by Roger Pearce
‘Shall I update you on the visa?’ said Melanie, as Gabi’s door closed and Justin ripped into the pizza, waving a slice on camera to provoke Fargo. ‘I had a return call from Yemen. Remember the alcoholic from King Charles Street nicked last year for drunk and diss? The whole criminal-record stroke security issue they dumped on us? Well, guess what, Foreign Office reviewed our wino’s vetting and posted him to the embassy in Sana’a. Visa section. My contact got him out to the ex-pats’ club last night, poured a gallon of wife-beater down his throat. Nothing official, but the rumour is Ahmed Jibril was fast-tracked for a student visa authorised from London. The duty logs show no record of Jibril even being interviewed. Looks like he simply showed up at the embassy and got his passport stamped.’
‘So who authorised it?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure. Fatso believes it originated with the Foreign Office counter-terrorism section in London. That’s where they sent the paperwork. But no names.’
They paused again to eat their pizza and figure out the implications. Gentle sounds from Gabi’s violin began to drift through the door and the beautiful poignancy of her playing, so at odds with her behaviour only moments earlier, distracted them all.
They looked at Kerr. ‘She’s good,’ said Justin, speaking for them all.
‘Cheers,’ said Kerr, with a quick smile, then returned to Fargo. ‘And that would be unusual, presumably?’
‘Our government gave special entry privileges to a terrorist?’ Fargo laughed. ‘Yes, John. You could say that.’
‘We need to find out what makes Jibril so special that he couldn’t join the no-hopers’ queue like the rest,’ continued Melanie. ‘And the name of the official who authorised it.’
Melanie’s mobile vibrated as they listened to the music again. ‘She is seriously brilliant, boss,’ repeated Justin. ‘I think we should all come along tonight.’
‘No,’ said Melanie, with a hand up, reading the text and checking the time. ‘This is from my contact at Paddington Green. Finch just announced he’s going to release Ahmed Jibril in forty minutes.’
Everyone stared at her as if she was speaking a different language. Even Kerr was stunned by her bombshell. They sat, mute with shock, as the truth sank in. The only sound in the room was from Gabi’s violin. She was rehearsing a lament now, and her playing matched the message.
‘But why the hell . . . ? They’ve got fourteen days,’ said Langton. He seemed to be thinking aloud for them all: people in their own organisation were about to let a jihadi back onto the street. It was seismic, incomprehensible.
Justin was the first to recover. ‘Shit,’ he said, sitting bolt upright. ‘The Sim card. Jibril’s gonna go home to Lambeth, isn’t he?’
‘That’s where his stuff is,’ said Melanie, ‘or was.’
Kerr felt their eyes on him again, anxious, uncertain, but he stayed ice cool. ‘So, better make sure you get there first,’ he said to Justin, handing him the last slice of pizza.
Langton collected his things together. ‘You are going to ring Bill Ritchie about this, John, yeah?’ he said, but it didn’t come out as a question. He sounded threatening, as if he wanted to fight someone. ‘And the commander?’
‘Not now, Jack.’
‘What, then? We put Jibril’s property back and drop him?’ Langton snatched his mobile from the table, as if he might just ring Paula Weatherall himself. It was rare for him to show emotion, but when he was worked up, the Geordie accent laced his anger with acid. He jabbed a finger at the screen, causing Fargo instinctively to push back in his chair. ‘Is that what Al’s hard work comes down to? Was all that shit we took on the street for nothing?’
Kerr looked at him. ‘I’m not saying that.’
‘What, then? For fuck’s sake, since when did we start letting terrorists off the hook? That bastard was heading for a bomb factory, and we were right behind him.’
‘Yes, you were.’ Kerr caught Fargo’s eye down the wire, as if checking something with him first. ‘And from now on you’re going to be all over him.’
Langton gave a harsh laugh. ‘Against a man they just set free?’ For the second time Kerr’s number two seemed to be speaking for everyone. ‘How the hell do we keep that from the bosses?’
