by RJ Bailey
The second one was to try and determine who was telling the truth about Paul’s death. According to Swincoe he was murdered by the Blade of Islam. No doubt in his mind. It was tied in with Paul’s work for MI5. It made sense.
Buchan’s scenario required more of a stretch. I had no doubt the incident he described in Kosovo happened, or something close to it. But the idea that this child grew up to be so hellbent on revenge that he tracked down a British squad, long scattered to the four winds, almost beggared belief. Buchan himself might well have some form of PTSD. He certainly had paranoid tendencies. He had spoken about ‘Trouble’ as if it were a real character that was on his tail, constantly tracking him down to disrupt his life, to hurt people close to him. ‘You have to understand, Trouble will always find me,’ he had said.
So, do you believe a government secret agent or a slightly wonky-in-the-head ex-soldier with combat stress?
I had no idea. Like I said, I’m no Sherlock Holmes.
And yet, there were those two other bodies besides Paul’s. What, statistically, were the odds of three out of a squad of seven men dying? Well, let’s be generous, let’s include the three-man Warrior crew as being complicit, although Buchan had said that they had played no part in the massacre. Thirty per cent fatality rate, all the deceased in their forties? It didn’t sound probable.
My phone on the seat next to me flashed its little light show. Two messages. One was from Mrs Sharif, who must have landed: Nuzha would like to go shopping this afternoon. Can you take her?
I wasn’t meant to be on call, but as we always said, flexibility is everything in the job. Jess was going to the V&A with Laura, as part of an after-school art project, and I had nothing to do but brood. And pry into Mrs Sharif’s secret life. And perhaps, I realised at that moment, I had it all wrong. Perhaps she was just having a common-or-garden love affair with a married man or a handsome young lover.
It made me think of Buchan and the feel of his body pressing me into that hard bed and what happened to my insides when he first slid into me. A few neural fireworks went off at the memory and those damned flutters started again. He might be wonky in the head, but everything else was fully functioning.
And Paul? I could hear Nina’s voice, that no-nonsense Scottish accent stronger than ever. Ach, Paul’s dead. He’s past caring.
Yes, but I’m not. It still felt like a betrayal. But one I could probably live with. One, if I was honest with myself, I’d like to make again.
Of course, I messaged back to Mrs Sharif. Pick her up at two?
Yes, fine, pinged back straight away. The battery-life symbol in the corner of the screen turned red as the message went. This MI5-issue phone might be all-singing and all-dancing but the damn thing needed re-charging daily.
The second text was from Swincoe, in the guise of someone offering, thanks to a ‘new government initiative’, to give me a half-priced kitchen: We need to talk, is what it really said.
We did need to talk. I needed to run Buchan’s tale about Paul’s death by him, so a meet was fine by me. I checked the time on the dashboard, then sent the message accepting. Another came back, apparently making an appointment for a salesman to visit me. But it translated as: Midday, at Kenwood House. That would give me plenty of time before I had to take Nuzha shopping. I took one last look at the Bounds Green Fatih Mosque, but clearly it wasn’t going to help me solve anything, and I started the engine.
If you stand at the southwest corner of Kenwood House and look across over London, the view, apart from the crane towering over Witanhurst, the enormous private residence on Highgate Hill, owned by the Guryevs, is much the same as would have been enjoyed by generations of the Mansfields who once owned the mansion. There are no mobile masts, no steel and concrete towers. All I could see was a lawn rolling down to a lake, with a rather lovely white bridge reflected in limpid waters and, behind that, a wall of trees. It was like stepping out of the twenty-first century, back three hundred years ago when Kenwood’s most famous inhabitant, the mixed-race Dido Elizabeth Belle, lived there. Except in her day, cattle grazed the lawn and the dairy on my right was operational.
You might fancy a stroll down the lawn to stand on that fetching white bridge with the Palladian balustrade that crosses the body of water known, for no clear reason, as Thousand Pound Pond. If so, you’ll be disappointed. It is in fact a fake, known as the Sham Bridge, a flat Hollywood-style ‘front’ standing on the water’s edge, designed (by Robert Adam, no less) to please the eye but not to traverse the lake.
