by Henry Porter
Lyne said yes, he did.
They arrived back at SIS headquarters just past 2.00 p.m. Herrick went straight to her desk and called the mobile number for Helene Guignal. Mademoiselle Guignal answered drowsily. In the background Herrick heard the unmistakable sound of waves breaking and water running up a beach. She explained what she wanted, but Guignal said she was inclined to postpone the conversation until she was back at her desk in Brussels.
‘Fine,’ said Herrick. ‘We can put a request through the Secretary-General of Nato for a formal interview on these matters by Nato security personnel. This is important and the United Kingdom does require your help.’
‘Who are you?’
‘It’s enough that you know I am investigating an international terrorist cell and that I believe you hold information which may be useful, in fact, critical to my inquiries.’
The woman suddenly became cooperative.
‘One of my colleagues says you knew some of the foreign Muslims who defended Sarajevo during the siege?’
‘Yes, I lived with one. How can I help?’
‘We’re interested in two men, Sammi Loz and Karim Khan.’
‘Ah yes, I knew them both, but not well. They were the medics, no? The ones that came out with supplies then stayed. Those guys?’
‘Yes,’ said Herrick. ‘Would you mind telling me the name of the man who you lived with?’
‘Hasan Simic. He was of mixed parentage but was brought up as a Muslim. He liaised with the foreign Muslims – the jihadistes. It was a tough job. They always wanted to do what they wanted to do. They kept themselves apart. They were not like the Bosnian Muslims.’
‘Can I talk to Mr Simic?’
‘He’s dead. He died in ninety-five.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. He was born to die young. A very beautiful man but un sauvage – you know? If he had not been killed, he would have been taken to the Hague for war crimes.’
‘How much did you see Khan and Loz?’
‘I met them about four or five times. A few of the men used to come to our apartment when there were breaks in the fighting. I had food, you see. Not much, but more than they had. We made big pasta dinners. Karim was a favourite of mine. Tres charmant… tres sympathique.’
‘What about Loz?’
‘ Un peu plus masque, comprenez vous? Dissimule. ’
‘And you were working for press agencies then?’
‘ Oui, l’Agence France Presse.’
‘The other men – the friends of Hassan. What were their names?’
There was a pause.
‘Do you remember Yahya?’ asked Herrick.
‘Yahya? No, I do not remember this man. Who was Yahya? What did he look like?’
‘He would have been in his late twenties, early thirties. A short man, of Algerian origin. We believe he was a very private man. Inconspicuous. He may have been some kind of scholar before he went to Bosnia. Perhaps he even studied in Sarajevo before the Islamic Institute was shelled. We are not sure.’
‘And it is this man you are really interested in?’
‘Yes, it is possible that he used the name Youssef. Karim and Sammi used to call him The Poet. That was their nickname for him before he became a friend of theirs.’
‘Maybe… Ah oui, oui, oui! I know the man you mean, but his name is not Yahya. The man I think of was called Yaqub.’
‘Yaqub?’ said Herrick doubtfully. ‘Are you sure?’
‘ Oui, un autre prophete.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘So, we have three names for this man and they are all the Arab names for prophets in the Bible.’ Her tone was of someone being forced to talk to an idiot. ‘Youssef – or Joseph, is the son of the Prophet Yaqub – or Jacob! And you mentioned Yahya, who is the Prophet John, son of the Prophet Zachariah. This is obvious. He is using nommes de guerre from the Bible. One day he must use the name Zachariah. That is logical. No?’ Herrick made a rapid note of this.
‘And you know he was Algerian?’
‘Yes, he comes from Oran. I know this because my father served in Algeria. I have been to Oran.’
‘And this man was bookish and withdrawn, somebody who kept to himself?’
‘He came to the apartment once with Hassan – never the others. He was a mystery to them. But he was polite and well-mannered. There is little else that I remember about him.’
