Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  But it was not the suits who fought her off. At the bottom, a couple of workmen in fleeces and paint-spattered trackie bottoms grabbed Melanie and flung her to the ground, allowing Kestrel to lose himself in the crowd, pushing and shoving to reach the platform. One of the men kicked her and called her a lazy bitch, then both abandoned her to run for their train. Melanie suddenly felt sick, not from pain but from anticipation. She knew what Kestrel was about to do. She raced after him as warm air rushed into the tunnel, pushed ahead by the approaching train.

  The curved platform was packed, a human mass taking a single step towards the edge, then becoming still again as the train lights appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. Then she locked onto Kestrel, just five metres away to her right. He was easy to spot, for his was the only body still moving on the entire platform. He was heading for the space nearest the tunnel mouth, the point of entry where the train would still be at its highest speed. The people surrounding him were mostly young women and she saw wisps of hair and his shoulders heaving as he pushed through them. Some turned their heads in irritation. Melanie saw one girl say something to him, then turn quickly away. She must have caught his look of fear, as if something in Kestrel’s face signalled what he was about to do.

  Melanie was shouting his name now, but her voice was drowned by the platform announcement. It warned customers to stay behind the yellow line, just as Kestrel reached the point of no return. She saw his body suddenly rise as he leapt from the platform, not simply to drop beneath the wheels but to leap at the cab in a kind of charge, as if taking on the whole train. There was the screech of the train’s whistle, then the rush of air brakes and the crump of body versus metal as the train shuddered past her into the station.

  The crowd that had been edging forward as one now uttered a single gasp. Silence filled the platform for several seconds, broken only by the grind of the escalators nearby, and Melanie saw the driver, ashen-faced, get out of his cab. Then came a crescendo of shouts and screams as people began to register what had happened. ‘Person under a train’ was a concept they only heard about in the abstract, an irritation beneath someone else’s transport. In a split second, that sense of remoteness had evaporated. The suicide, the selfish bastard who’d made them late for work or home, had chosen to end his life while moving among them.

  The announcer was on full volume again, calling for calm. Shock, distress, fear and panic flooded the platform. Melanie had seen far worse things in her career, and felt none of these. Instead, quietly escaping to the surface, she found herself drowning in guilt and remorse.

  Fifty-three

  Wednesday, 26 September, 21.33, Paula Weatherall’s office

  Kerr knew Weatherall and Ritchie would be having a late-night catch-up after her return from the Birmingham conference because Donna had told him so. He decided to give them ten minutes before gatecrashing Weatherall’s office, which was just as well because Robyn called from Rome. Unable to sleep, she wanted to know if he had any news about Gabi. Kerr tried to reassure her, saying Gabi’s flatmates had promised to phone him immediately if they heard anything. But there was real anxiety in Robyn’s voice. She recalled someone Gabi had met on Facebook, a guy called Sam. He was interested in what he called her ‘political integrity’, and Gabi had thought it might be good to link in with Robyn’s work in Rome.

  Kerr, pumped up for his showdown, tried to reassure her as he strode down the corridor from the lift. ‘Robyn, I’m on a roll here. Gonna crack this thing wide open, one way or another. Everything will be all right. Gabi will be OK, promise. I’ll hook up with her friends when I get a spare moment.’

  As soon as Robyn spoke, Kerr knew it had come out wrong. ‘This is your daughter,’ she snapped back at him, ‘so find yourself a moment tonight.’

  When he finally entered Weatherall’s office the scene was not pleasant. Coat flung over the back of a chair, overnight bag abandoned near the door, Weatherall was sitting at the conference table gulping tap water from a chipped jug Donna kept in the fridge. The ceiling lights were weak for a room of that size and the whole place felt chilly. A shirt-sleeved Ritchie was sitting on the far side of the table. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else.

  Weatherall appeared tired and uncomfortable in the faded green tartan suit she must have been wearing all day at the conference. Tracking her whereabouts, Kerr knew that a West Midlands traffic officer had blue-lighted her to London: she had reached the Yard less than an hour after checking out of her hotel in central Birmingham.

