by Roger Pearce
He placed the package on the mail shelf just inside the door, loitered while she went upstairs, and gave a double click as soon as she was out of sight. In less than twenty seconds Justin was inside the lobby, taking the stairs two at a time, and Langton was astride his bike again, gunning the engine to dissolve any second thoughts from the girl and cover Justin’s ascent.
Flat nine was on the second floor at the top of the house and the locks were child’s play. Justin already knew what to expect because the surveillance team had watched Jibril pick up the keys from the letting agent. There were only two flats on the landing, and no sound came from the door opposite Jibril’s. He stepped inside, closed the door and stood on the threshold, perfectly still, acclimatising himself. The heavy curtains were closed, but even in the gloom he could see practically everything from the doorway. It was a bedsit, one half of the large converted attic, with the roof sloping from left to right. There was a small oak table with two chairs pulled clear of the window and a single bed against the left inner wall beside a chest of drawers. The only other item of furniture was an uncomfortable-looking armchair facing a small TV.
The tiny bathroom and shower lay directly ahead of him, but the kitchenette was no more than an alcove in the far corner, hidden by a dirty floral curtain. An ancient gas water heater hung above the stainless-steel sink and drainer, and a laminated shelf held a kettle, electric ring, tiny fridge and microwave.
The place looked as if Jibril had just left, with the bed unmade and clothes scattered on the armchair. A chipped dinner plate, knife and stained mug had been dumped in the sink, and the fridge was empty, except for an open carton of milk and the remains of the fruit and veg Jibril had bought from the stalls around Brixton on his mid-morning walks. The waste bin still contained the remains of his three days’ occupancy. In the bathroom Justin found a toothbrush, a pair of nail scissors, shower gel, shampoo and a razor, with Jibril’s towel draped over the shower rail.
There was enough for Justin to form two conclusions. Unless he was a suicide bomber, Jibril had intended to return to the address, which meant Langton’s surveillance since his arrival at Heathrow had not been compromised. But it also showed there had been no effective police search or forensic recovery. Even for a place of this size, with no computer and very few items of property, Justin would have expected a comprehensive forensic examination to last at least forty-eight hours. There was no fingerprint dust or other sign that Metcalfe’s people had been anywhere near the address.
Justin started his own examination in the kitchen. Citizens and criminals believed the kitchen was a good place to hide valuables or secrets because it was the place burglars and police checked last. He made his discovery within three minutes. The find was so significant he knew he could ignore the rest of the bedsit.
It was the dirt that gave Jibril away. Every hard surface was covered with dust, suggesting the flat had been unoccupied before Jibril’s sudden arrival, and the kitchen work surfaces were covered with grease. Hands safe behind his back, Justin carefully studied every inch of space, concentrating on the areas behind the fridge, microwave and under the sink. Nothing had been disturbed for many months.
However, when he looked above the sink to study the water heater he noticed a scuff in the grease between the bracket and the wall, and a mark against the concave metal cover at the top of the unit. Around the cover there was a ridge of grease with a strip of clean metal above it less than a millimetre wide, showing it had recently been loosened or removed. It slipped off easily and, when he turned it over, Justin found a piece of paper smaller than a matchbook taped inside, marked ‘13 + ED-TA - 4’ in ballpoint pen. He laid the cover on the work surface, photographed it and gently peeled back the tape. Carefully unfolding the paper, he used his torch to illuminate the jewel inside that was Ahmed Jibril’s Sim card.
He was already speed-dialling as he rummaged around for an exhibits bag. In 1830 Fargo picked up straight away. ‘Listen, Al,’ said Justin, peering at his treasure trove, ‘you weren’t thinking of an early night, were you?’
Justin’s home was a one-bedroom flat on the first floor of a converted Edwardian house in Parsons Green. It was in a quiet side turning south of New King’s Road, just a stone’s throw to the north of Putney Bridge and close to Fulham Palace Road. He shared the flat with his girlfriend, a physiotherapist at Queen Mary’s Hospital in Putney. Both were keen runners, spending Saturday and Sunday mornings along the riverbanks on both sides of the bridge. But Justin’s favourite time to run was late evening, around eleven-thirty, just before bed. When work had been particularly stressful or demanding, as in recent days, he enjoyed a lone jog in the dark around the regular circuit on the side-streets north of Sands Park. The brief interlude at the end of the day, no more than fifteen minutes, helped him sleep and restored his energy.
