The Inquiry

by Will Caine

  ‘Don’t you mean special interests,’ said Sara.

  ‘I understand your cynicism. It would never be provable in a court of law. The decision was taken rapidly and unanimously this morning, at the highest level.’ Sara said nothing. ‘I’d hoped you would feel reassured by this news,’ continued Isobel.

  ‘Wrong. The Morahan Inquiry has been cheated of its duty to examine a vital witness.’

  ‘In that case, I must give you the fuller context. Please keep it to yourself.’

  ‘I’m not willing to guarantee that. Not until I’ve heard you.’

  ‘Should I trust in your good sense and your patriotism?’ Sara looked straight into her eyes, giving nothing. ‘I think I should,’ said Isobel. ‘I see an empty bench. Shall we sit?’

  They spread themselves and Sara’s cardigan to fill it.

  ‘For a decade,’ Isobel began, ‘Operation Pitchfork was a success – vital to our security. Kareem performed services to this country, at great personal risk. He neither could, not would, ever be prosecuted. Back in 2016, in the weeks after my appointment as DG – but before I took it up – I continued to handle him. During those weeks I became worried by some aspects of his judgement and behaviour.’

  ‘What aspects?’

  ‘His character streaks of domination and manipulation were in danger of becoming overbearing. And potentially damaging. You may recall these from your own youthful experience.’

  Sara felt her nakedness in the presence of this woman. ‘Did he speak to you about me?’

  ‘Yes, often. He was still bewitched by the thought of you. He told me everything. Or, perhaps, his side of it. He always seemed to want some kind of reckoning because you walked away. I told him that was a waste of his energy.’

  ‘I was lucky to get away.’

  ‘Perhaps you were. For me, it was different. He owed me. And though it was an exception for an agent handler, I decided to have a relationship with him if it kept him in play.’ The trace of a smile showed in a squeezing of eyes and pursing of lips. ‘I cleared it with the relevant people in the organisation, though not without initial difficulty.’ The smile faded. ‘To continue. Having created his death in the drone strike, I decided to keep Kareem within my sights and monitor him. His new identity allowed us to parachute him into two City directorships to occupy his mind. He was no longer on the Security Service staff or payroll though we were honouring his pension. Not that he needed the money – he spent half his time learning aerobatics.

  ‘Then, though we succeeded in delaying it for a while, a naive government finally insisted on the foolish initiative that led to the Morahan Inquiry. Kareem saw a chance to become involved again in the manipulations he enjoyed. I’m still not fully clear on his motives. Perhaps they changed as events unfolded. He may have been angry with MI5, me included, for stopping Pitchfork, and wanting to make trouble – not much trouble, just enough to annoy us. He may have liked the idea of feeding the Inquiry in a way that would poison it. And he realised he might be able to use it to reach you.’

  ‘But that was all so long ago.’

  ‘As I said, he never forgot. Unfortunately, he was in possession of documents that we’d thought it necessary at the time to give him for Pitchfork—’

  ‘He didn’t need the restaurant photograph for that.’

  ‘I apologise for that. When we made our arrangement with him, he asked for a print. As we’d already shown it to him as part of our evidence, there seemed no harm in it.’

  ‘You actually gave him that photograph,’ said Sara incredulously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the tape.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else did you give him?’

  Isobel didn’t answer. She checked to left and right; mothers, with eyes only for babies in prams and undisciplined toddlers, and joggers with earphones occasionally passed by. ‘As well as documents, one or two of Kareem’s team on Pitchfork had remained on his retinue. He paid for them.’

  ‘Aaqil being one.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he being deported?’

  ‘No, he’s a UK national. We’ll deal with him. Without Kareem, he is, and has, nothing.’ Isobel took a deep breath. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Sara, is that what has happened is the result of actions by a former agent who went rogue. I regret it.’

  ‘What about the threat to Patrick outside his flat?’

  ‘That was an exception. It was an intervention made with good intentions but it was unwise. I’ve reprimanded those responsible.’

