TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “I’m not sure relatives help much,” Natasha said, arching her eyebrows. Razia did not respond. “Well one day we may both be swept up. You never know.”

  Razia took her cue and stood up. “Will that be all madam?”

  “Good night.” And then Natasha turned her attention back to the laptop. Databases.

  First she made a formal request to the police to go through their own criminal records, fingerprints, DNA, mobile phone data, ANPR, DVLA, prison and court records and the firearms registry. Then she wrote to MI6 asking that they in turn make an immediate and urgent request to MI5 to mine the Department of Health records - after all, bad guys fell ill too – the Summary Care Record and the NHS Population Demographics Service. With over 50 million names, addresses and phone numbers, it wasn’t much better than Google, but just occasionally it delivered.

  It was one of the things MI5 consistently did fast and well and within hours the results were coming back. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of Yasirs scrolled down her screen. Yorkshire, Birmingham, Leeds, London. She pasted the London ones into a new file and moved on to the Summary Care Record which listed everyone with allergies and active prescriptions which ambulance workers might need to know about in the case of a traffic accident. Again there were too many names to be of much use at this stage, but, as before, she transferred the London entries to a new file. “Yasir’s going back to London,” the message had said. “Back to London.” And everyone leaves a trace.

  She requested more searches putting each request in a separate email. In her experience if you put a series of requests in a single document then it would be given to one data miner who would work his or her way through in sequential order. Separate emails for each request meant that a number of data miners would be working on the different requests simultaneously. That way they would be quicker. She asked for the NHS Secondary Uses Service. Its records were meant to be anonymous but, in practice, names often slipped through the net. And then the Electronic Prescription Service with its records of everyone prescribed a drug in the last five years.

  And so she went on. The NHS alone had nine databases of possible use. The Department for Education offered up eight. The National Pupil Database had every child to attend school since 2000. Then there was ContactPoint, a national index of all children in England with parents’ details attached. The Common Assessment Framework dealt with child welfare cases and the Integrated Children’s System gave details of those who were also seen by social services and for those who graduated to criminality there was the Youth Offender Information System, Wiring up Youth Justice, Asset - Young Offender Assessment and, one of Natasha’s favourites, ONSET, a profiling tool which with remarkable prescience predicted which children would go wrong before they even knew it themselves.

  The Treasury. The Department for Work and Pensions. TV licensing. The electoral register. The passport office. The land registry. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Ten

  “So you get cross-examined by the chemist if you want to buy too many aspirin, but you can buy as much hydrogen peroxide on the market as you like.” -- Lady Justice Hallett, coroner 7/7 bombings, 1 Feb 2010

  07:00, 21st December, Heathrow Airport, London

  Jaz picked up his bag from the luggage carousel at Heathrow and rehearsed his story. The number plates were for mates at the taxi firm. The boss had said they should carry spares in case a customer ever wanted to pull a trailer or a caravan. Why not buy them here? Because they were more expensive. You only need one for a trailer so why buy two? Because it was the same price as for one. As for the memory sticks, he figured the Playboy logos would speak for themselves.

  But then he saw the green channel. He expected one, or maybe two, customs officials. But there were over 20. A wall of blue uniforms all milling about. And that was the least of it. They seemed to be pulling over young Asian men and no one else.

  Jaz went to the back of the carousel so that he could watch what was going on. And then he corrected himself. Nothing is unobserved. Especially in a place like this. He looked up, saw a sign for the toilets and kept moving.

  He sat in a cubicle weighing his options. He could throw the number plates away or he could tough it out. But there must be a chance that if he left anything, even in the gents, he would be filmed. And what if they then started looking up the numbers and found they were all silver Mondeos. Like his. Anyway, without the plates he’d be running far bigger risks later. The cover story wasn’t great but at least he had one. That was one step ahead of Delhi.

  And with that he was up and off. Staying in the gents too long might look odd. Breathe deep. Gather saliva in the mouth: don’t swallow it. Walk tall.

  “Excuse me, Sir.”

  “Yeah.” Jaz looked up and saw one of the customs officers with short black hair sticking out from beneath her cap. She had a tattoo of a sky blue dolphin on her neck.

  “Where have you travelled from?”

  He wondered if it made any difference. “India.”

  “Pakistan?”

  “No, India. Delhi.”

  He knew he was showing the signs. A slight tremor in his voice, moving his weight from one foot to other. And he knew she knew.

  “Which flight?”

  “BA.” He pointed at the carousel. The movement seemed to help him. It gave him something to do. Enabled him to control his body.

  She looked at his baggage tag’s airport code to confirm his flight had originated in Delhi and then looked round at the green channel. It was filled with her colleagues emptying suitcases, asking questions, examining wash bags and opening cartons of cigarettes. All belonging to young Asian men. “This is racial profiling,” someone was complaining. “Are you saying I shouldn’t search you? Now why would that be?” came the reply.

  “All right then.” She waved him on and turned to a colleague. Jaz saw him raise an eyebrow.

  “From Delhi. Reckon we have enough on our hands with that Islamabad flight. And Karachi’s on the way too. ”

  “True enough.”

