Agent of the State (17 page)

Nostrils flared, the Bull was practically snorting by now. Kerr imagined his feet pawing at the carpet.

‘Is that all you wanted?’ Kerr asked quietly, looking from one to the other.

Finch’s state-of-the-art mobile was vibrating across the table but he ignored it, his mouth gaping open. ‘Get the fuck out,’ was all the deputy assistant commissioner could come up with.

Kerr was unfazed. He had been a professional intelligence officer for more than twenty years. Finch was an over-promoted, accident-prone bully just passing through. When he was ready he turned to Weatherall. ‘Anything else, ma’am?’

‘Not now,’ said his commander, quietly. ‘Just leave us.’

Eighteen

Friday, 14 September, 12.36, the Fishbowl

If Metcalfe’s reaction had been disturbing, the Bull’s display of aggression really set the alarm bells ringing in Kerr’s head. He called his team to a crash meeting in his tiny office. He had already decided this would be their last meeting in the Fishbowl. If what he suspected was true, they would need to meet in secret from now on.

Melanie was the first to arrive, straight from a physio session at St Thomas’s to ease the pain in her left arm and side. Kerr made coffee in a cafetière and sat with her quietly for a few moments, wanting to send her home to her family but needing her expertise. She looked drained – reaction to the trauma of her undercover ordeal had finally kicked in – but point-blank refused to take time out.

Justin loped in with a fresh dressing under his woollen hat, and Jack Langton, comfortable in his leathers again, had biked from a surveillance plot in Balham. Kerr shoved his desk into the middle of the room and they all squeezed around it. There were only four chairs, so Justin squatted against the door.

Kerr slid coffee mugs round the table. ‘OK, Al, what have we got?’ he asked, pulling down the blinds and flicking on the lights.

Fargo had been researching non-stop in Room 1830. He had a printout of Dragstone, and spread this with his research notes on Kerr’s desk. ‘This has to be the strangest case I’ve ever seen. Apart from the forensic recovery at the bomb scene, Metcalfe and the Bellies are making a lot of noise, charging about the place with so-called urgent enquiries, you know, everything action this day, but most of it’s bullshit. The regular records are all “no trace” for Jibril. DNA, Police National Computer, ports database, Inland Revenue, National Insurance, voters’ registers. But he certainly didn’t act like he was a stranger to London. We had sight of him for a long time, remember, at the airport, in the street, on the bus. Watched him pick up the keys from the letting agent. No paperwork or cash deposit. It was like they were waiting for him. If he’s travelled or lived here before you’d expect him to throw up some kind of trace. But there’s nothing.’

‘You’re suggesting . . . what? Someone tampered with those records, too?’ said Justin.

‘I’m saying the
jihadi
Jack and I bumped at that bus stop yesterday has evaporated into some kind of non-person. Who knows? Anything’s possible around this guy.’

‘What does Dragstone tell us about how he entered the country?’ said Kerr.

Fargo studied his notes. ‘Again, very little recorded except his passport number.’

‘That’s really unusual, surely?’ said Justin.

‘In a Terrorism Act investigation against a foreign national? I’d say unprecedented,’ said Fargo. ‘His solicitor says he came here to train as a dentist and, bingo, Metcalfe’s boys find he has a place reserved for him next term at London Uni.’

‘And what’s the role of Five and Six in all this?’ said Langton. ‘Mel’s contact tells us they each have a presence at Paddington Green, right? And Metcalfe brags to you about being tasked by both agencies. So MI6 must have known about Jibril right from the start. Which means Joe Allenby was working against his own organisation by tipping you off, John.’

‘And completely boshes any idea that this guy was infiltrated here as an agent,’ said Justin. ‘Ahmed Jibril on the side of the angels? Forget it.’

‘What does Dragstone have about his property, associates, that sort of thing?’ said Kerr.

‘Same as the security traces. Zilch. Property list shows a cloth bag and the clothes he was arrested in. Nothing from the search of the safe-house. No mobile to research. No computer to dismantle.’

‘So the belongings of a non-person, too, which is incredibly suspicious,’ said Justin, who had never known life without a keyboard.

