Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  ‘So what have we got?’

  ‘Ex-Met guy, borough CID at Stoke Newington, then did a lot of UC drugs and firearms work. No one in the Met shed any tears when he jumped ship for the Agency. My contact reckons he was bent then, so he’s odds on favourite now.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mickey Baines. Detective constable, HGV-qualified up to thirty-two-tonners. At least four work names for his sets of duff papers. I’ve put the three vehicles on the magic box with a warning flag to Alan Fargo, so we may get a sighting if they use any of them in the future.’

  ‘Nice one, Jack,’ said Kerr. ‘I’ll let Theo Canning know.’

  Forty-four

  Monday, 24 September, 08.46, Home Office

  Claire Grant MP, minister of state at the Home Office, was late for work. On Mondays, she normally reached the glassy new building in Marsham Street by eight o’clock for a team meeting with the home secretary. Today, in view of Saturday’s news, she had taken a detour to visit Michael Danbury in his Battersea mansion flat.

  Grant hated her right honourable friend with a vengeance. But for his vicious party politicking, her rise would have been unstoppable. A Cambridge economics graduate, she had been an international aid worker, supply lecturer and councillor before entering Parliament. Carefully airbrushed photographs of Grant’s student partying cemented her reputation as an approachable, right-on woman of the people, and six years of assiduous manoeuvring had delivered her first Home Office ministerial appointment with responsibility for immigration, nationality and citizenship.

  Grant was married to a corporate lawyer, who lived with their two children in an expensive farmhouse ten miles from Manchester. When Parliament was sitting she stayed during the week at their second home, a one-bedroom flat in Southwark, within easy reach of Westminster, arriving by train late on Sunday evening.

  Michael Danbury was her parliamentary shadow and had been identifying the thousands of dodgy asylum applicants spirited into the UK on Grant’s watch. He had timed his attack to coincide with a media bombardment about knife, gun and gang crime, prostitution, organised criminality, theft of British jobs and the failure of multiculturalism.

  The campaign generated a resentment of migrants that surpassed even the climate of fear against terrorism. Every time he accused her of incompetence, Grant played the race and tolerance cards. But then a number of things happened in quick succession. A tabloid published actual numbers of rapists, drugs traffickers, quasi-terrorists and sociopaths ‘ripping the heart out of Britain’, and a bad-tempered debate with Danbury on Newsnight had exposed Grant’s manipulation of the statistics. The next day the home secretary expressed complete confidence in his favourite Home Office minister; by breakfast the morning after, Claire Grant was toast.

  Grant was the exception to the belief that the House of Commons club transcended party divides. Even a recall to government on promotion years later did nothing to soften her visceral loathing of Michael Danbury. Yet when he opened the front door, pale and watery-eyed, she embraced him as she would a brother. It was a gesture, though her skin was so thick that his peck on her cheek scarcely registered. ‘Crises like this have nothing to do with political differences,’ she had said to him, on the phone the night before.

  Grant sat with Danbury for a few minutes in his living room, politely refusing his offer of tea, observing his suffering at first hand. ‘I know we’ve had our battles in the House,’ he said, close to tears.

  ‘Nonsense, Michael, that’s all in the past. This is parent stuff,’ she said, vaguely thinking of the adult son from her first marriage she never saw, ‘me to you, nothing to do with politics. Now,’ she said, sitting forward in her chair, ‘I want to know what the police have been like.’

  ‘Chief constable came to see me last night. Seemed a bit of a prat, actually. Had the head of CID in tow and asked if there could be any connection to my political work in the Northern Ireland office. You know, revenge attack, kidnap for ransom, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Absolute garbage, as I told him to his face. That was a lifetime ago and I asked if he’d heard of the Good Friday Agreement, so then he droned on about the threat from AQ.’

  ‘Well, you have made some pretty trenchant remarks about Islamic terrorists.’

  ‘Kidnapping’s not their style in the UK,’ said Danbury, shaking his head. ‘Different MO.’ He sighed and looked Grant in the eye. ‘But since you’ve taken the trouble, Claire, I just want to make sure, you know . . .’

  ‘. . . that they’re doing everything possible? Of course, I understand.’

