by Roger Pearce
‘You’re suggesting . . . what? Someone tampered with those records, too?’ said Justin.
‘I’m saying the jihadi Jack and I bumped at that bus stop yesterday has evaporated into some kind of non-person. Who knows? Anything’s possible around this guy.’
‘What does Dragstone tell us about how he entered the country?’ said Kerr.
Fargo studied his notes. ‘Again, very little recorded except his passport number.’
‘That’s really unusual, surely?’ said Justin.
‘In a Terrorism Act investigation against a foreign national? I’d say unprecedented,’ said Fargo. ‘His solicitor says he came here to train as a dentist and, bingo, Metcalfe’s boys find he has a place reserved for him next term at London Uni.’
‘And what’s the role of Five and Six in all this?’ said Langton. ‘Mel’s contact tells us they each have a presence at Paddington Green, right? And Metcalfe brags to you about being tasked by both agencies. So MI6 must have known about Jibril right from the start. Which means Joe Allenby was working against his own organisation by tipping you off, John.’
‘And completely boshes any idea that this guy was infiltrated here as an agent,’ said Justin. ‘Ahmed Jibril on the side of the angels? Forget it.’
‘What does Dragstone have about his property, associates, that sort of thing?’ said Kerr.
‘Same as the security traces. Zilch. Property list shows a cloth bag and the clothes he was arrested in. Nothing from the search of the safe-house. No mobile to research. No computer to dismantle.’
‘So the belongings of a non-person, too, which is incredibly suspicious,’ said Justin, who had never known life without a keyboard.
‘It comes down to this,’ said Fargo, who had already given Kerr the news. ‘We dealt with this guy on the ground. We think he’s a bad bastard. The man banged up at Paddington Green is a jihadi. Full stop. Yet everything in Dragstone tells me they want an excuse to let him go, despite Five and Six crawling all over it.’
‘Or because of.’
‘Commander Weatherall refused to let Ahmed Jibril run, so now the man is going to walk,’ said Justin, mysteriously, from the floor.
‘Time to get your head checked out again,’ said Melanie, giving him a gentle kick.
Kerr reached for Fargo’s printouts. Everyone sat in silence for a while, watching him absorb the Dragstone material. ‘No personal profile to speak of,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘Hardly any confirmed antecedents. No interview record or details of the questions.’ He threw the notes aside. ‘So what do we know? We have a man we believe to be a terrorist, incriminated by Joe Allenby and the Excalibur traces, who used evasion techniques against you guys. Now Allenby has disappeared and the intelligence has been wiped.’ He was speaking rapidly, as if he’d rehearsed this in his head a hundred times. ‘Metcalfe is conducting the most pathetic non-investigation of all time. The Bull is consulting politicians about the suspected terrorist’s imminent release and completely sidelining Weatherall.’
Kerr sat silently again for a few moments. He was building up to something. Eventually he turned to Langton. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Are you up for a trip to east London, Jack? Manor Park?’
Langton understood immediately and his eyes widened. ‘You’re asking me to burgle Julia Bakkour’s office? Jibril’s lawyer?’ He uttered a laugh that could have been surprise or disbelief. ‘John, have you gone fucking nuts or what?’
‘We need to know who instructed her and why,’ said Kerr.
‘And I take it you mean without authority,’ continued Langton. ‘You know, a minor detail called the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act.’
‘There’s no way Weatherall will sign up under RIPA. Just a quick look. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Then straight round to Jibril’s flat for the thorough search Metcalfe should have made.’
‘If I get caught we’re all in the shit,’ said Langton, the man to whom risk was routine.
‘That’s right. All of us. I know.’ Kerr fell silent again, giving them time to absorb the implications. RIPA had been introduced in 2000 to control all cases of what Home Office lawyers termed ‘intrusive surveillance’ by police and government agencies. It meant that every planned operation to follow, film, eavesdrop or infiltrate had to be specifically authorised. Any breach of the Act was career suicide.
‘It’s no problem,’ said Langton. ‘What exactly are we searching for here, John?’
