by Henry Porter
She shook her head and said she had better be getting back to work. She left the hospital by the main entrance and walked through the courtyard. As she hit the street she saw a couple hurrying from a cab. They were unmistakably Dolph’s parents. The man in his sixties moved with Dolph’s heavy, rolling walk while the woman had his alert eyes. They looked modest people and somehow ashamed of the worry. Herrick turned to say something as they passed but suddenly couldn’t find the words. She stopped in her tracks, realising she needed to sit down and collect herself, maybe have something to eat. Across the street there was a pub named the The Three Feathers, festooned with hanging baskets of petunias. She entered an almost empty lounge bar, where a barman and the few customers were glued to Channel Four News. A distant shot of the Pan Arab Library was being shown: police tape was stretched across the road, forensics were entering the building as plain-clothes officers left with boxes.
Herrick ordered a double whisky and a meat pie that was sitting unappetisingly in the display cabinet. She perched on a bar stool while the pie was microwaved and tried to get a hold of herself by concentrating on the pocket of anxiety lodged at the top of her diaphragm.
As the pie was presented to her on a paper plate, she heard a voice from her left. Walter Vigo stood with one hand on the bar. ‘A bad business, Isis. Are they all right?’ He attempted a sympathetic smile but produced only a leer.
She turned and examined him for a moment. ‘No, they’re bloody well not all right. Joe Lapping nearly died. What the fuck are you doing here anyway?’ She cut into the pie. Vigo looked down at the flow of gravy with acute distaste.
‘I was concerned to see how they were and spotted you crossing the road.’
‘Right,’ said Herrick, grimacing. ‘What is it you really want?’
‘A word – somewhere more private, perhaps.’
‘I’ve got to go back to the office in a few minutes.’
‘This can’t wait,’ he said.
‘Then say it now.’
He waited for the barman to move away. ‘I want to know what you found in the bookshop.’
‘If I had found anything it would be none of your fucking business.’
Vigo’s mouth pursed into a tight little hole. ‘I need to know – lives may depend on it.’
She said nothing and continued eating the pie, noticing that the strange throbbing in her left arm had developed into an ache.
‘It’s important that I know. I gather there have been some useful discoveries in Bristol.’
‘Then go to Bristol.’
‘Look, Herrick. These are my people, Jamil and Youssef Rahe. They’re my contacts. Where would we be if I hadn’t made use of them?’
This amazed her. ‘Well, three of my friends wouldn’t be in hospital for a start. You were suckered. No one is going to see it any other way.’
‘I don’t care what they think about this. There may have been significant intelligence in that shop that only I am in a position to appreciate.’
She was struck by the plaintive note in his voice, and if she had been feeling less strange she would have thought about it more deeply. ‘You forget, Walter, you’re on the outside now. I can’t talk to you about any of this.’ She gestured to the TV set.
‘Do you think I would bother to come here and talk to you if it wasn’t important?’
Herrick shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t care what your interest is.’
‘I am in touch with people who need this information and can make far better use of it than you. You have the opportunity to save lives.’
‘Who?’
He shook his head.
She pulled out her phone and pressed the key to redial the Chief’s office.
‘What’re you doing?’ he snapped.
‘If you want access to what I know, go through the Chief. You can talk to him now.’
Without a word, Vigo turned and made for the door. Herrick gave it a few seconds before hopping off the bar stool and rushing to the window. A new model Jaguar pulled out from the kerb with Vigo at the wheel. Then she put the phone to her ear and was about to speak to the Chief’s assistant, but he interrupted her. ‘You’re needed here. Please return immediately. ’
Herrick laid out the phone, wallet and US passport in front of the head of the MI5-MI6 controllerate, Colin Guthrie. He let out a low whistle. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘And after that?’
‘I needed some time, so I had a drink. Guess who I bumped into? Vigo. What the hell’s he doing? He wanted to know what I had got from the bookshop.’
