“So… James, can you work with Crowne?” Steve had been told by Henry… no BS, go straight to the centre of the issue.
“I used to think I owed him…”
“But that’s not the question.”
“It’s part of the question… If I go ahead with this, I can’t be doing it simply because Crowne gave me a chance when I was looking for another job after my injury.”
“Don’t care about why, James… the question for me is… can you deliver?”
“If I say yes, I will… you know that, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“So, what’s it gonna be?” Steve leaned across the table. Time to get off the fence and find out whether James wanted back in.
“Where is Crowne?”
“Afraid I can’t give you that information… you of all people know the drill, you need to be vetted with the right clearance level.”
“OK, so a pretty hot place somewhere around the globe then…”
Harris’s face remained eager but unflinching. He was good at this game too.
James drained his coffee cup, unfolded his legs and grabbed the visitor pass he had been given at reception.
“You’ll have my answer in 24 hours… I want to make sure I won’t be tempted to slaughter the bastard when I set eyes on him.”
He walked out of the room, without waiting for Harris to call for the standard escort to show him out of the SIS building.
* * *
“How did it go?” Amina didn’t move from her screens when Harris entered.
“He’s hooked… don’t know yet when he’s going to agree, but he wants to work again with Crowne. I am surprised he gave me this spill about I don’t owe him. But perhaps he does mean it.”
“Bad boys always appeal… so much more intriguing.” Amina’s head moved to and for between the different displays on her monitors.
“What’s so interesting?” Harris stood over the back of her chair, peering over her shoulder.
“Your intel was right… I’ve requested a Reaper drone flight over Mosul… ISIL is on the warpath again… they’re approaching it from different directions.”
Harris followed the convoys of vehicles on her screens, trucks carrying six to ten fighters, AK-47s stuck on their hips, flying the ISIL flag.
“How many of them?”
“Not that many but the beardos are determined…”
“News from our boys on the ground…?”
“Nothing…” Amina turned towards Harris. Her dark brown eyes rested on him for a moment. “And nothing for Encryption yet.”
“It’s too late in any case to tell them about the attack… and it’s not their problem.” Harris shook his head.
“Disagree.” Amina moved her lower lip over the upper one. “Disagree totally… That’s exactly why they are there… The Chief wanted information on the Syrian forces and now he might well want to know which way the next major battle is going to go.”
“They are not on the front… they’re not with the fighters. If they start asking too many questions, they’ll blow their cover…”
“Not necessarily…” Amina called up another page. “I’ve just asked the Mid East DATA OP Analysts to give me as much intel as they can on Mosul… and its financial assets.”
Harris stopped frowning and broke into grin. “You’re devious… I love it…”
“Yes, yes… and I can tell you there’s a hell of a lot to loot, gold from some of the largest banks in the country, cash in the form of dollar reserves…”
“OK, change of plan… as soon as you can, give them the info… it looks like a decent cover for questions.”
“Decent… you mean bloody good!”
Harris sigh. “Granted… bloody good it is.”
Amina brought up the website on which she was posting updates to Wasim, encoded her message and pressed send. “What are you still doing here?” She stopped typing. “The Chief would be pleased to know what you’re up to.” She waved him off.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the boss?”
“You are.” Amina returned to her work, ignoring Harris’s last comment. She was sending yet another message to Encryption.
* * *
Within 15 minutes of the conversation he had had with Amina, Harris had been summoned to Vauxhall Cross’s fifth floor. Sir John wanted to see him urgently. Harold Colmore MP was becoming restless. It would not do to have one’s daughter, even estranged, causing havoc for the British government.
Harris did not have to wait this time. Sir John’s PA was almost pleasant, ushering him into The Chief’s office.
Sir John was at his desk, just finishing to read a document when Harris entered. He waved him in without looking up, made a note in the margin of one of the pages with some bland-looking biro and closed his file.
“What have you got for me?”
“There has been no message received from the team, so we should assume they are all still alive.”
“When did you last have contact?”
“Twenty-four hours ago… We’re checking whether the devices are still in their possession.”
“Colmore has called… again. I told him we had no evidence his daughter was the subject of the chatter we’ve picked up…”
“I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything. Whatever has happened they’ll find a way to communicate with us.”
“Good, I don’t want Colmore trying to pull some stunt or getting involved in some way in order to boost his political career… If we’re going to try to save her life, I’d rather do this our own way.”
“Agreed, sir…” Harris hesitated.
“Something else for me?”
“Perhaps an opportunity to glean more information on a developing situation.”
Sir John moved away from his desk and invited Harris to the corner of his office where large screens were permanently ready for use, relaying the latest data that he had chosen to invoke on the day.
“ISIL is about to launch an attack on Mosul…”
“Did you get this from the locals?”
“CIA but confirmed through their contact in the Kurdish army. We’ve re-routed a Reaper drone from Akrotiri in Cyprus… ISIL is on the move. We don’t know yet how large their manpower will be.”