  And the relief that had washed over Jaz froze in his veins. Fuck me, he thought. Are they after me? How could they be?

  *****

  Even though the sheikh knew he would be seeing the ISI, the major preferred to be unobserved. He put it down to habit. With the meeting set for five in the morning he left at half past four, telling the guard at the gate of the fort that he was going to morning prayers. He walked towards the mosque where the mullah was already on the loudspeaker announcing the first prayer of the day. But, rather than go in, the major moved away from the mosque down past a row of large houses, each with high mud walls. When he reached the third house the gate opened without his having to knock. With a quick glance back to see whether he had been followed, he stepped in.

  On the face of it, it was a typical scene. Some chickens ran away from the gate as the major entered flapping their wings and squawking as they moved. As well as the cow pats, the sandy earth in the compound was covered with plastic bags, rusting old gas canisters and pieces of wire. In one corner where the guards kept an eye on the gate there was a low wickerwork bed and, by it, an electric fan - its electric cable trailing into the main house. By the door of the house there were a couple of motorbikes and a grey saloon.

  But there were some things that were not entirely normal about the compound. In the first place the guards looked alert. They moved briskly and, while one escorted the major into the house, the other remained at the gate looking through a hole to double check that the major hadn’t been followed. Secondly on a sweeping first floor balcony, and therefore low enough to be out of view from the road, where the high boundary wall obscured the view, there was a row of metal aerials and dishes. Although not huge, they were clearly more than would be required to carry the satellite TV channels. And inside, as the major saw, there was not the normal arrangement in a Baluch home of a formal receiving room for visitors - but rather an open plan office with desks and computers.

&n
bsp; There was only one man in the room. He was sitting on one of the desks, his legs dangling, and he had apparently been waiting for the major to arrive. Five years younger than the major, he was in western clothes, his striped shirt open at the collar. He wore a generous black moustache and had grey hairs beginning to show at his temples.

  “Anwar! Well this is a surprise. What brings you to place like this?” asked the major.

  “That’s why we suggested today. So I’d be in the area.” And then by way of explanation, “There’s so much going on in these parts these days. I could almost live here full time. In fact I do really. Hardly ever spend a night in Quetta now.” He started counting on his fingers as he spoke: “The Taliban, al Qaeda, the nationalists, the smugglers – and of course you Major.”

  Major Ali smiled: “You stayed here overnight?”

  Anwar nodded and pointed upstairs. “But we thought a morning meeting would be lower profile.”

  “You were right. Most evenings we all eat together. By the way,” the major said looking at his watch, “I have five or six minutes.”

  “It’s enough.”

  “Is this the only ISI building here? In Dera Chamak?”

  “It’s the main one.”

  “Just in case I should need to get in touch.”

  “Of course – help yourself. I’ll tell the guards here to let you in should you ever be at the gate. But what we all want to know is why you are here in the first place. And why you want to see me.”

  “It’s private business. But I thought you should know what’s going on.”

  “Private business? There’s no such thing. You know that.”

  “Which is why I got in touch. There was a drone attack in this village back in October.”

  “That’s right. They got some Uzbeks.”

  “And a local.”

  “Yes, a young boy.”

  “His brother wants revenge and the Sheikh wants to help him.”

  “Don’t tell me – they want to attack the American military trainers here.” He held up his hands in the air. “That would really not be helpful. The dollars are slowing as it is.”

  “No. The targets are in the UK.”

  Anwar looked intrigued. “Can they do it?”

  “Maybe they can. He’s already on his way. How much he can do I don’t know. But something I think …”

  “If any attacks on the UK are linked to Pakistan then we have a problem. But otherwise I don’t see why we should stand in your way.”

  “Let’s see how it develops.”

  “This is the boy who was living in the fort?”

  “Yes. His name is Jaz. It was his brother who was killed. And there is a colonel. An old friend of the sheikh. Also the boy’s uncle.”

  “There is an uncle too?”

  “No the colonel is the uncle and the sheikh’s friend. They were in Afghanistan together.”

  “Jihadis!”

  “Sort of.” The major replied, deadpan. “I told the sheikh I was coming to see you. He would probably have found out anyway. Not much happens here without his knowing about it. I said you asked for the meeting.”

  Anwar waved his hand as if it was a detail he didn’t need to know. “And if this boy does become a liability could you deal with it?”

  The major shook his head. “No. But you could.”

  The man looked at his watch. “Your time’s up. Keep me posted.”

  Without another word the major stood up, walked to the gate and headed for the mosque. Prayers would be just starting.

  *****

  Operation Find Yasir was going badly. No Yasir’s in sight. Heathrow was reporting the seizure of a kilo of heroin but that was from someone called Imran and just showed, Monty reckoned, what might happen every day if the customs actually did their job.

