Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  A couple of working girls accosted him on the walk from the station to St Chad’s Street, reminding him of the humiliation he had endured as a student in this capital of depravity. Although it would not be required, he took a room for twenty-four hours in the first hotel with vacancies he came across. He paid in advance and told the receptionist his luggage was to follow. The deception was unnecessary, because hotel workers within a mile of King’s Cross were used to businessmen looking for action away from home. From his room he made a brief mobile call to Rashid Hussain reporting his safe arrival, then prayed and lay in his suit on the narrow bed, eyes tightly shut as he tried to capture images of his wife and children.

  Kerr rang Olga again around ten o’clock and she agreed to meet him at Hammersmith before leaving for college. Kerr drove there with Langton, and they parked up by a row of houseboats beneath Hammersmith Bridge.

  ‘Yuri is picking me up in his limousine at six-thirty. Karl will be driving us.’

  Kerr glanced at Langton. ‘Did Goschenko ask him to?’

  ‘Karl insisted. Made a big thing about it, I think,’ she said, from the back of the Alfa, shifting her bag of books to one side and leaning forward to bring her head level with theirs.

  Kerr’s BlackBerry rang. ‘What have you got, Al?’ He listened intently for a few seconds. ‘Omar Taleb’s number just activated again,’ he said to Langton, when he’d cut the call. ‘Taleb slash Rashid Hussain. He’s giving the off to Ahmed Jibril.’

  Kerr reached into his jacket for a photograph of Sara Danbury and showed it to Olga. ‘Recognise her?’ he asked.

  ‘The girl in the newspapers, I know. She is killed, yes?’

  ‘She could be at the place you’re visiting tonight. They may be planning to hurt her, Olga. Just like Tania.’

  Olga nodded. ‘When I get inside I will find out everything. I will go to the bathroom and secretly text you.’

  Langton handed her a small cloth bag. ‘No need for that, Olga. Just wear these.’ They watched her take out a bracelet and tiny earpiece and examine them closely. ‘They’re quite safe. Our surveillance officers wear them all the time and no one ever sees them. Bracelet’s got a hidden microphone, but we’ll bury it in some real diamonds by the time you get ready tonight.’

  ‘You just hold it to your mouth and whisper,’ said Kerr, ‘so you can tell Jack what you see.’

  ‘And where will you be, Mr Jack,’ she said, with a smile, ‘when I need you to protect me?’

  ‘On the roof,’ replied Langton, deadpan.

  ‘Listen up, Mel. Subject out of the address and off, off, off. Receiving, over?’ Kerr and Langton were heading back along Cromwell Road when Steve Gibb’s voice came over the mainset on Channel Five. The SAS secondee was speaking to Melanie from the observation post opposite Ahmed Jibril’s bedsit, triggering the Red Team just as he had done exactly two weeks earlier.

  Melanie’s voice bounced back immediately. ‘Received. Thanks, Steve.’

  ‘Jeans, Puffa jacket, dark brown trainers,’ said Gibb.

  ‘Yeah, I have him.’

  Kerr accelerated into Cromwell Road, splitting the pack of traffic even before Langton could stick the blue light on the dash. ‘This must be it, Jack,’ was all he said, but Langton was already reaching for the microphone.

  He waited for three other units to acknowledge, then broke in: ‘All units from Jack, I’m with John in Earls Court, ETA ten minutes. We need this one, guys, so keep the commentary going.’

  Kerr and Langton had ensured they were well prepared. With everything now centring on Ahmed Jibril, the stakes had never been higher. They had all memorised the curious note left for Jibril by Julia Bakkour: ‘Suit delivery 4.30 on day instructed. Fitting in Afghan shop not Saudi. Await confirm call.’ Still unexplained, it was enough to prove Jibril was the key player. The terrorist would lead them to the blackmailers. And because he was their only lead to another bomb factory, everyone was depending on the Reds to prevent another atrocity. Losing Ahmed Jibril was not an option.

  Fargo’s voice crackled into the Alfa. ‘Mel from Alan, I’m in the ops room now. Let us know what back-up you need.’

  ‘Roger that. He’s on foot heading left down South Lambeth Road, towards Stockwell Tube. And our man is in a hell of a rush.’

