Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  In the meantime, he rang Justin from the Fishbowl to check his recovery and tell him the fate of the thugs who had probably attacked him, too, during his late-night run.

  Justin sounded cheerful. ‘So you’re telling me the streets are safe now, boss?’ he joked. ‘Can I put my trackies on again?’

  Kerr was not surprised to find Justin was already back in the Camberwell workshop with another dressing on his head. His youngest expert’s enthusiasm to continue the job, no matter the cost, re-energised him. As he kicked his heels, waiting to see Weatherall and Ritchie, he felt restless. He had unfinished business, and was impatient to see things through to the end. But something else was unsettling Kerr that had nothing to do with his professional life.

  The race against time of the previous days, culminating in last night’s violence and fight for survival, had drained his energy, physical and mental. Only now, in the hours of calm before the storm he knew was coming, was there room for a single emotion to bubble to the surface. It made sense of everything else for which he had been fighting so relentlessly: the real victims at the heart of his secret operation were not the blackmailed adults but the abused children. He had found Tania’s killer and rescued Sara; but he guessed there were many more young, defenceless victims he would never be able to identify. Deeply affecting, that single thought sent him hurrying down the spiral staircase to the underground car park.

  Ignoring a call from Bill Ritchie, Kerr rang Sara Danbury’s parents, then drove down to see their daughter in the expensive west London clinic where she was to receive specialist medical and psychiatric treatment. He found Sara hunched in a chair beside her bed, pale and traumatised, staring listlessly out of the window.

  ‘She hasn’t said a word,’ her mother, Selina, told Kerr outside in the corridor. ‘Doesn’t even seem to know I’m here.’

  ‘How is your husband taking it?’

  ‘He’s not, Mr Kerr. You rescued her body, but Michael says they still have her mind.’

  ‘What’s he going to do?’

  ‘The government’s working out some sort of deal with him.’

  Kerr looked at her in astonishment. ‘He’s going to let them buy his silence, you mean? Spin the whole thing around his own daughter?’

  ‘I know you’re a Special Branch officer, Mr Kerr,’ she said, peering through the glass door at Sara, ‘so don’t feign surprise at the great British hypocrisy. This is the way things have always worked.’ She turned to face Kerr, as if the solution was obvious. ‘Michael wants to be prime minister. Don’t expect him to be any different.’

  Kerr had gone to visit Sara Danbury as a father showing compassion, not an intelligence officer harbouring secrets, but the mother’s cynicism doused him in another hot rush of anger. ‘Will you tell Sara that one day?’ he said, as he walked away, his mind made up.

  Weatherall and Ritchie were already in conference when Kerr returned with his secure briefcase. In the outer office, Donna insisted on examining his eye. ‘Watch yourself. They’re in a real strop,’ she said, before taking him through.

  The aircon was on the blink again, casting a chill to match the mood. He found Weatherall behind her desk, looking as if she had just retreated there, and Ritchie was sitting moodily at the conference table, ready to pounce. They were quiet when he entered, pretending to study their notes, but the body language told him they were taking time out from a bloody row.

  Weatherall looked drained as she circled back to the conference table and gestured him to the chair beside Ritchie. ‘You really should be at home, John,’ she said, in a soft tone he had never heard before.

  ‘And a lot of people should be in jail.’

  Kerr listened with mounting incredulity as she gave her account of the morning’s developments, concluding with the schedule of what she called ‘outcomes’. She explained that an official from the Cabinet Office in Whitehall had summoned her to a meeting at seven-thirty that morning. A group of bureaucrats she did not know had already assembled round the horseshoe table in the subterranean Briefing Room B by the time she arrived, and appeared to have a damage-limitation strategy already mapped out. The chairman had informed her they had shrouded the night’s events, including the shootings at Karl’s house, in a Defence Advisory Notice. Specifically it was a DA Five, which covered anything connected to UK security intelligence and special services, and prevented any reporting by the media until approved by the government. It was essential, he had said, straight-faced, to safeguard the public interest.

  ‘And to protect their own official who was in that house last night. Which means never, a total cover-up,’ was all Kerr could manage when she had finished. ‘So we major on the blackmail.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now I have to get on, and you should get some rest. You said you have something for us?’ asked Weatherall.