‘The truth,’ said Kerr, simply. That was the real reason he had called them together again, his plan beneath the wire. He already had it mapped out, and the scrum-down in the Fishbowl was his invitation to join him. As his team exchanged glances, it seemed to Kerr that they already knew. They acted like they were already alongside him; Melanie and Fargo might even be a couple of paces ahead.
He glanced at them in turn. A little more than twenty-four hours after the bombings, they all looked desperately tired. ‘Look, everyone,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘it’s Friday afternoon and we’re all knackered, so think carefully before you commit. You’re right. We’re looking at corruption and cover-up here, and I think it goes very deep. We can let it go, move on to the next job. Or we start lifting stones.’
Justin laughed. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’
‘The moment we disturb the ground the bad people are going to know. And when that happens, life gets very heavy for every one of us.’
‘I think you’ve already demonstrated that,’ said Melanie.
‘You have to know that, guys. To be in no doubt before you commit. I mean, there’s nothing career-enhancing in this.’ Kerr felt a sharp pang of guilt. The more he alienated his bosses, the greater his concerns for the officers loyal to him, and he knew he was placing them in a dilemma. All had good degrees and promising careers that he was asking them to jeopardise. With a master’s in sports science from Loughborough, Jack Langton was a highly regarded detective inspector, newly married with a baby daughter. At thirty-nine, he would run for chief in a year or two. Melanie was married to a police officer, and had two young sons. As detective sergeants, she and Alan Fargo had everything to play for in SO15. At only twenty-six, Justin was a technical genius who had placed his life on the line to get the job done and rescue others, a walking example of unsung dedication.
Suddenly awkward, Kerr dropped his eyes and shuffled Fargo’s notes on the desk. ‘Thing is,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you’re all excellent officers with a lot to play for.’
‘What are you trying to say? Exactly,’ asked Melanie.
‘That you can drop off at any time. However this turns out, no one’s going to say thanks.’
‘Except you,’ she said.
‘You’re inviting us to join you off piste,’ said Langton, ‘so we’ll drop in to Manor Park and Lambeth, and when it goes belly-up Justin can call you from the nick. You OK with that?’
Kerr chuckled. ‘Yeah, brilliant.’
‘And what crimes can Mel and I commit to sacrifice our dazzling careers?’ asked Fargo.
‘I want you to retrace Jibril’s visa,’ said Kerr. ‘Follow it right back to Yemen or Pakistan or wherever. Find the Foreign Office person at the embassy who actually bloody interviewed him.’
‘I’ve already got a call in to Islamabad,’ said Melanie.
‘All right. From now on we need to take special care about personal security. Assume we’re all going to be hacked. I want you to leave each other loads of voicemails about regular jobs on the tasking list and any other diverting bullshit you can think of. We’ll use separate encrypted mobiles exclusively for this operation. Can you get those for us, Justin?’
‘No worries.’
‘And I’d like us to catch up on Sunday. That all right with everybody?’
Fargo and Justin nodded.
‘I’m supposed to be playing footie in the morning,’ said Langton.
‘And I’ve got my daughter’s concert in the evening,’ added Kerr. ‘No way I’m going to m
iss it. Let’s meet at three.’
‘Here?’ asked Fargo.
‘Not any more,’ replied Kerr, flicking open the blinds. A couple of officers were peering in, trying to see what was so important on a Friday afternoon. ‘My place. It’s safer and I’ll order in pizza.’
As they drifted out, Kerr asked Melanie to stay behind.
‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘You know how inquisitive they get,’ he said, looking through the blinds, ‘and I’m going to need some more bodies if this kicks off. Tell the others I want everything kept absolutely tight, Mel. Strict mobile and email discipline. No outsiders.’ Through the glass a couple of officers acknowledged him, as if they knew he was picking a team. ‘Is Douggie Blain still with us?’
‘Britbank made him a formal offer yesterday. Security and crisis management leader.’
‘How about Faz?’
‘Race and diversity training,’ said Melanie, following his gaze through the glass, ‘and before you ask, Rula’s going back to uni for a post-grad and Tony applied for Public Order Branch.’
