He’d been there for over an hour, having come from watching Julian’s partner, Sheila (today dressed in jeans and T-shirt), let herself into a large residential house on an upmarket square in Kensington. He loved Kensington, but it had been bought up as investment by the very Russians he despised, and lots of it remained empty most of the time since they didn’t live there.
He’d established, over the last two days, using his 3G-connected tablet and a few phone calls, that (a) Sheila and Julian were not married, and (b) she ran her own agency selling property, which explained the visit to the house in Kensington where he’d left her. He’d also realized that she must be the same Sheila Dove that he’d had checked out in 1980. Her father, as he recalled the records showing, had been a small-time British diplomat, some minor trade functionary, which had naturally generated some interest in the KGB, especially as he’d spent a few months stationed in the Soviet Union just as Reagan’s ridiculously strict technology embargo had kicked in. However, it had emerged that he was clean, a nobody. He’d watched Julian and Sheila leave their house together earlier that morning, Julian by car and Sheila on foot. They’d had a brief conversation before parting, one where she’d tried to make eye contact but he was already elsewhere, focused on something yet to happen. No hug or kiss, unless they’d done that inside the house.
That’s when he’d decided to follow Sheila rather than Julian, who he knew was going to the office anyway. She wasn’t critical to the matter in hand, but he felt it prudent at this stage to keep all angles covered, and you never knew what information, however innocuous, would come in useful later.
‘I wouldn’t mind covering her angles,’ he said aloud, chuckling to himself. OK, so maybe she wasn’t his type, he gravitated more towards the hourglass figure, but to be honest about it, he enjoyed following her around. It gave him a buzz. When he’d seen her being picked up by taxi last night he’d wished he’d known that she’d ordered one, because he might have risked picking her up in his taxi, such was his high-spirited mood.
It made him reckless, being in London. It was such a change from Azerbaijan; what a shit posting that had turned out to be. They only had themselves to blame, of course, fucking relations up with Turkey like that, but it had provided an opportunity to be physically closer to the enemy. But Baku was such a dull city, and no English women to speak of unless you counted the slim pickings among the expatriate community. So being transferred to London – thanks to his experience here – at this time of year, was even better than being back in Beersheba, a desert city in the country that he now called home, where the temperature would currently be unbearably high.
His phone rang and it took a few seconds to realize it was the encrypted satellite phone, not his mobile. Ears in Baku must be burning, he thought.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello, comrade Borya,’ a male voice said in Russian, after a crackly delay.
Boris smiled at the salutation.
‘Have you made any progress?’
‘Yes, contact has been made,’ Boris said, also in Russian. ‘But it looks like I may have to use more persuasion. I am just confirming this as we speak.’
‘OK, do whatever you have to do, to move things along.’
‘Problems?’
‘You mean apart from the one you are dealing with? Yes, our friends from the East are becoming more assertive, so stay awake. I’ll contact you when I know more.’
‘OK. Goodbye, comrade.’
He snapped open a can of Coke, sipping at it while considering how to proceed. He might have to resort to showing his hand with Julian, it was just a matter of how he did it. His superiors considered his trip to London to be an unwelcome development, hence the snide reference to it in the phone call. After all, it was he who had recommended using the company in Leeds that now said they didn’t have the technical know-how to do the job they’d originally said they could. But being unpopu-lar was a small sacrifice to make in the scheme of things. Boris had never cared about being popular, even at the cost of not belonging. He’d briefly hoped he might find somewhere to belong when he’d moved to Israel. Now he felt that in his desperation to escape the uncomfortable reality of a post-Soviet Russia to which he could not reconcile himself, he’d landed somewhere worse: a self-imposed prison whose walls were indeterminable, where he was looked on by the sabra as an outsider, and regarded suspiciously by the older refusenik Russians who had arrived during perestroika. He got the sense that they knew what he had been back in Russia. Unlike them he had arrived with a job.
He took the leather-bound journal from the seat beside him, removed the large elastic band that kept it together, and opened to a blank page. ‘Three walls’ he wrote, then divided the page into three and wrote a), b) and c) beneath the lines. He tapped his pen against his chin, thinking. He had spent a lot of time thinking, and there came a time when you have to act, to make a choice about the sort of world you wanted to live in.
As for ‘our friends from the East’, they may be able to operate in Azerbaijan easily, but they were hamstrung over here since they’d stopped killing exiles in the West and Western intelligence agencies now had Muslims firmly in their sights.
No, he wasn’t worried about them at all. He just hoped they were the right kind.
His eyelids started to droop and he thought about reclining on the back seat to catch up on his sleep, but was startled by his phone ringing again. This time it was his mobile. The call he’d been waiting for.
‘Shalom,’ he said into the phone, crushing the empty can using only his fingers.
ELEVEN
In her three-star hotel bedroom somewhere in north London, Mojgan woke after a ten-hour sleep, her mouth dry. She gulped bottled water, showered and washed her long black hair, which always took a long time. Farsheed loved her hair, but complained about how long it took her to look after it, and about the hairs he found in the shower, or in the bed, or sometimes even in the food.
