Agent of the State (29 page)

Kerr smiled again. ‘Are you leaving me any option?’

Kerr knew something was not right the moment he stepped into Vauxhall Bridge Road. Even before he had buttoned up his jacket his sixth sense told him he was being followed. He picked out the black Nissan saloon in the line of slow-moving traffic, clocked the registration number and occupants, and requested an immediate ‘lost or stolen’ check on the Police National Computer.

Thirty-two

Tuesday, 18 September, 17.36, Lambeth

It was only the second time Ahmed Jibril had left the crumbling Victorian house since his release from Paddington Green high-security police station. Apart from a brief excursion to the convenience store an hour after his return to his safe-house on Sunday evening, he had stayed invisible.

From the observation post in the council flat across the street, Justin activated the video and rattled off a couple of stills. He had taken over from Steve Gibb, the SAS secondee, at five o’clock and felt refreshed after a day with his girlfriend and another road run.

He was more fortunate than Gibb had been when Jibril had appeared the previous Thursday because his bladder was empty and the target, jacketless this time, in jeans and a thin sweater with his hands in his pockets, was walking slowly. He was alert, but the body language was that of a man out for an evening stroll, not a bombing mission. ‘Mel from Justin, subject on the move.’

Melanie’s voice bounced straight back. ‘Thanks. We have him.’

The Red surveillance team was fully stretched, with most operatives secretly deployed on Kerr’s orders against Samir Khan, Jibril’s contact in East Ham. Melanie was left to cover Jibril’s Lambeth address with Red Four, the young linguist who had forced his way onto the bus as Jibril headed for Vauxhall station. Justin heard the clunk of the car door as they got out of the dark green Honda and separated to take him on foot.

He sat back and relaxed, imagining Jibril would make his usual tour of the area and return within thirty minutes. A couple of people he recognised entered the main door of Jibril’s house, and he contemplated crossing the floor to boil the kettle. Had he been near the end of his shift, more bored, tired or thirsty, he might have missed Julia Bakkour; if Alan Fargo had not been diligent in circulating the stills Kerr had snatched outside Paddington Green police station on Sunday afternoon, he might not have realised the significance. But because Justin was good at his job, sensitive to the rhythm of the area and alert to the unusual, he spotted Jibril’s lawyer as soon as she turned into the street.

He captured four shots of her as she approached the house and started on the path. She was wearing a business suit and overcoat, carrying a thin attaché case, and Justin guessed she had come straight from her office in Wanstead.

‘Urgent, Mel. I have Julia Bakkour, repeat Bakkour, on foot towards the address. Where is your man now?’

‘South Lambeth Road. Up and down the shops, criss-crossing the street, eyes all over the place. The usual.’

‘She must have come to see him. Stand by.’

Through the magnified viewfinder Justin watched Bakkour turn into the path, search the lopsided intercom plate for number nine and press the buzzer. While she waited, she looked around, uneasy in unfamiliar surroundings. When there was no answer he expected her to call Jibril, but no mobile phone appeared. She buzzed again, hesitated, then walked back down the path.

‘Mel, she’s leaving,’ said Justin. ‘No telephone contact. Watch in case she bumps into him.’

‘Roger that.’

Justin tracked Bakkour down the path and into the street as she retraced her steps to the corner with South Lambeth Road.

‘Coming your way, Mel.’ As he spoke she stopped again, half turning back, undecided. She opened her case, rummaged inside, then withdrew a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.

‘Cancel that. She’s going to leave him a note.’

‘Roger.’

‘Where is Jibril?’

‘Buying vegetables at a street stall. Not hurried. He’ll probably wander around for a while. Usual dry-cleaning game, so we’re keeping back.’

Justin watched the lawyer look around for somewhere to write. She settled for the bus shelter a couple of metres away from the entrance to the path. She wrote rapidly, and before she had finished, Justin had pulled on his jacket and grabbed a bodyset. ‘What’s he doing, Mel?’

‘This is about as far as he normally goes.’

‘They’ve screwed up. This is an opportunity.’

