Close Call

by Stella Rimington

  But she soon discovered that McManus’s almost forensic attentiveness was focused not so much on intelligence gathering as on a righteous passion to sniff out wrong­doing and see it punished. He was a zero-tolerance police officer, openly disdainful of the way so many of the criminals he had hunted down wriggled free in their progress from arrest to the jury’s verdict. The only time Liz saw McManus lose his temper was when the Crown ­Prosecution Service refused to prosecute the leader of a drug ring, a man called Pears whom McManus had pursued for years, because in their view there was insufficient evidence to secure a conviction.

  If Liz sometimes found McManus’s crusading spirit unsettling, she also admired it. Where some of his colleagues appeared quite happy to accept the odd freebie – drinks in a pub, a taxi ride home, free admission to a club – McManus wasn’t: when one evening the owner of a local restaurant brought them two brandies at the end of their meal and said they were ‘on the house’, McManus insisted they be added to the bill. But with Liz he was relaxed; she found him caring, loving and warm. To her surprise he seemed happy to be open about their relationship, and made no effort to disguise it from their colleagues. She was startled but flattered when quite early on he asked her to think about moving into his flat, and though she didn’t take that step she did find herself wondering how she could get her secondment to Liverpool extended.

  They had been together for two months when things went suddenly wrong. They were in McManus’s flat, an elegant one-bedroom pad high enough up in a new block to give a spectacular view over the Mersey. McManus was in a jubilant mood, and over a glass of wine he explained that Pears, the drug dealer, had been arrested again and this time the Crown Prosecution Service were going to prosecute.

  ‘What changed?’ asked Liz.

  ‘New evidence,’ said McManus.

  ‘Really, what sort of evidence?’ She was curious to know, since the CPS had previously complained that the avail­able evidence was too circumstantial.

  ‘A witness has come forward. He’s prepared to say he saw Pears make a big sale.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ said Liz. ‘Why did he come forward now? It must be a bit risky for him. Are you going to have to protect him?’

  McManus shrugged. ‘Maybe it was my appeal to his better nature – not that this particular little runt has one.’ He paused and looked at Liz with a grin. ‘Maybe it had something to do with letting him off another charge if he came good in this case.’

  ‘A deal, in other words,’ said Liz, starting to understand.

  ‘If you want to call it that.’

  ‘What else should I call it? The little runt, as you call him, has decided he’s seen something because that way he gets off.’

  ‘It may be a rough kind of justice, but believe me it’s still justice. He would have seen Pears do other deals plenty of times.’

  ‘But not this one?’

  Again McManus shrugged, this time in acknowledgement. His jubilation was gone. He said defensively, ‘What the hell. I didn’t say it was ideal. But this way we’ll get a result.’

  Liz said, ‘It’s wrong. You know that.’

  He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Forget about it. More wine?’

  ‘No, thanks. You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I didn’t hear any question.’ He’d got up and was pouring himself a glass of Chianti.

  Liz said, ‘You know what I mean. I know what you’ve done, and it’s wrong.’

  ‘Says who?’ His voice was sharp now. ‘Says Liz Carlyle, twenty-something trainee spook from London. The same Liz Carlyle who’s never walked a beat, never made an arrest, never looked down the barrel of a gun held by some scumbag who’d as soon pull the trigger as sneeze. A Liz Carlyle who might be just a little out of her depth here.’

  He had never spoken like this to her before. She said as calmly as she could, ‘It’s not right, Jimmy. Not because little Liz Carlyle says so. It’s not right because it just isn’t. You can’t go round making up evidence just because you’re convinced someone is guilty. You can’t be judge and jury; that’s not your job.’

  ‘Nice speech, Liz, but if we can’t rely on the legal system, what else can we do? If I have to bend the rules to get this bastard, I will. It’s the results that matter. Getting Pears off the streets and locked up where he belongs.’

  ‘It’s not some minor rules you’re bending, it’s the law. Here you are saying Pears can’t stand above the law, but then where are you standing?’