  Operation Find Natasha on the other hand was going well. Having initially approved the idea, Oliver Craig had subsequently tried to block Natasha coming to London because he thought that, as the requesting department, her flight and hotel would be put on his budget. Monty had countered that, even though Natasha was not technically a head of station, as the sole officer in Peshawar she could perhaps draw on the MI6 budget reserved for head of station visits to London. When Keane said he did not want to set a precedent, Monty played his trump card. The visiting station-head budget was under-spent and there was a risk that if it was not used the Treasury would cut next year’s allocation. Did Keane really want to be the man who, by blocking Natasha’s visit, had failed to preserve the budget intact? As a final flourish Monty talked about tearing down the bureaucratic walls or stovepipes, as the Americans would have it. Communicate. Co-operate. Share resources. MI6 and MI5 working together for once. And would you mind circulating a memo to Craig et al. just so they feel comfortable. Use the word synergy and you’ll be pushing on an open door.

  Which is why, 3,000 miles away, Natasha Knight was wondering whether to pack a teddy. In all conscience she could not leave Rosie in Peshawar. Razia might be fine for a couple for days but how long would this go on? A week? A month? Of course, if Razia could come to London, Natasha thought ... But she had no visa. And there is no way, she thought, I am going to ask that sexist pig Keane to organise one.

  Stay calm and carry on. Don’t let the bastards get you down. Cope. Cope with the job and cope with Rosie. Cope with life.

  “Razia! I have two hours to get ready.”

  “Yes madam”

  “Please pack.”

  “Like before madam?”

  “Yes. I mean no. No burqa but I do want the ... Never mind. I’ll do it. You find some food.”

  “Food madam?”

  “For Rosie. For the journey. And for tomorrow. I’ll be in a hotel. Not sure they’ll have much for her.”

  Razia, now well beyond the knowledge of the world offered by a Peshawar orphanage, looked confused.

  And as Natasha rushed upstairs she made a note to book a nanny. She could do it on her mobile from the airport.

  *****

  Fourteen hours later, at six in the evening London time, Monty was knocking on her hotel door. The room was so small that the cot she’d asked for blocked her way and she had to crawl over the bed to reach the door. But at least Rosie was asleep.

  She looked through the eyehole and saw a man in a suit.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Montgomery Thorold, Monty.”

  Her eyes wide apart with surprise she looked at herself in a full-length mirror. Clothes? Crumpled. Hair? All over the place. Make up? None.

  “Hold on.”

  She crawled over the bed again, found a brush and with one hand hacked away at her long black hair while with the other she simultaneously found a jacket that she had put on a hanger and slipped it over her blouse. Leaping back over the bed she slid the brush underneath, reached the door, took a deep breath and opened it.

  “Hi. Natasha,” she said. They shook hands.

  “Monty. Can I ...”

  “Well not really ...” She opened the door wider and he looked inside. They looked at the cot at the same time.

  “Gosh,” he said. “Would that be yours?”

  She looked at him and wondered what to say. “Yes, that would be mine.”

  “Blimey. Wasn’t expecting that.”

  He looked anxiously at the cot. Disturbed by the noise, Rosie rolled over.

  “That is called Rosie.”

  “Lovely. Rosie.” And then nothing.

  “And what can I do for you Monty?”

  “Oh well. Nothing I suppose. Just wanted to see how you were settling in. I had thought we could go for a meal. You know bring you up to speed. But I didn’t realise ...” Lost for words he just gave up and stopped.

  “Did we say nine in the morning?”

  “We did.”

  “Well I’ll see you then.”

  “Of course. Of course.” He was moving away from the door into the corridor now. “Well great to see you are here and ... see you
in the morning.”

  Natasha shut the door and leant against it. What a bloody nightmare.

  *****

  “The best way to wait is to do something else.” The colonel was sitting in the sheikh’s dining room with the major. “Takes your mind off it.”

  Overhead an ancient electric ceiling fan whirred, disturbing the air and creating a brisk breeze. The colonel was trying to read The Nation, an English language paper that he found less sensationalist than most of the Urdu press. The most recent edition available in Dera Chamak was two days old. Its pages rustled in the fan’s draft and the top of the page kept flicking over the article about a polo match in Rawalpindi that the colonel was trying to read.

  He looked at one of the four servants who were standing around the breakfast table. He pointed at the fan. “Couldn’t switch that down could you?”

  The man scuttled towards the wall switch that controlled the speed of the fan and looking between the ceiling and the colonel slowed the speed down until the colonel nodded.

  “Thank you,” he grunted.

  He looked at the wooden table covered with bowls of chicken, rice and rather greasy bread. It was the same fare every day. He pursed his lips and looked at the servant again.

  “Two poached eggs on toast. Four minutes.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Two poached eggs on toast.”

  The servant nodded to indicate he had understood.

  “Cooked for four minutes. Do you …”

  But before the colonel could confirm the instruction the man had left for the kitchen.

  “What do you make of Ravi?” the major asked.

  “Do I trust him you mean?”

  “Do you?”

  “If you lived here would you betray the sheikh?”

  “But come on. He is a bloody Hindu. All it would take is one message on his computer and the whole thing is sunk.” He paused but the colonel did not respond and instead was scanning the paper. “And none of us would even know he had done it. Could cover his tracks no doubt.”

  The two men fell back into silence until, looking to make sure he did not place it on any food, the colonel put down the paper.