by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
‘Not a scratch. When the Tower blew up, he was in the house bog. Just in time.’
‘Merciful relief.’
Stone-faced, Colquitt withdrew a checklist from his briefcase. ‘We have some questions.’
Ashe nodded.
‘Have you any ideas at all about the explosion? Special recollections? Who might be responsible?’
‘God knows. Presumably a bomb.’
‘Forensics are still combing the site. We’re investigating the security aspect. If the location was known to our enemies, then what else did they know? Who’s the leak?’
‘I presume the taxi drivers are vetted.’
‘Of course.’
Ashe was desperate to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You don’t think the butler did it, do you, Tony?’
‘Reynolds? Well, it’s funny you say that, isn’t it, Giles?’
‘Not really, Tony. The er… butler’s whereabouts are a mystery.’
Ashe’s sore face cracked into a pained laugh. ‘The butler!’
‘May have been involved, yes. Not that it adds up. According to survivors, without Reynolds, they’d have burned to death.’
‘Survivors, Giles? How many?’
‘That’s what’s puzzling. Thanks to Reynolds, we’ve only one funeral. He’d have been up for a medal if he hadn’t scarpered. Now he’s a suspect. But then… you yourself were not in the Tower at the time of the explosion…’
‘I got a call. Remember that vividly. Very embarrassing.’
‘Contrary to committee rules, I believe. Who spoke to you?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘The sound was breaking up.’
‘Breaking up?’
‘Yes, Giles, breaking up. Could’ve been anyone, couldn’t it? Except I presume you’ve already swiped my mobile?’
Colquitt withdrew it from his briefcase and handed it to Bagot. Bagot handed the mobile to Ashe.
‘Appears your last call came from someone based in Staffordshire. A woman, name of… Amanda Dyott.’
Ashe laughed, painfully. ‘So dear Amanda saved the bastard’s life!’ He shook his head. ‘And I thought she wanted to kill me!’
Colquitt and Bagot looked confused. ‘Are you related to this woman, Ashe?’
‘Not if I can help it, Giles. She’s a girl I know.’
‘Know?’
‘Bit of a limpet.’
Colquitt whispered something to Bagot, then turned to Ashe.
‘Evidently, Toby, somebody wanted you alive.’
‘I hope my wanting to be alive is not held against me.’
‘But that’s a problem, isn’t it? Your uncanny survival.’
‘Not exactly unharmed though, Giles, am I? The question, surely, is why anybody would want me – and everybody else – dead?’
‘Apart from your Ms Dyott, you mean. There’s the question of motive. Your phone call was certainly a lucky coincidence.’
Ashe felt the pressure beneath Bagot and Colquitt’s emollient tones. ‘Are you suggesting I pre-arranged the call so I could get out of harm’s way?’
‘We’d be foolish not to consider it. However, at this moment, you definitely look more the victim than the perpetrator.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘By the way, Ashe, it’s been decided that B5(b) will no longer concern itself with investigations into the Kartal Lodge bombing.’
Ashe couldn’t believe his ears.
‘No official encouragement for such activities, is there Tony?’
‘No, Giles. Not in the light of reassurances from the Turkish Embassy. The ambassador has personally assured the PM that there is no British security interest to consider; they have the guilty people. It’s an internal matter. We must focus our attention on this new atrocity here at home in the light of current evidence.’
‘What “evidence”?’
‘We’re simply conveying to you the official position.’
‘Am I to draw my own conclusions?’
‘You are to act in conformity with official expectation. The PM is most concerned, above all, that we focus our intelligence efforts on Iraq, where it’s most needed.’
‘Still, Toby, every cloud, eh?’
‘I see no silver lining, Giles.’
‘We’ve been authorised to inform you of your appointment as acting chair of the B5(b) Advisory Committee.’
‘Shouldn’t that be “acting bed”? Anyhow, aren’t I on your suspect list?’
