by Kim Hughes
‘My name is Paul Oakham, Mr Riley.’ Public school tone, clipped, confident. ‘I am a senior officer here at MI5.’
Well, at least that was one question cleared up. It could be worse. However, spooks, even UK ones, weren’t necessarily the nice guys. He was careful to show no surprise at the revelation. His training was to give no quarter. ‘It’s Staff Sergeant Riley. And I repeat. What the hell am I doing here?’
‘Well, it remains to be seen whether you retain your rank, doesn’t it? Given your behaviour over the past twenty-four hours.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘You were cautioned at…’ He opened the folder and consulted some notes. ‘Dunston Hall. And placed under arrest for offences under the Explosive Substances Act. You have not, however, been charged.’
He was referring to the contents of his backpack, the material he had ‘borrowed’ from the explosives safe at the barracks. ‘Listen, pal. A caution is only legal if you are compos mentis,’ he said. ‘That is, awake to hear it. Some tossers had just thrown flash-bangs into a room. I think my hearing might have been impaired.’
‘That is academic. You’re not being detained here against your will. You are free to go. But the moment you walk out of the building it will be a toss-up right now who arrests you first, the Met or the Military Police.’
‘Perhaps they could arm-wrestle for me.’
Oakham looked as if he had just smelt a fart. ‘I wouldn’t make light of your situation, Mr Riley. You have been a very foolish man. However, we do think you have information that might be of assistance to us, which might shine a more, um, favourable light on your activities. Am I right?’
Riley knew the best way to thwart an interrogator was to stick to a list of not entirely unreasonable demands. It helped put you in the driving seat. ‘I want a phone. I want to know how my grandmother is, and I want some action on tracing my grandfather.’
‘All in due course.’
‘Mrs Clifford-Brown. How is she?’
‘She is being well looked after.’ Riley sensed evasiveness.
‘Where? Here? In a cell like the one you put me in? She’s an old woman. And a bloody national hero. Your pet thugs subjected her to noise and light which could induce, at the very least, a heart attack or stroke. How the fuck is she?’ He shouted the last sentence.
Oakham drummed his fingers on the table. Riley could just glimpse an Omega watch beneath the pink cuff of his shirt. It was after seven. It had been a very long day. And he couldn’t bank on it being over yet, not by what his grandfather always called a long chalk. ‘Can you explain how your DNA came to be on a component of the first device used in the Nottingham bombing? One apparently you did not handle.’
Really? Riley was careful not to react. It would give Oakham the upper hand. Maybe the lab had fucked up and cross-contaminated. Perhaps it was a component from Afghan. Was that possible? Riley decided he could interrogate the possibilities later. He adopted an I-speak-your-weight tone. ‘A phone and an update on my grandmother. Action on my grandfather, who has been abducted.’
‘Or perhaps you can explain why you left the scene of a crime? A car bomb.’
‘I want a phone and an update on my grandmother. And a brew.’ A pause grew into silence. Riley couldn’t help but fill it. ‘And why would I plant a bomb in my own car?’
‘You remember that American actor who faked his own racial abuse and assault? To generate some sense of victimhood? Might not an ATO do something similar to make himself a hero?’
A little piece of the black vortex within broke away and spun up into his consciousness. Riley found himself on his feet, stabbing a finger at Oakham. His short fuse had just burnt out. ‘I lost friends at Nottingham. I could have lost my daughter at that school. You think I fuckin’ planted those bombs? MI5? You’re the best we have? Jesus, no wonder the country is in such shit.’ The door opened a few inches and Dumber’s face appeared in the crack. Oakham raised a hand to reassure him.
‘Sit down, Riley.’
He leaned over the desk instead. ‘I want a phone and an update on my grandmother. Action on my grandfather. Or you won’t get what I know.’
‘Which is?’
‘I can tell you who is planting the bombs.’
‘We know who is planting the bombs.’
‘Is that so? A second ago you were convinced it was me. I want a phone—’
‘Sit down.’
The voice was hard and inflexible. Riley sat.
