by Roger Pearce
The change in appearance came as no surprise to the surveillance operatives, for the unexpected characterised their professional lives, as it had for generations of Special Branch officers before them. At the run-down letting agency across the road from Stockwell Underground station they watched him pick up the keys, a Yale and a Chubb, without paying any cash deposit, then followed him to the address. From the moment he had arrived in London Jibril had lived the life of a holy man during Ramadan. Or a terrorist who knew his every movement might be watched.
Whichever, his behaviour made life hard for the team trying to keep track of him. To keep pace with the enemy, counter-terrorism officers need a staple diet of raw intelligence. They relish CCTV, voice recordings, accommodation addresses, flat, garage and car rentals, cash deposits, credit and Oyster card records. They crave emails, Internet searches, mobile-phone calls, texts, Facebook, Twitter and other traces of social contact.
They follow a golden thread of interaction, for it is all they have. They can only guess where it will lead. It may snap at any time. And in the post-9/11 world the Islamic terrorist who operates alone is in a strong position.
From now on Ahmed Jibril would give them nothing. He appeared to have come to London with the express purpose of watching television. That was the other problem. Because the job was strictly need-to-know, Kerr’s operatives covered their target with half a surveillance team, six officers, establishing an observation post in a block of council flats across the street. Jibril’s sudden arrival had also meant there was no time to insert cameras and listening devices inside flat nine so they had to rely on a microphone Jack Langton attached to the external wall.
At eight in the morning on the first day, Jibril switched on the TV at high volume. Then, at exactly eleven o’clock, he crossed the busy junction by the Tube station and sauntered down Stockwell Road to make a show of checking out the fruit and veg on display outside the Indian general store.
On each short journey he crossed the road twice, wandered down a couple of one-way side-streets to check out the traffic, then doubled back, as if he had forgotten something. He always returned to his hideout by eleven forty-five. This was classic counter-surveillance, known to the watchers as ‘dry cleaning’: they knew Jibril had no need to take the polluted air around Stockwell, except to lure them into the open. There were no other sightings, and the glow from the TV disappeared around ten in the evening.
Within seventy-two hours they had concluded that Ahmed Jibril was probably another neutral, ascetic loner, of long-term security interest but of no immediate significance. After talking it through with Kerr, Jack Langton reduced 24/7 coverage in the observation post to one officer, with three on the ground, and switched to other targets. Which, as it turned out, was probably what Jibril had guessed they would do.
So when at 08.12 on the fourth day, Thursday, 13 September, he walked swiftly out of the door, he took them by surprise. As he turned right, striding towards the Underground, he should have been just about waking up.
Tearing across Waterloo Bridge, Kerr spoke on the hands-free to Steve Gibb, the officer manning the observation post opposite Jibril’s address. Gibb was a trooper in 22 Regiment SAS on secondment to Kerr’s unit. Unassuming and inconspicuous, he was the smallest guy on the team, with the remains of a tan from a recent operation in Somalia. ‘What’s the score, Steve?’ said Kerr.
‘It’s the Yemen guy they slipped us under the counter, boss. He whizzed out of the house and off, off, off. Just as I was having a fucking leak.’ Gibb was a Glaswegian and sounded annoyed with himself, firing the words like bullets. ‘But I managed to get seven frames.’
Kerr imagined Gibb using the SaniLav and trying to work the camera at the same time, probably getting piss all over his hands. ‘You did well to catch up. How many do we have assigned?’
‘Half the Red team. Two vehicles and the rest on foot.’
Kerr heard Melanie’s voice again over the growl of Langton’s motorcycle. ‘You can sign me on. Jack’s dropping me off at the plot now.’
‘He’s making a right, heading north up South Lambeth Road,’ said Gibb, ‘and walking like he means business. Red Three, do you receive?’ Kerr heard a quiet voice bounce straight back to Gibb and the clunk of a car door as the surveillance operative got out to follow on foot.
‘Yes, we have him.’
Kerr split the traffic waiting on the south side of the bridge and called up Langton. ‘Jack, confirm our guys are armed?’
‘Roger that,’ replied Langton. ‘Do we let him run?’
