Elephants can't hide forever (14 page)

Before Sally could continue, Tony Blair interjected. “So if I’m hearing and understanding this correctly, you are saying the man we snatched in Gandamak was not Bin Laden?” he
enquired of the assembled experts.

Sir Richard spoke “What we are saying, PM, is the evidence we have is substantial but not conclusive, it is our job to prove beyond a shadow of doubt that the man who unfortunately died
that night in the mountains of Pakistan was Osama Bin Laden. There is, although highly unlikely, the possibility this was an elaborate hoax; until we are sure beyond any reasonable doubt, we cannot
assume otherwise.”

The PM looked stunned. “Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that there is the possibility that if this was a hoax the people who were in the house knew there was going to be an
armed force which would undoubtedly kill them, no, have to kill them?”

“Prime Minister,” began Sir Richard, “these people are zealots, to them death is something to be rejoiced in, to die for one’s religion is to invite martyrdom, and they
are no different than the suicide bombers who plague the streets of all Islamic countries.”

“My God,” said the PM. “So if this was some elaborate plot too convince us Bin Laden is dead, what in heavens name do I tell POTUS?”

“Well, PM,” said Sir Richard, “I believe at this moment in time the Cousins are blissfully unaware of our attempt to liberate Mr Bin Laden and therefore we really have nothing
to tell them. Let sleeping dogs lie is the phrase I think”

“Yes of course.” the PM replied “But where exactly do we go from here?”

This time it was the turn of John Smith to reply.

“Prime Minister, our priorities remain the same, we have to establish the authenticity of the principal, but now we shall approach it from a different perspective.”

“Go on” the PM said.

“If we now assume the whole incident was a charade from start to finish, there is, without the shadow of doubt, a traitor within our establishment. As clever as this little escapade has
been, it could not have happened without some inside help from here in the UK.”

Sir Richard nodded in agreement, and instructed his head of intelligence to continue.

“And here’s where we get a break,” continued John, “because the operation was code blue, here at Century House there are, outside of the five of us in this room, six
people who were in the loop on this operation. Assuming we five are all innocent, then we have six people to investigate.”

“How long do you expect it will take? asked the PM.

“Prime Minister, we have to build a picture of these six people’s lives for the last four months, and that means scrutinising every element of their work and private lives, from
phone calls to where they go, where they’ve been, what they’ve bought, every miniscule aspect of their existence, and when we’ve done all that we would hope to have one, but not
more than two, suspects, who we will then have to investigate further back, and then, and only then, if we have one direct suspect, we would detain them under The Officials Secrets Act which would
allow us to then formally interview them.”

“And if all your people are in the clear, or have been too clever to make any detectable mistakes?” the PM asked.

“If that was the case, then Sir, I could confidently assure you that the man at Gandamak was indeed Osama Bin Laden, nobody can evade detection with the scrutiny that we will deploy”
replied John Smith.

“How long before you can give me an answer?” the PM asked.

“From start to finish, employing all my personnel, four weeks, unless of course someone breaks early on, so in the meantime I would suggest we all return to our normal routines and wait
for me and my team to report back” John answered.

“Prime Minister, I know this is not what you wanted to hear, however there is little collateral damage, the Cousins are none the wiser, apart from the tragic loss of two of our own, no
harm will come out of this, no matter what the outcome.” Sir Richard stated.

“Very well then,” replied the PM. “thank you all for your hard work and dedication, we will reconvene when we are certain one way or the other.”

Tony Blair rose from his chair, shook everyone’s hand, and strode off to find his bodyguards before the walk back to Westminster. The meeting was over, and there was nothing else to be
said or that could be done.

Sally Dixon was the first to leave; she exited the building alongside Westminster Bridge Road and decided to walk the fifteen minutes to her temporary accommodation just off the Elephant and
Castle. The last two hours had been the worst of her life; the fantasy land she had inhabited for the last several years had imploded, from being a heroine of Allah’s cause, a latter day Joan
of Arc, the reality of being a traitor to her own country and the possibility of exposure and a life in Broadmoor was staring her in the face. She needed to think. She was to meet her handler in
Borough Market the next morning at 11am to give a briefing on the meeting and the outcome, that in itself would be difficult, but she knew she couldn’t run, so she would carry out the
rendezvous and then perhaps take a well earned break, go to South America. However, Sir Richard had said there was no suspicion on anyone in the room todaythat thought lightened her gloom.

What Sally didn’t see as she left Century House, were the two men on opposite sides of the road, who had been waiting for her departure all morning. As she headed down St Georges Road the
two employees of the British Secret Service kept a respectful distance, but not for one moment did either of them let Sally out of sight. Sally with great relief reached her flat shut and bolted
the front door, then in a moments madness which comes to us all in times of panic she removed her mobile from her bag and called her handler.

For many a long year the British Army were guilty of underestimating their opponents, this however was not the case with the British Security Services.

The BMW 700 series with blacked out windows cruised past Fleet services, on the M3 heading south towards Hampshire. No one was interested; in this part of the world BMWs were
no big deal, not when you had all the flash cars of the decadent footballers regularly flying up to their training grounds before returning home to their stately piles. People would surely have
been interested though. if they knew where the car was heading, and who the occupants were, and the reason why the windows were blacked out.

In the rear of the car Sally Dixon was in pieces; two men had arrived on her doorstep early that morning, showed her their credentials, which she had instantly recognised as Security Services,
and informed her their boss John Smith would like a chat- destination the Farm, Hampshire.

Mike Tobin had returned to Hereford following his two week enforced R&R. Since returning from Pakistan he had plenty of free time to contemplate his future. Whilst he had
always planned to chuck it in after this mission, there had always been that nagging doubt in the back of his mind; would he miss the regiment and all the excitement that went with it? Well as far
he was concerned, the botched mission had sealed his future. He had lost two comrades for no good reason and the writing was on the wall, it was time to go.

