The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  They flew to Geneva on separate flights, using false diplomatic passports. They took rooms at the Ibis Geneva right next to the airport. They had arrived late, and Pope decided it made more sense to get a full night’s sleep so that they could start early the following day. It was a bland, anonymous hotel. Beige walls, beige carpet, identical layouts. They could have been anywhere in the world. They ate room service in Pope’s room, discussed what they would do tomorrow, and then went to their own rooms for sleep.

  Pope showered, undressed and lay on the bed for thirty minutes with the BBC News channel playing on the flat-screen TV. It was a week after the attack, and there was still practically nothing else that made the bulletin. New CCTV footage had just been released of the shooters trying to force their way into the Commons. Pope saw the men and remembered their professionalism, their familiarity with their weapons and the ingenuity of their plan. They had been lucky that the casualties inside the House were so minor compared to what might have happened. They had McNair to thank for that.

  The news anchor cut away to an interview with the prime minister. Pope reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The report began with the moment, preserved forever on the cameras inside the chamber that had been recording PMQs, when the boom of the first explosion in the Underground station had interrupted the childish squabbling between the PM and the leader of the opposition. A particularly effective riposte had seen the MPs on the government benches waving their motion papers at their rivals across the chamber. Their boorish laughter had been interrupted by the muffled crump of the blast. The PM’s coup de grace died on his lips. The chamber was quiet when the second bomb detonated. This one was in the open, nearer the palace, and deafeningly loud. The windows nearest the blast were blown in by the pressure wave. There were screams and shouts of panic.

  The footage cut away to a head-and-shoulders shot of the PM. He was dressed in black. There were the usual questions about what had happened in the chamber when they had heard the bombs, and then the reaction when the Serjeant at Arms had sprinted past the Bar of the House to the Speaker’s Chair, and then the instruction from the Speaker, his ragged panic barely suppressed, that they were under attack and should begin an orderly evacuation. The anchor led the PM through some set questions so that he could deliver the sound bites that his scriptwriters had prepared for him. Pope shook his head at the dull predictability of it. The terrorists were cowards. The nation grieved. A debt of gratitude was owed to the men and women of the Metropolitan police.

  He was about to switch off the screen when the interviewer posed her final question.

  ‘Prime Minister, do you have a message for those responsible?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’ He paused for a moment, as if composing himself, and then he turned from the quarter shot and looked directly into the camera. ‘We are under threat because we are a country of freedoms, and because we are a country of freedoms, we will neutralise threats and punish aggressors. No one should think that he can act in the United Kingdom in a way that is contrary to the principles of the United Kingdom, and attack the very spirit of this country: the idea of democracy itself. My thoughts today are with the victims. More than two hundred people have died, and many others are hovering between life and death. That is where we stand right now. We are committed to finding those responsible. They will be hunted down by our police and intelligence services. There will be nowhere for them to hide. And when they have been found, they should be in no doubt that we shall exact the full measure of justice. Thank you.’

  Pope killed the screen.

  The full measure of justice.

  That was as near as he had ever heard to a politician making it plain that those guilty of the attack would never make it to court.

  Vivian Bloom had provided him with a dossier of information on Salim Hasan Mafuz Muslim al-Khawari. His property in Switzerland was a sprawling mansion that had cost him £50 million when he had purchased it last year. It was in the small village of Genthod, on the outskirts north of the city. They hired two cars and set off, Pope in the lead car, with Snow and Kelleher in the car behind him. They drove north-east, the airport to their left, and followed the E25 to Chemin des Rousses in Bellevue.

  Snow’s voice came over the radio. ‘How do you want to play this?’

  ‘We’ll take a look today. If we can get eyes on him, so much the better, but we’re going to have to be careful. If he is our man, he’s going to be on edge. And he can afford very good security.’

  They reached Genthod and followed the picturesque streets down to the roads that overlooked the hugeness of Lake Geneva. As they drove to the north, the properties became fewer and farther between, set in vast grounds and secured by tall walls and wire-tipped fences.

  ‘Exclusive neighbourhood,’ Kelleher said.

  ‘Keep driving,’ Pope said. ‘You keep going. I’m going to have a quick look.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  Pope slowed as he approached the gates, saw that there were security cameras there and pulled away again. He drove on for half a mile, took a turning that led him to a quiet country lane and parked the car out of sight.

  He was able to stay off the main road, following a cycle path to the south-east. The terrain was hilly, rising up to a height of fifty feet to his right and then sloping down to the shore of the lake to his left. He turned off the path so that he could climb, forcing his way through the undergrowth until he reached the crown of the hill. There was a small clearing there, and as he turned and assessed the landscape to the east, he had his first good look at the property he was interested in.

  It was a big house, four storeys tall. It was surrounded by enormous grounds and enjoyed perhaps half a mile of prime frontage onto the lake.

  ‘Control, Nine, Twelve. Report.’

