by Alan Porter
‘So you’d ensured Ghada was ripe for subversion from the cradle.’
‘What I did, I did for the good of our people and we paid a high price for it. I can take only anonymous jobs now; Ghada could scarcely even do that.’
‘So you did know she was into something?’
Ibrahim looked out of the window for a long moment. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it.
‘Ghada became secretive over the last few years,’ he said. ‘She would disappear for weeks, months on end. She said she was staying with friends, and sometimes she was. But there were other times it was as if she didn’t exist at all. Her phone was dead, her emails went unread, nothing.’
‘We have reason to believe she was out of the country,’ Leila said. ‘What I have difficulty with, is why.’
‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
‘She never hinted at any involvement with extremist groups? No mention of radicalised beliefs, a hatred of Britain or the West?’
‘Britain gave us shelter. Ghada loved her country and its people.’
He fell into reflective silence. Leila looked around the room.
‘The photograph of the Dome of the Rock on your wall,’ she said. ‘What does that mean to you?’
‘The Dome of the Rock?’ He turned to the framed magazine picture above the TV. He pointed to the pale brown scrub land in the distance. ‘The Mount of Olives, Temple Mount, the site of the City of David.’
‘Jewish sites.’
‘Palestinian sites, Miss Reid.’
‘Sacred to the Jews. Ghada was Muslim.’
He laughed. ‘Was she? Because she had brown skin, because she came from Palestine? No, Ghada was not Muslim. We are the people who fall through the cracks in your simplified view of the middle east. My family are old Palestinian Jews. I was an MI6 mole in Shin Bet, Israeli secret intelligence, not Fatah. And Ghada, my dear, was – is – Jewish.’
‘I don’t understand. She was working with an organisation called Harakat al Sahm; the Movement of the Arrow. Everything points to them being a radical Islamist group.’
‘If you call a cat a dog, will it bark? You see what you want to see. Ghada loved this country, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘She wore a ring, didn’t she? A key, folded round into a ring. The key’s the symbol of return from exile for the Palestinians.’
‘Miss Reid, religion isn’t nationality. My neighbour here, Mr Abdul, he flies the Union flag, he sings God Save the Queen. He is British, and he is Muslim. Ghada and I are proud Palestinians, nationalists if you want to say that. Being Jewish does not mean we feel the pain of the situation any less acutely. Now, please…’
‘You don’t seem particularly upset that your daughter’s dead, Mr Abulafia.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘No, just an observation.’
‘We all mourn in our own way, Miss Reid.’
‘Sure, but she was killed planting a bomb to murder innocent people. That must mean something to you.’
‘All you have told me is that she was killed by the bomb, not that she planted it. I choose to believe my daughter died an innocent woman until you can show me proof of the other.’
‘I’ll get to the truth, I can assure you of that.’
‘Or are you trying to frame her?’
‘No, I’m not. I’d rather have no attribution at all than a wrong one.’
‘Then you are unusual.’
‘This whole scenario is unusual. I’m convinced there’s something none of us is seeing, something else.’
‘Another attack?’
‘I’m sure of it.’ She turned to go then stopped.
‘Tell me one more thing, Mr Abulafia. Does the name Black Eagle mean anything to you?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ There was no pause, no tell. If Black Eagle was real and Ghada had been a part of it, she had never confided in her father.
‘OK. Thank you.’
‘Miss Reid,’ he said. ‘If you are to stop whatever is coming next, change your direction. You must open your eyes and run at it head on. Don’t stop until you see the truth.’
32
Raha Golzar had also started the day in very different circumstances to those she had grown accustomed to.
At eleven thirty the previous night she had been cuffed and shackled and processed out of Low Newton’s custody. The Governor took her to a loading dock at the rear of the prison. Three vans waited, their doors open but with no drivers or guards in sight. Golzar was put into a cage in the middle van. All three vehicles were then secured and she heard voices outside. Fifteen minutes later all three moved off. All would take different routes to London and no one on board would have any idea whether they were carrying the real prisoner or not. Until they arrived at Holloway, the only person who knew where Golzar was would be the Governor of Low Newton. Any rescue was impossible.
At 4am she had been rearrested (or, more accurately, arrested properly for the first time) in the service bay of Holloway jail. The arresting officer cited Section 41 of the Terrorism Act but did not elaborate. All this meant was that she could be detained for up to twenty eight days without ever being told why. It was not a hopeful start to the day.
At a little after nine o’clock, she had been taken from her cell to a meeting room where Donald Aquila, the same sharp-suited man who had met her in the activities room of F Wing, was waiting.
She sat down opposite him and he took a thick sheaf of papers from a leather attache case.
‘Please leave us alone,’ he said to the guard hovering in the doorway. ‘I have not been issued with written instructions that this is to be a Paragraph 9 interview and as such, as Miss Golzar’s legal counsel, this conversation is subject to litigation privilege. Anything said in this room in this meeting will be inadmissible in any future legal proceedings.’
The guard did not move.
‘That means fuck off, sonny,’ Aquila said.