‘It comes down to this,’ said Fargo, who had already given Kerr the news. ‘We dealt with this guy on the ground. We think he’s a bad bastard. The man banged up at Paddington Green is a
jihadi
. Full stop. Yet everything in Dragstone tells me they want an excuse to let him go, despite Five and Six crawling all over it.’

‘Or because of.’

‘Commander Weatherall refused to let Ahmed Jibril run, so now the man is going to walk,’ said Justin, mysteriously, from the floor.

‘Time to get your head checked out again,’ said Melanie, giving him a gentle kick.

Kerr reached for Fargo’s printouts. Everyone sat in silence for a while, watching him absorb the Dragstone material. ‘No personal profile to speak of,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘Hardly any confirmed antecedents. No interview record or details of the questions.’ He threw the notes aside. ‘So what do we know? We have a man we believe to be a terrorist, incriminated by Joe Allenby and the Excalibur traces, who used evasion techniques against you guys. Now Allenby has disappeared and the intelligence has been wiped.’ He was speaking rapidly, as if he’d rehearsed this in his head a hundred times. ‘Metcalfe is conducting the most pathetic non-investigation of all time. The Bull is consulting politicians about the suspected terrorist’s imminent release and completely sidelining Weatherall.’

Kerr sat silently again for a few moments. He was building up to something. Eventually he turned to Langton. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Are you up for a trip to east London, Jack? Manor Park?’

Langton understood immediately and his eyes widened. ‘You’re asking me to burgle Julia Bakkour’s office? Jibril’s lawyer?’ He uttered a laugh that could have been surprise or disbelief. ‘John, have you gone fucking nuts or what?’

‘We need to know who instructed her and why,’ said Kerr.

‘And I take it you mean without authority,’ continued Langton. ‘You know, a minor detail called the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act.’

‘There’s no way Weatherall will sign up under RIPA. Just a quick look. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Then straight round to Jibril’s flat for the thorough search Metcalfe should have made.’

‘If I get caught we’re all in the shit,’ said Langton, the man to whom risk was routine.

‘That’s right. All of us. I know.’ Kerr fell silent again, giving them time to absorb the implications. RIPA had been introduced in 2000 to control all cases of what Home Office lawyers termed ‘intrusive surveillance’ by police and government agencies. It meant that every planned operation to follow, film, eavesdrop or infiltrate had to be specifically authorised. Any breach of the Act was career suicide.

‘It’s no problem,’ said Langton. ‘What exactly are we searching for here, John?’

‘The truth,’ said Kerr, simply. That was the real reason he had called them together again, his plan beneath the wire. He already had it mapped out, and the scrum-down in the Fishbowl was his invitation to join him. As his team exchanged glances, it seemed to Kerr that they already knew. They acted like they were already alongside him; Melanie and Fargo might even be a couple of paces ahead.

He glanced at them in turn. A little more than twenty-four hours after the bombings, they all looked desperately tired. ‘Look, everyone,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘it’s Friday afternoon and we’re all knackered, so think carefully before you commit. You’re right. We’re looking at corruption and cover-up here, and I think it goes very deep. We can let it go, move on to the next job. Or we start lifting stones.’

Justin laughed. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’

‘The moment we disturb the ground the bad people are going to know. And when that happens, life gets very heavy for every one of us.’

‘I think you’ve already demonstrated that,’ said Melanie.

‘You have to know that, guys. To be in no doubt before you commit. I mean, there’s nothing career-enhancing in this.’ Kerr felt a sharp pang of guilt. The more he alienated his bosses, the greater his concerns for the officers loyal to him, and he knew he was placing them in a dilemma. All had good degrees and promising careers that he was asking them to jeopardise. With a master’s in sports science from Loughborough, Jack Langton was a highly regarded detective inspector, newly married with a baby daughter. At thirty-nine, he would run for chief in a year or two. Melanie was married to a police officer, and had two young sons. As detective sergeants, she and Alan Fargo had everything to play for in SO15. At only twenty-six, Justin was a technical genius who had placed his life on the line to get the job done and rescue others, a walking example of unsung dedication.

