Fire Hawk (14 page)

The undercarriage clunked down as the gleaming curve of the Palm House in Kew Botanical Gardens passed beneath them, its glass burnished by a sudden shaft of sunlight penetrating the gloom. Beyond the gardens stretched dense suburban streets. All those people down there, he thought to himself. Easy pickings for some nutter with a biological weapon.

Anthrax. He knew little about the stuff, but the very word sent a chill through him. He pictured the scrawny face of the messenger in Baghdad, his milky, petrified eyes as he'd delivered his warning. Remembered the grotesque bloated corpse the monsters in Baghdad had reduced him to. A warning so cataclysmic and, he was convinced, so earnestly meant, yet one so vague in its detail the intelligence community could make little use of it.

The wind roared in the wheel struts as the plane made its final approach to Heathrow. There would be a car to
meet him, Mowbray had said, to take him to a debrief, his controllers at SIS hoping he could inject some sense into what had happened.

The stewardess, who'd slipped him a few miniatures of whisky to take home with him when the bar closed, strapped herself hurriedly into the folding seat by the forward door. She gave him a tight, conspiratorial smile.

Sam eased the knees of his trousers. For the journey back to England he'd worn the lightweight grey business suit he'd had on at the time of his arrest and which he'd found neatly folded in his suitcase. The fabric kept snagging on the bandages round his shins, however. He was bruised and stiff still, but the sleep, the nourishment and a couple of drinks on the flight had set him to rights.

The wheels touched down. The seat belt dug into his bruised body. As the Boeing turned onto the taxi-way he unclipped the strap and gathered his belongings, including a newspaper the airline had provided. A report in it about the round-the-world sailing race he'd read with interest. He owned a half share in a sailing boat, kept on the south coast of England, which he hoped to spend some time on before winter set in.

Inside the terminal on the long walk to immigration and customs, the pains in his shins slowed him down. It was midday in London. The baggage came through unusually quickly, and once past customs he saw a line of dark-suited chauffeurs holding name boards.

‘Mister Packer?' A murmured greeting and a light touch on his arm.

‘Yes.' Sam recognised the man as an MI6 regular.

‘We're in the car park, sir. Can I push the trolley for you?'

‘Thanks.'

The vehicle was a three-year-old navy-blue Granada with a minicab aerial clipped to the boot lid. Sam slid into the rear and wedged himself in the corner as the
machine descended to the exit and turned onto the road for London.

‘Where are we going?' Sam asked.

The driver cleared his throat. ‘Isleworth, Mr Packer.' He wound down the window slightly. ‘Turned warm again. Going to be fine all week according to the forecast.'

‘That's nice.'

Isleworth. A three-roomed flat above a launderette maintained by an SIS technical unit, its windows hung with faded net. He'd been there a couple of times, for debriefings after trips.

He began to focus on the man who would be waiting for him there. Duncan Waddell, a thirty-four-year-old Ulsterman, slight in build but with an aggressiveness to make up for it. Waddell had been his main point of contact with the Intelligence Service for the past couple of years, one of the young Turks of SIS, a new broom given rapid promotion after the clear-out of the old guard at Christmas 1992. Now running the Middle East desk in Martin Kessler's Global Risks department.

Sam himself was ‘deep cover', operating in the field with an assumed identity and seldom crossing the threshold of SIS HQ at Vauxhall Cross. His instincts had been honed in the intelligence branch of the Royal Navy, his street wisdom acquired through six years of coming eyeball-close to his SIS targets. Waddell had been recruited straight from Cambridge, an inside man whose experience in the field had been limited to ‘light cover' at embassies. In the past their different backgrounds had led to friction. Sam suspected it was about to do so again.

The car pulled up in a service road at the back of the parade of shops that included the launderette.

‘You can leave your bag, sir. I'm to park up and wait to take you on somewhere else.'

‘Fine. See you in a while, then.'

