Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  There was laughter on the other side of the ‘Engaged’ sign as he hurried down the stairs, a warning that the meeting was breaking up early. The door flew open as he turned away down the corridor, releasing a swell of voices. He waited for someone to recognise him from the back and call his name, but instead the voices receded up the stairs.

  In the broadest stretch of corridor, by the gallery bordering the Locarno Room, he speed-dialled Kerr. ‘John, I’m ten minutes away.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Can you hold onto them till I get there? Everyone needs to see this.’

  While they waited for Fargo, Kerr asked Melanie what she had managed to find out about Pamela Masters, Kestrel’s former associate at MI5.

  Melanie remembered everything by heart. Masters was in her late forties and single. Graduating in 1979 from Sussex University with a BA Honours in English, she had worked for a charity in Kenya for a couple of years before being recruited to the Security Service. After a period in F Branch, the MI5 section dealing with domestic subversion, in 1988 she had won a secondment to a newly formed joint team within MI6, then returned to Thames House for the rest of her career. Melanie confirmed she had resigned eighteen months ago to become a teacher at St Benedict’s Independent School for Girls, ten miles west of Windsor. Her recent appointment as head of English entitled her to occupy a flat in the school grounds.

  ‘What was the reaction when you rang her?’ asked Kerr.

  ‘Aggressive, refused to meet point-blank, told me to bloody piss off, her words not mine, and cut the call. So Justin and I are driving out to see her straight from here. Car’s parked outside. Oh, and she had a child, by the way. Lucy Ann, born 1991.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Not shown. She died in infancy,’ said Melanie, checking her watch. She collected her things together, tapped Justin on the knee and stood up. ‘And we have to get going. Can you tell Alan we’ll touch base with him later?’

  They collided with Fargo at the smoked-glass door. He was in a rush, wearing a green ribbon this time, the visitor pass facing the wrong way, shirt front damp with sweat. ‘You have to hear this, guys,’ he said, corralling them back into the room. ‘Two minutes, then I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Want some coffee?’ said Kerr, shifting up to make room. But Fargo seemed not to have heard, apparently unaware of his posh new surroundings as he pulled a bundle of dog-eared notes from his jacket and dropped them onto the table. He was still breathing hard, but Kerr could tell this was from excitement as much as exertion.

  Langton poured him a glass of water. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Legged it across the park. Thanks. Listen up, everyone. Hot intel about Jibril’s visa.’ Fargo gulped some water and tried to smooth his papers. ‘There’s definitely something special about Ahmed Jibril.’

  ‘Such as?’ said Kerr.

  Fargo reached for the copy letter and passed it around. ‘I just found this lying about in the Foreign Office. See for yourselves. It was authorised by the Home Office. And it applies only to this one category.’ Fargo jabbed a stubby finger at the letterhead. ‘Special Access Visa Authorisation. The SAVA programme. I checked with 1830 on the way over. It applies to a government agent tasked to operate within UK borders, either potential or already under recruitment. If Jibril is a spy working for our side, it counts as national security and the home sec can clear him direct.’

  ‘But we had him under surveillance as a hostile the moment he arrived at Heathrow,’ said Langton.

  ‘Bypassing normal tasking and co-ordinating channels,’ said Kerr. ‘So is Ahmed Jibril one of the good guys, after all? Alan, are you telling me I made a gigantic cock-up?’

  Fargo shrugged. ‘All we can say for sure is that the Home Office brought him into the country and someone suppressed damaging intelligence about him. We weren’t supposed to get anywhere near him, basically. For whatever reason. Which is probably why the bosses are giving you such a hard time.’

  ‘No signature,’ said Kerr, staring at the letter.

  ‘Initials only, and unreadable. But I’m checking out the hierarchy in that unit,’ said Fargo. ‘We really need to stay with this, John. They’re protecting him. Look, he’s either a good guy or a terrorist. If he’s an asset, why is no one being upfront with us? Why was Joe Allenby kept in the dark? And if he’s the terrorist we think he is, then we’re facing some kind of grotesque cover-up. I’m just saying we have to stay with it until we bottom this out one way or the other.’

