“Yup, not the SFO’s finest hour, despite the large fine.”
“Marissa is doggedly determined. She will see this through – even more so now.”
Henry looked up at the clock on the wall. He smiled an apologetic smile at Nancy.
Time to make the call. It was all down to him now.
Chapter Twenty-One
“The Sheik wants you to extract people?” MI6-Steve could not disguise his surprise.
Brett had settled in the cab that had just picked him up outside Green Park tube station. A new initiative from Steve to avoid meeting yet again at the club.
“That’s what my email said, I believe.” Brett remained stony faced.
“Names?” Steve ignored Brett’s patronising tone. His ability to ignore Brett’s comments made Brett furious. Steve was well in control of Brett’s life.
“What do you expect? It’s far too early.” Brett took a sip from a bottle he had bought before boarding the cab – though water was not what he needed to soothe his battered ego.
“Did he give a number?” Steve unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth.
Steve’s jaws masticated the gum nervously. Brett cringed.
“Yes. I did also mention that in my email. Why do you insist on making me repeat myself?”
“Al-Qaeda does not extract people.”
Brett frowned. For the first time since he had started working for Steve, MI6 was giving him important information. He did not have to grovel, beg or get annoyed as he usually did.
Unexpected and worrying.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure yet – we’re picking up some activity on social media; recruitment attempts on a large scale that have a different slant to the usual guff.”
“How different?”
“More radical, more organised.”
“Than Al-Qaeda?” Brett pursed his lips, incredulous. “Is that possible?”
“Why not? Splinter groups happen all the time. The question is whether they can turn into something new that will be successful.”
“They feel organised and established in North London. The Sheik never meets in the same place but I always have the same driver and contact meeting me.”
“Exactly my point?”
Brett nodded. “True, they could be limiting the number of people I meet for security reasons, so as not to expose the network.”
“Possible or else it means they’re a small unit that’s growing but doesn’t yet want to go public.”
“The chap who got a bullet in his head a few months ago might disagree with you if he could,” Brett replied with feeling.
“He was another Visconti. That’s all.”
“What do you mean by public?” Brett asked.
“Exactly that – challenge the old Al-Qaeda group that’s perceived as weak, particularly since Osama Bin Laden’s death.”
“If that’s the case, The Sheik feels pretty secure and in control.”
“Do you think he’s a Brit who has returned after fighting the Jihad?”
“You’re the expert.” Brett took a mouthful of water and looked at the cab driver. It felt uncomfortable to talk in the back of a taxi. “I’d say almost certainly. His manners, his spoken English – he’s well educated I’m afraid.”
Both men remained silent, pondering on what they knew might validate Steve’s view.
Brett kept casting an eye at the streets the taxi was taking them through. Steve noticed. “It’s safe. Better than another meeting at your club.”
Brett locked eyes with Steve. “If Henry Crowne was one of the people who needed ‘transportation’ would it confirm that a new terrorist group is about to be formed?”
Brett enjoyed the result of his question. Steve’s eyes darkened, his lips tightened into a straight line. He stopped his furious chewing.
“Being a smart arse isn’t always a good idea in the world we inhabit.”
Brett ignored him. “Perhaps, but looking for a financier with experience of organising money laundering for terrorist organisations like the IRA would validate your view. This splinter group as you call it needs and wants to get the money side of things right so it can fight its war.”
“Brett, I’ve told you before. You’re rather smart for a toff; however this time, take my advice, don’t get involved.”
Brett raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the tip but, unfortunately, I am involved.”
Steve grumbled a pain-in-the-arse answer and gave Brett a new set of instructions. The world of art trafficking was morphing into the trafficking of things Brett did not care about, people.
* * *
The big hand of the wall clock was moving towards the top of the hour. In one minute, it would pass that important point and Henry would make the call. The room was empty. Nancy had left. Pole was nowhere to be seen which told Henry something was up.
The clock struck 1pm. Henry stopped playing with his pen, running it over the back of his thumb and catching it as it came around, a clever little move very few managed. A smart arse, always a smart arse, Henry sighed.
He tested the phone he had been given by placing a call to Mossack Fonseca, the law firm in Panama. The notepad he had arranged in front of him was more for show than note taking. It had reassured Nancy who now walked everywhere with her yellow legal pad. He smiled at the thought.
Henry dialled the number he had memorised so many years ago. Many phone numbers had changed but he was certain that this one, his emergency number, would still connect. The phone rang and the answer phone at the other end spewed its message.
“This is Henry; call me back.”
He resumed playing with his pen, round and round it went. The saying “a watched kettle never boils” amused Henry. This particular burner phone was about to become too hot to handle.
It took his contact less than fifteen minutes to ring back, a record, Henry reckoned. He let the phone ring once, twice. Holding his nerve.
