Agent of the State (16 page)

Seventeen

Friday, 14 September, 08.47, Paula Weatherall’s office

To manage each of the specialised covert functions for which he was responsible, John Kerr had to use different types of accommodation, although suitable buildings were hard to come by because of the highly unusual requirements. Jack Langton’s surveillance teams worked out of a crumbling former fleet-sales office in Wandsworth. The heavily secured premises were spread above a row of shops that included an ironmonger, a kebab takeaway and an Afro-Caribbean hairdresser called Relax. The base was completely anonymous. Any burglar breaching the alarmed windows and door would have found a number of rolled-up sleeping bags on four single beds, two wooden tables with chairs, a couple of moth-eaten armchairs facing an old TV, a dozen mugs, coffee and sugar in the kitchen, and a wardrobe full of clothes for rapid changes of appearance. The walls were completely bare: there was no notice-board, calendar or other sign of officialdom. Beneath the block, and accessible only from a potholed service road to the rear, was an underground car park large enough to swallow the team’s eclectic range of covert motorcycles and cars.

Reporting directly to Dodge, the unit’s agent runners tasked and debriefed their sources in safe-houses, modest rented flats spread all over London and changed at regular intervals. These were more comfortable, with freshly made-up beds, pictures on the walls, decent TVs and sound systems, and modest working kitchens with food in the freezer. Dodge’s handlers set great store by the homeliness of each flat. The previous year, when the Met’s Estates Department insisted the flats be equipped with standard-issue furniture, they simply clubbed together from their own pockets and fitted them out independently. An agent compromised or falling under threat could be accommodated indefinitely while the team created a resettlement programme.

The hiding place for Justin Hine’s technical engineers was a workshop built into a row of Victorian railway arches just west of Camberwell Green. The cover was a niche IT research business shared with a joiner’s, a story that justified the metal doors, double locks, hi-tech alarm and irregular comings and goings.

The external appearance of damp and decay disguised the total makeover inside. The brightly lit interior was deceptively spacious, fifty feet by twenty, divided down the middle by an insulated glass partition with a central door. To protect the IT kit at the far end of the shop, the engineers maintained the temperature at a steady seventy-three degrees. In complete contrast, the two workbenches and lathe crammed into the section nearest the door gave the place the look of a regular workshop, with drills, hammers, saws, screwdrivers and wood planes neatly laid out on the benches or hanging from the walls.

Justin’s team made kit to order, drawing the designs from their own imagination. He always said they provided the full service. At the warm end of the shop they made their own housings for sensors, cameras and microphones, and dreamt up new methods to exploit computer hard drives and mobile-phone technology; at the other, two civilian carpenters, both in their sixties, built the furniture and adapted the fittings to conceal their secret devices. Alongside them, almost unnoticed, a middle-aged locksmith developed magic ways to defeat the most sophisticated entry systems.

The workship was heavily secured outside working hours, but disguised as a real business by an unmanned, partitioned reception area just inside the main door, with a small switchboard, a calendar from a communications company and marketing literature from various genuine IT outfits. Contact from the street was by buzzer and intercom, unsuspecting visitors soon redirected by Justin or one of his engineers. The adjacent businesses were a car body-repair shop, an MOT testing centre and a storage space for scrap metal. Some of the dangerous-looking men who ran them had heavy-duty criminal convictions.

Kerr would have preferred to hot-desk among his teams, but Weatherall insisted he base himself at the Yard, in an old storeroom at the far end of the open-plan office on the eighteenth floor, at the opposite corner from Room 1830. He had stolen a desk and a couple of chairs from the floor below and got Justin to fix a secure USB connection for his desktop, but it took three months to persuade Facilities to replace the walls with glass partitions. It soon became known as ‘the Fishbowl’ because Kerr was always so visible.

Kerr was back at his desk inside three minutes of the bust-up with Metcalfe. Unlocking his computer, he forwarded the Dragstone folder to Alan Fargo with just one word, ‘Embed’, the signal for Fargo to bury it out of reach in one of the top-secret 1830 databases.

