and did the same. She pointed to the first gate and, on his signal, opened it and slipped inside. Pope saw the back garden just as she had described it: a concreted-over space, junk discarded across it, a short distance to the dilapidated lean-to. There were no lights visible on either the ground or first floors of the house. He heard a low growl from the next garden across and glimpsed a powerful-looking pit bull chained to a fence post. Pope reached for the silenced Sig. The dog growled again, but it didn’t bark. Lucky dog.

  Kelleher hurried to the rear door. Pope came up behind her and glanced in through the single window. The pane was covered by a patterned net curtain, and nothing was visible.

  Pope reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and overshoes, putting them on over his hands and feet. He made sure that the elasticated openings were snug over the cuffs of his shirt and his trousers so that the chances of anything being left behind were minimised. Kelleher did the same. It was imperative that they left nothing that could be traced to them. The medical and dental records belonging to agents of Group Fifteen were routinely scrubbed, but the last thing they wanted to do was leave a DNA trace that might be tied back to them at some point in the future.

  Number Nine inserted the pick gun into the lock, squeezed the trigger three times and worked the tension rod until the pins of the lock were lined up correctly. The breaching was quiet, but it was not silent. The gun exhaled little bursts of compressed air, and the pins rattled as they were forced into the open position. The door opened, and Kelleher stepped aside.

  Pope stepped up, held up his pistol in his right hand and counted down from three with the fingers of his left.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  He gently pushed the door and went inside.

  Kelleher followed, closing the door behind her.

  They were in the kitchen. A little moonlight filtered through the net curtain. He saw battered kitchen units on the wall, one missing its door, and a freestanding cooker and refrigerator. There was a linoleum floor, peeling back from the wall at the edges, sticky in parts where liquid had been spilt. There was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. He smelled the residual odour of curry. The room was empty.

  Kelleher split off behind him and checked the door to what Pope guessed was a downstairs toilet. She nodded that the room was clear.

  He circled his finger in the air to indicate they should proceed and then pointed at the open door that led to the hall, light filtering inside from the frosted glass panel in the front door.

  There was a door to the right, halfway between the kitchen and the front door, and to the left, he saw the start of the stairs. He continued down the hallway and took up position at the foot of the stairs. Kelleher paused at the door, listened for a moment and then gently opened it with her foot. It swung back with a groan that sounded unnaturally loud, and she went inside.

  Pope concentrated on inhaling and exhaling normally, fighting the urge to hold his breath. He glanced up the stairs and saw the deeper darkness of the landing above. Nothing was visible. A floorboard creaked from the front room. Pope gripped the butt of his cocked pistol tighter. Kelleher emerged again, shaking her head.

  Pope pointed up the stairs. He took a thin Maglite from his bag and shone it down as he climbed the stairs, his feet on the outside of the treads. Kelleher followed behind him. He reached the landing and cast the light around him. There was a laundry basket directly ahead, stuffed full of dirty clothes. He reached the top and turned to the left. There was a chest pressed up against the wall and, atop it, another pile of dirty clothes.

  Two doors up ahead of him. One was opposite his position, the other immediately to the left.

  Pope paused, listening hard. He could hear the sound of low breathing, but he couldn’t discern from which direction it was coming.

  Number Twelve’s voice crackled low in his earbud. ‘The police car is coming back.’

  He clicked the pressel twice to acknowledge the message and turned back to Kelleher, who gave a nod. She had received it, too.

  Pope edged ahead. The door to the left would lead to the room at the front of the house. He pressed his fingers against it and gently exerted enough pressure to push it open.

  He went inside, his silenced weapon up and ready to shoot.

  It seemed to be an office of sorts. He took the three paces necessary to reach the window to the street below, and pressed up hard to the side of it, he risked a quick glance through the net curtain. The police car rolled slowly down the street, slowed to a stop outside the front door, and then rolled on again.

  Snow: ‘It’s moving on.’

  Two clicks.

  There was a desk on the other side of the window with a PC and a monitor atop it. He noted that, so he wouldn’t forget it later, and crept back to the landing. He motioned that the room was empty and pointed to the remaining door. He had suspected that this
was the room where they would find Hussain and his wife. The layout of the house suggested that it was the bigger of the two.