‘People are so pissed off.’ He sighed. ‘I thought Faz already did his diversity last month.’
‘Failed.’
‘He was born in Lahore, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kerr. ‘All right. But I want Karl on board.’
‘Rest of the World? You sure?’ Melanie looked quizzical, but Kerr had his head down. ‘Are you going to brief Mr Ritchie, like he asked?’
‘Not now. I’ve upset enough governors for one day.’
‘Yeah. I heard what happened upstairs, with Mr Finch.’
‘How?’
‘Donna stopped me in the corridor.’
‘She wasn’t there.’
‘Heard everything. She does something illegal to the commander’s intercom, apparently. Thanks, anyway.’ She gestured into the main office. ‘Any of them will fly under the radar for you. You only have to ask.’
Nineteen
Friday, 14 September, 13.38, Knightsbridge
From the moment his limousine swept out of the VIP lounge at Heathrow to his arrival at the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, Russian junior trade minister Anatoli Rigov made three calls on the mobile belonging to his driver, a bruiser in a shiny charcoal suit. Between the embassy and the Dorchester Hotel he made another two, and received two back. For all seven calls, Rigov spoke Russian. When he needed to communicate with his protection officer, he spoke through the driver, leaving him to translate to Karl. From his front passenger seat, Karl Sergeyev concluded that the cartoon figure behind the wheel doubled as a bodyguard. Probably a KGB retiree from the fag end of the Cold War, out of condition but still up for a fight in situations requiring no fancy footwork.
Unknown to his passengers, Karl had been brought up in Kazan and was still fluent in Russian. And he knew Boris’s translation was rubbish.
The Russians had insisted on using their armoured Jag, which was so heavy it practically left ruts in the tarmac all the way down the M4. The driver-cum-interpreter-cum-bodyguard shifted lanes, braked and swerved as if there was nothing else on the road.
‘Three out of ten, Boris,’ murmured Karl, as they cut in front of a thirty-two-tonne artic. He couldn’t believe the guy was actually called Boris. It had to be a joke. Christ, he’d stepped straight out of a James Bond movie. ‘Would it be easier if I speak in your language?’ he asked, in perfect Russian, as they drew up outside the Dorchester. Boris swung round to his boss so sharply that the Jag almost wiped out the concierge’s desk. Karl could read expressions, too. Although Rigov managed to maintain his fleshy mask, Karl could hear Boris’s walnut-sized brain whirring as he rewound the journey’s indiscretions.
Rigov recovered first. ‘Of course, my friend, why did you not say? What was your first name again? You are among friends.’
Karl tried to look embarrassed. ‘It’s Karl.’
‘And you are also Russian, I think?’
‘Yes, and I apologise, but we are required to speak English for our initial meeting. It’s protocol at the Yard.’
Karl was lying, and knew that they knew it. He could have kicked off with some banter in their language and covered the usual émigré London-life crap the moment they arrived. Instead he had encouraged free speech by busying himself with the radio and ostentatious glancing in the passenger mirror. For Karl it was a routine liaison-protection trick, deceptive and productive: the visitors felt at home, and he got to hear what they were really up to.
Now he spoke Russian directly to the principal. ‘What time would you wish me to return, sir?’
But the reply came from Boris, in English. ‘Tonight the minister will rest here, in the hotel.’
‘But I understand Mr Rigov has an engagement this evening, a cocktail party?’ pressed Karl, discreetly waving away the overdressed hotel flunkey on door-opening duty.
Rigov was smiling at him and his own English put Boris to shame. ‘Thank you, Karl, but that will not be required. Please tell your people at Scotland Yard I am very grateful.’
‘They will wish me to accompany you,’ persisted Karl, sticking with English.
‘It is not necessary. This is an unscheduled addition to the programme, purely social.’ Rigov clapped his driver on the shoulder. ‘Boris here will take good care of me.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Karl, turning in his seat, ‘but with respect, my duty requires it. I understand the event is at ten o’clock in Knightsbridge?’