  ‘Give us the formation, Mel,’ said Langton.

  ‘Myself and Justin on foot. Red Four mobile. It’s no problem.’

  ‘You have to be careful he doesn’t recognise you, Mel,’ said Langton.

  ‘Different clothes, but I’m dropping back while he crosses the road. Pull up, Justin.’

  ‘What’s his demeanour?’

  ‘This is Justin. I’m twenty metres back. He’s relaxed. No glancing around, no deviation. This guy has stopped being nervous, and he’s not looking for anyone. I’d say he gave up on us.’

  ‘Is he still heading for the station?’ asked Kerr.

  ‘Yes, gotta be the Tube,’ said Justin, ‘and at this pace, about seven minutes away.’

  Kerr broke in. ‘All Red units from Alpha. I’ll be parked up on the north side of Vauxhall Bridge. Keep us posted. And stay back, Mel. No chances.’

  The air fell silent as the Reds followed Jibril down South Lambeth Road. Melanie had left her microphone open and Kerr heard her breath quickening as she and Justin advanced on the target.

  ‘From Justin, he’s at the station. Stand by.’

  Fargo came in again: ‘I need the destination so we can pick him up the other end.’

  In Scotland Yard, in Kerr’s Alfa charging up Piccadilly and on the streets around Stockwell, they strained to hear Justin’s voice. ‘Ticket machine, paying cash.’ It was less than a murmur. ‘Travelcard. Shit.’ This was bad news, for it would give no destination. ‘I’m on with him.’

  They could hear Justin hurrying down the escalator, then the whoosh of an arriving train. ‘Mel from Justin, he’s taking the Victoria Line heading north. I’ll go with him. Can you take the next carriage? Over.’

  Kerr heard running feet, the beeping as the train doors closed, and a murmur from Melanie: ‘I’m on.’

  A double-click from Justin, then radio silence.

  Although it was mid-morning, the train was sufficiently crowded to give Justin and Melanie good cover. Jibril took a seat with his back to the platform, so Justin sat in the same row, three seats up, with a view of his target in the window’s reflection. In the adjacent carriage he had Melanie in his line of sight, hidden from Jibril among shoppers. As the train slowed for the third station, Victoria, Jibril walked to the double doors, ready to get off. Justin eased his way to the single door at the end of the carriage. In his earpiece he heard Melanie above the squeal of brakes as she breathed the location to the units above ground.

  As the doors opened, Jibril changed the game plan, standing aside to let other passengers leave, as if unsure of his whereabouts. Justin lingered by the door, too, allowing travellers to push past him into the train. Then Jibril stepped onto the platform and glanced up and down. When he looked the other way, Justin stepped off and sprinted for refuge in the tunnel walkway between the north and southbound platforms. The station announcer boomed that the train was being held for a moment to regulate the service. Justin could see Melanie meandering towards the exit, blending with a group of students and glancing at the giant platform posters.

  Suddenly Jibril boarded the carriage.

  Melanie reacted immediately. ‘He’s seen us, Justin. Walk on.’

  ‘No, he’s confused,’ said Justin. ‘Let’s stay with him.’

  As Justin darted for the adjacent carriage, Jibril stepped off again and strolled for the exit. Justin and Melanie followed, half concealed behind a group of stragglers.

  Then, as the closing-doors signal beeped, Jibril hopped aboard again. With less than a second to react, Justin was not quick enough. It was a cruel break. The doors trapped him, then made him suffer excruciating seconds of exposure before swishing open again to let him inside.

 
As the train moved off he clocked Melanie stranded on the platform, then saw her break the cardinal rule of surveillance: never to make eye contact with the target. But Melanie was looking for Jibril as the carriage picked up speed. He read it clearly in her face.

  And so did Ahmed Jibril. Reflected in the glass, Justin saw the terrorist raise his hand and smile at her.

  Melanie’s voice came straight back to him. ‘Justin, you have to abort at the next station. Get out of there. He’s blown us.’

  ‘Not me. He hasn’t sussed me,’ said Justin, hunkering down in his seat. ‘It’s OK. I can do this.’