  The door was halfway ajar, and he looked in. There was a wardrobe ahead and, to the right, a bed on which he could make out the shape of two recumbent bodies. He pushed the door open enough to step inside, his teeth set on edge by the low groan of badly lubricated hinges, raising his pistol and aiming it down at the bodies in the event that they awoke.

  They did not.

  There was a bedside table to each side of the bed. Each table held an identical lamp. Hussain was on the right. He was on his back, and Pope could see the fuzzy grey mess of his beard. There was a copy of the Qur’an on his table.

  Pope took four steps until he was alongside him.

  Kelleher moved around the bed to stand over the woman.

  Pope counted down from three, and on one, they both moved with fluid, practised efficiency. They put their left hands over the mouths of the couple and pressed the guns hard against their heads.

  Hussain bucked in sudden alarm, but Pope pushed down and anchored him to the mattress. He tried to scream, the noise muffled by Pope’s palm. He bucked again, trying to free his arms from beneath the duvet. Pope took the butt of the Sig and cracked it down hard against his forehead. It was a strong blow, and the sharp edge of the butt cut the skin and drew a little furrow of blood. Hussain moaned, the noise smothered once again.

  Pope looked across the bed to Mrs Hussain. She was lying still, her eyes wide and eloquent with fear above Number Nine’s restraining hand.

  Pope switched his grip on the pistol so that he could put his index finger to his lips. ‘I’m going to take my hand away,’ he said in a quiet, firm voice. ‘If you make any noise, my colleague will shoot your wife and then I’ll shoot you. Blink if you understand.’

  Hussain’s wife might have been frightened, but he was angry. He stared unblinkingly up at Pope.

  ‘Last chance.’

  He pressed down hard with the Sig.

  Hussain blinked. His good eye was full of fury.

  He drew back with the gun, the end of the silencer leaving a circular red tracing on the cleric’s forehead.

  Pope pulled his left hand away, putting his finger to his lips again to remind the man to lie still and quiet. He reached into his bag and took out a roll of gaffer tape.

  ‘Lift your head.’

  Hussain did as he was ordered, and Pope unrolled the tape, wrapping it all the way around his head two times. When he was done, the bottom half of the cleric’s head was covered with it. There was just enough space for him to breathe through his nose.

  ‘Now you do your wife.’

  His eye shone hatred at him, but again he did as he was told. He did a thorough job, winding it twice around her head, tearing it off and handing the roll back to Pope.

  Pope switched the pistol to his left hand, and using his right, he dragged him out of bed. He told him to put his arms behind his back, and he wrapped another length of tape around his wrists, fastening them together. Finally, he took the tape and wound another length around his eyes, fashioning a makeshift blindfold.

  He tossed the roll of tape to Kelleher and spoke as she bound the woman’s wrists together. ‘We need to speak to your husband. We’re just going to take him downstairs. If you make a sound or try to come after us, we’ll shoot you both. Nod if you understand.’

  She nodded vigorously.

  ‘Very good. If you do as we say, you won’t be hurt. Stay here. Don’t come out, and definitely do not come downstairs. Understand?’

  She nodded again.

  Pope stood, hooked his right hand between Hussain’s pinioned arms and dragged him to his feet. Kelleher backed away, her Sig held in a steady aim at the woman’s head.

  ‘Get the hard drive,’ he said to Kelleher, and then, when she had hurried into the other room, he spoke quietly into the mic on his lapel. ‘Twelve, Control. Move.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  He moved the cleric to the head of the stairs and jabbed the pistol between his shoulder blades. The man took the stairs carefully, each foot probing for the next tread, Pope up close behind him. He reached the bottom, and Pope grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him into the corridor, bumping him off the walls as he shoved him into the kitchen. He heard Kelleher following them down the stairs.

  Snow reported. ‘I’m here.’

  Pope opened the back door and pushed Hussain into the back garden. After his earlier restraint, the pit bull next door started to bark. It didn’t matter so much now. They were nearly done. Pope pushed the cleric against the gate, opened it for him, then shoved him into the alleyway. The Passat was waiting at the mouth of the alley, the passenger-side front and rear doors open. Hussain stumbled over the overturned bin and fell flat on his face. Pope hauled him to his feet, put a hand on his head, pushed down and then propelled him into the back, immediately getting in next to him. Number Nine leapt into the front, the doors were slammed shut and Snow drove.