  ‘It would be enormously comforting if you could give Hampshire Plod a kicking.’

  ‘Go home and spend time with Selina. And don’t worry, I’ll drag the chief constable up to brief me personally, make sure he pulls out all the stops.’

  ‘Thanks, Claire, truly. From both of us.’

  Her work done, Grant stood to go. ‘I’ll keep in touch, and let’s speak again soon.’

  By the time she swept into the Home Office with her red box she was forty minutes behind schedule. She was renowned for her unpredictability and love of status. While other ministers mingled with their civil servants in the lift lobby, Grant’s driver ensured a lift was held for her exclusive use whenever she was on the move, leaving the infantry to take the stairs. In the outer office her diary secretary was hovering with the list of rescheduled meetings, but the three other staff kept their heads down, gauging her mood. They had only seconds to wait. ‘Get me the chief constable of Hampshire,’ Grant ordered no one in particular, ‘and coffee, now.’

  ‘Number Ten would like you to call as soon as . . .’ said Susan, the senior private secretary, as Grant bustled into her office and slammed the door. In addition to her own lift, the minister required fresh coffee all day, served black with sugar. There was a high turnover in the private office.

  Susan buzzed through to Grant’s desk. ‘I have Chief Constable Clark. He’s on his carphone.’

  ‘First name?’ demanded Grant, wriggling out of her jacket.

  ‘Gordon.’

  She used the speaker, scrolling through her emails as she spoke. ‘Gordon, I’ve had Michael Danbury onto me. What progress?’

  ‘Sara Danbury is a core priority investigation. Scores high on the matrix.’

  Clark had a high, reedy voice, and spoke like a statistician. ‘We’re resourcing it as a kidnap, with the potential to develop into a murder scenario.’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Grant, shaking her head in irritation. Clark’s face suddenly came to her. Somebody had introduced him to her at Bramshill Police College, a blond schoolboy, with fluff on his top lip and coloured pens in his shirt pocket, who still believed in mind maps. ‘But what information do you have for me now?’

  ‘Early days, Minister. The victim was snatched outside her dance class.’

  ‘We’ve all seen the news.’

  ‘We’re still doing house-to-house and forensicating the scene, checking CCTV and trying to keep it high on the national bulletins.’

  ‘Your signal keeps breaking. What leads do you have, witnesses, et cetera?’ Grant demanded, ignoring Susan as she entered with her coffee.

  ‘The investigation is building steadily,’ said Clark, to the sound of papers being shuffled. ‘Three witnesses mention a grey Ford Transit van, sliding side door, no windows, and one says it was a long wheelbase. Male behind the wheel, dark complexion. Are you sure you want this much detail, Minister?’

  ‘Everything you have,’ she snapped.

  ‘Slim build, wearing round glasses. Wire-rimmed. A second male grabbed her. This one was also dark but heavy-set, wearing jeans and sweatshirt. I went to see Mr Danbury personally last night.’

  ‘I heard. Listen, Michael Danbury is a parliamentary colleague and friend, so I want to know every detail about progress. If you get anything at all, you come through to me, understood?’

  ‘Certainly, Minister,
if you feel it’s necessary.’

  ‘I do, and let me know if I need to bring in the Met.’ Grant cut the call and buzzed the office. ‘What’s happened to the call into Number Ten?’

  Forty-five

  Monday, 24 September, 12.56, chairman’s office, National Crime Agency

  As soon as he received Kerr’s tip-off about the corrupt Mickey Baines, Sir Theo Canning acted with the decisiveness that had served him so well as an undeclared MI6 field officer. Kerr had rung his office mid-morning while he was at the leadership meeting he chaired every Monday. As he had left instructions that he was not to be pulled out of it, he did not return Kerr’s call until lunchtime, losing two precious hours for damage limitation.

  Kerr laid out the child-trafficking allegation exactly as Robyn had told him, including the use of Hull to smuggle, and this time mentioning that the originating source was a dealer to whom Baines was selling cocaine. ‘Sorry to be first to piss you off at the start of the week, Theo,’ Kerr had said. ‘Must be a bit of a shock.’

