James sat back at the table he had been lucky to get. The green fabric of the double seat had seen better days, but was faded rather than dirty. The café was starting to empty; in a few minutes he would have it to himself.
The young woman behind the counter waved at him; Another coffee? she mouthed. He smiled Yes, please. When the coffee arrived, he took his private phone from his jacket pocket. Paused. And brought up his contacts list. Time to call a few acquaintances in the field.
Chapter Eighteen
The two women who were sitting in the room stood up slowly. They too were dressed in black abayas but in the seclusion of their bedroom they had been allowed to remove their veils. Mattie stood still, her heart pounding, her mouth dry… She inhaled deeply and wondered whether she should make the first move. The young woman who had light brown hair pulled back in a bun walked the few paces that separated them and extended a friendly hand.
“I’m Jean.” The soft American accent took Mattie unawares, a gentle yet powerful shock. Fighting back tears, she extended her hand. “Mattie.”
The other woman stood up slowly. “Gretta.”
A third bed beneath the window was empty. “Shall I…” Mattie stopped, her legs buckling underneath her. She felt two pairs of hands grabbing her, holding her until she reached the nearest bed. She crumpled onto it, bringing her knees to her chin, tears streaming down her face. Jean moved to the head of the bed and sat down next to Mattie, stroking her back gently. There was no need for words. The simple motion of a gentle hand over her aching muscles wrenched Mattie’s heart. Such unexpected kindness in such a desperate and cruel place.
Gretta fetched a glass of water. She was kneeling next to where Mattie had collapsed. Her sobs gradually died away. She pushed herself up onto one arm. Gretta handed her the glass with a soft smile. Mattie took a sip, worried her throat would be too tight to take in anything. But the water soothed her. She took a little more.
“Thank you.”
Jean kept her hand on her shoulder as she sat next to Mattie.
“Take this bed.” Jean squeezed her shoulder and moved slowly to the bed that had been added to the room.
“No.” Mattie’s hoarse voice felt loud in a place where only whispers were spoken. “You don’t need to move.”
Jean smiled. “You need some proper rest… Don’t say a word… just sleep. Then we can talk…”
Mattie felt too weary to protest any further. She grabbed the thin blanket that covered the bed on which she lay and fell asleep as her head touched the pillow.
* * *
Canary Wharf was gradually emptying, bankers and other businessmen, few women, were returning to their desks as Harris arrived. He didn’t like the place… artificial, efficient, expensive. The second financial centre in London would always be that for him… second choice. He entered the large glass and steel building and walked straight to reception.
“Kerry Murdock… please.”
The receptionist asked for a name. “Steve Jackson.” Harris almost added MI6 but it might not sound credible.
“Ms Murdock is in a meeting.”
“Tell whoever you have on the phone to get her out of her meeting now or I’ll be speaking to the head of Reuters UK instead.”
The young man at reception remained stoical. It was not the first time he had dealt with a demanding pain in the arse. Harris was asked to take the lift to the top floor where he was greeted by a fuming blonde fury.
“Follow me,” was the only thing she said, and they turned into a small meeting room off the top floor reception area. Ms Murdock did not scare easily.
“What the fuck did you have to get me out of my daily midday brief for?”
“Because you don’t seem to fucking well understand the meaning of the fucking words media blackout.” If she wanted expletives, Harris was her man.
“I’m only speaking the truth…” She crossed her arms over her chest as a petulant child would.
“Are you for real? What do you think ISIL will do if they know the press is talking kidnapping?”
“It IS kidnapping then?”
“I never said it was… I’m asking you to think about what ISIL will do if YOU talk about it.”
“Maybe it will help.”
Harris cocked his head. He had not been expecting this.
“Yes, perhaps the public will put pressure on the government to act… I’m not an idiot. I know the UK government doesn’t pay ransom.”
Harris sighed. “Kerry… this is not the way it works.” Harris took a moment to consider Ms Murdock… young, very young… after a story for sure, but perhaps eager to make a difference. “I have been in this job for a long time… you will not do her any favours if you keep pushing.”
Ms Murdock in turn was not expecting this conciliatory tone. “I’ll back off…” She pouted. “…on one condition…”
“What?”
“If you need to let the news out you come to me first.”
Harris raised an eyebrow and the beginning of an idea popped into his mind. “If I need the press… you’ll be it.”
Ms Murdock gave him the biggest of smiles.
* * *
Movement around her woke her with a jolt. Two women in full niqab were speaking to Gretta. Mattie could not quite make out what they were saying until she realised they were speaking Arabic.
“Get ready… quickly.”
Gretta was frozen with fear. One of the Arab women threw the veil to her face. Still Gretta did not move. Her round cheeks had turned red, her pale blue eyes opened wide with dread. She shook her head and the women who had thrown the cloth slapped her hard across the face. Gretta’s skull hit the wall behind her with a dull thud. Mattie threw aside her blanket and stood up. It was three against two.
