Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  Walid Ujama knew nothing about Abdul Malik or his mission. Like Ahmed Jibril before him, his role was to survive, not immolate himself, and he had learnt never to be inquisitive unless it was for a specific operational purpose. And if he was intimidated or repelled by Malik’s double-breasted black suit, expensive mid-length coat, highly polished shoes and general air of affluence, he did not show it.

  The two men waited in silence while Fatima peered towards the street corner through a chink in the curtain. After a few minutes she shot her husband a glance. ‘Our brother is arriving now.’ She kept a sharp lookout for surveillance as Ahmed Jibril walked up the street, then hurried downstairs to let him in.

  Entering the room, Jibril carefully laid the sports bag against the wall before allowing Walid to welcome him. There was warmth in the embrace, but respect, too, for the man who had just escaped imprisonment and interrogation in a British cell. In his turn, Jibril showed deference to Abdul Malik, who nodded but stood his ground by the table.

  While Fatima brought refreshments and Malik looked on, Walid satisfied himself that the ingredients, components and detonating mechanism in Jibril’s bag were of the highest quality, as directed by Rashid Hussain. He was so thorough and professional that he practically dismantled the device to ensure its fitness for purpose, while Jibril stood at his shoulder and studied every move.

  After forty minutes, Walid nodded to the director that they were ready. Malik stood upright with arms outstretched as Walid gently fitted the bomb vest and fed the toggle through the sleeve of his expensive jacket. Fatima moved around helping him, subservient but skilled with experience, adjusting the length of the trigger line running along Malik’s arm. When they were finished, Walid asked him when the vest would be needed. The question was out of operational necessity rather than idle curiosity.

  ‘Tonight, brother,’ answered Jibril for him, without volunteering more.

  ‘So I should wrap it in the bag for safety, yes?’

  This time the reply came from the director himself. ‘No need for the bag,’ said Abdul Malik, casually, buttoning the jacket as if he had just bought a new suit and pulling on his overcoat. ‘I shall wear it now.’

  Fifty-six

  Thursday, 27 September, 18.17, New Scotland Yard and Westminster

  Back at the Yard, Alan Fargo remained in the ops room after the catastrophic surveillance loss of Jibril, checking every piece of kit for the umpteenth time and keeping his comms specialists on red alert. Alice, his senior comms monitor, stayed in constant touch with Steve Gibb in the observation post opposite Jibril’s safe-house, and everyone hoped against hope for their main target’s reappearance on the plot.

  When he recovered consciousness, Justin had refused to go to hospital. Kerr had him taken there anyway, as everyone regrouped around Whitehall. Then, by car, motorcycle and on foot, Jack Langton’s Reds made their signal checks and prowled in wait for Robert Attwell and Claire Grant.

  To the north, in the drab hotel room near King’s Cross station, Abdul Malik rose from his bed and went to the bathroom to cleanse himself. He had returned from Kilburn around four and removed all his clothes, hanging his suit in the wardrobe and, like a modern gunslinger, draping the bomb vest over the back of the chair.

  When he was ready, he dressed again and carefully secured the explosives around his chest, feeding the trigger line through the sleeve of his jacket. He picked up his passport to make identification of his body easier and wandered to the corner of the street in sight of the station, where the hired limousine was parked, engine purring. His pair of ex-Turkish Secret Service hoods were waiting patiently for the leader they admired so completely.

  The three men knew this was a special occasion, the last meeting in their lives. There were few pleasantries on the drive west along Euston Road to Chiswick, and neither felt in fear of the explosives wrapped around Malik’s body.

  Malik was quiet until they reached Knightsbridge, and the protectors had no wish to invade his thoughts. ‘At what time do you think I should act?’ he asked.

  ‘I advise you enter by eight o’clock,’ said the more intelligent of the two, polishing his glasses, ‘before the infidels disperse to the bedrooms. We will contain them in the reception room until you are ready.’

  ‘Rashid Hussain tells me the evening news is at ten o’clock, correct?’

  ‘Yes. We have timed your holy mission to generate the fullest media coverage.’