The entrance to the apartment was up a rusting fire-escape whose stair-treads clanged. The once-white back door bore a broken plastic number that had slewed sideways because of a missing screw. It was unlocked. Sam let himself into the kitchen.

‘Ahaa. Good man. Sam! Welcome back, sir!' Waddell's sonorous voice resonated from the front room. Sam suspected that at some stage he'd had coaching to make it lower, to counter his lack of height.

The Ulsterman appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a short-sleeved cream shirt and well-pressed fawn trousers. His arms spread wide in welcome. Several inches shorter than Sam, he had a clean-cut face and a brush of fair hair which was cropped like a teasel.

‘Am I glad to see you back in one piece.' He clasped Sam's arms. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Never better.'

‘Hardly that. Come on in.' Waddell went ahead, then stopped to let Sam go in front. ‘You know, for a few moments in the last couple of weeks, you had us truly worried.'

‘Me too.' Like on the previous day when he'd learned from Chrissie that this man now exuding such warm bonhomie had been ready to let him die.

‘I'll bet. I'll bet. I must say you're looking better than I'd expected,' Waddell added.

The small, square living room was papered with a faded Regency stripe. From a wing-back chair on the far side an older man rose to his feet. Wearing a navy blazer his broad face had the steady, unyielding eyes of an inquisitor.

‘This is Charles,' Waddell explained inadequately. ‘He's come to listen in.'

‘How d'you do,' said Charles.

Internal security, thought Sam.

‘Didn't know whether they'd have fed you properly on
the plane, so we got some sandwiches in,' said Waddell, pointing to the low brass and glass coffee table set with two modest plates of food and a six-pack of sparkling fruit drinks.

The furnishing of the room was 1970s. Parker-Knoll chairs and a sofa with solid wooden arms. Sam flopped down onto it.

‘Thoughtful of you, Duncan. But I've eaten.'

He straightened his legs to free the trouser fabric from the dressings on his shins.

Waddell noticed the awkwardness of the movement.

‘It's the legs that are worst, is it?' he asked, clumsily. ‘Mowbray gave us the doctor's report on you.'

‘They're fine. I'm fine. Thanks.' He didn't want pleasantries. Wanted to know what they needed from him.

‘To be on the safe side we've fixed for you to have a medical after we've finished our debrief here. At a private clinic in Wimbledon. You've got dressings on your legs that need changing – is that right?'

‘Yes. But there's a pretty nurse at my local GP's who could do that for me,' Sam told him.

‘No. I think not, old son. Best to keep it in house.' He gestured towards the sandwiches again. ‘Are you sure you won't?'

‘Quite.' They were egg mayonnaise and tuna, neither of which he liked.

Waddell passed a plate to the man called Charles, who took one of each.

‘I'm going to tuck in too,' grunted Waddell. ‘Shame to let them go to waste.' He took a small, neat bite, chewed it thoughtfully, then swallowed.

‘Right, now. Let's start,' he announced, wiping hands on a paper napkin. ‘You're an old hand, Sam. A pro. A man we all respect.' Deceptively warm words given an earnest tone by the Belfast growl, but Waddell's eyes
were cold. ‘And in the past few days you've been to hell and back. We appreciate that. But I have to be frank. There's a few aspects of this business that we're not entirely happy about.'

‘Me neither, Duncan.'

‘The bottom line is that what we've all just gone through should simply never have happened.'

‘Dead right it shouldn't.'

Waddell clasped his hands like a church minister.

‘But before we get into the business of how they broke your cover, let's look at the intelligence. This line you were fed about anthrax weapons being smuggled out of the country – I understand you think the warning was genuine.'

The implication being that Waddell did not.

‘Yes.'

‘We've communicated it to our friends in Washington and Jerusalem, of course,' Waddell assured him. ‘But to be honest we do have serious doubts about it. You see, it simply doesn't make a lot of sense. Every reliable piece of information we have on Saddam points to him wanting sanctions lifted very badly indeed. So the last thing in the world he would do just now is mount some sort of BW attack in Israel or Saudi Arabia or America or wherever. We all know he's got the capability, but let's face it, it would be economic and political suicide.'

