by Roger Pearce
‘And what am I supposed to do with this?’ said Karl, staring down at his erection.
‘You really want me to tell you?’ she screamed, slamming the bathroom door.
Twenty-four
Monday, 17 September, 10.33, the Fishbowl
Tieless, sipping in-house black coffee from a paper cup, Kerr watched Karl through the blinds as he made his way down the open-plan office towards the Fishbowl. Word had already reached him through the grapevine about the latest love of Karl’s life. Minutes earlier Donna, always ahead of the game, had warned Kerr that Karl needed to see him and the news was not good. A few of Karl’s friends called to him, throwing around the usual banter. Karl, elegant in navy single-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie, was smiling and courteous to the end, but hardly broke step.
Kerr waited for the knock on the door, then had to call twice before Karl’s head appeared, leaving the rest of him on the wrong side of the threshold. ‘You must be busy, boss. Shall I come back later?’
‘No, of course not.’ In fact, Kerr had been working non-stop since arriving in the office just after seven. Langton’s surveillance teams were in constant demand to monitor suspected terrorist targets, often operating beyond the capital, and Dodge would speak with him several times a day about complex undercover or agent operations. This morning he had drafted a statement for Kerr to sign about the siege in Hackney, in which Melanie was referred to as ‘Officer A’.
Monday morning was the busiest time for administration, which he hated. There were the previous week’s overtime claims to approve and the security authorisations for all covert operations to check, including Jack Langton’s late-night call-out by MI5 on Saturday. In addition, he had to disguise his officers’ work against Ahmed Jibril by showing them assigned to other surveillance targets.
He gestured Karl to a seat, shrugging an apology as he speed-dialled Kestrel, his MI5 insider, and left his third message. ‘I need an urgent meet with you, as in crash, so ring me back as soon as you get this.’ That would be the final call. In the past, Kestrel had ignored Kerr in order to assert the fiction that he was a volunteer, a free agent. But, as Kerr had made clear when he’d had Kestrel lifted off the street and brought to him, nothing could have been further from the truth. On this occasion, Kerr found himself wondering if the MI5 man’s reluctance was connected in some way to the suspicious things Kerr’s team was uncovering.
Kerr swung back to his desktop. ‘Just let me do this.’ When he had finished he locked his email, squeezed round the desk and dropped into the other chair. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s bad, John. Commander’s withdrawn my security vetting.’
‘You what?’ Kerr stared at him in surprise. Removal of the vetting status was effectively ‘game over’ for an officer on Weatherall’s side of SO15 because every intelligence post required national security clearance.
‘She’s going to transfer me to uniform. She gave me the kiss of death, John. I’m on gardening leave from now. Official. She told me I’m not to come anywhere near the Yard.’
‘And why do you think she’s done that?’
Uncomfortable, Karl shifted in his chair, looking for inspiration through the glass. ‘Well, to punish me, I suppose.’
‘For not keeping your dick in your trousers.’
‘It’s not like that. Her name is Olga. Christ, all I did was to fall in love and the commander practically gave me a bloody ASBO.’
‘You’re another victim in her drive for ethical correctness, I’m afraid. Conduct above reproach and all that.’
‘But I’m already separated from Nancy.’
Karl and Olga had collided in the early hours of Saturday; today was Monday morning, and it was a safe bet that Weatherall had none of Kerr’s informal channels of insider info – Kerr had picked up a rumour about Karl and an escort girl from another protection officer late on Saturday afternoon. As he spoke, Kerr was wondering how she could have got to hear about Karl’s indiscretion so quickly. ‘How did she find out about it? Who told her?’
‘Search me,’ said Karl, ‘but I’m not waiting around to find out.’
Kerr shrugged in sympathy. ‘Look, it’s not the end of the world. I know what she’s like. This is only temporary, till you move back home. Do yourself a favour, Karl. Live like a normal husband and father and she’ll change her mind.’
‘Like you?’
‘I mean it, Karl.’ Kerr’s landline buzzed, then his BlackBerry, but he ignored them both.
Karl was staring gloomily through the glass at his disappearing world. ‘She’s firing me but it’s none of their bloody business. It’s domestic.’
