Agent of the State (51 page)

‘The Cabinet Office covered that element, too,’ said Weatherall, returning to the list of decisions. She read straight from the script. Claire Grant would resign the following morning, citing personal reasons in a letter drafted by the PM’s private office. That evening, the National Crime Agency would announce the death of its chairman, Sir Theo Canning, from a heart attack.

‘He was stabbed in the chest, for Christ’s sake,’ exclaimed Kerr, in disbelief. His first call that morning had been to Pamela Masters. He had rung her early, well before class, because he needed to tell her Canning was no longer a threat. To Kerr this was a matter of duty, to lift the cloud under which she had spent most of her working life. Her star in MI5 had waned following Canning’s rejection all those years ago and, in that sense, he and Melanie saw her as another victim. She should feel vindicated, he had said, ready to make a fresh start. Now he wondered how she would react when this news filtered through. Would she see the deceit about her tormentor’s death as protection for her or simply another betrayal?

Weatherall was staring at him blankly, as if the facts had no place in this narrative, then carried on reading aloud. Robert Attwell would take a career break, from which he would never return.

‘You’re not serious?’ Kerr was incredulous. ‘I mean, you’re not going to allow government to protect these bastards just to save its own skin?’

Weatherall was pouring more water from Donna’s jug. ‘The people who attacked us in this way wanted to destroy the government,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to be accused of doing the job for them.’

‘So you’re going along with the cover-up, just like all the rest?’ said Kerr. He looked across the table, but Ritchie’s head was down. Suddenly he understood the root cause of their disagreement before he had walked in on them. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing? Joe Allenby took a massive risk when he tipped me off about Jibril. Alone, in a hostile country, he refused to toe the line. He did the right thing and paid with his life. Are you telling me it was all for nothing?’

‘You’ve done a fantastic job in saving dozens of lives, John,’ said Weatherall, evenly, ‘risking your own. That’s something to be proud of. Let’s just leave it at that.’

‘Really? So what about the bomb?’

‘What bomb?’

Kerr’s chair crashed back. ‘I should have let him blow the bastards up,’ he said, already on his feet.

Donna opened the door as he was turning, already wearing her I-did-warn-you look.

‘Knock first,’ came Weatherall’s angry voice from across the room.

Donna did not acknowledge her, speaking softly to Kerr and holding the door open for him. ‘Melanie’s on the phone. It’s about your daughter.’

Kerr could tell Melanie was driving, but her voice on the hands-free was calm and rational. ‘John, I need you to sit in Donna’s chair and just listen for a moment.’

‘Tell me.’

‘About twenty minutes ago I had a sighting of Jibril.’

Kerr’s stomach lurched as Donna wheeled her chair to him. ‘You’re supposed to be in East Ham.’

‘I am, watching for Samir Khan. Everyone else is at Lambeth waiting for him to return to the safe-house, so I’m here on my own, covering from the car.’

‘You sure it’s Jibril?’

‘Positive. Khan’s scooter was parked in the street, not the front yard by the wheelie bin. First time I’ve seen that. It’s like they left it ready for a quick getaway. Jibril had the key. He just started up, helmet on and buzzed off.’

‘So what’s he doing in East Ham?’

‘He knows the safe-house is blown. Must have thought he’d be secure around Khan’s place.’

Kerr stayed on his feet. ‘And?’

‘I think he’s got Gabi with him.’

‘
What?
’

‘I’m on the move here, John, so you have to listen hard. I followed him onto the North Circular Road, westbound. He went to a house near Brent Cross. Parked up, went inside, came back out with a young woman. White, early twenties, slim build, jeans et cetera. She was already wearing the helmet when she came out of the door. He had hold of her arm right up until she climbed on the pillion, like he was worried she might do a bunk.’

‘How did you know it was Gabi?’

‘It was your daughter, John. I’m sure.’

‘How far away were you when you saw her?’

‘About four cars down the street. But I recognised her, John. And I snatched a sideways look at a red light. She’s terrified.’

‘OK.’ Kerr was already turning the Alfa key in his pocket. ‘Where are they now?’