‘It’s a game-changer.’ Kerr looked each of them in the face, then flashed a glance at the screen again. ‘So we fly a little lower and a lot quieter.’
They were out of Kerr’s apartment in less than a minute. On the sprint across London, Justin rode pillion with Langton to recover the Sim card from Fargo at the Yard and return it to Jibril’s safe-house before he got there.
Kerr gave Gabi money for a taxi and promised to reach the Royal College of Music in time for the concert. Then he and Melanie dived down to the garage for the Alfa and charged to Paddington Green high-security police station. They parked in a side-street next to Edgware Road Underground station just as Jibril appeared with a woman at the top of the steps. She was olive-skinned and dressed for business, even though it was Sunday, but Jibril was instantly recognisable in the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested. On the other side of Edgware Road Kerr and Melanie watched Jibril and the woman talk for a few moments, then shake hands. She walked swiftly down the steps and headed north.
‘That must be Julia Bakkour,’ said Kerr. ‘I need a photograph.’ Before Melanie could say anything he dived out of the car and jogged north, overtaking Bakkour and continuing until he was about twenty metres in front. Then he wove across the traffic to Bakkour’s side of Edgware Road and doubled back towards her, pretending to text on his BlackBerry as he snatched a couple of rough stills. He walked past her without hesitating, then crossed the road again back to the car.
As Kerr sent the photographs of Bakkour to 1830, Jibril lingered on the steps to the police station. He was looking around him, as if undecided where to go.
‘He can’t make up his mind whether to take a bus or the train,’ said Melanie.
‘Or he’s scanning for surveillance.’ Then Jibril came down the steps and turned right, heading for the nearest Underground sign.
‘It’s the Tube,’ said Melanie, opening the door. ‘Want me to take him?’
‘Too risky. He’ll recognise you. Let Jack know. We have to assume he’s coming their way. Best we can do.’
‘Sure,’ said Melanie, checking her watch. ‘And you’d better shoot.’
Kerr raced home, changed into a linen jacket and fresh shirt and reached the Royal College of Music in Knightsbridge with time to spare. He found Gabi mingling in the foyer with the other players. She looked beautiful in her black dress and patent heels, blonde hair piled high to accentuate her long neck. He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Sorry about the rush earlier. Bit of a panic.’
‘Another.’
‘But I hadn’t forgotten. And I made it. Which is good, yeah?’
‘I just texted Mum. Let’s just say she’d have killed you if you hadn’t.’
Gabi was first violin in the front row of the orchestra and Kerr sat at the end of a row near the back with a clear view of her. He had his BlackBerry on silent mode in the palm of his hand, waiting for Fargo’s call. The screen lit up near the start of the second movement and he caught Gabi’s glare as he slipped out into the foyer.
‘Sounds nice,’ said Fargo.
‘What’s Jibril been doing?’
‘No movement since he got back to number nine, and no visitors.’
‘Can we use that council block for the OP again?’
‘The Reds are already back inside.’
‘So let’s stay with him twenty-four seven till I give the word. Thanks, Al. Better get back.’
‘Hang on. That’s not why I called. I’ve got the readout from Jibril’s Sim card. There are two numbers. One outgoing, timed nineteen-fifty-three two days earlier, last Tuesday. Comes back to a Samir Khan at an address in East Ham. Hold on a sec.’ Kerr heard a shuffling of papers. ‘No record on Excalibur, but I turned up a trace in 1830 linking him to the
Al Qaeda airline conspiracy in 2006.’
‘Great. So let’s deploy surveillance from now.’
‘Jack’s already on it, but keeping it tight within the Reds. Looking for an OP as we speak.’
‘Al, you just made my evening.’
‘It gets even better. Jibril also took an incoming call. From the same number Julia Bakkour had in her diary.’
‘Omar Taleb?’
‘The attorney with the business card, correct. I’m a bit knackered so it didn’t click till now.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Al. It’s fine, and you’ve been working non-stop. Go home and get some rest. We’ll find this guy tomorrow when you’ve . . .’
‘No, that’s not it. Listen to me. Taleb’s call to Jibril was very brief, six seconds. And guess when?’
