Agent of the State (23 page)

As soon as Fargo had brought him up to speed Kerr hurried to his regular takeout, an Italian sandwich bar at the top of Strutton Ground. Because he ordered the same thing, a tuna Siciliana baguette, and paid with the right money, the owner’s daughter often quietly served him before the rest of the queue.

‘There is one more thing, John, a last favour.’ Karl had been stalking Kerr from the safety of the street market and almost collided with him outside the door.

‘You’ve changed your mind,’ said Kerr, recovering quickly, ‘come to your senses, decided to go home to Nancy and the kids so we can rehabilitate you to the fold.’ He began walking at speed, heading back to Victoria Street and the office. ‘Walk with me.’

Karl took Kerr’s arm as they wove through the crowded market. He was taller and heavier set than Kerr and had to stoop to make himself heard. ‘John, it’s about Olga.’

‘Don’t tell me. She’s married with kids and her old man has a contract out on you.’

There was desperation in Karl’s face. Kerr stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare. ‘You said it yourself, Karl,’ he said, as office workers threaded past them. ‘I’m up to my eyes.’

‘Two minutes, John,’ pleaded Karl, tugging at his arm like the biggest kid in the playground. They were in the firing line of a market trader hollering the price of tomatoes. ‘Please, this is very personal. Unofficial, not for the office.’

‘No secrets in our team,’ said Kerr, turning back the way they had come. They found a bench opposite the fire station in Horseferry Road. Kerr opened his sandwich bag, tore the roll in two and handed one half to Karl. ‘So what’s on your mind?’

‘Olga has a friend, Tania, quite young, very presentable. Even beautiful, when she grows up.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been shagging her as well,’ said Kerr, through a mouthful of tuna.

‘Well, she’s been missing since last Friday. The agency sent her to the same party where I met Olga. She never got home.’

Kerr laughed. ‘And what kind of agency would that be, exactly? Friday to Monday? Get real, she’s a hooker and he’s fallen in love. It happens. Christ, Karl, you’re living proof.’

‘No, you don’t understand. Olga says Tania is special, like the kid sister she never had. They speak every day.’

‘Sister? How old?’ Kerr was already checking his watch, chewing quickly.

‘Quite young. Below twenty.’

Kerr’s mobile was ringing. ‘She went clubbing, buggered off to Romania.’

‘No. She’s not from Romania, John. I saw her at the party. With Olga.’

‘Hold on a second, Mel,’ said Kerr, into the BlackBerry. He abruptly stopped chewing and swung round to Karl. ‘This was in Knightsbridge, yeah?’

‘Flash house opposite the church.’

Siren blaring, a fire engine pulled out of the station. Kerr had an eye on Karl’s half of the baguette. Karl shook his head so he grabbed it back, took a bite and spoke into the mobile in one movement. ‘Mel, is Jack still there with you? . . . Tell him I need to see him this evening. I’ll come out to the plot around nine . . . Fine. So, what’s occurring?’

Karl held out his hand again but Kerr was engrossed in his phone call. The sandwich wrapper was about to blow from Kerr’s lap so Karl screwed it up and tossed it into the waste bin. ‘Thanks for lunch,’ he mouthed, touching Kerr’s arm and standing to leave.

Kerr gave him the thumbs-up.

As Melanie briefed him on the surveillance against Jibril’s mobile phone contact in East Ham, Kerr watched his friend walk back through the market. In the past hour he had grown increasingly anxious about Karl. Fargo had just searched Yuri Goschenko for him in 1830, and the results were not reassuring. Karl’s potential employer was on record as a Russian businessman-playboy, one of many post-Cold War millionaires with interests in steel and gas production. Moving to London in the late nineties, he had used a fraction of his wealth to start up a security company, offering bodyguard services and office and home protection to the capital’s wealthy élite. There were yawning gaps in his business profile, and even the parts he could nail down were peppered with allegations of fraud, extortion and theft. Yuri Goschenko would not be receiving an Entrepreneur of the Year award any time soon.

Kerr badly wanted Karl back in SO15, and employment with a potential gangster would not help his rehabilitation. Olga’s involvement also filled him with misgivings. Had Karl asked her to find him a job, or was this all her idea? Karl had joined Special Branch when he was only twenty-one and, once Kerr had worked on Weatherall and Ritchie, still had a bright career ahead of him. Could a professional escort really persuade him to throw everything away?