  Ritchie was the first to collect himself. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Without waiting for an invitation, Kerr took the chair opposite him, with Weatherall to his right, plonking his secure briefcase on her shiny table. ‘That’s not very friendly, Bill.’ Anticipating a long night and gruelling next day, Kerr had dashed home for a shower and change of clothes as soon as Melanie had broken the news about Kestrel. In contrast to his bosses, he looked fresh in jeans, polo shirt and linen jacket.

  Weatherall stared sourly at the case, as if sensing trouble. ‘You no longer have any business in SO15. Didn’t Mr Ritchie tell you?’

  ‘That you sacked me without having the courtesy to tell me yourself, you mean? Yes. And about the transfer to the National Crime Agency.’

  ‘Well?’ she said, with a glare at Ritchie. ‘Did you meet with Sir Theo?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So why this interruption? Do I have to spell it out for you? There’s no place for you here, don’t you understand?’ Weatherall ran a hand through her hair. The race down the M1 seemed to have left her with serious car-sickness – she looked terrible. ‘I want you to get out and clear your desk tonight.’

  Unclipping her earrings, Weatherall started at the snap from the locks on Kerr’s briefcase. ‘I think you need to see this first,’ said Kerr, quietly. He withdrew a DVD and a sheet of A4. ‘I had this downloaded from a video. It arrived just before I had my welcome chat with Theo Canning this afternoon.’ He slid the paper across the table. ‘This is a still that shows Canning raping and strangling a young girl. She was called Tania, surname unknown, and I can prove from DNA that her body was removed from Marston Street.’

  Kerr waited for a reaction, but Weatherall just gave an impatient nod. ‘The house you burgled,’ she said.

  ‘The murder scene MI5 was protecting,’ he fired back, ‘which has links to Syrian state-sponsored terrorism, as I warned Bill. I’m checking now for a match with Canning’s DNA. On the film you can hear the girl’s dying cries.’ He paused to give them time to absorb the horror of the image. Weatherall appeared to be secretly testing her armpits for sweat while Ritchie looked down at some irrelevant notes. ‘Canning is a child abuser and a traitor. He has worked as a hostile agent against this country for at least two decades. His code name is Harold. He has directed me to meet him for a covert operation in just over two hours from now, when I believe he intends to have me killed. But I shan’t be turning up for duty.’

  ‘How did you get this?’ frowned Weatherall, her management liability kicking in.

  ‘The man who gave it to me is dead.’

  ‘Name,’ demanded Ritchie.

  Kerr shook his head. ‘He killed himself this afternoon because he couldn’t face the horror of what I’m telling you now. And I hold myself partly responsible for his death because I should have helped him.’ Kerr delved into the briefcase again and passed Weatherall the earlier photograph. ‘Same source.’ He paused while they stared at the terrible images, their heads almost touching. ‘The rapist in this image is a government lawyer called Robert Attwell. This is a blackmail operation and they force the clients to become traitors like Canning.’

  Weatherall suddenly looked hot. She began to remove her jacket, then seemed to change her mind, gulping more water instead. ‘Really? You know that for a fact, do you?’

  Kerr ignored the sarcasm. ‘Claire Grant was compelled to facilitate the entry of Ahmed Jibril into this country,’ he said careful
ly.

  ‘John, you have to give us more evidence,’ said Ritchie, but his voice lacked heat.

  ‘I can prove it with Foreign Office documents,’ Kerr fired back.

  ‘So produce them,’ said Weatherall, unmoved.

  ‘Claire Grant was coerced into authorising that visa,’ he said, ignoring her, ‘and the kidnap of Sara Danbury is part of the blackmail operation.’

  Weatherall glanced at Ritchie. ‘Who by?’

  Kerr regarded his bosses for a few seconds, trying to read their faces in the gloom. ‘I think you really don’t know,’ he said eventually, ‘which is something of a relief. So let me tell you this whole enterprise is controlled from Russia.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said Ritchie.

  ‘Through a man called Anatoli Rigov. I believe Rigov has controlled Theo Canning for many years. Don’t look so surprised, Bill. Nothing’s changed. The targets are the same. Opinion formers, movers and shakers, anyone in the establishment they can compromise to fuck things up. These days they use Canning to identify them.’

  Ritchie still looked sceptical. ‘Where’s your evidence?’