Kerr’s mobile beeped again. ‘No, it’s political, and I’m very sorry about it.’
‘Do you know the last time I was in uniform? Sixteen years ago. No way am I going back to that.’
‘You’re being hasty, Karl. We all need you here. Place wouldn’t be the same without you.’ Unable to resist any longer, Kerr picked up his BlackBerry, glanced at the screen and put it down. ‘Just hold on for a few weeks and everything will be fine.’
‘Too late. I just called Olga back. She’s really upset for me. Been making some calls since I left for the office. Says I can work for a friend of hers till things settle down.’
‘What sort of friend?’
‘He was at the party on Friday. A real high roller.’
‘A client, you mean.’
‘No way,’ said Karl, looking awkward. ‘An associate.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Yuri Goschenko. I’m going to do some driving for him, starting this afternoon.’
‘Hang on, Karl. What do you know about this guy?’
‘He has his own company. Eagle Security Services. Protection, bodyguarding, home alarms, that sort of thing. It’s just part-time.’
‘Moonlighting, you mean.’
‘Chauffeur to start, while I work my notice and get my life sorted. Better than doing nothing, John.’
‘I’m just saying don’t burn your bridges. We want you back here some day, so make sure you do some more checks on this guy before you get in too deep.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me. This is one Russian helping another, that’s all. Just like the English do.’
‘What’s Goschenko’s politics?’
‘Making money.’ Karl was beginning to sound irritated.
‘Both of us know he might be a hood, Karl, so watch your back.’
Alan Fargo was loitering outside the door with the padlocked canvas bag 1830 used to transfer top-secret documents between offices. Kerr gave him a thumbs-up and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Look, is there anything you need right now?’
‘I will be fine,’ said Karl, wearing his lopsided smile that said things would not be so bad, ‘and it’s been very good to work with you. I’d like to buy you a beer some time. Perhaps with Nancy. I know she’d like to see you again.’
‘Send her my best. Take care of yourself and let’s catch up soon,’ said Kerr, shaking hands. ‘And don’t be frightened to dish the dirt on this guy.’
As soon as Fargo had brought him up to speed Kerr hurried to his regular takeout, an Italian sandwich bar at the top of Strutton Ground. Because he ordered the same thing, a tuna Siciliana baguette, and paid with the right money, the owner’s daughter often quietly served him before the rest of the queue.
‘There is one more thing, John, a last favour.’ Karl had been stalking Kerr from the safety of the street market and almost collided with him outside the door.
‘You’ve changed your mind,’ said Kerr, recovering quickly, ‘come to your senses, decided to go home to Nancy and the kids so we can rehabilitate you to the fold.’ He began walking at speed, heading back to Victoria Street and the office. ‘Walk with me.’
Karl took Kerr’s arm as they wove through the crowded market. He was taller and heavier set than Kerr and had to stoop to make himself heard. ‘John, it’s about Olga.’
‘Don’t tell me. She’s married with kids and her old man has a contract out on you.’
There was desperation in Karl’s face. Kerr stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare. ‘You said it yourself, Karl,’ he said, as office workers threaded past them. ‘I’m up to my eyes.’
‘Two minutes, John,’ pleaded Karl, tugging at his arm like the biggest kid in the playground. They were in the firing line of a market trader hollering the price of tomatoes. ‘Please, this is very personal. Unofficial, not for the office.’
‘No secrets in our team,’ said Kerr, turning back the way they had come. They found a bench opposite the fire station in Horseferry Road. Kerr opened his sandwich bag, tore the roll in two and handed one half to Karl. ‘So what’s on your mind?’
‘Olga has a friend, Tania, quite young, very presentable. Even beautiful, when she grows up.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been shagging her as well,’ said Kerr, through a mouthful of tuna.
‘Well, she’s been missing since last Friday. The agency sent her to the same party where I met Olga. She never got home.’
Kerr laughed. ‘And what kind of agency would that be, exactly? Friday to Monday? Get real, she’s a hooker and he’s fallen in love. It happens. Christ, Karl, you’re living proof.’