  McManus made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Time’s up,’ he announced. ‘Our booking’s ten minutes from now. You better get your coat.’

  The flippancy in this dismissal enraged Liz. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ she snapped. ‘And see myself out.’

  They didn’t speak for three days, each locked into their conviction that they were right. Finally Liz decided it was ridiculous to behave this way – she was never going to agree with what he’d done, and her whole view of the man had changed. But even if they weren’t going to be lovers any more, it seemed ridiculous not to be on speaking terms, so towards the end of the day, when McManus came into the office and sat down at his desk, she went over.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ she said lightly. Purvis at the desk next to them was pretending not to listen.

  ‘Got a lot on,’ McManus said tersely, without lifting his head from the papers he was reading.

  ‘OK,’ said Liz. The rebuff couldn’t have been clearer.

  She gave it a week, then tried again, and received the same short shrift. After that, they ignored each other, which made for a certain tension in the office, though nothing like it had been when she first arrived. She went back to spending the evenings boringly alone, now looking forward to the end of her Liverpool posting. She missed McManus – or she missed the man she had thought he was, though it gave her a sliver of comfort to know that that man did not exist.

  When McManus left Liverpool on promotion to Greater Manchester, she barely noticed, so accustomed by then was she to not having him in her life. She was not invited to his leaving do, and he did not even bother to say goodbye. So she could only imagine his reaction when the drug dealer Pears was convicted and given eight years.

  Then one morning she heard Purvis complaining that he’d paid more than he could afford for a second-hand Audi he’d bought from McManus when he’d left for Manchester. Liz’s car was once again in the garage and suddenly she found herself offering to buy the Audi off Purvis for the same price he’d paid McManus. Purvis accepted with alacrity. Since she was never going to see or hear from McManus again, Liz reckoned this would be the legacy of their affair.

  Chapter 7

  The sky was black over the mountains as Miles drove his SUV along the sandy road into the countryside. The Trade Minister, Baakrime, had said that he would have something to tell Miles in a week, and the previous day an invitation had arrived at the US Embassy inviting him to lunch at the Minister’s farm in the hills outside Sana’a.

  Miles’s colleagues in Langley were waiting impatiently for the payback on the cash that Baakrime had been given, information they were sure the Minister was holding about the sources of arms that were getting into the hands of jihadis through Yemen.

  But Miles was uncomfortable, nervous about this ­journey away from comparative safety in the bustle of the town. Minister Baakrime had fallen for his recruitment pitch suspiciously quickly, taking the envelope of cash and promising information. But had he really agreed, or was this invitation a trap either to kill Miles or expose him as a foreign spy? He had consulted Langley overnight but they were keen to get the information and prepared to take a risk, so he was instructed to go to the meeting – and wear a tracking device that would be monitored by a drone far overhead. It wouldn’t help if he was killed but might if he was kidnapped – small consolation.

  Miles glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The climate in Yemen, normally so hot and dry, could produce sudden short but heavy cloudbursts, and it looked
as if that was exactly what was on the way.

  Seconds later it arrived. Rain beat thunderously on the top of the car; the wipers sweeping at top speed from side to side of the windscreen had no effect and the glass ran with a stream of water thick with sand raised by the sudden wind and the force of the rain. Miles could see nothing. The fields of arable crops and fruit orchards that bordered the road disappeared from sight and he stopped the car where he was, in the middle of the single-track road, hoping no vehicle was coming the other way. If there was, he wouldn’t see it and it wouldn’t see him until it was upon him.

  He sat sweating with heat and tension until suddenly the rain stopped, the wipers cleared away the sand and he could see the road again. It was more of a small river now and his wheels threw up a fountain of water on each side of the car as he drove slowly on. As the sun came out again, he saw in the distance the red walls of what he took to be his objective, the Minister’s farm.

  The carved wooden gates of the compound were open as Miles drove up. A young man in a white robe and a ­Western-style sports jacket saluted and waved him in through the gates, then walked across to open the car door as Miles parked against the wall beside a wet and muddy silver Mercedes with a two-digit licence plate – 12.

