Agent of the State (21 page)

‘Hey, you’re early,’ said Kerr, and then, to the screen, ‘Hold on, Al.’ He padded over to the door, kissed Gabi and paid the biker. He dumped the pizzas on the sideboard to hug her properly, but she was already dragging her suitcase across the room. ‘Didn’t even remember I was coming, did he?’ They all laughed, but Gabi looked serious. She managed a thin smile and made a face into the camera for Fargo.

‘Come and join us,’ said Kerr.

‘No,’ she said shortly, shaking off her coat. It was the monosyllable of a petulant child, and grabbed everyone’s attention. ‘I have to practise and get ready. It’s the Bruch Concerto tonight, remember?’

‘Sure,’ said Kerr, glancing past her at the clock on the fireplace. ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Good.’

Kerr guessed everyone had seen Gabi’s reaction when he tried to hug her. She had introduced tension into the room and it made them look away, pretending to scribble notes. Melanie and Langton had met Gabi during her teens, and Kerr knew this was not how they would remember the relationship.

Melanie filled the void. ‘I’ll get the plates,’ she said, heading for the kitchen.

Kerr felt awkward. ‘And we need to leave here around six, right?’

‘No, Dad,’ said Gabi, raising her eyebrows at Melanie. ‘Four-fifteen latest to make the rehearsal. Like we agreed last night, remember?’ Gabi flung open her door and checked the bedside clock. ‘That’s forty minutes from now, tops. Concert’s at seven.’

‘No problem. We’re almost done.’

Kerr sensed their discomfort at seeing him wrongfooted. He knew they were vaguely aware that his personal history was complicated, affected by his job. With her parents in different countries, Gabi’s upbringing had been difficult, but her coldness in front of his team had embarrassed him, especially since everyone was being nice to her. She was behaving like a bitch, and that was not how Kerr had raised her. He noticed Melanie squeeze Gabi’s arm as she returned from the kitchen with the plates. Perhaps she thought Gabi was nervous about the concert, or she and Kerr were getting over a row. He hoped so. That would be better. An argument between father and daughter was nothing, a mere flash in the pan.

‘Shall I update you on the visa?’ said Melanie, as Gabi’s door closed and Justin ripped into the pizza, waving a slice on camera to provoke Fargo. ‘I had a return call from Yemen. Remember the alcoholic from King Charles Street nicked last year for drunk and diss? The whole criminal-record stroke security issue they dumped on us? Well, guess what, Foreign Office reviewed our wino’s vetting and posted him to the embassy in Sana’a. Visa section. My contact got him out to the ex-pats’ club last night, poured a gallon of wife-beater down his throat. Nothing official, but the rumour is Ahmed Jibril was fast-tracked for a student visa authorised from London. The duty logs show no record of Jibril even being interviewed. Looks like he simply showed up at the embassy and got his passport stamped.’

‘So who authorised it?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure. Fatso believes it originated with the Foreign Office counter-terrorism section in London. That’s where they sent the paperwork. But no names.’

They paused again to eat their pizza and figure out the implications. Gentle sounds from Gabi’s violin began to drift through the door and the beautiful poignancy of her playing, so at odds with her behaviour only moments earlier, distracted them all.

They looked at Kerr. ‘She’s good,’ said Justin, speaking for them all.

‘Cheers,’ said Kerr, with a quick smile, then returned to Fargo. ‘And that would be unusual, presumably?’

‘Our government gave special entry privileges to a terrorist?’ Fargo laughed. ‘Yes, John. You could say that.’

‘We need to find out what makes Jibril so special that he couldn’t join the no-hopers’ queue like the rest,’ continued Melanie. ‘And the name of the official who authorised it.’

Melanie’s mobile vibrated as they listened to the music again. ‘She is seriously brilliant, boss,’ repeated Justin. ‘I think we should all come along tonight.’

‘No,’ said Melanie, with a hand up, reading the text and checking the time. ‘This is from my contact at Paddington Green. Finch just announced he’s going to release Ahmed Jibril in forty minutes.’