‘I know this will come as a surprise to you, Riley, but I do have other pressing matters to attend to. I shall send in a Mobile Surveillance Officer who has taken some interest in your case. She will listen to what you have to say. If we like it, then perhaps you’ll get your phone call.’
‘And a brew.’
Oakham stared at him for a second, letting contempt and irritation show on his face. ‘Perhaps.’
THIRTY-SIX
As they walked along the asphalt path that led from the side entrance of the Pitcairn Inn to the car park, Henry felt his resolve strengthening. Maybe this was the moment for action, he thought, as they escaped from the shadow of the building and began crossing the deserted gravelled car park to its far corner where Yousaf had left the car. Yes, he decided, now – he suspected few others would present themselves before they reached their destination. So he stepped back and, channelling the young boxer he once was, swung his right fist at Yousaf’s ear. It connected nicely and Yousaf let out a gasp of pain and staggered to one side. Sadly, time seemed to have drained Henry’s strength and speed. In his prime that blow would have sent a man to the ground. And he would have been fast enough to move in for a follow-up, rendering his opponent helpless. Neither of these two things happened.
But Yousaf recovered quickly and spun around, snarling like a wounded beast, and launched a furious counter-attack. There were no Queensbury Rules obeyed in the response. Henry would only remember a blur of fists, the percussive sound as the blows made contact and the loci of pain exploding all over his body. Yousaf used all four limbs, driving Henry back, the old man yelping helplessly with each strike, until he fell to his knees and vomited up most of the pie he had eaten onto the gravel.
Yousaf stood over him, panting hard, but his voice was firm. ‘I wondered when you would try something like that. You’re lucky I didn’t break your skull. No more, eh?’ He jabbed the old man in the side of the head. ‘Eh?’
‘No more,’ Henry managed to utter between shallow breaths.
‘You all right over there?’
A woman’s voice from the darkness. What had she witnessed? He turned. He could just make her out in the light from the pub’s window. Out for a smoke on the rear verandah?
Henry made an effort to speak, perhaps to yell for help, but Yousaf grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. ‘Stay quiet.’ He took a gamble that the woman had come late to the party and seen nothing. ‘I think the meal was a bit rich for him. At his age.’
‘Aye, I thought I heard someone spewin’ their guts.’
‘He’ll be okay now. Thanks. Come along, old chap. Let’s get you in the car. Good night.’
‘Good night,’ came the reply. ‘And good luck.’ A light flared and was replaced by a glowing red spot. His supposition had been correct. A smoker.
Yousaf pulled Henry to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him to the Renault. He opened the door and managed to fold the old man’s long and rubbery limbs into the passenger seat. Henry put his head back against the rest and opened his mouth. Small groans escaped from it with each exhalation.
‘You’ll be fine. I never got out of second gear.’
‘Very… very… considerate of you.’
Yousaf slid behind the wheel. ‘You want some water?’
‘In a moment, perhaps.’ He could smell the smoke from the cigarette, triggering his craving again.
‘Get us close to the lodge and we will rest up, perhaps.’
‘Why? Why did you do it?’
Yo
usaf turned the key in the ignition, gave a little blip on the throttle. ‘You started it, remember? You punched first.’
‘No. London,’ Henry protested with some effort to his ribs. ‘Why build another bomb? Why would you kill innocent men and women? To what end?’
Headlamps on, Yousaf reversed the Renault out of its space, the wheels spinning on the gravel. ‘Why? It was what I was trained to do.’
‘You were trained to kill Russians.’
‘Times change, Henry. Priorities change.’ Yousaf bumped the car out onto the road and headed north again. He put his phone on the dash and called up the Here app. ‘Wars change.’
‘But London?’
‘At the next junction, make a left,’ said the robotic voice of the sat nav.
Yousaf saw the signpost to Pitlochry and took the turning, accelerating now he was certain he was on the right road.
‘London is a statement. But I’ll tell you something. Part of the reason you are here with me. Perhaps all of the reason you are with me.’
‘What’s that?’ Henry asked.
‘You can stop it happening, Henry. You can save all those men, women and children. It’s in your hands.’