‘Yes, that surprised us too. But then, we don’t make the policies. Just cogs in the great wheel. Like you. Now, there are a number of new security clearances to settle, and we shall need your signature on declarations in conformity with the Official Secrets Act and subsequent amendments, codicils, internal arrangements and so on.’
‘I’m not even a serving officer.’
‘It’s the direction things are going in, as you know. We’re all civil servants now.’
‘Expenses?’
‘There are additional expense allowances. Travel; secretarial; research.’
‘As chair, I can choose areas for investigation, can I not?’
‘Subject to general agreement.’
‘And which general would that be?’
Colquitt rose to his feet and fumbled inside his briefcase. He handed Ashe a file. ‘You don’t have to sign at once. Forty-eight hours would be acceptable.’
As Ashe began to read the secrets priority status on the brown cover, his mobile rang. Bagot immediately grabbed it off the bed covers.
‘Yes? No, this is not Dr Ashe. Who is speaking please?’
Ashe lurched forwards and snatched the phone. ‘Ashe speaking. Who is that? Right. Call back in ten minutes.’
‘That was a foreign voice, Ashe. I must ask you—’
‘Until I know more about the caller, Tony, that information is reserved for the acting chair.’
‘Not exactly, Ashe. In fact, not at all. Your activities are subject to scrutiny, until we get to the bottom of the Tower bombing. May we expect your unreserved cooperation?’
Ashe looked Bagot and Colquitt hard in the eyes. ‘Be assured, I shall devote all my resources to getting hold of whoever killed my dear friend – and who very nearly killed me.’
16
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Agent Beck studied the coffee machine outside the deputy director’s office. It wasn’t a hot drink that interested him. He’d drunk plenty at the five o’clock briefing with the CIA director and the thirty-nine other senior officers from the Intelligence and Operations directorates. Beck knew that the CIA’s Counter Terrorism Center was still grappling with the intelligence adjustments that followed 9/11, but surely this was an over-correction: there were more directors at Langley than on Gone with the Wind, and Beck was just one of fifteen FBI agents who’d been transferred to headquarters to aid communication between home and abroad.
Beck eyed the coloured lights on the coffee machine; they looked suspicious. What were they wired up to? Who had made the machine? Who serviced it? How often were the contents checked for contamination? Where were the suppliers based? Who was responsible for transporting the contents? What level of clearance was required for coffee machine technicians? Who checked their movements on entering DST?
Asking questions about the obvious came naturally to the mind of a CTC agent. But maybe he needed a break. The stress was getting to him. Or was it just the constant policy changes?
A female voice with a classy southern drawl suddenly filled the dark anteroom. ‘Agent Beck. Please enter my office now.’
A light whine was emitted from the steel door to his right. Beck pressed the green safety button. The door slid smoothly across. He entered a spacious, sunlit office, filled with fragrant flowers. A formal-looking lady looked over her horn-rimmed specs at the handsome man entering her office.
‘Do sit down, Sherman, please.’
Leanne Gresham, deputy director of th
e Directorate of Science and Technology, finished signing some papers, sipped some coffee from a porcelain teacup, cleared some space in front of her, then brought her hands together over the altar of rectitude that was her desk.
‘Well, Sherman?’
‘Ma’am, we have information of use to you and your department.’
Gresham nodded.
‘Ma’am, CTC is in receipt of a communication concerning one of your colleagues.’
‘The origin of the communication, Agent Beck?’
‘Classified, Deputy Director.’
Leanne Gresham removed her specs and stood up. Beck was impressed by her size: nearly six feet, with an athletic frame. ‘I had thought, Sherman, that we had all entered a new era of communication. If you want help from us, then I—’
‘Forgive me, Deputy Director, but this information is to help you. The source is classified because I’ve not been empowered to divulge it. However, if you want to contact my department and—’
‘I know how to contact your department.’ Gresham looked at her watch. ‘I was hoping to enjoy supper with my husband.’