  ‘Salaam aleikum. Come this way, sir.’

  Miles followed the young man into a lofty hall. Sunlight glanced though small windows set high up in the walls, but below the room was in shade and at first Miles, coming in from the bright sunlight, could see little. As his eyes got used to the dim light he saw the rough stone walls, the red-tiled floor covered with rugs in subdued colours, and around the room ottomans and chairs covered with cushions and throws of bright silks. This was a very luxurious farmhouse.

  ‘Sit down, sir. The Minister will be here shortly,’ said the young man in unaccented English. He clicked his fingers and a servant appeared with a tray of glasses of fruit juice.

  Miles sat on the edge of an ottoman, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice. His sense of unease grew as he waited, wondering what would happen next.

  ‘My friend.’ A loud voice echoed across the hall as Baakrime in a long white robe strode towards Miles, his hand held out. ‘It is delightful to see you here. I must apologise for our weather. These rain storms blow up at this time of the year, but they are soon over. Unlike your hurricanes, they do little damage.’ He pumped Miles’s hand enthusiastically, setting up a sharp twingeing pain in his shoulder.

  ‘I thought it best to meet here. It is safe and away from prying eyes. Everyone here is family or old servants of my family. The road you came along is watched by my people and the young man who met you is one of my sons. He is my secretary. He was at school in England and at Cambridge University. Do you know England?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘I have worked in London.’

  ‘London. I love that city.’ The Minister rubbed his hands together. ‘We go there every year. My wife enjoys the shopping. Oxford Street, Harrods. I come back a poor man.’ He smiled and Miles smiled back. Baakrime’s poverty was not to be taken seriously.

  ‘But let us eat while we talk,’ and the clapping of his hands produced two servants with trays of little dishes and jugs of more fruit juice. One tray was placed on a brass-topped table beside Miles and the other beside Baakrime. Glasses were filled and the servants withdrew.

  ‘I am honoured to see you in my house,’ Baakrime began. ‘Sana’a is not a safe place for me to meet you. This is a dangerous time in my country. There is much discontent; the people are unsettled, the country is fragile. There are elements in Sana’a who want to overthrow the government and would like to be able to show we were pawns of the United States. In our desert regions, the jihadi groups have established strongholds. They are in league with groups in other countries and they want to kill us all.’

  Miles nodded. ‘Yes. These are disturbed times in the whole of this region.’

  ‘You asked about weapons,’ the Minister went on. ‘They are everywhere. Where are they coming from? Iran, Pakistan – all the places you would expect.’ He paused to eat some things from the dishes.

  ‘What do you know of arms from the United States or Europe?’ Miles was anxious to come to the point and get away. In spite of the Minister’s assurances of security, he felt exposed in this place with no backup.

  ‘My friend, with the arms trade it is always difficult to know the origin. These people are masters at deceit – false invoices, changing documentation while a cargo is en route, and of course there are corrupt officials in every port and so much money to be made. The people who run this trade are very rich indeed – unlike in my country, where the poor are everywhere.’

  He sipped his juice and looked at Miles over the rim of his glass.

  There was silence. Miles ate some food. He felt sure there was more information to come, but it seemed to need some assistance. ‘Yes. The poor. I hope our contribution helped a little.’

  ‘Yes indeed, my friend. We are so grateful. But there is so much need.’

  Miles felt in his pocket and produced an envelope. ‘Let’s hope this will satisfy some of it,’ he said, placing the envelope carefully on the tray of dishes beside him.

  Baakrime began to talk again as though there had been no interruption. ‘Yes. The people who run this trade are very clever at disguising themselves. But I have heard that there is a main middleman for deals from Europe. They call him Calibre. His real name is never used. I hear that he is meeting the leader of a group of jihadis or rebels – I don’t know what group or exactly who they are, though I understand they are being funded by al-Qaeda. The meeting is in Paris in the next week or so. It is to arrange a shipment. The delivery will come through Yemeni ports, I hear.’