Everyone stared at her as if she was speaking a different language. Even Kerr was stunned by her bombshell. They sat, mute with shock, as the truth sank in. The only sound in the room was from Gabi’s violin. She was rehearsing a lament now, and her playing matched the message.

‘But why the hell . . . ? They’ve got fourteen days,’ said Langton. He seemed to be thinking aloud for them all: people in their own organisation were about to let a
jihadi
back onto the street. It was seismic, incomprehensible.

Justin was the first to recover. ‘Shit,’ he said, sitting bolt upright. ‘The Sim card. Jibril’s gonna go home to Lambeth, isn’t he?’

‘That’s where his stuff is,’ said Melanie, ‘or was.’

Kerr felt their eyes on him again, anxious, uncertain, but he stayed ice cool. ‘So, better make sure you get there first,’ he said to Justin, handing him the last slice of pizza.

Langton collected his things together. ‘You are going to ring Bill Ritchie about this, John, yeah?’ he said, but it didn’t come out as a question. He sounded threatening, as if he wanted to fight someone. ‘And the commander?’

‘Not now, Jack.’

‘What, then? We put Jibril’s property back and drop him?’ Langton snatched his mobile from the table, as if he might just ring Paula Weatherall himself. It was rare for him to show emotion, but when he was worked up, the Geordie accent laced his anger with acid. He jabbed a finger at the screen, causing Fargo instinctively to push back in his chair. ‘Is that what Al’s hard work comes down to? Was all that shit we took on the street for nothing?’

Kerr looked at him. ‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What, then? For fuck’s sake, since when did we start letting terrorists off the hook? That bastard was heading for a bomb factory, and we were right behind him.’

‘Yes, you were.’ Kerr caught Fargo’s eye down the wire, as if checking something with him first. ‘And from now on you’re going to be all over him.’

Langton gave a harsh laugh. ‘Against a man they just set free?’ For the second time Kerr’s number two seemed to be speaking for everyone. ‘How the hell do we keep that from the bosses?’

‘It’s a game-changer.’ Kerr looked each of them in the face, then flashed a glance at the screen again. ‘So we fly a little lower and a lot quieter.’

They were out of Kerr’s apartment in less than a minute. On the sprint across London, Justin rode pillion with Langton to recover the Sim card from Fargo at the Yard and return it to Jibril’s safe-house before he got there.

Kerr gave Gabi money for a taxi and promised to reach the Royal College of Music in time for the concert. Then he and Melanie dived down to the garage for the Alfa and charged to Paddington Green high-security police station. They parked in a side-street next to Edgware Road Underground station just as Jibril appeared with a woman at the top of the steps. She was olive-skinned and dressed for business, even though it was Sunday, but Jibril was instantly recognisable in the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested. On the other side of Edgware Road Kerr and Melanie watched Jibril and the woman talk for a few moments, then shake hands. She walked swiftly down the steps and headed north.

‘That must be Julia Bakkour,’ said Kerr. ‘I need a photograph.’ Before Melanie could say anything he dived out of the car and jogged north, overtaking Bakkour and continuing until he was about twenty metres in front. Then he wove across the traffic to Bakkour’s side of Edgware Road and doubled back towards her, pretending to text on his BlackBerry as he snatched a couple of rough stills. He walked past her without hesitating, then crossed the road again back to the car.

As Kerr sent the photographs of Bakkour to 1830, Jibril lingered on the steps to the police station. He was looking around him, as if undecided where to go.

‘He can’t make up his mind whether to take a bus or the train,’ said Melanie.

‘Or he’s scanning for surveillance.’ Then Jibril came down the steps and turned right, heading for the nearest Underground sign.

‘It’s the Tube,’ said Melanie, opening the door. ‘Want me to take him?’

‘Too risky. He’ll recognise you. Let Jack know. We have to assume he’s coming their way. Best we can do.’

‘Sure,’ said Melanie, checking her watch. ‘And you’d better shoot.’

Kerr raced home, changed into a linen jacket and fresh shirt and reached the Royal College of Music in Knightsbridge with time to spare. He found Gabi mingling in the foyer with the other players. She looked beautiful in her black dress and patent heels, blonde hair piled high to accentuate her long neck. He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Sorry about the rush earlier. Bit of a panic.’