‘Lucky man.’
‘Oh! Do you think so?’
Beck smiled. Gresham glimpsed the crack in the facade.
‘Now, never mind all that. What’s your information, Sherman?’
‘Ma’am, you have a colleague employed on government work at RIBOTech’s facility at Paradise, California. An internationally renowned biochemist.’
‘Several names spring to mind.’ Gresham put her fountain pen to her lips and licked the top. ‘Do you know anything about Paradise, Sherman? Ultra secret. But there are several men and women there who match your description.’
‘This man is an Iraqi by birth.’
‘Professor Sami al-Qasr has been working for the Good Guys since—’
‘1992.’
‘Quite so. What could our Sami have done to interest the CTC?’
‘SIGINT has received a message. Concerning your professor.’
‘Signals Intelligence receives some 2,500 cables a day. What makes this one stand out?’ She looked at her watch again.
‘It’s all in this file.’ Beck pulled out a slim dossier and placed it gently on Gresham’s desk. ‘But if I may summarise, the communication came from Baghdad.’
‘Which tells us nothing.’
‘The communication refers to a British air raid on one of Saddam Hussein’s high-security facilities near Basra in 1992. He gives some details. They suggest insider knowledge.’
‘Why do you keep saying “he”?’
Beck laughed but clipped it short. ‘You have a point, Deputy Director. To be frank, we do not know the gender of the sender.’
Gresham stifled a giggle.
Beck smiled. ‘The message says that the raid explains why al-Qasr’s usefulness to the US has been…’
‘Has been…?
‘Has been less than we might have expected before his defection from Saddam’s regime.’
Gresham’s eyes widened. ‘OK.’
‘Has his work been disappointing, ma’am?’
‘Complex question. His theoretical work has been first class. What else does the message say?’
‘The message is emphatic that al-Qasr has relations with Ansar al-Sunna.’
‘That’s no joke.’
‘Ansar al-Sunna has been getting stronger over recent months. We thought we had them on the run.’
‘And you haven’t?’
‘Events move fast in Iraq, ma’am.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The message ends with a plea for the US and the world to protect the Yezidi people of northern Iraq and the Transcaucasus. Apparently, they have much to fear from Professor Sami al-Qasr.’
‘The who?’
‘The Yezidi people, ma’am. Natives of Kurdistan. Most live in the Kurdish Autonomous Region, near northern Iraq’s border with Turkey. There’s a note on the subject in the file. Frankly, it makes little sense to us.’
‘Desperate lobbying, maybe. Maybe connected with the status of the Kurds of northern Iraq. A plea for attention.’
‘Maybe. It’s the reference to Ansar al-Sunna that makes further investigation imperative. They’re the guys fuelling the insurgency.’
Gresham folded her arms and walked over to the window overlooking the complex of concrete and glass. ‘I gotta say, I am surprised.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We have two security programmes in place around Professor al-Qasr already.’
‘Two?’
‘Yeah, and both seem pretty contradictory.’
Beck sat back in his chair.
‘You see, Sherman, when Sami first came over from Iraq, after debriefing, security checks and so on, it was decided his work would be permanently shadowed by one of our experts in the microbiology field. He’s kind of an understudy, except that Sami doesn’t know he exists – as such. The shadow used to operate out of the Office of Research and Development. He’s now based in our Office of Advanced Technologies and Programs.’
‘Opened in 2001.’
‘Good. You’ve done your homework. I hope it leaves time for fun.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘It was necessary for security reasons, but also because these genius researchers tend to sit on some of their discoveries longer than needs be.’
‘You’re spying on him.’
‘On his work; not on him personally.’
‘OK.’
‘Secondly, he comes under our personal security cover program.’
‘Personal security cover? Is he in danger?’
‘Well, Sherman. Some guys are in danger. And some guys are in love. What’s your problem?’
