As the two men sat down, Liz wanted to box Geoffrey Fane around the ears. He had set this up, and was clearly determined to enjoy a joke at their expense – since the Frenchman would have no idea that Fane knew he and Liz were seeing each other.
He said to Martin, ‘Kind of you to come over on a Friday. I hope it won’t spoil your weekend.’
‘I am sure it won’t,’ said Martin, and left it at that. As Fane glanced at his watch Martin winked at Liz.
Fane said, ‘Elizabeth and I have been discussing the prisoner you’re holding . . . Amir Khan. We were wondering if you’ve got any further with him.’
Martin shook his head. ‘He has continued to be unco-operative. I am due to see him myself next week, and will certainly let you know then if this particular bird begins to sing.’
Liz decided to cut into the conversation. ‘We’re trying to find out more about Khan’s activities here in the UK and how he might have been recruited. As you know, we think he went to Pakistan for training. His parents emigrated from there before he was born. He went supposedly to visit relatives, but we think he attended some sort of training camp.’
Martin nodded knowingly. ‘We have similar problems. We find the recruitment takes place in France, usually in one of the new radical mosques, but the instruction in terrorist tactics occurs elsewhere. We have many second- and third-generation French Algerians, for example, who have become disaffected with the West. They return to Algeria under the cover of a family visit, but come back knowing how to blow up a train.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘There is no easy answer to the problem.’
Liz said, ‘We’ve learned one thing just recently from his family: we think he went to Athens sometime between his stay in Pakistan and Somalia.’
‘Athens?’ Martin digested this for a moment.
‘Ring any bells?’ asked Fane.
‘I’m afraid it does not. The links we’ve uncovered recently with our own Al Qaeda sympathisers have been with Yemen and North Africa. That’s why I was intrigued when I heard Khan had been picked up off the Somalian coast. Still, it will be useful when I see him to know that he was in Greece – especially since Khan doesn’t know that we know he went there.’
‘It’s the best position to be in, don’t you think?’ demanded Fane. He looked sharply at Martin, and spoke with the faintest hint of a sneer. ‘I mean, when you know something and the other chap doesn’t know you know.’ He looked at Liz then. It was quite clear to her that he was no longer talking about Amir Khan.
That evening Liz and Martin met up in Gaylord’s, a wine bar halfway between Victoria and the river, just off the Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was slowly filling up with professionals who worked in the area, having a drink before the long weekend.
Martin was in a good mood. He had left the Athenaeum with Fane and they’d gone together by taxi to Vauxhall Cross. Still fuming over Fane’s antics, Liz had declined their offer of a lift and had walked back to Thames House on her own. She found Fane’s breezy lack of concern for the death of the undercover agent, and the absence of any sense of personal responsibility for what had happened, quite astonishing. As a rule she had little sympathy for Bruno Mackay, whom she found self-satisfied and patronising, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him when she saw how his boss was subtly shifting blame for an agent’s death on to his shoulders.
‘You know,’ said Martin, sipping his glass of Chablis, ‘I found Geoffrey Fane rather strange today.’
‘Oh, yes?’ asked Liz a little warily. Now did not seem the right moment to tell Martin that Fane knew about their relationship.
Martin shrugged. ‘As a Frenchman, one knows that there are always Englishmen who think we are buffoons, and that there are others who simply dislike us. But many Englishmen seem to like the French, even admire our culture. I always thought Fane was one of them.’
‘And you no longer do?
Martin lifted his hands, perplexed. ‘I found him different this afternoon. He seemed to become competitive, sparring with me if you like.’ He gave a small smile. ‘But I think I know the reason.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘The presence of Mademoiselle Carlyle! He is quite keen on you, I believe, and not very happy that you should be associated with the likes of me – a foreigner. However good the relations between our bureaux, he sees me as a competitor nonetheless.’
So Martin realised Fane knew about them, thought Liz, impressed that he had sussed that out for himself. Before she could say anything he went on, ‘I don’t take it personally. He would feel that way about any man you were with, I sense.’
