Empire State

by Henry Porter

  ‘Yeah, Nathan told me that, too.’

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. They shouldn’t have messed with you. Though I have to say I didn’t fancy your chances yesterday.’

  ‘You were right: they fired me.’

  ‘Tossers. Now look, I’m kind of busy here. Why don’t you call Hélène Guignal. She’s the bird who was in Sarajevo. I think she’s good. Really, I’ve got a feeling about her.’

  She dialled Nato headquarters in Brussels five times before getting through to a colleague of Guignal’s in the Press Office who said Hélène was on vacation. Pretending to be a spokesman from the Ministry of Defence who needed Guignal urgently, Herrick managed to extract a mobile number that would raise her on the island of Skiathos. She tried this, but the phone was turned off.

  She returned to the Chief’s office. Teckman looked distracted for a second, then leapt from his desk. ‘Come with me.’

  A Jaguar with outriders took them to Battersea Heliport, where Guthrie was already waiting with Barbara Markham and her deputy. The helicopter took less than ten minutes to touch down at Northolt, near to the Bunker’s entrance.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve never seen this operation,’ he murmured to Herrick as they descended in the lift.

  ‘You didn’t need to,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps if I had come here I would have seen what made you so annoyed,’ he smiled.

  When they had reached the Bunker, Teckman strode into the main space and nodded to the people he recognised. Nathan Lyne rose from his desk and came over to Herrick. ‘So, Isis. I see no Vigo. I see Richard Spelling twisting slowly in the wind. And here you are with all the great panjandrums of the British security establishment. What the hell have you been up to?’

  ‘Not much.’

  He grinned. ‘Just in case you’re feeling bad about Walter…’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘He knew you were on that island with those two men. Your communications traffic made that clear.’

  ‘Did you know about it, Nathan?’

  ‘Of course not. I had no idea where you were. Even Andy Dolph wouldn’t tell me. But you’re safe - that’s what matters - and your stock’s risen. Things have turned out well for you.’

  ‘But we lost one of the suspects. This wasn’t just any old suspect. He was really important. And we don’t have much time.’ She noticed that the Chief had sat down in front of one of the larger screens. ‘Come and talk him through it all,’ she said. ‘He’s going to need you over the next few days.’

  The Chief shook his hand without rising. ‘I’ve heard about you. I gather you were responsible for sending Isis to Albania, Mr Lyne. That was a very good decision. Now tell me what I’m looking at.’

  Lyne pulled up a chair and went through the screens devoted to the nine remaining suspects. Most were live feeds from inside and around the apartments where they were living. Ramzi Zaman, the Moroccan, could be seen passing through the field of the camera, preparing a meal in his little kitchen in Toulouse. Lasenne Hadaya, the edgy Algerian, was seated on a couch, aimlessly throwing a ball into the air and catching it. In Budapest, Hadi Dahhak, a diminutive Yemeni with a hooked nose, was seen arguing with two men over a newspaper. Lyne said that all they ever talked about was football. He ran a piece of recent film which showed the Syrian suspect, Hafiz al Bakr, strolling in a park with one of his helpers. The story was the same with the Saudis in Rome and Sarajevo, the Pakistani in Bradford, and the Egyptian in Stockholm. Each man was aimlessly frittering away his days. There were no breaks in the routine, no sense of imminent action, no sign of preparation. Lyne took the Chief through some of the background research but Herrick could tell he was losing interest, and he suddenly left Lyne’s side and bounded up the stairs to the glass box where Spelling, Jim Collins and Colonel Plume of the National Security Agency were talking. A few minutes later he called for all the staff to assemble at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘We have a problem of interpretation, ladies and gentlemen, and I need your help on it. The men you have been watching over these last few weeks will in all probability be under lock and key within a very short time. We have other intelligence to indicate that there may be some kind of action by the end of the week, so obviously we can’t allow these characters to be on the loose any longer. Before this happens, I want you to consider what their plan is. Why have they been put in place with such elaborate care? What is the meaning of it? I don’t want proof, I want your thoughts, the wildest ideas that may have occurred to you over the last few weeks.’

  Herrick looked around and saw a number of anxious expressions. This was something new to RAPTOR personnel.

  ‘We are pursuing certain lines,’ continued the Chief, ‘which take the investigation further, but I do think we should try to work out what this is all about, don’t you?’

  There was an embarrassed silence and then Joe Lapping put up his arm.

  ‘Yes, Mr Lapping,’ said the Chief.

  ‘Maybe it’s about nothing,’ said Lapping. Collins and Spelling looked up into the great black space above them.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to develop that idea,’ said the Chief.

  ‘I don’t mean to take anything from Isis Herrick’s achievement in spotting what was going on at Heathrow. I was there, and it was a really good piece of work. But maybe - just maybe - we were meant to see it. After all, we were led there by one of the suspects who hung around outside Terminal Three in a most public fashion. It was almost as if he was making sure we didn’t miss him.’

