A shadow.
The young waitress who had taken a shine to him came to refill his cup. She smiled but said nothing. Her English was sometimes a little difficult to understand with her strong Eastern European accent that became stronger the harder she tried, but her beaming face made up for her mistakes. James returned her smile and nodded a thank you. He would have normally tried to have a conversation with her, even if only a few words, but today he was absorbed by a question he found difficult to answer.
Why? Why had Crowne disappeared… completely?
One answer was that Crowne wanted his freedom back, but James had seen a broken man in the dock during his trial. Some may not have believed in Crowne’s act of atonement. He had fooled everyone in the City for years, but James’s gut did not go with that. Yet, how could Henry Crowne have stayed continuously under the radar for so long? Even by MI6 standards, making a man completely disappear required planning and training in the survival skills intended for deep infiltration.
James shifted on his seat. More people were pouring in, ordering juicy sandwiches they might keep for their lunch or have for breakfast. The tables were filling up and soon someone would ask permission to sit at the same table as James to enjoy the succulent fry-up Beppe was renowned for. The glass sugar dispenser looked almost as old as the premises. James liked the worn furniture of this quirky place. He scooped a generous helping and let it drop into his coffee, stirring the liquid methodically until the granulated sugar had dissolved fully.
James smiled at his fussiness and picked up his trail of thoughts. There was no reason why MI6 might want to whisk him to one of their black sites for interrogation. Henry and his two friends had given MI6 the information it wanted, or at least so his contact said.
James drained his cup. Should he indulge in a third? Why not. He raised his hand and Laita came promptly to serve him. The same smile. The same shyness. A burly man who did not look the City type asked whether he could share James’s booth. His voice was surprisingly amiable. James nodded a friendly of course. He did not mind him sitting opposite him so long as he did not have to put up with the pompous banter of another investment banker.
James resumed his methodical analysis. He could not quite fathom out what working with Henry Crowne might entail. Harris needed to give him a better idea of what would be involved. Sitting in a room as part of the Operational Data Analyst team alongside Henry did not inspire him. What else could Henry offer but his in-depth knowledge of finance? James shook his head. Harris should have been more forthcoming. Still, he had not agreed anything with Harris and he certainly would not be played. Perhaps his days in the City were not over just yet.
* * *
“Do you ever sleep?” Harris had popped his first gum of the day into his mouth.
“You should take up smoking again, you know.” Ahmed had called him, and had Amina sent him a text.
“And yes, I just have a sleeping bag rolled up underneath my desk.” Ahmed was not joking. “Raqqa’s chatting… a lot. The ban on comms has clearly been lifted.”
“What are they saying?”
“It’s all about the victory, beating the infidels… all of that good beardo stuff.”
“How bad is it in Mosul?”
Ahmed shook his head and pulled away from the screen. “It’s a bloodbath. I am trying not to go through the videos if can help it… I’ve seen a lot in my time, but this is a real massacre.”
“Any reaction from the Yanks yet?”
“Zip. It’s as if losing one of the main airports they operate from has not happened.”
“Together with what was in it of course.”
“That’s probably why they haven’t said anything yet… assessing the damage.”
Amina had joined them silently, her eyes roaming over Ahmed’s screens of scrolling data.
“There… There,” she pointed out.
Ahmed promptly selected the words and captured the Arabic text on another screen.
“Our leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, enters victorious Mosul. He will clear our land of all infidels with Allah’s protection and blessing. He will address us today.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better keep track of what Baghdadi has to say for himself. He never addresses his followers in person… Always through social media.”
“I’m going back to my desk.” Amina was telling Harris she was expecting contact with Wasim.
“And I’ll keep you updated as soon as Baghdadi makes his announcement.”
Harris walked out of OMA’s maze of offices. A permanent frown had not left his forehead since he had seen the volume of data flooding cyberspace.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I need to speak to my CIA contact again.”
“Fat good it did last time you told them what we knew.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Jack. He did pick up the intel too… but he can’t action things all on his own.”
“I’m not saying Jack ignored you, but I agree that his bosses are crap. They always assume they know more than we do.”
“Fair point, but bearing in mind the cock-up in Iraq and the loss of Mosul, they might listen this time.”
Amina logged into her computer. She forgot about Harris for a moment, checking the chatline of the website for a message.
Nothing.
“I’ll speak to Radlett tomorrow if there’s still no news from them. We are going to need him sooner than expected.”
* * *
Morning prayer had just finished. Henry had unfolded the rug he had found in his room the day before, a beautiful Hereke piece of geometrical forms in soft silk. The first token of The Treasurer’s generosity. He had laid his forehead on the ground and prayed the way Wasim had taught him. The rhythm of the words started to feel familiar, almost comforting. He sat back on his legs and rested for a moment. It was a strange moment of peace it afforded but based on a creed he did not want to believe in.