In truth, I knew little of all this before that day. I had found Swincoe staring out over trees that hadn’t quite come into full leaf, and he had decided to give me a brief history of the view and, I feared, a tour of the house’s various artworks – there was a ‘rather good’ Gainsborough, he said – before I blurted out: ‘Can we get a coffee?’
‘Of course. Sorry for prattling on. This was a famous dead-letter drop for spies and their handlers back in the 1970s. The Russian Trade Delegation is just across there.’ He waved a hand towards the east. ‘Forgive me. We used to practise fieldcraft training round here.’
We bought our drinks at the counter in the Steward’s Room and took them into the courtyard. It was overcast and both of us were wrapped up warm. I wondered how the Sharifs would feel coming back to a gloomy English spring after the light and sun of Dubai. Maybe that was why Nuzha wanted to go shopping, to cheer herself up.
‘So, have you got anything on him? Sharif?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Your phone picked up only boring stuff,’ he admitted. He was hangdog, his jowls looked like sun-melted butter. ‘We almost got a man in, a proper bug-planter, by creating an electrical fault, but I think the security guy got suspicious. He didn’t let him out of his sight.’
Ali was too good to fall for that. ‘Nor would I have. Oldest trick in the book, the TV repairman, the phone engineer, the dangerous gas leak.’
He smiled at that. ‘We do have a rather limited repertoire.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘You haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary?’ he asked, fixing me with a wide-eyed stare.
Did I want to sick him onto Mrs Sharif just yet? What if it was an innocent liaison, and I was responsible for blowing her cover or ruining her marriage? I just needed to be sure. Perhaps I would follow her to the mosque the next day. Then perhaps I could tell him for certain. ‘Not really.’ I sipped my Americano. ‘I do have something to ask you, though. About Paul.’
‘Really?’ He unwrapped a sugar cube, dropped it into his coffee and gave it a vigorous stir. ‘I thought I’d covered everything.’
I gave him the short version of what Tom had told me, without mentioning Tom. He said nothing for a while, sipping his coffee while the fingers of his left hand drummed on the table. It was an irritated little tattoo.
‘You know of this how?’
‘Someone who served with Paul.’
‘So you said. Do you have a name?’
‘Only his first one.’ Well, that’s not true. I ignored my inner scold.
‘Which is?’
Something made me lie a second time. ‘Neil. I just bumped into him.’
Swincoe gave a small huffing sound. ‘Did you? Isn’t that something of a coincidence? “Bumping” into an old chum of Paul’s? Not something I really believe in.’
I agreed but I said: ‘That doesn’t mean they don’t happen.’
He gave another small grunt, as if accepting the point. ‘Well, given our resources, I can easily check out the details.’
And get him to confirm that your husband was a murderer? a little voice in my head chided. Good call.
‘I mean, have three people from Paul’s unit really died?’ He leaned in, his voice taking on a harsh edge. ‘Did it not occur to you that if there is some sort of foreign hit squad targeting our ex-servicemen, well – that it is a job for MI5? For me and my colleagues?’
He had a point. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Possibly,’ I conceded. ‘On the other hand, we are talking a potential murder charge, a war crime—’
‘In some people’s eyes, maybe,’ Swincoe scoffed. ‘I was in the service, you know. I know what it’s like to be at the sharp end, to have to make those sort of decisions. My interest is purely in getting to the truth of who killed Paul, not raking over some cold coals.’ He hesitated. ‘Sounds to me like the lads deserved medals. Now, what is his name?’
I had to push the next few words out. ‘He goes by Tom Buchan.’
‘Not Neil?’
‘No. I . . . as I said, he has admitted to a war crime and I thought it best—’
‘As I said, that is no concern of mine. I am sure nobody wants to bring this up officially after all this time. Where is he now, this Tom Buchan?’
‘I think that’s an alias. Well, I’m sure of it. And he’s on his boat. On the Regent’s Canal.’