  Herrick realised he could be right. It was unlikely that Lapping would have heard about her testing Rahe’s DNA against the corpse in Lebanon, so he wasn’t falling behind the latest theory.

  ‘But you are aware,’ said the Chief, ‘that the orthodox view on the events of that day portrays the assassination attempt on Vice-Admiral Norquist as a strategic diversion. What would be the point of such a strategy if the suspects were all part of some kind of hoax?’

  Lapping cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t been involved much in the operations down here, but always at the back of my mind it seemed that these men were acting like the Stepford Wives. They just drink coffee, read the papers, sleep, cook, do the shopping, watch TV, play soccer. They don’t look as if they’re going to do anything.’

  ‘He may be right, sir,’ Lyne chipped in. ‘A double deception to draw our attention away from another action, or simply waste all our resources, is not out of the question. Al-Qaeda has vast resources, by our estimates three- to five-hundred-million-dollar revenues each year, mainly from Saudi princes and businessmen. A tiny fraction of this goes into terrorist actions. About ninety per cent is used in setting up networks and infrastructure. They could afford to string us along on an operation without having any material end in sight.’

  ‘The Subtle Ruse,’ said Lapping.

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked the Chief. Every face turned to Lapping, who despite his confidence in matters of scholarship, was unused to public performance. Herrick saw his Adam’s apple move up and down before he spoke.

  ‘A book written a hundred years before Machiavelli by an anonymous Arab author - probably an Egyptian living in the time of the Grand Emir Sa’d al-Din Sunbul. It uses examples from Arab literature and seeks to edify the reader with stories of ruses, stratagems, guile and deceptions taken from different walks of life. In essence, it instructs you how to outwit your opponent and in turn be alert to his ploys.’

  ‘I see. You’re not suggesting this was directly taken from the book,’ said the Chief, ‘ but you are saying…’

  ‘That a man who had studied ancient Arab literature would know the book and have learned some of its lessons.’

  Herrick remembered that Joe Lapping had been asked to research a man with a literary background who might have fought for the Bosniaks in the civil war. And Rahe, of course, spent most of his days in a bookshop. Certainly it was a suggestion that stood up to examination, but the more i
mportant idea was that Rahe had led them to Heathrow and hung about in front of various security cameras. She was appalled that she had not thought of it herself.

  The Chief was nodding. ‘That’s an interesting theory. Anyone have any other ideas?’

  There were a number of tentative suggestions which he dismissed politely, then in his most solicitous manner he told the assembled intelligence workers they’d done a fine job which would undoubtedly make the arrest of the men a lot simpler. When they began to disperse to their desks, still looking mystified, he told Lapping he would be required at Vauxhall Cross that afternoon and asked Lyne to be there on the following day. ‘I’m sure you can be let off school this once,’ he said with a wink to Lyne. ‘You do speak Arabic, don’t you?’

  Lyne said yes, he did.

  They arrived back at SIS headquarters just past 2.00 p.m. Herrick went straight to her desk and called the mobile number for Hélène Guignal. Mademoiselle Guignal answered drowsily. In the background Herrick heard the unmistakable sound of waves breaking and water running up a beach. She explained what she wanted, but Guignal said she was inclined to postpone the conversation until she was back at her desk in Brussels.

  ‘Fine,’ said Herrick. ‘We can put a request through the Secretary-General of Nato for a formal interview on these matters by Nato security personnel. This is important and the United Kingdom does require your help.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s enough that you know I am investigating an international terrorist cell and that I believe you hold information which may be useful, in fact, critical to my inquiries.’

  The woman suddenly became cooperative.

  ‘One of my colleagues says you knew some of the foreign Muslims who defended Sarajevo during the siege?’

  ‘Yes, I lived with one. How can I help?’

  ‘We’re interested in two men, Sammi Loz and Karim Khan.’

  ‘Ah yes, I knew them both, but not well. They were the medics, no? The ones that came out with supplies then stayed. Those guys?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herrick. ‘Would you mind telling me the name of the man who you lived with?’

  ‘Hasan Simic. He was of mixed parentage but was brought up as a Muslim. He liaised with the foreign Muslims - the jihadistes. It was a tough job. They always wanted to do what they wanted to do. They kept themselves apart. They were not like the Bosnian Muslims.’

  ‘Can I talk to Mr Simic?’

  ‘He’s dead. He died in ninety-five.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. He was born to die young. A very beautiful man but un sauvage - you know? If he had not been killed, he would have been taken to the Hague for war crimes.’

  ‘How much did you see Khan and Loz?’

  ‘I met them about four or five times. A few of the men used to come to our apartment when there were breaks in the fighting. I had food, you see. Not much, but more than they had. We made big pasta dinners. Karim was a favourite of mine. Très charmant… très sympathique.’

  ‘What about Loz?’

  ‘Un peu plus masqué, comprenez vous? Dissimulé.’