  He heard Melanie calling up Kerr: ‘Alpha from Melanie, did you receive that, over?’

  Justin picked out Kerr and Langton speaking rapidly above the racing of the engine. Then there was just Langton’s voice. ‘This is Jack. You have to stick with him, Justin. We’re heading north again with a mobile unit. Keep it coming.’

  Then he could hear Melanie remonstrating again. ‘No, Jack,’ she said, ‘we need to arrest him right now. This is dangerous.’

  ‘Negative. He’s our only lead. Justin, I want you to stay with him.’

  At the next station, Green Park, Jibril made it clear he knew exactly where he was going. He headed straight for the exit and took the stairs at a run. At the top of the long escalator, he wheeled right and raced down again to the platform. Then he turned and loped back to the surface.

  In the heat of the moment, the mistakes rolled into one another. Justin should have followed his instincts into the safety of the street and disappeared. But he knew how vital the operation was to John Kerr. He had taken too many chances against Ahmed Jibril to be defeated now. And, most damaging of all, as he whipped his woollen hat off, removed his coat, changed his gait and blended with the students, shoppers and office workers, he was certain he could get away with it.

  Thirty seconds later, Jibril was waiting at the moving rail with his back to the CCTV camera as Justin, trapped again and avoiding eye contact, slowly ascended to him. For the second time that morning the terrorist showed perfect timing as he vaulted on one arm and launched a mighty kick into Justin’s lowered face.

  Justin’s unconscious body fell across the top of the escalator, obstructing the exit. Later, security footage would show several passengers, Oyster cards at the ready, stepping over him and walking away without a glance.

  By the time anyone realised Justin was not just another daytime drunk, Ahmed Jibril had loped down the escalator for the last time.

  Fifty-five

  Thursday, 27 September, 15.39, Kilburn

  At the time appointed by Rashid Hussain, Abdul Malik took the Circle Line west from King’s Cross, changing at Baker Street station for the five stops on the Jubilee Line to Kilburn in north-west London.

  The object of his journey was what Hussain euphemistically called his ‘fitting’, as if he were to visit a tailor. Hussain had arranged the logistics with great care. The people Malik was to meet, Walid and Fatima Ujama, were a married couple in their early twenties. They had arrived at Heathrow direct from Islamabad early the previous morning, courtesy of two special-access visas authorised on behalf of Claire Grant. Walid, a chemical engineer, was a highly valued bomb-maker within Al Qaeda. He had attended two terrorist training camps in Afghanistan as an instructor, and always travelled with his wife for cover.

  The fitting of Abdul Malik was their first UK operation in a recruitment, training, support and quartermaster mission intended to last at least two years. As soon as their business was concluded they would take the train to Leeds, their planned centre of operations, and remain invisible, only returning to London for essential logistical requirements in advance of martyrdom attacks.

  With the Lambeth safe-house effectively placed out of bounds since Jibril’s arrest two weeks earlier, finding a secure location even for a couple of hours had compelled the terrorists to fall back on their contingency plan. Years earlier, the Al Mukhabarat office in Damascus had acquired two other safe-houses in different parts of London for what its masters called ‘short-term critical deployments’. Any Syrian agent tasked against the UK had to commit both addresses to memory, with bus and train routes from central London.

  The first was a Saudi-owned two-bedroom terraced house in Hounslow let at low rent to Pakistani tenants, who could be displaced at short notice. The other was occupied by a half-blind Afghan veteran, who had occupied a flat near Finsbury Park mosque until 9/11 had brought the police to his door. His new home was a modest first-floor bedsit over a TV-repair shop in Kilburn. For the final chapter in this high-risk blackmail operation, Hussain had chosen the Afghan over the Saudi address. Hidden away in a quiet side-street twenty metres from Kilburn High Road, the bedsit was perfect for his requirements.

  Jibril descended even farther into Green Park station after his assault on Justin. He took a Jubilee Line train north and, confident he had lost all surveillance, left the network at Willesden Green station. A light drizzle was falling as he walked down Walm Lane into Willesden High Road, continued past the church and turned right into a side-street alongside the police station. The houses each side were mostly modest 1930s terraces and semis, and parked cars lined the pavement. Some of the properties were well maintained, with neat front gardens or block paving for off-road parking, while others, probably rented, had been left in disrepair for many years.