  That was an understatement. Canning tried to keep himself in check as he absorbed the scale of the undercover officer’s betrayal. The gross breach of operational security went against everything he had worked for in his own long and distinguished career, and Baines’s sheer greed left him practically speechless. His professional instincts kicked in to cover his anger with coolness and gratitude, but he guessed John Kerr knew him well enough to sense his true feelings.

  He kept the conversation with Kerr short, less than two minutes, while a deeper part of his brain worked out a game plan. By the time he buzzed his PA he already had a strategy mapped out. ‘Dorothy, I need to see Mickey Baines now. I’ll hold.’

  She was obviously eating something. There was an audible gulp, and the chewing started as she dialled.

  ‘No reply,’ she said. ‘I’m getting his voicemail.’

  ‘So try his mobile.’ Canning took a deep breath. Whatever his PA’s failings, he was invariably courteous and patient. ‘Quick as you can, please, Dorothy.’

  Canning silently locked his main office door, removed a laptop from his safe and set it on the coffee-table. From a small inner drawer in the safe he withdrew a palm-sized transmitter and plugged it into the laptop. He took an electronic token from a locked drawer in his desk, waited for the number to change and typed the numerals into the laptop. He skim-read the decoded message, closed the laptop down, replaced it in the safe and unlocked the door as Dorothy buzzed him.

  Mickey Baines was waiting in the outer office and jumped to his feet the second Canning appeared. As usual, he was dressed for action in baseball pumps, narrow jeans and torso-hugging red T-shirt, a Secret Squirrel always ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. Canning groaned inwardly as he led the way into his office.

  Canning sat at the head of the conference table overlooking the Thames. His old office was less than half a mile away, concealed by a bend in the river. ‘I have an emergency special assignment, Mickey,’ he said gravely, ‘which I need you to carry out tonight.’ He was finding it difficult to conceal his true feelings. Having placed such trust in Baines, he took the man’s treachery as a deep personal affront. He now viewed Baines as a double agent working for two masters: Theo Canning, and naked self-interest. He had ordered the execution of several doubles in his long career, and Baines would be no exception.

  Baines already looked pumped up. ‘No worries, Sir Theo,’ he said, running a hand through his shoulder-length hair. ‘I’m ready to roll. Totally.’

  Canning fought to conceal his distaste. He had always held misgivings about the rough and ready Baines. Successful undercover officers exuded confidence, and the tiny minority who were corrupt often exhibited charm bordering on the charismatic. But this designer-stubbled insubordinate oaf had never progressed beyond a coarse extrovertism.

  Canning outlined the emergency special assignment he needed Baines to carry out that night. The information was short and explicit. When he had finished, he sat back in his chair. ‘So, is that all right, Mickey? Can you do it?’

  ‘Of course. No probs at all.’

  ‘Usual sensitivities apply, Mickey, naturally,’ murmured Canning, inclining his head to emphasise the gravity of the mission. ‘Can you make an excuse to your wife at such short notice?’

  ‘Totally, Sir Theo.’ Canning sensed a physical expansion in Baines as he absorbed the importance of his role: he actually seemed to be flexing his biceps. Canning sensed he was the worst kind of police braggart, for whom secrets and indiscreet whispers lurked cheek by jowl. Stories about his vanity and sexual harassment of young female analysts over rum and Coke in the Thames Barge were legion.

  ‘I want you to drive your own car and travel out through Dover,’ the chairman continued, ‘returning with the truck through Hull. Under no circumstances are you to call this office. For cover I want you to register three days’ leave, in case anyone is foolish enough to ask. Understood?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘Thank you again, Mickey,’ said Canning, knowing he was seeing Baines for the last time. ‘This will not go unrecognised.’

  Canning left the office as soon as Baines had gone. It looked like rain, so he took his umbrella. For crash calls Canning used Hyde Park because its openness made close-quarters surveillance impossible, and there were so many options for the approach. He took the Tube from Pimlico to Green Park, changing to the Piccadilly Line for the one stop to Hyde Park Corner. He entered the park, walked briskly west along Serpentine Road and carried on under the bridge, tracing the northern perimeter of Long Water. It was a tried and tested route. He timed things to reach his destination at 14.07 exactly.