Suddenly awkward, Kerr dropped his eyes and shuffled Fargo’s notes on the desk. ‘Thing is,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you’re all excellent officers with a lot to play for.’

‘What are you trying to say? Exactly,’ asked Melanie.

‘That you can drop off at any time. However this turns out, no one’s going to say thanks.’

‘Except you,’ she said.

‘You’re inviting us to join you off piste,’ said Langton, ‘so we’ll drop in to Manor Park and Lambeth, and when it goes belly-up Justin can call you from the nick. You OK with that?’

Kerr chuckled. ‘Yeah, brilliant.’

‘And what crimes can Mel and I commit to sacrifice our dazzling careers?’ asked Fargo.

‘I want you to retrace Jibril’s visa,’ said Kerr. ‘Follow it right back to Yemen or Pakistan or wherever. Find the Foreign Office person at the embassy who actually bloody interviewed him.’

‘I’ve already got a call in to Islamabad,’ said Melanie.

‘All right. From now on we need to take special care about personal security. Assume we’re all going to be hacked. I want you to leave each other loads of voicemails about regular jobs on the tasking list and any other diverting bullshit you can think of. We’ll use separate encrypted mobiles exclusively for this operation. Can you get those for us, Justin?’

‘No worries.’

‘And I’d like us to catch up on Sunday. That all right with everybody?’

Fargo and Justin nodded.

‘I’m supposed to be playing footie in the morning,’ said Langton.

‘And I’ve got my daughter’s concert in the evening,’ added Kerr. ‘No way I’m going to miss it. Let’s meet at three.’

‘Here?’ asked Fargo.

‘Not any more,’ replied Kerr, flicking open the blinds. A couple of officers were peering in, trying to see what was so important on a Friday afternoon. ‘My place. It’s safer and I’ll order in pizza.’

As they drifted out, Kerr asked Melanie to stay behind.

‘What’s up?’ she said.

‘You know how inquisitive they get,’ he said, looking through the blinds, ‘and I’m going to need some more bodies if this kicks off. Tell the others I want everything kept absolutely tight, Mel. Strict mobile and email discipline. No outsiders.’  Through the glass a couple of officers acknowledged him, as if they knew he was picking a team. ‘Is Douggie Blain still with us?’

‘Britbank made him a formal offer yesterday. Security and crisis management leader.’

‘How about Faz?’

‘Race and diversity training,’ said Melanie, following his gaze through the glass, ‘and before you ask, Rula’s going back to uni for a post-grad and Tony applied for Public Order Branch.’

‘People are so pissed off.’ He sighed. ‘I thought Faz already did his diversity last month.’

‘Failed.’

‘He was born in Lahore, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kerr. ‘All right. But I want Karl on board.’

‘Rest of the World? You sure?’ Melanie looked quizzical, but Kerr had his head down. ‘Are you going to brief Mr Ritchie, like he asked?’

‘Not now. I’ve upset enough governors for one day.’

‘Yeah. I heard what happened upstairs, with Mr Finch.’

‘How?’

‘Donna stopped me in the corridor.’

‘She wasn’t there.’

‘Heard everything. She does something illegal to the commander’s intercom, apparently. Thanks, anyway.’ She gestured into the main office. ‘Any of them will fly under the radar for you. You only have to ask.’

Nineteen

Friday, 14 September, 13.38, Knightsbridge

From the moment his limousine swept out of the VIP lounge at Heathrow to his arrival at the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, Russian junior trade minister Anatoli Rigov made three calls on the mobile belonging to his driver, a bruiser in a shiny charcoal suit. Between the embassy and the Dorchester Hotel he made another two, and received two back. For all seven calls, Rigov spoke Russian. When he needed to communicate with his protection officer, he spoke through the driver, leaving him to translate to Karl. From his front passenger seat, Karl Sergeyev concluded that the cartoon figure behind the wheel doubled as a bodyguard. Probably a KGB retiree from the fag end of the Cold War, out of condition but still up for a fight in situations requiring no fancy footwork.