The sudden burst of car horns irritated him. The roar of vehicles driving past the hotel and the shouting that came with it could announce only one thing. Henry stood up in one jump, opened the bay window and went to the edge of the terrace. The road at the bottom of the building was teaming with pick-up trucks, Humvees, SUVs and men on foot waving the black flag with one word on their lips.
Victory.
Henry clutched the banister. His head sank to his chest. Mosul had fallen and al-Haddawi was returning to Raqqa.
“Fucking idiots.” Henry gritted his teeth.
Wasim was outside his room as well. He jumped over the low wall that separated their terraces and stood next to Henry, arms crossed over his chest.
“Mosul?”
“Of course, what else?”
“The ban on comms will be lifted.”
“You bet, it’s time to gloat about their victory.”
“And we’d better look happy about it too.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be putting on my happy face when I meet The Treasurer today.”
“It’s good for business but not so good for his little power battle with al-Haddawi.”
“Or for the hostages.”
Henry held his breath for a short moment. “I need to speed up the process, make a deal that will be difficult to unwind.”
Wasim nodded. “If you can, but remember anything can happen in this place.”
Henry turned around to face Wasim. “Mattie won’t be safe until she gets out of here. I get it.”
Henry returned to his room and looked around for a few moments. He stilled himself. This was no longer the trading floor of GL Investment Bank. For all the money he had made in the past, the stakes today were infinitely higher. Henry snapped out of it. He switched the mobile back on. A message was waiting for him. Henry could not help smili
ng. The Treasurer was asking him to come to his office, as soon as possible. News of Mosul’s victory must have reached him in the early hours of the morning. Another more subtle battle had started, and The Treasurer needed his help to win it. Henry responded that he was on his way.
But before making his move, a call to his Qatari fixer was overdue.
* * *
“You’re coming with me.” Harris had barely started his day when the summons came.
“You mean…?” Harris looked at the faded jeans, with a hole that had started to appear at the knee, not a fashionable newly created designer hole, but a hole that was there because his jeans were old and he was comfortable in them.
“Yes… Colmore is starting to be a pain and I need back-up.”
“Sir, are you sure…” Harris raised his eyebrows and The Chief waved his hand.
“We’re not meeting in Westminster. We’ll meet Colmore in one of our dedicated London sites and you’re coming as you are.”
“What did he suggest?”
“A high-grade military extraction.” Sir John grunted.
“In the middle of Raqqa?”
Sir John did not answer and walked into the lift. Both fell silent during the ride to the car park. Sir John’s car was waiting for them as they walked out of the underground space. The BMW was sitting a little low on its tyres, a testament to the extra work that had been carried out on the body of the vehicle, fitting armour plating and reworking its suspension. Sir John did not wait for his driver to open the door and took his seat at the back of the car. Harris followed.
“Have you spoken to your contact at Langley?”
“I have.”
Sir John nodded. It was all he needed to know and there would be no rehearsing of the interaction with Colmore in his car. The strategy as far as Sir John was concerned was clear. Lay off and let us do our jobs.
The underground car park had not been used for a while. Colmore’s silver Bentley was already there. Sir John’s car slipped slowly alongside Colmore’s. Sir John opened his window waiting for a short moment before Colmore realised he was meant to do the same. The purr of the window gliding down felt almost soothing. Colmore’s equine face appeared as the glass slid down, grey hair, unexpectedly unkempt, bushy eyebrows, dark rings under his eyes and a sagging mouth showing spite and sadness.
“If you do not mind, Harold, you need to change car.”
“This is ridiculous, John, you know that.”
“You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was necessary – but it is.”
“We could have met at The Cross.”
“Harold, please, we’re losing valuable time.”
Colmore pushed himself back into his car to grab something he had placed on the back seat alongside him. Sir John’s car moved so as to give him space to open his door. Harris had already stepped out of the car and climbed into the front seat. Colmore’s driver came to hold open the car door and he finally took his seat next to Sir John.
“I expect we won’t be talking about what’s at stake in the car either.”
“That’s right.”
Colmore grumbled some inaudible complaint.
Sir John moved his body sideways to better face Colmore. “But I can at least make some introductions. Please meet one of my best agents, Steve Harris.”
Harris turned around and extended his hand between the two front seats. “How do you do?”
Colmore’s face looked in horror at one of MI6’s best agents, jeans that he thought would have looked bad even on a tramp, an open-necked shirt that had seen better days and still the faint accent of an East End boy. Colmore extended a reluctant hand.
* * *
The old pick-up truck groaned as Henry shifted the gearbox into reverse. He moved the truck carefully along the entrance of the hotel and accelerated to slot into the heavy traffic on Malahi Avenue. Cars, trucks and armoured vehicles were speeding up and down the dual track road like crazy insects in search of fresh food. Henry used his horn to join in the celebration, certain that no one would spot the ‘Rule Britannia’ rhythm of his tune. It was the best he could think of.