  Traffic was local and light in the cluster of streets contained between the High Road and the railway to which he was headed, and the young man passed unnoticed among mothers pushing buggies loaded with family shopping and kids bunking off school. He continued for a couple of hundred metres until the street swept to the left out of sight of the High Road, and then, with a quick look back, swung right into a much narrower turning.

  This was little more than an access road of cracked concrete wide enough for only one row of parked cars. It separated a line of run-down 1950s maisonettes to the right from a decrepit block of flats four storeys high on the opposite side. The space for parked cars was on the maisonette side, while vehicles from the flats turned left halfway down the road to pass under an arch built into the block and park out of sight to the rear. Almost without exception, the cars were at least a decade old. Beyond the buildings there were railway tracks, servicing both main-line trains and the Tube. The road seemed to be a dead end, disappearing into overgrown bushes just short of the railway. In fact, it led to a sharp right turn just beyond the last maisonette, too small for anything larger than a hatchback to navigate without difficulty. The concrete, by this time even more potholed, then dropped into a dip at right angles to the maisonettes and ended in a row of twelve lock-up garages on the left, with the backs less than ten feet from the railway fencing.

  The garages were brick-built with wooden double doors. They were small, constructed to accommodate cars from a much earlier era, but must have belonged to someone, for each was secured by a padlock. Rubbish blown against the doors and weeds growing through the concrete entrances showed that few, if any, were still used, and the curling felt on each roof and terrible condition of the door panels showed that all had been left to rot. The row was overrun by trees and vegetation, which masked it completely from the residential blocks and the railway. Apart from a few syringes and plastic bottles, there was no sign that anyone ever came here. The garages were invisible. It was as if their very isolation had protected them from the demolition men.

  With another quick look behind him, Jibril followed the road into the dip and walked past the end garage to a clump of brambles. He reached beneath a rock concealed in the bush and removed a heavy-duty padlock key. He went to the third garage from the end, inserted his key, opened the left door a fraction and slipped inside.

  The Turkish former Secret Service agents selected by Abdul Malik had constructed the bomb factory very quickly and with great skill. The decaying exterior bore no relation to the condition inside. They had fixed the ceiling and used a special sealant around the surfaces to make the
garage dry, but without any visible sign of repair from the outside.

  Along the left side there was a raised oak workbench with two high stools, good quality desk lamps, a toolbox, three soldering irons and a large reel of green twine. A metal box contained the copper tubing, nails, batteries and timers. The most recent target had been Pamela Masters: Malik’s car-bomb expert had made the device used to destroy her Nissan on this very bench.

  Beyond it, by the far corner, there was a dirty electric stove with a large pan on the hob. Against the end wall a fridge was used to store fresh food and stabilise the explosive mix. A microwave oven stood on top of it. A futon with a pillow and a couple of blankets lay along the opposite wall. With the safe-house in Lambeth compromised, Jibril would hide here until his mission was accomplished. A specially made cloth vest, with pockets to contain the lethal mix that would convert it into a bomb, hung from a large wall hook. The string and toggle that would soon be used to detonate it draped innocently over the bench above a new sports bag. Jibril carefully opened the zip. Inside, exactly as Hussain had promised him, he found a vest identical to that hanging on the wall, except this was already lethal.

  Jibril locked the garage factory, returned the key to its hiding place and retraced his steps with the bag as far as the junction of the High Road with Walm Lane. He had memorised the Afghan address many weeks ago. Instead of returning to Willesden Green station he took a right fork into Willesden Lane, continuing for a quarter of a mile before turning left, following the sign for Brondesbury main-line station and Kilburn High Road, his mind a mirror of the street map he had studied and destroyed.

  Abdul Malik arrived in Kilburn shortly after three. The Afghan had been sent away for the afternoon, so Fatima Ujama answered the door and, without a word, showed him into the tiny living quarters where her husband was waiting to reconcile his half of a ten-pound note with Malik’s. The two men said nothing beyond a brotherly greeting in English, while Fatima made herself busy in the kitchen and brought them tea.