  ‘It’s the same iron fist, Bill. Different glove, that’s all. But the grip got a lot tighter. I believe Rigov has subcontracted Canning to the Syrians. The Syrians use him to identify the blackmail targets and set up the stings.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Import jihadis into the UK to facilitate terrorist atrocities. That’s where Claire Grant comes in. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Ahmed Jibril is living proof that the Syrian infiltration strategy is working just fine.’

  ‘I need more,’ said Ritchie.

  ‘So pay a visit to the morgue,’ snapped Kerr.

  ‘Enough,’ said Weatherall, angrily. ‘This is all hyper-speculation. Allegations incapable of proof. Photographs that may or may not be genuine. The real world is not one giant conspiracy, Chief Inspector. This obsession with Jibril has made you paranoid.’ She glared at Ritchie. ‘This is precisely the lack of balance I’ve been warning you about, Bill.’

  Kerr gave a harsh laugh. ‘Are you actually suggesting these are fakes?’

  ‘I’m saying you may have been set up.’

  ‘John,’ said Ritchie, ‘I’ve checked. Rigov is a positive no-trace in every intelligence database. Including Excalibur. I saw the readout from his call log. There’s nothing unusual here.’

  ‘Which shows how crap we’ve become at counter-espionage. Anatoli Rigov is KGB.’

  Weatherall was rolling her eyes. ‘That’s not right, John,’ said Ritchie.

  ‘FSB, actually. Son of KGB, but same difference. The people who poisoned Alexander Litvinenko in 2006.’

  Ritchie leant forward in his chair. He was still using his conciliatory voice, as if he wanted to protect Kerr from further humiliation. ‘John, can we just . . . ?’

  ‘An hour ago I took a call from Karl Sergeyev,’ said Kerr, staring him down. ‘Just before six o’clock this evening Anatoli Rigov pitched him.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Weatherall.

  ‘Recruited him. Tried to turn him. With his sidekick.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said, with another glance at Ritchie. ‘Is this Sergeyev trying to exact some kind of revenge?’

  ‘No. Karl is totally loyal to us, despite the contemptible way you treated him,’ said Kerr, quietly. ‘And how do I know this? Because he recorded the whole conversation.’ He sat back as Weatherall and Ritchie stared at each other in silence, shocked by what he had just told them. ‘1830 is transcribing it now.’

  ‘I need to have that right away,’ said Weatherall.

  ‘The curious thing is that Rigov claimed he could get Karl reinstated in SO15. Made it sound like a done deal.’ Kerr studied them both. ‘Why offer the promise if he can’t deliver? Where does he exert his influence? That’s what I’m asking myself. I’ll let you hear it, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be holding onto the original and the transcription until I get the answer.’

  Kerr waited for their reaction. The room felt shivery, the bare windows casting a chill over the dimly lit room. Kerr could see Weatherall’s side reflection in the black glass. She looked angry and lost, isolated in an office that was too big for her. ‘I’m still not happy about these photographs,’ she said eventually. ‘Bill, I want you to have them authenticated for me tomorrow before we take this any further.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Kerr. ‘Do you really think you can risk doing nothing?’

  ‘If you satisfy me they’re genuine I’ll call a Gold group on Friday morning. Provided Mr Finch agrees.’

  Without another word Kerr grabbed the DVD and walked round the table to Weatherall’s TV. She swung round as the sound from the video filled the office, to stare, spellbound, at the screen. The colour drained from her cheeks as she watched Sir Theo Canning rape and strangle Tania to death. The recording lasted three minutes. After thirty seconds she shouted at Kerr to switch it off, but instead he turned up the volume so they could hear the child’s screams fade to a whimper as her head lolled to one side and the chairman of the National Crime Agency kicked her to the floor like a discarded toy.

  ‘The person behind the camera is Claire Grant,’ said Kerr. ‘Your Home Office minister for police and security filming a rape and murder. Quite a headline.’

  They sat in stunned silence again as Kerr ejected the disk and faced them down. ‘The tiles on the kitchen floor were smeared with the child’s blood. I believe they threw her dead body down a spiral staircase, which probably smashed her skull, then dragged her across the floor to get her out of the house and dump her body.’ Kerr locked the DVD and the photographs in his briefcase. ‘What did they tell you, ma’am?’ he asked mildly. ‘Was it the old cliché about a cover-up being in the national interest?’