On that Saturday evening he had a final brief call with Alan Fargo and changed into his tracksuit just before midnight, as his girlfriend got ready for bed. Alone with his iPod, he did not notice the Ford Thames van cruise past him in the opposite direction, and missed its approach as he accelerated into a twenty-second sprint along Broomhouse Lane, bordering Hurlingham Park. Even when he turned off into the street adjacent to his, he was unaware of anything threatening. The final stretch was along a little row of shops, a forty-second jog from his flat. There was a general store, a launderette between a couple of takeaways, and a drive at the far end led to an access road at the back. His assailants must have been waiting for him there, by the newsagent’s, letting Justin come to them.
He was easing down, almost reaching for his doorkey when he ran into an obstruction that had not been there a second before. It was hard as concrete, and forced the breath out of him. Then he saw that the barrier was alive, its breath in the cool night air mixing with his own. There were two men, totally dressed in black, one about Justin’s build wearing glasses, the other taller and much heavier. Winded, taken by surprise, incapable of resistance, he felt himself being dragged away from the safety of the lit street into the darkness of the access road.
When they were safely out of sight behind the shops the larger of the two punched him in the stomach and held a gloved hand over his mouth. His partner ripped away Justin’s iPod, searched his pockets and removed his key. Justin never took his mobile on a run, and had no money on him. He thought this would anger them, but neither said a word. Their actions were co-ordinated and spare, as if they did this every night. The larger guy punched him again, creasing his body on the gravel. Then they were gone.
By the time Justin collected himself and reached the street, the men had disappeared. Checking himself over, he walked the final few metres to his flat and rang the bell. Apart from the punches and a graze to his thigh where they had dragged him along the gravel, he was unmarked. His girlfriend wanted him to dial 999, but he took a shower, then called his boss.
Kerr answered immediately, sounding alert, as if he was still working. Justin listened while he tried to persuade him to go to hospital, then, when that failed, fielded a bunch of rapid-fire questions. Kerr wanted to know everything. Had Justin seen anything suspicious during the day’s searches? Any dodgy vehicles? What about the gap in between, when he and Jack had gone back to Wandsworth?
‘It’s probably just my bad luck, boss,’ said Justin, when he managed to get a word in. He tried to keep it light. ‘Street robbers. Or else a wacky couple who like dressing up and kicking the shit out of people.’
‘But they didn’t, did they? Kick you, I mean, or really do you over. Was this a warning to back off? We have to consider you may have been targeted, Justin.’
‘How would they find out where I lived?’
‘Followed you home today?’
‘No way,’ said Justin. ‘I’d have spotted that.’
‘You didn’t just now.’
‘Tonight I was a dopey bollocks, but it’s been a long day. And can we just keep my rubbish personal security between ourselves? Please?’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Justin, could anybody outside the Yard have given them your address?’
‘No one. Life is me, the girlfriend and the job.’ He laughed. ‘How sad is that?’
‘So we may have a problem. Get some rest. We’ll have another think tomorrow.’
Twenty-Two
Sunday, 16 September, 15.07, Kerr’s apartment
The only person missing from the catch-up on Sunday afternoon at Kerr’s home in Islington was Alan Fargo. They linked up with him on Skype because he was still awaiting some results and might need to access Excalibur.
Kerr’s home was light and airy, with the original polished wooden floors stretching from front to back. It was another unusually warm autumn day so he opened the French windows onto the balcony, letting in the street sounds from three floors below. There were two en-suite double bedrooms to one side, and the kitchen was state-of-the-art. The walls were painted cream, hung with prints and original watercolours he had acquired on visits to Africa, the US and Rome. Over the limestone fireplace there was a nineteenth-century print of a crowded River Thames with a newly constructed Tower Bridge rising in the background. On the sideboard, in pride of place, stood a colour photograph of Gabriella on her graduation day.