  ‘We’ve stopped,’ Kelleher said. ‘Lay-by on the Route de Malagny. What’s your location?’

  ‘South of you. I’ve found a good spot for a look at the house. Hold your position.’

  Pope rested the holdall on the ground, unzipped it and took out the binoculars he had brought with him. He raised them to his eyes and gazed out onto the mansion. He estimated that he was three kilometres away from the property. As he adjusted the focus, it came into clear view.

  He could see why it had been so expensive to purchase. It was enormous, for a start, with three separate wings that had been constructed in a distinctly modernist style. There was a huge amount of glass, with generous picture windows to every aspect. The east-facing side of the building was just twenty feet from the start of the lake, suggesting that there would be stupendous views from inside. A path cut down the gentle slope to a boathouse and a jetty. There was a pool to one side, a pair of tennis courts to the other, and a separate complex that looked like it housed the staff. Pope scanned across and saw a car showroom to the left of the house. He watched a Bentley Continental GT and a Land Rover Discovery being washed and polished by two members of staff.

  The place would be very, very difficult to breach. He saw security cameras around the estate, and he would have been surprised if it wasn’t protected by laser tripwires and motion detectors. He saw guards. They would probably be armed. There would be a direct line to the local constabulary. It would be difficult to get in even with a large, well-equipped team. As it was, there were three of them, and they had very little in the way of kit.

  He could see no easy way to infiltrate.

  He was getting ready to put the binoculars away when he saw activity from the front of the house. A large door had opened, and two figures emerged. Two men. Business suits. One was much bigger than the other. The big man had a shaved head. The other had his back turned, perhaps talking to someone still inside the property.

  ‘Control, Nine, Twelve. Come in.’

  ‘Nine, Control,’ Kelleher responded. ‘Copy that.’

  ‘Turn around and start coming back. There’s activity at the house.’

  ‘Copy. The target?’


  ‘I’m just waiting for him to turn around so I can get a look at him.’ The man was gesticulating angrily. His irritation continued for thirty seconds, the gestures becoming angrier and more impatient, and then a third figure came out of the property. It was a teenage boy. Brown skin and long dark hair. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He lolled and when the other man stabbed a finger in his face and then pointed away to the cars, he set off with an insolent slouch.

  ‘Twelve, Control. We’re half a mile away. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Hold and wait for instructions.’

  Pope squinted into the rangefinder, gently adjusting the focus, and then the third figure turned around. He tilted his head, and for a moment it looked as if the man was staring right into the binoculars. It was al-Khawari. The man was impossible to mistake. He looked like Omar Sharif, slight and dapper, his white hair standing out against the dark-tinted window that was behind him. Al-Khawari didn’t move, his eyes aimed right at him, and Pope wondered uneasily if he had betrayed himself. He dismissed that as foolish. The sun was behind him and it was impossible that he could be visible to the naked eye from there. The man turned to watch the teenager, and finally he set off in the same direction.

  Pope panned right.

  The big man was joined by another two who had been waiting in a small outbuilding. It was obvious now that these three were al-Khawari’s personal security detail. Pope saw that one of the newcomers had a long gun, although he was too far away to identify it. The man with the rifle got into the Land Rover. The big man got into the driver’s seat of the Bentley. The third man disappeared into the garage and drove out again in a second Land Rover. The three cars lined up in convoy, with the Land Rovers bracketing the Bentley, and set off up the sloping driveway to the gate and the road beyond.

  ‘Control, Nine, Twelve. They’re coming out. Our man is in a Bentley, and he’s between two Land Rover Discoveries. Three men in a security detail.’

  ‘What are our orders?’

  ‘Follow.’

  ‘And engage?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Do not engage. There’s an unidentified teenage male in the car. Could be his son.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  ‘I need to get back to my car. We’ll run surveillance as a team. Update me on their location, and I’ll catch up.’

  He put the binoculars into his bag and moved as quickly as he could through the undergrowth on the flanks of the hill until he was back down on the cycle path. He ran as hard as he could and reached the car in three minutes. He got into the car, turned it around and set off back to the main road.

  ‘Position?’

  ‘Heading north-east. Just going through Crans-près-Céligny.’

  Pope looked at the satnav stuck to the inside of the windscreen. The convoy was three miles further up the road. He needed to get there as quickly as he could. He was driving fast, nudging the car up to eighty as he tried to catch up with them. The limit was seventy-five, and he knew that the road was usually heavily policed, but he couldn’t dawdle. If al-Khawari’s men were good, and he had reason to believe that they were, they would be skilled in counter-surveillance. It was very easy to identify a single pursuer. If they made Kelleher and Snow, all they would need to do would be to peel off onto a quieter road and see whether they followed. If they did, they would be suspicious. Another turn onto another quiet road would confirm their speculation. A two-car surveillance, though not optimal, would increase their chances of staying undetected. In an ideal world, Pope would have operated a ‘floating box,’ with multiple cars that could merge into and drift out of the pursuit. But this was not a perfect world, and they would have to make do with what they had.