‘Just turned off the North Circ. I’m on that big interchange at Neasden. Hold on. Indicating left. Looks like they’re heading down towards Willesden. Thing is, do you want me to intervene now, or do I wait for the cavalry?’

‘Are you carrying?’

‘No, I’m not, actually.’

Kerr was thinking rapidly, weighing the odds of an unarmed Melanie rescuing his daughter from a terrorist who might be armed to the teeth. Kerr had been required to surrender his Glock after shooting Abdul Malik, but instinctively felt for it inside his jacket. ‘No. I’m coming to you now. Just stay with them, Mel. Keep the commentary going on Channel Five.’

‘Are we going to call the Trojans in?’

Bad possibilities were exploding in Kerr’s brain like fireworks. Loudest among them, as operator and father, was the murder of his daughter if anyone acted recklessly. Just below that was the fear of a lengthy siege with Gabi as hostage and a violent outcome from a botched raid. He had no idea where this was leading, no clue what lay in store for all of them.

‘Not now. We do this ourselves.’

Sixty-two

Friday, 28 September, 12.46, bomb factory, Willesden

Kerr was through to Jack Langton and Justin even before he’d cleared the Yard. They told him they already had Melanie’s commentary. ‘Shall we get up to Willesden?’

‘Quick as you can.’

The most direct route from the Yard was the Edgware Road, a major artery heavily regulated by traffic lights but running straight as a die north-west from Marble Arch. On siren and lights, braking hard at each red traffic light, then accelerating, Kerr reached seventy-five for short stretches through St John’s Wood and Maida Vale. But his vision was not blurred by the red mist that afflicted the eyes of less experienced men. He drove with care, seeing only the road ahead and his daughter in jeopardy. He knew Gabi’s life depended on him getting there.

Melanie’s voice came on Channel Five. ‘Willesden High Road, John. You’ll see the nick in front of you. Jibril’s thrown a right into Stafford Street.’

‘I’m about five minutes away. Keep it coming.’

There was the growl of Langton’s motorcycle as he scorched a trail across the city from south to north. ‘Be with you guys in fifteen,’ said Justin, from the pillion. ‘We just crossed the river.’

Overwhelming feelings of love and fear flooded the car as Kerr raced to the scene. But even more powerful was the cold rage that rushed in alongside. His daughter was the victim, but he was the intended target. It was obvious. Just as they had tried to reach Karl’s family, now they intended to destroy his. Different perpetrators, same revenge. The realisation rolled through his mind with a terrible clarity. Gabi was the victim not just of the men who had taken her from him and Robyn but of his own stubbornness. Soon he would force them to confess exactly how they had got to her but, before that, Kerr had to admit something to himself: she had been taken because of his refusal to compromise in his determination to get at the truth. His obsession had exposed Gabi to a murderous threat. He had condemned his daughter to this fate. Remorse stabbed him in the pit of his stomach.

He cursed himself, then drove faster.

When he heard Melanie again she was obviously out of the car. ‘John, he’s turned into a service road off Stafford. Just after the pillar box.’ Outside, on the street and running. ‘I can’t drive in there without blowing it. I’m going to find another way. I’ll talk you in.’

‘Two minutes.’ Kerr was already in Willesden High Road. He saw the police station and geared down for the right into Stafford Street. A patrol car was pulling out of the station yard so he braked sharply and let it go first. The last thing he needed now was to be pulled by the local uniforms.

He spotted Melanie’s battered Honda by the pillar box straight away. ‘I’m here,’ said Kerr. ‘Do you still have them?’ He saw that she had driven it nose in, abandoning it in too small a space, leaving the driver’s door ajar in her rush to re-establish contact.

She was speaking to him again as he double-parked beside the Honda and leapt out. ‘Yes, I do. Into the service road, maisonettes on the right. There’s an alley between the fourth and fifth leading to the gardens.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Wall at the end, then a fence. Watch your step. There’s a drop the other side.’