  ‘And the building will be sealed, yes?’

  ‘Tight as a vault.’

  To the west, in Hammersmith, Olga looked out for her limousine. Wearing a silk dress she hated because it was a gift from Yuri Goschenko, and the diamond bracelet she loved because it would bring her justice, she inserted the earpiece, checked in the mirror that it was hidden by her hair, and waited for Jack Langton’s test call. His voice came to her immediately, as if he had been watching her. She breathed into the bracelet that she could hear him, and felt a childish pleasure when he praised her. ‘I am so nervous,’ she said.

  Langton’s voice came to her again as Goschenko’s Mercedes swept up, with Karl behind the wheel. She found some of his words difficult to understand because of his Geordie accent, but he always sounded very calm. ‘Try to relax. John and I are parked very close by. We can see you. Just take your time and tell us whatever you can. Olga, we will never let you come to harm.’

  Robert Attwell gave the Reds the lead. They were waiting for him when he left the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in King Charles Street. He was carrying a black holdall and turned left, hurrying towards Whitehall. In a black cab, with Langton’s surveillance operatives all over him like a rash, he went west through Hyde Park Corner, Gloucester Road and Kensington, passing within a stone’s throw of Olga’s street in Hammersmith on the journey to Chiswick. Dismissing the cab in Ellesmere Road, he walked through the park leading to a wide crescent and entered a large Edwardian house. Fargo had left the channel open, so the team received everything. ‘Alan from Melanie, address is one five four Pentland Crescent, Chiswick.’

  ‘Received. Nice one, Mel,’ Fargo shot back.

  ‘Property checks in quick time, please, Al,’ said Melanie, rapidly scanning the electronic map beside her. ‘All units from Melanie. Stay clear of the house. Rendezvous point is the cemetery car park off Old Station Road. Are you getting this, Jack?’

  ‘Yes. Our subjects are just leaving for the address now. Olga with Goschenko. Karl driving. John and I are staying with them, approximately ten minutes away,’ came Langton’s voice. ‘What’s the roof like, Mel?’

  When Attwell’s taxi slowed, Melanie had pulled into the kerb, then skirted the park and stopped in the crescent. She had good cover, her vehicle concealed behind a row of parked cars. The target house was illuminated by streetlights, with an escape route down a side-road to the left. She was already out of the car when Langton called her, making a recce of the house on foot, a local jogger in trackie bottoms and grey hoodie, radio disguised as an iPod.

  The house was double-fronted and painted white, on three storeys and set back about twenty paces from the crescent. The guests approached along a sweeping gravel drive leading to enormous black double doors wide enough to take a vehicle. Melanie immediately saw the fire escape on the right side and ran on the spot for a few seconds, catching her breath and surveying the access. ‘Looks workable. I think we have a way into the top floor.’

  ‘Take a closer look and brief me at the rendezvous point,’ said Langton.

  ‘Stand by,’ puffed Melanie, as the house came to life, ‘and we have more punters arriving. One by taxi, coming right up to the door, two on foot. Looks like the party starts at seven and no one wants to be late.’

  Behind Fargo the door opened quietly and he was suddenly aware of Weatherall at his right side. She slipped into the chair marked ‘Gold’ but stayed silent, simply nodding to him. Seconds later Bill Ritchie followed. He was taking a call on his mobile phone, listening intently and scribbling notes
as he sat down beside Weatherall.

  ‘We have an address, ma’am,’ said Fargo.

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘With TSG units en route, RV point in Old Station Road. Do you need a briefing?’ he asked, as the messages flooded in.

  ‘Is John Kerr aware?’

  ‘On the scene, ma’am.’

  ‘And dealing, presumably,’ she said, folding her arms with a glance at Ritchie. ‘Just tell me what I need to know.’

  Fargo was taking another message. ‘Claire Grant on the move, ma’am. Just walked out of the Home Office. No car or driver, off towards Horseferry Road.’ He fired an acknowledgement, then turned to Ritchie. ‘She hailed our black cab, Red Seven. Asked for Waverley Road, which is adjacent to Pentland Crescent.’