Karl was turning the corner into Strutton Ground when Kerr hailed him, shouting above the traffic. ‘Karl!’ He turned as Kerr trotted up to him, still taking Melanie’s update.

‘Hang on, Mel,’ Kerr said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Karl. Things are crazy these past few days. Look, this isn’t a good way to say thanks. Let’s have that drink tonight. Late – say around eleven? And I want to meet your new girlfriend. You guys choose the venue and text me.’ Then Kerr was off, swerving through the market throng, taking his briefing from Melanie in the middle of lunchtime shoppers who carried on with their lives as if nothing bad was happening.

Twenty-five

Monday, 17 September, 21.41, observation post, East Ham

For the Met’s breed of health and safety fascists the observation post would have been a wet dream. To offer the best possible view of their targets, Jack Langton’s sourcing officer had chosen the deserted roof space above a run-down row of shops in East Ham, just over a mile from Julia Bakkour’s office on the other side of Wanstead Flats. It was cold, draughty, very damp and, at nine-thirty in the evening, almost pitch dark. It had been raining the whole evening and a steady stream of traffic swished along the soaking street below. The roof leaked and most of the floorboards were rotten or missing, so that hopping to the cameras by the window was like negotiating a minefield. Pinned to the wall was a mugshot of Samir Khan, code name Bravo, whose mobile number had been found on Jibril’s Sim card. Beside it was a photograph of a second, unidentified man, code name Charlie. The Red team watchers had had to use extra staples to prevent the photographs curling away from the dripping plaster. In the farthest corner, where the floorboards were relatively safe, they had set up a camping table, two folding canvas chairs, flasks of coffee, a coolbox and a weak desk light. A ten-pound note lay on the table, weighed down by three pound coins.

As he climbed the back stairs John Kerr could smell the damp, mixed with aromas from the curry house beneath. Forcing the crooked door with his shoulder, he found Jack Langton and Melanie in sweaters and waterproofs. Perched high on bar stools, they operated three cameras on tripods. A heavy net curtain, stained and carefully torn to allow maximum lateral vision, was draped over the cracked window and, because the day’s rain was still dripping through the roof, Langton had covered the gear with sheets of plastic. Kerr found him speaking into the electronic log as he worked the night-vision video. He turned to give Kerr a wave.

‘Charlie returns carrying two orange plastic shopping bags. Bravo opens the front door. They’re talking. Charlie goes inside with Bravo and the bags. Bravo out of the house and turns left. Can you take it, Mel? At . . . twenty-one-forty-two.’

‘Check.’ Melanie was already standing beside him, snapping rapid action stills, and acknowledged Kerr without losing pace. Langton left the video running, lit his pencil torch, skipped over the joists to one of the canvas chairs and reached for a flask. ‘Watch your step, John. Floor’s a death trap.’

Kerr tiptoed over to the window and looked through the viewfinder. The street opposite was a crowded terrace of small Victorian houses, some divided into ground-floor and first-floor flats. The few that had been carefully tended stood out from the rest, with freshly painted front doors, double-glazing, stone window ledges painted white and flowerpots in the lit porches. But most were dilapidated rented properties with tiles missing, flaking wall paint and collapsed fences. Khan’s house was among the neglected. A cracked grey wheelie bin and discarded sofa filled the tiny front yard, cramped against a black 125cc Cobra scooter, and the black wrought-iron front gate had come off its bottom hinge. A couple of double-decker buses eased past each other in the narrow thoroughfare, obscuring Kerr’s view for a few seconds. ‘Are they doing anything?’ he asked. Charlie had disappeared inside and closed the battered front door, so he watched Samir Khan walk down the street.

‘Looks like regular domestic stuff. Most of the people who drop by are young men. A couple we identified have cons for street robbery, theft and assault. Charlie got done last year for sexual assault. Three of them use the scooter, so probably uninsured. I’d say we’re generally talking low-life criminality, John, not extremism. But Khan’s in a different league. Very surveillance-conscious. Eyes everywhere, just like Jibril.’

