Agent of the State (30 page)

‘The man is a
jihadi
, Bill. Finch released a terrorist onto the streets. We both know that.’

‘This is not our business. End of.’

‘Which is so unlike you,’ said Kerr, looking hard at his boss, ‘totally out of sync with the guy who always demanded every sodding detail. It’s also why I don’t believe you.’

‘So get over it.’

‘Why are you holding out on me, Bill?’

‘Ahmed Jibril is a free man,’ said Ritchie. ‘Game over.’

‘Or is MI5 working him up as a source? Is that why they let him out, and you can’t bring yourself to tell me? Are they trying to recruit him?’ Kerr gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Brilliant. How soon before that spark of genius sets the whole fucking city on fire again? I’d better tell the troops to keep standing by.’

‘If you go on like this you risk getting yourself disciplined. I’m telling you, John.’

‘For doing my job?’

‘For insubordination. Is that clear enough?’

They looked at each other in silence, Kerr trying to read the expression of the man he had known for most of his career. He made him wait for an answer, staring across St James’s Park to the Post Office Tower and the lights of north London. Thinking rapidly, Kerr settled for deception. ‘All right, I’ll let it go,’ he said eventually. He tossed the can into Ritchie’s waste bin. ‘And you can tell Ma’am I consider myself well and truly bollocked.’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Ritchie sighed and leant forward. He was clearly exasperated. ‘John, you need to be very careful, or I won’t be able to protect you.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Kerr, quietly, wondering if Ritchie knew he had spooked a surveillance team outside Theo Canning’s office just a few hours earlier. ‘Protect me? From what?’ Red flags were popping up in Kerr’s brain. For a second he flashed back to his undercover assignment so many years ago, when for half a decade he had trusted Ritchie with his life. It was inconceivable that his protector would now leave him vulnerable. ‘Come on, Bill. You’re the guy who watched my back day and night for years. What’s different all of a sudden? Jesus, you’ve changed so much.’

‘No. Time has moved on . . .’

‘Did someone slice your balls off when they made you chief? You’re not the same man. Ask anyone who knows you . . .’

‘. . . but you don’t seem to have bloody noticed,’ continued Ritchie, his voice rising.

‘Is that why Karl Sergeyev had to go?’

Ritchie suddenly looked wrong-footed. ‘DS Sergeyev had his vetting removed because of his relationship with a prostitute,’ he said evenly, as if reciting the party line.

‘This happened late Friday night. Early hours of Saturday, in fact. Weatherall’s not on the grapevine. And I know you’re not, either, these days. So how did she find out about it so quickly?’

‘Phone call.’

‘Bollocks. Karl was in the sack all weekend.’

‘From the Foreign Office. A formal complaint about his conduct from the Russian Embassy.’

Kerr looked incredulous. ‘What – for shagging?’

‘For being obstructive. Exceeding his brief.’

‘Well, that’s not the story Weatherall gave Karl,’ retorted Kerr. ‘Karl told you what he saw that night in Marston Street, didn’t he?’

‘None of your business,’ said Ritchie, looking away.

‘He gave you his principal’s call log, didn’t he? The Russian minister, Anatoli Rigov? Told you that place was a security risk? He did everything a good protection officer should do and you still let Weatherall stab him in the back.’

‘John, I’m telling you for the last time. Go and do your job. Keep away from things that don’t concern you.’

Was it a warning or a tip-off? Or was his one-time mentor issuing a threat? Ritchie looked tired, a man who carried too many secrets. The voice had suddenly lost its edge, making it impossible to decide whether he was speaking as senior officer or friend. But Kerr’s inner voice told him to keep it light and move on, so he stood and stretched his arms wide. ‘Blimey, you can practically touch the walls on either side. Tell me, Bill, how the hell do you get anything done in here?’

‘What about doing some work in your own office for a change,’ Ritchie said, shuffling the papers again, ‘clearing this mess up?’

‘No chance of that tonight,’ smiled Kerr. ‘I’ve got choir practice.’

