by Nick Louth
Wyrecliffe’s interview with Dassani went well, considering that the reporter had no more to go on than the agency copy. She filled in the background on the record of air safety in Egypt. Asked whether it could be a bomb, she replied that by Middle Eastern standards, Egypt wasn’t a common target of terrorist bombings. Just as he was asking her another question, Helen broke in:
‘I can now confirm the flight number. It is MS960 from Heathrow. We’re still awaiting passenger numbers.’
MS960.
Wyrecliffe’s heart skipped a beat. He suddenly realised that that was the flight he should have caught. He should have been on that plane. If Taseena hadn’t deferred the interview he would be dead.
He paused for just a second and then saw a piece of copy on the screen in front of him. ‘Thank you, Helen. And we’ve just heard from the Associated Press that a claim of responsibility has been made on a known Jihadi website. We’ll be bringing you more on that later in the programme, if we have time.’
There wasn’t time. The story had already run for over four minutes, so the duty editor reluctantly decided not to go live with the Egyptian minister who was now on line one, but to record him, so that he could be used with a script now being rapidly prepared for the 9am bulletin.
The last five minutes before the nine o’clock pips were scheduled for a health story with one professor of health in the radio car, and the government’s leading food scientist in the studio, to discuss the latest published research twist about whether an aspirin a day had more benefits in preventing heart attacks and cancers than the damage it might cause in stomach ulceration. Wyrecliffe was relieved that this one was down for Naughtie to referee. The last such debate he’d run got quite unpleasantly dogmatic.
Once the pips had gone Wyrecliffe checked his mic was off, took off the headphones and was about to switch off his desk monitor when the next agency headline ticked up.
Cairo air crash casualties rise to 176, includes UK citizens — Egypt official
The ninety-minute editorial meeting was overshadowed by updates to the developing story. The duty editor complimented the editorial team on handling a breaking story well. Wyrecliffe agreed, though noted he’d still not got the chance to conduct the Congo rape victim interview that he’d researched for two hours this morning. Just as they were about to break up for coffee, a young, pale and normally shy editorial assistant hurried into the room.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said. ‘Helen Dassani is on the line. We’ve got a partial passenger list for the Cairo crash flight. There are fifty-four UK nationals, of which fourteen are definitely among the dead.’
‘Okay, let scripts have it,’ said the duty editor.
‘The Foreign Office is still trying to locate next of kin, so we can’t use it from the airline source,’ the assistant said. ‘However, I recognise one of the names from the passenger list. She wasn’t down as a UK national but a Lebanese. I know the name because she used to work here. I sat next to her in a training session.’
Every face turned to look at her.
‘It’s Cantara al-Mansoor.’
* * *
Wyrecliffe stood leaning his forehead against the refreshingly cool tiled wall of the BBC bathroom. He clenched and unclenched his fists, questions raced through his guilt-soaked mind. What was Cantara doing on that flight, one that he was due to take? What had happened to her life in the last year, since she ejected him from it? Above all was draped the big black cloak of his responsibility. Somehow, this is all my doing. From start to bloody finish. And now it really is finished.
The next five days were a blur. Meetings with the foundation about how they had managed to lose track of this unlucky student, unsuccessful attempts to trace Cantara’s next of kin, Aunt Fatima who may or may not still live in Sidon. Questions from the police. Questions from the press. Sympathy from colleagues, from friends in the charity world who had met Cantara at the charity event. Then, just when Wyrecliffe thought he was beginning to take in the enormity of her death, the next shock came.