  ‘And you were working for press agencies then?’

  ‘Oui, l’Agence France Presse.’

  ‘The other men - the friends of Hassan. What were their names?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Do you remember Yahya?’ asked Herrick.

  ‘Yahya? No, I do not remember this man. Who was Yahya? What did he look like?’

  ‘He would have been in his late twenties, early thirties. A short man, of Algerian origin. We believe he was a very private man. Inconspicuous. He may have been some kind of scholar before he went to Bosnia. Perhaps he even studied in Sarajevo before the Islamic Institute was shelled. We are not sure.’

  ‘And it is this man you are really interested in?’

  ‘Yes, it is possible that he used the name Youssef. Karim and Sammi used to call him The Poet. That was their nickname for him before he became a friend of theirs.’

  ‘Maybe… Ah oui, oui, oui! I know the man you mean, but his name is not Yahya. The man I think of was called Yaqub.’

  ‘Yaqub?’ said Herrick doubtfully. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oui, un autre prophète.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘So, we have three names for this man and they are all the Arab names for prophets in the Bible.’ Her tone was of someone being forced to talk to an idiot. ‘Youssef - or Joseph, is the son of the Prophet Yaqub - or Jacob! And you mentioned Yahya, who is the Prophet John, son of the Prophet Zachariah. This is obvious. He is using nommes de guerre from the Bible. One day he must use the name Zachariah. That is logical. No?’ Herrick made a rapid note of this.

  ‘And you know he was Algerian?’

  ‘Yes, he comes from Oran. I know this because my father served in Algeria. I have been to Oran.’

  ‘And this man was bookish and withdrawn, somebody who kept to himself?’

  ‘He came to the apartment once with Hassan - never the others. He was a mystery to them. But he was polite and well-mannered. There is little else that I remember about him.’

  Herrick hung up, thinking that it was a pity Hélène Guignal was not at her desk in Brussels to receive an emailed file of one of the images of Rahe at Heathrow. That way Herrick would be sure of an instant no or yes in her attempt to tie Rahe with Yahya or Yaqub. She got a picture out of the files nevertheless and put it in plain white envelope, thinking it was bound to be useful over the next few days. Then, with her notes of the Guignal conversation, she went to find Dolph, who she heard had arrived back from Hertfordshire.

  He was with Lapping and Sarre in one of the conference rooms near the Chief’s office with his laptop fixed to a projector. They were sprawled about the room watching the photographer’s archive of the Bosnian civil war; frame after frame of haggard faces staring from fox-holes and ruined buildings. There were men pleading for mercy, women dashing across the street, barefoot children wandering snowy craters and Serb gunners coolly observing their targets below.

  ‘This is all stuff from ninety-three and ninety-four,’ said Dolph, after he had given Isis a brief kiss and welcomed her back. ‘He’s organised it by date rather than subject. He spent the early winter of ninety-three on one of two fronts manned by the Mujahideen Brigade. So we should be nearly there.’

  Herrick reminded herself that none of them knew Rahe was now a prime suspect. Lapping had got near the truth of the matter with his observations about Rahe’s behaviour at the airport, but he hadn’t gone the extra few yards to the logical conclusion. More important, they did not know there was now some urgency to find Yahya and Loz. The Chief had been most specific that she should not talk about this.

  After forty-five minutes fruitlessly peering at all the group shots from the front, they came to the end of the relevant part of the archive.

  ‘This photographer,’ said Herrick, ‘did he remember anyone like Khan or Loz?’

  Dolph shook his head.

  ‘Or anyone else significant?’

  Dolph shook his head. ‘I could do with a pint. What do you say we treat ourselves over the river, lads?’

  Herrick asked if they had seen any groups of soldiers before she came into the room.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘I’d like to go back over those pictures.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dolph a little truculently.

  ‘Because you don’t know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘We’re looking for Khan and this guy Sammi Loz.’

  ‘But none of you has seen them in the flesh and there may be someone else important in the photographs. This man was taking pictures throughout the crucial period.’

  Dolph peered into his screen to locate the relevant files while Lapping went to get them all coffee.

  At length Dolph found the photographs from mid-November 1993 showing a group of about a dozen men moving a burnt-out truck. The ground was covered with a light dusting of snow
and the sky above was bright. Ice sparkled in the trees. Their faces were turned to the ground and in profile as they put their weight behind the truck. With the shadows playing across the snow, the energy expressed in the men’s bodies and the interesting form of the wrecked vehicle, it was easy to see why the photographer’s eye had been attracted to the scene, and why he’d kept his finger on the shutter button through eight frames. Dolph sped through the images, almost animating the sequence. At Herrick’s insistence they went back over them again slowly. At the fourth image, she shouted. ‘Stop there.’ She went to the wall and pointed to a man’s head which had lifted into the light and faced the camera. ‘Can you enlarge it? Here, the area at the front of the car.’