As Kerr wrestled with his boss, Anatoli Rigov arrived back at Farnborough airfield and boarded his luxurious Learjet. He already felt relaxed, reclining his seat as the attractive flight attendant poured a generous tumbler of his favourite vodka. There was another vacancy to fill in the British signals organisation, but otherwise he felt at ease with the world as the plane taxied down the runway. Rigov had delivered a more powerful strain of an existing
E.coli
bacterium, and his victim was a British traitor, not a Russian dissident. He had done nothing to arouse suspicion; neither poison nor victim would point an accusing finger at Moscow. The attendant returned his smile and strapped herself into her jump seat. The engines roared as Rigov downed his vodka in one. His lunch would attract none of the attention surrounding other murdered enemies of the Russian state, and now he could look forward to dinner. Problem solved, he thought as the Bombardier streaked into the sky. Mission accomplished.

Thirty-four

Tuesday, 18 September, 20.23, Dolphin Square, Victoria

Every Tuesday evening, between seven and eight-thirty exactly, the combined choir of MI5 and MI6 practised in a church close to Dolphin Square in Victoria. The choir held concerts for Service families, friends and other trusted insiders at Easter and Christmas. It also sang at occasional special events, such as memorial services for heads of both agencies, normally in the privacy of the Guards Chapel in Wellington Barracks.

Kerr knew this because Willie Duncan had told him at one of the surveillance tasking and co-ordinating meetings at Thames House. Duncan managed a couple of surveillance teams in A4, the MI5 surveillance unit, the people Jack Langton had been called out to assist the previous Saturday night. The operators in A Branch watched, listened and engineered. But they never commissioned a job of their own accord. They were the MI5 underclass, the blue-collar guys, B-list techies with A-class skills, who did exactly as they were tasked. Duncan went along to choir practice because it was a welcome break, he said, from the fatigue and monotony of shift work, and raised the spirits from the daily grind of watching and listening.

Employees in A Branch had their own civil-service career structure, quite separate from other MI5 units, with less scope for promotion. Often ex-military, like Duncan, their job was to act in support of the officers who set the operational priorities. A few managed the transition to mainstream work, but it was rare for a watcher to climb MI5’s greasy pole, and Kerr suspected this was another reason Duncan enjoyed the choir. If his work excluded him from the professional heights, his voice was as acceptable as that of any rising star. No one ever discriminated against his singing. The choir, Kerr guessed, was the only part of MI5 to which Willie Duncan truly belonged.

Walking across from the Yard, Kerr edged the door open as they were reaching the end of a piece he did not recognise. The choir stood at the front of the church just below the nave, facing the middle-aged conductor, spindly and hyperactive, whom Kerr recognised as a one-time MI6 deputy director of training. There were eighteen singers, including nine women sopranos of various ages in the front row. He recognised an analyst, three or four desk officers, a couple of agent handlers from way back and a signals clerk. It was cool in the church and some of the women had kept their coats on.

From his bulk Duncan should have been a baritone or bass, but Kerr located him in the row of tenors, hair prematurely grey with an untidy moustache covering his upper lip, his face bright red from exertion. Kerr slipped into a pew at the very back of the church, concealed by a pillar, and waited in the gloom for the singers to disperse. Most of them left by the vestry door, which shortened the walk to the pub in the side-street, but Duncan spotted Kerr straight away. Music under his arm, he trotted down the nave and eased into the pew in front of Kerr, concealing him from view. Duncan was wearing heavy cords, polished brown boots and his usual heavy coat complete with hood and winter lining. He had to twist round to reach Kerr’s outstretched hand, which made him look uncomfortable. ‘Christmas programme. Bit rough and ready but it’s early days.’

‘Very nice,’ said Kerr. ‘Fancy a pint?’

‘Business or pleasure?’ asked Duncan, his face clouding.

‘Depends.’

Duncan’s cheeks were still red, but from awkwardness now. ‘You’re a bit
persona non grata
at the moment, John. No offence.’