  Kerr looked round the room and exhaled heavily. ‘OK. So we don’t let Ahmed Jibril out of our sight until I find out what the hell’s going on here.’ He nodded at Justin and Melanie. ‘On your way, guys.’

  ‘Two ticks,’ said Fargo, revealing a couple of inches of bum cleavage as he stooped to tie his shoelace. They waited while he shuffled through his pile of notes. ‘I’ve got the traces back on thirty-six Marston Street. I already told you the lease on Jibril’s Lambeth safe-house is owned by Falcon Properties, remember? Well, get this. Falcon also owns the Marston Street address.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Kerr frowned hard. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘One of my terrorist finance guys just confirmed it. I dunno how, but the whole thing around Jibril is linked to what happened in that house, the stuff Jack witnessed Saturday night.’

  ‘No wonder everyone’s blanking us,’ murmured Langton.

  Suddenly Fargo’s mobile was ringing deep inside his trouser pocket. He held up a hand for silence as he took the call. He listened intently. ‘You certain about that? . . . Spell it for me.’ Fargo clamped the phone against his ear as he patted himself down in vain for a pen. Justin was the first to respond, producing an elegant hotel ballpoint from nowhere. ‘That’s absolutely bloody brilliant,’ said Fargo, taking dictation. ‘I’m on the way back.’

  When he rang off he looked elated. ‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for,’ he said, beaming round the table. ‘We’ve been trawling back through the papers on Operation Derwent, the Hindawi case. We kept a hard copy in 1830 because the case is technically still open. Thousands of pages in the files. Were getting nowhere all last night and again this morning. Then, bingo, up pops Omar Taleb. It’s an alias.’

  ‘And?’ they all said in unison.

  Fargo looked at his note. ‘His real name is Rashid Hussain. He’s Syrian Secret Service. We have him on record as an undeclared Al Mukhabarat officer in London, May 1986, working out of the Syrian Embassy. The man whose number appeared on Jibril’s Sim card, who activated Jibril on the day of the bombings and instructed Julia Bakkour to represent him, is your classic fifteen-carat hood.’

  ‘What was his role?’ said Langton.

  ‘Syrian agent Nezar Hindawi seduces an innocent Irish nurse and makes her pregnant, right? Buys her a one-way ticket from Heathrow to Tel Aviv and gets her to take his transistor radio for him. Promises to join her on a later flight. Just before boarding El Al find a bomb concealed in the radio. Well, get this. Hussain was Hindawi’s case officer and fled to Damascus before we could reach him. This guy is hardcore. We haven’t heard from him in at least twenty years, but you can bet he’s still seriously active. He’d be late forties now. John, this fits with the stuff about the safe-house used by Ahmed Jibril. Like we said on Sunday, it all connects to Syrian-sponsored terrorism in the eighties.’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Kerr.

  ‘You bet. There’s nothing about Taleb on the electronic database because someone wiped it. But they forgot about the paper records. And here’s what makes this a stone bonker. Julia Bakkour and Taleb both appear on the lease for thirty-six Marston Street.’

  ‘Nice work.’ Kerr exhaled, his mind racing. ‘So get all the traces together and nail him for me.’ Kerr was already thinking about Bill Ritchie’s obstructiveness the previous evening. ‘And, hey, while we’re on Marston Street, what’s the score with that Russian’s call log?’

  ‘Anatoli Rigov. I was about to mention it. Telephone Intel in
1830 know nothing about it. They still haven’t received anything from Mr Ritchie.’

  Justin groaned. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

  ‘Are they sure?’ said Kerr.

  ‘I rang Karl. He kept the info on his mobile, so I asked him to forward the log to me direct,’ said Fargo. ‘We’ll handle it from 1830.’

  Kerr looked at Fargo. ‘So where is Mr Taleb slash Hussain right now?’

  ‘Turkey.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘We need to involve GCHQ for that.’

  ‘No. We can’t risk it. Think of another way.’ Kerr looked across at Melanie and Justin, waiting by the door. ‘On your way, guys. I want you to wind our Pamela up, see where she takes us.’

  Thirty-six

  Wednesday, 19 September, 13.53, St Benedict’s Independent School for Girls, Berkshire

  It took Melanie and Justin nearly an hour to reach St Benedict’s, then another twenty minutes to find Pamela Masters.

