There followed a series of transcribed bits and pieces – mainly phrases, few of which made any sense to Liz. But her eye was caught by one phrase that stood out, even with all the synonyms provided by the technical team:
Passengers [[travellers, voyagers]] due in ten days city [[town, village]] will require//need//want immediate transfer [[relay, travel, shipment]] out.
It would have been meaningless without everything else she already knew, but as it was she thought she could fill in the blanks. People were travelling to what was most likely a city – that could be Islamabad or Athens since both were cities. Or somewhere else perhaps. But if, as was most likely, these communications were connected to the goings on at the mosque she already knew about, then Athens seemed most likely. Interestingly, it appeared the travellers were then being moved on right away. Where to? Could it be Somalia? She would have put money on it; in any case, it was happening soon.
Liz was only five minutes late for the meeting at Vauxhall Cross. Fane had chosen the grandest of the conference rooms for the get-together, with a river view and a gorgeous Georgian burred oak table that could have seated twenty-five people. It seemed a bit unnecessary, since to her relief the only others present, apart from Fane, were Andy Bokus from the US Embassy and Martin Seurat, whom she was very surprised to see – he hadn’t told her he was coming over. He had broken with protocol, moreover, in coming without anyone to accompany him from the French Embassy in London. When Liz gave him a quizzical look, he smiled apologetically. He must have been called in by Fane at the last minute.
Fane gave Liz a frosty nod as she entered and made her excuses to the other two men, who were standing by the window while they waited. Martin smiled warmly at her, and Bokus solemnly shook hands. She knew him of old and was well aware that the big man in the olive-green gabardine suit was deceptively sharp. She was not taken in by the Midwestern twang and the hearty vocabulary; she’d learned not to underestimate Mr Bokus or the other CIA agents stationed in London.
They all sat down at the table, Fane taking the chair at the end. ‘Now that we’re all here, shall we get started? Thank you for coming over, Andy and Monsieur Seurat. I decided to keep this meeting small since we’re in the very early stages of considering what action might be appropriate. I think we are all familiar with the background. The Aristides is leaving Athens in four days’ time, with a cargo of aid from UCSO for Africa. As you know, we suspect a leak from that charity to a pirate group in Somalia. We have artificially inflated the apparent value of the cargo on board, in an attempt to flush out the link to the pirates and to discover whether anything else is going on. We expect a hijacking attempt to take place off the coast of Somalia – south-east of the Horn, and not in the Gulf of Aden. The pirates in question are based south of Mogadishu and, because of the information we already have from the earlier hijacking attempt that was thwarted by the French Navy, we believe the gang in question to be Arabs not Somalis.
‘In discussion recently,’ continued Fane, leaning forward, ‘my colleague Eliz . . . er, Liz Carlyle and I decided to put one of our colleagues on board the ship.’
‘Yes,’ said Liz, quickly interjecting, ‘It will be Dave Armstrong, one of our best intelligence officers.’ She wanted to make quite clear that this was primarily an MI5 operation.
Bokus, who had been chewing gum placidly, now said sharply, ‘And just what’s this Double-O Seven supposed to do? Take out the pirates single-handed, then find Osama Bin Laden for an encore?’
Liz took this calmly. ‘We have slightly more modest aims for him. One – identify any collaborators with the pirates who are on board; it’s possible someone on the ship is helping these guys. Two – alert the patrols we’ll have in the area so they can intercept the pirates and arrest any collaborators.’
Bokus said, ‘I say we supply the firepower. We’ve got a carrier in the vicinity, and two frigates alongside as escorts. Plus, if it gets really heavy, we can have air support along in minutes.’
Liz could see Fane wince. Air support was the last thing either of them envisaged. If it were called in, there was no question that the pirates would be blown out of the water. But there was also a strong likelihood that the Aristides and Dave Armstrong and any British Pakistanis who might be on board would be bombed to smithereens as well.
Fane said, ‘I don’t think firepower is going to be an issue. Something a little more subtle is required.’
Bokus bristled. ‘Are you saying we can’t do subtle?’