Kerr knew Duncan had served in Saudi and wanted to use his knowledge of Arabic and intelligence-gathering skills in G Branch, the MI5 section that dealt with the international terrorist threat. But when he had applied for a desk officer’s job they had rejected him for a London University post-grad in Oriental studies. Duncan had reached his MI5 career ceiling at thirty-nine, destined to spend the rest of his life working for the fresh-faced novices of the professional grades, and Kerr always felt a little sorry for his surveillance counterpart.

‘None taken,’ said Kerr. ‘Because I had a look at that house, you mean? In Marston Street?’

‘And the job last Thursday,’ said Duncan, quickly. ‘Jibril. He wasn’t on the target list. You should have consulted us.’ He glanced back up the aisle. A clutch of singers was still gathered round the piano, and one of the men was pointing his thumb to the door. ‘Be right there,’ his voice echoed to them, as he held up five fingers. ‘Now is not a good time,’ he said quietly. ‘Looks a bit odd. Can’t it wait till next week?’

Kerr sat forward, head lowered, hands between his knees as if in prayer.

‘No need to involve anyone else, my friend. We can sort it right here. What was Marston Street about? I mean, who was the sponsor?’

‘You don’t need to know that, John.’

‘Willie, you can drop the holier-than-thou routine. Jack Langton assisted you at very short notice on Saturday night, so I think you should level with me.’

For a moment Duncan looked as if he was about to cross himself. Instead, he clapped his hands on his knees. ‘I have to go.’

‘What did they take out of the house that night, Willie? Just tell me that.’

‘Leave it, John. I just organise the watchers, do what I’m told. We can talk about it at the tasking meeting.’ Duncan began to stand. ‘That and the Jibril mess-up. You caused me a lot of grief there.’

‘Jibril can’t wait till next week. I’m going to deploy surveillance on him from tomorrow,’ lied Kerr.

‘No.’ Duncan sank down to the pew. ‘We’re already covering him.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since he was released.’

‘Really? So what about associates? We can take them off your hands.’

‘There aren’t any.’

‘You sure about that? Don’t fuck me around, Willie.’

‘You shouldn’t swear in church, John. It’s offensive.’

Kerr was already walking away. ‘So is lying.’

He had his BlackBerry ready even before he reached the street. Ritchie’s coded warning plus Duncan’s evasiveness had triggered his instinct for self-preservation.

Stark naked, Justin Hine was lying in bed while his girlfriend gently massaged oil into his back.

‘Justin, you OK to talk?’

‘No worries, boss.’ They were listening to Michael Bublé, who always turned her on, and Kerr had rung just as he was about to flip over and invite treatment to his uninjured front.

‘I think I need some extra security at my place.’

‘I agree.’

‘Can we install it tonight?’

Justin glanced at the bedside clock as she gently worked on his shoulders. ‘Bit tucked up at the moment, actually, boss. Physio session. But if it’s really, you know . . .’

‘No, tomorrow evening will be good,’ said Kerr. ‘If I’m not there I’ll tell the concierge to let you in. And thanks for what you did today, back at the safe-house. You took a chance and it was smart work.’

‘No problem at all, boss. Leave it with me.’ Justin turned over.

‘Hey, sorry to ruin whatever it is I’m interrupting. This was a bad call.’

‘No, not at all.’ The massage had stopped abruptly, the atmosphere broken. Justin watched his girl sashay into the bathroom, her job done. ‘It’s fine, boss, honestly. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Much later that night, a couple of miles upstream at Hammersmith, in her modest flat marketed as within easy reach of the river, Olga emerged from the shower and defended herself to her lover. She had not dropped the blinds, and the lights of a houseboat moored upstream from Hammersmith Bridge punctuated the blackness. Wrapping the towel around her, she shook her damp hair. ‘Darling, it was one evening. Some trade thing in the City, completely boring,’ she said, in Russian, almost their first words since his phone call.

Karl emerged from the kitchen with scalding black coffee. Half drunk and suffering, he sat on the sofa and took off his shoes. At short notice his friends had insisted on taking him for a few beers at a pub only a stone’s throw from the Yard. ‘What time did you get home?’