  ‘The watchers in my street. The injury to my father.’

  Isobel frowned. ‘I know nothing of those.’

  ‘The helicopter arriving at the farm. Unless Kareem has his own air force.’

  Isobel allowed the curl of a smile. ‘By that time, too late I know, we were on top of Kareem’s games. We were also aware of the plans Patrick had made for your trip to Wales. It was information acquired by legally authorised warrants. As was the monitoring device we planted in the barn.’

  ‘You listened in?’

  ‘We have a record – there are one or two inaudibles.’ Sara remembered Kareem’s disgusting whisper in her ear. He must have suspected. ‘In fact, I contacted Kareem before your meeting with him in the barn—’

  ‘Did you facilitate it?’

  ‘By that time, we were in a position to take pre-emptive action. Without going into details, the answer is yes.’

  Isobel stopped, as if she’d allowed herself to go too far. Sara frowned, hesitating, calculating whether to pursue it. ‘Have you ever sent me any texts?’

  Isobel screwed up her eyes in apparent astonishment. ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Sara. ‘Why did you “facilitate” the meeting?’

  ‘I felt it could be important to hear how he played it, what he’d feel provoked to say to you – and also ensure it couldn’t go on too long. Pull him out in good time. Just in case it turned unpleasant.’

  ‘Unpleasant?’ Isobel stayed silent. ‘And the call Sylvia Labone made to the local police?’ continued Sara.

  ‘As we ourselves were ensuring there were no safety issues at the barn, we intervened. It appears, I’m afraid, the one mistake was to return Kareem and his assistant—’

  ‘Aaqil.’

  ‘Yes… return them too quickly to their car. I’m not saying this is what happened, but Kareem and Aaqil would have had the know-how to plant a device in the car Patrick had hired. To be within close range as you turned into Reading services.’

  Sara took her mobile phone out of her bag. She showed Isobel the text message sent from Patrick’s pay-as-you-go. ‘How did Kareem know my number?’

  ‘Have you changed it since you gave Marion your number in the restaurant?’

  Sara sighed. ‘I suppose not. Phones yes, never the number.’

  ‘You have an answer.’ She looked up. The massive shape of an A380 was lumbering towards Heathrow. She waited for it to die down. ‘It’s easy for anyone who knows how, to find a phone number these days.’

  ‘Why would Kareem want to kill Patrick?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Sara, we do have to wait for the police investigation,’ replied Isobel gently. ‘It could have been suicide.’

  ‘He was killed. I know, you know. Even if it will never be proved.’ Sara thought she saw Isobel unsettled. She moved closer. ‘What are you thinking?’ she said. ‘Tell me – whatever it is.’

  ‘If you must, Sara. If Kareem had detected you were becoming too close to Patrick, that inner rage might have boiled over.’

  Sara felt an acute awareness of that part of herself destroyed along with Patrick. ‘Am I safe from him?’

  ‘Of course. He’s being deported. Though I never felt he would physically harm you.’

  ‘He already had.’

  ‘If Kareem ever felt regret, that would be the only one.’

  Sara allowed the idea to hang; she might once have believed he could feel sorrow or regret, but not now.
‘Have you listened yet to the conversation in the barn?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Isobel. ‘At the time.’

  Sara shook her head, understanding ever more the layers of deceit. ‘So you heard his “parable” of the fish.’

  ‘Yes. It was entirely in character. There is no evidence whatsoever for anything other than the first “narrative”. When you related your own far-fetched fantasy – forgive me those words but they are accurate – of Kareem being some kind of long-term jihadist triple agent, I’m afraid he simply couldn’t resist. It was too good an opportunity for one of his mind games – to agitate and scare you. We will, of course, go over all his contacts, decisions, actions, everything, however much we already know the answers. I can’t guarantee that, even from outside the UK, he won’t continue playing games with you. But his only weapon is his phone. He poses no threat to you or our nation.’

  Sara saw a tiredness in the face opposite. Isobel must have started early and been on the go ever since, trying to fight the fire. Perhaps she was one of those mangled souls who slept for three hours a night and lived off nervous energy.

