by A P Bateman
King stopped at a minicab firm three streets away from the assisted housing complex. It was an undesirable street with a launderette, several halal butchers and grocery stores, a betting shop and two cash-converter type stores. The rest of the shops were boarded up and covered with graffiti. He knew the system and stood beside the waiting ten-year old Toyotas and Hondas and dialled the firm’s number in the window. He booked his taxi, turned around and was greeted by the nearest driver. Mini-cabs could only be booked, not flagged.
The driver took him swiftly to the Avis Prestige vehicle hire at City Airport where he had phoned through and booked a car. King had both the money and credit card that Forester had issued to him. He made his selection, but his next request was unusual and the salesman referred him to his manager. They took his payment and instruction, added a hefty premium, but fulfilled his request. King slipped the salesman a fifty note and the manager three fifties after the paperwork had been completed.
King left in a silver Mercedes E class. An executive saloon with a slick six-cylinder engine and a silky smooth automatic transmission. London traffic was terrible as always, but King glided through the experience from a luxury seat.
The drive down to Epping Forest and then on to the hospital in Brentwood took almost two hours, but once he had cleared the city traffic the journey had been swift and uneventful.
King parked the Mercedes in the visitor car park and made his way to the ward. Hodges had agreed to call ahead and let Rashid know to expect King. Rashid had only just finished his interview with the MI5 investigators. He had been tired, almost terse on the phone.
King bypassed the nurses station. He walked confidently through the ward and counted the doors and wards as he went. He looked at the uniformed police officer perched on an uncomfortable chair outside the room. “Detective Inspector Hodges called ahead,” he said. “I’m Alex King, I’m here to see the patient.”
“He’s a busy boy,” the officer commented.
“Are you armed?” King asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
King shrugged. He peered through the window and saw Rashid propped up on his pillows, his eyes closed. He opened the door and the man woke instantly. King guessed he had merely been dozing. Rashid looked at him warily.
“I know you,” Rashid said. “Hereford. Am I right?”
King walked in and pulled out a chair. He slid it across and sat down next to the bed. “I’ve been to Hereford, yes.”
“Stirling Lines.”
“You were in?”
Rashid scoffed. “Still am. On detachment with ‘Box.”
King nodded. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
“You were in my selection. No offense, you were an older guy and you were there one minute and gone the next. I figured you were binned. But I remember you, your eyes.”
“I worked for MI6. They had a shitty sense of humour. They would just send me for part of selection to assess my operational fitness. I did all of SAS selection to get in to MI6 as a specialist operative. I must have completed it in separate stages about ten times over the years.”
“You’re right. A shitty sense of humour,” Rashid smiled.
“So you were deep cover?”
“The plan was to get me into Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf’s mosque. Everyone knows he’s an extremist. He’s been lucky, had smart lawyers, played the racism card so many times its stuck like shit to a blanket. The CPS can’t get anything to stick to him though, and ‘Box, Six and The Met have all tried to get a UC into his organisation, they kept being made,” Rashid reached for a plastic cup of water. King passed it to him. Rashid drank thirstily. The air was dry and stale. “So what was your angle?”
“Hereford sent me out to Iraq. ‘Box helped me with travel arrangements and told me who to contact. From there I made my way to Syria, hooked up with some extremists and fought along ISIS.”
“Holy shit…”
“It was. I fought against Assad’s regime and made a name for myself. I didn’t aim wide or anything. You can’t soldier that way. You fight to win or get the hell out of there. It’s all fucked up there anyway. Assad’s lot are the ones we should have backed but we were supporting rebels with no hope of winning or ruling Syria if they did win. Just like in Libya. The Syrian government are better than ISIS, and that’s who’ll be in eventually if anti-government forces take control.” Rashid handed King the cup. “Give us a top-up, mate.”
King poured him another cup and handed it to him. “Do you want a coke out the machine or something else?”
“No, I’m alright,” Rashid drained the glass. “The nurse told me not to have much, but I’m chewing air here.”