17
Dawn was just breaking, and the misty Sacramento Valley still shimmered with the streaks and splashes of last night’s neon.
Al-Qasr pulled his black Toyota pickup into the dusty drive of Kismet to see the three-car garage door wide open. There were skid-traces by the house. Where was Buckley? Where was the dog? His sixth sense in overdrive, al-Qasr wrenched the pickup into reverse, skidded backwards into a wooden out-house – smashing its sides – and sped back up his drive towards the mountain road to Paradise.
At the shaded entrance, a Cadillac screeched out in front of him. An arm shot through the open window and took aim. Al-Qasr reversed again. A bullet grazed his windscreen, ricocheting into the darkness. The pickup hit a big BMW.
Figures ran towards him, waving handguns. Al-Qasr shoved the pickup into first, ducked below the windscreen, rammed his foot down and hurtled straight for the Cadillac blocking the drive entrance. One of the men, hit by the steel bumper, tumbled awkwardly into the bushes; the other dived out of the way.
Al-Qasr smashed into the BMW, sweeping it to the other side of the track. Inside, Mati Fless gripped the wheel, trying to keep control of the vehicle. Turning on an angle, it slipped into a ditch by the entrance.
Al-Qasr turned down the hill. A shot rang out behind him, pierced the rear window and thumped into the passenger seat headrest. Al-Qasr slammed his foot down and roared off down the hairpin bends.
Fless wanted to give chase, but was called over to his wounded comrade.
‘That bastard’s got nine lives, I swear it.’
At the bottom of the hill, al-Qasr pulled into a side-track and sped a hundred metres towards an old barn he’d bought for the day he knew would come. The Toyota rolled into position. Extinguishing the headlights, al-Qasr jumped out. Breathing heavily, he reached for a switch; a dim bulb flickered into life. He then pulled a tarpaulin over the pickup, turned the light off and crawled under the chassis. Feeling for a rope latch, he raised a wooden hatch. Sami al-Qasr slipped from sight like a desert hare.
18
London’s little-known Hemlock Club could be addictive. Tucked away in Masons’ Yard, off Duke Street, St James’s, members were expected to distinguish themselves through activities the club’s famous ‘Rule 49�
�� described as ‘notorious and heretical’. The Rule had provided mirth for many generations of Hemlockians.
Members took wry delight in listening to archbishops publicly questioning key tenets of their faith, lawyers probing the validity of the Law, scientists suggesting Newton might be in error, and politicians declaring that democracy might not have been the sole destiny of the species. The risk of public disapprobation, condemnation or even a brief hiatus in an otherwise stainless career was regarded as a small price to pay for admission.
The doorman, dressed entirely in moleskin, nodded to Ashe then coolly appraised the stranger. Like a hangman assessing his latest client, he approached the towering Turk and inspected his neck. He then reached beneath his desk and brought out a mahogany tray bearing a selection of fine ties that had once been the property of late members. ‘Perhaps sir would favour a more modern tie, to match his coat?’
Aslan assented, taking a black leather Slim Jim. It went well with his blue shirt and black Italian leather jacket. Ashe nodded his approval.
‘The name “Hemlock”, Dr Ashe – is it from the legend of Socrates’ death? The great philosopher forced to take the poison for telling the truth?’
‘Socrates has always been regarded as the true founder of the club, although the deeds of foundation – like so much that is true – lie buried beneath the rubble of time.’
‘Ah! The “rubble of time”. I fear we shall be seeing more of that.’
‘Do you place your faith in forensics, Colonel?’
‘I place faith in this.’ Aslan touched his nose.
Ashe laughed politely and guided the Turkish colonel through dark corridors to the walnut-panelled restaurant. A bottle of 1998 vintage Pommery stood erect at the centre of their table. Klimt, the waiter, darted forwards to open it, his grey, greasy locks swaying over his bony shoulders.
‘Why did you ring me, Colonel? How did you get my number?’