‘Not at all, Andy,’ Fane said soothingly. ‘But I think we’re best placed to handle the policing aspect of this.’
The atmosphere between them, never easy, had turned tense. Liz watched as the argument progressed, Bokus emphasising the sheer might of American forces, Fane the need for stealth and surprise, which would be helped by having an agent on board. When Bokus returned to the possibility of air strikes – ‘That way we can keep their colleagues on shore from coming out to help. Do we know where they’re based anyway?’ – Liz reached for her briefcase. She took out a stack of photographs and passed them around. ‘These are satellite pictures of the camp.’
‘Pretty big site,’ said Bokus as he looked at them.
‘The compound in the middle belongs to the pirates. We think the tents at the bottom are their Middle Eastern visitors.’
‘Al Qaeda,’ Fane declared.
‘Or Al Shebab,’ said Bokus.
‘Same thing to all intents and purposes,’ snapped Fane.
Martin, who had been quietly watching this Battle of the Titans, winked at Liz.
Then Bokus said, ‘An F-16 could keep these guys pinned down easy.’
‘There are almost certainly hostages in the camp,’ Liz said firmly. ‘Attractive as an air strike may sound, think of the repercussions if you kill the captain of an oil tanker being held to ransom.’
‘Shit happens,’ Bokus said with a shrug, and turned to resume his argument with Fane. We’re getting nowhere, thought Liz, her mind busily reviewing options to resolve the stalemate.
Then Martin Seurat broke in, so quietly at first that it took Fane and Bokus, in mid-argument, a minute to realise he was speaking. ‘Gentlemen, it seems to me each of your positions is reasonable. But also completely incompatible. I have an alternative to propose.’
Bokus and Fane stopped talking and both turned to look suspiciously at him as he continued. ‘You will remember that the last time pirates attempted to seize the Aristides, they were foiled by the French Navy. It so happens that the corvette responsible is currently patrolling the same waters. I would propose that this be the vessel that should intervene if there is a new attempt – we are talking days from now, and the ship is already in place.’
‘So you’re saying the French should run the show?’ said Bokus irritably.
‘Not at all. I am merely pointing out that we have the advantage of knowing the Aristides, and that we are already in position.’ Before Bokus could protest, he went on, ‘I suggest the British be responsible in the event – unlikely, we hope – that it’s necessary to put a force down on land. I am sure our own commandos could do the job, but I am happy to defer to the expertise of your special forces, Geoffrey and Liz.’
That should satisfy Fane, thought Liz, as she quietly assessed Martin’s diplomacy, but it still left Bokus to be appeased. Martin now turned to the American. ‘Monsieur, I accept your argument that airpower might be useful. But in this situation, where it will be very difficult to distinguish between the innocent and the enemy, I think helicopters would be the most advantageous. If you can have a ship within ten miles or so of the coast, they could put in reinforcements as needed to either the Aristides or the pirates’ camp. They would have adequate firepower if there is resistance, but also have the ability to be – how should I say? – discriminating in who they attack. And, most important, they could transport people out if needed – casualties, freed hostages or prisoners.’
It was a good argument, Liz thought, and to his
credit Bokus seemed to see that. Moreover, if Bokus couldn’t win the argument with Fane, Seurat’s solution also meant he wouldn’t entirely lose. He conceded, ‘It makes sense.’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Liz.
Fane didn’t say anything. He looked unhappy, though Liz sensed this was not because he had any objection to the plan itself, but because the compromise came from Seurat. Eventually Fane gave a grudging nod. Then, reasserting his position as chairman of the meeting, he said, ‘Well, if that’s agreed then we’d better decide how to co-ordinate all the planning.’
Well done, Martin, thought Liz, as they exchanged glances.
Chapter 45
When Peggy Kinsolving had done her research on the background of the various employees in UCSO’s two offices, she hadn’t bothered with UCSO’s Chief Executive, David Blakey. She knew he was an ex-MI6 officer and had left it at that. After all, no one could say that MI6 was casual about its recruitment and he certainly wouldn’t have been employed there if there had been any doubt about his background.
