Invasion (6 page)

In a side street off Clapham High Road, Khan was pacing up and down the pavement when Max beckoned him over to the van. He pulled the side door open and jumped in.

‘What
is it?’

‘Got something on the Met band.’

Khan activated the communications panel in the rear of the van. He tapped the Police icon on the screen and a series of incidents began scrolling downwards. Only two events in the area were flagged
as serious; one was a road accident fatality involving a cyclist on Brixton Hill, but the other had him reaching for the radio.

‘Direct patch to OCC, please.’

The OCC was the Met’s Operations Command Centre,
a high-tech communications hub located several floors beneath Scotland Yard. His headset reverberated with digital clicks and warbles. Seconds later, a female voice announced ‘OCC.’

‘Supervisor, please,’ said Khan. After a moment another voice came on the line.

‘Superintendent Greenwood, Duty Operations Controller. How can we help?’

‘Designate my call sign Kilo-Whiskey
Seven,’ replied Khan. The OCC needed to identify him somehow and they’d know he was MI5.

‘Roger, Kilo-Whiskey Seven. Go ahead,’ acknowledged Greenwood.

‘Superintendent, you have a shooting incident logged adjacent to Stockwell tube station. Can you upload the footage?’

‘Sure. It’s
probably a Trident job, though. Victim is
a black male in his twenties, single shot to the head. Stand by while I get it routed through.’

Khan bit his lip as the seconds ticked by and the download bar crept across his screen. Then the CCTV footage was streaming inside the van.

‘It’s him! It’s Target One,’ Khan declared, stabbing a finger at the monitor. He keyed his mike again. ‘Superintendent, the man on the left of the picture is one of our surveillance targets. This isn’t a local job, it’s a national security issue. We need to pick him up ASAP.’

‘They decamped in a vehicle,’ Greenwood replied. ‘No description or index number yet, but we’re trawling the local CCTV and ANPR systems. It’s a matter of time before we get a hit.’

Khan kicked the side door in frustration. ‘Okay, thanks. If you get any more info, patch it straight through, please. We’ve got to find this guy as quickly
as possible.’

Now what? fretted Khan. One thing was clear: an operation was in progress
and it didn’t just involve Target One. There were others out there, all of whom had managed to shake their surveillance.

‘Get in touch with Control,’ he ordered Max. ‘See if they’ve got an update. Something big is about to kick off and we’re sitting here with our thumbs up our arses.’

Kirsty Moore wasn’t sure whether it was the car tyres crunching up the gravel driveway or her insistent bladder that woke her from her nap. She pulled her knees up and shifted position on the sun lounger, wrapped in the warmth of the early evening sunshine that bathed her balcony, but her bladder was refusing to co-operate. She still felt tired, even after several lazy hours on the sofa, but after yesterday’s drinking
session she wasn’t at all surprised.

Her weekday morning had started
as it always did, with the chirping of the alarm clock at six-fifteen. After ten minutes and two clumsy attempts to connect with the snooze button, Kirsty had dragged herself out of bed and headed for the shower, making a conscious effort to avoid the mirror on her way past. Not that Kirsty was unattractive. With
her shoulder-length black hair, olive skin, huge brown eyes and a figure most girls would kill for, Kirsty drew admiring glances wherever she went, and was considered a top catch at Fisher Brown Finance in Holborn where she worked as a Panther company was a relaxed and occasionally fun place to work and the night before was no exception.

Her friend, Annie, was celebrating
her twenty-eighth birthday and, after work, they went to a nearby bar with most of the office turning out in support. From there, things got out of control; a mad two hours in a karaoke bar near Oxford Circus, Chinese meal in Soho, cocktails at Zoo, dancing (shoes in hand) until three. When Kirsty eventually arrived home, at around four in the morning, it was almost light and she was feeling decidedly worse for wear. Not good, considering she had to be up in two and a quarter hours. Still, she’d done it before. She was only thirty, young enough to get away with a good night out and turn up for work the next morning. Or so she thought.

Showered and dressed, but feeling very fragile, Kirsty had made her way downstairs to the street. Her apartment block was situated in Chiswick, West London, which wasn’t the most convenient of locations for getting into the city, but the fact that she had an apartment overlooking the river more than made up for the hassle of commuting. And besides, the rent was dirt cheap. Her older brother, Bruce, who lived in Slovenia, owned the place and let his baby sister stay there indefinitely. A two-bedroom apartment overlooking the Thames, no room-mates required, thank you very much.