The stick that hit her across the back seemed to come from nowhere. She tried to hold back a cry without success. She looked around for a makeshift weapon. Jean threw herself between Mattie and her assailant. “She’ll be fine.”
Gretta rubbed her skull and slowly picked up the cloth from the floor, adjusting it over her face. Jean stretched her arms sideways, her hands lifted in a protective yet forbidding manner.
Don’t fight a fight you cannot win…
Gretta did not look back at the two women as she walked out of the door. When the door was locked, Jean turned towards Mattie, tears in her eyes.
“This is not the time,” she whispered.
“Where are they taking her?” Mattie’s voice trembled, rage and powerlessness coursing inside her. Jean sat down on her bed, head in hands.
“Al-Baghdadi…”
“You mean…?” Mattie’s hand folded around her throat. It was unthinkable and yet she had written about it so many times… rape… the fate of so many women in many war-torn countries. Jean nodded and raised her head. Mattie stopped herself from asking the next question. If Jean knew about Gretta’s fate it was because she had endured the same. Mattie turned around towards the small wash basin squeezed in the corner of the room and barely made it. She threw up the little water that was left in her stomach.
* * *
The multi-tool screwdriver was turning in his hand, buzzing in a rhythmic way. Henry had already removed three screws from the wall plug, part of his daily ritual… Nothing showing so far. He was almost disappointed. He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Within it he had arranged a few items, a pair of shoelaces, a pen and a small writing pad, a couple of sweets he would never eat. He had arranged the same items on the top of the bedside table, in a same specific order, small clusters that did not need to be moved to clean the room.
Henry smiled; someone had indeed displaced his items to get to the contents of a file he had placed in the same drawer. Would The Treasurer need to add a further layer of surveillance when he was already keeping an eye on him? He was glad he had s
potted the intrusion. But he would keep an open mind as to its origins. Henry sat back on his bed and looked around. He had finished his routine. There was perhaps one item he had not yet checked.
Henry switched on the TV and turned the volume full on. He cautiously lifted his iPhone from his bed and opened up its back. The battery was protruding more than usual. Henry moved the battery a little without it losing contact. There was a small device nestled underneath it… a tiny recording device. Henry replaced the back with caution. He was ready to give The Treasurer or whoever was eavesdropping on him a run for their money. He dropped the phone on the bed, yawned loudly and walked to the sliding doors that led to the terrace. He opened them slowly, the soft sound barely noticeable over the racket of the TV programme he was not watching. He slid the doors shut and reached the side of the terrace, vaulted over the low wall partition and landed on Wasim’s side. He knocked at the glass doors. Wasim stepped onto the terrace and closed the glass doors.
“Had some visitors?”
“Yup… I think they’re getting a lot more interested in me now I’m about to earn them some money.”
“Me too… Anything else?”
“iPhone has a recording device under the battery case.”
“Not surprised.”
“No, but I’d like to know who’s listening…”
“Doesn’t matter… You can now feed these people as much disinformation as you can.”
“Still, I might want to say different things depending on my audience.”
“You don’t think it’s The Treasurer.”
Henry shrugged. He had no evidence. It was only a gut feeling and that was not good enough.
“Do you think you’ll get a laptop?” Wasim asked.
“I don’t want access to a laptop and even if they gave me one it would have more bugs than a rotten apple.”
“You’re right… Let’s see what new comms package MOTHER comes up with now I have a way of making contact.”
“Another website? How much browsing can you do without arousing suspicion though?”
“That’s the point. She’ll find a way. I can then ask for more data on the fixer.”
“Would be good to know more about this Qatari guy.”
“When will you be back in contact with him?”
“Early morning. He’s finding out the best route to contact the Sunday Times.” Henry leaned back on the chair. “Do you think al-Haddawi will be part of the Mosul campaign?”
“Not sure he is part of it, from what I gathered… Some other senior commander is leading the attack.”
“That’s not good… He’s going to stay on our backs, feeling frustrated he’s not showing off at the front.”
“Have you discussed details with the fixer?”
“Not quite, I have given an indication about amount and timetable… It’s a long shot. You and I know this, but I am thinking about an alternative…”
“A Plan B?” Wasim raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about all the permutations and there’s one idea we might want to explore…” Henry fell silent, measuring once more the viability of the plan.
“Are you going to let me in on the idea then?”
“I’m thinking about a hostage exchange.”
Wasim sat up. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“I think I do…” Henry met Wasim’s eyes. They had both known the terror cell that had eventually managed to extract Henry from HMP Belmarsh. They had both dealt with the two leaders until the cell was destroyed in a special ops raid. And yet one man was still alive, still active in recruiting young men from his prison cell.
“You don’t mean…?”
“Why not? And that would give us maximum credibility too.”
* * *
“Any news?” Harris walked back from his meeting with Ms Murdock, looking much happier than he had when he left.
“Yup… made contact.”