He took an appreciative sip of his wine, then said cheerfully, ‘Anyway, it is of no real consequence. Geoffrey Fane remains formidable in many respects, and he will continue to have my respect. But I will soon encounter someone who to me is far more daunting.’
‘You will?’ asked Liz. Did Martin have another meeting he hadn’t told her about?
He looked at her with a sly smile. ‘The weather is supposed to be very fine tomorrow. I expect I will be meeting your mother.’
Chapter 24
Sound chap, Blakey. Fane’s words were in the back of Liz’s mind as she sat in the office of the Director of UCSO. David Blakey had the characteristic poise of an MI6 officer, but seemed a good deal more relaxed than the version Liz usually found herself working with. True, Blakey’s suit was beautifully cut, but she noted with relief that there were none of the flamboyant extras that Geoffrey Fane and Bruno McKay liked to affect – no paisley silk handkerchief peeping out of the top pocket, no obvious shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks, no regimental tie.
Blakey had calmly explained the history of UCSO’s concerns: how his original call to Fane had come after the head of UCSO’s Athens office, Mitchell Berger, had become suspicious about the recent spate of hijack attempts on valuable shipments. Now, as Liz moved the discussion on to the murder of Maria Galanos, David Blakey begin to look uneasy.
She said, ‘We’re still waiting for the Greek police report, but we know Maria Galanos was strangled.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that. Do they think she knew the person who killed her?’
‘It doesn’t sound like it – apparently her electricity had been tampered with, presumably to make the flat dark when her attacker struck. Which means it wasn’t some sort of argument that suddenly escalated. It was planned – someone must have got into the flat beforehand. Do you know if she had a boyfriend?’
Blakey shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. The thing is, I never met the girl. I would have thought Geoffrey’s colleagues in Athens would know all that sort of thing. They chose her for the job,’ he added with a note of weariness. He seems more disturbed by her death than Fane was, thought Liz, even though he’d never met her. It must be causing a big upset in the Athens office.
She said, ‘Berger met her, of course, so he probably knows more about her. When’s he coming to London next?’
But Blakey didn’t answer. Instead he reached for his phone and dialled two numbers – an internal extension. ‘Could you pop in?’ he said without preamble.
Moments later, the door to his office opened and a tall, slim woman walked in. She wore a smart linen shirtdress and plain but expensive-looking jewellery – a necklace of gold coins and a bracelet of fine gold wires. No wedding ring, observed Liz. The new arrival was about forty, with a mature, lightly sunburned face, blonde hair tied back, revealing a high forehead, bright blue eyes, and a sharp chin. The effect was smart and attractive rather than beautiful. It was a look that Liz would love to be able to achieve, though she had long ago accepted that she never would.
Blakey stood up and pulled out a chair for the woman. ‘This is Liz Carlyle. She works with the friend I mentioned,’ he told her.
Liz looked at him in surprise; her understanding from Fane was that only Berger in Athens (as well as Blakey himself) knew about the involvement of Fane and his colleagues in tracing the possible UCSO leak. Just how much had Blakey told this woman? She d
ecided to ask Fane at the earliest opportunity what the agreement with Blakey had been.
‘Katherine Ball,’ said the blonde woman, stretching out her hand to Liz.
‘We were talking about the problem in Athens,’ said Blakey.
‘Yes,’ said Katherine, non-committally.
‘Liz was asking about Maria, and I said I’d never met her. I think you did, though.’
‘Yes, though I can’t say I got to know her particularly well. Mitchell and I are usually pretty busy when I’m there,’ she said, looking at Liz and smiling. ‘I’m never in Athens very long, so my days are full – I don’t have much time to chat to the staff.’
Liz nodded. ‘I understand. Do you know if Maria was friendly with anyone in particular?’
While Katherine thought about this, Blakey interjected, ‘She hadn’t worked in the office very long . . .’
Katherine interrupted. ‘The twins,’ she said. Liz looked at her and she explained. ‘Two Greek girls who work in the office. Anastasia and Falana. They’re not related, actually, but I always call them the twins because they’re inseparable.’