But Peggy hated loose ends and the loose ends in Blakey’s case were the five years since he’d left MI6. So really just to satisfy herself, she decided to put him under her investigative microscope.
Her friend Millie the Moaner was now working in the Personnel Department of MI6 – or Human Resources as even MI6 called it now – and she got permission for Peggy to see Blakey’s file. It recorded his recruitment, after he’d been talent-spotted while working on a postgraduate Politics thesis; his various postings; his marriage to Dorothy, who had been his secretary in Copenhagen, and their separation and divorce. It was clear from the confidential reports by his various Heads of Station that his performance had been acceptable if never outstanding. But there was something about Blakey that was frequently mentioned; his relationships with women, both before and after his marriage. He had been warned repeatedly that his behaviour was not compatible with his secret work, and eventually his blatant relationship with a woman from the German Foreign Office, whom he met when he was posted to Berlin, had caused the break-up of his marriage, and ultimately his departure from the Service.
Peggy thought she now had a pretty clear idea of the sort of man David Blakey was, but she did not immediately see how that could be relevant to the goings on in the UCSO office in Athens. In any case, he might have changed; it was more than five years since the last page in his file had been added – the reference the Service had written in support of his application for the post he now held in UCSO. But Peggy was like a bloodhound once she was on the trail, and she decided to take a closer look at Mr Blakey.
David Blakey lived in a flat north of Baker Street. It was an area that had once been a mixture of working-class housing and quiet middle-class mansion blocks, a neighbourhood that had never been chic – until the last ten years, when prices for even a studio apartment topped £400,000 and many property owners found themselves, on paper at least, millionaires. When a newsagent’s closed, or the local ironmonger’s, it was replaced these days by an estate agent or a smart flower shop. Like all Londoners, Peggy looked at the affluent area and wished she had bought something there when she first came to London six or seven years before; though, like most Londoners her age, she hadn’t had the money then to buy property of any sort.
She stopped at the corner nearest to Blakey’s flat, and took a clipboard out of her briefcase; fastened to it were a few official-looking forms she’d had run up by Printing. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, buttoned up her jacket, and walked purposefully up to the door of the mansion block. She rang the bell of 2C, which her researches had told her was on the same landing as Blakey’s flat, 3C. After a moment a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Goodhart? I’m from the Electoral Register,’ Peggy said, holding up to the entry camera a quite realistic-looking identity card, also run up by Printing. ‘I’m confirming current occupancy in this block. May I have a word, please?’
‘All right,’ the woman said resignedly, and buzzed her in.
Inside, the entrance hall was deserted. Peggy ignored the brass cage lift and took the stairs, arriving on the second-floor landing only slightly out of breath. The door of 2C was on its chain, open just a crack, but the sight of Peggy apparently reassured Mrs Goodhart and she took off the chain and opened the door.
To Peggy’s eyes, Mrs Goodhart looked as if she had dressed for a wedding – smart silk suit, golden hair swept tightly back into a knot at the nape of her neck. ‘Will this take long? I’m going out for lunch and I need to leave in five minutes.’
‘No. I just have a few questions,’ said Peggy, flashing her a charming smile. ‘Only one side, you see,’ she added, holding up her clipboard.
The woman laughed. ‘Come in then. It’s a bit bleak standing out here on the landing.’
Peggy followed her into a sitting room that seemed to be crammed with furniture. Georgian side tables covered with china ornaments jostled with silk damask-covered chairs and sofas. Peggy found herself staring at a large portrait of a cavalry officer on a horse, which dominated the far wall. ‘My great-grandfather,’ the woman said simply, and motioned her to sit down.
Perched on one of the pristine chairs, Peggy held her clipboard upright on her knee. ‘If I could just check some details, Mrs Goodhart,’ she began.
Peggy asked a series of questions in her version of the bland tones of officialdom: what was her name, her address (with a laugh), was she over seventy, the names and details of any other occupants of the flat – ‘I have lived alone here since the death of my husband,’ Mrs Goodhart answered stiffly.