‘What you have told me, about a lad seeking revenge . . .’
‘Sounds crazy, I know.’
‘It does.’ He gave his cheek a thoughtful scratch. ‘Let us say for a moment it’s true, that Paul was murdered because of something he, and others, did while serving in K-FOR. That’s something we can investigate. Without raising red flags in The Hague or at the MOD, believe you me. But meanwhile, the Blade of Islam still exists, and it is possible that the Sharifs are funding them. What you have told me does not alter the basic facts. We are fighting a slippery, implacable enemy that wants to harm the UK. The country your husband was dedicated to protecting. You have my word I will look into this Tom Buchan’s story. Meanwhile, I have something you need to do for us.’
‘Which is?’
He leaned back, glanced either side, and came back in. ‘There is a laptop Sharif carries with him everywhere. A gold MacBook. You’ve seen it?’
I nodded. ‘It’s always on his desk.’
‘It’s not connected to the internet. It’s off the grid entirely. No emails, no browsing history.’
‘So how does he communicate from that?’ I asked.
‘Encrypted USB sticks, we think. Easily hidden, disguised, transported, destroyed. The game has wound back fifty years, thanks to the amount of electronic surveillance we put out there, what with GCHQ and the NSA. It’ll be back to invisible ink soon.’
I had a sudden sinking feeling. ‘You want me to steal the computer?’
He shook his head. ‘No, it would probably have some sort of remote wipe facility. All our laptops do. Had to, as junior agents seem to have a habit of leaving them in the back of taxicabs. These days, rather than panic about national security, we can send a message that orders the machine to, well, self-destruct. Or at least delete all its files.’
‘Until the other side learns how to block that signal.’
He gave a rueful grin. ‘How true. But we don’t know how to do that with Sharif’s laptop. What we want you to do is upload the hard drive.’
‘Won’t that be protected?’
‘From copying? We doubt it. It will have various encryptions in place on the material. But let the boys at GCHQ worry about that.’
‘And if there is nothing there? About Blade of Islam?’
‘We’ll destroy it, of course. We aren’t interested in his personal life or his business dealings. Just the other company he keeps.’
‘Might keep,’ I reminded him.
‘Might keep,’ he agreed.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Are you frightened you’ll be caught?’
I hadn’t even thought of that. ‘I was thinking more of the moral dimension.’
‘Moral? Let’s talk about the morality of beheading British soldiers on the streets of London or massacring a lobbyful of hotel guests. And I think you crossed into a different moral dimension when you agreed about the phone.’
‘It seems like a much bigger step. I’m not comfortable with theft.’
He closed his eyes as if in irritation. ‘What if I find out about your Tom Buchan by, say, Monday.’
‘Find out how?’
‘What’s his barge called?’
‘The Slim Pickens.’ I spelled it out.
‘Really?’
‘Belonged to some old actor, apparently. Wasn’t Tom’s choice. Bad luck to change a boat’s name when you buy it. So he said.’
‘He seems to think about bad luck a lot.’
Swincoe had a point there.
‘Well, the British Waterways Board will have a record of who has the licence for the Slim Pickens. One phone call and we can go on from there. Get an idea if he is telling the truth about Paul. See if you are dealing with a war-damaged fantasist. Would that offer change your mind?’
I checked my phone. I had to be going. ‘I’ll sleep on it.’
He gave a solemn nod. ‘Very well. But we’d like to get the files as soon as possible. The threat level is moving towards Critical. GCHQ say there is the sort of nervous chatter around BOI that suggests something is going to happen.’ He gripped my wrist for emphasis. ‘And happen very soon.’
Brent Cross was one of the situations where I needed the disabled sticker that One-Eyed Jack had scored for me. Unless you have one of the Blue Badge mobility badges – or a baby and pushchair to legally park in the other designated bays – you can’t park close enough to the exits for comfort. At least, not for me. If you want to evacuate, then you don’t want to be running over hundreds of metres of exposed tarmac. Maybe, I thought, there were times when those self-driving RSCA cars that Jack hated so much would come in handy.