‘And Maria knew them?’
‘Everybody knows them. They’re the dogsbodies in the office. I don’t mean that unkindly – it’s just that if you need anything, from a photocopy to coffee for a visitor, one of them gets it.’
‘And Maria and these two?’ asked Liz, trying to move the woman on.
‘I think they were intrigued by her. Another Greek girl – slightly older but roughly the same generation. Yet half-English, educated – she’d travelled.’ She glanced over at Blakey as she said this. ‘Anyway, I think they got quite friendly. Even went out together.’
This was not surprising, given Maria’s brief from the Athens MI6 Station. It would have been a good way for her to learn the office gossip. The ‘twins’ would have known far more than Berger about the personalities in the office, all their foibles and little habits, which when added up could provide the lead she’d been asked to look out for.
Katherine went on, ‘I have to say, I was a little surprised. Not to be snooty about it, but Maria came from a different background – I don’t think either of the twins has much education, and they both come from fairly humble families. I wouldn’t have thought they had much to offer someone like Maria. All they ever talk about is pop music, clubbing and boys.’
‘Well, they’re young after all,’ said Blakey mildly. ‘That’s understandable.’
But Katherine shook her head. ‘There was more to it than that. I have the feeling they’ve got some pretty ropey friends in the clubs they go to. The girls are often the worse for wear when they come to work; I was going to speak to Mitchell about it, in fact. I think sometimes he’s too tolerant.’
‘Was Maria like that?’ asked Liz. It sounded unlikely. Surely she wouldn’t have been on the books of the Athens Station if she had been a committed party girl.
Katherine shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But she was young and single – and pretty.’
‘But wouldn’t the boys she met through the “twins” have been a bit young for her?’ asked Blakey. ‘Or was she a . . . what do they call it these days . . . a cougar?’
‘I’m surprised you know that expression, David.’ Katherine smiled at him. ‘Maria wasn’t anything like old enough.’
Liz nodded. ‘Anything else we should know about Maria?’
‘I don’t think so. She was very professional, and very good at her work.’ Katherine seemed to be backtracking. ‘I had the feeling everybody liked her.’ She paused and Liz could see from her expression that there was something she wasn’t saying.
This slant on Maria was rather different from the picture that had emerged from the thin file which the Athens Station had copied to Geoffrey Fane. That gave the impression of a serious professional young woman, soon to become thirty. Someone who was most unlikely to go clubbing – unless it was in the line of duty. But maybe the file was out of date. When Bruno Mackay had chosen Maria for this job, he didn’t seem to have bothered to update it. Most people had some sort of hidden self – why should Maria Galanos be any different? She might have had a whole web of emotional entanglements, one of which could have gone disastrously wrong. With the bare facts Liz had, it was impossible to tell.
She wanted to talk further about all this to Blakey, though not in front of Katherine. But the woman continued to sit there, as if expecting to be included in the rest of the conversation. Then Liz noticed Blakey give her a look and Katherine stood up. ‘I’d better get back to my office. Mitchell is supposed to be ringing me from Athens. Is there anything you’d like me to ask him?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Liz, and Katherine Ball left the office, closing the door firmly behind her.
After she’d left, Liz and Blakey sat in silence for a minute; Liz sensed he was uncomfortable. ‘I hope that was helpful,’ he said at last.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Has Katherine been working here long?’
‘Two years.’
‘And before that?’
‘Before that she’d had a bit of a hiatus.’ He gave a small smile. ‘She trained as a lawyer originally, and worked for a few years in one of the big City firms. Very good at it too, I gather. Then she married a businessman, quite a wealthy one; he had business interests in the Middle East and they lived out there in various places for over ten years. Then one day out of the blue the poor chap dropped dead – a heart attack. They didn’t have children, and Katherine didn’t want to stay out there on her own, so she came back to London and started looking for work. Someone suggested she come in for a chat, we hit it off, and I took her on as my deputy. Within six months she was irreplaceable.’