Kestrel, his inside contact at MI5, had not returned his call. Such reluctance to get back to him never came as a surprise to Kerr, for their relationship had been fractious from the moment Kerr had approached him, almost three years earlier. Kestrel’s reaction always followed the same pattern: denial, followed by resistance, protest and, finally, grudging co-operation. Kerr understood and tolerated Kestrel’s brinkmanship, his need to perpetuate the fiction that he was still in control. He left him a second message, then worked back through his inbox while awaiting the inevitable call from Weatherall’s PA. Donna rang in less than an hour. ‘Commander wants to see you now.’

‘Any idea what for?’ he asked unnecessarily.

Donna’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘What the hell have you been up to now? They’re steaming.’

‘They?’ asked Kerr, deleting Dragstone from his email account and locking the screen.

‘She’s got the Bull with her, so wear your running shoes.’

The atmosphere hit him as soon as he entered the office. Paula Weatherall was sitting in her usual place at the head of the conference table. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Derek Finch, overall head of Counter-terrorism Command, had taken the chair at the opposite end. They sat three metres apart in hostile silence. It was bizarre.

Finch had progressed up the uniform ladder through brown-nosing, backstabbing and Freemasonry, forsaking the Lodge the moment serious rank came within his grasp. His teeth were a dazzling white, his hair jet black, and both looked unnatural. Kerr estimated he weighed in at around two hundred and fifty pounds. Television gave him another twenty and accentuated his heavy jowls, which pulled down the sides of his mouth to give him a look of unwavering disapproval. He was known as ‘the Bull’ because of his propensity to charge at the slightest opportunity, often at the wrong target. Neither spoke to him, so Kerr elected for the chair midway down the table, just out of striking distance.

Finch was overdressed in his usual navy woollen pinstripe with red lining, matching tie and breast-pocket handkerchief, but to Kerr he always looked a sack of shit. Kerr pushed the chair back and crossed his legs. ‘Morning,’ he said, risking a smile and looking from one to the other.

Weatherall was still drawing breath as Finch fired the first shot. ‘My senior investigating officer just reported the theft of our investigation database.’

‘Jim Metcalfe and I had a conversation,’ Kerr shot straight back, ‘in which I offered to assist with Jibril. He declined, so I forwarded Dragstone for us to work on upstairs. I want our intelligence to add value to your investigation. That’s all. You know, both sides of SO15 working together. I wasn’t stealing anything.’

‘Theft and an integrity breach,’ blustered Finch, jowls shaking. ‘Totally out of bloody order.’

‘All right, sir,’ conceded Kerr, holding up his hands. ‘I acted hastily for the best motives and I apologise. I’ve already deleted it.’

‘But did you look at it?’ Finch seemed even angrier than usual, as if Kerr was holding him back from the Friday early getaway.

‘Didn’t appear to be much in it, frankly. Which was a disappointment.’

Finch glared at Weatherall. ‘I take it you didn’t agree to his interference in my investigation? Or Bill Ritchie?’

‘Of course not.’  Weatherall looked at Kerr accusingly. ‘You’re supposed to be running my covert operations. Gathering intelligence. What the hell were you doing making a nuisance of yourself on the fifteenth floor?’

‘Ma’am, yesterday you threatened to suspend me for the surveillance operation around Ahmed Jibril. I have to know that the actions of my officers were justified. The threat to the public is severe and all the indications are that Jibril is a terrorist, yet Jim Metcalfe hinted he might release him without charge.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I mean, it’s totally weird. Turn on the box and you get blanket coverage of the bomb scene, but nothing about Jibril since the Trojans tried to shoot him. Not a word or picture from any media outlet I can find. And no appearances from you, sir. Which is uncharacteristic.’ Kerr was genuinely surprised by the news blackout, which added to his unease around every aspect of the Jibril investigation. Finch’s silence was especially perplexing, for the head of SO15 loved the media, especially TV. He gave hundreds of interviews, missing no opportunity to expand his public profile for a lucrative post-retirement role as tabloid commentator.

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ sneered Finch.