‘No, you don’t understand. Olga says Tania is special, like the kid sister she never had. They speak every day.’
‘Sister? How old?’ Kerr was already checking his watch, chewing quickly.
‘Quite young. Below twenty.’
Kerr’s mobile was ringing. ‘She went clubbing, buggered off to Romania.’
‘No. She’s not from Romania, John. I saw her at the party. With Olga.’
‘Hold on a second, Mel,’ said Kerr, into the BlackBerry. He abruptly stopped chewing and swung round to Karl. ‘This was in Knightsbridge, yeah?’
‘Flash house opposite the church.’
Siren blaring, a fire engine pulled out of the station. Kerr had an eye on Karl’s half of the baguette. Karl shook his head so he grabbed it back, took a bite and spoke into the mobile in one movement. ‘Mel, is Jack still there with you? . . . Tell him I need to see him this evening. I’ll come out to the plot around nine . . . Fine. So, what’s occurring?’
Karl held out his hand again but Kerr was engrossed in his phone call. The sandwich wrapper was about to blow from Kerr’s lap so Karl screwed it up and tossed it into the waste bin. ‘Thanks for lunch,’ he mouthed, touching Kerr’s arm and standing to leave.
Kerr gave him the thumbs-up.
As Melanie briefed him on the surveillance against Jibril’s mobile phone contact in East Ham, Kerr watched his friend walk back through the market. In the past hour he had grown increasingly anxious about Karl. Fargo had just searched Yuri Goschenko for him in 1830, and the results were not reassuring. Karl’s potential employer was on record as a Russian businessman-playboy, one of many post-Cold War millionaires with interests in steel and gas production. Moving to London in the late nineties, he had used a fraction of his wealth to start up a security company, offering bodyguard services and office and home protection to the capital’s wealthy élite. There were yawning gaps in his business profile, and even the parts he could nail down were peppered with allegations of fraud, extortion and theft. Yuri Goschenko would not be receiving an Entrepreneur of the Year award any time soon.
Kerr badly wanted Karl back in SO15, and employment with a potential gangster would not help his rehabilitation. Olga’s involvement also filled him with misgivings. Had Karl asked her to find him a job, or was this all her idea? Karl had joined Special Branch when he was only twenty-one and, once Kerr had worked on Weatherall and Ritchie, still had a bright career ahead of him. Could a professional escort really persuade him to throw everything away?
Karl was turning the corner into Strutton Ground when Kerr hailed him, shouting above the traffic. ‘Karl!’ He turned as Kerr trotted up to him, still taking Melanie’s update.
‘Hang on, Mel,’ Kerr said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Karl. Things are crazy these past few days. Look, this isn’t a good way to say thanks. Let’s have that drink tonight. Late – say around eleven? And I want to meet your new girlfriend. You guys choose the venue and text me.’ Then Kerr was off, swerving through the market throng, taking his briefing from Melanie in the middle of lunchtime shoppers who carried on with their lives as if nothing bad was happening.
Twenty-five
Monday, 17 September, 21.41, observation post, East Ham
For the Met’s breed of health and safety fascists the observation post would have been a wet dream. To offer the best possible view of their targets, Jack Langton’s sourcing officer had chosen the deserted roof space above a run-down row of shops in East Ham, just over a mile from Julia Bakkour’s office on the other side of Wanstead Flats. It was cold, draughty, very damp and, at nine-thirty in the evening, almost pitch dark. It had been raining the whole evening and a steady stream of traffic swished along the soaking street below. The roof leaked and most of the floorboards were rotten or missing, so that hopping to the cameras by the window was like negotiating a minefield. Pinned to the wall was a mugshot of Samir Khan, code name Bravo, whose mobile number had been found on Jibril’s Sim card. Beside it was a photograph of a second, unidentified man, code name Charlie. The Red team watchers had had to use extra staples to prevent the photographs curling away from the dripping plaster. In the farthest corner, where the floorboards were relatively safe, they had set up a camping table, two folding canvas chairs, flasks of coffee, a coolbox and a weak desk light. A ten-pound note lay on the table, weighed down by three pound coins.