‘Repeat?’

‘I’m going to get the note.’

‘Negative that. It’s probably nothing. Outstanding crap about his detention at Paddington Green. Stay back.’

‘I know the layout, Mel. She’ll leave it in his pigeonhole. No worries. Just give me a heads-up when he’s on the way back.’

Melanie bounced something back to him, but Justin was already on the move, pulling his woollen hat over his eyes. From his bag he grabbed the Pentax and stuffed it into his pocket. Activating the video, he locked the door behind him and dashed down three flights of stairs.

He had sight of Bakkour as soon as he regained the street. One of the residents was walking up the path and she hurried to catch him up.

‘Justin from Mel. Target has turned back. Repeat, subject is returning to the address.’

‘Received.’ Justin watched the tenant unlock the front door as Bakkour flashed the note and tailgated him into the house.

‘How long have I got?’ shot back Justin, as he dashed across the street.

‘Five mins max. Where are you?’

Ten seconds after Bakkour had entered the house Justin was already halfway up the path. He reached the front door as she opened it to leave. Because he was on the move, holding his keys ready as if arriving home, she instinctively held the door for him. ‘Ta,’ he mumbled, head down as he slipped past her.

The note was inside an envelope simply marked ‘9’ and he immediately checked the seal. Bakkour had obviously licked it inside the lobby, for the saliva was still wet. Watching her through the frosted-glass door panel until she disappeared up the street, he eased it open and removed the note.

Melanie was sounding anxious. ‘Where the hell are you, Justin?’

‘Lobby. I’ve got it. Stand by.’

‘He’s three minutes away. Less. We can see her, too. They’ll probably meet.’

‘Is she using a phone? Is she calling him, Mel?’

‘Negative.’

‘So this is all we have,’ he said, unfolding the piece of paper.

‘Just leave it and get out of there.’

‘I can do this. Keep it coming, Mel.’

The note was in Arabic. Justin rapidly checked the staircase and path, listened for signs of life and stretched the note on the ledge in front of the post boxes.

‘Justin, they’ve met up,’ said Melanie, urgently. ‘She’s coming back to the house with him and they’re in a hurry. Get out now.’

‘Roger.’

The Pentax was the same camera he had used to photograph Bakkour’s diary and business cards. He took it out again now and grabbed three shots of the note.

‘They’ve turned into the street. Thirty seconds.’

‘Roger.’ He put the camera in his pocket, folded the note and carefully replaced it. He spat on his fingers, spread the saliva on the flap and pressed it until the remaining glue bonded.

‘You’ve left it too late, Justin.’ Melanie’s voice was urgent. ‘They’re at the path. You’re gonna have to wing it.’

‘No problem.’ Through the frosted glass he glimpsed the figures of Jibril and Bakkour. ‘Stand by but stay offline till I get back to you, yeah?’ On the first and second landings, Justin remembered, there was a communal bathroom. He would hide himself in the lower one until they had gone past. Sliding the envelope back into the pigeonhole exactly as he had found it, he raced up the stairs to the first floor. The bathroom was occupied. He heard the front door open and low voices in the lobby as he climbed to Jibril’s landing. The upper bathroom was to the right, to the side of the house, and it was free. He bolted the door, pulled the blind over the frosted panel and switched on the light, which also activated a noisy, old-fashioned extractor unit.

He heard them reach the landing, speaking Arabic. There was the clink of Jibril’s keys and Justin pictured him opening the Yale, then the Chubb, just as he had done three days earlier. He kept his hand on the bolt, ready for his escape.

Then there was only Julia Bakkour’s voice, and footsteps on the landing towards him. The door handle rotated and he turned the cold tap on full power until her footsteps receded, then switched it off to listen for Jibril’s door closing.

When he calculated he was clear he silently drew back the bolt, twisted round to flush the toilet, and padded down the landing, covered by the noisy cistern and rattling of the extractor fan. He was cautious on the way down, remembering the creaking stairs to avoid, and checked Jibril’s pigeon hole was empty.