‘You can’t have the one without the other. Do you want me to cut it off?’
No, he didn’t.
Sitting on the bed wrapped in a large towel, another around her head, she opened the parcel she had picked up the night before from the address she’d memorized. It had turned out, after a long and expensive taxi ride, to be a family residence where they had a painting in the hall showing the Battle of Karbala¯ of 61ah. The woman of the house had been keen to give Mojgan her parcel and see the back of her.
There were three separate packets inside the parcel. One was a cellophane-wrapped box, a key-logger. She opened it and removed the logger from its plastic cover. This particular one (she’d seen many) looked like a USB stick but with a connection at each end; one plugged into the computer, the other into the keyboard cable. She could have bought it herself from any decent computer shop but Farsheed had ordered it for her because he wanted to make sure she had the right type, nothing wireless or that could be detected once installed. The key-logger recorded each and every keypress made on the keyboard it was connected to, and could store millions of keystrokes. Its advantage was that no amount of software protection, be it firewalls, spyware detection or hard-disk cryptography, could guard against it. And since that’s where most people’s attention was focused in terms of computer security, it was a beautifully uncomplicated solution to discovering what was keyed into someone’s computer, and what they were doing online, including account details and passwords. Of course, it could not access anything on the hard drive prior to its installation but its biggest disadvantage was obvious: since it needed to be connected between the keyboard and the computer, she would need physical access to the target computer to both fit it and, when it had captured enough data, retrieve it, even if it was just for several seconds. This, then, would be her first challenge: gaining access to the premises, once she knew where it was.
The second, smaller item in the parcel was a heavily taped envelope that contained eight SIM cards preloaded with credit. They had numbers written on them
, one to eight.
The third and heaviest packet was wrapped in brown paper and a lot of brown packing tape. She had to use her nail scissors to cut it open and when she did she laid it on the bed in disbelief: a small handgun. If she made the shape of a gun with her thumb and forefinger it was shorter even than that. It had Ruger etched just above the grip. She picked it up. It weighed nothing and seemed tailor-made for her small hand. On the other side, where the cartridges were expelled, it said 380 Auto. She was no firearms expert but she and Farsheed had gone shooting together a few times at the ministry practice range outside Tehran. This was lighter and smaller than any of the heavy handguns she had handled there. She figured out how to eject the magazine and found it had six rounds in it. She clicked it back in and made sure the safety was on before sticking it in the bottom of her handbag. Why had he provided it? He’d not suggested that she’d need a weapon, nothing suggested that the mission would be dangerous. Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
She thought about this as she finished drying her hair using the hairdryer in the bathroom, then tied it and pinned it up using eighteen hairpins. She might be OK with the idea that she wouldn’t be wearing a scarf in public, but she only let her hair down for one man.
She had once been stopped by the so-called morality police outside the entrance to Tehran University, two women in black chadors who were clearly from some backward village in the west of Iran, recruited for their ignorance and bad skin. They had something to say about her hijab; it either hadn’t covered her hair and neck enough or it was too colourful, she couldn’t remember. At the time she had been working for the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security and had thrown them by flashing her badge and telling them she was on official business, which was true. After consulting with their male superior, he came up to her and insisted on seeing her badge. She showed it to him but refused to hand it over, instead taking out a notebook and pen, demanding his name and police number. He had scurried off, like the flea-ridden dog he was. She was, therefore, spared a trip to the station in the minibus (already filled with code-flouting women) where they would all have received a lecture on how to dress properly.
She placed the logger and SIM cards in a small zippered compartment in her bag, then stuffed in the packaging. She wondered whether it would be better to leave the weapon in the room or take it with her. She decided to keep it with her and to change hotels. Dressed in her suit she went down for breakfast, avoiding the several types of cooked meat on offer at the buffet and sticking to cereal and yoghurt. She ate without much joy and quickly, just another person on business keen to get on. She disposed of the packaging from her bag in a bin outside the hotel before finding a taxi.
It was only as she was well on her way to Tottenham Court Road – somewhere that hotel reception had advised her contained many computer shops – that she switched on her phone and logged into the word game app to check the status of yesterday’s game. She swore under her breath; he had put in another long word. He was definitely cheating, probably using one of those anagram-solving websites and putting in the letters he had.
There was a private message. Did you do your shopping?
Yes. I have found everything I need, plus more, she typed, hoping he would get her reference. She studied the letters she had and placed a word on the virtual board. He was still winning. It wasn’t long until he responded; he must have been waiting up for her, attuned to her time zone.
Anything extra may be useful, he typed.
I hope I did not waste money on unnecessary things, she typed, pushing him for a bit more information. She waited, looking out as the taxi crawled along in traffic. No one, she noticed, used their horns here. Eventually a message came back.
You never know when you will need it. This was not very reassuring.