He arrived at the Treasury office on Fardos Street 20 minutes later. The guards opened the gates without question. Henry slung his rucksack over his shoulder and stepped into the large building. On the Treasury floor, the atmosphere was more controlled. Hamza was at his screens, nodding to Henry when he came in.
“Salaam alaikum.” Henry dropped his rucksack onto the desk next to Hamza’s.
“Alaikum as salaam.” Hamza straightened up in the chair. “There’s been a small spike in the oil price. I’ve released some of our own along the Kirkuk pipes and asked for the price to reflect the reduced risk.”
“Very well done, brother.”
Henry had kept an eye on The Treasurer’s door. It was shut. Through the glass, the pudgy little man could be seen moving one arm in the air; it was not a move of victory.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall… Henry’s attention came back to Hamza who had been speaking about being more proactive on the Jordanian border.
“Sure, let’s talk about it.”
The door finally opened, and Henry walked into The Treasurer’s office without knocking.
“What took you so long?”
“It’s mayhem out there.”
The Treasurer shut the door behind Henry.
“Mosul is good for business.” Henry’s face was all smiles, with clenched fists.
The Treasurer slumped into his chair and eyed Henry. There was no need to bullshit him. He knew it would increase the asset base of the group dramatically. He also knew who had made it happen and that the result was not good for his own business.
“Al-Haddawi is going to make demands.”
“Unless I can agree something before he does.”
The Treasurer stopped the movement of his prayer beads. “Why are you so confident?”
“Because I know how these people think. I made another call to our fixer… The Sunday Times are willing to talk.”
“The UK may still interfere with their plan to organise payment of the ransom… The use of an NGO is clever but perhaps the Sunday Times can’t take the risk.” The Treasurer pouted, not hiding he was in fact pleased.
“Then we come to my Plan B.”
The Treasurer’s heavy eyebrows twitched a little. A man who could think about a number of alternative options and anticipate the need for them, was a man very much after his own heart.
“What would that be?”
Henry sat in the chair in front of his desk. “The UK government does not pay cash ransom, that’s true but… cash is not the only asset available.”
“Go on.” The Treasurer leaned forward, arms on the desk, fingertips touching. He had forgotten about the prayer beads.
“An exchange could be a good thing.”
The Treasurer’s round face lit up.
“And… I know who we could ask for.” Henry engineered a grin. “Abu Maeraka.”
The Treasurer slapped both hands on the desk and roared with laughter. “Genius.”
“But we need to keep Mattie Colmore safe.”
“There are many more hostages hidden in Raqqa. Al-Haddawi can have them all.”
“Except Mattie.”
“That would be the deal.”
“I’ll speak to the fixer again in the afternoon.”
“Don’t let me down.” The bonhomie of The Treasurer disappeared in an instant. Henry knew that look, cold and heartless. He had seen it in the eyes of many men with whom he had done business in the past. Whereas he might have got away with a bad reputation in London, there was no doubt in his mind that The Treasurer would hold a knife to his throat and slit it open without hesitation.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“This moron is going to get my team k
illed.” Harris could not hold back. He did not care whether he was still in the car that was taking them back to Vauxhall Cross. Sir John did not rebuke him. He looked glad Harris had said aloud what he was himself thinking quietly.
“I’m not going to let it happen.” Sir John’s clear eyes briefly dug into Steve’s. He meant every word he said. He would use the full breadth of MI6 capability to stick to his word. Both men fell silent. The conversation would be continued in the secrecy of Sir John’s office.
Harris picked up his iPhone, rotating it in his hand mechanically. They had passed Lambeth Palace, and the car was making good progress through light traffic. They would be able to continue their conversation at the Cross in a few moments. Harris’s iPhone buzzed angrily in his hand. Amina’s name displayed on the screen. Harris fought the desire to respond and endured the ride in the elevator to Sir John’s office in silence until they reached the fifth floor.
“I’m sorry if I don’t share your confidence, sir, but…” Harris hesitated. “Two MI6 assets infiltrating ISIL and operating in the middle of Raqqa. No one has ever succeeded to go that far into a terror group. It will cost them dear if we make the slightest mistake and we can’t extract them the way we may have planned with other missions.” Harris felt breathless. “And before you ask, sir, yes, I have lost some of my operatives in the past, but I don’t make a habit of it.”
Sir John nodded. “Then I think we are on the same page.” His voice had a comfortable warmth that still failed to convince Harris. He had been at the sharp end. He knew what would happen if he floundered and did not want to contemplate the consequences.
“There is a long way between Colmore’s demand for military intervention and our acting upon it.”
Spy Shadows Page 24