Exiting the building, she made her way towards Chiswick station, her bleary eyes hidden behind sunglasses. A bus roared past as she waited to cross the main road, belching a thick cloud of diesel fumes in Kirsty’s
direction. Her head
spun as she breathed in a lungful and she groped at a traffic-light post to steady herself. She really wasn’t feeling too good…

It was at that moment that last night’s alcoholic indulgences decided to manifest themselves. Clutching her mouth tightly, she turned and stumbled across the pavement to an overflowing waste bin outside a newsagent. Other pedestrians turned their noses up in disgust and the occupants of a passing van jeered and hooted with laughter. Kirsty threw up until her stomach was empty, and then her body dry-retched for another minute just to be sure. No way was she going to the office today.

She had walked home on wobbly legs and spent the rest of the day watching daytime TV, drifting in and out of sleep. At around four in the afternoon, she made herself scrambled eggs on toast, after which she began to feel a little more human. She grabbed a book, a trashy chick-lit novel that she’d been sucked into, and settled down in her favourite lounger on the balcony. After a few pages her eyelids began to feel very heavy and the words on the page began to blur. Kirsty was soon asleep.

But now, the combination of her insistent bladder and the sound of the vehicle in the driveway below had woken her. She was puzzled and a little irritated. She wondered who it could be and considered having a quick peek over the balcony, but the call of nature was
becoming more persistent and wouldn’t be ignored. Well, she needed a shower anyway. She slapped her novel down onto the balcony deck and padded across the lounge to the bathroom. As she passed the kitchen, Kirsty glanced at the clock on the wall.

It was almost twenty to six.

‘So, what do we do now?’ Harry asked, leaning back in his chair.

He’d been in the CMC for over forty minutes and the information contained in the confidential hand-out was really rather thin. No, that was unfair, Harry corrected himself. The security services were doing their best with what they had, but his impatience was beginning to bubble to the surface. Islamic terrorists, for God’s sake? Like everyone else, Harry had thought that that deadly phenomenon was far behind them all.

His eyes drifted along the walls, past the huge plasma screens that linked to various defence and intelligence agencies, until he reached the political map of the world at the end of the room. Harry studied it as the debate continued around the table, his eye drawn to the huge swathe of green that represented the Islamic state of Arabia. It dominated the map, curling around the Mediterranean and dwarfing the myriad of politically fractured countries around it.

Like most politicians the
world over, Harry was
impressed with
the enormous achievements that Arabia had made over the last ten years. The rebirth of a Caliphate had certainly assuaged the anger of Muslims worldwide, and that was something
they all had to be thankful for. However, Arabia’s stranglehold on the world’s oil markets was bankrupting
Europe. Baghdad had complained about contaminated
wells and problems with their offshore pumping facilities, but privately no western leader believed it. Europe’s nuts were in a vice and the Arabs were twisting the handle. But why?

It was a topic discussed at every European summit over the last year and the same conclusion was always reached: find an alternative energy source and find it quickly. Harry would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious. Wind farms and electric cars, sacred touchstones of the Green movement and championed by their most fervent disciples, just weren’t going to cut it, not if Europe’s economies were to thrive once more.

But the Americans
, w
ell, there was a mystery. California,
arguably
America’s most power-hungry state, once bankrupt, was
now
quietly enjoying sound economic growth and stable power supplies. How? And could Harry persuade the US to share some of its newfound prosperity? He thought he could, but sitting down here in this drab bunker wasn’t going to make that happen, despite the urgency of the meeting. Time, in that case, to wrap things up. He cleared his throat loudly and the arguments died away, the CIG attendees lapsing into silence.

‘Time is pressing, ladies and gentlemen. Recommendations, please.’

‘Prime Minister, losing a subject isn’t unusual, but in the last few hours we’ve witnessed multiple disappearances,’ the head of SIS reminded the room. ‘They all appear to be pre-planned. This isn’t mere coincidence. An operation is under way.’

‘So
, w
hat do we do?’ asked Harry.

The senior Defence Intelligence Staff officer, Brigadier Giles Forsythe, leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. All eyes turned to the man in the green uniform.