  There was a tap on the window behind them and Ritchie turned to see Donna in the observation room with Philippa Harrington. The MI5 director-general looked angry as he slipped through the intercommunicating door, but he held out his hand anyway. ‘Philippa, what brings you here?’

  ‘Why didn’t you notify us of this operation?’ she demanded, gesturing through the glass.

  Ritchie had his notepad with him, checking something. ‘Why would you need to know?’

  ‘I want to see your boss.’

  Ritchie perched on the desk and laughed. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Philippa. We’ve known each other too long.’ He glanced at his pad. ‘The lease on the house we’re looking at is assigned to Medlock Estates, which is part of the Rockville Group . . .’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘. . . which is wholly owned by Transcapital. That’s the cover name for the business legends used by the National Crime Agency.’

  ‘So speak with Theo Canning.’

  ‘You can have a word with him yourself, if you like.’ He turned to see Weatherall looking for him. She tapped on the glass, ignoring Harrington. ‘He’s about to get arrested.’

  Fifty-seven

  Thursday, 27 September, 18.58, 154 Pentland Crescent, Chiswick

  Karl delivered Olga and Yuri Goschenko dead on time, but tension filled the Mercedes for the entire journey. Olga knew Goschenko was trying to keep things light, but he seemed nervous, as if this was to be his big night. He told Karl to take the rest of the night off, saying he would make ‘other arrangements’ to deliver Olga home safely. ‘So tonight you can have a drink and no one will mind,’ he said, reaching forward to grip his shoulder. Olga wondered whether he was being generous or provocative. From Karl’s hard look at her in the rear-view mirror, it was obvious what he was thinking. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll spend the evening with my family.’

  Karl accelerated away without another glance at Olga as soon as he had dropped them outside the house. Goschenko offered her his arm as they walked up the sweeping drive to the double front doors, which made her acutely conscious of Langton’s magic bracelet against his sleeve. She resisted a look back, hoping Kerr and Jack would be watching every move.

  The lobby was spacious, as large as a room. The broad staircase lay fifteen paces in front of them, and she saw a room to the left with the door closed. The two Turkish overseers Olga remembered from Marston Street welcomed Goschenko with deference, but ignored her. They were ushered through a set of double doors into the reception room to the right. With its armchairs and sofas removed for the occasion, the square room looked huge, with high ceilings and its original ornate fireplace, cornices and wooden floor. There were two giant chandeliers and the window onto the street, a sweeping bay, was covered with thick, purple velvet curtains.

  Faces heavily made up, their bodies fattened up and dressed for sex, three young girls stood mutely by the door with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Olga watched them moving forward in turn to offer canapés and champagne to each arriving guest. Had she first seen them as the pinched, half-starved creatures smuggled across the North Sea in metal containers, she would never have recognised them now.

  When they had met in Starbucks, Kerr had told Olga what she needed to know about Theo Canning, and shown her a photograph so that she could identify him. Scanning the room, she counted seven early arrivals, but immediately recognised Canning. He was unmistakable, the life and soul before the party had even begun.

  More guests were arriving now, and the room buzzed with laughter and conversation. Another woman, a politician Olga recognised from TV, made a beeline for Canning, who greeted her with a peck. When Olga edged Goschenko alongside, Canning greeted him with a nod but kissed her warmly. She made her body exude warmth and sexual promise, but kept her mind ice cold and calculating. Within stabbing distance of Tania’s murderer, she laughed and sparkled, made him smile at her, and silently vowed he would never leave the house alive.

  When Goschenko said he had to speak with the Turks, Olga waited a few seconds, then wove out of the room behind him, intent on reconnoitring the house. The hallway was crowded now, with people arriving all at once. She saw one of the overseers leading Goschenko towards the kitchen at the rear, leaving the heavier man alone by the main doors.

  There was a closed door adjacent to the reception room. Beneath the sweeping staircase was a cloakroom with the door ajar. Olga could see a desk and chair squeezed inside with a TV monitor. Sneaking inside, she silently pulled the door shut. When she rotated the monitor, she recognised the face that had smiled from millions of televisions and newspapers over the past five days. Dressed in school uniform, Sara Danbury was sitting on her bed, her face made up to look like a woman’s, looking straight at the camera.