“Have you checked on our Kurdish contacts?”
“Not yet… Amina… I mean Ms Brown is making contact.”
“I’m not questioning, I’m suggesting.” Sir John gave Harris a friendly smile that reached his eyes. “But you have something else in mind?”
“We can get some intelligence about the progress of ISIL from the team in Raqqa.”
“How so?” Sir John’s eyes lit up; the more data, the better.
“Ms Brown has established that there are large financial resources in Mosul. These would require a strong financial market strategy to be exploited properly.”
“Ah, and you think the team on the ground could try to find out whether these assets might be available for… investment…”
“That’s right… Crowne could become even more relevant for them if this is the case.”
Sir John fell silent. He pressed enter on one of the keyboards and the screens lit up. His fingers ran over the keys and a digital map of the Middle East appeared on the wall in front of them.
“Their advance has been phenomenal… In terms of fighters, they’re outnumbered every time, but their guerrilla strategy and determination have made them successful… They are facing an even greater force in Mosul. By rights, they shouldn’t win this battle and yet… It would be foolish to rule out the possibility.”
“If we could give the Iraqi army a little help it might change the outcome.”
“I’d like to be as optimistic as you are, Steve… But I’m not. They just don’t have the strategists I’m afraid. A
nd they need to ask us for the help you suggest… anyway, get as much good intel as you can, and I’ll contact my opposite number in Iraq.”
“As regards Mattie Colmore… the media is observing the news blackout. The Reuters journalist has gone quiet… for now. Although the piece Kerry Murdock wrote did mention Mattie’s name. I am keeping a close eye on her.”
“In terms of the rumours about execution… I hope they remain just that.”
“I hope you’re right… It gives us time to think about options when it comes to the hostages.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mattie recognised the building straight away. She had expected to have another hood put on her head but the pressure she had been put under had eased off. She had visited Raqqa many years ago, but her recollection of the city’s layout was intact. A sense of nostalgia and sorrow crept over her, memories of the people she had met kept returning. Faces she recognised immediately, although the names had faded away with time. She was good at summoning vivid images to mind. It helped her when writing her articles, even though some of the pictures of places and people she had seen in war-torn countries often proved terrifying. She had told herself she could live with them, compelled by her desire to make the tragedies that unfolded in front of her eyes true and alive for her readers.
She entered the block of flats she had visited once before when she had been first taken away from Henry and Wasim. The guard moved his head, indicating she should follow him. She arrived in front of the same door and the same older women opened it. The young woman who was at her side was different from the beauty who had taken care of her previously and helped her with her wounds.
The matron did not ask Mattie to come in. Instead she moved down the corridor towards another set of doors, the sound of her large abaya the only sound she made. Mattie noticed a slight limp, something she had not observed the last time she had been here. Mattie followed. There was nothing much she could do, at least not for the time being. She walked slowly, creating an increasing distance between her and her new jailor. The woman arrived at the door of another apartment, taking hold of a set of keys that she was keeping on a chain around her neck, hidden by her long head cloth. She called a name – Nabiha – and finally looked in Mattie’s direction. The slow pace at which Mattie was walking towards her new prison neither irritated nor moved the old woman. There was certainty in her eyes that Mattie would not be going anywhere other than where she was intended to be. Raqqa was not a place in which a single woman of foreign origin would want to be alone if she valued her life. There was nowhere else for Mattie to go and she knew it.
Nabiha arrived on the threshold and eyed the new arrival with curiosity. Her silence was perhaps less hostile, yet it was clear that she did not intend to befriend Mattie.
She moved aside to let Mattie through the door. The lounge was as sparse furnished as the one she had visited a couple of days ago, bare of the ornaments or knick-knacks that make a home a home. The deep leather sofa and armchair looked incongruously comfortable in this spartan decoration. The rugs were lush and the only sign of colour to be found in the room, a deep crimson red that Mattie recognised to be of expensive Persian quality.
Whoever had owned this property had been wealthy but had had no time to take with them these cumbersome possessions.
Nabiha moved across the lounge towards a passageway that led to more rooms. The place smelled of food being cooked, a mix of meat and spices. Mattie’s mouth watered; her stomach rumbled. She quickly placed her arm across it to muffle the sound. The young woman took a key from the long chain that she too kept around her neck underneath her head cloth and opened the first door they came to. She looked into the room, making sure she was moving Mattie to the right one.
“I speak Arabic.” Mattie’s voice sounded thick and dry.
“I’ve been told.” Nabiha moved away from the door to let Mattie in, and as she entered, she simply closed the door behind her, locking it. Mattie stepped into a large bedroom. Two women stood up hesitantly. Like her they were westerners and Mattie understood why she had been moved here.