  Miles nodded and waited. His face was calm but he was excited. At last he had something for his money, though it was pretty vague and probably not anything that could be acted on.

  But Baakrime had not finished. ‘I will try to find out more about this meeting and if I do my secretary will get a message to you.’ He stopped for a sip of juice. ‘There is one more thing. It is generally thought that the arms that come via this route are for use in Arab countries, and that may be so, but I have heard that the man behind those deals, this Calibre, is using someone from England to help with this latest deal. The arms trade is a very tight-knit network, almost like a club, but it seems someone British is applying for membership.’

  Chapter 8

  It was eight o’clock in the evening and Liz was tidying up the kitchen after her supper. Unusually for her she’d been cooking. Martin was convinced that only French women knew how to cook and she had promised herself that next time he came to London for the weekend she was going to surprise him by producing the perfect soufflé. So she had been practising on herself and this evening she reckoned she’d cracked it. She had just eaten what she considered to be a masterly example – cheese and spinach soufflé à la mode de Carlyle. She was just wondering what to do with the half that remained, asking herself if it would be OK if she heated it up again for tomorrow night, when the phone rang. It was the Duty Officer.

  ‘Evening, Liz. The Six Duty Officer has just rung with a message for you from Bruno Mackay,’ he said. ‘Would you join him and Geoffrey Fane at Grosvenor tomorrow morning at half past eight for a meeting with Mr Bokus? Apparently something urgent has just come in from Langley. He said you should bring an overnight bag.’

  ‘Oh thanks,’ said Liz. ‘And did he say what I should put in it? Jeans and a T-shirt, a fur coat or a long black garment suitable for interviewing Arab sheiks?’

  ‘’Fraid that’s all the message said.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. I suppose I’ll just have to use my initiative.’

  ‘Good night then,’ said the Duty Officer cheerily, and rang off.

  At quarter past eight the following morning she was walking across Grosvenor Square towards the American Embassy, carrying an overnight bag, when she spotted Geoffrey Fane and Bruno Mackay getting out of a ta
xi. It was uncanny how similar they looked. Fane, his tall, slim, pinstriped figure, nowadays with a slight stoop that made him look even more heron-like than when he was younger. Bruno, equally tall and slim, equally elegantly clad, though his suit was finely checked rather than pinstriped and the colour lighter than Fane’s navy blue. Bruno’s shock of fair hair and deeply tanned face contrasted with Fane’s pale skin and black hair, but they might have been, if not father and son, at least related. They certainly came out of the same mould.

  ‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ said Fane as they all reached the steps up to the Embassy front door together. ‘Glad to see you’ve come prepared,’ he added, glancing at her bag.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replied, her heart sinking as she noticed that Bruno was carrying a black leather valise. It looked as though wherever she was going, he was going too.

  In Andy Bokus’s office in the CIA suite of rooms behind the locked and alarmed steel door in the Embassy, a plate of oversized bagels and cream cheese was set out on the table. ‘Help yourselves to breakfast,’ said Andy, waving his hand at the plate. ‘Coffee’s over there.’

  Fane shuddered slightly at the sight of the bagels, and from the corner of her eye Liz caught Bokus’s grin. Liz enjoyed watching Bokus and Fane playing a game with each other. It was a game that neither acknowledged but she suspected both understood. In Fane’s presence Bokus played up his roots as a son of humble immigrants – his grandfather had been a coalminer in the Ukraine and his father had landed on Ellis Island at the age of sixteen with nothing but the clothes he stood up in. Bokus senior had ended up running a gas station in Ohio and making enough to put Andy through college. Andy was bright, or he wouldn’t be where he now was, heading the CIA station in London. But he didn’t like London and he didn’t like most of the Britishers he met. And in particular he didn’t like Fane, who struck him as snobbish, self-satisfied and devious. So to Fane, Bokus presented himself as rather stupid and very uncouth, hence the enormous bagels. Fane responded by shooting his cuffs and adopting an exaggeratedly public school drawl and a patronising manner.