  ‘Jack, Jack, are you there?’ she murmured into the bracelet.

  ‘I hear you, Olga.’

  ‘Sara is here, in one of the rooms upstairs. I am going to find her now.’ Langton said something urgent in reply, but she had already slipped back into the lobby, unnoticed. She wafted up the sweeping staircase as if she was looking for the bathroom, instincts driving her to the deserted landing. The first floor had a bathroom and four empty double bedrooms, all unlocked, so she kept climbing. On the top floor she found herself on another landing, long and narrow, with a couple of storerooms to one side under a sloping ceiling. But then she saw the door at the very end, crudely secured with a mortise lock and three heavy bolts. Jack’s voice was in her earpiece again. ‘Olga. Can you speak?’

  ‘All right. I am on the top floor and I think I have found her prison cell for you. Now I have to go back to the party this instant or they will be wondering.’

  ‘I’m outside on the roof. Listen, at the end of the landing is a door.’

  ‘No, there is nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Olga, it must be the other end, the opposite end to the cell. It’s bolted, so you have to come and let us in, otherwise it will be too noisy.’

  ‘I will try.’ Lifting her dress above her knees, Olga raced to the other end of the landing, which had a small wing to the left and a half-glazed door with a lock and three bolts. She could see Jack with Kerr and Melanie crouching outside in the darkness. The second she turned the key and unslid the bolts they slipped inside and, without a word, half carried her back down the landing, their movements smothered by the noise of laughter and excess two floors beneath them.

  ‘She is here,’ she said, outside the locked door. ‘I saw her on the TV screen with my own eyes. They are going to kill her, I am telling you. Just like they did to Tania.’

  ‘What’s happening downstairs?’ asked Kerr.

  ‘Still the champagne.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Nearly twenty by now. Only one woman. They have girls serving drinks.’

  ‘What about the man in the photograph I showed you?’ persisted Kerr. ‘Is Theo Canning there, Olga? We didn’t see him arrive.’

  ‘I cannot be sure,’ she lied, ice cold again.

  ‘What about Rigov?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. Something bad is going to happen, I am telling you. These people are bastards, all of them.’

  ‘Olga, we’re about to move agai
nst this place,’ said Kerr. ‘It’s going to get very rough, so you need to get out now. We have another officer on the roof. He’ll lead you to safety.’

  As Kerr spoke Olga was already heading for the staircase. ‘No. I stay here in the house. I can let you know what is happening, tell you the best time to break in. But do nothing until I tell you,’ she replied, her mind fixed on Canning. ‘This is your only chance.’

  ‘Olga, come back. You can’t go down there again,’ said Melanie, but Olga was already out of their reach.

  Three stairs down she paused and looked back at the three of them. ‘Everything will be all right. You must stay up here until I say.’

  As Olga scampered downstairs, Kerr quietly slid back the bolts while Langton took out his key kit. They could hear whimpering inside the room as Langton dealt with the lock. To avoid appearing on the CCTV they stayed by the door as Sara Danbury stared at them, stupefied.

  ‘It’s all right, Sara,’ said Melanie quietly, beckoning the child to her. ‘We’re here to take you home. Bring your blanket and come to me.’

  ‘Please help me,’ she whispered when she reached the doorway, looking up at her.

  Melanie wrapped her in the blanket. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’ She lifted Sara in her arms and hurried back down the corridor with Kerr, while Langton resecured the door.

  Melanie made it outside to the roof in less than three minutes. The night was cold and Sara seemed paralysed with fear as they edged along a drainage gully to the fire escape. Kerr went first, then Langton, with Melanie and Sara climbing last. On the ground, Melanie picked her up again and raced from the building to the safety of the Alfa. ‘All units, listen up,’ said Kerr, as he drove away, ‘we have Sara Danbury. Taking her to the RVP now. ETA three minutes for a briefing of raider units.’