Hellfire (17 page)

Ahmed led them to a small, bustling cafe five minutes from Chop Chop Square. There was no sign here that a woman had been casually executed nearby. They took a seat in the corner. Ahmed ordered coffee in small, handleless cups, and a plate of sweet cakes. Then he turned to Buckingham, his expression serious. ‘So, Mr Buckingham, what is it that I can do for you?’

Buckingham sipped his coffee. He noticed that his hand was still shaking slightly, and he took a moment to steady it. He drew a deep, calming breath. ‘You can tell me about the Caliph,’ he said. He immediately noticed a slight tightening around Ahmed’s eyes. His informant took a sip of his own coffee, then neatly placed his cup on the table in front of him.

‘You want to know what a caliph is?’ Ahmed asked. He didn’t catch Buckingham’s eye.

‘Not a caliph, old sport,’ Buckingham said. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. ‘
The
Caliph.’

No response.

‘London is getting chatter about a Middle Eastern figure – possibly Qatari – who goes by that name. We’re very keen to find him. We know you have a large, gossiping workforce. Let’s face facts – there must be a substantial number of people in your employment who actively support the extremist policies of ISIS and the like. We know that you keep your ear to the ground for information such as this. Your intelligence has been very useful to us in the past. Someone in your organisation must have heard of this character. I need to find out as much about him as possible.’

Ahmed stared out across the cafe. Almost absent-mindedly he took his coffee cup and drained it. Only when he had put the empty cup back on the table again did he turn to Buckingham. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He made to stand up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Buckingham, I have business to attend to.’

Buckingham grabbed his arm. Ahmed looked at his fist in surprise.

Buckingham blinked heavily. He was still in a state of shock, but he managed to put a bit of firmness in his voice. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said quietly.

His informant meekly did as he was told.

‘You say you’ve never heard of the Caliph?’ Buckingham continued. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’

Ahmed’s face grew angry. ‘Mr Buckingham, how dare you . . .’

‘It would be a simple matter,’ Buckingham interrupted, his words falling over themselves, ‘to let it be known that we’ve spoken.’

Ahmed fell silent. He eyed Buckingham carefully.

‘Let’s face facts, Ahmed,’ Buckingham said. ‘I can’t imagine that all your business associates across the Gulf are as well disposed as you are towards British Intelligence. And it would be the simplest thing in the world for a substantial payment to land in one of your bank accounts that could easily be traced back to Whitehall. And even easier to leak the paperwork.’

A mixture of emotions crossed Ahmed’s face. Irritation. Reluctance. Maybe even fear.

‘You are blackmailing me?’

‘I prefer to think of it as gentle persuasion.’

Ahmed bowed his head. ‘You ask too much,’ he said.

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Of
course
you don’t see why,’ Ahmed hissed. ‘That is because you know nothing of the Caliph.’ He looked around the cafe, as though he was checking whether anybody else was watching them. Then he pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number. Buckingham, fluent in Arabic, understood the instruction he gave when the call was answered:
Meet me outside the Saad Habbal cafe immediately.
Ahmed hung up and then addressed Buckingham. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

A black Rolls Royce with tinted windows had already pulled up outside the cafe by the time they stepped outside, one passenger door held open by an Arabic man. Ahmed held out one hand to indicate that Buckingham should climb inside. Buckingham looked around a bit nervously, but then did as his informant told him. Ahmed climbed in next to him, and the vehicle slipped away into the traffic.

There was a glass screen dividing the front of the car from the back. Buckingham took that to mean they could talk freely. Ahmed removed his sunglasses, tucked them into his robes, then looked out of his tinted side window. ‘I know nothing of the Caliph except rumour and hearsay,’ he said quietly. ‘But what I have heard turns my stomach more than the sickening events we have just witnessed in Chop Chop Square.’

‘Go on.’