King smiled. “So you were in deep with ISIS, came back and made contact with Al-Shaqqaf?”
“That’s the short version, yes. But it was more like putting myself in position and getting recruited. I had to prick-tease a bit, play hard to get, like. But ‘Box arranged for a family member to die, not literally, just a cover. I came back and before I left I asked my ISIS commander for a contact to help me out. ‘Box chose the right corpse, an old man in Islington with no other surviving relatives. This guy was supposedly a mentor to me when I was young. A proxy uncle. He worshipped at Al-Shaqqaf’s mosque. I had to gen-up but got the story straight. Al-Shaqqaf gave me some spiritual guidance and held a remembrance at morning prayers. I thanked him, walked away. He knew of my involvement in Syria, couldn’t wait to get me. He had a great reference from the ISIS commander. It was a coup. I spent six months fighting alongside ISIS, then almost another six months doing odd jobs for Al-Shaqqaf. Then they made me. Bastards. All that work.”
“I’m shutting Al-Shaqqaf down.”
“Sanctioned?”
“Grey area.”
“They’re the best.”
“It was sanctioned,” King said. “But then the guy died. I haven’t been pulled off.”
“Charles Forester. He was a good man. He was different to a lot of the spooks I met.”
“I thought that. He knew there was a high tide on the way. He wanted it held back a while, that’s all. Al-Shaqqaf and his reach needs shortening.”
Rashid nodded. “And Zukovsky?”
“The same,” King said. “What happened there? How did you end up working for the Russians?”
“He was meant to be an Islamist extremist.”
“When did you know he wasn’t?”
“He never prayed. I did, for cover mainly. I am a Muslim, but I’m like you lot who wander into a church at Christmas or give up something for Lent. I do it when I need it or visit my family in Bradford. I prayed and Zukovsky watched. I later saw him pray at Iman Al-Shaqqaf’s mosque. But he only followed the lead.”
“And the agents killed at the pier, were you involved?”
“I bought a batch of the Rohypnol drug,” Rashid shook his head. He was despondent.
“What about the missing agents?”
“I helped, yes. It was snowballing by then, I needed an out.”
“What does he want with them?”
“They were all in the chain. The events which led to the sacrificing of Zukovsky’s son. He wanted nothing more than for them to admit it on tape, I don’t know for what purpose, but after that he wanted to kill them.”
“So how did you meet Zukovsky?”
“He had built up a relationship with Al-Shaqqaf. He wanted a good man to make up the numbers, by now they had a plan for a strike. I was hired help, that’s all. I never contacted control to inform them, mainly because my infiltration was so perfect. Sometimes I forgot who the hell I was. Sometimes I worried ‘Box would think I’d gone rogue.”
“You’re going to find it hard to adjust.”
“No doubt.”
“I want you to tell me everything about the mosque and Al-Shaqqaf’s movements.”
“It will take a while,” Rashid paused. “How long have we got?”
“I’m going in tonight.”
56
Director Howard looked at her coldly. “You kidnapped a prisoner.”
“I secured a witness. Someone in a chain of hostiles who knew of a plan to use, and therefore the possible whereabouts of a missing Russian nuclear warhead. He was also one of the attackers on a Security Service safe-house which resulted in the death of Deputy Director Forester. I wanted to ascertain the facts before he got himself lawyered up.”
“Well, he has lawyered up and as he’s a suspected terrorist the police have four days to question him before he is charged instead of the normal twenty-four hours. The Crown Prosecution Service has already stressed that his abduction means it’s unlikely they’ll get a successful case built against him.”
“So he’ll walk?”
“It looks that way.”
“For theft or armed robbery, maybe!” Caroline snapped. “But he attacked the safe-house. Property belonging to the Security Service. He killed someone!”
“Did he? You know that for a fact.”
Caroline stared at Howard. “Yes,” she lied.