On high alert, Kerr instinctively moved to the edge of the foyer. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Thursday morning, the thirteenth, at eight-oh-seven.’
‘Jesus,’ said Kerr, his mind racing back to the surveillance logs. ‘When did we first have sight of Jibril?’
‘Steve Gibb has him leaving the safe-house at eight-twelve. Five minutes later. Jibril must have been sitting inside ready to roll, waiting for the call. Taleb was giving him the off, John. The same guy set Jibril loose and instructed his defence brief a couple of hours later. How’s that for command and control?’
‘Better than Al Qaeda. We’re up against a professional operator here. So who’s controlling him?’
‘Exactly,’ said Fargo. ‘John, this has to be state sponsored. Back to the eighties.’
Kerr was staring through the main doors onto the street. ‘And now you’ve got me wondering who else knows about it.’
‘Good question. And Finch just released the man.’
‘So let’s move fast and tread carefully.’
Twenty-Three
Monday, 17 September, 08.32, Hammersmith
Naked in Olga’s bathroom with his mobile clamped to his ear, Karl Sergeyev remonstrated with Nancy, his estranged wife, and watched his marriage swirl down the toilet with the used condom. Behind him, Olga waited with the patience of the professional while, in his ear, Nancy took him to task. Karl stood impotent, hands occupied.
‘It’s five-thirty on Wednesday or nothing. You’re in no position to set the pace here, Karl.’ When they had met almost nine years earlier Nancy had worked in Special Branch Registry. Logical, thorough and modest, she had fallen for him completely, overpowered by the charm that was to prove equally seductive outside their marriage.
‘Nancy, you know I have a lot on. All I want is you to cut me some slack.’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said, as the cistern filled with a noisy clunk, ‘and what the hell was that? Why aren’t you at the office?’
This reminded Karl that Nancy’s working Monday had started two hours earlier. She would have been getting their two children washed, fed and ready while Karl and Olga were having early-bird sex. She was on the school run, speaking on the hands-free. Karl could hear the indicator and the acceleration into the turn, and was calculating exactly where she would be. Before he had walked out on her a month earlier, he had always driven on the morning stint, Nancy taking over when they dropped him at the station.
‘You’re angry, Nancy. I can understand that, but you shouldn’t make these calls in the car. It’s dangerous for you and the kids.’
‘Oh, wonderful. You walk out on me to fuck your latest tart and still think you can slag off my driving. Pathetic.’ There was the sound of a car horn followed by Nancy’s high-pitched ‘Go screw yourself!’ and he imagined the raised finger.
His wife had never handled traffic congestion well. Karl reflected how their roles had been reversed: throughout their married life, the calming influence had always been Nancy, not the hot-headed Karl. ‘I mean in front of the children,’ he said. ‘They shouldn’t be hearing this.’
‘You really are something else. You think they don’t know?’
In the mirror, Karl watched Olga advance on him. ‘OK, calm down, say hello to them for me.’ Then Olga almost disappeared from view, her breasts softly pressing into his back. ‘Tell them I’ll take them for a burger on Wednesday.’
‘Tell them yourself,’ snapped Nancy. Olga’s laughing eyes appeared over his shoulder and he suppressed a gasp as she gently cupped his balls. ‘Hi, Amy, hi, Tom.’
Two small voices pulled at his heartstrings. ‘When are you coming home, Daddy?’
He covered Olga’s hand with his, checking her, but stayed locked into her reflection. ‘Are they all right, Nancy?’
‘Ecstatic. Look, we’re nearly at school. Don’t be late on Wednesday. Try and do something right for once.’
‘I’ll call you tonight.’
‘Don’t bother.’ There was another horn, and Nancy disconnected.
Olga took the phone and led him back into the bedroom. ‘They all right, yes, the children? What did she want, this early?’ She sat beside him on the bed and eased him back against the pillows.
‘They’re fine,’ he said, glancing at the clock, ‘and she’s right. I’d better get to the office.’