‘I’m being curious. Everyone’s back-pedalling with this guy and I’m just asking why.’

Kerr suddenly sensed the focus shift from him. He felt Weatherall’s foot lift from his throat as she turned to Finch in surprise. ‘Is that true?’ she said. ‘Are you really thinking about a possible release after, what, less than twenty-four hours?’

‘That’s a matter for me.’

‘Quite. But as Gold in the ops room yesterday . . . I mean, I do have an interest here, Derek,’ she persisted.

Kerr was relieved that Weatherall’s intervention had moved the meeting on from its original purpose, his own reprimand.

‘The outcome of this case is for me to determine,’ said Finch, ‘with MI5.’

‘Well, I’m seeing the director-general on Tuesday,’ said Weatherall. ‘Our routine fortnightly catch-up. I imagine she’ll raise Jibril, so I do need to be in the loop on this.’

‘No. Philippa and I had a working breakfast today. Take a step back, Paula. You don’t need to know.’

Kerr waited in vain for Weatherall to push back. She, like Finch, belonged to the country’s golden circle of chief officers, and Kerr was astonished that Finch could be so offensive to a senior colleague. Mrs Bull must have a very tough time.

‘I’ll probably decide over the weekend,’ he blundered on, ‘in discussion with ministers.’

‘Politicians?’ Kerr was unable to restrain himself. ‘You’re consulting government about the conduct of a police operation? Who? Why?’

This was another red flag to Kerr. Finch’s admission disturbed him as much as the interference of MI5 and MI6 in the interviews of Jibril at Paddington Green. Why should government ministers have any say in the conduct of a counter-terrorist investigation?

‘Just stick to your job, Chief Inspector,’ said Finch.

‘That’s exactly what I was trying to do.’ Kerr was about to challenge the Bull about the wiping of the secret traces from Excalibur, but something about Finch’s boast warned him to hold back.

‘And keep away from things that are bigger than you.’ Finch glared, getting ready to charge again. With limited intelligence but an ego the size of Mars, Finch was known for his slavish subservience to the government of the day. The home secretary flattered him with lunch, called him by his first name and relied on his acquiescence to every assault on public freedom. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near my investigation again.’

‘But Jibril was connected to the suicide bombers.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘We believe Ahmed Mohammed Jibril is a
jihadi
who intended to attack us. My officers disrupted him,’ continued Kerr, undeterred. ‘How can you be considering early release? Like I said, even the media are sleeping on the job. Has someone gagged them? Paddington Green is usually leaking like a sieve by now.’

Notorious for cultivating London’s crime reporters in exchange for a sympathetic press, Finch bridled. He turned to Weatherall. ‘Are you sure you didn’t authorise him to go down there?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said, with a glance at Kerr, embarrassed.

‘Ritchie?’

‘No.’

Finch paused to pick a speck of fluff from his jacket. ‘All right, I’ll leave it to you to deal with this internally,’ he said, smoothing his tie. Kerr recognised the signs and groaned inwardly. The Bull was preening himself prior to pulling rank. He leant towards Weatherall, his bloated gut pressing into the table. ‘Enlighten me, Paula. Is it normal for that man to address senior officers in this insubordinate way?’ He spoke as if Kerr was invisible, eyes glinting at Weatherall across the divide. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised. And disappointed. When this is over we need to have a talk about how you run your department.’

‘No,’ interrupted Kerr, with a harsh laugh. ‘The Dragstone thing was my decision alone, because your bloke was being so bloody obstinate and uncooperative.’ Weatherall looked startled but Kerr pressed home the attack. ‘It had nothing to do with Commander Weatherall.’

‘Shut it,’ was all Finch could say.

‘And for what it’s worth, I don’t want you insulting my boss in front of me.’ The Bull was getting excited again, as if enraged by his own red tie. ‘It’s inappropriate,’ continued Kerr, ‘overbearing and ignorant. She’s trying to reform things, make us all work together.’ Kerr was amazed to hear himself defending the woman who had beaten him up twice in as many days. ‘Christ, we’re supposed to be protecting the public, not fighting each other.’