by Henry Porter
At this point, several things began to fall into place in Herrick’s mind and without knowing what she was going to say, she began to speak. ‘I’m sorry… but it just occurred to me who Yahya might be, sir. I mean, it’s a long shot but, well, I think it’s worth considering.’
The Prime Minister nodded. ‘Yes…?’
Her hand reached for a biscuit from the tray in the centre of the table, and she began to nibble unselfconsciously. ‘I had some tests done… kind of out of hours, if you see what I mean. I took some material from the keyboard of a computer used by a man named Youssef Rahe. Rahe was involved in the switch, though he was our man – a contact made by Walter Vigo. Then Rahe disappeared in Lebanon and a body was found in a car – unrecognisable and badly burnt. I got a friend to obtain a sample from the corpse to see if the DNA matched the material that had fallen into the keyboard habitually used by Rahe – keyboards collect a lot of hair and skin, as you perhaps all know.’ She paused, aware that most of her audience didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or intrigued.‘I got the results this morning. There is no match between the two samples, which means that Rahe was not killed. Instead, I believe his place was taken by another man who we spotted passing through Terminal Three. He was tortured, executed and disguised as Rahe so that we would think our man had been discovered.’ She stopped and nibbled some more. ‘Sorry, am I making any sense?’
‘Not to me,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘but please go on. I’m sure everyone else understands the significance of what you’re saying.’
‘Well, it just struck me that there was a connection between the eleven suspects and Rahe after his supposed death. When one of the men died – the Stuttgart suspect – all the telephone calls from the local group of helpers were monitored. There was one significant call and that went to Beirut, informing an unknown party that the man was dead. You see, a very strong argument can be made that Rahe was in on this from the beginning and was manipulating us. Would you mind if I asked Mr Vigo a question?’
Vigo’s head turned to her and he blinked. ‘I should remind you,’ he said, ‘that it was I who ordered those calls monitored from Stuttgart.’
‘I know, but we all should have been thinking about Beirut. It should have set off some kind of alarm that Rahe had been taken from a hotel there. My question is this: where did we first learn about the website carrying the messages about future attacks? Was it through Youssef Rahe?’
‘Yes, it was,’ cut in Spelling, clearly having decided to jettison the co-architect of RAPTOR.
‘So we have basically been sold a dummy by Rahe and Loz. I believe that we know who Yahya is. Yahya is Youssef Yamin Rahe. I have to ask you how you came in touch with him, because I believe he has been using his connection with us all the way along.’
Vigo shook his head. ‘This is all guesswork. I am not going to answer these questions until there is some kind of evidence. ’
‘I think we shall have all the evidence you require,’ she said. ‘I just need that answer.’
‘For God’s sake answer her, Mr Vigo,’ barked the Prime Minister.
‘I met him through my book-dealing business.’ He spoke as though drugged. ‘Then I went to his shop in Bayswater. We talked and it was clear he might be able to help us.’
The room went silent again as Vigo slumped back in his chair, then in a lifeless voice asked the Prime Minister’s permission to leave. The Prime Minister nodded. Vigo rose stiffly and limped from the room.
‘Have you any more surprises for us, Miss Herrick?’ the Prime Minister asked.
She shook her head.
‘Sir Robin, does all this seem likely to you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Then it is clear that you must trace Youssef Rahe and Sammi Loz wherever they are, as a matter of urgency. You will, of course, have the complete backing of the Security Services, the police and the diplomatic service. What else do you propose?’
‘The first thing is to get the eleven remaining suspects off the streets as fast as possible. I believe the BND and the French service may have already been alerted to some kind of operation. It was hopeless to expect us to be able to carry out this type of surveillance on their territory without them getting wind of it. We should make them party to everything we have learned, apologise and urge that these men be arrested.’
The Foreign Secretary stirred. ‘On what charges?’
‘Initially, on violation of immigration controls. We have the evidence on film that each man was carrying false passports. More serious charges may follow, but at least we’ll know the Heathrow team is under lock and key.’