“Crowne.” The person at the other end of the phone stayed silent. Henry’s voice had sounded steady. He needed to close the deal. “Mac, this is Henry Crowne. Are you OK to talk? My phone can’t be traced.”
“OK.”
“I need a name.”
“Who for?”
“That is not relevant; you know that.”
A small intake of breath at the other end of the phone and Henry carried on.
“You knew this call would come one day, right?”
“The IRA has decommissioned.”
“But you are still in Panama to handle the winding down of some of its funds and because you have branched out – right again?”
“As cocky as ever, Henry.”
“Yup.”
“What’s for me in the deal?”
“I keep your name out of it.”
“For how long though?”
“If I haven’t grassed you so far, why would I do it now? I’m serving my sentence, as I’m sure you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
“And if I had wanted a reduction, you would have been done by now.”
The line stayed silent for a moment.
“You know that it’s easy to trace this call.”
“To where, Panama? Big deal. You are calling me from a location that has no relationship with your office or house there and Panama is not renowned for its CCTV camera network.”
“Glad to hear you thought it through.”
“I always do Mac; so what’s it gonna be?”
“What do you want?”
“The name of the UBO that sits at the end of a long corporate structure that starts in Panama.”
“Any idea who is at the top of the ownership chain? Are you looking for someone in particular?”
“You tell me. I’ve prepared
a document; it’s on its way to you.”
Henry selected the image he had photographed earlier and attached it to a message. “You have all you need on that.”
“Got it. This is your new emergency number.” Mac repeated a string of digits twice.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Not enough time.”
“Tomorrow Mac, end of your day. You know the ropes better than anybody else.”
“Can’t promise.” Mac hung up. Henry slumped back in his chair, his entire body jolted and he closed his eyes. Small beads of perspiration gathered on his upper lip. Had it worked?
He had a long twenty-four-hour wait to find out.
* * *
“I’m certain.” Pole’s voice had hardened as Agent Harris repeated his question. He worked for the Met but he was not a goddamn idiot. “I don’t do counterterrorism – it’s Ferguson’s pad – but my team can definitely trace a suspect.”
“How far have you gone?” Harris had shifted his phone. Pole could hear him typing on his keyboard.
“You mean do we have an address? Not yet, but we’re rather close.”
“Have you spoken to Ferguson?”
“No, we agreed – you first.”
“Thank you.” Pole was surprised but did not let it show. Was it a way of gaining his trust?
“I can’t hold back forever though. How long do you need?”
“’til the end of today.”
“That might work. I’ll ask my man on the case to dig around more before we release the information.” Pole grunted.
“Let me know when you do.”
“You have an asset on the ground?”
Pole heard the smile in Harris’ voice. “No comment in the interests of national security.”
“Before you go …” Time for Agent Harris to deliver. “How about your enquiry in China?”
“Ah, Mr Wu’s possible demise? I have something for you, Inspector Pole; not much but the beginning of a trail.”
“Good,” Pole replied. “It would be even better if I could take a look at this trail’s beginning before the end of the day.”
Harris laughed. “I’ll have an envelope dropped to your office – before you call Ferguson.”
“Much appreciated.”
“I like a hard bargain, Inspector.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“And Inspector Pole, call me Steve.”
* * *
“Things are going to move fast.” Pole had perched on Henry’s desk. His tall body leaned forward, hands on knees.
“You’ve spoken to Harris?”
“I have but that’s not where I got this from.”
Henry considered Pole for a moment. He was playing with his burner phone.
“Why do you do it?”
Pole crossed his arms over his chest – a no-go area.
“OK. OK,” Henry said raising his hands. “You’re just keen for me to get the bullet I deserve.”
Pole rolled his eyes. “You don’t really believe that crap.”
“I just don’t like it.” Henry pouted like a sulking child.
“I don’t like it much either but I’m your MI6 go-between and that’s that.”
Henry stood up, taking a few steps in the boxy room he had learned to like. He leaned against the wall.
“Why the warning?”
“You are a pain in the butt, Henry. Let’s say you are about to find yourself a little over your head if you’re not careful.”
“You’re kidding. The IRA wasn’t exactly a friendly bunch.”
“Granted but you were a key operative and your roots were in Belfast. Here you’re just a tool.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Harris has not graced me with the details. You’re his asset and if I were him I know where I would want you.”
“Which is?”
“Out.” Pole locked eyes with Henry. For the first time since they had met, Henry showed concern. He hesitated. “You mean?”
“Out, escaped, gone and I presume at his service to infiltrate whatever he thinks he needs to infiltrate.”
Henry’s face froze and grew a little paler.
“Don’t worry. I have been told in the interests of national security etc, etc.”
“And you are fine with that?”
“As long as it doesn’t end up being a bloodbath, I guess I am.”
Henry moved back to his chair, uneasy. Pole changed the subject.
