Agent of the State (24 page)

Kerr shook his head. ‘Marston Street, yeah? Any counter-surveillance?’

‘Nothing, and they seemed totally relaxed. Said thanks very much and stood me down. Would have earlier if I hadn’t saved them from the cops. Home in bed by five, nappy detail at seven, totally knackered by eight, on the pitch at ten. Then the afternoon at your place.’

‘Who owns the house?’

‘No idea, but whoever it was has moved on. I rode by earlier today. Shutters closed, no furniture and obviously unoccupied.’

‘Thanks, Jack. I’d better get going.’ Kerr stood up. ‘But keep me up to speed, yeah?’

‘Sure. Like I say, most of the stuff was in cardboard boxes. But then these two guys backed the van up at right angles to the railings and brought something up from the basement.’

‘What was it?’

‘Couldn’t see. Like I say, they parked right across the pavement.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. Why didn’t you say?’

‘I just thought . . . I dunno. It did seem a bit odd. But, like I say, the whole night was surreal.’

Kerr was already pulling at the door. ‘Have you got your entry kit with you?’

Langton nodded at his bag. ‘Of course. What’s up?’

‘We need to take a look at that place right now.’ Kerr turned to the window. ‘Can you cover for an hour, Mel?’

‘No problem, they’re settling down for the night. Go. Just leave me the samosas.’

Twenty-six

Monday, 17 September, 22.27, 36 Marston Street, Knightsbridge

Although it was Monday night, the streets were busy with cabs and limousines carrying high rollers to the clubs in Mayfair, and it was almost ten-thirty when they reached Marston Street. The house was empty, as Langton had already noted. Langton parked the team’s four-year-old VW Golf between a Bentley and a Jaguar.

By Kerr’s logic, a burglary in late evening was more defensible than in the middle of the night. Langton had seen the targets reverse the van to remove something from the basement, to the left of the entrance, so that was where he had decided they should make their entry. Langton opened the heavy-duty padlock to the iron gate in seconds and, once down the steps, they were hidden from the street. With Kerr directing the pencil torch, Langton quickly disabled the security system and went to work on the three locks.

‘Come on, Jack,’ said Kerr, with a glance up to street level, ‘you told me three minutes tops.’

‘So shine it on the lock, not the back of my hand.’ Langton defeated the locks in just over two. They stepped inside and closed the door behind them. Langton’s flashlight picked out a double sink to their left and a wrought-iron spiral staircase with brass handrail diagonally opposite the door. They climbed the stairs to check out the two ground-floor rooms. ‘See? Deserted, just like I told you,’ said Langton, impatient. ‘So can we go right now, before we both drop in the shit?’

Kerr knelt and examined a couple of severed video cables snaking up from the floor, then shone his torch at two brackets on the wall of the reception room. ‘What kind of host wants to spy on the guests?’ Back in the hallway, Kerr nodded up the wide staircase and reached for Langton’s bag. ‘Take a quick look upstairs, Jack. I’ll hang onto this.’

‘What am I looking for?’ Langton’s beam was already bouncing up the staircase.

‘Signs of past life.’

Kerr spiralled back down to the old kitchen. Apart from an American fridge to the left of the staircase, in the corner nearest the door, the room was empty. He ran his finger at random along the tiled floors and walls, checking for dust and grease. The surfaces were completely clean, and the floor smelt of disinfectant.

He switched off his torch and took out one of Langton’s infrared lamps. In the ultraviolet light a narrow smear of blood glowed on the floor. With a swab kit from Langton’s bag he took a sample, just as Langton padded down the staircase. ‘Anything?’

‘Zilch, but there’s a chill all the way through.’ Langton sniffed. ‘They’ve used a lot of antiseptic upstairs, too.’

‘This whole area has been completely scrubbed out.’

Langton shone his torch at the walls. ‘Looks cleaner than an operating theatre.’

‘Except they missed a blood trace on the floor,’ said Kerr, handing Langton the swabs. He checked his watch: 22:43. ‘I have to shoot. Close it down yourself, will you, Jack?’ He was already heading for the door. ‘I have to be somewhere else.’

