Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (8 page)

‘So therefore . . . ?’

Blakey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘This is where it seems to be getting ridiculous. I’m almost embarrassed to say this, but I’m wondering if information about the cargoes could be getting to the pirates from inside UCSO.’

He looked straight at Fane, who said nothing for a moment. He was surprised; this was more interesting than he’d expected. His mind was working rapidly. If what Blakey was thinking was true and there was a thread leading from UCSO into a pirate group, it was a thread well worth tugging.

‘Let me be quite clear what you’re saying. You think there might be some connection between UCSO and Somalia.’

‘I know it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that. But, yes, that’s what I’m worried about. It’s not necessarily from here,’ said Blakey, waving his arm vaguely at the office outside. ‘The Athens office handles all the logistics, and leases the ships. The cargo is assembled and loaded in Greece as well.’

‘Who runs your Athens office?’

‘Chap named Berger. He’s American.’

‘What’s his background?’

‘A bit of this, a bit of that – journalism, import/export. He’s worked all over the world. It was his idea that there might be a leak.’

‘And the staff?’

Blakey shrugged. ‘Usual mix of local recruits – an accountant, secretaries – and a couple of people from other countries. Ten or eleven employees in all. Berger runs a tight operation; I’m sure he keeps a pretty sharp eye on what goes on.’

Even if he does, thought Fane, you’d need a professional to unravel something as sophisticated as the connection Blakey was proposing. He started to say, ‘I have a thought—’ when suddenly the door to the open-plan floor opened, and a voice said excitedly, ‘David, the bastards have done it again! I can’t believe those wretched people —’

The door was now fully open, revealing a woman standing in the doorway, clutching some papers. The look on her face showed she was as startled to find Fane sitting there as he was by her interruption. She was forty-ish, elegantly dressed in a smart, dark grey suit, sheer tights and shiny maroon high-heeled shoes. This was not Blakey’s PA, Fane concluded without much difficulty.

‘I’m so sorry, David,’ she said. ‘I thought you were alone.’

‘Let me introduce you. This is Geoffrey Fane,’ said Blakey. ‘An old friend.’

‘Katherine Ball,’ the woman said, offering her hand.

‘Katherine’s my deputy,’ said Blakey. ‘The place wouldn’t function without her. She’s got a desk in Athens too – I know they’d say the same about her.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said with a laugh. ‘But I’m not sure it’s true.’ She had a deep smoky voice. ‘But don’t let me interrupt,’ she continued.

‘Anything urgent?’ asked Blakey.

‘More annoying than urgent,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you later.’ She looked at Fane appraisingly. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, and left the room.

‘You were saying?’ Blakey reminded him.

‘I was wondering how we could help you. I might ask the Athens Station if they have anyone on their books that we could put into your office there to do a bit of quiet investigation. We have a new Head of Station and I could ring him this afternoon. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ Blakey said, looking relieved that Fane was willing to help.

‘I take it this man Berger can be trusted? An American, you say?’

‘I trust him absolutely. As I said, he’s the one who first pointed out that we might have a problem.’

‘Good. Tell him someone will be in touch. They can talk over a cover story.’

‘What should I do about the London end?’

Fane smiled benignly. ‘Why don’t we focus on Athens for now? I’d say that’s a much more likely source of any leak. But keep an eye out here; if anything strikes you, let me know and we’ll take it from there. What about your deputy – Katherine, was it? Is she in on the picture?’

‘No, not at present.’

‘I’d keep it that way,’ said Fane. ‘“Need to know” is always best in this sort of operation. We can widen the net later if we have to. There’s one other thing: when is your next big shipment going past the Horn?’

‘Berger and I discussed that. It’s not due for six weeks.’

‘I might suggest that we put someone on board, but I’ll discuss it with Athens Station. Tempting though it is, I’m not going to run this operation myself.’

‘You see it as worthwhile then?’ asked Blakey. ‘You don’t think I’m wasting your time.’