‘They say he is a man of great cruelty. He wishes to establish a single Islamist caliphate as it used to exist in antiquity, not only across the Middle East, but across Africa as well. Such a caliphate would be ruled under Sharia law, and sights such as the one we have just witnessed would be commonplace. You know something of how the Taliban ruled in Afghanistan, before 9/11. This caliphate would make
their
foul regime appear positively moderate. The rumour is that the Caliph is behind insurgencies across the Middle East and Africa. Islamic State, Boko Haram – few of their militants would recognise the Caliph’s face, or know his real name, but their activities have his fingerprints all over them. Or so it is said.’

‘How can we find out more about him?’ Buckingham demanded.

‘Have you not listened to a word I’ve said, Mr Buckingham?
Nobody
will talk to you about him.’ Ahmed gave him an angry stare, then suddenly flicked a switch on his door. The glass dividing screen slid down with a hiss, but the driver kept his eyes forward as he continued to negotiate the afternoon traffic.

‘Mustafa,’ Ahmed said, still speaking in English. ‘Tell this gentleman what you know about the Caliph.’

Buckingham happened to be watching Mustafa’s face in the rear-view mirror. The driver visibly flinched at the question. He didn’t reply.

‘Mustafa?’

‘I am sorry, sir. I do not know what you are talking about.’

Ahmed gave Buckingham a meaningful look, then turned his attention back to his driver. ‘It’s okay, Mustafa,’ he said. ‘What you say will not leave this car. I will see to it that you receive double pay for your troubles today.’

Mustafa nervously moistened his lips. ‘I’m sorry sir,’ he said. ‘I do not know anything about any Caliph.’

An uncomfortable silence as Mustafa’s gaze flickered nervously in the rear-view mirror.

‘Thank you, Mustafa,’ Ahmed said finally, and he raised the dividing window again. ‘Mustafa has children, you see,’ he told Buckingham. ‘Their safety is more important to him than anything else. But he would not have been able to tell you anything useful. Few people have ever seen the Caliph. Fewer still know who or where he is.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t really exist. Perhaps he is just a story, invented to scare people.
Say your prayers, or the Caliph will come for you.
Perhaps he is a high-ranking Qatari politician. Perhaps he is a desert wanderer. I do not know, but I have told you everything I can.’ Before Buckingham could interrupt, he held up one finger. ‘Do not ask me any more,’ he said. ‘I will help you up to a point, but if the rumours about the Caliph are true and he finds out that I have spoken to you about him, it will not be me whom he targets. It will be those closest to me, and I will not risk their safety for anything. Not even for your precious British Intelligence.’

Ahmed turned to look out of the window again. ‘I will be returning to Qatar in the morning,’ he said, ‘and I have a lot to do before then. May I offer you the use of my driver to take you somewhere. The airport? The British Embassy? I would seriously recommend that you do not spend any more time than is necessary in this part of the world, if you insist upon making enquiries about that type of person.’ From a pocket in his robes he removed his sunglasses and put them on. ‘As you’ve just witnessed,’ he said, ‘dark things have a habit of happening here, even when the sun is out.’

Sir Colin Seldon, Chief of MI6, had a glass of Laurent Perrier in one hand and a canapé in the other. Sometimes he felt he lived off canapés. He popped it in his mouth, took a sip of champagne, and smiled blandly at the woman in the sequinned dress who was wittering on at him. He could hardly hear what she was saying, here under the vaulted ceilings of
Westminster Hall. It was packed with people chattering noisily, the men in dinner suits, even though it was only early evening, as they congregated to welcome the French president on a state visit. Their conversations almost drowned out the sound of the excellent string quartet in the far corner of the hall. He glanced at his watch. Another half hour before he could politely leave.

Over the shoulder of the woman he saw a face he recognised. Smart suit, neat black hair – an SIS intelligence officer, though Seldon was damned if he could remember his name. He was trying to catch Seldon’s eye, and his face was serious.

Seldon gave the woman his most winning smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me for just one moment?’

Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to where the intelligence officer was standing. ‘News?’ he breathed.

‘Bixby sent me, sir.’ And from the look on the officer’s face, Seldon could tell it was going to be bad. He was practised at absorbing information at events such as this without allowing his expression to register what was going on. But this tested his skills. He grew increasingly nauseous as listened to the intel.