  Kerr slid a couple of dossiers across the table, a copy for each. ‘Alan Fargo prepared this overnight. They set out everything we have on these people. If you want the shorthand, it says we can show Claire Grant and Robert Attwell were targeted by a foreign power. And I want you to authorise me to work on the other blackmail victims.’

  Ritchie took a printed email from his notebook. ‘Blackmail may be difficult to prove without a lot more international assistance than we’re likely to get,’ he said slowly. Then he made a show of putting on a pair of glasses he hardly ever wore. From experience, Kerr knew this was a delaying tactic, a precursor to unwelcome news. ‘Turkish National Police just got back to 1830 with preliminary findings on your bomber. Abdul Malik was a wealthy businessman based in Istanbul, a crazy, according to them, well known to their Secret Service. Radicalised in London as a student, he turned against the UK and his own country, blah blah. They claim the bombing was timed to inflict political damage on Turkey.’

  ‘I could have told them that.’

  ‘Scupper its chances with the EU. Mr Malik believed his government was betraying its Islamist roots, apparently,’ he said, looking at Kerr over his glasses. ‘Oh, and he had a couple of ex-Turkish Secret Service mavericks working for him in London. The people you met up with last night, presumably.’

  ‘So get them to check out his base. Capture his hard drives.’

  ‘They already did. The building was a shell. No computers, nothing.’

  ‘What about the Syrian, Hussain? A known terrorist still using Omar Taleb as his cover name after two decades? Come on, Bill, this has Damascus plastered all over it.’

  Weatherall frowned at Ritchie. ‘I thought the Syrians were supposed to be our friends, these days?’

  ‘We’re only as good as our last compromise,’ said Kerr, before Ritchie could react. ‘If we bottle it today we risk years of Syrian-sponsored subversion alongside terrorism. Don’t you see that? Ahmed Jibril’s still out there somewhere. And Julia Bakkour? Christ, we can show Taleb ordered her to defend Jibril. There’s a clear connection,’ pleaded Kerr, in frustration. ‘For God’s sake, it’s a no-brainer. We should be nicking her right now.’

  The aircon coughed into action again, spewing more cold air through the vents and sounding as angry as Kerr. He looked from one boss to the other. ‘Look, this is no time for denial. Theo Canning was a long-term Russian agent and Claire Grant provided visas for terrorists. Those are the facts. I trusted Canning and the truth hurts, but we have to face up to it. They both betrayed our country.’

  ‘The Cabinet Office covered that element, too,’ said Weatherall, returning to the list of decisions. She read straight from the script. Claire Grant would resign the following morning, citing personal reasons in a letter drafted by the PM’s private office. That evening, the National Crime Agency would announce the death of its chairman, Sir Theo Canning, from a heart attack.

  ‘He was stabbed in the chest, for Christ’s sake,’ exclaimed Kerr, in disbelief. His first call that morning had been to Pamela Masters. He had rung her early, well before class, because he needed to tell her Canning was no longer a threat. To Kerr this was a matter of du
ty, to lift the cloud under which she had spent most of her working life. Her star in MI5 had waned following Canning’s rejection all those years ago and, in that sense, he and Melanie saw her as another victim. She should feel vindicated, he had said, ready to make a fresh start. Now he wondered how she would react when this news filtered through. Would she see the deceit about her tormentor’s death as protection for her or simply another betrayal?

  Weatherall was staring at him blankly, as if the facts had no place in this narrative, then carried on reading aloud. Robert Attwell would take a career break, from which he would never return.

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Kerr was incredulous. ‘I mean, you’re not going to allow government to protect these bastards just to save its own skin?’

  Weatherall was pouring more water from Donna’s jug. ‘The people who attacked us in this way wanted to destroy the government,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to be accused of doing the job for them.’

  ‘So you’re going along with the cover-up, just like all the rest?’ said Kerr. He looked across the table, but Ritchie’s head was down. Suddenly he understood the root cause of their disagreement before he had walked in on them. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing? Joe Allenby took a massive risk when he tipped me off about Jibril. Alone, in a hostile country, he refused to toe the line. He did the right thing and paid with his life. Are you telling me it was all for nothing?’

