Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  Henry walked towards them and stopped halfway. He was not sure he should interrupt the banter, young men talking up their stories of fights and trying to ascertain whether Ali was one of them.

  Ali must have noticed him. He walked away from the group and came straight over to Henry. Would he too volunteer to join the next big attack, the push to extend ISIL’s advance in the region, Ali asked, speaking half in English, half in Arabic. Henry kept nodding, the way an attentive parent might listen to his eager child. The young man’s face had lit up with such enthusiasm.

  “The Jihad, The Faith, Allah’s greatness, the final fight of Dabiq…”

  Henry had heard the same banal rhetoric before, spoken perhaps with a little more reserve by his Irish friends. He too had believed in the IRA cause. Ali’s chattering had soon become a background noise.

  The small booth in the Belfast pub feels cosy and safe. Henry is speaking to Liam, his best friend. The smell of beer and roasted meat floats around the place. It makes it more homely, more welcoming. They have been debating for months how to support the cause, even at this late hour, even if a peace process and the decommissioning of armaments that follows go through. Henry is about to leave for London, the Big City where he hopes to make money. No. He knows he will make money… a lot of it. What else can he do to help but contribute his hard-earned cash to the IRA slush fund and perhaps better, since his plan is to become a lawyer, find out how the law can help him in beating the system that has crushed Ireland for too many centuries.

  The chatter had stopped. Ali was no longer talking, wondering whether Henry did not approve. It could not be he did not support the fight, otherwise he would not be here, but perhaps he doubted Ali’s determination and strength. Distress was etched on Ali’s face. Henry shook off the slumber of memories and slapped Ali on the shoulder.

  “Well done.” What else could he say? He could not admit that perhaps Ali was right. That Henry did not think this young man, who had barely lived, was ready for what awaited him. The training camps were gruesome, but they were nothing in comparison to what Ali was about to face in the field.

  Ali beamed a large smile at Henry. The group of young lads, for that is what they were, was calling him back. They had not drunk alcohol, yet they sounded just as intoxicated by the beliefs they professed.

  Henry walked back inside, overtaken by an immense sadness. He knew how this would finish. He wished he could do something to save Ali from the abomination that the Mosul attack would prove to be.

  His mobile was buzzing in his pocket. Such a strange feeling after so long.

  “Hello.” He could no longer say Henry but ‘Abu Shabh’ sounded fake.

  “Where are you?” Wasim’s voice shifted Henry’s mood.

  “Back in a minute.”

  “So… Fancy a can of fizz on the balcony?” Henry laughed – for one second he thought Wasim was about to offer him a can of smuggled beer.

  “Lemonade or Fanta?” Wasim was holding the cans one in each hand and presenting them with fake excitement.

  “Go on… I’ll try the lemonade.” Henry grabbed the drink, cracked open the can and took a few long pulls. “News from MOTHER?”

  “Have you swept your room for devices?” Wasim was sitting on one of the lounge chairs that had recently been added to the furniture on the terrace.

  Henry rolled his eyes. “What do you take me for? Ain’t a newbie any more… I left the phone in the bedroom, too… I’ll check it later.”

  “MOTHER would be impressed…”

  “Has SHE asked you to make doubly sure?”

  “No, she’s much more concerned about Mosul’s attack…”

  Henry had sat down too. He bent his body forwards, elbows on knees. “Does MOTHER confirm it has a large asset base?”

  “She made that point exactly… and how do you know, may I ask?” Wasim swirled the liquid around in his can.

  “Because I gathered as much information as I could about Syria and Iraq before I left the UK. If I’m going to pretend I’m helping them with money laundering, I have to understand where the assets are… Mosul is a really good quarry.”

  “And staked up with the latest US weaponry supplies…”

  “As long as they can pull off the attack…”

  Both men remained silent for a short while.

  “Could we have done something more?” Henry eventually asked. He was certain Wasim was thinking about the same thing.

  “I wish we could, but we have already progressed a lot in less than 48 hours…” Wasim finished his can of lemonade and crushed it in his fist. “How about this financial report…? I’m more than intrigued.”

  The financial report was comprehensive and strangely accurate. ISIL did not have the intention to hide the sources of its income. They had presented their finances the way a good corporate would. Expenses were equally captured with diligence. The report bragged about the strengths of ISIL’s fanatical spending discipline.

  Everything seemed to be accounted for, armament from large to small, transport, food, accommodation, payment of their army.

  Henry had read the report twice in the hour he had given himself back in The Treasurer’s office. He now knew with certainty what constituted the undisputed strength of this terror group… a ruthless capacity to exploit all avenues to create and safeguard income.

  He had suspected oil would be high on the list, but since his conversation with The Treasurer he had measured the magnitude of its impact. He also knew about the looting of antiquities and other artefacts from historical sites in Iraq and he suspected Syria would be next. Henry had known about the trafficking of ancient pieces first hand. He had been tempted, when the large bonuses of investment banking were rolling into his pocket, to buy a unique piece from his then art dealer Brett Allner-Smith. Henry loathed the man; still, he had an uncanny flair for knowing what his clients wanted most. Henry had come back to his senses, withdrawing from a substantial purchase at the last minute. He had landed Brett in a tight spot, owing terrorists $0.5 million was a little tricky. Somehow Brett seemed to have survived.