Kerr took a cab from Marston Street to the smart wine bar Olga had chosen for their meeting in a quiet mews behind Knightsbridge, within walking distance of Harrods. Karl was nowhere to be seen but he found Olga perched on a bar stool sipping a double vodka and tonic. They had never met, but Kerr recognised her straight away. She was just as he had imagined her, fabulous in navy mini skirt, tight silk blouse and exotic earrings. He held out his hand, but Olga slipped from the stool and kissed him on both cheeks, as if they were already lifelong friends.

Despite the late hour she smelt of fresh flowers, as if she had just stepped out of the shower. She asked what he would like and ordered him a gin and tonic. The barman called her Olga and put the drink on her tab. She had saved Kerr a stool by the bar, but he wanted their meeting to be private.

‘Let’s grab a table,’ he said, picking up their drinks.

‘Sure, if you like.’ Olga spoke as if she would have preferred to remain on display.

For the cop to observe, and the working girl to be seen, both professionals prefer a clear view of the entrance. Kerr got there first because a red-faced toff in striped shirt, expensive jeans and brown suede loafers intercepted Olga to offer her a drink. She kissed him, too, called him Henry, and wafted over to join Kerr.

Seeing Kerr’s expression, she flicked back her hair and laughed. ‘He’s fine. Everybody knows me in here.’ She clinked glasses and pulled a third chair up to the table. ‘Anyway, Karl will be here in a minute.’

‘Tell me how you two met.’

‘There was a private party for a lot of big cheeses. Karl was bodyguard to one of them. Lucky me.’

‘And you were looking after Yuri Goschenko.’

‘He’s an admirer who likes to be seen with me. Nothing more. It happens a lot.’

‘I bet.’

‘Enough to give Karl a job as a favour to me. Is that so bad?’

‘Where was the party?’

‘Close to here, off Wilton Crescent, not far from the embassies.’ Karl had appeared from nowhere and sat down beside them. He kissed Olga and shook hands with Kerr, who felt vaguely surprised he had missed Karl’s entrance. ‘The guests were screened off. But noisy,’ said Karl. ‘No, I didn’t get any names,’ he said, seeing Kerr’s questioning look, ‘but one of the royals was there.’

‘Really? You sure about that?’

‘Audi with the special marker parked down the street.’

Kerr turned to Olga. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘Olga wouldn’t know any of those people,’ said Karl, before she could answer.

Kerr looked between them. ‘So how about you two? Who went for who?’

‘Whom,’ said Karl, instinctively, always the linguist, then gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Look, it was magnetic, John,’ he said, hand moving to his breast pocket as a mobile rang, ‘and there’s no need to take the piss.’

‘Relax, darling, it’s for me,’ purred Olga, reaching into her handbag and checking the screen. ‘I have to take this, so sorry.’ She kissed Karl and moved back to the bar.

‘We share the same ring tone,’ said Karl, embarrassed.

‘Could be awkward.’ Kerr detected a spark of irritation in Karl. He seemed to have changed even in the twelve hours since they had parted in the market. Perhaps it was his escape into a place where no one could tell him what to do. He wore the same suit but seemed more assertive, as if he had already adjusted to his new world.

‘Look, John, this happens. She is impossible to resist, my woman.’

Kerr looked across to the bar, where Olga was still on the phone, laughing and flicking her hair. ‘And still working, I take it?’

‘Look, are you going to help us find Tania or not?’ said Karl, staring him down.

Kerr’s BlackBerry vibrated before he could reply, breaking the tension. Although it was more than a year since their last meeting, the text from Robyn, Gabriella’s mother, was as economical as ever: ‘In town till fri eve worried abt g we need to talk can u make 7 wed.’

‘I need to deal with this,’ he said, and typed, ‘8 is better,’ hoping she would not see it as another round in their domestic conflict.

‘Trouble is, John, what I told you this morning was not quite correct,’ he said, as Kerr locked the BlackBerry and drained his glass. ‘Olga tells me she thinks Tania is about fourteen.’

Kerr was angry now. ‘A child?’

‘That’s why she’s so worried.’

‘For God’s sake, Karl.’

‘The girl is Turkish. To me she looked older. The makeup, the clothes.’

‘Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into here?’

‘I swear I didn’t know this when I saw you this morning.’