The Prime Minister whispered to the Foreign Secretary. Herrick could not help lip-reading what he said. ‘Get that tosser of an ambassador in. Tell him the game’s up and that I’ll be speaking to the President this afternoon. Keep Norquist out of your talk. I’m going to need that as ammunition with the President. I’ll want a note about that from Teckman.’
The Foreign Secretary got up and left. ‘Right,’ said the Prime Minister, also rising. ‘The Civil Contingencies Committee will meet three times a day and liaise with the JIC staff. I expect constant progress updates for the next five days. Needless to say, there will be a media blackout on this. And that will last until I say otherwise. That’s it. Let’s get on with it.’
Only Herrick did not get up as he left. Instead, her hand darted forward to retrieve another biscuit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The seascapes by Cavendish Morton, the photographs and the small bronze of a man fly-fishing were back in the Chief’s office by lunchtime that Monday. Also returned to his complete control was the British end of RAPTOR, which took rather less time to effect than the hanging of his pictures. As he moved round his office, trying new positions for the canvasses, he dictated a memorandum that instructed RAPTOR to focus its efforts on preparing the foreign agencies for the arrest and charge of the suspects. The teams in the Bunker were instructed to concentrate their resources on predicting the exact location of every suspect over the next forty-eight hours, so that decisions could be taken about a coordinated action across Europe. At the same time, RAPTOR was tasked to provide evidence against the helper cells, the men and women who had smoothed the way for the suspects to merge into the life of cities all over Europe. Preliminary estimates suggested that in each case at least ten people might be arrested and charged with aiding and abetting a terrorist plot, although there was some doubt as to whether the evidence was strong enough to meet the requirements of more liberal regimes in Scandinavia. All governments were to be urged to use the Al Capone option: to seek convictions and custodial sentences for ordinary criminal matters such as theft, fraud and forgery, rather than for terrorism.
As British diplomats began to sound out and brief governments, they insisted that a news blackout was required until at least the end of the week, by which time the date mentioned by Loz in the recording would have been reached. In several conference calls, the Chief acknowledged that there were likely to be check-in systems designed to alert a central control figure of an arrest. The failure of one suspect to make regular contact might be enough to tip off the entire network. The reaction of most security services was still to press for arrest at the earliest possible date. The Chief also told them about Mohammed bin Khidir, the man apprehended in Stuttgart who had died when he bit into a cyanide capsule. The other suspects were likely to have been equipped with suicide pills in their teeth, so drugging them, perhaps by dart, would be a necessity rather than an option.
Herrick was present for most of these conversations and noticed once or twice a distinct lack of surprise in the voices of the various intelligence chiefs, especially from the French and Italians. Between calls she remarked as much to Teckman.
The Chief gave her an injured look and said, ‘After the work you have done for us, you can pretty much write your own ticket, Isis, but I do urge you not to give voice to these unworthy suspicions.’
Of
course, she thought, the crafty old buzzard had found a way of keeping his main European allies in the picture. For a moment she marvelled at the ferocious will that lay beneath the Chief’s cheerful, gregarious presence.
One thing that remained held tightly to the chest of the British Secret Intelligence Service was the identity of Sammi Loz and Youssef Rahe, now in Teckman’s mind established as Yahya or The Poet. The Chief considered issuing descriptions and backgrounds, but then decided not to risk either of the men hearing that they were still regarded as live threats. He saw to it that Sammi Loz’s name lost the prominent place it had occupied on the FBI watch list for the last few weeks. Agents monitoring the empty consulting rooms in the Empire State withdrew.
In a gap between the Chief’s calls and discussions, Herrick phoned Dolph on his mobile.
‘Where are you, Dolphy?’ she said.
‘In the sticks, having coffee with Britain’s premier war photographer. He’s just agreed to download his entire Bosnian archive into my computer.’
‘You should be here. Things are moving fast.’