There were two double sofas and an armchair, but everyone clustered round Kerr’s laptop on the large glass dining-table so that Fargo could see them from his desk in 1830. His team looked refreshed in their weekend clothes. Kerr had a private word in the kitchen with Justin and was relieved to find he was uninjured and rested; in fact, Justin looked better than Fargo, who appeared pasty on screen, and Jack Langton, who had been scrambled in the early hours to assist MI5 with an urgent surveillance operation and had struggled to make his Sunday-morning football practice.
Relaxed in sweatshirt, white jeans and bare feet, Kerr took the pizza order and brewed coffee while Justin got Fargo to shift his position and joshed him that they needed a bigger screen.
‘Right, everyone, brains in gear,’ said Kerr, once they were settled. He slid a single sheet of A4 onto the table. The code recovered from Jibril’s safe-house was written on it in neat black felt tip: ‘13 + ED-TA - 4’. ‘Let’s assume Justin has found us some kind of operational instruction here. Worst case, it’s an order for a second attack.’ He held up the paper for Fargo to see, then passed it around. ‘I want you to memorise it and share any thoughts as soon as you get them. Doesn’t matter how bizarre, just tell me.’
Fargo dived straight in, as if he and Kerr had already been bouncing a few ideas around. ‘Well, the date of the bombing was September the thirteenth,’ he said, ‘so it’s plausible the “thirteen” refers to that. In which case, as John says, this is some kind of jihadi timetable. We’re right to take this very seriously. What the hell is “ED-TA”? We have to unpick this as soon as. Like, by tonight.’
‘So every minute is of the essence, guys,’ said Kerr, automatically checking the date on his watch. ‘This is our absolute priority. Justin’s found us a puzzle I want you to think about every second until we’ve solved it.’ He left the paper on the table and pushed round the coffee. ‘OK, Al. You were telling me the visit to the lawyer was also worthwhile.’
‘Absolutely. Hang on, I’ve got the translations and some research stuff.’ Shuffling his notes he inadvertently nudged the camera and they had to wait a few seconds while he adjusted it. ‘Sorry. Four lawyers in addition to Julia Bakkour. All first or second-generation Syrian. The firm does commercial work, matrimonial and property. Specialists in sharia, mainly the application of Islamic law to property and divorce cases here. No background whatsoever in terrorism cases. The note in her diary for last Thursday tells her to call the number written there urgently, underlined, and timing it ten-forty.’
‘Who from?’
‘No name. Just the number.’
‘And?’
‘Something odd about it,’ said Fargo, adjusting his glasses. ‘We’re having trouble tracking it, which is interesting in itself. But the number also appears on the business cards Justin copied. It’s assigned to an Omar Taleb.’
‘Address?’
‘Just a name and profession underneath it. Attorney. No company or email address. Looks like one of those spook cards MI6 give out at drinks receptions.’
‘Which country?’
‘Can’t tell yet. But he’s certainly not licensed to practise in the UK.’
‘So where?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Any security traces?’
‘Unidentifiable without more details.’
‘This has to be a good lead, Al. Let’s keep on it.’
‘While we’re on Bakkour,’ said Melanie, ‘I’m getting a drip feed from the interviews. Our Julia is wiping the floor with Metcalfe’s finest, very demanding, pushing really hard for Jibril’s immediate release.’
Justin gave a short laugh. ‘But Allenby’s photograph shows him wearing a turban, beard, the full works.’
‘So her client had a make-over before he came to London, says Julia. None of it’s enough to keep him banged up without charge. I can’t get hold of the actual interview transcripts, which is no great loss because Jibril isn’t saying a word, apparently.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ Fargo’s Cornish voice drifted into the silence. ‘I’ve got some info about Jibril’s flat. Justin, there were two numbers on the Sim card you lifted. Could be London contacts.’
‘Addresses?’ asked Kerr.
‘Working on them now. Hold on.’ Fargo disappeared from view for a couple of seconds to make a call, leaving them with voices off and a blurred, broken view of St James’s Park through the venetian blinds. ‘No, still waiting on the specifics,’ he said, when he reappeared.