It started, liked his working days often did, with an unwelcome duo of alarms, one on the bedside, the other on his mobile. It was 3.15 am, a hateful time. Getting up in London’s dark and cold, a solitary cup of coffee before his driver arrived at ten to four, and only the promise of a big breakfast at the Beeb later on. The drizzle was well under way by the time the car arrived, with a big bundle of papers to start on in the journey. The Times, Telegraph, Financial Times, Guardian, Independent, Daily Mail, Sun and Mirror. Usually the Yorkshire Post and the Scotsman too. The complete range of British popular opinion to at least partially digest before arrival at BBC TV centre. On one occasion, back in 2007, there had been a copy of the top-shelf publication Mayfair in there in place of the FT. Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt, but that was a journey that had passed with unusual enjoyment. But this journey was very different. While the BBC car sped him through empty, darkened streets of London, he scanned the headlines of the early editions.
It was the Independent front page headline that caught his eye:
BBC woman may have carried Cairo jet bomb.
The exclusive story, sourced to unnamed Egyptian security officials and run from a Cairo dateline, said: ‘Cantara al-Mansoor, 22, a Palestinian refugee who had recently worked at the BBC, may well have been carrying the bomb which last week caused an EgyptAir airbus to crash at Cairo Airport with the loss of 176 lives. The bomb, probably about half a pound of plastic explosive, may have been concealed in her hand luggage. Security officials are open-minded as to whether she was unwittingly in possession of the device, or whether she was in fact a terrorist.’
Cantara, a terrorist? Not possible.
No.
Just not possible.
* * *
Daniwar Shah was the size and shape of a twelve-year-old boy, with a spiky hairstyle, coffee-coloured skin, an elegantly cut light-green business suit and huge hazel eyes. She looked more like a hip music promoter than a cop. As Wyrecliffe later discovered, Britain’s most senior ethnic minority police officer had been recruited from forensic accountancy. She was then fast-tracked to the top of the fraud squad before switching to the anti-terrorism branch, where she was now a detective chief inspector. In the next hour of informal interview, which took place in a spare BBC office, he was destined to discover just why Detective Chief Inspector Shah was so highly rated.
With her was a balding slab of a man. Detective Sergeant Colin Cave was built like a rugby prop forward and had a handshake that belonged in an industrial machinery catalogue.
‘So Mr Wyrecliffe, when did you first meet Cantara al-Mansoor?’ Shah began.
Wyrecliffe described first meeting her when she was a child, then of her being placed in UK further education by the Fouad Adwan Foundation, then the Red Lion Square meeting back in 2009.
‘Did she strike you as a radicalised Muslim?’
‘As I told your colleague yesterday, she was as radical as many young people, but in a general rather than religious way.’ Wyrecliffe said. ‘Raucous, opinionated, seeking out confrontation. We’ve all been through these phases.’ He glanced over at Cave, and thought: maybe not him. ‘Cantara’s radical phase didn’t seem to me to last more than a few months.’
‘Do you know which mosque she frequented, if any?’
‘No, I’m not sure she was a regular attendee. I only saw her in a hijab once.’
‘What made you introduce her to the BBC?’ Shah asked. ‘It seems a rather curious decision after her behaviour at the talk.’
‘Possibly, yes. But I spotted an inquiring mind, self-confidence and a focused intelligence. She was of course someone who the foundation had sponsored through British further education.’
‘Yet,’ she said, scrutinising her notes, ‘her academic record, according to Imperial College, was average to poor.’
‘Really? I didn’t see that. She was very bright. And of course she spoke fluent Arabic, which for many years has been in very short supply
in all news organisations.’
‘Mr Wyrecliffe, your earlier statement here says that you “put in a good word” for Ms al-Mansoor. Can I ask what are the normal qualifications for getting a editorial assistant position at the BBC?’
He hesitated, seeing where this line of questioning might be drifting. ‘These days I’m not sure, precisely. There’s a graduate recruitment programme, of course. It’s always been highly competitive. Lots of self-confident Oxbridge types seem to get in…’
‘People like you?’ she asked. ‘Bradford Grammar School, Balliol and so forth.’
‘Well, yes. But as I’m sure you know, everything about journalism is about networking, about who you know. That might seem nepotistic but it is also a measurement of journalistic drive. If you can work out who to ask to give you a job, then that is a good qualification in itself.’