‘Yeah. I heard from Nathan Lyne. Look, I may have hit the jackpot with this stuff. I’m bringing it back.’
‘Come to the office. There have been changes.’
‘Yeah, Nathan told me that, too.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I’m not. They shouldn’t have messed with you. Though I have to say I didn’t fancy your chances yesterday.’
‘You were right: they fired me.’
‘Tossers. Now look, I’m kind of busy here. Why don’t you call Helene Guignal. She’s the bird who was in Sarajevo. I think she’s good. Really, I’ve got a feeling about her.’
She dialled Nato headquarters in Brussels five times before getting through to a colleague of Guignal’s in the Press Office who said Helene was on vacation. Pretending to be a spokesman from the Ministry of Defence who needed Guignal urgently, Herrick managed to extract a mobile number that would raise her on the island of Skiathos. She tried this, but the phone was turned off.
She returned to the Chief’s office. Teckman looked distracted for a second, then leapt from his desk. ‘Come with me.’
A Jaguar with outriders took them to Battersea Heliport, where Guthrie was already waiting with Barbara Markham and her deputy. The helicopter took less than ten minutes to touch down at Northolt, near to the Bunker’s entrance.
‘Do you know, I’ve never seen this operation,’ he murmured to Herrick as they descended in the lift.
‘You didn’t need to,’ she said.
‘Perhaps if I had come here I would have seen what made you so annoyed,’ he smiled.
When they had reached the Bunker, Teckman strode into the main space and nodded to the people he recognised. Nathan Lyne rose from his desk and came over to Herrick. ‘So, Isis. I see no Vigo. I see Richard Spelling twisting slowly in the wind. And here you are with all the great panjandrums of the British security establishment. What the hell have you been up to?’
‘Not much.’
He grinned. ‘Just in case you’re feeling bad about Walter…’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘He knew you were on that island with those two men. Your communications traffic made that clear.’
‘Did you know about it, Nathan?’
‘Of course not. I had no idea where you were. Even Andy Dolph wouldn’t tell me. But you’re safe – that’s what matters – and your stock’s risen. Things have turned out well for you.’
‘But we lost one of the suspects. This wasn’t just any old suspect. He was really important. And we don’t have much time.’ She noticed that the Chief had sat down in front of one of the larger screens. ‘Come and talk him through it all,’ she said. ‘He’s going to need you over the next few days.’
The Chief shook his hand without rising. ‘I’ve heard about you. I gather you were responsible for sending Isis to Albania, Mr Lyne. That was a very good decision. Now tell me what I’m looking at.’
Lyne pulled up a chair and went through the screens devoted to the nine remaining suspects. Most were live feeds from inside and around the apartments where they were living. Ramzi Zaman, the Moroccan, could be seen passing through the field of the camera, preparing a meal in his little kitchen in Toulouse. Lasenne Hadaya, the edgy Algerian, was seated on a couch, aimlessly throwing a ball into the air and catching it. In Budapest, Hadi Dahhak, a diminutive Yemeni with a hooked nose, was seen arguing with two men over a newspaper. Lyne said that all they ever talked about was football. He ran a piece of recent film which showed the Syrian suspect, Hafiz al Bakr, strolling in a park with one of his helpers. The story was the same with the Saudis in Rome and Sarajevo, the Pakistani in Bradford, and the Egyptian in Stockholm. Each man was aimlessly frittering away his days. There were no breaks in the routine, no sense of imminent action, no sign of preparation. Lyne took the Chief through some of the background research but Herrick could tell he was losing interest, and he suddenly left Lyne’s side and bounded up the stairs to the glass box where Spelling, Jim Collins and Colonel Plume of the National Security Agency were talking. A few minutes later he called for all the staff to assemble at the bottom of the stairs.
