Agent of the State (49 page)

Hussain did not follow them onto the aircraft immediately. He made a call on his encrypted mobile, listening intently for three minutes, interjecting twice to ask specific questions. Then he walked alone in the darkness to a Bombardier Learjet parked alongside. A bodyguard in a dark suit was waiting for him at the top of the aircraft steps. He gestured Hussain into the main cabin, then withdrew to the front of the aircraft, where the flight crew waited for the order to leave.

He found Anatoli Rigov alone, near the rear of the cabin, sunk deep into his leather seat drinking a large tumbler of vodka. Without being asked, Hussain perched on the opposite seat. On the walnut table there was a Diet Coke with ice, the drink Hussain always took at their meetings. There were no preliminaries and they spoke in English.

‘You heard about Harold?’ asked Hussain, awkwardly.

‘Goschenko just called me.’

‘I apologise. He was supposed to escape with Yuri.’

Rigov shrugged. ‘Harold never could resist his appetites.’

‘The girl wanted revenge.’

‘And now so do I. Yuri believes you were betrayed by this man Sergeyev.’

‘Can he be sure?’

‘Are you telling me there are other people you distrust?’

‘No. We are completely secure.’

‘Who else, then? Sergeyev drove Yuri and the girl to the house. Then he led the police to us. What other explanation can there be? We underestimated him. You must deal with it.’

‘The Turks are ordered to eliminate Sergeyev tonight.’

Rigov sipped his vodka. ‘I need you to tell me this, Rashid,’ he said, unsmiling. ‘Is our mission to be judged a triumph or a failure?’

Hussain shifted in his seat. ‘Harold gave us what we both required.’

‘And paid with his life. You should never have allowed the Turk to end things in this way.’

‘Malik was a zealot.’

‘A narcissist.’

‘His martyrdom was the deal and I had to honour it.’

‘It was theatrical,’ said Rigov. ‘The British will cover it up.’

Hussain picked up his Coke and Rigov could see that his hand was trembling. ‘My masters have what they need,’ said Hussain. ‘They are satisfied. And grateful to Moscow.’

This was an understatement. In Damascus, awaiting Hussain’s return, his superiors were already celebrating the victim database as an intelligence coup. Their plan had been decided many months before. Al Mukhabarat would not deploy the pornographic images against the British establishment blackmail victims in a single rush of sewage, as the naïve and obsessed Malik had intended, but gradually, drip by toxic drip, into the secret channels of diplomacy. For them, the fact that the victims had not been vaporised by Malik’s bomb enriched the haul, for it strengthened the threat. The loss of the Golan Heights in 1967 remained a running sore, just one grievance they held against every ally of Israel. Applied with care, the poison of photographs, videos and profiles of the survivors would lubricate many years of leverage against the West.

‘The people Malik wanted to destroy are base metal, Anatoli.’

‘And the jewels?’

‘I protected them for you.’

‘All four?’

‘Of course.’ Hussain reached into his bag and laid a DVD on the table. As he did so, Rigov clicked his fingers. Immediately, a slim man in his twenties in shirt sleeves appeared from the front of the aircraft, took the DVD and disappeared through a set of double doors at the rear of the plane.

‘Reassure me I am not to be disappointed?’ said Rigov, quietly.

‘They are all there, as agreed. Our payment to you, with thanks. No one has approached them since their compromise.’

The DVD contained sexual images of four victims selected by Rigov and Goschenko, targets they had been careful to exclude from Malik’s final, murderous event. There was an encryption specialist employed by GCHQ, a Treasury expert in economic intelligence, a nuclear physicist compromised in a single night and a member of the Cabinet Office with regular and direct access to Number Ten. Unlike the high-level establishment figures, whose profiles would be analysed in Damascus, the targets selected by Rigov were present-day operators, who dealt constantly with top-secret intelligence, the hard currency of espionage. Al Mukhabarat would have no further contact with these targets. The jewels belonged to Anatoli Rigov. That was the deal. In the months to come, Rigov’s agents would coerce them to betray their country to Moscow.