Guthrie thought for a moment. ‘I imagine he’s up to something in his capacity as head of Mercator. One always forgets that when Vigo was pushed out last time round he set himself up as a private intelligence agency. We thought it was pretty much dormant but perhaps we were wrong. Anyway, we’ve got a lot to get through so let’s make a start.’ He picked up a printout of an email. ‘First, Jamil Rahe. He hasn’t said a word since he was arrested, but a search of his house and a garage nearby produced a great deal – twenty passports, equipment to forge visas, blank credit cards, the records of 152 different credit cards, acquired by a skimming device, a telescope, airline schedules, a notebook logging arrival and departure times at Heathrow, computer records of payments to foreign banks, a mass of extremist literature and the usual bloody videos of Mujahadin victories in Chechnya et cetera.’ His description tailed off as a dozen or so of Herrick’s colleagues filed into his office.
He let the paper slip to the desk and gave them a brief update on the condition of the men in hospital, then divided the group into three teams to chase up leads provided by the items Herrick had taken from the bookshop. She was still feeling odd, but the tasks ahead moved the anxiety to the back of her mind and when Nathan Lyne appeared for a meeting on the Haj switch she began to feel better.
The passport she had found was held in the name of David Zachariah, a thirty-eight-year-old jeweller living in White Plains, New York. Herrick had opened it on the way to Vauxhall Cross and silently saluted Helene Guignal for predicting that the name Zachariah would appear somewhere in Rahe’s portfolio of identities. While Rahe’s replacement had been tortured and killed, Rahe had crossed the Syrian border. Fourteen days later he travelled as Zachariah to New York, with a stopover at Athens. He had stayed in the US until the previous weekend, then took an overnight flight back to Britain and landed at Gatwick Airport.
The wallet contained impressive confirmation of the existence of Zachariah. There were three different credit cards with billing addresses in White Plains, each of which was settled regularly by an account held at a bank in Manhattan, where all mail was delivered. Adding credibility to Zachariah’s life were the business cards, a membership card of the American-Israeli Friendship Society, a US driver’s licence, a dry-cleaning ticket in his name and various notes addressed to Zachariah. There was no such place as 1014 Jefferson Drive in White Plains, and no trace of Zachariah in any local records.
As crucial as the record of these recent trips was the evidence of his movements across Europe during the previous winter. Cross-referencing the point-of-entry stamps in its pages with payments made on his credit cards – acquired with his usual authority by Nathan Lyne – they produced dates for the purchases of airline and train tickets in Hungary, Germany, Italy, Denmark and Sweden, and for the payment of hotel bills. It was obvious that Youssef Rahe had used the Zachariah identity as a cover for his meetings with the helper cells all over Europe. This in itself would be useful evidence in subsequent prosecutions of members of the helper cells.
The credit cards had most recently been used in New York – again hotels and restaurants were in evidence. He also drew $8,800 in cash from his account at the Stuyvesant Empire Bank on 5th Avenue, leaving a balance of $22,000.57. Rahe was well-funded, but where from? The bank revealed that payments of $15,000 were made on the third of each month by a company named Grunveldt-Montrea, of Jersey
City, New Jersey. No such company existed in the phone directory. Before leaving New York for London, Zachariah hired a car for a period of three days on one of the cards. Lyne put in a request to the FBI to see if any trace of his journey could be picked up by speeding or parking tickets, or even motel registers, because he had evidently not used his cards to buy gas. Herrick made a note, which ended with the word Canada and three question marks.
The cell phone produced less definite information, although it was now established that the call stifled by Youssef Rahe while he was hiding above the bookshop had come from his ‘brother’, Jamil. Police reported observing Jamil Rahe switch the SIM cards and dial a number at 6.15 p.m., presumably the agreed check-in time. When he failed to get an answer, he was seen to lower the phone and check the display with a look of puzzlement. At this point the police moved in and arrested him.