The guard consulted the two police officers outside the room then closed the door. It was locked behind him and Golzar and her lawyer were alone. A few seconds later the red light on the video camera went off.
‘What was that?’ Golzar said.
‘Insurance. They know all that; I know all that. But if you do get caught up in the English courts, even under some obscure Terrorism Act charge, that little speech will slow them down a bit. They can only use anything said in here against you if they can prove Paragraph 9 was in place before I entered the room. They’re probably running around like headless chickens right now trying to get a judge to sign off on the order. If and until they do, it’s just us.’
He took out a micro digital recorder and placed it on the table between them.
‘So why are you here?’ Golzar said. ‘I think I deserve the truth this time.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m here to get you out.’
‘Out of here?’
‘Out of the country. Your friends have been trying to locate you since you disappeared from Jerusalem. We suspected you were alive, but beyond that, we could prove nothing. The British did a good job. Clever to hide you among the lunatics.’
‘You’re not working for British Secret Intelligence then.’
Aquila smiled. ‘No, I’m not. You know who I work for.’
‘Then why the elaborate ruse? Black Eagle had emergency extraction protocols back in Israel.’
‘No one was sure who you were working for. Your mission was never sanctioned and you do have a history of defection, don’t you? Black Eagle were watching you, but by the time they knew your true intentions, they were not the only people interested. Half a dozen governments wanted you out of there, and as usual it fell to the CIA to do the clean-up.’
‘Who sold me out?’
‘Hassan Hawadi.’
Golzar nodded.
‘Your lover…’ Aquila said.
‘He was a mole. Paid by the CIA to work inside Fatah. He checked out fine.’
‘Because he was working for the CIA, but he was also loyal to the cause of the PLO. He knew you’d set up a meeting with someone high up in Mossad and told his PLO handler. They couldn’t act in West Jerusalem without causing a major international incident, but they could bring the Russian FIS in. And they did.’
‘How ironic. You’re telling me Russian secret service were ready to talk?’
‘Oh yes. Moscow wanted you back. That’s why the CIA had to take you out of play as quickly as possible.’
‘So why didn’t they just pick me up?’
‘Because they had to keep their hands clean. They risked exposing Hawadi if they acted directly and he was still a valuable asset. British SIS were asked to arrange an apparent assassination and render you through Britain to the US. They got half of it right.’
‘The bit where they shot me with a tranc dart.’
‘They needed it to look convincing. The whole thing was staged.’
‘So Hawadi never arranged the meeting at the Pinkhas Rosen apartment?’
‘He did. His PLO paymasters asked him to lure you to the safe house. They would supply the FIS agent and you would be back in Moscow before anyone knew you were missing. Unfortunately for you, the CIA pay better and Hawadi follows the money. The meeting was brought forward twenty-four hours so they could get you out of Jerusalem – and out of play permanently as far as the Russians were concerned.
‘They needed you in a public place, but not too public. No tourists, just a few locals. Hawadi had told them you always travelled by bus, so they knew you’d have to get off at Tsvi Krokh and walk fifty yards along an open street. You were shot by an SIS man in a sixth floor apartment in Holyland Tower 1. It was witnessed and an ambulance picked up your corpse before anyone could get too close.’
‘Then the British government dumped me in a psych ward in Durham. Not exactly a glorious end to the mission.’
‘Unfortunately Britain no longer has a poodle government willing to do whatever Washington says.’
‘So how did you find me?’
‘Three months ago Richard Morgan made a deal to sell you back to the PLO.’
‘As a condition of the peace talks.’
‘Exactly. The whole success of the talks hinged on the deal. Hawadi had reported you dead, so when Richard Morgan told the PLO you were alive and well and could be made available, Abu Queria couldn’t get to the negotiating table quick enough. They were being given a second run at you. Only this time it would be in the public gaze, so they’d have to settle for second prize: no deal with the Russians, just getting you into a position where there’d be no future deals with anyone. The West Bank Authority still has the death penalty on its books.’
‘There’s no UK trial then.’
‘By rights you should be on a plane to Tel Aviv by this time tomorrow. You were to be taken back to Ramallah to face terrorism and treason charges. They would have made the charges stick, and there wasn’t anyone coming to your defence.’
‘Surely Mossad couldn’t have allowed that? If it was widely known that I had arranged a meeting with them…’
‘Mossad burned you the moment you were assassinated. They believed you were dead and needed to make sure nothing led back to them. A dossier was prepared against you in case anything ever came out. You were, apparently, trying to smuggle weaponised biological agents into Israel and were resisting capture when you were shot. All of which is just true enough to make it plausible, and it suited their ongoing narrative perfectly. Iranian weapons expert trained in ex-Soviet Russia tries to bring biological material into Israel? You couldn’t make it up!’
‘I would never have exposed Black Eagle. You’ve got to know that.’
‘Your very existence on the public stage would have been a disaster. If this had happened anywhere else it would have been forgotten in a matter of weeks, but in Israel? You’d have unleashed a firestorm of accusation and counter-accusation that would have made it almost impossible for us to continue. Anything that cast any light on the organisation and six decades of work, billions of dollars, our whole operation would have collapsed.’