‘You’re obviously lucky to have her,’ said Liz.
They spoke for a few minutes more, and Blakey arranged for Liz to have copies of the CVs of the staff in both UCSO offices. As she left, she wondered again how much he had told Katherine Ball about the investigation. Had he told her of the suspicions about leaked information and why Maria had been taken on in the Athens office? Just how indiscreet was he?
Chapter 25
‘I hope you know the way,’ said Liz to Kanaan Shah as they emerged from Birmingham New Street station. ‘I’ve never been to this place.’
‘Yeah, I know it well. Our best bet is to get a bus.’
The MI5 office in Birmingham was a comparatively new development, set up after the invasion of Iraq had generated a burst of extremist activity in the area. Rather than send teams of people up from London, only to have to feed and water them and provide them with accommodation, it had been decided to open a regional office and post staff there or recruit them locally.
The bus stopped outside a rundown-looking Odeon cinema in an otherwise well-kept street in an inner suburb of the city. The building appeared to be undergoing restoration; its 1920s exterior was covered with scaffolding, and razor wire topped the two solid metal gates securing the site. Little more of the building could be seen through the security gates.
The entrance to the building itself was through a side door, which had obviously once been one of the exits from the cinema. Kanaan tapped a number into a pad on the wall beside the left-hand gate, and a small door clicked open. Liz followed Shah and they walked together into an extensive car park where a variety of cars and vans were parked.
In spite of its scruffy exterior, the inside of the building was clean and brightly painted. A number of small offices had been made out of what was once the entrance concourse of the cinema. Most of the doors were open but only a few of the rooms were occupied. As they walked past one door, a familiar, cheerful-sounding voice shouted out, ‘Hello, stranger.’
Liz stopped, took a few steps back and saw Dave Armstrong, her long-time colleague and friend, getting up from behind a desk. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I hadn’t heard you’d left Northern Ireland.’
‘Your spies have let you down again,’ said Dave with a huge grin. ‘They moved
me after I came out of hospital. I can’t say I was sorry to leave beautiful Belfast.’
‘I don’t expect you were.’
Liz and Dave had last worked together on an investigation into a renegade group of Republican terrorists who were trying to kill police and intelligence officers in Northern Ireland. They had had some hair-raising experiences during the operation, and Dave had ended up badly hurt.
He looked at his watch. ‘I’m coming to the briefing for your meet,’ he said, following Liz out into the corridor and nodding at Kanaan Shah, who was waiting for her.
The briefing room had once been the auditorium of the cinema and not a great deal had changed. A few of the rows of red plush seats had been removed, but most were still in place. Now they were occupied by twenty or so casually dressed men and women, some white, some Asian, some young, some middle-aged. Most of them were new faces to Liz, but she recognised a few from Thames House and gave them a wave before sitting down at the end of a row near the back with Dave and Kanaan Shah.
The briefing was for the A4 surveillance operation that was going to cover their meeting that evening with Kanaan Shah’s agent, Boatman. Liz wanted to meet Boatman herself; it was crucial to find out if he knew anything about Amir Shah and how he came to be involved in hijacking an UCSO ship off Somalia.
The room fell silent as the A4 controller, Larry Lincoln, climbed on to the stage. Behind him was the screen on which the faces of Errol Flynn and Clark Gable had once appeared, to the delight of Birmingham audiences. Now it showed a collage of photographs of a young, thin, lightly bearded Asian man. In some he was wearing skullcap and robes, in others a suit or jeans. Liz looked with interest at the images of Boatman.
Lincoln, known to his teams as ‘Lamb’, began by welcoming Liz, then he turned to the A4 teams. ‘Tonight it’s the usual routine for Boatman meetings. The only difference is that Liz Carlyle will be with us. The meeting will be held in “Pie Crust”.’ A picture of a red-brick Victorian villa came up on the screen. It had a green-painted wooden gate that led to a small overgrown garden; the villa’s front door was obscured by a tall, unkempt privet hedge.
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