“When are you expecting a reply from Panama?”
“Tomorrow, his evening, so late here – 10pm.”
“I need to let Marsh know. We’ll send a special dispensation request off to the Home Office and Belmarsh.”
“Understood.” Henry thought for a while and Pole let him be. The atmosphere was almost relaxed.
“You think I should accept,” Henry’s voice trailed. He was asking Pole for advice.
“What can I say Henry? But knowing you, you need a purpose.”
Henry shook his head in disbelief. He had been waiting for this moment for years. It was perhaps just around the corner. He thought of Nancy. He pushed the swelling pain away; not now, not in front of Pole.
“Have you finished your day?” Pole asked, standing up to leave.
“Not yet, I just want to go through a few things on the Internet; read through the docs Marissa left me again.”
“I’ll speak to Marsh now. Any problem, I’ll let you know.”
“How?”
“You’ve got a mobile, haven’t you?”
“But I thought with a range limited to Panama.”
Pole tapped his nose with his index finger – who was the clever boy after all?
* * *
Marissa sat back in her office chair. It was not the request she had expected from Mark Phelps. Her hand hovered over her phone. She withdrew it in a slow gesture that gave her time to think.
Why did Mark really want to meet Henry?
To confront the monsters that had taken his wife? The idea felt strangely out of character. She certainly needed Mark to testify when the case came to court. As a protected witness she might be able to spare him an appearance in court.
She returned to Mark’s request. She could not imagine him coming to blows with Henry. And how would Henry react? She needed them both on the case. Could she perhaps delay the request until it was too late, until Henry was no longer allowed to leave HSU Belmarsh? She could then organise a meeting in the confines of the prison environment. But Mark was an intelligent man; he would see through this. She could not lose his trust. They were so close: this case would not go the way the BAE Systems case went.
She picked up the phone swiftly and dialled Nancy’s number.
Nancy replied after a few rings, a little breathless.
“Marissa – is everything all right?”
“Yes, sorry, I should have told you myself.”
“I mean over and above you being targeted, dealing with the case and —”
Marissa interrupted. “You need to convince Henry to meet with Mark.”
The phone remained silent.
“I’m sure you are reading my thoughts,” she said at last.
“I know how it may sound.”
“Now that you’re close to getting some answers, what would you say if Mark asked you to stop? If he wanted to pull out. You did say earlier you wouldn’t want to push him – but what about now?”
Marissa took a deep breath, ran her tired hand over her eyes. Then she smiled; she had just been subjected to what had made Nancy such a formidable QC – the ability to ask the tough questions.
“You’re right. I would find it almost impossible now,” Marissa said. “You know why, don’t you?”
“Because you do not
want to have another disappointment.”
“I can’t hide anything from you.” Marissa smiled faintly.
“You can’t because you don’t want to; you want to get to the truth. You don’t want Henry to stop cooperating either.” Nancy paused. “What is the chance of Mark pulling out if he doesn’t meet Henry?”
“Very high.”
“For what it’s worth, I think Mark needs to make sense of what happened.”
“A question for you, Nancy – how will Henry react?”
Nancy inhaled deeply. “I would lie if I said I was certain.” She paused again. “Speak to Pole. He will have a view on the question.” To her amazement she felt Pole was better qualified to answer than she was.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The brown envelope was sitting on his desk. Pole hesitated. He had been closing the door of his office quite a lot recently, rather uncharacteristic of him.
He looked around for the letter opener, an instrument he used to use regularly, now made redundant by email. Where was the damn thing when you needed it?
Pole considered the state of his office. He would never find the implement quickly. A pair of scissors would have to do. He looked around, twisting his tall body this way and that. In the end he simply lifted the flap of the envelope which came unstuck without much damage. Pole peered inside – photocopied documents, official-looking papers and some photos too.
He carefully turned the envelope upside down until its contents lay on the desk. He took one of the photos out and gazed at it. An elegant young man in his early thirties was looking back at him, slim and of medium build. Pole concentrated on the face: delicate cheekbones, high forehead, intelligent almond eyes and the smile – perhaps not a smile, more an expression of the lips, that was both uncertain and humorous. Pole was shocked by the likeness; there was no doubt in his mind that the young man in the photo was Nancy’s father, Li Jie Wu. Pole turned the picture over. A date had been stamped on it, April 1980.
A bunch of papers had been bound together with a clip. They were old travel documents. China was just coming out of the terrifying period that the Cultural Revolution had been. Chairman Mao was dead and his wife and the Gang of Four had been arrested. Travelling to and through China still had to be authorised though. Pole wondered how Agent Harris had managed to find these but why should he care? The address on one of the documents was in Chinese with a translation: Shanghai to start with, then Beijing, then Chengdu, the main city of the Sichuan province. Chengdu, the place where Li Jie Wu was born and raised; his place of ancestry too.
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