  He saw them half a mile ahead and started to slow down so that he was travelling just a little faster than they were.

  ‘I’ve got a visual on you,’ he said into his mic.

  ‘Want us to drop off?’

  He looked at the satnav again. ‘There’s a turning two hundred yards ahead on your right.’

  ‘I see it.’

  ‘It’ll pick up this road again in a mile.’

  ‘Copy.’

  Pope watched as Kelleher and Snow decelerated, indicated and turned off.

  He edged closer to the Land Rover at the rear of the convoy. He could see nothing through the darkened windows, but they were driving carefully, observing the speed limit. He marshalled the gap between them, getting a clearer view of the other two cars as they followed a gentle bend in the road. There was a uniform twenty feet between each car and the next.

  They were on the E62. It was the main thoroughfare along the northern shore of the lake, and it would have appeared natural for Pope to have been behind the convoy. The roads coming off it were minor ones, not ones that it would be unusual to keep missing. Kelleher reported that she and Snow were back on the E62, and Pope told them to keep their distance in case he needed them, but as they travelled on, he grew more comfortable. They hadn’t been made yet, and he saw no reason why that would change.

  He saw a sign for Rolle, and the lead Discovery indicated that it was going to come off the main route and follow the turn.

  ‘They’re coming off,’ Pope radioed. ‘I’ll go ahead and come around. You follow.’

  ‘Copy.’

  Pope drove on for half a mile and then took the next left-hand turn off the E62, coming back on himself and entering the village from the north. He passed the Chateau de Rolle and the Île de la Harpe in the lake, an artificial island with an obelisk poking from between the trunks of a clutch of trees. Kelleher radioed their location and Pope navigated to the north-west, taking the Route de Gilly and then the Avenue du Jura until he saw the signs for the Institut Le Rosey and realised where the convoy must be going.

  ‘It’s a school,’ he radioed.

  ‘There’s a long driveway. They’ve turned onto it. We’re going on.’

  ‘I’ll go past for a look. Stop in Rolle. I’ll radio in fifteen minutes.’

  Pope parked the car for a second time and followed the narrow road back to the south, retracing his route. The property to the east was demarked by a tall stone wall. He continued until he came to a pair of impressive stone pillars with ‘CHATEAU DU ROSEY’ engraved into each of them. There was a pair of security cameras on tall posts set just behind the pillars, so he continued onwards, following the lazy curve of the wall until he was far enough away from the cameras to be confident that he would not be seen. A young oak grew out of the verge between the road and the start of the wall, and after checking that the road was clear, Pope clambered up it.

  He pulled himself onto the top of the wall and brought out his binoculars again.

  The road wound its way through picturesque grounds until it straightened out into an avenue lined by elms. The road stopped at a collection of buildings that were half a kilometre away from his position. Pope’s eye was drawn to a chateau and, set around it, a campus comprised of a series of impressive buildings. He found the two Land Rovers and the Bentley. They had parked alongside a two-storey building painted a mellow yellow, with red tiles on the sharply sloping roof. He watched as al-Khawari and the boy he now assumed to be his son got out of the car. One of the heavies brought a suitcase down from his Discovery and hauled it to the entrance of the building that they were nearest to.

  ‘Nine, Control. What’s going on?’

  ‘That was the school run,’ he said quietly. ‘Ask around town. See what you can find out about this place.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Pope watched the buildings a little longer. He saw a group of teenagers exiting one of the buildings, milling around near to the Bentley. Al-Khawari was talking to the boy, but as they noticed the newcomers, something was said, and they shared an awkward embrace. The boy turned and went to join the other pupils.

  Pope had an idea.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Michael Pope was at the same motorway services as before. It was raining heavily and he had taken s
helter inside. The building was arranged as a large atrium with fast-food outlets and coffee shops around its edges. The space in the middle was given over to seating and tables. It was busy, noisy and hot. Pope sipped at his cup of coffee and kept a cautious watch of the people around him: families struggling with children, businessmen and women stopping to use the facilities before heading off to wherever it was that they were needed. There was a big LCD screen on the other side of the room, and Pope glanced at it occasionally. It was showing the first pictures from inside the damaged ticket hall at Westminster. He had watched the footage in his hotel room when it had been released last night, but the broadcasters kept returning to it again and again. Pope found it all a little salacious. He had switched channels to try to find something else, but it seemed that every programme had some connection with the attack.

  He saw Vivian Bloom at the entrance, gave a slight tilt of his head and waited for him to come over.

  ‘Bloody weather.’

  Bloom was wet. He took off his dripping overcoat and folded it over the back of the chair.

  Pope took the envelope of photographs and passed them across the table.

  Bloom looked at them, picked one up and looked at it more closely. There were twelve in all. Pope had sent Hannah Kelleher to Marrakech the afternoon following the surveillance of al-Khawari on the way to Le Rosey. She had located the target and put her under close surveillance.