  ‘You’ve done a fantastic job in saving dozens of lives, John,’ said Weatherall, evenly, ‘risking your own. That’s something to be proud of. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘Really? So what about the bomb?’

  ‘What bomb?’

  Kerr’s chair crashed back. ‘I should have let him blow the bastards up,’ he said, already on his feet.

  Donna opened the door as he was turning, already wearing her I-did-warn-you look.

  ‘Knock first,’ came Weatherall’s angry voice from across the room.

  Donna did not acknowledge her, speaking softly to Kerr and holding the door open for him. ‘Melanie’s on the phone. It’s about your daughter.’

  Kerr could tell Melanie was driving, but her voice on the hands-free was calm and rational. ‘John, I need you to sit in Donna’s chair and just listen for a moment.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago I had a sighting of Jibril.’

  Kerr’s stomach lurched as Donna wheeled her chair to him. ‘You’re supposed to be in East Ham.’

  ‘I am, watching for Samir Khan. Everyone else is at Lambeth waiting for him to return to the safe-house, so I’m here on my own, covering from the car.’

  ‘You sure it’s Jibril?’

  ‘Positive. Khan’s scooter was parked in the street, not the front yard by the wheelie bin. First time I’ve seen that. It’s like they left it ready for a quick getaway. Jibril had the key. He just started up, helmet on and buzzed off.’

  ‘So what’s he doing in East Ham?’

  ‘He knows the safe-house is blown. Must have thought he’d be secure around Khan’s place.’

  Kerr stayed on his feet. ‘And?’

  ‘I think he’s got Gabi with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m on the move here, John, so you have to listen hard. I followed him onto the North Circular Road, westbound. He went to a house near Brent Cross. Parked up, went inside, came back out with a young woman. White, early twenties, slim build, jeans et cetera. She was already wearing the helmet when she came out of the door. He had hold of her arm right up until she climbed on the pillion, like he was worried she might do a bunk.’

  ‘How did you know it was Gabi?’

  ‘It was your daughter, John. I’m sure.’

  ‘How far away were you when you saw her?’

  ‘About four cars down the street. But I recognised her, John. And I snatched a sideways look at a red light. She’s terrified.’

  ‘OK.’ Kerr was already turning the Alfa key in his pocket. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Just turned off the North Circ. I’m on that big interchange at Neasden. Hold on. Indicating left. Looks like they’re heading down towards Willesden. Thing is, do you want me to intervene now, or do I wait for the cavalry?’

  ‘Are you carrying?’

  ‘No, I’m not, actually.’

  Kerr was thinking rapidly, weighing the odds of an unarmed Melanie rescuing his daughter from a terrorist who might be armed to the teeth. Kerr had been required to surrender his Glock after shooting Abdul Malik, but instinctively felt for it inside his jacket. ‘No. I’m coming to you now. Just stay with them, Mel. Keep the commentary going on Channel Five.’

  ‘Are we going to call the Trojans in?’

  Bad possibilities were exploding in Kerr’s brain like fireworks. Loudest among them, as operator and father, was the murder of his daughter if anyone acted recklessly. Just below that was the fear of a lengthy siege with Gabi as hostage and a violent outcome from a botched raid. He had no idea where this was leading, no clue what lay in store for all of them.

  ‘Not now. We do this ourselves.’

  Sixty-two

  Friday, 28 September, 12.46, bomb factory, Willesden

  Kerr was through to Jack Langton and Justin even before he’d cleared the Yard. They told him they already had Melanie’s commentary. ‘Shall we get up to Willesden?’

  ‘Quick as you can.’

  The most direct route from the Yard was the Edgware Road, a major artery heavily regulated by traffic lights but running straight as a die north-west from Marble Arch. On siren and lights, braking hard at each red traffic light, then accelerating, Kerr reached seventy-five for short stretches through St John’s Wood and Maida Vale. But his vision was not blurred by the red mist that afflicted the eyes of less experienced men. He drove with care, seeing only the road ahead and his daughter in jeopardy. He knew Gabi’s life depended on him getting there.