As he climbed the back stairs John Kerr could smell the damp, mixed with aromas from the curry house beneath. Forcing the crooked door with his shoulder, he found Jack Langton and Melanie in sweaters and waterproofs. Perched high on bar stools, they operated three cameras on tripods. A heavy net curtain, stained and carefully torn to allow maximum lateral vision, was draped over the cracked window and, because the day’s rain was still dripping through the roof, Langton had covered the gear with sheets of plastic. Kerr found him speaking into the electronic log as he worked the night-vision video. He turned to give Kerr a wave.
‘Charlie returns carrying two orange plastic shopping bags. Bravo opens the front door. They’re talking. Charlie goes inside with Bravo and the bags. Bravo out of the house and turns left. Can you take it, Mel? At . . . twenty-one-forty-two.’
‘Check.’ Melanie was already standing beside him, snapping rapid action stills, and acknowledged Kerr without losing pace. Langton left the video running, lit his pencil torch, skipped over the joists to one of the canvas chairs and reached for a flask. ‘Watch your step, John. Floor’s a death trap.’
Kerr tiptoed over to the window and looked through the viewfinder. The street opposite was a crowded terrace of small Victorian houses, some divided into ground-floor and first-floor flats. The few that had been carefully tended stood out from the rest, with freshly painted front doors, double-glazing, stone window ledges painted white and flowerpots in the lit porches. But most were dilapidated rented properties with tiles missing, flaking wall paint and collapsed fences. Khan’s house was among the neglected. A cracked grey wheelie bin and discarded sofa filled the tiny front yard, cramped against a black 125cc Cobra scooter, and the black wrought-iron front gate had come off its bottom hinge. A couple of double-decker buses eased past each other in the narrow thoroughfare, obscuring Kerr’s view for a few seconds. ‘Are they doing anything?’ he asked. Charlie had disappeared inside and closed the battered front door, so he watched Samir Khan walk down the street.
‘Looks like regular domestic stuff. Most of the people who drop by are young men. A couple we identified have cons for street robbery, theft and assault. Charlie got done last year for sexual assault. Three of them use the scooter, so probably uninsured. I’d say we’re generally talking low-life criminality, John, not extremism. But Khan’s in a different leagu
e. Very surveillance-conscious. Eyes everywhere, just like Jibril.’
Kerr heard Melanie rattle off four shots and kept Khan in view. He was mid-twenties, wearing jeans, trainers and a black sweater. ‘What was Khan’s connection to the airline conspiracy?’ he asked.
‘Email,’ said Langton, pouring coffee.
‘Wrong,’ said Melanie, rattling off a couple more shots. ‘Facebook.’
‘So remind me why this guy isn’t in jail,’ said Kerr, still tracking the target.
‘Samir Khan wasn’t a player, apparently. Just an online friend of a contact of an associate of the main man. Something like that. MI5 said they had to concentrate on crocodiles closer to the boat.’
‘Speaking of which I rang Kestrel again this morning and he’s still taking the piss. Can you give him a pull for me tomorrow, Mel?’
‘No problem.’
Kerr watched Khan until he moved out of shot, then edged across to Langton, stepping over his motorcycle helmet. Langton had poured him some coffee in a plastic cup. Kerr sat in the other canvas chair and swung round to Melanie. ‘Want some?’
‘She’s gone herbal,’ said Langton, as Melanie shook her head. He leant back, stretched, and watched Kerr take a sip and wince.
‘Jack, it’s about the surveillance you did with MI5 Saturday night. In Knightsbridge?’
‘Sure. What about it?’
‘I was checking the authorisation this morning. What was the job about?’
‘Well, it was totally their op,’ said Langton, and swigged some coffee. ‘A4 surveillance eyes only, as it turned out.’
‘Who were the targets?’
‘No names given out. At least, not for me.’
‘So were they friend or foe?’
‘Hard to say. We were covering two men in a bog-standard Ford Thames van. But it was definitely a babysitting job. Bit weird, actually, all very last minute. A4 were there to watch over them. I did the operational security.’
‘Where did it kick off?’