‘Another.’

‘But I hadn’t forgotten. And I made it. Which is good, yeah?’

‘I just texted Mum. Let’s just say she’d have killed you if you hadn’t.’

Gabi was first violin in the front row of the orchestra and Kerr sat at the end of a row near the back with a clear view of her. He had his BlackBerry on silent mode in the palm of his hand, waiting for Fargo’s call. The screen lit up near the start of the second movement and he caught Gabi’s glare as he slipped out into the foyer.

‘Sounds nice,’ said Fargo.

‘What’s Jibril been doing?’

‘No movement since he got back to number nine, and no visitors.’

‘Can we use that council block for the OP again?’

‘The Reds are already back inside.’

‘So let’s stay with him twenty-four seven till I give the word. Thanks, Al. Better get back.’

‘Hang on. That’s not why I called. I’ve got the readout from Jibril’s Sim card. There are two numbers. One outgoing, timed nineteen-fifty-three two days earlier, last Tuesday. Comes back to a Samir Khan at an address in East Ham. Hold on a sec.’ Kerr heard a shuffling of papers. ‘No record on Excalibur, but I turned up a trace in 1830 linking him to the Al Qaeda airline conspiracy in 2006.’

‘Great. So let’s deploy surveillance from now.’

‘Jack’s already on it, but keeping it tight within the Reds. Looking for an OP as we speak.’

‘Al, you just made my evening.’

‘It gets even better. Jibril also took an incoming call. From the same number Julia Bakkour had in her diary.’

‘Omar Taleb?’

‘The attorney with the business card, correct. I’m a bit knackered so it didn’t click till now.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Al. It’s fine, and you’ve been working non-stop. Go home and get some rest. We’ll find this guy tomorrow when you’ve . . .’

‘No, that’s not it. Listen to me. Taleb’s call to Jibril was very brief, six seconds. And guess when?’

On high alert, Kerr instinctively moved to the edge of the foyer. ‘Just tell me.’

‘Thursday morning, the thirteenth, at eight-oh-seven.’

‘Jesus,’ said Kerr, his mind racing back to the surveillance logs. ‘When did we first have sight of Jibril?’

‘Steve Gibb has him leaving the safe-house at eight-twelve. Five minutes later. Jibril must have been sitting inside ready to roll, waiting for the call. Taleb was giving him the off, John. The same guy set Jibril loose
and
instructed his defence brief a couple of hours later. How’s that for command and control?’

‘Better than Al Qaeda. We’re up against a professional operator here. So who’s controlling him?’

‘Exactly,’ said Fargo. ‘John, this has to be state sponsored. Back to the eighties.’

Kerr was staring through the main doors onto the street. ‘And now you’ve got me wondering who else knows about it.’

‘Good question. And Finch just released the man.’

‘So let’s move fast and tread carefully.’

Twenty-Three

Monday, 17 September, 08.32, Hammersmith

Naked in Olga’s bathroom with his mobile clamped to his ear, Karl Sergeyev remonstrated with Nancy, his estranged wife, and watched his marriage swirl down the toilet with the used condom. Behind him, Olga waited with the patience of the professional while, in his ear, Nancy took him to task. Karl stood impotent, hands occupied.

‘It’s five-thirty on Wednesday or nothing. You’re in no position to set the pace here, Karl.’ When they had met almost nine years earlier Nancy had worked in Special Branch Registry. Logical, thorough and modest, she had fallen for him completely, overpowered by the charm that was to prove equally seductive outside their marriage.

‘Nancy, you know I have a lot on. All I want is you to cut me some slack.’

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said, as the cistern filled with a noisy clunk, ‘and what the hell was that? Why aren’t you at the office?’

This reminded Karl that Nancy’s working Monday had started two hours earlier. She would have been getting their two children washed, fed and ready while Karl and Olga were having early-bird sex. She was on the school run, speaking on the hands-free. Karl could hear the indicator and the acceleration into the turn, and was calculating exactly where she would be. Before he had walked out on her a month earlier, he had always driven on the morning stint, Nancy taking over when they dropped him at the station.