The technical expert returned the DVD with a nod to indicate everything was in order. ‘Tell them to start the engines,’ was all Rigov said, unsmiling.

Hussain stood to leave and board his own aircraft for Damascus. ‘Do I have your authority to continue with the final phase of the operation?’

‘You still have control of Jibril?’

‘He is in position, awaiting my final order.’

‘Then do whatever is necessary. No trail of blood must lead to my door.’

‘So let me ask you, Anatoli,’ said Hussain, tapping the DVD. ‘Do you count your operation as a success?’

Rigov did not move in his leather chair. ‘Time will tell.’ He clicked his fingers again, for more vodka this time, and looked Hussain in the eye. ‘You must hope on your life that I do.’

Sixty

Thursday, 27 September, 20.21, New Scotland Yard

Kerr needed Langton and his team to be on high alert for the moment Jibril reappeared. Steve Gibb was covering the observation post opposite his safe-house in Lambeth and the Reds immediately redeployed there from Chiswick. Kerr caught up with Melanie on the other side of the park as he speed-dialled Karl Sergeyev. His mobile was busy, and Kerr’s anxiety mounted with each attempt.

‘He’ll be speaking with Olga,’ said Melanie. ‘She rang him as soon as I got her clear of the house.’

Finally, Karl picked up. Kerr put him on speaker. ‘Karl, are you all right?’

‘Of course, but I should be asking after you. Olga just told me everything. You did great, John. And Jack, too. Wish I could have been there with you guys.’ He sounded as if he was in a bar, slightly drunk, but in a high-spirited, party kind of way.

‘Look, Karl, I think you could be in danger.’

‘No way. I’m covered.’

‘Goschenko is missing. And those two hoods. What if they think you led us there?’

‘Nah. I’m supposed to be on the payroll, remember?’ Fearless at his betrayal of Rigov, he said it with a laugh, like a man back at the top of his game.

‘And the driver,’ said Kerr. ‘Olga told us you were seeing Nancy and the kids this evening. Where are you?’

‘Chalk Farm. Nancy blanked me so I’m buying Olga dinner instead.’

‘Where?’

‘Dominika’s. Russian restaurant off Regent’s Park Road. I’m telling you, we’re back on track and it’s truly fantastic. If you get a chance come and join us for a drink.’

‘Karl, listen to me. Does Goschenko know you use it?’

‘No one knows. It’s below ground and dark. Very romantic. If anyone’s looking, they’re not going to find us.’

‘So do me a favour. Stay with Olga in a hotel tonight, yeah? Just until I get this sorted.’

‘Sure.’ Karl was distracted. Somebody in the bar was saying something to him in Russian, and it was making him laugh again. ‘And when you get me back on the team
I
’ll be taking care of
you
, my friend.’

‘Just watch your back, Karl.’

They met again around Paula Weatherall’s conference table. Looking exhausted, she was trying to sip scalding black coffee. Ritchie was rumpled, but ready for another long night. Exactly two weeks after his rescue of Melanie in Hackney, there was blood on Kerr’s clothes again. He had washed his hands twice, but they still smelt of the firing range. He had been bracing himself for another outburst of anger. Instead they got up to shake his hand and ask if he was OK. Then, to his surprise, they thanked him, as if it was all over.

They were on different cycles: Weatherall seemed to be suffering a chronic case of operational post-mortem, but all Kerr’s instincts were telling him the terrorist plan still had life. ‘I believe this is only one part of it,’ he said. ‘That pair of Turkish gangsters escaped. Yuri Goschenko got out as well. And the most serious part? Ahmed Jibril evaded surveillance. I’m telling you, this is dangerous. Nothing’s changed. There has to be another bomb factory out there for something big, like I’ve been saying all along.’ With adrenaline still coursing through him, it was all coming out in a rush. ‘This is not the end, Bill. The man I took out is just the start. We have to action things tonight so we can hunt down these bad bastards and neutralise them.’