‘Prime Minister, I agree with my colleagues. Our alert status should be raised across the board in both our civil and military forces. As SIS has pointed out, a planned operation looks increasingly likely against-’

‘Nonsense!’ Around
the room, heads swivelled sharply towards the suntanned, balding pate of the Foreign Secretary, Geoffrey Cooper. ‘Prime Minister, I really think that we may be overreacting here. ‘The Brigadier shot him an icy look. Cooper ignored the glare and concentrated on Harry. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I agree with our colleague from SIS that the circumstances are rather unusual. However, the subjects in question are all Muslims and I think that this raises a very important issue.’

‘Explain,’ ordered
Harry, glancing at the clock on the wall. He could see that Cooper was in his element, the focus of attention in the room. A small, dapper man in his early fifties, Cooper exuded an air of annoying self-importance and not a small degree of arrogance, qualities that seemed to have manifested themselves only after his appointment as Foreign
Secretary. As a result, Harry had quietly pencilled Cooper in for a demotion in the next Cabinet reshuffle. He wasn’t a vindictive person, but Cooper had a habit of getting under everybody’s skin, which was bad for business and bad for the country.
Harry was curious to
see if a stint
in Transport w
ould
deflate that ego.

‘As you know,’ began Hooper, ‘I have spent some time working with the present Arabian administration with whom I have been able to forge some very productive diplomatic ties, ties that have directly benefited this country. Now, it’s a fact that since the state of Arabia came into being, Islamic terrorism has melted away across the globe, something that-’

‘Get to the point, Geoffrey.’

Cooper visibly reddened. ‘My point? Quite simply, why are we watching these people? What evidence do we have to warrant this potentially illegal surveillance? The Commissioner here says
that none of them have criminal records and most of them are tax-paying voters. The fact that they’ve visited Arabia on several occasions and are on some vague watch list doesn’t mean they’re guilty of anything. I’m sure I don’t have to remind anyone in this room that the diplomatic implications of these clumsy intrusions could be severe.’

‘They’re British citizens,’ Harry reminded Cooper. ‘This is a domestic issue.’

‘Have we learned nothing over the years?’ the Foreign Secretary countered.
‘My time in Arabia has taught me many things, not least that for people of the
faith their loyalty is towards Islam first. It’s offensive to suggest otherwise. And we all know Arabia can be very unforgiving if it feels its people are being persecuted.’

Further along the table the SIS official bristled.
‘
Foreign Secretary, there are some in the Intelligence Services who believe that the threat posed by Islamic extremism
still exists, despite the ambient diplomatic temperatures we’ve become used to. And with these particular subjects there is some history, their citizenship notwithstanding. Right now the evidence
is clear; a
timetable
is
almost certainly being followed and anti-surveillance methods employed. This is no time to consider diplomatic niceties. This is happening
on our streets, right now.’

Cooper barely glanced at the man, instead focussing his attentions on Harry.
‘Prime Minister, if we start arresting Muslims on the whims of our Intelligence Services it could prove both provocative and inflammatory. The adoption of a domestic anti-Islamic stance could have severe repercussions in Baghdad.’

The Metropolitan Police Commissioner nodded in agreement.
‘Sir, the Foreign Secretary has a valid point.
We
also have a legal responsibility to ensure that what we’re doing doesn’t contravene
our Race and Religion Bills. We’ve spent years trying to rebuild relations between our communities after the problems we’ve experienced in the past. I’m sure nobody wants to see all that good work undone.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Cooper.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cooper’s condescending tone was getting on his nerves and the Commissioner had just played right into his hands. The policeman himself was more or less a political appointee and had assured his lofty position after a career that was without controversy, lacking any real-world experience but with all the right political connections and ideology. Harry pushed his chair back and stood up, a signal that the meeting was at an end.

‘I understand everybody’s individual concerns,’ he began. ‘However, I think we must err on the side of caution and go with the general consensus. SIS will continue their efforts to reacquire the subjects using any means possible, and I want alert levels raised across the board. Commissioner, I expect your people to handle any subsequent arrests or detentions with the utmost professionalism. And Geoffrey, you will prepare something for the Ambassador, just in case things do turn nasty. I want to be kept fully abreast of any developments, day or night, is that clear? Brigadier Forsythe, you have my authority to raise the military alert level. It won’t hurt to test our responses to intelligence briefs.’