‘So had Cantara expressed an interest in becoming a journalist at any point, prior to you recommendation?’
He stroked his beard reflectively. ‘Well, not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘Um. No, actually, not at all.’
‘So can I ask again, what drove you to decide on her behalf that she would be well-placed in the corporation?’
‘I thought it might straighten her out a bit. Get those talents put to better use. For the benefit of the BBC.’
‘So you were helping the BBC out.’ Shah looked sceptically at him.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say…’
‘Did you meet her outside work at all?’
Wyrecliffe leant back, summoning all his radio presenter authority. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Shah, can I ask where you are going with all this?’
‘I’m simply trying to piece together her life, and you seem to know her better than most. There are surprisingly few friends, no boyfriend. Next to nothing. So I ask again: did you socialise with her?’
‘Yes, a few times,’ he said, adding: ‘Usually with others too.’
‘How many times? Two? ten, twenty?’
‘Less than five.’
‘Did you ever go to her home?’
‘A couple of times. It was just off the Mile End Road in the East End.’
‘We know where it was,’ Shah retorted. ‘Do you make a habit of visiting the homes of foundation students?’
‘No. But she was the daughter of the late Fouad Adwan, a very good friend of mine, and the man in whose name the foundation was set up. I think I had a legitimate interest in her progress.’
‘Did that include sleeping with her?’
‘Of course not!’ Wyrecliffe exploded. This he felt was his safest, rock solid denial, to be held onto at all costs. No one could prove otherwise. ‘I would never sleep with a foundation student. It goes without saying.’
Shah stared sceptically at him. ‘Nothing in my interviews ever goes without saying, Mr Wyrecliffe. We have to ask. So she met your friends and colleagues, but did you meet hers?’
‘I went to a party at her flat once, and met one or two there.’
‘Were they fellow students?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Did you stay the night after the party?’
‘No, of course not. I took a taxi home, after dropping off another guest who had drunk too much. He would vouch for that, assuming he can remember.’ He passed Alan’s address details in Brixton, so far as he could recall them, to Sergeant Cave.
‘Did you ever go to the college with her?’
‘No.’
Shah put down her pen, and snapped on the cap. To Wyrecliffe it felt like an impending off-the-record moment.
‘If there is anything you feel you would like to tell us about your personal relationship with Ms al-Mansoor, now is the time to do so.’
Wyrecliffe felt a cold sweat crawl down his neck. ‘There’s really nothing to say. We were friends, nothing more.’
She looked coolly at him for a few seconds that felt like an hour. ‘Then I’d like to ask you about your movements on the evening of the 9th of November 2009.’ Her tone had become distinctly more formal.
Wyrecliffe actually almost heard the drip of sweat from his armpits and back. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to recollect. But the truth was he would never in his life forget the events of that night.
‘I’m surprised you don’t remember, Mr Wyrecliffe,’ she said. ‘I think it was a rather eventful night.’
Plausible half truths jostled in his mind. ‘That would be the night of her overdose,’ he said. He described rushing over to the flat, and the arrival of the paramedics, the breaking down of the door. That could all be verified.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t tell us this before,’ Shah said. ‘It might explain a lot about her state of mind. How did you know to go there?’
Mustn’t mention the e-mail. Oh God, the contents of that would be dynamite. ‘She rang me,’ he lied.
‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know, certainly very late. After midnight. One o’clock, maybe.’
‘So after she’d taken the tablets?’
‘Presumably.’
‘Any ideas why she chose you, rather than say a college friend?’
‘I think she knew that I’d be able to help, and know what to do. Age and experience do have some advantages.’
‘So, did you stay overnight with Ms al-Mansoor in her flat that night?’
He thought fast. The paramedics had heard Cantara announce she wanted him to look after her. ‘Yes, I did. But on the couch. It was the only time.’ That at least was God’s honest truth. ‘I was worried about her as she had refused to go to hospital. She was clearly very vulnerable.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Um. Ten, ten thirty the next morning.’