‘Yeah, we stay with him,’ ordered Kerr. ‘Mel, let’s have two of you on foot while I get back-up. Zulu, receiving, over?’
A soft burr came out of the ether: ‘Go ahead, John.’
Kerr was relieved to hear Alan Fargo. After more than a decade of working counter-terrorism together, they often anticipated each other’s thoughts, which meant they could cut the crap. ‘Al, I want you to go with a full ops-room set-up, just to be on the safe side.’
‘I already pressed the button.’
Kerr was not surprised. He had guessed Fargo would be firing up state-of-the-art comms equipment in the operations room on the sixteenth floor of the Yard. Alan Fargo was that rare breed, a good field officer with an analyst’s brain, as effective in the ops room as 1830. He was from Falmouth, non-flashy, cerebral and self-deprecating. But no one else could join the dots so quickly, which was why they all felt safe with him managing two key jobs.
‘When do I break the news to Mr Ritchie?’ asked Fargo.
Kerr heard voices and movement around Fargo and pictured the comms monitors taking their places in front of him and plugging in their headsets. ‘How much does he know?’
‘No one above you knows anything about this,’ said Fargo. ‘Remember?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Kerr, after a pause.
‘John, I’m getting some good photographs from Steve Gibb coming through now.’ Fargo’s voice faded and Kerr imagined him swinging round to check as the images rolled onto the two giant screens in the ops room. ‘I’ll get them copied through to 1830.’
‘This is Mel. He’s crossing the road and onto a bus, number eighty-eight, upper deck, heading south.’ There was a pause with the microphone open and Kerr heard Melanie’s breathing quicken as she sprinted for the bus. ‘I’m on with him.’
Jack Langton’s voice came on the air as soon as Melanie closed her mike. ‘John, I’m pulling units from Leyton for support.’
‘I need him covered, so keep two units there. Where’s the firearms back-up?’
‘Camberwell,’ said Langton. ‘Reckon they can be on scene in seven.’
‘OK. Alan, who do we have for Gold?’ Kerr heard a commotion in the ops room and several voices colliding with each other.
‘Weatherall,’ said Fargo, softly. Everyone groaned.
Six
Thursday, 13 September, 08.39, Operations Room, New Scotland Yard
Commander Paula Weatherall polished her glasses as she took her place in the ops-room chair marked ‘Gold’. She had come straight from her working breakfast in the commissioner’s mess with the top man himself. He hosted breakfast for his senior officers on a rotational basis, interrogating them over muesli and fruit tea on their ideas for his Big Tent of top management. Some would ultimately be invited inside, others exiled to manage IT projects, youth justice and community-support officers. Success depended on image, hyperactivity and a culture of presenteeism. Prepared to make any sacrifice to get under canvas with the commissioner, Weatherall engineered more than her share of free breakfasts.
The moment Fargo’s coded text came through she had excused herself with a private word to her boss. The timing was perfect, the whispered exchange suggesting privileged access and higher importance. The previous year the commissioner had promoted her from a uniform backwater to head the intelligence unit of SO15, Counter-terrorism Command, the forgettable new title for the organisation formerly known as Special B
ranch, in which John Kerr and his team had spent most of their careers. Weatherall calculated her new role was a springboard for even greater advancement. The government spin on Islamist atrocities was ‘Not if but when’. Consequently, the fight against terror was heavily funded, great for the profile and practically unchallengeable. As Gold, Weatherall assumed complete operational responsibility for any action against Jibril the moment she took her seat.
The ops room was a rectangle four windows long and five paces wide, with workstations for Alan Fargo and the three comms specialists. The small adjacent office to the right had been converted into an observation room, separated by a glass partition. Fargo sat with his back to the door, opposite the windows. The two large TV screens were fixed to the left wall, with the comms staff facing them. The young man nearest the window was also responsible for processing surveillance stills and video onto both screens. Weatherall occupied a table at right angles to Fargo behind these experts, with her own radio link. Beside her were places for a couple of intelligence officers to add value from Room 1830. The room was not intended for the pair of uniformed, uninformed brass who had squeezed through the door in Weatherall’s wake. The three monitors turned, horrified by the extraneous noise of the brass, then spun back, clutching their headsets closely to their ears in disgust.