Herrick hung up, thinking that it was a pity Helene Guignal was not at her desk in Brussels to receive an emailed file of one of the images of Rahe at Heathrow. That way Herrick would be sure of an instant no or yes in her attempt to tie Rahe with Yahya or Yaqub. She got a picture out of the files nevertheless and put it in plain white envelope, thinking it was bound to be useful over the next few days. Then, with her notes of the Guignal conversation, she went to find Dolph, who she heard had arrived back from Hertfordshire.
He was with Lapping and Sarre in one of the conference rooms near the Chief’s office with his laptop fixed to a projector. They were sprawled about the room watching the photographer’s archive of the Bosnian civil war; frame after frame of haggard faces staring from fox-holes and ruined buildings. There were men pleading for mercy, women dashing across the street, barefoot children wandering snowy craters and Serb gunners coolly observing their targets below.
‘This is all stuff from ninety-three and ninety-four,’ said Dolph, after he had given Isis a brief kiss and welcomed her back. ‘He’s organised it by date rather than subject. He spent the early winter of ninety-three on one of two fronts manned by the Mujahideen Brigade. So we should be nearly there.’
Herrick reminded herself that none of them knew Rahe was now a prime suspect. Lapping had got near the truth of the matter with his observations about Rahe’s behaviour at the airport, but he hadn’t gone the extra few yards to the logical conclusion. More important, they did not know there was now some urgency to find Yahya and Loz. The Chief had been most specific that she should not talk about this.
After forty-five minutes fruitlessly peering at all the group shots from the front, they came to the end of the relevant part of the archive.
‘This photographer,’ said Herrick, ‘did he remember anyone like Khan or Loz?’
Dolph shook his head.
‘Or anyone else significant?’
Dolph shook his head. ‘I could do with a pint. What do you say we treat ourselves over the river, lads?’
Herrick asked if they had seen any groups of soldiers before she came into the room.
‘A few.’
‘I’d like to go back over those pictures.’
‘Why?’ asked Dolph a little truculently.
‘Because you don’t know what we’re looking for.’
‘We’re looking for Khan and this guy Sammi Loz.’
‘But none of you has seen them in the flesh and there may be someone else important in the photographs. This man was taking pictures throughout the crucial period.’
Dolph peered into his screen to locate the relevant files while Lapping went to get them all coffee.
At length Dolph found the photographs from mid-November 1993 showing a group of about a dozen men moving a burnt-out truck. The ground was covered with a light dusting of snow and the sky above was bright. Ice sparkled in the trees. Their faces were turned to the ground and in profile as they put their weight behind the truck. With the shadows playing across the snow, the energy expressed in the men’s bodies and the interesting form of the wrecked vehicle, it was easy to see why the photographer’s eye had been attracted to the scene, and why he’d kept his finger on the shutter button through eight frames. Dolph sped through the images, almost animating the sequence. At Herrick’s insistence they went back over them again slowly. At the fourth image, she shouted. ‘Stop there.’ She went to the wall and pointed to a man’s head which had lifted into the light and faced the camera. ‘Can you enlarge it? Here, the area at the front of the car.’
Dolph highlighted the ar
ea with his mouse and made a couple of keystrokes. ‘Who the fuck is that?’ he asked as the picture sprang onto the wall.
‘That,’ she said, withdrawing the photograph from her envelope and slapping it against the wall, ‘is Youssef Rahe, otherwise known as Yahya or Yaqub. Take a look for yourselves. ’
Dolph got up and peered at the two pictures. It took him a few seconds to understand the significance of the match. ‘Isis, you’re a bloody marvel. He’s the main man.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Everything that’s happened this morning with Spelling and Vigo is because you knew that already. You were expecting to find Rahe here – or at least you were looking for him.’
She nodded.
‘Fuck my Aunt Ethel’s goat.’
They all approached the wall and made comparisons between the two pictures. ‘And look here,’ she said. ‘The scrawny one with the beard. I’m pretty sure that’s Sammi Loz.’
‘If you say so,’ said Dolph. ‘ Is Khan there too?’