  The neo-classical buildings and grounds occupied fifteen acres of Berkshire countryside. The receptionist was Mrs Balderstone, a bulky spinster in her late fifties with her name on a brass doorplate. As her pretext, Melanie said Pamela was a friend from her previous job and she wanted to catch up.

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ said Mrs Balderstone, immediately suspicious. She had long ago formed the view that young women were not to be trusted, especially when they turned up without an appointment. ‘Miss Masters is still in class.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll want to see me,’ said Melanie, with a smile. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier. Please tell her I bring warm greetings from the Office.’ The receptionist’s knowledge of Miss Masters’s service to the nation was sketchy, because the lady herself gave little away, but she knew enough from watching Spooks to guess the dangers faced by their head of English in an earlier life.

  As she dialled, Mrs Balderstone kept Melanie standing. It was not the job of the receptionist to make cold callers welcome. She was always protective of Miss Masters. There was an enigmatic quality about her, but the receptionist felt privileged that the former huntress of Osama bin Laden had settled for Wordsworth, hair in a bun and a challenging sixth form.

  The school bell clanged as she passed the message, so she had to repeat Melanie’s name three times. Melanie could guess the teacher’s reaction to mention of the ‘Office’. She would be calculating the odds of Melanie declaring herself if she refused the meeting. ‘Miss Masters is busy with her marking but has a ten-minute window,’ conceded the receptionist, as the corridor erupted, ‘so you need to go back through the main entrance, then to the new block on your right and you’ll find her in Seven C.’

  A few minutes later Melanie peered through the glazed classroom door to check for stray English students, but Pamela Masters was alone. The matching green woollen skirt with jumper and comfortable flat shoes made her look ten years older, and her hair was turning grey unchecked. She was making a show of marking the pile of books on the table beside her but clocked Melanie straight away. As Masters reluctantly took her hand, Melanie couldn’t decide whether she was angry or just anxious. Her voice sounded less strident than it had on the phone and, face to face, she seemed to have lost her authority. Melanie spotted her mobile on the desk beside her bag.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Masters said, closing the door behind them. ‘This is my place of work, for God’s sake.’ She retreated behind the table and took her seat, leaving Melanie to perch on the front-row desk.

  ‘You hung up on me, Pamela. Gave me no choice.’

  She must have been attractive once, but now she was too thin and her head darted nervously, like a bird’s. ‘I told you, the door on that part of my life is closed.’

  ‘As I explained, we’re investigating a possible murder,’ replied Melanie, deadpan, ‘so I’m afraid I have to prise it open.’ She took a small notebook from her handbag and used her teeth to remove the top from her pen. ‘The Service may be connected in some way.’

  ‘Who the hell told you about me, and how dare you intrude into my private space?’

  ‘You should have invited me to your flat when you had the chance,’ said Melanie, evenly. ‘Why did you leave the Security Service so suddenly?’

  ‘Mind your own bloody business.’

  ‘Did MI5 begin to offend your newly discovered civil-libertarian instincts?’ Melanie looked her straight in the eye. ‘Did you leave of your own free will, Pamela, or were you pushed?’

  Girls’ laughter swirled around the corridor outside but, in the classroom, there was only the ticking of the clock as they stared each other down. Masters blinked first. ‘Do you mind?’ she said, picking up books from the top of the pile. ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind your hostility at all, Pamela. It’s what I expected. All that illicit screwing around was bound to leave a lot of guilty memories,’ said Melanie, as Masters began loading the books into a soft leather shoulder bag. ‘There are things you can’t bring yourself to speak about, even now, aren’t there? And that’s fine. I understand.’

  Masters let the bag fall to the floor, evidently stunned by the realisation of how much Melanie knew, then dropped her head into her hands, as if all the breath was leaking from her. ‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘Please, let me be.’

  Melanie went to her and gently touched her shoulder. ‘What are you frightened of, Pamela?’