* * *
The new arrival opened the folder she had placed on the desk. Riley looked her up and down. Like policemen, it seemed spooks were getting younger. She had an attractive enough face, he thought, but it was drawn and pale. The smudges under her eyes suggested she had been crying or was sleep-deprived. Maybe both. But he found it hard to imagine MI5 operatives weeping.
‘My name is Kate Muraski,’ she announced in a voice somewhat deeper than her small frame suggested. ‘I am a Mobile SO and an Intelligence Officer with MI5. I left multiple messages for you.’
He folded his arms. ‘I told your pal. You’ll get nothing from me till you get me a phone, tell me about Barbara Clifford-Brown and try and find my grandfather, who is missing with a very dangerous man…’
‘Which very dangerous man?’
‘I asked about my grandmother. ’
Muraski appeared to gather her thoughts before answering. ‘Your grandmother is in good hands. The incident left her somewhat confused. She is under observation. Not here. We don’t have those sort of facilities. She is in Guy’s Hospital. She has a female armed police officer from SO19 guarding her round the clock.’
‘Prove it.’
‘Prove what?’
‘That my grandmother is where you say she is.’
‘Why would I lie?’
Riley laughed. ‘Let me think. Is it because you’re in MI5? I want to talk to her.’
‘I told you, she is not really… up or alert at the moment.’
‘Then you can go and whistle. I’m saying nothing.’
Muraski muttered something obscene under her breath, plucked a phone from her bag, tapped the screen and held it up so that Riley could see it. The image showed Barbara in bed, asleep, with a plain-clothes policewoman – or so he assumed – next to her. ‘Look at the time,’ Muraski instructed. ‘Ten minutes ago. I captured it from the CCTV to reassure you she is in good hands.’
‘It could be faked.’
Muraski sighed. ‘And we could be wasting valuable time. I want to talk about why you left the scene of the car bomb.’
‘Simple. I didn’t want this to happen.’
‘What?’
He waved around the room ‘This. Interrogation. Debriefing. I needed to find out who had put a bomb under my car.’
‘And did you?’
‘I want a phone.’ He pointed to hers. ‘That one will do.’
‘A lawyer can’t help you here.’
‘I want to talk to my daughter.’ He put heavy, angry emphasis on the last word.
‘You said something to my colleague about knowing who is planting the bombs.’
‘Planting, yes. Making, no. They are always two different sets of people.’
He could almost hear the workings of her brain. Eventually, she pushed the phone over. He picked it up and dialled Izzy.
‘Izzy? It’s Dom.’
‘Christ, Dom. What the hell is going on? Are you okay? Ruby’s scared silly.’
‘Let me talk to her.’
‘She’s asleep.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Heading for Padstow. We’re in two cars. The blonde one is driving my Merc. Lisa. We’re all in the BMW with Jackie.’ Riley knew the BMW was probably a High Security model, effectively bullet- and bomb-proof, which was why they would insist on the clients riding in that. ‘They’re going to stay with us, so they say. This must be costing a fortune.’ She lowered her voice, and he could hear the fright in the next sentence, probably more for Ruby than herself. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘I doubt that.’
His ex-wife did not sound reassured. ‘It’s possible, though?’
‘I’m working on it. Right now. Give my love to Ruby. I’ll call when I can.’
He rang off and handed the phone back. ‘Thanks. My grandfather has also been kidnapped.’
‘We’ll come to that. You have something to share about the bombs?’
Riley hesitated, wondering if he had anything else useful to extract from Muraski before he handed her his treasure. ‘After I left my daughter’s school, I went back to my barracks and then to see George O’Donnell.’ She looked blankly at him. ‘Before your time. George was one of the Big Daddies, as they called them. The elite bomb-makers for the IRA.’
‘The IRA?’
‘Yes.’ He could see from her expression that she was slightly rattled by the new player on the table. The Irish had not been on her radar. Riley carefully explained how a yellow and purple wire had led to George O’Donnell.
‘You got him to talk. How?’
‘I asked nicely.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe.’
‘And I threatened to blow up his dog in front of him.’