“There’s more CCTV in that house than you are aware of Miss Darby. Who’s the other man? The man with the assault rifle shooting the hell out of my safe-house?”
“Mohammed Betesh.”
“No. The man on your side.”
Caroline hesitated. “A contact of Forester’s. With the missing data Forester wanted someone helping whose cover wasn’t blown wide open.”
“Name?”
“Smith.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“And this warehouse. You and Inspector Hodges followed up a lead from the deep cover agent and walked into a gunfight?”
“No. Hodges sent two of his coppers to take a look. We found it the way it was.”
“And this contact of Forester’s; he was there?”
“No.”
“Bloody mess,” Howard commented. There was a knock at the door and Howard raised his eyes above Caroline. “Ah, Elizabeth, thank you.”
Caroline tuned and saw Deputy Director Elizabeth Chalmers with a tall, beady-eyed man. He had slicked back jet-black hair and a hooked nose. He smiled and sat down on the leather chair next to Caroline. Caroline eyed him warily.
“This is Major Uri Droznedov of the Russian Federation GRU. He has been liaising with Charles Forester. He is hunting the warhead, and therefore Vladimir Zukovsky. He will liaise with you, work with you in fact. Is that clear?”
“If you say so,” she replied.
“I feel it will be advantageous,” Droznedov said, his accent was thick but his English was good. He stood up, seemingly full of nervous energy, and paced across the room to the window, his back was towards them as he spoke. “What a gorgeous view. I like this building, it is more discreet than The River House. I find it amusing that you can see MI6 on the other side of the river. But you have just as good a view of the Thames.”
“Thank you,” Howard said. “We’re closer to the action here. Whitehall, Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament. We like to feel the SIS act as a tourist attraction. Everybody recognises their building, but drive right by Thames House.” He stood up, held a hand towards the empty seat. “Major, if you don’t mind?”
Droznedov continued to stare out across the Thames for a few moments, then turned wearing a thin smile. “I have some ideas that might throw something up. Maybe give us a few avenues to explore. I know the man’s habits, the habits of his people also.” He walked over to the desk and held out his hand for Caroline.
“Very well,” Caroline shook the man’s hand. It was sweaty, clammy. She wiped her hand casually on her skirt. She stood up, looking down at the Director. It was a trait; a tactic she had seen Forester use. “If that’s all?”
Howard glanced at Chalmers first then looked up at Caroline. “I want regular reports, updates of your location, mainly.”
“Track my mobile phone,” she replied. “Anything else?”
Howard turned back to a file in front of him. He did not raise his head. “Tell Debbie tea for two, and close the door on your way out.”
Caroline walked ahead of Droznedov. She closed the door but walked past Howard’s secretary without a word. He could tell her himself.
“Your boss will not get his tea?” the Russian smiled.
Caroline stopped in the corridor and looked at him. “What can you bring me? What use are you going to be?”
Droznedov smirked. “I know the man. Not personally, but I have walked his footsteps. I have gotten closer to him. I started out with nothing, now I’m in the same city and his team have been identified. That is progress, no?”
“We discovered his team. Put names to the faces. We captured and killed members of his team. A deep cover agent gave us their base location. You seem to have brought nothing to it at all.”
Droznedov smiled. “I like you. Sassy, woman. You have boyfriend?”
“Forget it,” Caroline said sharply and walked on down the corridor.
The Russian jogged a few steps to catch her up. “Okay, I get it. Not interested. Look, I filled the gaps with Forester. It was I who informed him about the missing warhead in the first place. I will help you, like your boss said I would.”
“So tell me what else you have.”
“Let me talk to this man you have captured. An interrogation may well bring up something fresh, something of importance.”
“Interview,” Caroline corrected him. “We don’t call it an interrogation; we call it an interview.”
Droznedov laughed. “No waterboarding for you Brits, hey?”
“No,” Caroline lied. “We don’t go in for that sort of thing.”