  ‘Bloody piss off,’ Masters hissed, jerking herself upright as if suddenly conscious of her weakness. ‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’

  Melanie looked at her for a moment, picked up her bag and walked away, discreetly sending Justin a draft text. By the door she turned. ‘I’m the person you should keep in touch with.’ She took a scrap of paper from her bag, scribbled her mobile number and left it on the nearest desk. ‘You can’t hide out here in the sticks for ever, Pamela. Things are going to get bad, and I’m the detective who can look after you,’ she said, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Justin had parked well away from the school gates because Melanie had kidded him he would frighten the girls. She sprinted down the lane alongside a row of shiny black SUVs and clambered, breathless, into the passenger seat. ‘Anything?’

  The cell-site scanner in Justin’s lap was already activating. ‘You are so out of condition,’ he chided, as numbers rolled onto the screen. ‘And scary. What the hell did you say to her?’

  ‘Just get your foot down,’ she panted, reaching for the seatbelt and checking the time. ‘How soon can you get the readout?’

  Alan Fargo called them with the mobile result as they were speeding along the elevated section of the M4, near the junction with the North Circular Road. Melanie scribbled the details down and speed-dialled Kerr.

  ‘How was she?’ asked Kerr, the second he picked up.

  ‘Tore into me like I hadn’t learnt my Wordsworth.’

  ‘Did she ask how we got to her?’

  ‘No. Kestrel’s dirty little secret is safe for the time being,’ said Melanie. ‘She called two mobiles, one UK, the other international. Justin says speed-dialling, so they were in her contacts list. Must have been calling the moment I walked out the door. No names yet. Al says they’re both blocked.’

  ‘So let’s unscramble them.’

  Thirty-seven

  Wednesday, 19 September, 14.56, Eagle Security Services

  Karl Sergeyev was trying to persuade his new boss to back away from the most recent love of his life. It was only his third day of gardening leave but he was already fully occupied with driving assignments for Yuri Goschenko. Mostly, Karl was annoyed with himself. Olga had persuaded Goschenko to employ him and he should have been expressing gratitude, not the adolescent sexual jealousy that had pulsed through him since he’d stumbled back to Hammersmith from the pub the night before. Never before afflicted by self-doubt, Karl was feeling more stressed with each passing day. In less than five weeks he
had sacrificed his family, his job and, with that, his many friendships at the Yard. Of all the women in his life, none had moved him so violently as Olga, and jealousy only seemed to stoke his passion. He also knew he was drinking too much: the vodka that had fired his weekend in Olga’s bed was starting to become a crutch.

  ‘This is difficult for me, Yuri. I thought Olga had told you. We are both moving on and she wants to study.’ Karl winced inwardly. It made him sound needy, and Karl Sergeyev had never wanted for anything in his entire life. The more he pleaded, the less he liked himself.

  ‘Relax, Karl. Last night was no big deal, believe me. A boring trade delegation in Highgate, for God’s sake, not your bloody Baftas. A reception afterwards, a few drinks. You know how it is. I was seen, and so was Olga. She makes me look good. You can understand this is important for me, yes? Great for business?’

  Goschenko sat back in his chair and looked at Karl, conversation over. He was very broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair, a wide, grey face, and eyes that narrowed whenever he spoke. In a long and colourful career he had grown accustomed to acquiescence. He was shorter than Karl, yet his body and personality exuded power. For a Russian millionaire eager to integrate within the City’s corporate élite, Goschenko maintained a curiously old-fashioned office. He described it as the ‘global headquarters’ of the innocuous-sounding Eagle Security Services, even though most of the company’s major clients were wealthy Russian émigrés within Europe and the Middle East. His clothes, car and lifestyle choices were thoroughly Westernised, and the tabloids sometimes described him as a playboy; yet the business setting just off Belgrave Square seemed vaguely Soviet.

  The heavy curtains were permanently drawn, requiring the giant crystal chandelier to be lit whenever the maestro was in residence, and a heavy oak desk was kept clear except for his computer and telephone. Visitors were confronted by ornate carvings and then by the great man himself, seated in a heavily upholstered chair like a bishop’s throne, with the apex rising a full three feet above his head. The conference table could easily accommodate eight, and Goschenko regularly invited special guests to join him on the dark leather suite and enjoy a glass of vodka from the richly decorated drinks cabinet.