The Brigadier nodded curtly. Cooper, he saw, flushed red with anger.

‘No press statements
on this one,’ Harry
warned
. ‘We
keep everything in-house for the time being. Let’s raise our guard without raising
fears.’ As the meeting dispersed, Harry pulled his phone from his pocket and punched his wife’s number. After two rings he was connected.

‘Hi, Harry.’

‘Hi, love. How did it go?’ Harry glanced up to see a stern-faced Cooper hovering nearby. ‘One second.’ He held the phone against his chest. ‘Be kind enough to wait outside, would you Geoffrey? A private call, you understand.’ He turned his back and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Let me guess,’ Anna chuckled. ‘Geoffrey Cooper?’

‘Bingo.
Where are you?’

‘Nearly home. Matt seems keen to get me back to Whitehall in record time. He thinks we’ll arrive around six or thereabouts. It all went very well, by the way.’

‘Good. I owe you dinner. A very expensive one.’ Harry checked his watch.

‘Look, I have to talk to Cooper and there are a few other things that need taking care of. I’ll see you upstairs when you get back.’

‘Okay, darling.’

Harry slipped his phone back into his pocket and made his way out into the corridor, where David Fuller was trying to placate his simmering Foreign Secretary.

‘Prime Minister,’ puffed a red-faced Cooper. ‘With the greatest respect, I feel that my experience in matters concerning Arabia should be given greater consideration.’

‘And in spite of that influence, your friends in Baghdad aren’t doing us any bloody favours at the moment, are they Geoffrey?’

‘They’ve had their own problems,’ spluttered Cooper, ‘all well documented. Look, I’m not buying that oil conspiracy rubbish and, furthermore, this so-called security situation could jeopardise future relationships at a time when we need them most.’

Harry glanced at his watch again and moved past Cooper. ‘Sorry Geoffrey, I haven’t got time to argue with you on this one. I suggest we leave security to those who know best.’

‘Those who know best?’ the portly Minister blustered, his anger booming along the corridor. ‘SIS are a bunch of public bloody schoolboys, singularly misplaced to judge the ramifications of-’

Harry stopped in his tracks and spun around. ‘Geoffrey, you will retract that remark or I’ll have your resignation on my desk within the hour. Is that clear?’ Cooper’s
nostrils
flared, his breath coming in angry snorts. ‘Very well. I
apologise for-’

‘Accepted,’ Harry barked, turning smartly on his heel and trotting up the steps to Number Ten. Maybe the next reshuffle was too long a wait, he mused. He’d sleep on it and make his decision in the morning.

Cooper’s eyes burned into the Prime Minister’s departing back, the quiet rage spreading through his chest. Humiliated, and in front of that arse-kisser Fuller too. In fact, Fuller seemed to take some pleasure in Cooper’s embarrassment, smiling as he looked down at the rotund Foreign Secretary.

‘Come on Geoff, you know Harry is under some pressure right now. We all are.’

‘It’s Geoffrey. How many times do I have to remind you?’ snapped Cooper, realising they were quite alone in the corridor. ‘You’re a fucking weasel, Fuller, you know that?’ he hissed. ‘Harry’s
little golden boy. All the perks, all the authority, none of the responsibility. You’re not even a minister, for God’s sake.’

Fuller’s smile widened. ‘Geoffrey, please. There’s no call for insults, is there? We’re both grown men with jobs to do, and I’m afraid I’ve neglected mine for too long, today. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare some press papers. I’ll see you later.’

With that, Fuller turned and made his way up the stairs. Cooper couldn’t resist a parting shot.

‘What if all this is a false alarm? Imagine
the flak from the Muslim Council, the Islamic Congress in Brussels. Who has to clear up that diplomatic mess, eh? Me. Not you, or your precious Prime Minister. So you run along, Fuller. I’m going to put out this fire before it takes hold.’

Fuller paused at the top of the stairs. The smile was gone, his words laced with caution. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Geoffrey. You should discuss this with Harry in the morning.’

‘Who are you to advise me?’ scoffed Cooper. ‘You’re
out of your depth, Fuller. Now piss off.’ He watched the Director of Communications disappear up the stairs into Number Ten. The anger still coursed through him and he chastised himself for losing his temper. It was a foolish thing to do, particularly for a man of his standing and importance.

And right now there was so much at stake.