‘We have a problem of interpretation, ladies and gentlemen, and I need your help on it. The men you have been watching over these last few weeks will in all probability be under lock and key within a very short time. We have other intelligence to indicate that there may be some kind of action by the end of the week, so obviously we can’t allow these characters to be on the loose any longer. Before this happens, I want you to consider what their plan is. Why have they been put in place with such elaborate care? What is the meaning of it? I don’t want proof, I want your thoughts, the wildest ideas that may have occurred to you over the last few weeks.’
Herrick looked around and saw a number of anxious expressions. This was something new to RAPTOR personnel.
‘We are pursuing certain lines,’ continued the Chief, ‘which take the investigation further, but I do think we should try to work out what this is all about, don’t you?’
There was an embarrassed silence and then Joe Lapping put up his arm.
‘Yes, Mr Lapping,’ said the Chief.
‘Maybe it’s about nothing,’ said Lapping. Collins and Spelling looked up into the great black space above them.
‘Perhaps you’d care to develop that idea,’ said the Chief.
‘I don’t mean to take anything from Isis Herrick’s achievement in spotting what was going on at Heathrow. I was there, and it was a really good piece of work. But maybe – just maybe – we were meant to see it. After all, we were led there by one of the suspects who hung around outside Terminal Three in a most public fashion. It was almost as if he was making sure we didn’t miss him.’
Herrick realised he could be right. It was unlikely that Lapping would have heard about her testing Rahe’s DNA against the corpse in Lebanon, so he wasn’t falling behind the latest theory.
‘But you are aware,’ said the Chief, ‘that the orthodox view on the events of that day portrays the assassination attempt on Vice-Admiral Norquist as a strategic diversion. What would be the point of such a strategy if the suspects were all part of some kind of hoax?’
Lapping cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t been involved much in the operations down here, but always at the back of my mind it seemed that these men were acting like the Stepford Wives. They just drink coffee, read the papers, sleep, cook, do the shopping, watch TV, play soccer. They don’t look as if they’re going to do anything.’
‘He may be right, sir,’ Lyne chipped in. ‘A double deception to draw our attention away from another action, or simply waste all our resources, is not out of the question. Al-Qaeda has vast resources, by our estimates three- to five-hundred-million-dollar revenues each year, mainly from Saudi princes and businessmen. A tiny fraction of this goes into terrorist actions. About ninety per cent is used in setting up networks and infrastructure.
They could afford to string us along on an operation without having any material end in sight.’
‘ The Subtle Ruse,’ said Lapping.
‘And what’s that?’ asked the Chief. Every face turned to Lapping, who despite his confidence in matters of scholarship, was unused to public performance. Herrick saw his Adam’s apple move up and down before he spoke.
‘A book written a hundred years before Machiavelli by an anonymous Arab author – probably an Egyptian living in the time of the Grand Emir Sa’d al-Din Sunbul. It uses examples from Arab literature and seeks to edify the reader with stories of ruses, stratagems, guile and deceptions taken from different walks of life. In essence, it instructs you how to outwit your opponent and in turn be alert to his ploys.’
‘I see. You’re not suggesting this was directly taken from the book,’ said the Chief, ‘ but you are saying…’
‘That a man who had studied ancient Arab literature would know the book and have learned some of its lessons.’
Herrick remembered that Joe Lapping had been asked to research a man with a literary background who might have fought for the Bosniaks in the civil war. And Rahe, of course, spent most of his days in a bookshop. Certainly it was a suggestion that stood up to examination, but the more important idea was that Rahe had led them to Heathrow and hung about in front of various security cameras. She was appalled that she had not thought of it herself.
The Chief was nodding. ‘That’s an interesting theory. Anyone have any other ideas?’
There were a number of tentative suggestions which he dismissed politely, then in his most solicitous manner he told the assembled intelligence workers they’d done a fine job which would undoubtedly make the arrest of the men a lot simpler. When they began to disperse to their desks, still looking mystified, he told Lapping he would be required at Vauxhall Cross that afternoon and asked Lyne to be there on the following day. ‘I’m sure you can be let off school this once,’ he said with a wink to Lyne. ‘You do speak Arabic, don’t you?’