She examined each face in turn. ‘No.’
Dolph’s shrewd eyes sought hers again. ‘How did you find out about Rahe?’
‘The bookstore,’ said Sarre. ‘You got something that night, didn’t you?’
‘Christ, you’re a piece of work.’ said Dolph. ‘How long have you known?’
‘Since this morning we have known that Rahe was not killed in Lebanon. The body belonged to someone else.’ She explained about the samples she’d sent to the laboratory and the recording of Sammi Loz talking to Khan which gave her the name of Yahya.
‘So all the crucial connections took place in Bosnia,’ said Lapping.
‘Yes, which is why we need to work out who these people are.’ She jabbed her finger on the faces of the other men. ‘We should get all the shots blown up, each face digitally enhanced.’
‘But I can tell you now,’ said Sarre, ‘that none of these men came through Heathrow that day. I know their faces off by heart.’
‘And that is rather the point,’ said Lapping.
‘Behold, ladies and gentleman,’ said Dolph, ‘the viscous matter that passes for Joe Lapping’s brain is at last on stream.’
‘But you didn’t get there Dolphy,’ returned Lapping. ‘Isis left you in a cloud of dust.’
‘Fuck you Joe, just because every hooker in Sarajevo tried on Mummy’s Christmas pyjamas.’
‘I hate to be a dampener,’ said Herrick, unable to laugh, ‘but we don’t have time for this. We have to find out who these people are. If necessary, bring the photographer to London and fly that woman Guignal from Skiathos. We need all the help we can get. Anyone who was there – journalists, aid workers, soldiers. Get the Security Services to pull them in and give them a slide show. And we will need to compare these men with all the photographs we have on file.’
‘What’s the ticking clock?’ asked Dolph.
‘We don’t know,’ she said.
The three men exchanged looks, unnerved by the urgency in her voice and the undisguised command in her manner.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The operation to arrest the nine suspects would begin in the early hours of Wednesday morning, giving the security forces across Europe about thirty hours to prepare themselves. Vast amounts of surveillance detail, much of it merely proving minor crimes and association, was already hurtling from the Bunker to intelligence services in Paris, Rome, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Budapest and Sarajevo. With this went the names, addresses and photographs of the members of the helper cells. In its final hours, everything RAPTOR had hoarded and secreted was unloaded with abandon.
By the time Herrick went with Colin Guthrie to the Chief’s office late on Monday afternoon, ninety-four people, including twenty-three female helpers, were on the arrest list. The Chief informed them that local agencies were gradually taking over the job of monitoring the suspects, though in some cases it was clear they were already familiar with the routines of the suspects as well as their Anglo-American watchers. The surveillance equipment installed by Collection and SIS was kept running so that each country could tap into the live feeds still flickering twenty-four hours a day deep underground at Northolt.
The US President and the British Prime Minister had been seized by an unusual spirit of international cooperation. RAPTOR would now be presented as an initial inquiry into what one diplomat termed the ‘morphology of terrorist cells’, an exercise whose purpose was to benefit all Western allies. To disguise the unwavering focus on the men who had passed through Heathrow, it was decided, principally by the French, British and American governments, that the dragnet should also include suspects who were not members of the Heathrow group. For this reason the Dutch, Belgian and Spanish governments were brought into the operation and asked to arrest people they had been observing independently of RAPTOR. The Spanish government which, with the French, had in the past mounted among the most successful operations against al-Qaeda and associated North African groups, said it would arrest three men living in La Rioja; the French opted for a man in Marseilles; the Dutch and Belgians had any number of suspects who could be hauled in for questioning, if not actual arrest.
All hope of a publicity blackout had quickly been dropped. The number of people was far too large to contain the news, so it was decided they should make the most of the situation by issuing a joint statement by the Americans and major European governments about the unprecedented cooperation between intelligence services. The Russians were informed on the grounds that the Syrian suspect in Copenhagen, Hafiz al Bakr, had served in Chechnya and was connected with a group who had planned an attack against a Russian embassy.