He was back on the street within twenty seconds and reached the safety of the observation post in another minute. He checked the video and called up Melanie. ‘I’m back on line in the OP, Mel. No compromise.’

‘You sure about that, Justin, over?’

‘I’ve got it on stills,’ he said, plugging the Pentax into his laptop.

‘Nice one.’

‘I’m emailing it to 1830 for translation.’ He pressed ‘Send’ and speed-dialled Alan Fargo.

Fargo got back to him in less than ten minutes, as Justin was filming Bakkour leaving the house. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he said. ‘She wrote: “Suit delivery 4.30 on day instructed. Fitting in Afghan shop not Saudi. Await confirm call.”’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘John Kerr just asked me the same thing.’

‘Incomprehensible. Typical bloody lawyer.’

Thirty-three

Tuesday, 18 September, 18.56, Bill Ritchie’s office, New Scotland Yard

Drinking Diet Coke and checking messages on the move, Kerr bumped into Ritchie in the lift lobby on the ground floor. ‘Any probs?’ he asked as he followed Ritchie into the lift, trying to keep it light.

‘Later,’ grunted Ritchie, punching a button. He fixed his eyes on the floor indicator, acting as if Kerr was a stranger. At the eighteenth floor he ignored Kerr as he walked swiftly down the corridor to his office. He unlocked the door and switched on the main lights. ‘Have a seat.’

‘What’s up?’

Ritchie slumped heavily behind his desk and adjusted the armrest, a sure sign he was annoyed. He launched straight in. ‘What are you and your teams up to?’

Kerr gave a short laugh. ‘We’re into day five after a bombing. Everyone’s working their nuts off.’

‘I’ve seen the tasking schedules,’ Ritchie said, shuffling through his papers, ‘and some of the diary sheets don’t tally with the team surveillance logs.’

‘You’ve dragged me up here to talk admin?’

Ritchie sifted through the forms. ‘I think you know what I’m getting at. Melanie Fleming. Justin Hine. Alan Fargo. Shown on duty all weekend without a break, overtime through the roof. Jack Langton’s doing all hours, too. What have you got them working on?’

‘I manage a lot of operators, Bill. Surveillance plots all over the place. Jack was working most of Saturday night for MI5.’ Kerr drained his Coke. ‘Look, those officers were almost killed less than a week ago and still want to work for us. To protect the public. They’re dealing with trauma in their own way and for now that means staying on duty. Working. It’s what they want. So where’s the problem?’

‘This isn’t about the paperwork. We both know that.’ The armrest shifted again. Ritchie exhaled heavily and Kerr waited for another of his boss’s in-sorrow-rather-than-anger routines. ‘John, the commander’s on your case and I can’t defend someone who refuses to listen.’ Kerr had been right. Since the arrival of Paula Weatherall in the office next door it was a performance Ritchie delivered with increasing frequency. ‘The Jibril cock-up, then the illegal search in Marston Street. Harrington gave her a very tough time because of you.’

‘And Derek Finch humiliated her in front of me. Is that my fault, too?’

‘Don’t push it,’ said Ritchie. ‘She was going to suspend you until I stepped in, remember? And she’s still thinking about it.’

Kerr crushed the empty Coke can. He looked around him. ‘There really isn’t room to swing a cat in here, is there?’ he said, tapping the plasterboard partition wall. ‘I mean, how do you stick it?’

It was a delaying tactic, a distraction while he decided how to play his boss, whether to confront him or test the extent of his knowledge. Ritchie’s office was next to Weatherall’s, and less than half the size. She had recently had it partitioned to accommodate a ‘leadership and management’ consultant on an expensive short-term contract. Everyone knew it was a sore point with Ritchie. There was standing-room only at the many urgent operational meetings in his office, while Weatherall’s prime real estate next door often lay empty.

‘Don’t change the subject.’

Kerr went for option two. ‘Come off it, Bill. Finch’s lot were holding back from day one. Whoever heard of the Bellies soft-pedalling? I mean, what the fuck is going on here?’

‘MI5 have the lead.’