‘Dead?’ he repeated, when the officer paused for breath. ‘Both of them?’

The intelligence officer nodded.

‘How?’

‘The aide was just shot, Sir Colin. The High Commissioner, I’m afraid . . .’ He used his forefinger to make a slicing gesture at his throat.

Seldon removed his glasses and pinched his nose. ‘Fucking animals,’ he breathed. ‘Boko Haram?’

‘Yes, Sir Colin. And I’m afraid there’s more.’

Seldon stared at the intelligence officer as he reeled off more bad news than the chief had heard in a year. Not only was a British-born jihadi on the site, it seemed to be Jihadi Jim, last seen performing executions on the Iraq–Syria border. And that wasn’t the worst of it. There was the suggestion of a biological agent in the vicinity. One of the SAS team infected. The chief felt his blood chilling at this new intelligence.

‘We’ve protocols in place?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Sir Colin. Porton Down are on standby. We can get them there overnight, on your say-so.’

‘Do it,’ Seldon said. ‘Is there any sign that the beheading was videoed?’

‘None,’ said the intelligence officer. ‘But I think we must assume that it was. There’s no real reason to do it otherwise. Could be an hour before they release it, could be a month. The median wait time is six days.’

Seldon swore under his breath. ‘Keep this from the media until I’ve discussed it with Whitehall. Are the Nigerians aware?’

‘No sir.’

‘Keep it that way. They’ll only mess things up even more. Now get to work.’

The intelligence officer nodded and left. Seldon scanned the room. It didn’t take long for him to pick out Tessa Gorman’s face. The Foreign Secretary was talking to a couple of minor dignitaries on the other side of the room. Their gazes locked, and she seemed immediately to understand that Seldon had something serious to say. She excused herself and crossed the chamber to talk to him.

‘Well?’

He gave her the news. She was a lot worse at hiding her emotions than he was.

‘Is the bioagent being contained?’ she asked.

Seldon nodded. ‘A Porton Down team are on their way. But in my opinion, if Boko Haram want to start spreading diseases round their country, that’s the Nigerians’ problem, not ours.’

‘Agreed. I need to tell the PM about the High Commissioner immediately,’ she said.

‘Wait,’ Seldon told her. ‘It’s more complicated than you think.’

Gorman raised an eyebrow, clearly indicating that she didn’t appreciate being spoken to like that. But she kept quiet and allowed Seldon to continue. ‘Think about it, Tessa. Someone needs to take the fall for this. We can’t shift the blame to the Nigerians. It’ll mean military action against Boko Haram, and nobody’s got the stomach for that. Your lot aren’t going to take the blame. The way I see it, we’re only left with one option.’

‘The army?’

Seldon nodded. ‘A catastrophic failure by the Regiment. I know these people – I can promise you they’ll have broken a few SOPs along the way which we can make stick. It’s by far the best way. The public hold them in high regard. They can take a hit far better than we can.’

‘You’re thinking along the lines of Gibraltar?’ Gorman asked. ‘I heard it was touch and go whether those SAS men got put away for excessive force.’

‘Exactly. Or even Northern Ireland – we’re pulling back Regiment personnel to be questioned about jobs in the Province as we speak. They can deal with it, and it gets us out of a hole.’

The Foreign Secretary thought about that for a moment. ‘Let’s get the team out of Nigeria as quickly as we can,’ she said. ‘We can work out what to do with them when they’re back in the UK. Now excuse me, the PM’s over there, I need to catch him before he gets up to give his speech . . .’

‘
Call sign Bravo Nine Delta, this is Zero Alpha.
’

The radio communication from Hereford was scratchy and indistinct. But welcome. It had been forty-five minutes since Danny had made the call. He’d explained in detail about what had happened: about the High Commissioner and his aide, about Jihadi Jim and the strange Chinese man, and of course about Ripley. The radio operator had listened in silence, then told them to stand by.