Kerr had difficulty locating Melanie as she was completely hidden from all sides, eventually finding her prone on a rough sleeper’s patch of scrub in a space hollowed out from bramble bushes. Nearby were a couple of empty lager cans with plastic bags and strips of sacking beyond use. Relief surged through Kerr. She still had them in her sights. As he dropped down beside her she was pointing at a row of garages about thirty paces away, scarcely visible through the undergrowth. The left door to the third garage was ajar, and he could see the scooter parked outside.

‘He just took her inside.’

A man appeared briefly in the gap between the doors. He was head and shoulders only as he checked for intruders, and visible for less than three seconds, but it took them only a heartbeat to identify Ahmed Jibril.

‘Let’s go,’ said Kerr, clambering to his feet.

‘No, John. Get a grip.’ Melanie had a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You’re not thinking clearly. We’re unarmed. Don’t know how many are in there. Let Jack bring in the Trojans.’

‘What? Risk an armed siege against a
jihadi
? No way.’

‘It’s your daughter in there, for God’s sake. You can’t risk just charging in.’

‘It’s what I did for you at Hackney, Mel,’ he said, pulling his arm away. On impulse he stooped to pick up a length of fallen branch, weighing it in his hand. ‘Coming?’

Kerr skirted the bush to the right, then gently eased a passage for him and Melanie through a mass of softer vegetation until they reached the end garage in the row. The door of the target garage was still slightly ajar. There was a sliver of light, and as he edged down the row he imagined he could hear Jibril’s voice, and Gabi weeping. He had no game plan, no idea of the situation he was about to face, or the odds of success. All he could be certain about was the limited area of the combat zone. He would act fast, with noise and violence, reacting to each movement in the few seconds he would have to eliminate the threat. Kerr had one advantage, which quelled any feelings of self-doubt: he was feeling murderous against those who threatened his daughter, and the surge of power from that raw hatred would only be stopped by a bullet to the head.

With Melanie right behind him, Kerr listened intently outside the garage. Then, abruptly, realising he would be covered by the noise from an approaching train on the main line, he stepped back and kicked the door wide open. At the same time he yelled, ‘Armed Police! Stand still!’ before his eyes had registered anything, then charged inside, holding the branch in front of him with two hands like a firearm, Melanie shouting, too.

In an instant Kerr took in the confined space. He saw the bench with metal and tools, the fridge, microwave and futon. His mind was signalling ‘bomb factory’ as it caught Gabi’s open-mouthed terror and, close beside her, the startled face of Ahmed Jibril. The terrorist was only fooled by Kerr’s stick for an instant, but it was enough for Kerr to throw it at his face, then charge him down with an attack yell that must have carried right to the street. Jibril was smaller and lighter than Kerr, and fell back easily against the bare brick wall. His head seemed to bounce back at Kerr, who punched him twice in the face and kicked him to the ground.

As Jibril fell, Kerr was aware that Gabi had circled round and now stood on the other side of the garage, by the bench. Melanie was holding her tightly, like a prisoner. Only then did Kerr see the main threat. His eyes first went to Gabi’s ashen face, crumpled in tears, too frightened even to scream. He held his arms out, not to call her to him but for her to keep completely still. ‘Don’t move, Gabi. Stay exactly where you are.’

Over her shirt Gabi was wearing a black cotton vest. It had four pockets filled with material in clear plastic bags. Kerr had seen an identical item less than twenty-four hours earlier, around the body of Abdul Malik. Melanie was already kneeling down, examining every centimetre of the vest and its contents. ‘John, we’ve got a detonator and what looks like TATN. And nails. We need to get help here now.’

Ignoring her, Kerr pulled Jibril to his feet and rammed him back against the stove. ‘Is it armed?’

‘Go screw yourself,’ he said in broken English. Jibril’s face was bruised but his eyes were bright. Kerr understood. The fanatic who had toyed with Finch’s finest need show no fear: nothing in this country could do him harm. ‘I’ll ask you once again. Is it ready to go?’

Jibril stared him down, eyes mocking, inviting Kerr to hit him again. Beside him, Gabi was sobbing and Melanie had both hands on her shoulders, to comfort her but mainly to keep her absolutely still.