  Henry ran his long hand through his hair. It felt coarse and unkempt, after so many months on the road. He forced his focus away from a past that had started to feel so very distant.

  “The document is incredibly thorough. A good corporation could not have done better. I would be impressed even if we were not talking ISIL.”

  “What else apart from oil and antiquities theft?”

  “Taxation… It took me less than ten seconds to decide this was a rather disingenuous way of portraying extortion and protection money.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I fill in my tax return…” Wasim shook his head.

  “The final item managed to surprise me.” Henry had been punched in the gut at reading the heading. In black and white the word kidnapping had been recorded as another income stream. Countries and individuals were paying to free their citizens or loved ones. “Kidnapping has become an absolute money machine.”

  He squeezed his can a little harder; the metal complained under his grip. Anger had been a constant companion in his life but not always a good adviser. He had learned to be wary of it.

  “You need to tell MOTHER about the oil production.”

  “Yes, I’ve started mapping the tearooms in Raqqa that have internet access. We are also moving websites, more secure… as soon as this is ready I’ll start uploading the information onto our new comms portal. I need a couple of days before I can upload all the data regarding the oil fields under ISIL’s control.”

  “I’ll speak again with Hamza tomorrow. I want to know how much of an impact my name-dropping bombshell has had on the price he will be able to negotiate. The Kirkuk mixing idea should also make it easier to achieve a good outcome.”

  “How can we use it to our advantage?”

  “We know how
much is produced in the area and how much ISIL controls, so it’s a matter of percentages.”

  “You mean if the production is 10% of the total, that 10% of the oil arriving in Turkey from the pipe is ISIL’s oil?”

  “Yup… perhaps you could convert to the City once you’re done with this.” Henry bumped his fist against Wasim’s muscular shoulder.

  “And wear a tailor-made suit, drive an expensive car, rather than slumming it in a black shirt, military fatigues at the wheel of a derelict truck… Never.” Wasim smiled and the two dimples in his cheeks deepened.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing… war of a different kind.”

  “You mean subtle assassination through gossip and lies.”

  “Good way of putting it…” Henry stood up, disappeared into his bedroom and came back with two more drinks. “Let’s get really smashed on more lemonade.” He handed one to Wasim. “Next step is for me to understand where else and through whom they export the oil. Turkey has got to be their biggest target. Turkey sends oil from a number of its ports. It has a large border with Syria and Iraq… ideal. But they can’t be the only country ISIL deal with.”

  “And there is plenty of suspicious activity already around armament supplies, so I agree, Turkey’s a prime candidate. Otherwise… I’m not sure… Lebanon, Jordan perhaps.”

  “I don’t think Lebanon is organised enough… but Jordan… a very good suggestion.” Henry pulled the ring out of the can’s top. “The next interesting question is going to be how high does this trafficking go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not talking about a few barrels of oil… we’re talking massive volumes and that will attract the attention of people who want to make serious money by facilitating, keeping the border open, finding clients…”

  “You’re thinking names in places of power.”

  “I’m thinking exactly that…”

  “Political contacts?”

  The call that came on his mobile phone surprised Henry. He almost hesitated… then he got up and fetched the phone from his bedroom, sliding his thumb on the screen after a couple of rings as he came back.

  “The name of the intermediary is on a text I sent you.” The Treasurer’s voice was all business. “Call him this evening.”

  Wasim raised his eyebrows. Henry read the text. “The intermediary is from Qatar… senior post in a Middle Eastern NGO.”

  “Then… place the call.”

  * * *

  Harris’s iPhone buzzed. DATA OP was calling him. Amina’s computer screen had lit up with a newsflash.

  “Mattie Colmore disappearance confirmed.”

  “Shit… This is not on…” Harris was following up on a new lead from his other asset, Brett, the art dealer. He had no time to lose on some wannabe journalist trying to make a name for herself by writing a scoop on Mattie Colmore.

  Harris was reading through the Reuters article. It was short and said very little. But it was a good way of keeping the Mattie Colmore story alive until the big story came… clever yet reckless.

  “Colmore is going to use this.” Amina shook her head.

  “You’re right, he will.” Harris stood up and moved to the window of RED HAWK Control Room. “We can’t have him trying to organise a response in parallel or, worse, finding out we have assets on the ground.”

  “I can’t see The Chief lying if the Rt Hon. Harold Colmore MP asks MI6 to help save his daughter.” Amina pulled a face.

  “Load the website with the information you have… Wasim may find a way to get to the intel.”

  “This is not the way it’s supposed to work, Steve. You know that… I put intel up at the last minute and take it down so that we minimise intrusion.”

  “I understand, but they need to be aware. What if someone tries to pin that leak on them?”