* * *
“We have two sources confirmed.” Henry was sitting in The Treasurer’s office, the can of lemonade he had been offered in one hand… He was making slow progress… one can at a time. Wasim had perched on a table that stood near one of the windows, a little further away. His body was half turned towards the open door, a casual but effective way of surveying from a distance the young men and the location ISIL operated from.
“I have some good contacts at Al Jazeera. I’ll ask them to validate the names you suggested. When the times comes, we can use them to release the news about the woman hostage.”
“Perfect. I’m going to need means of communication though…”
Henry did not push it. So far, he had had to do without a computer and mobile of his own. He was now grateful that five years at HMP Belmarsh had not only weaned him off mobile binges but made him more resourceful.
The Treasurer moved the prayer beads around his fingers a little faster. Henry turned towards Wasim. “I could have used Wasim’s mobile and laptop, but they have not resurfaced.”
The Treasurer nodded and stood up. His long white dishdasha flowed over his slack trousers. Henry noticed the expensive Rolex Cosmograph Daytona watch on his wrist; much like some the Middle Eastern clients Henry had dealt with in his past banking career, The Treasurer seemed to appreciated a good timepiece. The Treasurer moved to the window of his office, hands behind his back, prayer beads still running through his fingers.
Malahi Avenue was busier than it had been the day before. Wasim had moved his attention to the street below. Henry had noticed his interest was pricked by something. The Treasurer had clearly noticed too and moved to take a look as well.
“May I ask when you will contact Al Jazeera…?” Henry’s voice almost startled the two men. He stood up to join them at the window.
“Today… It will shortly be prayer time… but afterwards I’ll make the call.” The Treasurer did not move from his observation post. “Will you join us for prayer? We have a prayer room within the building… unless you would rather go to Al-Qadim?”
“I’ll welcome the opportunity to pray with my brothers.” Henry gave him a grave smile that seemed to please.
The call to Zuhr rolled over the city from its minarets. The team of young men that always looked so busy and purposeful rose in unison, leaving the main trading room. Wasim and Henry followed, taking their time to note who had or had not logged out of their computers. The Treasurer had locked his office shut and a young man wearing the traditional taqiyah and white robes shut the door behind them. Other people, all men, had appeared along the corridors. Henry followed Wasim’s lead. He had been told time and time again of the ritual preceding prayer, but he felt self-conscious, making gestures and saying words that did not ring true or make real sense to him. Still, needs must. He had assured Steve Harris back in London that he would deliver and deliver he would. Henry could not falter now and be caught, not just yet… and then there was Wasim. If Henry failed, he would drag down Wasim with him. And he had no intention of letting him down. Wasim, the patient bull who had taught him all he needed to survive not only in the extreme world of the jihad but also as a spy. Wasim had trusted him… he would repay that trust… handsomely.
Henry took off his shoes and waited at the back for more people to enter the prayer room. No one noticed him or at least no one showed they had seen the new convert.
The room filled within minutes and when it was full one of the men at the front, an older man, turned around to check all had settled. He raised his two hands at the level of his chest, crossed them over it, and uttered the first words of prayer.
Allahu Akbar.
All followed and the chanting commenced. Henry mouthed the words, stumbling to let the sound come out of his throat.
At the end, one word,
Amen, transports him back to the place of his birth… Belfast.
The others carry on, but Henry no longer listens. He follows Wasim’s motion. Body forward, head on the ground.
The intensity of the memory shocks Henry and he starts shivering.
The coffin has been laid in the church and Henry is sitting in the front row. He so would like to squeeze his mother’s hand, but she is holding a handkerchief to her face with one hand and a flower in the other. Henry is barely eight years of age. He has been told his dad has died but he does not yet understand what that truly means.
Henry is looking into the bowels of his father’s grave. It is the committal, the moment the coffin is lowered into the earth. There is a small group of friends, hardly any family, and people he does not know… Later in life he will imagine these people have been members of the IRA, who had come to pay their respects to a fallen brother. His mother has stopped crying. Perhaps she has cried all the tears she will ever cry. The priest comes to the edge of the deep hole in the ground, sprinkles in some holy water and speaks the words that Henry will remember forever.
Earth to earth,
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
A chill enters little Henry’s heart and he knows he will never feel the warmth of his father’s arms around him again. His body goes limp and almost falls forward. Someone pulls him back, two solid hands on his shoulders. He does not know to this day the identity of man who saved him from the fall.
Wasim’s voice startled him. He was looking at him, speaking to him, from his kneeling position.
Salaam alaikum… he repeated to Henry. Henry mumbled the words too. It had been hard to snap back.
Everyone stood up and the shuffling of feet soon replaced the sanctity of prayer. Henry waited until everyone had left. He still felt the lump in his throat and the moisture that had welled up in his eyes.
Wasim squeezed his shoulder… Someone else to save him from the abyss.
* * *
When Henry returned to The Treasurer’s office, he was already on the phone. The door of his office was closed and he was having an animated conversation with his interlocutor.
Spy Shadows Page 17