  ‘The reason I have come here,’ said Isobel, ‘is in the hope that you will bear in mind the national interest and security when it comes to police and any other investigations of these recent, tragic events. We have dealt with the threat. Whatever evidence and accounts you yourself are in a position to give, neither they nor anything else will ever provide proof that any of these events were the result of illegal actions. Even to this day, I myself don’t know for sure. The accident or suicide explanations are fully plausible. I may be traducing Kareem. Perhaps it was only mind games.’

  ‘You know too much, Isobel, to allow yourself to believe that.’

  ‘People overrate our omniscience.’

  ‘What about the contract?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Contract?’ Isobel’s eyes widened with a second show of astonishment. It instantly made Sara question the first one.

  ‘Please don’t start lying now.’

  The eyes narrowed. ‘I understand what you’re referring to. It is a matter of fact that there was no contract with MI5. Nothing was ever authorised from the top.’

  ‘You were there. There was a signed and witnessed contract containing certain indemnities for Kareem.’

  ‘We have to operate in a real world, Sara, to protect our nation. If Patrick and Kareem signed a piece of paper giving him some kind of assurances, Patrick, I’m sure, did it for the right reasons.’

  ‘It was witnessed.’

  ‘If so, not by anyone with official status.’

  ‘It was an MI5 employee going under the name of Len Rogerson.’

  ‘I’ll check for you but I recall no one of that name in the security service.’

  ‘And overseen by you.’

  ‘No. That’s not credible. If any such thing was ever told or hinted to you, either by Patrick or J, it’s wrong. You should remember that they may have been saying things to protect themselves.’

  ‘But it’s convenient, isn’t?’ said Sara. ‘All parties to the contract now gone. J and Patrick dead. Their contracts gone with them. Kareem out of the country. Just you left, Dame Isobel.’

  ‘Sara, I understand your sadness. And your bitterness. And your mistrust. I hope in time they’ll all begin to heal and pass. I’ve come here in good faith to give you the truth as I know it. I’m asking you to take it into account in your further actions. Enough has been said. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  Isobel rose and marched off, turning towards the road running alongside the south of the Common. As she reached the pavement, Sara watched a black saloon with tinted windows slow down and embrace her like a wraith gathered in to the shadows.

  Was Dame Isobel a woman who, at cost to her own morality, was doing her best for her country? Or the most accomplished liar she’d ever met?

  32

  Three weeks later

  Her father was practising ‘oo’s and ‘ou’s. The daily pattern of home visits from speech, physio and occupational therapists – young women with sunny smiles and breezy voices – was erasing the memory of the motionless figure on a hospital bed, invaded by needles and tubes. He slurred slightly and sometimes the right word refused to emerge from his mouth. But she could see the mind was functioning ever better. Soon she’d be able to leave him for long enough to allow a partial return to work.

  That would not be to the Inquiry’s office in Vauxhall. The day after the encounter with Isobel Le Marchant, Sara had been invited by Pamela Bailly for a chat about the future. It was a one-way conversation.

  ‘I’m very sorry about everything that’s happened,’ Pamela had begun. ‘Patrick’s death is a tragedy. I now understand you’ve also been coping with misfortune at home. You should have told me; I’d have said take however long you need.’

  ‘You didn’t need to be troubled by it,’ said Sara.

  ‘A decision has been taken about the future of the Inquiry,’ she continued briskly. ‘Sir Roger Knell will be seeing things through in place of Sir Francis.’

  ‘Sir Roger Knell?’ said Sara, bemused. ‘He was Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, wasn’t he? He’s parti pris with MI5.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Pamela, ‘the Secretary of State has made his decision. Furthermore, rather than proceed with hearings, Sir Roger will now oversee the writing of the Inquiry’s report on the basis of submissions received.’

  ‘You mean no more research, no more interviews. No examination of witnesses. No calling to account.’

  ‘It is not for me to comment.’