  Pope and Kelleher took off their balaclavas, latex gloves and overshoes.

  ‘All okay?’ Number Twelve asked.

  Pope looked at the cleric beside him, his head mummified in gaffer tape. ‘No problems.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It would take them nine hours to drive from Manchester to Wick. They had stopped as soon as it was safe, just outside Manchester, to transfer Hussain to the boot. Now, several hours later, they had left the motorway to stop a second time, giving their prisoner a chance to relieve himself.

  As Pope raised the lid of the boot, the courtesy light casting a subtle amber glow over Hussain, he could see that the cleric had brought his knees up to his chest so that he fitted snugly.

  ‘We’re going to drive for another hour,’ Pope said to him. ‘If you’re a good boy, and there’s no noise or trouble, you can stretch your legs for five minutes. Understand?’

  The cleric nodded. Pope hauled him up, dragged him out of the boot and stood him on the side of the road. Pope saw that the man wanted to speak. He tore the tape away from his mouth.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he said plaintively.

  ‘You know why, Mr Hussain.’

  ‘Those boys. Hakeem and Bashir and Aamir?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I do not approve of what they did.’

  ‘Save it for later. I’m just in charge of delivery.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, sir. I had nothing to do with what happened.’

  Pope took him by the shoulder. ‘You need to relieve yourself?’

  Hussain ignored him. ‘They listened to my sermons, perhaps they shared my view of things, but I would never have approved of what they did.’

  ‘You’re wasting your breath. Go now if you need to; we’re not stopping again.’

  He ignored him again. ‘None of this is necessary, sir. Please – let me go, I have nothing to do with any of it.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

  Pope took the gaffer tape.

  ‘Please!’ Hussain said.

  He wrapped the tape around his head again, pushed him back into the boot and shut the lid.

  ‘You believe any of that?’ Kelleher asked him as he got into the car.

  ‘Irrelevant what I think. Not up to us to decide, is it? Come on. Sooner we get back on the road, sooner we can drop him off and get back to civilisation.’

  There was an unmarked Gulfstream V Turbo waiting on the edge of the taxiway. Pope guessed that the plane would be registered to a Delaware corporation that would front ownership for the CIA. They would pass it around different front companies every few months, change the tail number and otherwise make it more difficult to trace out the truth. An investigation by a liberal British newspaper had made things a little more difficult last year. They were able to chart the to-ing and fro-ing of a particular jet through the observations of plane spotters posted on the web. Its flight plans always began at an airstrip in Smithfield, North Caroli
na, and ended in some of the world’s hot spots. It was owned by Premier Executive Transport Services, incorporated in Delaware, a brass plaque company with nonexistent directors, and had been hired by American agents to revive an old CIA tactic from the 1970s. Agency men kidnapped South American criminals and flew them back to their own countries to face trial so that justice could be rendered. Pope had delivered a suspect for rendition before, to an aeroplane very much like this one. Paddy McNair had called it the Guantánamo Bay Express.

  Pope was able to park right alongside the aircraft, which was being refuelled by a mobile bowser. A man and a woman in bland business dress were sheltering under the cover of a wide golfing umbrella next to the open door. Pope checked left and right before he got out of the car. They were in an isolated part of the airport, and there was no suggestion that they were overlooked. He opened the door, went around to the back and opened the trunk. Hussain was inside, curled into a foetal ball. Kelleher and Snow got out, their weapons drawn, and then, working together, they hauled the cleric out of the boot and dumped him on the tarmac.

  Hussain was on his knees in the sheeting rain. His head hung down low between his shoulder blades and there was a low murmur of discomfort that was muffled by the tape around his mouth.

  ‘Alam Hussain,’ Pope said. ‘As requested.’

  The woman nodded. She didn’t say anything. Pope would have been surprised if she knew who he was, and besides, there was very little to discuss. This was a simple transaction. A handover, an exchange that had been repeated many times previously. He knew that Hussain’s immediate future was bleak. It promised pain and discomfort. Then he would be buried deep in the CIA’s penal system, and Pope doubted if the cleric would see the light of day for years. He didn’t feel uncomfortable about it. Hussain might have information that could save the lives of hundreds of innocent civilians. He might not, of course, but that was a risk that Pope was happy to countenance. Simple calculus. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.