Ritchie seemed to absorb everything, but Weatherall was evidently regarding him with a mixture of pity and scepticism, as if he had suddenly become a victim of trauma. Her self-defence reflex was so obvious she might as well have had ‘management liability’ scrawled across her forehead. She began to report back on the Chiswick situation, behaving as if Kerr had not spoken. The house was clear of bombs and corpses, and the TSG were busy identifying the guests. Very soon, she said, the commissioner would be fielding some interesting phone calls.

As she took refuge in her notes, the warning that had been tapping at Kerr ever since Karl had brushed off his safety concerns suddenly hit him like a sledgehammer. He was back in 1830, listening to Karl’s recording of Anatoli Rigov’s pitch. With Rigov’s dark voice in his ear, the words from Fargo’s transcript seared his brain: ‘We hold you in high regard, Karl, as a fellow Russian . . . we have seen you with your family . . . they deserve a secure future . . . would you not agree?’

We have seen you with your family.
Kerr went cold. Rigov’s men must have followed Karl when he had visited his children. They knew where he lived. Ritchie was saying something across him to Weatherall, but Kerr did not even register it. If Olga knew he had planned to spend the evening with his family, he would have told them in the car on the way to Chiswick, which meant Goschenko would know as well. If Karl had fallen under suspicion, Nancy and the children were in danger, too. He heard Weatherall’s voice in his ear telling him it was late and they all needed to get some rest. Kerr was on his feet, but his mind was already sprinting away.

Ritchie was frowning. ‘You all right, John?’

‘I just remembered something.’ He already had the door open. ‘Sorry. Need to check this out.’

Kerr was already speed-dialling Karl as he waited for the lift, but got voicemail. ‘Shit.’ Underground restaurant, no signal.

Screeching up the ramp from the basement garage he barely waited for the security arm to clear the car’s roof before activating the blue light and charging towards Marble Arch.

He knew Karl Sergeyev’s family home was in Hornsey Vale, a few miles north of his own apartment in Islington, so he took that route because it was familiar to him. He pulled into the kerb to confirm the house number and check Nancy Sergeyev’s phone number on his BlackBerry, then slipped the Alfa into drive and spun away.

The Sergeyevs’ house was in darkness except for a night light on the landing for the children. Kerr tried Karl’s mobile again before ringing the bell, but got the same voicemail. Nancy scampered downstairs in her dressing-gown and invited him in before he could apologise. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, as if she had been expecting him, leading the way down the hall. ‘I saw on the news half of Chiswick’s been evacuated, but no one seems to know why.’

The house was a three-bedroom Victorian semi with the living room to the right and a long hallway running alongside the staircase to the kitchen and dining room at the rear. ‘Were you expecting Karl home tonight?’ asked Kerr, hooking his jacket over a kitchen chair.

‘You know Karl doesn’t live with us any more, John,’ she said, filling the kettle and throwing him an amused look over her shoulder. ‘Have you come round to proposition me?’ She stared in disbelief as he told her to pick up her children and leave home. ‘So it’s not just Karl who could be at risk, it’s me and the children too. Is that what you’re telling me? Why would they follow him here?’

‘It’s a sensible precaution, Nancy. I should have thought of it before.’

She frowned into the middle distance. ‘I suppose we could stay with my mother if we absolutely had to.’

‘It’s just for a few days. I’ll get someone round first thing to help you . . .’

They both heard the footsteps. Kerr grabbed her arm and flicked off the light as they tracked the sounds along the side of the house.

‘You need to go back upstairs now,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Get the children and shut yourselves in your bedroom.’

Kerr lay prone by the kitchen door as Nancy raced up the staircase, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Raising himself on his elbows, he risked a snap look round the dining-room door. In that split second he caught the pencil light and the shapes of two men in black picking the lock on the French windows. Shuffling back into the kitchen he found the BlackBerry in his jacket and dialled 999 for police. ‘This is DCI John Kerr, SO15,’ he whispered. ‘Urgent assistance to one three six Highburn Road. Armed, repeat armed, suspects on premises now. Silent approach.’

Upstairs in her bedroom, Nancy held the children close as she peered through a gap in the curtains at the intruders on her patio. She ran back to her bedside, pressed the panic alarm Karl had installed in guilt at deserting her and pulled the children into her bed.