  Melanie’s voice came on Channel Five. ‘Willesden High Road, John. You’ll see the nick in front of you. Jibril’s thrown a right into Stafford Street.’

  ‘I’m about five minutes away. Keep it coming.’

  There was the growl of Langton’s motorcycle as he scorched a trail across the city from south to north. ‘Be with you guys in fifteen,’ said Justin, from the pillion. ‘We just crossed the river.’

  Overwhelming feelings of love and fear flooded the car as Kerr raced to the scene. But even more powerful was the cold rage that rushed in alongside. His daughter was the victim, but he was the intended target. It was obvious. Just as they had tried to reach Karl’s family, now they intended to destroy his. Different perpetrators, same revenge. The realisation rolled through his mind with a terrible clarity. Gabi was the victim not just of the men who had taken her from him and Robyn but of his own stubbornness. Soon he would force them to confess exactly how they had got to her but, before that, Kerr had to admit something to himself: she had been taken because of his refusal to compromise in his determination to get at the truth. His obsession had exposed Gabi to a murderous threat. He had condemned his daughter to this fate. Remorse stabbed him in the pit of his stomach.

  He cursed himself, then drove faster.

  When he heard Melanie again she was obviously out of the car. ‘John, he’s turned into a service road off Stafford. Just after the pillar box.’ Outside, on the street and running. ‘I can’t drive in there without blowing it. I’m going to find another way. I’ll talk you in.’

  ‘Two minutes.’ Kerr was already in Willesden High Road. He saw the police station and geared down for the right into Stafford Street. A patrol car was pulling out of the station yard so he braked sharply and let it go first. The last thing he needed now was to be pulled by the local uniforms.

  He spotted Melanie’s battered Honda by the pillar box straight away. ‘I’m here,’ said Kerr. ‘Do you still have them?’ He saw that she had driven it nose in, abandoning it in too small a space, leaving the driver’s door ajar in her rush to re-esta
blish contact.

  She was speaking to him again as he double-parked beside the Honda and leapt out. ‘Yes, I do. Into the service road, maisonettes on the right. There’s an alley between the fourth and fifth leading to the gardens.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Wall at the end, then a fence. Watch your step. There’s a drop the other side.’

  Kerr had difficulty locating Melanie as she was completely hidden from all sides, eventually finding her prone on a rough sleeper’s patch of scrub in a space hollowed out from bramble bushes. Nearby were a couple of empty lager cans with plastic bags and strips of sacking beyond use. Relief surged through Kerr. She still had them in her sights. As he dropped down beside her she was pointing at a row of garages about thirty paces away, scarcely visible through the undergrowth. The left door to the third garage was ajar, and he could see the scooter parked outside.

  ‘He just took her inside.’

  A man appeared briefly in the gap between the doors. He was head and shoulders only as he checked for intruders, and visible for less than three seconds, but it took them only a heartbeat to identify Ahmed Jibril.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Kerr, clambering to his feet.

  ‘No, John. Get a grip.’ Melanie had a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You’re not thinking clearly. We’re unarmed. Don’t know how many are in there. Let Jack bring in the Trojans.’

  ‘What? Risk an armed siege against a jihadi? No way.’

  ‘It’s your daughter in there, for God’s sake. You can’t risk just charging in.’

  ‘It’s what I did for you at Hackney, Mel,’ he said, pulling his arm away. On impulse he stooped to pick up a length of fallen branch, weighing it in his hand. ‘Coming?’

  Kerr skirted the bush to the right, then gently eased a passage for him and Melanie through a mass of softer vegetation until they reached the end garage in the row. The door of the target garage was still slightly ajar. There was a sliver of light, and as he edged down the row he imagined he could hear Jibril’s voice, and Gabi weeping. He had no game plan, no idea of the situation he was about to face, or the odds of success. All he could be certain about was the limited area of the combat zone. He would act fast, with noise and violence, reacting to each movement in the few seconds he would have to eliminate the threat. Kerr had one advantage, which quelled any feelings of self-doubt: he was feeling murderous against those who threatened his daughter, and the surge of power from that raw hatred would only be stopped by a bullet to the head.