The place was filling rapidly with Henry lookalikes, who crowded against their table. Kerr found himself and Karl standing-room deeper inside the bar as Robyn buzzed back, ‘ok usual place’, but he still had to raise his voice to be heard. ‘I’ll need a sample of her DNA. Hairbrush will do. And a photograph.’

‘Sure. I’ll see what I can find.’

‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ll text the time and place.’

Olga appeared with another gin and tonic, and vodka for Karl. ‘I have champagne at the bar, of course,’ she said, draping her arm round Karl’s neck and kissing him full on the lips. ‘You’re not telling John bad things about me, are you, darling?’ She pouted, then wove back through the punters. Karl wiped lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Olga put Tania up for this, didn’t she?’ said Kerr, moving in close. ‘And now she’s shit scared because she knows the type of games these people play.’ A couple of blondes in little black dresses were picking up on Kerr’s anger, so he spoke directly into Karl’s ear. ‘How could she send a fourteen-year-old kid to mix with people like that?’

‘Tania had the body of a young woman, and Olga didn’t know it would be like that. Look at her, she’s too beautiful to do anything bad.’

‘Yeah, sure. A real pro.’ The words hit home, and Karl bowed his head. ‘Who is she working for, Karl?’ Kerr stepped back and idly stirred his drink, waiting for an answer while the women looked across at them, timing their move.

‘Why should she be working for anyone? John, why are you so cynical? Look, this is a closing chapter in her life. She’s a young woman who wants to go to college and study. I’m going to help her. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Whatever you say.’ Kerr slid his glass aside. ‘Now let me tell you how I see it. You’re an intelligence officer, Karl. Found yourself at a party involving prostitutes and an underage girl, attended by an official from a foreign government and probably a few Brits with high-security clearance. Classic targets for blackmail, but you didn’t make any effort to get the idents. This was a potential breach of national security, my friend, and you should have reported it. End of.’

Before Kerr could reach for his drink Karl grabbed at his forearm. ‘But I did, John,’ he shot back, eyes blazing, ‘and all Rigov’s calls, too. I copied the whole fucking log. Gave it all to Mr Ritchie. And how do they thank me? By sacking me!’

Twenty-seven

Tuesday, 18 September, 09.34, MI5 director-general’s office, Thames House

Several metres out of her depth, Commander Paula Weatherall shifted uncomfortably, cleared her throat and tried to sound authoritative. She had developed a cold over the weekend and it was making her feel vulnerable. ‘Philippa, I really need help here.’ She had chosen to wear full uniform to meet Philippa Harrington, director-general of MI5, soon to be Dame, but was already regretting it. At Thames House, the display of rank actually seemed to diminish her. Weatherall fidgeted as Harrington frowned at her across her slim-line desk. She knew she must sound like a woman sinking fast.

Three chairs were set in a semicircle facing the desk, each lower than the DG’s own executive model in soft brown leather. Harrington was well known for her manipulation of partners and allies. For civil-service equals and American intelligence officials she offered a clear view of the Thames from one of the comfortable armchairs. For discussion with MI5 staff she used the conference table. But the lower orders she corralled at her desk, just as her headmistress had done at Roedean. This morning she had directed SO15’s overdressed head of intelligence to the junior seat with her back to the private office door.

Her desk was clear, except for a document marked ‘UK EYES ONLY’ with the Security Service crest and motto, ‘Regnum Defende’. While Weatherall waited for an answer, Harrington checked her email on one of the three desktop screens, presumably to demonstrate she had more important things to attend to. Eventually she looked across the desk again. ‘As you already acknowledged, this was an operational decision, a matter for the police. For you,’ she sighed, ‘in this unfortunate case.’

Weatherall sniffed and dabbed her nose with the damp tissue. She was feeling increasingly isolated. Jibril’s release on Sunday afternoon had done nothing to allay her feeling that John Kerr had been right all along. Had she taken his advice and let Jibril run, he might have led them to the bomb factory, in which case they could have captured the terrorists before they could make their bombs lethal. The thought that she was partly responsible for such terrible loss of life troubled her almost as much as the need to save her own skin. And with the inevitable inquiry looming into the manner of Jibril’s arrest at Vauxhall station, she needed to demonstrate that her judgement on the day had been reasonable.