‘Sit-rep,’ demanded Weatherall. She used her normal speaking voice, for she was sitting closest to Fargo, with less than an arm’s length separating them. Never slow to pull rank, she was shrewd enough to know that success this morning depended upon the bulky detective sergeant from Room 1830 and his wizard computer.
As he briefed her, Fargo indicated the photographs of Jibril and his address on the wall beside the TV screens. ‘Ahmed Mohammed Jibril, ma’am, code-named “Avon”, subject of investigation by the SIS station in Yemen, who passed him to us last Sunday because he was about to travel.’
‘And?’ Weatherall was already looking pissed off.
‘That’s all we have, ma’am. At this stage.’
Alice, the comms monitor, interrupted before Weatherall could reply, her blonde hair flicking round as she turned to face Fargo. Alice was a civilian officer, slim and single, a diligent expert the surveillance operatives trusted with their lives. She always occupied the seat nearest Fargo. ‘Still on the eighty-eight travelling south, into Stockwell Road towards Brixton Underground, junction with Clapham Road.’ Alice was rapidly working her desktop. ‘This route takes him down to Clapham Common. Melanie has him.’
Fargo paused to acknowledge her. ‘Thanks, Alice.’ It was an unnecessary intervention, but Weatherall should already have known the background, and Fargo knew Alice was reasserting the priorities. ‘As I say, MI6 head of station gave us a heads-up and we picked him up at Terminal Four on Monday morning. He led us to a bedsit in Lambeth. We believe he may be here to contact or service an active cell.’
‘Why?’ Weatherall was staring at the photograph of Jibril on the left TV screen.
‘Because he’s highly surveillance-conscious and disciplined, following a strict routine.’
‘Until today, apparently,’ said Weatherall, turning her attention to updated surveillance images scrolling through the other screen. ‘He’s not carrying any bags. But he is wearing a quilted jacket, yes?’
‘A Puffa jacket, correct.’
‘Loose fitting. And what can you tell me about that, about his intentions?’
‘Well, to be honest, he did nothing unusual before he left the address.’
Alice interjected again. ‘ETA for the firearms team three minutes, rendezvous point the builders’ yard corner of Fentiman Road and Vauxhall Park.’
‘Thanks, Alice.’
Suddenly there was video of Jibril on the right screen. ‘Did you have sight of him all the time?’ asked Weatherall. ‘I mean continuously?’
‘Not every second, no.’
‘Quite. And certainly not inside the flat while he was getting dressed. There’s something around his waist, don’t you agree, Brian?’
Weatherall turned to Brian Perkins, one of the two uniforms she had brought with her. Perkins was Silver, her rostered deputy. Weatherall was a firm believer in deputies: they provided a convenient ditch to shovel the blame into when things came unstuck. A superintendent in Public Order Branch, Perkins found himself sitting beside Weatherall because he was on call that day for any critical incident. Beside him was Bronze, last in the chain of command, a fresh-faced chief inspector from Colindale, who already wore the look of fall-guy-in-waiting. Perkins opted for safety. ‘Difficult to tell. It’s a possibility.’
Weatherall swung back to Fargo. ‘Why did no one brief me about this operation?’
‘I can’t say, ma’am.’
‘I saw Mr Kerr tearing off somewhere early this morning. He is aware, presumably?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Definitely.’
‘So why isn’t he here?’
‘He’s mobile.’
‘Who’s in command on the ground?’
‘Mobile and on the ground, ma’am.’
‘He’s also supposed to be a manager. Tell him I want him in here.’
In the confines of the room Fargo felt the explosion of breath on his cheek. ‘He was on the way back when we got the alert. Went straight to the plot.’
‘Then get him on the link.’
Fargo turned to Alice, but she was already transmitting. ‘Alpha from Zulu, receiving, over?’
Kerr’s voice crackled back: ‘Go ahead.’
‘I have Gold for you.’ Alice flicked the comms to speaker.