It was also clear that this particular phone of Youssef Rahe’s was only used to receive calls. Several had been made to him in America over the first half of the year, but they weren’t identified in the phone’s memory and it would take time for the two or three phone companies likely to have handled them to search the records of millions of subscribers. Herrick was sure that elsewhere in the bookshop there would be other phones to investigate, and that in time much would be exhumed from the computer, although it was now being examined by the Security Services, who had proved resistant to suggestions that SIS should have access.
At 11.15 p.m. the Chief came in, looking grave. The news media had, it seemed, been well briefed by Special Branch about the involvement of SIS ‘cowboys’, to explain why two people were dead and a further three lay in hospital.
‘We’re bringing the arrests in Europe forward because the coverage may alert the suspects,’ he said. ‘However, Rahe’s use of multiple identities may work to our advantage. It’s likely the people he dealt with on the continent knew him only as Zachariah. They may not make the connection when they hear of the raid on the bookshop.’
He stopped and surveyed the drawn faces around the room. ‘Look, I don’t think there’s much more you can do tonight. I’d rather have you all fresh for tomorrow than working through the night. There is very little we can do until these arrests have been made and we can begin to assess the information they produce. ’
‘There’s a ticking bomb,’ said Herrick. ‘Loz said something would happen eleven days from last Wednesday night. That could be either Friday or Saturday, according to which day he was counting from.’
‘We think there’s a ticking bomb, which is not quite the same thing, is it? Youssef and Jamil Rahe are out of the picture; the nine suspects will be in the bag shortly; and the evidence is leaning towards Loz being killed on the island. We gather from Foyzi that four bodies were found, one very close to the spot where you say Loz was. Even with this unknown – and I am inclined to think that is not an unknown – the network you have done so much to expose, Isis, is dead.’
‘But there are the other men in the photograph from Bosnia,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got around to matching the faces with names from Dolph’s research on the Haj switch.’
‘All that’s true. But go home now, then return as early as you like in the morning. By then the nine will be detained and we may know more.’ He said goodnight and beckoned Herrick out into the corridor. ‘Pace yourself, Isis. Get some sleep tonight. I mean it. You look bloody awful.’
She did not go straight home, but instead took a cab to Brown’s Hotel, where she explained to an assistant manager what had happened to Robert Harland. After switching on the midnight news and checking with the hospital, he eventually agreed to let her into Harland’s room. He watched as she gathered together some dark blue pyjamas, underpants, socks, shirt and a sponge-bag. She noticed a slim black phone book by the telephone and put it together with the clothes in a small overnight bag, then asked whether the manager would mind if she took a bunch of flowers that were on top of a bureau. He shook his head wearily and she wrapped them in a hotel laundry bag. Later, she dropped everything off at the hospital and talked to a nurse about her three friends. She heard that Harland’s sister had been in touch and would be flying back from holiday.
It was 6.45 a.m. when she reached her floor next morning. Lyne was at her desk, using her computer. Nearby was Laughland who she assumed had been told to keep an eye on the CIA officer.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked Lyne, dropping the bag.
He looked up. ‘So much for The Subtle Ruse, Isis. These guys all meant business. Explosives, nerve agents. You name it, they got it.’
She moved to the coffee machine, thinking furiously. ‘Do we know when they were going to attack?’
‘No, I’ve only been here five minutes. I know no more than I’ve told you, but right now there’s a briefing.’ Laughland was already at the door agitating to leave.
By the time they reached the Chief’s office the briefing was underway. There were about thirty people in the room. Herrick noticed several members of the Joint Intelligence Committee and one or two people from the COBRA meeting of two days before. The Chief was sitting in the window holding up his hand against the reflection of the sun, which bounced off a convoy of waste barges on the river below.