‘Soon as you can,’ said Langton. ‘We need to watch these people from right now, whoever they are.’
‘Does that cover it from your end, Al?’ said Kerr.
‘No. I saved the best till last. We’re starting to join the dots. The guys here just came back with a terrorist finance connection. Jibril’s flat in Lambeth is one of nine flats in a run-down Victorian house, yeah? And remember I told you Julia Bakkour’s firm does conveyancing? Well, they go back a long way. TF tell me they acted for the purchaser of the lease on that house in 1986.’
‘So her firm buys the property more than two decades ago and represents the occupier today at Paddington Green,’ said Kerr. ‘That’s neat. Who owns the lease?’
‘It’s a company. Falcon Properties. Probably a shell but we’re checking it out. And get this. The house also has mentions re Syrian-state-sponsored terrorism around that time. The Hindawi case.’
‘Proxy bomb on El Al flight via innocent Irish nurse?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Fargo.
‘Say again?’ frowned Justin.
‘Look it up,’ said Kerr. ‘Op Derwent.’
‘Yeah, but I’m wondering whether we should be sharing this with Metcalfe,’ said Justin. ‘You know, the numbers, previous intelligence links?’
‘You’re joking, right?’ said Melanie. They sat in silence, absorbing the news. A key turned in the front door and Kerr felt their eyes on him as he glanced at his watch again in sudden realisation.
‘Didn’t tell me you were having a party, Dad.’ They looked up to see Gabriella, Kerr’s daughter, standing in the hallway in jeans, sweater and windcheater. She was just in from a couple of days at her mother’s place in Rome. A violin post-grad at the Royal College of Music, Gabi shared a flat in the shadow of the Royal Albert Hall. She stayed over with Kerr from time to time, but only to please her mother. She was pulling a suitcase with one hand and holding two pizza boxes in the other. ‘Found him on the landing,’ she said, as the delivery biker appeared behind her in the doorway. ‘He wants paying.’
‘Hey, you’re early,’ said Kerr, and then, to the screen, ‘Hold on, Al.’ He padded over to the door, kissed Gabi and paid the biker. He dumped the pizzas on the sideboard to h
ug her properly, but she was already dragging her suitcase across the room. ‘Didn’t even remember I was coming, did he?’ They all laughed, but Gabi looked serious. She managed a thin smile and made a face into the camera for Fargo.
‘Come and join us,’ said Kerr.
‘No,’ she said shortly, shaking off her coat. It was the monosyllable of a petulant child, and grabbed everyone’s attention. ‘I have to practise and get ready. It’s the Bruch Concerto tonight, remember?’
‘Sure,’ said Kerr, glancing past her at the clock on the fireplace. ‘Looking forward to it.’
‘Good.’
Kerr guessed everyone had seen Gabi’s reaction when he tried to hug her. She had introduced tension into the room and it made them look away, pretending to scribble notes. Melanie and Langton had met Gabi during her teens, and Kerr knew this was not how they would remember the relationship.
Melanie filled the void. ‘I’ll get the plates,’ she said, heading for the kitchen.
Kerr felt awkward. ‘And we need to leave here around six, right?’
‘No, Dad,’ said Gabi, raising her eyebrows at Melanie. ‘Four-fifteen latest to make the rehearsal. Like we agreed last night, remember?’ Gabi flung open her door and checked the bedside clock. ‘That’s forty minutes from now, tops. Concert’s at seven.’
‘No problem. We’re almost done.’
Kerr sensed their discomfort at seeing him wrongfooted. He knew they were vaguely aware that his personal history was complicated, affected by his job. With her parents in different countries, Gabi’s upbringing had been difficult, but her coldness in front of his team had embarrassed him, especially since everyone was being nice to her. She was behaving like a bitch, and that was not how Kerr had raised her. He noticed Melanie squeeze Gabi’s arm as she returned from the kitchen with the plates. Perhaps she thought Gabi was nervous about the concert, or she and Kerr were getting over a row. He hoped so. That would be better. An argument between father and daughter was nothing, a mere flash in the pan.