‘What now then? Black Eagle Executive have decided to rid themselves of an embarrassment?’
‘If we were going to do that, it would have happened at Low Newton. No, you’re worth far more alive than you are dead. Your mission is not officially over, just… repurposed.’
‘You’re putting me back in?’
‘No. Executive need what’s in your head. Raha, you possess knowledge and contacts that could change everything. Tensions between East and West are such that any negotiation is now impossible, but both sides know that without agreement, the world will slide towards a new, even more deadly, cold war. There are powerful elements in Washington and Moscow who are ready to deal. With what you know, Black Eagle could broker that deal and hold the balance of a new power. And where Russia goes, China will follow. What you set out to do fifteen months ago could be about to happen.’
‘What I set out to do was get a better offer. As you said, Black Eagle never sanctioned the mission.’
‘There are no better offers. We bring you back in, this time our old enemies come with you. The beginning of a new era.’
‘If you can get me out of here.’
‘You need to sit tight for a few more hours. In,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘eighteen hours you’ll be out of here. In another twenty-four, you’ll be back in Washington.’
‘And then?’
‘With your help, in six months Black Eagle will have control of the UN Security Council. After that, there will be no government on earth capable of writing their own script.’
33
Leila Reid reassembled her phone and scrolled through the incoming calls list. She found the number of DCI Lawrence’s personal cell and prayed it would not drop her straight into voicemail. She wanted to keep the phone on for as little time as possible.
He answered after four rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Michael, it’s Leila. Don’t say anything. I think this phone is being tracked and I need to see you.’
‘Reid, we got…’
‘Please. Meet me at the first bookshop. Remember?’
‘The…?’
‘The first bookshop, one hour. Come alone and don’t tell anyone you’re meeting me. I found something.’
‘Then bring it in.’
‘I can’t. Meet me.’
She ended the call and quickly flicked the SIM from the back of the phone. If anyone had been listening to her conversation, there was very little chance they would know what ‘the first bookshop’ was. Given the number of bookshops in central London it could keep them tied up for days. She just hoped Lawrence would remember.
On the day of her interview with CTC, Leila had had time to kill before going to Scotland Yard to meet DCI Lawrence and Commander Thorne. She wandered along the Thames, had a coffee and browsed the tables of books beneath Waterloo Bridge. She had inherited an interest in antique books from her father, and still indulged now and then if something particularly tasty came her way. This particular morning she chanced upon a first edition copy of T E Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom: a book she loved, the name of her prospective new boss and a first edition at a price she could afford. It was rather tatty, but it felt like an omen. It had been: she’d aced the interview.
As Lawrence walked her out to the front desk he commented on the book. A bibliophile himself, he was curious how she had bought even a tatty first edition for so little. She had told him that the Queen’s Walk book market was the first bookshop she would try for anything. They’d been there together many times, though not for many months now.
She hoped he would still remember its significance.
For most of the hour she rode the underground, randomly changing trains until, five minutes before she hoped Lawrence would arrive, she emerged into the daylight at Waterloo station and made her way over the footbridge towards the South Bank. She stopped at the mid-po
int next to a group of Japanese tourists and scanned the riverside walkway through the monocular.
DCI Lawrence walked along the side of the Festival Hall three minutes later.
Leila moved as quickly as she could through the crowds and closed the gap to her boss just as he passed into the shadow of Waterloo Bridge.
‘Buy me a coffee,’ she said. ‘And keep you head down. I don’t know who’s watching.’
In the café beneath the bridge they took a table just inside the door. A waiter was with them almost immediately.
‘Two Americanos please,’ Lawrence said.
‘And could I plug my phone in?’ Leila said. ‘I just need to make a call and wouldn’t you know it, battery’s flat?’
‘Sure. There’s a socket just beside you.’
Leila unrolled her leather kit pouch inside her bag and took out the mobile signal jammer. She plugged it in and turned it on. As several drinkers looked around she leaned in close to her boss.
‘Bring me up to speed,’ she said.
‘You were right about Ghada Abulafia. Forensics confirmed it from DNA on the passports and the safety deposit box.’
‘Good, then I’m right about a lot more too.’ She looked out of the café window. A man browsing the bookstalls met her gaze for an instant than looked away.
‘Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?’ Lawrence said. ‘If you’ve got something, just bring it in. We shouldn’t be talking about this here.’
‘I can’t bring it in. I found something, and it’s big. Much bigger than we thought. Someone broke into my house then followed me half way across London. They know I know something. And Ibrahim Abulafia? He pointed me in a whole new direction. Michael, this isn’t an Islamist plot. It’s…’
‘Leila, it is an Islamist plot. It’s a sleeper cell activated for a single high-profile attack.’
‘No…’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Look. We’ve had a claim and it’s backed up by very good circumstantial evidence. We’ve got enough to build a solid case.’
‘For what?’
‘For this being Harakat al Sahm working as a cell of IS, single attack, principally as a warning that they could strike wherever and whenever they wanted. Look.’