Kerr was cruising along Effra Road, parallel to Brixton Hill and a few hundred metres from the plot. Traffic from the mainset crowded his thoughts because, in addition to Channel Five for the surveillance operation, he was also monitoring other Central units on Channel Eighteen as he awaited the call from the leader of the firearms teams, blue-lighting from their headquarters in the City. The Tactical Firearms Branch, known as CO19, had teams on standby 24/7. They were known as Trojans and used the call sign ‘Challenger’. The Trojans responded to any incident involving a firearm or deadly weapon and were routinely called upon to assist in counter-terrorism operations.
Weatherall came through on Five. Her voice was brittle, several notes too high, leaking anxiety into the calm stream of surveillance messages. ‘What’s going on down there? What are you doing there? Why the priority?’
The echo made Kerr cautious because it showed she was on the speaker. ‘Because of the provenance and the sourcing.’
‘But he’s done nothing for three days.’
Later, Fargo would tell Kerr of his astonishment at this. Weatherall had just suggested Jibril was carrying a bomb under his coat, but now she was suggesting he was low priority. Many of the new bosses camouflaged their inexperience by bullying the experts down the chain. ‘Aggressive indecision’ was how Kerr described it.
Now Jack Langton’s deep Geordie voice broke in: ‘Back-up three minutes from the plot.’
‘Received, confirm your units are carrying,’ said Kerr.
‘Yup.’
Kerr checked the time. The rest of the Red team, summoned by Langton to provide emergency support, had made it from Leyton in fourteen minutes. ‘Gold, I’ll call you on the landline.’ Kerr pressed the speed dial without a pause. ‘Jack, do you have the location, over?’
‘Still heading south on the eighty-eight towards Stockwell Underground, we have the bus in view. Melanie with him.’
Kerr could hear Weatherall’s insistent ‘Hello’ on the mobile. He cut the mike and spoke into the hands-free, his brain automatically processing the operational traffic.
‘Ma’am, this man’s total inactivity is the reason we have to treat this as urgent. He’s spent three days dry cleaning.’
‘What?’
‘Being evasive, trying to draw out surveillance. This morning he broke the pattern and we believe he’s out to do business.’
‘What do we know of his contacts?’
‘Your job as a manager is to be here in the ops room, briefing me.’
Melanie’s voice crackled into Channel Five. ‘He’s off, off, off, and crossing the road. I’m with him, plus Red Three.’
‘Ma’am, can you stand by? I have to deal with this.’ Kerr cut the call without waiting for a reply. ‘Go ahead, Mel.’
‘He’s seen a northbound bus and he’s running hard for it, number two heading back towards Vauxhall station. He’s going in the opposite direction. Now heading north, repeat north, towards Vauxhall. This guy is totally paranoid. I’m dropping off.’
‘All received. Jack, he’s retracing his route, can your guys take this?’
‘Red Four, I’m on it.’ Red Four was a young linguist, fluent in French and Arabic, who had just been accepted for a post in the international-liaison section. His mike stayed open as he sprinted for the bus. ‘He’s going up . . . top deck . . . Shit, I need a mobile unit.’ They heard the officer banging on the door to the bus, and speaking to the driver. ‘Cheers, mate.’ Kerr realised he must have flashed his warrant card, not ideal for a surveillance officer. Then the breathless voice sank to a whisper: ‘I’m on.’
‘Good work,’ said Kerr, ‘and we need your exact location, so listen up, all units.’
The voice murmured back against the traffic noise. On the crowded bus, Red Four would be just another Brixton schizo whispering to himself. ‘South Lambeth Road, junction Lansdowne Way, heading north.’
‘All units, I want containment around Kennington Lane, Nine Elms and Albert Embankment,’ said Kerr. ‘And Vauxhall Bridge in case he takes us over the river. If you think he’s got his sights on Westminster, tell us. I don’t want anyone being shy. Link man at this time is Red Four.’
Kerr’s vehicle filled with twelve voices organising themselves along the route in staccato bursts. There was no need for call signs from people who worked together twelve or even twenty-four hours a day because each knew the other like family. Kerr redialled. ‘You wanted background, ma’am. The MI6 head of station in Yemen gave him to us Sunday afternoon, on the hurry-up.’