She stared out at the drab streets and wondered if she’d get a chance to see any tourist attractions. Probably not, but if she could make a little time to do some shopping for herself she’d be pleased, and she had also promised to pick up something more vital for her neighbour. Some medicines were now in short supply in Iran, not because they were on the sanctions list, but because banks in the West were loath to take money from Iranian institutions in case they fell foul of the sanctions. Farsheed’s own mother had run out of Herceptin for her breast cancer, and it was only due to her son’s connections that they’d been able to source some from a businessman who’d stockpiled it before it had become difficult to import into the country. Farsheed had told her that there was an Iranian producer who was set up and licensed to make the product, but the official who signed off on production was related to the same businessman he had sourced his from. It was stories like this that upset Mojgan, and she was ashamed that they had benefited from this when others couldn’t. Not to mention the officials who came to London for treatment when their countrymen made do. But it was Farsheed’s mother they were talking about, and that was the only reason she hadn’t tackled him too strongly about it, even though usually she wasn’t shy about voicing her displeasure at injustices. She knew she took it too far sometimes, not because she was wrong, but because the consequences of being too vocal could be damaging to her and Farsheed’s careers. They may have managed to sort his mother out with drugs, but her neighbour was another matter, and Mojgan felt guilty enough that she was willing to take the time out on this trip to do it.
The driver let her out near the top of Tottenham Court Road and she went shopping for a small laptop or netbook and a USB to PS/2 converter. Farsheed might have bought the correct key- logger, but he had not considered the possibility that she might be faced with an older-style keyboard that had a round plug. This is why they made such a good team. Her phone buzzed.
I will finish this game tomorrow. I have to go and work.
She switched the phone off. That night she would start downloading all the software she needed from a server Farsheed would temporarily make available.
TWELVE
After his run-in with Rami (he didn’t know what else to call it), Julian had gone back to the office, only to find he’d already left. Naomi was clueless about where he was but was itching to hear about the new girlfriend.
‘So, is she pretty?’ she asked, bringing in his post and some papers.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think she’s pretty and curvaceous. He likes them curvaceous.’
Julian nodded, taking his post.
She held on to the papers. ‘And young?’
‘Of course. She might be the youngest yet.’
‘Why do men, as they get older, like their women ever younger?’ she said, not without bitterness.
Julian shrugged. ‘To negate the fact that we’re getting old?’
She smiled. He liked her smile; she always had one at the ready, but he sometimes detected a sadness in it, a secret, or a regret. He’d sometimes wondered what it was like for her, starting over again. It wasn’t the same for women, Sheila had said when they’d once discussed Naomi, not when they got older. Naomi never mentioned anyone special or plans for the weekend. He thought she might have a cat. He had been tempted to give her a hug, once or twice, but whether this was because she gave off some maternal quality and he needed the hug or because he felt sorry for her, he wasn’t sure. Neither was really a good reason to jeopardize an excellent working relationship. He’d driven her to her flat in Bloomsbury once, after one of the company outings Rami insisted on, bowling or something, and she’d invited him in. There were framed pictures of her boys on display, with young kids of their own. He’d accepted a herbal tea and sunk into her sofa and listened to some classical radio she put on. Yes, there had been a cat, he remembered now. He’d felt oddly at home there, and would have gladly spilled all his secrets to her given the slightest encouragement. He’d left as soon as he’d finished his tea, and she’d brushed his cheek with her fingers at the door when saying goodbye. She’d smelled of grown-up perfume and gin.
He always made sure she got flowers or
chocolates when she’d worked overtime to help get a tender submitted. He always told her that they were from both him and Rami, but he knew that she knew they were his doing.
Naomi went to the door and Julian thought she was leaving but she came back, standing before his desk like someone needing to make a confession. She probably wanted to gossip a bit more – not her most appealing trait. He launched the email program on his laptop to make it known he needed to work.
‘Sorry, I just wondered if you’d mind signing off the expenses for last month.’ She was holding a folder which she proffered tentatively.
‘Rami usually does that, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, but he’s been out a lot and they’re overdue at the accountants.’
‘Can you leave them with me?’
She shifted on her feet. ‘Normally I would but I really need to get them off.’
Julian took the folder and opened it. It was a list of payments on the credit cards that he and Rami, as directors, had. They were linked to an expenses account they used when travelling or entertaining clients. Although they paid an accounting firm to do all their finance, Rami and Julian gave all the receipts to Naomi for processing and Rami just signed them off.
‘I’m assuming the receipts match the statement? I’m not supposed to check them, am I?’ This sort of administrative thing bored him.
‘Yes, all the card payments match. There are a couple of cash withdrawals that don’t have receipts, but that’s all.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I mean Rami took some cash out on his card but there are no receipts to show what he spent the money on.’ She looked uncomfortable talking about it, he noticed, as if she didn’t want to cast aspersions on Rami.
‘So have you spoken to Rami? He’s the one who racks up the hotels and mileage.’
She pulled a face that indicated a difficulty with this approach. ‘Yes, of course, but he’s difficult to pin down and I don’t have to explain how shoddy his record keeping is.’
Disengaged Page 4