‘It’s interesting how these things turn out,’ said the Chief. ‘You know, it’s my firm belief that the idea of keeping this to ourselves was just as much ours as the Americans. A bit of sucking up.’
‘Walter’s bid to get back in the saddle,’ said Guthrie.
‘I suppose,’ the Chief mused, without sign of malice. ‘I must say he made a bit of a fool of himself with Youssef Rahe, given that he never acquired much from the man. Of course we’ll need to debrief Vigo as soon as possible. Before we move on the bookshop.’
‘You’re going to search Rahe’s shop?’ asked Herrick.
‘Yes, before the other arrests, sometime tomorrow evening. But I don’t want the scene fouled up by a lot of heavy-handed Special Branch. I’ve arranged that you will go through the place the moment the police move in. But first I want you to see Vigo.’
‘What about the photographs from Bosnia?’
‘We’ll hold off on that until tomorrow morning. For the moment it’s enough that you’ve established Rahe was in Bosnia. We’re ninety-nine per cent sure he is the man referred to as Yahya and you’ve got a picture of him from the period. That’s not a bad day’s work, Isis.’
She nodded, aware that the energy was suddenly draining from her.
The Chief noticed the expression in her eyes. ‘I know you’ve had a time of it, but I need you for at least the next six days. Try to get some sleep before tomorrow. Don’t spend more than an hour with Vigo.’ He handed her an address in Holland Park. ‘Take Harland with you. He knows how to handle the bugger.’
‘Harland?’
‘Yes, he should be at Brown’s by now and I’ve asked him to help out.’
‘Harland?’ she said stupidly again. ‘What’s he doing here? I thought he was in the Middle East.’
‘No, he’s here.’ The pale eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You’re not there to parry with Vigo. Just tell him we need a complete account of his relations with Rahe. If he proves difficult, mention that one way or another we will press for a prosecution. ’
Normally Herrick would have relished the return match, but she left Vauxhall Cross without much enthusiasm and only when she found Harland in a jaunty mood in the hotel bar did her spirits lift slightly. It had been a matter of days since she’d seen him climb into the little boat on the Nile, but it seemed like weeks, particularly as Harland appeared so different. She asked wh
y he was looking so pleased with himself.
‘I’m not,’ he said, ‘It’s just that life seems suddenly full of possibility.’
‘I know you were on the road to Damascus. Did you get God or something? What happened?’
‘Nothing I’m going to tell you about, and you needn’t look so bloody sour, Isis. Let’s have a drink. You’re looking a bit part-worn.’
He turned and ordered two Soho Cosmopolitans and just in case the man needed reminding, rattled through the ingredients. ‘One measure of citron vodka, one measure of Stolichnaya oranj vodka, cointreau, cranberry juice, fresh lime juice and a twist of lemon. Plus two very cold glasses.’
They drank the cocktails with ceremony. When they’d finished, Harland said, ‘And now for bloody Vigo.’
They took the Tube to Holland Park with perspiring office workers and walked up Holland Park Avenue. The evening was warm. Harland removed his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder with one finger. Herrick noticed how young he was looking, even though his hair seemed more grey than brown in the early evening sunlight.
They approached the impressive entrance to Vigo’s double-fronted house. Harland pressed the bell for several seconds. The buzzer sounded and they were let in to find a nervous but perfectly attired middle-aged woman in the hallway.
‘Davina, this is Isis Herrick,’ said Harland. ‘We’ve come to see Walter.’
‘He’s expecting you,’ said Davina Vigo. ‘He thought you might like drinks in the garden.’
Vigo was sitting in a slice of sunlight underneath the boughs of a spreading chestnut tree. He regarded them with a baleful look and limply gestured them to chairs. Herrick noticed that Davina remained standing in the French windows with her arms folded apprehensively. He offered them a Pimms cup which they both declined.
‘Isis is here to ask you some questions.’