‘Oh, no, old chap,’ said Fane, standing up. ‘This could give us a much-needed lead into these pirate gangs.’ And that would be a great coup for the Service, he thought. It would also provide good bargaining chips to use with the allies.

He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting back at Vauxhall. Let me ring you after I’ve talked things through with the Athens Head.’

The two men rose, and Blakey ushered Fane out through his own door into the corridor. As they headed towards the lift, Fane noticed that the door to the ante-room, where Blakey’s PA normally sat, was ajar, even though Blakey had closed it firmly when they’d first come through.

It was going to be difficult to keep anything secret in an environment where most work was done in an open-plan floor and people wandered in and out of offices without knocking. Of course, it only mattered if Blakey was right to think there was a link between UCSO and a group of pirates. It would have seemed improbable a week ago, but so would the presence of a British Pakistani in a pirate’s skiff.

Returning to Vauxhall Cross, Fane’s mind was pulling together the strands of information that all seemed connected to UCSO. He decided the next thing was to find out what Liz Carlyle had discovered in Paris.

As he walked into his outer office, his PA said, ‘Liz Carlyle rang. She’d like a word ASAP.’

Great minds think alike, thought Fane. He admired Liz Carlyle. Pity she didn’t reciprocate.

Chapter 11

Liz sat in her office in Thames House, gazing out through a steady drizzle at the river, mud-brown at low tide and sloshing against a litter-festooned strip of sand on the far bank. She thought of Paris, the warm sun as she had left Martin’s flat, the bistro in the square where they’d eaten supper at a pavement table under the plane trees. And Martin himself – when they’d said goodbye the following morning he hadn’t returned to the subject of her moving to Paris, but there’d been a questioning look in his eye that suggested the topic wasn’t going to stay buried for long. Paris . . . how tempting it seemed on this gloomy London morning.

But then she thought of the young man in the Santé prison. Why was he there? What had pulled him away from a respectable Birmingham family to a pirate boat in the Indian Ocean? She turned with a sigh as Peggy Kinsolving came into her office, looking eager, a file clutched in her hand and her spectacles firmly in place. Peggy smiled and said, ‘Don’t tell me – it was sunny in Paris.’

‘Naturally.’ Liz waved her to a chair. ‘Did this DI Fontana have anything more to say?’

‘No. I told him not to go near the Khan family until you were back.’

‘Good. I’ll ring him. I want to talk to the Khans myself, but if he knows them, it might be best if he came with me.’

Peggy nodded then said, ‘There’s one more thing. One of our agent runners has a source in the part of Birmingham where the Khans live. It’s a young Asian who’s a member of one of the radical mosques there. I thought he could be useful.’

‘He might . . . we need all the information we can get. The Khan family won’t necessarily tell us everything they know about their son – that’s if they know anything themselves. Who’s the agent runner? I’d like to have a word.’

‘It’s Kanaan Shah. He’s in the office today; I saw him earlier. Let me see if I can find him.’

Peggy bustled out and returned a few minutes later escorting a tall, dark, good-looking young man, wearing chinos and a blue open-necked shirt.

‘Have a seat, Kanaan,’ Liz began.

‘You’ve pronounced it correctly,’ he said with a smile. ‘Most people don’t. That’s why I’m called “K” around here.’

‘How long have you been in the Service?’

‘Three years. But I’ve only been running agents for a few months. I was in protective security before. “Agent”, I should say,’ he added with a grin. ‘I’ve only got the one.’

‘That’ll change once you get the hang of it. You’ll soon find you’ve got a whole stable of them.’ She remembered her own first days as an agent runner – and one particular agent, the boy in the Muslim bookshop, codenamed Marzipan. He had helped to prevent a serious terrorist incident, but had later been killed – his identity blown to the extremists by a mole in the Service. That had been the worst period of Liz’s career. She’d almost resigned over it, even though none of it had been her fault. Now here was young Kanaan, starting out on his career as an agent runner. He’d be asking people to put their lives in his hands in the national interest; making the compact with them that he would look after them in return for their information. It was a compact made in good faith but one, as Liz knew only too well, that was never without risk.