Guthrie was speaking. He paused for the three new arrivals to find a place to perch, then continued. ‘The pattern was set by Fayzi al Haqq, the Pakistani national in Bradford. Al Haqq was armed, but was also in possession of a belt of Semtex. He was arrested before he could use either and is now in Leeds. He will be transferred to London later today. We believe he acquired these weapons only recently, and they must have been passed to him or were moved into his home right under the gaze of RAPTOR surveillance. Clearly the helper cells also served as armourers and scouts for the operation. The seven individuals that came in contact with al Haqq have all been arrested, together with a further six in London who were associated with the Turkish suspect, Mafouz Esmet. He is still in a coma.’
He drew breath and looked over his glasses. ‘I am afraid that the surveillance not only missed the preparation that has been going on this past week, but it gave us no hint of the precise nature of these men’s deadly intentions. So far it has been determined that three of them were in possession of nerve agents: Nassir Sharif in Stockholm, Lasenne Hadaya in Paris, and Ramzi Zaman in Toulouse, all had fifty millilitres of one of two different agents. Hadaya was equipped with GB – or Sarin – in an aerosol spray; the other two had VX, which is less volatile, but much more potent and long-lasting. We do not yet know how they intended to deploy these nerve agents, partly because all suspects are still suffering from the effects of the disabling darts or injections used to stop them biting into suicide pills. There is much work to be done on their targets and on the lines of supply. To this end, the helpers are being questioned exhaustively.
‘So the theme emerging is one of random and varied suicide attacks. The Pakistani in Bradford was clearly going to blow himself up at some public target, as was Hadi Dahhak, the Yemeni suspect in Budapest. One of his helpers had the belt and another was discovered with a very recent batch of Czech Semtex – as you know, it’s chemically dated. At some time in the near future these materials would have been brought together.
‘But what of the other four men? What did they plan? All were detained last night, but no weapons or means of attack were found in any of the safe houses in Rome, Sarajevo or the two in Copenhagen. They are being taken apart piece by piece, as are the homes of helpers in each city, but nothing has been found. What we do know is that two of the men were planning to travel this coming Friday. The Saudi from Sarajevo had booked himself on a flight to Vienna and the Syrian in Copenhagen was due to go to Cologne. But we don’t know why.’ He paused, and let his gaze skate across the room.
Herrick rose so that Guthrie could see her. ‘It’s obvious that Sarajevo wouldn’t be an ideal place for an attack because the population is Muslim.’ She stopped, realising she was speaking too loudly. But then the sentence fle
d from her. She shook her head and waited as the words slowly came into focus. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit early for me. And… and… in Copenhagen they had doubled up. So maybe one was flying out to take the place of the man in Stuttgart who died.’
Guthrie gave her an odd look, and there were one or two concerned glances from around the room. Beside her, Lyne discreetly touched her elbow. Then she realised that the hand holding the empty coffee cup had been seized by a violent tremor. She sat down, placed the cup on the floor and gripped her wrist with her other hand.
The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Yes, both those thoughts are probably right,’ he said quietly. ‘But it means they would have to be armed or equipped at their destinations and that seems to break with the pattern. My impression is that the organiser of this plan, likely to be the man we know as Youssef Rahe, took a view that the best way to achieve his ends was to put his chaps in place, then let the helpers service all their needs, including storage of the explosives and nerve agents. They minded each one, took all the burden until the moment arrived when he was required to kill himself. It’s slightly different to the set-up of the earlier al-Qaeda cells where they lived together and each man had a defined role.’
The briefing went on for a further fifteen minutes. At the end, the Chief made a small speech about the success of the operation, again congratulating Herrick, Dolph, Sarre and Lapping for the work they had all done. But far from being triumphant about the arrests, Herrick left the room in a sombre mood, not helped by the return of the heaviness in her chest and the ache in her arm.
An hour later, just as she had recovered a little of herself and was able to focus on what Nathan Lyne was telling her about the Haj switch, she received a call from the Chief’s office and was asked to hold. She waited, reading the conclusion of Dolph’s brilliantly tight description of the switch, which gave the names of four more people who had not shown up in the Heathrow switch or on any watch list.