‘Very well, but I hope you understand this is a private engagement.’
To Boris, the interpreter, Karl spoke the order in Russian. ‘I will meet you here in Reception at twenty-one-thirty precisely.’ Boris looked round to his boss for support, but Karl was already out of the car and opening Rigov’s door. ‘Enjoy your rest, sir.’
‘You have proved surprisingly attentive, Karl,’ said Rigov, as the concierge waved Boris into a parking bay, but the smile had disappeared.
Karl returned to the Yard for his evening meal but was back in the Dorchester’s reception area ten minutes early. He waited until 21.33 and was not surprised they had tried to lose him. At Heathrow, Boris had given Karl the official embassy events schedule. Boris’s copy had rested between them in the Jaguar and, as they had trundled from the airport towards London, Karl had memorised the extra-curricular events scrawled in Russian around the margins. Now he followed their trail around Marble Arch. He found the Jaguar parked round the corner with a few other limousines. Boris was leaning against the bonnet, having a smoke and texting. Karl parked farther down the street so that Boris would not see him, and waited until he was right in his face before surprising him in Russian.
‘Zero out of ten for timekeeping.’
Boris’s oversized head jerked up in astonishment and he almost dropped his mobile. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ When caught off-guard, before diplomacy could kick in, aggression came easily to Boris. ‘Piss off.’
‘Texting me, are you, Boris?’ The bodyguard scrabbled at the phone, attempting to speed-dial, but Karl was already covering his hand. ‘It’s OK, I’ll see myself in.’
Boris shoved Karl’s hand away and seized his arm. ‘We already told you this is a private event,’ he hissed, ‘purely social.’
‘I’ll just go and check he’s OK and be right back,’ said Karl, removing the fat hand from his sleeve. ‘Then we can have a nice chat about life back home.’
As he turned away, Karl sensed Boris make his move. ‘No! I told you!’ Boris’s meaty hands landed heavily on Karl’s shoulders as he tried to turn him. Karl reacted instinctively. Spinning with the momentum, he took Boris with him, shoving him face first against the brick wall in an armlock.
‘If I want you to speak, you pile of shit, I’ll tell you,’ said Karl, into Boris’s cauliflower ear, ‘so stay by the car and enjoy a cigarette. Make a move and I’ll rip your bollocks off and shove them down your throat. Understood?’ He reached into Boris’s pocket. ‘And I’ll take care of this for now,’ he
said, removing the mobile. ‘Don’t want a diplomatic incident, do we?’
The venue was a white stucco double-fronted house on three storeys, with broad stone steps leading up to the main entrance. A narrower flight went down to the basement, secured from the street by a black iron fence and gate; a tall wooden fence gave complete privacy from the side-street. Karl walked there first, out of sight from the main road, and checked the phone. He had given Boris no chance to lock it, so scrolled to the call log and rapidly recited the numbers into the recorder on his bodyset.
As he did so a dark red Audi A4 saloon caught his attention, parked a discreet distance from the house. It had the embedded registration-numeral leaf symbol on the upper left windscreen and specially toughened glass that, to the initiated, showed it belonged to a member of the Royal Family.
When he had everything he needed, Karl returned to Rigov’s limousine and handed the phone back to Boris, as if he had changed his mind. ‘Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble, big man.’ He smiled, calculating that Boris would never disclose the security breach to his boss.
The front door was unlocked, with no sign of security until Karl was inside the hallway. No wish to disturb the neighbours, he supposed. The noise hit him like an express train. It was definitely party time, and a heavy, ornate screen meant that he could hear but not see. So, private, too. The laughter and good-time voices screamed excess, while the sickly sweet smell of cannabis took him back to his student days at Kazan State University. Christ, you could get high just from standing in the hallway. No wonder Rigov’s off-duty plans didn’t include him.
There were two security men just inside the second set of doors. On liaison protections Karl generally fell back on the halting English of his early years in London and showed his warrant card only when absolutely necessary. He spoke on the move, giving his imitation of the driver with time on his hands and coffee in his bladder.