Olga lay beside him and stroked his brow. ‘You poor baby, your wife put you on the guilt trip, yes?’
It was Karl’s third morning in Olga’s bed and he had not been back to his rented flat for the whole weekend, even for a change of clothes. Now he could feel himself hardening again, after less than an hour. He had called Olga from the Dorchester’s lift lobby in the early hours of Saturday, moments after shaking hands with a bruised, chastened Boris and escorting Rigov to his room. When he saw her again she was standing on the Welcome mat, naked under her robe and still towelling her hair. Forgetting the vodka, they had launched themselves onto her canopied bed. He had entered her modest apartment in Hammersmith within thirty-five minutes of leaving the hotel and penetrated her sweet-smelling body inside fifty. ‘Karl, my darling Tartar,’ she had laughed afterwards, admiring his sweating body, ‘you really are a gift from God.’
Flattered, Karl had given his most modest smile. Now Olga raised herself on her elbow as Karl’s eyes moved over her breasts. ‘You love my bosom, no? Can’t take your eyes off it.’ Olga was nothing if not classy. She told him her breasts had served her well because they were natural, her own divine gift. Silicone was for tramps, she said. True men preferred the real thing.
Karl Sergeyev could tell she fancied him as a soul mate and potential partner. As the weekend drew on she told him she wanted to resume the studies she had abandoned at eighteen and swore to reserve her assets for his exclusive use. They talked about it over shared vodka and, because Karl was such a jealous boy, she promised to tell the escort agency next week, or the week after at the latest.
His mobile rang just as things were getting interesting again. He saw Donna’s number on the screen and pushed himself up against the pillows. ‘It’s the commander’s PA,’ he told her. ‘I have to take this.’
‘It’s no problem,’ said Olga, kicking the duvet down the bed as she worked her magic. ‘Tell her you can work from home.’
‘Hi, Donna.’ The message was brief. Karl listened carefully, thanked her and cut the call. ‘I have to get going,’ he said, glancing at the clock. ‘Commander wants to see me at ten-fifteen and I need a change of clothes.’
Olga continued arousing him. ‘Ah, yes, to chide you about your life of immorality.’
‘It’s no joke, Olga. Not from what Donna says.’
‘All these women against you. But will you ask your friends about Tania today?’ she said, disappearing again down his body.
‘If I get the chance.’
He felt her lips pull away from him and her face reappeared above his, eyes on fire. ‘But you promised!’ she said, brushing her hair back and taking his head in her hands. Olga had been fretting about Tania all weekend, ever since her first call had gone to voicemail early on Saturday morning. Karl remembered her as the shy teenage girl perching on
the staircase waiting for Olga to return with the champagne. Her disappearance was the only cloud over their otherwise perfect three nights and two days together. Olga told Karl she shared with three other girls in a small flat in Barons Court. She kept ringing every couple of hours, and with each failed call became more anxious.
This had never happened before, and she insisted something was wrong. Ever since Olga had befriended her, Tania would always text her to say she had reached home safely. That was the arrangement. She felt guilty about rushing off to have sex with Karl without first seeing Tania into a taxi: if anything bad had happened it would be her fault. And Karl’s too, partly, she added through her tears. The least he could do was use his contacts at Scotland Yard to help find Tania.
‘Look, I may not even see John today,’ said Karl. ‘He does a lot of work away from the office.’
‘No more excuses,’ she cried, dissolving into tears. ‘Bastard! You swear you love me and then you do nothing.’
His lover’s abrupt changes of gear were becoming a source of erotic fascination to Karl – he never knew where she would take him next. After two days and three nights of frenetic lovemaking, despite intervals of weeping about Tania, this was the first time she had actually applied the brakes. But with Olga, even restraint was arousing. ‘Tania will turn up, you’ll see. Don’t stop now,’ he moaned, gently pressing her head back down his body. ‘We’ve just got time.’
‘No! Something bad has happened,’ she shouted, banging his chest, ‘and you have to call your friends today.’ She got off the bed and picked up her robe. ‘Why will you not do this one thing for me?’