  Kerr sat down again as silence covered the room with a heavy cloud, Ritchie looking down and Weatherall close to tears. ‘Anyway, Friday morning will be too late. I’m afraid you don’t have the luxury of a Gold group. And I don’t recommend involving the Bull. We have significantly less than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Karl tells me these people are planning a big event for tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Where?’ said Ritchie.

  ‘I don’t know. But Karl says he’ll be chauffeuring Goschenko and Olga to the venue. It’s billed as a cocktail party involving “a lot of major players plus a single minor royal”. Exact words as told to Karl.’

  ‘Christ. Which one?’

  ‘No idea. Royalty Protection have nothing in the schedules to match this event, so it must be a seriously clandestine gig.’

  ‘Which we can’t allow to go ahead,’ said Weatherall.

  ‘You’re going to tell them, are you, ma’am?’ said Kerr, with a short laugh, nodding to the lights of Buckingham Palace far below to their left. ‘Anyway, whoever it is, this won’t be the first snorting and shagging session out of the limelight. Karl spotted an Audi A5 with royalty coded markers the night this all kicked off at Marston Street.’

  ‘Are you saying this party could be the target?’ said Weatherall.

  ‘Blackmail, kidnap, jihadi attack, take your pick. They’ve shown they can do the first two anywhere, so I go with the third. I believe the party is being set up as the terrorist target. Gather their compromised movers and shakers together in one place and murder them. The political fallout will be massive.’

  ‘But you don’t know where, when or who?’ said Ritchie.

  ‘I intend to find out. Ma’am, I want your authority for my team to tear the lid off this.’

  Weatherall looked at Ritchie. She seemed finally to be deferring to her head of operations. ‘What are you proposing?’ said Ritchie.

  ‘Everything possible. Anything necessary. You have to trust me. This is going to be fast-moving, so I need the freedom to make decisions on the ground as things unfold.’

  ‘You seem to have it all planned out,’ said Weatherall.


  ‘Because I’ve known this was going to happen.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ritchie. ‘But we’ll be in the ops room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kerr. ‘I’ll be using Olga as my source on the inside.’

  ‘How do you know she’s not involved in this?’ said Ritchie.

  ‘Because I have Karl’s assurance.’

  ‘The man who sleeps with her.’

  ‘Olga works for me now.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since this morning when I bought her a coffee.’ With the prospect of an imminent crisis, Kerr was witnessing a dramatic transformation in Ritchie. As Weatherall sat in silence, his old boss seemed to come to life, sitting forward in his seat to throw questions at him. Bouncing his answers back across the table, Kerr saw flashes of his mentor’s old self from a decade ago. ‘Olga is also talking tomorrow up as a big night,’ he continued. ‘That’s what Goschenko has told her.’

  Ritchie’s pen was poised. ‘Precise words, John.’

  “‘Big British establishment players attending. Surprise VIP guest.” That’s it.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s enough. If it’s true. How do you know Goschenko isn’t controlling her?’

  ‘Because I’ve told her how Tania died and she blames Goschenko as much as Canning,’ said Kerr. ‘Hates him, says she wants to kill him.’

  His boss suddenly looked up from his scribbling. ‘Going to shag him to death, is she?’ It was pure, unreconstructed Ritchie, and Kerr felt waves of disapproval from his right.

  ‘Goschenko has hepatitis C,’ he said quietly, ‘and Olga has HIV.’

  Ritchie exhaled. ‘Has anyone told Karl Sergeyev?’

  Fifty-four

  Thursday, 27 September, 14.12, St Pancras International

  On the morning of the last day of his life Abdul Malik, director of the jihadi operation in Britain, arrived in London from Istanbul with a single item of baggage, an expensive soft brown leather holdall. Had he not spent the previous night in Paris for the purposes of cover, he could have disposed even of that. After a leisurely breakfast he caught the Eurostar from the Gare du Nord, travelling first class, and arrived unnoticed at St Pancras International in the early afternoon.