  ‘Sorry, boss, hot intel,’ said Fargo, bowling into the Fishbowl with a glance at Kerr’s regular Monday pile of duty sheets and a wink at Melanie, ‘but I think you’re going to find this interesting.’

  Kerr felt refreshed, having snatched a few hours on Sunday to rest and recover. As he had promised Robyn, he had called Gabi to invite her for lunch at one of the many pasta restaurants near the market. It was mid-morning but she sounded sleepy and began to gabble excuses about having other plans. He made it easy for her, apologising for the short notice.

  Kerr had spotted Fargo out of the corner of his eye at the entrance to the main office, tieless with his sleeves untidily rolled up, hurrying along from 1830 with the padlocked security envelope he used for transporting secret documents around the office. ‘More paperwork. Nice,’ said Kerr, drily, as Fargo squeezed into the spare seat.

  ‘You heard about the missing child?’ said Fargo. ‘Eleven-year-old Sara Danbury, politician’s daughter, snatched after a dance class?’

  ‘I caught the headline,’ said Kerr, with a glance at Melanie.

  ‘Home Office is stirring the shit. Claire Grant’s been kicking the chief constable, demanding personal updates.’

  ‘So why should that have you sprinting out of 1830?’

  ‘You’re being a bit slow today, guys,’ said Fargo, nodding at Kerr’s desk again, ‘but I’ll let you off because it’s admin day. Grant is police and security, right? So what other office would that make her minister for?’

  Melanie got there a second before Kerr. ‘Not counter-terrorism?’

  ‘The ultimate authority for Jibril’s entry visa,’ said Kerr.

  Kerr had the blinds up today, so they sat in silence for a few moments watching the activity on the other side of the glass wall, assimilating what Fargo was saying. ‘OK, so Claire Grant’s been making herself busy,’ said Kerr, eventually, ‘and her name pops up twice on our radar . . .’

  ‘. . . the same day . . .’

  ‘. . . in different contexts. So what you’re giving me, Al, is what we call a coincidence.’

  ‘A linkage, which is what you pay me to make.’

  ‘But still conjecture, not fact. I mean, what are you saying here?’

  ‘I’ve been kicking things around and I’m still not absolutely sure,’ said Fargo. ‘But I suppos
e I’m asking you both to look at what we have.’ He stared at his hands for a moment, collecting his thoughts. ‘We have all this weird cover-up stuff around Ahmed Jibril, with a special UK entry visa authorised by one of Claire Grant’s offices. And you’re investigating the disappearance of a young girl from that house in Marston Street. Jibril’s flat and the house have a connection to Syrian extremism going back years. Now another girl goes missing and who do we find sniffing around the crime scene?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s because the victim is a prominent MP’s daughter and Grant’s expressing, I dunno, parliamentary solidarity,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Or Grant is involved in everything. She’s the link.’ Reddening, Fargo stood up to go, tucking his shirt into his trousers. ‘I’m just trying to put the jigsaw together,’ he said defensively. ‘Tell me, boss, do you have anything better?’

  All three were relieved when Kerr’s phone broke the silence. He picked up on the first ring. ‘Kerr . . . He’s here with me.’ Kerr handed the phone to Fargo. ‘Islamabad.’

  Fargo listened intently, pausing occasionally to scribble something on the corner of Kerr’s yellow notepad. ‘Thanks for letting me know . . . Yes . . . Cheers.’

  He handed the phone back to Kerr and exhaled. Fargo’s body was beginning to warm the air in the cubbyhole, reminding Kerr of the moments in the bus just before the terrorist bombs had exploded. ‘Theo Canning told you Joe Allenby resigned, right? Well, someone gave him duff info. Joe is dead. A gardener found him in his car, parked in a lock-up with a hosepipe from the exhaust. Poor sod never even got out of Yemen.’

  Forty-six

  Tuesday, 25 September, 09.16, Kentish Town

  On Tuesdays, operations permitting, Kerr would take work away from the Yard in a secure briefcase to concentrate on a particular case without interruption, sneaking to one of Dodge’s safe-houses. That morning he needed a couple of hours to review the intelligence from Room 1830 in peace and unearth any clues about Ahmed Jibril that Fargo might have overlooked.