Major Sebastian Morley sat in the same chair in his office that he had when he’d briefed Mike on the mission all those weeks ago.

“Come in” he said, as Mike firmly knocked the door.

“Nice fortnight off, Mike?” he enquired.

“Usual stuff,” answered Mike, “Got pissed, then got pissed some more. Anyhow, Sir, I’ll get straight to the point, I’m calling it a day, so if you could get the
paperwork sorted I think its best I go now.”

Major Morley was not surprised. “Mike, is this due to the fuck up over in the badlands?”

“No sir,” came the reply. “I was pretty sure this was going to be it whatever the outcome and it just cemented my thoughts when I heard the news.”

“What you don’t know, Mike,” replied the Major, “is that the woman from GCHQ was the mole, and our friends at M15 ousted her shortly after you and Jock got back, too late
as far as you were concerned, but at least she’s out of harms way now.”

“What happened to her?” Mike enquired.

“As always in cases of treason against the state,” the Major explained, “she soon confessed to everything, so we don’t prosecute these people, too much press involvement
and too many left wing liberals demanding that she’s just a victim, so we had her sectioned under the Mental Health Act, the rest of her days will be spent climbing walls in Broadmoor with
the rest of Britain’s finest lunatics for company.”

Mike shuddered; he couldn’t think of a more depressing end to anyone’s life; still if anyone deserved a fate worse than death it was that woman.

“OK then,” said the Major, “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it Mike, I know you well enough to respect your wishes, I’ll see to your discharge papers and
all the paraphernalia this morning. Do you have an address where I can send everything?”

“Australia,” came the reply.

Chapter 20 Harpenden High Street.

PC Evans had heard the all units call, but dismissed it almost immediately; it would be nice to get involved in some real action but that wasn’t going to be today.

“Good morning, Sir,” he said politely to Danny as he reached him. “I noticed your Car Tax is out of date, are you aware you could be prosecuted for failing to display your disc
that is of course providing you actually have a current disc?”

Danny was now in control of his thoughts and figured he could soon blag his way out of this corner.

“I’m so sorry officer,” he replied as humbly as he could. “My car wouldn’t start this morning, and I was late for a meeting so grabbed the wife’s keys and
brought her car, the silly mare must have forgotten to tax the bloody thing, could I nip round to the Post Office now and get it done?”

“I’m sorry Sir, even if you did I’m still going to have to issue you with a ticket” came the reply.

“OK” said Danny, “that’s fair enough, I’ll give you my name and address and get on my way, if that’s all right with you Constable.”

PC Evans, still oblivious to the fact he was standing two meters from the man who had just robbed Barclays Bank in St Albans, agreed that would be fine.

“If I could just see some identification then, and you can get going.”

Shit
, thought Danny, one of the golden rules when you went out thieving was you never carried any identification or indeed any thing that could fall out of your pockets which could later
incriminate you. Danny made a play of searching his pockets, and then looking surprised.

“This is so embarrassing, in my rush to get out I’ve left all my wallet and credentials in the other motor, and I’ve got no ID at all.”

“Very well, Sir” said the officer, “If you give me your name and address I’ll call it through to the centre, get it verified then you can get on your way.”

Danny was starting to feel uneasy, but as long as he kept his cool he was still fine. There was absolutely nothing to tie him up with the robbery, in any case he could hardly drop this officer
in broad daylight and make a run for it, no the best thing to do was hard nose it out. Danny gave the Constable his name and address down in Kent and PC Evans apologised for the inconvenience,
stepped a few yards away, and radioed the general incident room at St Albans Police Station.

As is the case in all major crime the Police rarely solves these cases with detective work alone; most seasoned criminals know how to keep one step ahead of the chasing pack of police, no, what
usually occurs is a lucky break, and then it’s down to the detectives to recognise such incidents and act accordingly.

And so it was that on this particular morning in St Albans a lucky break materialised.

The Police Station was being graced by a legend of the Metropolitan Police, who had been invited to address the local force on major crime in the City of London, and how to prevent it.

Chief Superintendent Frank Carter had been preparing his seminar in the canteen when all hell broke loose, and the duty Sergeant Paul Ammonds had burst into the canteen and informed him of the
robbery at the bank, apologising that he was going to have all his people out on the turf and the meeting would have to be postponed.

“Don’t worry” said Frank as he was told the news, “Mind if I stick around though? I won’t get in any one’s way, and if I can help at all my day will be well
spent.” Inwardly he was quite pleased, public speaking was not his thing, and this felt a lot more exciting.

“Of course, Sir” answered the Sergeant. “You might feel comfortable in the incident room.”

Frank Carter had made his way down to the incident room and found a hive of activity, the place was buzzing. As he stood in the corner, observing all around him, he overheard one of the
switchboard operators commenting to her colleague:

“Bloody typical of Evans, we’ve got a major incident on our hands, and he’s called in a no tax disc, so I’ve got to verify the owner of the car is who he says he
is.”

Frank laughed to himself, typical of today’s police force; in his day he would have pulled that constable back in to look for the real criminals before the trail went cold.

“I know you’re snowed under Shelia” replied the operator’s colleague. “Give me his name and address and I’ll check it out.”

“Cheers mate,” Shelia replied “It’s Danny Gallagher, Ivy cottage, Long Lane, Goudhurst, Kent.”

Frank Carter froze. Danny fucking Gallagher, here on the manor, today of all days, never in a million years is this a coincidence. He leapt from his corner and instructed the operator to wait
right there, he needed to think, and fast. He ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and into the duty Sergeant’s office. Without knocking, he burst in. A group of senior CID
officers were in a huddle, busily discussing their next moves.