Kerr heard Melanie rattle off four shots and kept Khan in view. He was mid-twenties, wearing jeans, trainers and a black sweater. ‘What was Khan’s connection to the airline conspiracy?’ he asked.

‘Email,’ said Langton, pouring coffee.

‘Wrong,’ said Melanie, rattling off a couple more shots. ‘Facebook.’

‘So remind me why this guy isn’t in jail,’ said Kerr, still tracking the target.

‘Samir Khan wasn’t a player, apparently. Just an online friend of a contact of an associate of the main man. Something like that. MI5 said they had to concentrate on crocodiles closer to the boat.’

‘Speaking of which I rang Kestrel again this morning and he’s still taking the piss. Can you give him a pull for me tomorrow, Mel?’

‘No problem.’

Kerr watched Khan until he moved out of shot, then edged across to Langton, stepping over his motorcycle helmet. Langton had poured him some coffee in a plastic cup. Kerr sat in the other canvas chair and swung round to Melanie. ‘Want some?’

‘She’s gone herbal,’ said Langton, as Melanie shook her head. He leant back, stretched, and watched Kerr take a sip and wince.

‘Jack, it’s about the surveillance you did with MI5 Saturday night. In Knightsbridge?’

‘Sure. What about it?’

‘I was checking the authorisation this morning. What was the job about?’

‘Well, it was totally their op,’ said Langton, and swigged some coffee. ‘A4 surveillance eyes only, as it turned out.’

‘Who were the targets?’

‘No names given out. At least, not for me.’

‘So were they friend or foe?’

‘Hard to say. We were covering two men in a bog-standard Ford Thames van. But it was definitely a babysitting job. Bit weird, actually, all very last minute. A4 were there to watch over them. I did the operational security.’

‘Where did it kick off?’

‘Clapham. Why?’ As Langton frowned, Kerr could almost hear his mind rewinding the event, self-protection instinct kicking in. ‘I know you didn’t come to this hole just to look through a viewfinder, John. Who screwed up?’

‘No one. It’s just something Karl Sergeyev said this morning.

‘Who was the desk officer, the sponsor?’

‘No one showed. Trust me, the whole night was bloody strange.’

Kerr gave the coffee another try. ‘What was your role, Jack?’

‘The usual, stay well back with an ear on the comms and deter any overactive uniforms. Just as well, actually, cos one of their cars got a pull on the way to the plot.’

‘What was weird about it?’

‘I got the call at home from their night-duty officer just after zero-two-thirty. By the time I bowled up around three they were already on their second cup of coffee, briefing done and dusted. The curtains were drawn tight over the picture boards but they’d obviously been looking at stills or video because the screen was up. And they’d definitely been given photos to take away. I clocked the master copy on the lectern. Two men, mid-thirties, Turkish appearance. One slim, prematurely receding hair, round glasses, intellectual type. The other guy looked a real gangster.’

‘Perhaps they’re agents, doing some business. Maybe A4 were protecting them.’

‘Whatever, no way were they going to fill me in. Thing is, there was less than half a team, so this was not your regular A4 job. I mean, they can’t have been expecting trouble because there were only four. Anorak geek who does their signals stuff, the bloke who works the covert rural observations with us now and again, and a couple of others,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Who’s the girl with the big tits Justin was shagging last year? Bev or Jan or something? She put in a complaint.’

‘Sam,’ called Melanie, from the window.

‘Her. Sorry. Plus a school-leaver type I hadn’t seen before. Looked more like a desk officer than a watcher.’

Someone was knocking gently at the door. Kerr swung round but Langton was already on the move, picking the money off the table. ‘Grub time.’ When he wrenched open the door, an Indian girl was standing there with two plastic bags. ‘Thanks, Safira, keep the change.’ He pushed the door closed with his hip and made his way back to the table. ‘It’s no problem. Her old man thinks we’re Drugs Squad watching the house two doors up.’ He opened a carton of onion bhajis.

‘What else?’

‘A4 picked their van up around oh-three-fifty, just off Clapham High Street. No address given. They led us to a six-, seven-bedroom place in Knightsbridge, collected some gear in cardboard boxes and left.’ He offered the carton to Kerr. ‘Help yourself.’