When she got to the end of her questions, Peggy slid her pencil through the metal rung of her clipboard and stood up. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, and started towards the door. Then stopped, as if she’d thought of something else.
‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Goodhart.
‘Sorry, I was just wondering . . . I’ve been trying to check the present occupants of Flat 3C.’ She waved vaguely across the landing. ‘But no one ever seems to be in.’
‘Ah, that’s David Blakey. He works during the day but he’s usually at home in the evening.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s the name I’ve got – and Mrs Blakey?’
Mrs Goodhart gave her a knowing look. ‘There isn’t a Mrs Blakey. But there is a lady there who – well, as you might say, keeps him company.’ She looked down, suitably abashed by her own candour.
Peggy let her eyes widen to display mild surprise. ‘Is this lady . . . uh . . . resident with Mr Blakey?’
‘I think they say “cohabitant” nowadays, my dear. I don’t think she’s moved in. It’s strictly a nocturnal arrangement, if you see what I mean.’ Mrs Goodhart emitted a small snort, as if to say, Men! ‘She is attractive. Not young, you know, forty if she’s a day and I don’t think the blonde hair is completely unaided by the bottle. But Mr Blakey is utterly smitten, according to Howson.’
‘Howson?’ asked Peggy politely, looking at her list. ‘Does she live here too?’
‘Oh, no. She’s my daily and she does for David Blakey too. A nice woman, if a little prone to gossip,’ said Mrs Goodhart with a small sniff. Then, perhaps realising the hypocrisy of this, added briskly, ‘Is that all, because I must be going now?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t made you late.’ But Peggy wasn’t sorry at all. She’d learned rather more than she’d expected.
Chapter 46
No one had briefed Dave Armstrong on how boring life was on board a container ship. In fact, no one had briefed him on much about this operation, which saw him posing as medical assistant to the ship’s doctor on board the Aristides. A ship of this size would not normally have carried a medical assistant, but none of the officers had queried his presence. The Captain was fully in the picture and the ship’s doctor, an old Scotsman called Macintyre, had been told only that he must treat Dave, alias Tony Symes, as he would a genuine medical assistant. Dr Macintyre had been around far too long to be s
urprised by anything and was finding Tony Symes’ presence quite agreeable, as it allowed him to spend more time playing bridge with the other officers.
Dave had been whisked out to Athens by the RAF at a week’s notice, with just enough time for him to brush up on the First Aid course he’d taken years before. Having been closely involved with the Birmingham end of things, the extraction of Boatman and the recruitment of Tahira, he knew the operation’s background, but was far from certain what he was expected to achieve by being on board the ship. ‘Get to know the crew,’ Liz had said, ‘particularly the Pakistanis. Find out if any of them are British and learn as much as you can about where they’re going and why.’
Well, that was easier said than done. The four Pakistani crewmen had formed a tight group and spoke hardly at all to the other seamen, let alone the officers. But what concerned Dave most of all was what he was supposed to do if, as everyone seemed to be expecting, the ship was hijacked. He just hoped that Geoffrey Fane had thoroughly sorted out the back-up with the Americans and the French, and that he wasn’t going to find himself the target of ‘friendly fire’.
He had not been much reassured when he’d stopped briefly in Athens and had dinner with Bruno Mackay at a small restaurant near the embassy. Though he’d never met him before, he had heard about Mackay from Liz and was not expecting to discover a soulmate. Mackay turned out to be just as Liz had described him – the perfect suntan, the elegantly cut hair, the smart suit and the shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks on display. Mackay did a competent job, briefing Dave on the Athens end of the operation. Dave was not surprised that he made only passing reference to the murder of his agent Maria Galanos; in spite of his self-confident front, Bruno Mackay must be very embarrassed by that. They went on to discuss the leasing, loading and despatching of the UCSO aid ships by the shipping company. Mackay had obtained a copy of the crew list, which revealed a mixed bag of Filipinos, a Cypriot, Koreans and four Pakistanis. ‘These are your targets,’ said Bruno, unnecessarily, pointing to the Pakistani names.
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