  ‘And no further role for me.’

  Pamela offered a short smile. ‘We will, of course, pay the final weeks of your contract. To be honest, Sara, if I were you, I’d feel pleased and relieved to be excused from any further responsibilities here and able to return to your own world.’

  In the days since, Sara had asked herself what her own world now was. So far, she’d given the benefit of her doubts to Isobel. In her more detailed session with Reading police, she’d bided her time, truthfully answering questions limited by their unquestioned acceptance that Patrick’s death was a suicide.

  She looked across at her father, smiling at his attempts to flirt with the speech therapist. If, she sometimes thought, she hadn’t had him and his recovery to devote herself to, she might have folded. Wasn’t this all that really mattered – the happiness of loved ones and providing the support they needed?

  Her phone rang. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Miss Sara Shah?’

  ‘Yes.’ Half-recognising the voice and accent, she switched to alert.

  ‘It is the father of Iqbal Jamal Wahab here, Ms Shah. You visited us in Blackburn.’

  ‘Yes of course, Mr Wahab. I remember. It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Am I speaking privately to you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you are.’

  ‘We heard from Iqbal.’

  ‘That’s good, I’m so pleased.’

  ‘It was just a text message to his brother. I think he allowed me to see it so I’d know Iqbal is alive. There was something odd. I thought I would ask you. Confidentially.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It said something like this. “I need to stay away for a while. We’re just waiting for the Adviser to tell us when. Could be months, could be years. Then it’ll be done.” I don’t understand it. I’m wondering if you have come across anything like this in your research. Maybe you know what it means.’

  Sara’s heart was pounding. ‘Did Iqbal leave any contact details?’

  ‘No. I think it was a one-off phone of some kind.’

  ‘And you have no other way of reaching him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m afraid I haven’t come across anything like this, Mr Wahab, but I’ll look into it. Can I get back in touch if I find anything?’

  ‘Yes, please do, Miss Shah. I will be most grateful. Just phone this number.’

 
‘Thank you so much. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Heart racing, stomach churning, Sara grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the words as verbatim as she could remember them.

  ‘We’re just waiting for the Adviser to tell us when. Could be months, could be years. Then it’ll be done.’

  It wasn’t over.

  If Isobel could be trusted, she should believe that, however circuitous the routing, it was a Kareem-contrived trick to show he could still play games with her. If so, she must report the call to Isobel. Perhaps that was the best thing, the right thing, to do.

  Then, from nowhere, an idea struck her, a devastating flash that seemed to illuminate and solve all the contradictions and puzzles of the past weeks. One that would mean Isobel was the very last person she should inform.

  What if Kareem – as with Marion, as so nearly with her – had succeeded not just in seducing Isobel Le Marchant and becoming her companion in bed, but in turning her? Converting her to his revolution. Joining him in his warped quest for revenge.

  What if Dame Isobel Le Marchant, the Director General of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’s Security Service, was the biggest fish in Kareem’s shoals? It was the link that made sense of all the narratives. Whatever was done outside the law, the killings above all, sub-contracted to Kareem and his expertly trained sidekicks. The technology and surveillance – the warnings too, maybe even the ‘burglary’ at her home – ordered in-house by Isobel with all the wizardry at her beck and call. The perfect lethal combination.

  Forget about the law of unintended consequences; try instead an alternative law of intended consequences. The Morahan Inquiry had been sunk. All dangerous witnesses and evidence of the contract destroyed. Dame Isobel and Kareem himself more secure than ever, safe from any further probing or investigation.

  Judge events by their outcomes.

  Had they planned it together from the outset? If so, not just the big picture but tiny details too could be explained. The tortuous methods Sayyid used for delivering information, designed to tantalise an ageing judge – a Kareem manipulation. The overnight change in Sami and the precision both of what he did say and what he didn’t. The vile words about Isobel that Kareem whispered in the barn – a ploy to make any continuing relationship seem impossible. The anonymous texts – above all that last one to her at the farm, the one that had forced her last lie to Patrick.