  Amina sighed. “I’ll see how far I can stretch it.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to have a little chit chat with Ms Murdock…” Harris had grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “… in person.”

  Amina was keeping an eye on her emails… nothing yet from the Crypto team. She barely noticed a message popping up on the alternative website Wasim might be using if he needed to communicate on the web.

  She held her breath for a short moment. A message was flashing. Her fingers flew over the keys as she called up the webpage on full screen and started to read the text. The website was selling army-decommissioned but still functioning armament.

  She copied the message on to a new page and started decoding his words, words Wasim had learned by heart before leaving for the Middle East in order to communicate with his MI6 minder.

  Laptop and mobile confiscated.

  Henry established credible contact with Treasurer.

  Obtaining details of ISIL’s operation.

  Need to use alternative website.

  Proceeding as agreed.

  Amina had to pull her code equivalents out to make sure she had not misunderstood. She too had learned the words by heart, but today she did not trust herself. The loss of comms had to be expected… still Wasim had to find at least a mobile in case the emergency protocol had to be activated.

  The second part of the message that she found in the response to another ad was giving more positive news about Mattie Colmore. She had been taken away from them though and they had not seen her for a day.

  Amina checked the timestamp of the posted messages. Less than an hour ago. She breathed a sigh of relief. If there was chatter on the web about hostages, it was not about her team.

  It was her turn to reply and pass on information that both men would find helpful.

  She opted for a short communication confirming they were aware of Mattie’s predicament. For the time being, however, newspapers and other media had respected the blackout convention on kidnapping. This could nevertheless change swiftly. She also shared the information she had about Mosul. This made Crowne more relevant… She thought it through again. It was in their favour. Surely… There was nothing else to say apart from the few words she couldn’t write.

  Be so bloody careful…

  * * *

  He walked back to the City on foot, defeated only on the last mile by a bout of heavy rain that would have drenched him had he not spotted a black cab near Blackfriars Bridge. James Radlett needed the walk. He had lived in the shadow of Henry Crowne for over five years. The man who had given him a chance, elevated him to the envied position of number two in his hugely successful team. The man who had never lied to him when it came to work matters, sharing his doubts about team management strategies and anxieties about the proposed merger between their bank and their greatest competitor during the 2008 financial crisis. The man who, nevertheless, had laundered money for the IRA for years. It was ironic that what had brought Henry down had been someone else’s rather twisted case of greed and revenge rather than his Irish connection.

  People had been whispering about Henry’s potential then… CEO material… Born leader… Inspirational thinker… What a load of bullshit.

  James had forced himself to feel betrayed by Henry, to speak the language of the disappointed and the disaffected. But when he gave himself the time to reflect on what he truly felt about Henry’s treachery, every time he let honesty prevail, he could not quite bring himself to feel the hatred and the spite he thought he ought to feel.

  Henry had never pretended he was an angel. He kept his private life private. He had never lied to James in that respect… The critical part of James, of course, laughed about the argument. It was unlikely Henry would have walked into his office and confessed he was an IRA operative. And the response to the mocking voice that taunted James into thinking he was a fool was always the same.

  Henry had been faithful to his friends and to his cause.

  James walked into the spaciou
s atrium of GL’s investment bank. He shook the rain off his coat in a wet dog motion and walked to the turnstiles. A security guard approached him with a smile. He nodded, stopped and turned back. The office did not feel the right place to reflect on what MI6 was offering. He might say yes without thinking, just for the chance of avoiding yet another management meeting. The complications of the merger between GL and HXBK were still rumbling four years on. He might say no because, walking into Henry’s office, the mocking voice would remind him he had been made a fool of, he, the former British intelligence officer.

  James moved to the far end of the atrium, towards another entrance reserved for staff. He flashed his ID pass at the electronic eye and walked back into the street. He turned left towards Smithfield Market, crossed the road and spotted in the distance the distinct green tiles of Beppe’s Café. The heavy rain had not deterred a couple of clients from sitting outside, sheltered by the green awning. James walked in and the familiar smell of brewing coffee and toasted sandwiches lifted James’s mood.

  The young woman who had started her waitress job a few months ago recognised him. “The usual?” she shouted with a smile. He nodded, looked around for a cosy place and saw he was in luck, a table had become free in the window. The coffee appeared faster that he had expected, accompanied by a chunky sausage and bacon roll.

  James pulled his iPhone out and checked his messages. His team was updating him on the deals they were working on. Another management meeting had been squeezed into his already overburdened schedule. A client was asking for another set of simulations on his latest large and complex transaction… routine. James replaced the iPhone in his jacket pocket and started on his sandwich… Nothing better than hearty comfort food to help a man think straight. The café was still full. He drank some of Beppe’s craft coffee and let his eyes rove over the crowd. Two women were huddled over the table in front of him, exchanging confidences and giggling like two schoolgirls. It was good to see people having fun, able to enjoy a meal and leave work behind. One of the women glanced at her watch. Her eyes opened wide. She told her friend the time. Both donned their raincoats, zipped up their bags and hurried off.