Harris stopped halfway to his desk and span around with a frown. “You mean?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Reuters or use your mobile… just in case it wasn’t fully charged.”
“Bloody hell Amina… will you ever let me forget I… once… failed to remember to charge my phone?”
“Nope…” Amina turned around from her screens to face Harris. “Wasim’s phone and laptop were taken away. He’s found a couple of places that have internet connections and computers.”
“And…” Harris waved his hand to speed up the delivery of news.
“Progress…” Amina told Harris about Wasim’s message and confirmed she had in turn given him details about Mosul’s imminent attack.
“What’s the plan as far as comms is concerned?”
“We moved to the alternative website for the time being but I’m looking for other ways of exchanging information. Rach has confirmed someone has gone into Wasim’s laptop. So she has cleaned it up to leave no traces of activity.”
“What’s the next window to exchange information?”
“Wasim is looking for the best time to contact me again… when the tearooms are not too busy. Some places are stricter than others when it comes to using the internet.”
Harris nodded and glanced at his watch. He had just enough time to catch OMA before Ahmed left for the day.
When he returned, Amina was on the phone to her comms specialists’ team. She had given up on using yet another website to increase the exchange she was hoping to have with Wasim. She had recently learned about a new method she’d never used before – map overlay. Any type of map would do. Railway maps (used by the French DGSE to communicate with a defecting officer in Algeria in the 60s), city maps, land maps. She was hoping to introduce the same idea. Wasim was entitled to survey the terrain around Syria and Iraq. Nothing obviously questionable there. They would agree on the map, then the next time agree on the codes to be embedded into it. Then they would create a single download, the riskiest part of the operation, either on a new device if Wasim managed to get one or in a newly created email account… not the preferred route.
“Heard from them?” Harris asked as soon as she came off the phone.
“Too soon…”
“Just one quick message to say Crowne is about to call the fixer. Before I posted… so no response on the Colmore message yet.”
“What did comms say about your map idea?”
“Old school but can work. They’re choosing the best map and they’ll confirm codes and keys by the end of the day.”
Harris nodded. Could they really pull it off? RED HAWK was slowly becoming a monster, springing new heads every day… Mattie Colmore’s kidnapping, Mosul’s attack…
“Sorry. My optimistic self is starting to have doubts… aren’t we stretching our guys too far?”
“Which is what I said to you only this morning.” Amina’s voice did not carry the habitual I told you so chime.
“I know.” Harris pulled his chair closer to Amina’s desk.
“But we need the intel, don’t we?”
“It’s usually me who insists on collecting data come what may.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that.” Amina ignored Harris’s banter. “We’ll get quality intel from them both. Crowne is getting good at it and Wasim has always been one of our best operatives.”
“There is a ‘but’ I am not going to like.” Harris crossed his arm over his chest.
“We need to be prepared to extract them sooner than we’d hoped.”
“They’ve just arrived.” Harris’s tone lacked the edge it normally had when he didn’t like a new idea.
“And they’ll be of zero use to us dead.”
“Even if we agree to extract them… if… there is no way it can be done out of Raqqa. No one’s going to authorise that, not the B
rits and certainly not the Yanks.”
Amina’s phone rang. She gave it an annoyed look. The comms team had results.
“We’re not talking extraction,” Harris returned to his desk, “… yet.”
Chapter Nineteen
Harris left his office with an old burner phone. He would allow James Radlett a couple of days if he needed the extra time to make up his mind. Patience was the daughter of time… time he may not have.
And time to call his other asset in London. Brett had been taking it easy for the past 18 months since Crowne had joined MI6. The art dealer had proven a surprisingly valuable man. If Mosul were to fall, Brett would know what stolen artefacts would come to market and would establish contact with the sellers. He had a tested route. He had connections all over the Middle East and he had been unusually resourceful at exploiting these. Harris had taken a lot of flak for giving Brett too much rope but it had allowed Brett to become an even more credible contact for extremists in London. Perhaps Brett would like to help a little further? Harris smiled at the thought.
How soon can you be at the club? Harris sent his text.
I am at the club… Where else?
Perfect. Be with you in half an hour.
Why?
Harris did not bother to reply. Brett would wait. Despite telling him otherwise 18 months ago, Harris was not done with Brett Allner-Smith… not by a long way.
Harris had changed into his Savile Row suit before he crossed the threshold of The St James’s Club. He had made the necessary stop in Pimlico at a block of flats, a few of which were used by MI6. A couple of apartments known as the ‘airlock’ enabled staff to change and adapt to the requirements of their meetings. Harris gave a coy smile at the reflection in the mirror that decorated the Club’s entrance. The doorman greeted him with the usual distant courtesy. Harris walked confidently through the first few rooms, heading to the smoking room, Brett’s favourite. The man was there, comfortably seated in a deep leather armchair, a glass of excellent whisky awaiting his attention on the small table beside his seat. Harris noticed the glass was still full.
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