She asked Kanaan about his background; there were still comparatively few Asians at the operational end of the Service. He told her he was from a Ugandan Asian family. His grandparents had been forced to leave when Idi Amin drove out the Asian community. London-born, Kanaan had grown up in Herne Hill and gone to Alleyn’s School for Boys, then he’d read Politics and Economics at LSE. Personable, obviously intelligent, he could have had any number of jobs; Liz asked him what had attracted him to the Security Service.

‘Adventure,’ he said with a boyish grin that was infectious – she found herself smiling back. ‘And,’ he added, the grin disappearing, ‘I wanted to give something back. My grandparents came to Britain with nothing but a single suitcase, but my family has done very well here. My father became a GP, then he changed direction and now he’s a partner at Morgan Stanley. And he’s made sure I’ve had every opportunity to do what I want to do.’

Liz nodded. She was charmed by Kanaan’s willingness to express sentiments that many would find old-fashioned. Her own father had had a very strong sense of duty, of service to his country. He’d carried it through into civilian life from his days in the army, and it had rubbed off on her. That, she thought ruefully, was why she couldn’t just pack it all in and go off to live in Paris. Not yet anyway.

‘Tell me about your agent,’ she said. ‘Peggy says he’s in Birmingham.’

‘That’s right.’ And Liz listened carefully as K began to tell her about a young man in Birmingham called Salim Alavi, codename ‘Boatman’. He was the son of first-generation immigrants from Pakistan. His mother worked as a cleaner; his father was a mechanic in a local garage. Salim had done well at school, getting three good A-levels; he didn’t go to university but instead applied to join the West Midlands Police. His application had been unsuccessful: he’d passed his written tests with flying colours, but he’d failed the medical exam – there was some problem with his eyesight. Yet he was so obviously keen and bright that one of the recruiters had mentioned him to Special Branch and in time he’d been drawn to MI5’s attention.

After his application was rejected, Salim took a job in a hardware store run by his uncle. He seemed to have become embittered by his experience with the police and, for the first time in his life, became extremely religious. He joined a small, recently founded mosque, the New Springfield, and went there daily to pray; he also spent his free time listening to clerics preach and began to participate in discussion groups. If you had asked him why he had previously wanted to become a policeman, Salim would have told you it had been a mistake, a youthful error committed when he hadn’t realised he would be doing the Infidel’s bidding by becoming a copper. He would not have told you about his monthly meetings with an officer of MI5.

After almost two years of faithful attendance at the mosque, ‘Boatman’ was asked to join a small study group, under the tutelage of a cleric named Abdi Bakri who had recently arrived from Pakistan. He agreed at once. At first the sessions were merely versions of the larger discussion groups he still attended. Islam was always on the agenda, and the overriding theme of the talks was how to follow the faith while living in the secular and corrupt society of the West.

But gradually the tenor of the cleric’s study sessions became more political – and Abdi Bakri shifted emphasis from adhering faithfully to Islam to defeating its enemies. This transition was noted by Boatman – and reported to his new MI5 controller, Kanaan Shah.

‘How did Boatman take your arrival on the scene?’ asked Liz. Agents usually hated any change to their controller – such relationships were of necessity close ones, and made closer by their clandestine nature.

‘I think he was a bit surprised. He was recruited by Dave Armstrong and I took him on when Dave was posted to Northern Ireland. I’m sure he was expecting another white man, and at first he was suspicious of me. But the fact we were both Asians helped – even though I’m Indian and a Hindu, not Muslim.’ He added with a little laugh, ‘Boatman was willing to overlook this flaw when he discovered that I hated cricket too.’

Kanaan continued with his account. In this new elite group, Boatman slowly felt his way; it took him over a month even to learn the names of his fellow members. But his patience paid off, and one of them in particular, an old hand named Malik, seemed to trust him. It was from him that Boatman learned that there had been earlier incarnations of this little group, taught by another cleric now thought to be in Yemen, and that some of his disciples had travelled to Pakistan.