When I picked Nuzha up, there was a palpable tension in the house, an atmosphere that felt like a thunderstorm was developing indoors – heavy and unstable. Mr Sharif was stamping round in his office or, at least, that was what it sounded like from the other side of the closed door. Now and then he could be heard yelling on the telephone.
I raised my eyebrows at Ali, the security man, who shrugged his broad shoulders and told me Nuzha would be down soon.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Family disagreements in Dubai,’ he whispered, coaxing one end of his moustache into a needle point. ‘We were lucky we weren’t there by all accounts. I think they want Nuzha out of the house so they can have a good go at each other.’
Mrs Sharif had appeared, thanked me curtly for agreeing to take her daughter shopping and disappeared. The storm clouds felt more oppressive than ever and I was glad to scoop up phone and keys and leave.
As we parked up in the disabled bay near to the entrance to the John Lewis store, I turned to Nuzha. ‘Everything all right at home?’
I was fully aware I had taken a step over an invisible line. The politics of home life was not my concern. She gave a knowing smile, as if she could read my mind. ‘Yes. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘No reason.’ I went to get out.
‘Oh, you mean all the shouting? That’s something to do with Father’s business. Nothing to worry about, so Ammi said.’
I got out and opened her door, checking the surrounding area for threats. It’s a shopping mall. The main danger was to credit card balances. Still, you have to do it.
I stood aside. ‘How was the holiday?’
‘It was fun. Mostly. Abbu, Father, went off to Qatar for two days for meetings.’
Qatar. It rang a bell. As we walked to the entrance I Googled the country alongside the phrase ‘sponsors terrorism’.
According to the Daily Telegraph, money from that Gulf state’s business community had flowed to the vicious Libyan Dawn group and to Ahrar al-Sham in Syria. It drew the line at claiming money went to either ISIS or BOI, but the implication was there.
I made a mental note to tell Swincoe to check out any Qatar/Sharif links.
‘I’m glad you had a good time.’
‘It was too hot, really,’ she admitted. ‘I stayed inside, at the villa, and read. You know Philip Pullman?’
I knew enough about him to know that he wasn’t big on religion. Not Richard Dawkins, perhaps, but someone who asks questions of organised worship and finds it wanting. ‘I think Jess read Northern Lights. She didn’t like the film, though.’
‘The Golden Compass? No. I read all three, though,’ Nuzha said proudly.
‘And what did you think?’
She whispered the reply. ‘It wasn’t the sort of God my relatives talked about in Dubai.’
It was just as we reached the double doors that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
‘What is it?’
I didn’t know. Something. Condition: Orange.
‘Let’s go back to the car.’
‘Why? We haven’t even been in yet.’ For the first time, Nuzha sounded like Jess had at her age. Like she still could be now. Whiny.
‘I’m not sure. I’m not happy. Come. Please. We’ll go somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘Oxford Street. Bicester if you like. Anywhere.’
What had caused that? Think. Not visual. I had been staring into the store at that point, checking what was beyond the two sets of doors and making sure we could move between the pair – so as not to be trapped in the little vestibule space – as quickly as possible.
Yet a sudden desire for E&E – Escape and Evasion – had gripped me. I did a quick 360 and registered everyone in the vicinity. Old guy in a mobility scooter, two teenage girls, fists full of Hollister and MAC bags, a guy in a windcheater, looking for where he had parked his car, numerous mothers with kids of various ages and a couple of wash-your-car-while-you-shop operatives, wheeling their carts up and down, touting for business. I gave each of the latter a good stare even as we were walking, but they appeared to be the real deal.
I held on to Nuzha’s hand as we crossed back to the BMW, my head turning like I was on Wimbledon’s Centre Court. A Polo reversed out of a space nearby and I swerved us away, but it was coming out of the parent and child bay. I looked at the driver. Minimal threat.
I blipped the 7 series open with the key fob and pushed Nuzha, still muttering complaints, into the rear. Thank God for the Blue Badge disability sticker, because within a minute of me flipping out, we were heading for the exit.