‘And how was she?’
‘She seemed a lot better, actually.’
‘So she was less upset, calmer?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how do you explain the disturbance, or more frankly the screaming row, that was heard at approximately 9.45am that day, at a time which according to you, you were still present in the flat?’
‘Well, I’m not sure you could characterise it as…’
Shah looked down at her documents. ‘Let me read you a witness statement. “I heard several distinct screams from upstairs. Doors slamming and a voice I took to be Cantara’s screaming, ‘Don’t touch me. Get away from me. Get out, get out!” then eventually I heard the front door go, and heavy male footsteps down past my door. When I went up to see her, she was in floods of tears. I saw blood on her dressing gown and on her thigh…” I think it’s fair to say that is more than a row. Wouldn’t you?’
Wyrecliffe dropped his face into his hands. ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Mr Wyrecliffe,’ Shah steepled her fingers and a steely tone entered her voice. ‘I must remind you that this is an ongoing investigation of the highest national priority in which we will make use of the full force of anti-terrorism powers. If you had volunteered all you knew immediately to my colleague yesterday, or even in this interview, we might be a lot further along into understanding why a vulnerable young woman happened to be carrying an explosive device and was ready to board an aircraft. At this moment, a terror cell of which she may well have been a part, could be planning to take other lives. And you appear to be concealing vital information.’
‘I will cooperate, of course.’
‘I hope so, but we’ll take no chances. The next interview we have with you will be under caution, you will be requested to attend a police station, almost certainly Paddington Green, and you will have your rights read to you. It may be as soon as this afternoon. Do you understand?’
He nodded. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No. At least, not yet,’ Sergeant Cave responded, with a mirthless grin. ‘But we’re now treating you as a suspect rather than a witness.’
‘A suspect!’ Wyrecliffe was almost frozen in horror at the unravelling of his life that was about to begin.
�
�We don’t know anything about Cantara al-Mansoor from the day you left her flat on the tenth of November 2009 until the day she boarded a flight from Heathrow to Cairo three days ago,’ Shah continued. ‘That black hole is almost a year long. She moved out of her flat soon after. We don’t know where she moved to. We don’t know whom she met, or where she travelled. We don’t have her computer or laptop, nor her mobile phone. We do know that she emptied her bank account, used her credit cards to buy a number of items, including this air ticket. Those credit cards were registered to that flat she no longer lived in. We are now awaiting Egyptian police investigations for what documents may conceivably have been found on the body. It’s a lot to do in a short time, so your cooperation is absolutely essential. So I want you to assemble all e-mails, texts and any other communication records you have from her.’
Shah closed her file, stood up and moved to the door. ‘You know, I listen to Radio 4. Have done for years. I used to really like you. But this has been an eye-opener. For someone at the top of their profession, a national name who professionally purports to seek truth, transparency and clarity from interviewees, the account you have just given to me is shameful. It smacks of evasion, dishonesty, and naked self-interest. You should think about that.’
Shah left, and Detective Sergeant Colin Cave loomed above, like a nightclub bouncer sizing up a victim. ‘Shame Ms al-Mansoor isn’t alive to testify about what happened that night? You’d go down as Britain’s most famous rapist.’
As he left he clapped a meaty paw on Wyrecliffe’s shoulder, as if to say: We’ll get you for it one way or another, don’t worry.
* * *
From the top brass to the make-up rooms, from the world service transcription staff at Caversham to the creative types in drama, everyone was reading the story of Cantara al-Mansoor, who had become known as ‘the BBC bomber’. With so little to go on, the tabloids revelled in the ‘bedsit plot of the Lebanese loner’ the ‘shy bespectacled girl’ who began as ‘a militant after growing up in the camps.’ Wyrecliffe, as obsessed as the rest, felt grateful that for the first few days at least no one in the press had made the connection to him, beyond her being sponsored by the Fouad Adwan Foundation.