‘Jesus.’
The look of distaste on her face angered him. ‘Yes, Jesus. Look, that man was responsible for scores of deaths and maimings. We can live with that. But hey, threaten a poor innocent animal and suddenly I’m a monster.’
‘You won’t be invited to Crufts, that’s for sure.’
‘Yeah, well. No animals were harmed during the making of this threat. I wasn’t going to do it,’ Riley said firmly. ‘But he had to believe I would.’ He thought it best not to mention that he had nearly choked the old bugger out. That hadn’t been him. He wasn’t sure what that had been.
‘So, what did you get from him?’
Riley knew this was the crux of the matter. ‘I’d like a brew. Those flash-bangs leave you very thirsty.’
‘As soon as you tell me what he said.’
When Riley didn’t answer, Muraski unsheathed her claws a little. ‘There is still the matter of your DNA on the Nottingham bomb. You know how long we can keep you here based on that alone.’
‘Bullshit. That had to have been some sort of cock-up in storage or collection. It’d never stand up in court.’
Muraski arched one eyebrow. ‘Who said anything about a court?’
Riley sighed. ‘Okay. About a year ago, two people turned up asking if George’s services were for hire. His skill at making bombs.’
‘Who were they?’
‘A man and a woman. His descriptions were vague. Young-ish, thirties maybe.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Not initially obvious from their appearance or accents. European, possibly Mediterranean.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said no. That his bomb-making days were over. And he only did it for a cause he believed in. Not money.’
‘How very principled. And that was that?’
‘No. He also sold them a bomb cache,’ said Riley.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘What? What kind of bomb cache?’
‘Timers, detonators, det cord, circuits, the usual. There are still IRA ammunition dumps in this country. You
know that, right? Well, he had a stash of Libyan bomb kits that had been buried around the time of the attacks on the City of London. He sold the kits to these people, which is how that yellow and purple wire ended up in Nottingham.’
‘And he also sold them the explosive?’
‘No, the Semtex he had stashed was u/s. Well past its sell-by date. They would have had to get their own supplies.’
‘But no further clue who they were? You said their nationalities were not obvious initially earlier.’
‘Right. Just the one clue. Once, the old man’s dog gave the man a not-so-friendly nip. The man responded by swearing. George remembered it. Che-or-tova Su-ka.’
What little colour there was in Muraski’s face drained away completely. ‘Chyorta suka?’
‘Yes. You know what it means? I Googled it. Fucking bitch.’
‘Yes,’ said Muraski thoughtfully. ‘Fucking bitch. In Russian.’
* * *
Muraski left the room and came back with a mug of tea for Riley, as requested. In contrast to her earlier pallor she now looked flushed.
‘My guess is that the Russian pair wanted a bomb-maker and when George refused them, they went elsewhere. But why would the Russians be behind a bombing campaign?’
‘Because they like to fuck us up,’ said Muraski. ‘It’s why they liked Brexit. Threw all our security arrangements and NATO into doubt. What if they were behind both the Nottingham bomb and the mosque attack? Divide and rule? Christ, did you see the clashes in Bradford last night?’
‘You’re forgetting,’ he said, with only the merest sprinkle of vitriol. ‘I’ve been banged up in a cell the last few hours.’
‘Of course. It was a virtual riot. Casualties on all sides.’
‘What about the car bomb aimed at me? Where does that fit in? I don’t think the FSB or GRU have any beef with me. O’Donnell said it wasn’t the Irish heavies and I believed him.’ He took a drink of tea. ‘But then maybe this isn’t linear.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘In Afghan we used to think “A” plants bomb just to kill soldiers. That wasn’t always the case. There was such an intricate network of family and tribal affiliations, sometimes “A” planted a bomb to show “B” who was boss or to get the reward for an ATO, even though they didn’t actually support the Taliban. Then there were the ones who planted for money. They filmed themselves hiding an IED, then the result of it detonating, and took the evidence to a local Taliban commander, who paid a fee, according to how much damage they did. It was an easy way to generate cash. Others just did it for fun. If it was a slow night in Kandahar—’