57
Hodges walked into his office and wound down the venetian blind. He loosened his tie, pulled out the top button of his shirt and sat down heavily at his desk. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He had experienced palpitations earlier, an aching in his arms and chest. The moment had passed, but he noted to visit a doctor soon. He already knew his blood pressure was high, today wasn’t going to make it any better. He kept picturing his young detective sergeant. The twisted limbs, the vacant expression, the third eye in his forehead. He would have to call in on the man’s wife soon, but he did not have the time and had dispatched a family liaison officer and an older sergeant who had attended the couple’s wedding. The young widow was pregnant. Her world would be in tatters.
He thought of Watkins. She had a boyfriend in the navy. He was on a six-month posting patrolling the Caribbean for drug smuggling. He hoped to leave the navy next year and join the police service. The couple planned to marry once he successfully changed careers. Again, Hodges had handed it over to family liaison to deal with, but there would be no visit for him, just a protracted meeting with a senior officer aboard his vessel and a cup of tea. The couple were not yet engaged and did not live together. Hodges doubted whether the young man’s situation would even qualify for compassionate leave.
Outside of his office he could hear the urgency, the purposeful workings of the police on full speed with one brief. Leave had been cancelled. Anything other than the search for the missing MI5 agents and the whereabouts of the nuclear warhead was being directed to other stations. All other stations in London and the home counties were to use twenty-five percent of their resources to aid in Scotland Yard’s investigation. The genie was well and truly out of the bottle now, there was nothing clandestine or discreet about the search. And now Hodges feared, as Charles Forester had, that Zukovsky would go off the grid entirely. They may not know any more about the warhead now, until it was too late. All he had held back was the uranium in the lead flasks held at the mosque. He had granted Alex King until the following morning. After that, Muslim rac
e relations would most likely never be the same again.
Hodges opened the desk drawer and took out the quarter bottle of whisky. It had been in the drawer for nine-hundred and forty-two days. The seal was unbroken. The contents amber and glossy, strong and smooth. Seventeen years old. He looked down at his hand and noticed it shaking. His heart had started to race. He was closer to cracking the seal than he had been since his last drink. Only he had no recollection of his last drink, because truthfully there had been fifty last drinks on a bender that had left him hospitalised, his marriage in pieces and his children despising him. He had fought for everything since. His job, his wife, his children, his sobriety. He knew if he took one small swig, one tiny mouthful to steady his nerves, to deaden the pain and anguish inside it would make him feel better. But he also knew that it would not end there and it would cost him everything and more, because it would cost him what he had fought to win back, fought daily to retain. There were no more second chances, from his family or from the job. It would be gone in that moment. But it was worth the risk. He had to numb the feeling, had to sacrifice all for that feeling of warmth and comfort. He twisted the seal, his hands shaking. There was no going back, but he was already experiencing the taste on his tongue in anticipation. The door opened and he threw the unopened bottle back into the open drawer and slammed it shut. A young female detective had stuck her head through, not opening the door beyond the width of one of her slender shoulders.
“Sorry Boss,” she said. “There’s a lady and a bloke here to see you.” Her accent was twangy, London. The east-end or south. “It’s the bird from MI5 you’ve been working with, and some Russian bloke.”
Hodges regained a little composure. “Where are they?”
“Downstairs. Family room.”
“Tell them I’ll be right down,” he hesitated. “Scratch that, I’ll go now.” Hodges stood up, not looking at the drawer. Better to leave now than to stay there accompanied only by temptation.
Caroline Darby stood up as Hodges entered the family room. It was a quiet place for victims of sexual assault, or for people to hear of a tragic loss. It was a simply furnished room with pastel colours, soft sofas and a coffee table with magazines that were five years old. A coffee machine sat on a table near the door. Caroline and the Russian had made good use of it. Both had military in them, and had developed the habits of eating or drinking anything on offer and resting when they could. Droznedov was eating a biscuit. The kind hotels give away in rooms with cheap teabags and UHT milk.