‘Logically I'm sure you're right. Nonetheless I'm sure the warning was genuine,' Sam insisted.

‘Well we'll have to part company on that. You see, we and the Americans believe that the whole business of your arrest had one purpose and one purpose only. For Saddam to get Khalil back and regain control of the bank accounts. Feeding you the anthrax line and then virtually making sure you communicated it to us – that was the hook, don't you see? To make us desperate to get you out
in case you had more. To make us ready to deal over Khalil. And let's face it, it worked.'

Waddell looked down at his hands.

‘If that's true, why the hell did they beat their own messenger to death?' Sam demanded angrily. ‘And why bother to kick the shit out of me for day after day?'

‘Just to make it convincing, I'm afraid,' Waddell answered soothingly. ‘In the hope we would go on wasting huge amounts of manpower looking for corroboration of the anthrax story. They're like that you know. But in this case they're not going to succeed.'

‘Too simple, Duncan. Too damn simple. Look, in my guts I bloody know that warning was genuine.'

He was getting angry and he told himself to cool it.

‘In your
guts,
' Waddell answered sarcastically. ‘Like in the Kiev affair? You had a gut feeling then, I seem to remember. No. It's facts we need, Sam, not judgements based on hunches. Particularly the hunches of someone who, if I may say so, has been through the mangle recently.'

Sam felt his face burning. ‘What exactly d'you mean by that?'

Waddell pushed his tongue round the inside of his mouth to clear out particles of bread. ‘Oh, just that being a prisoner in an Iraqi jail isn't exactly fun, that's all.'

But Sam knew that wasn't all.

‘Look, you know what's
really
worrying us Sam,' Waddell reasoned. The man called Charles leaned forward. ‘It's the very fundamental question of how on God's earth did those little shites in Baghdad know who you were?' His eyes were like spears and his face was turning a light shade of puce. ‘How did they know who to grab, Sam? How did they know your real bloody name?'

Sam fought to control the red mist rising in his head.
They were accusing him. He'd just escaped from ten days of hell and the bastards were saying it was all his fault.

‘I don't know, Duncan,' he intoned. ‘Somebody must have told them.'

‘Aye. Exactly.' Waddell leaned back, folding his arms.

‘And might that somebody have been you?' Charles interjected, his pale eyes gleaming like polished glass.

‘No it bloody wasn't.'

Sam was beginning to sweat. Not with fear that he might have let his guard drop, but with outrage at the unfairness of their accusations.

‘A slip of the tongue, maybe,' Charles suggested insouciantly. ‘Easily done, even for a hardened pro like yourself. An innocent remark let slip in a bar to someone you trust, overheard by a pro from the opposing team. On its own what you said might seem meaningless, but to him it's the final piece of a jigsaw you never even knew existed.'

Charles had a deceptively kindly look about him – like a country vet poised for a castration.

‘No. No slips of the tongue, Charles. No cracks in my cover. They didn't find out from me.'

Waddell regarded him stonily.

‘We've got to get to the bottom of this,' he fumed. ‘Got to know how far you've been compromised. And more to the point, how far the Firm has.'

Sam swallowed. He'd suddenly realised what this was leading to. Unless he could convince them otherwise, they were going to drop him. A sudden end to his intelligence career –
and
to his so-called employment by Entryline Exhibitions. The MD of the company had
created
the job for MI6. They would put someone else in.

‘I've some rather detailed questions I need to ask,' Charles announced, tight-lipped. ‘I know you're still shaky after what you've been through, but the answers can't wait.'

Sam took a deep breath. ‘Go for it, then.'

‘Okay. Let's start at the beginning. And I
mean
the beginning. Nineteen ninety, when you left the Royal Navy and joined us – that was your first visit to Iraq, I think? Your first use of the Terry Malone cover. Cast your mind back, if you would. Whom did you meet from the Iraqi side?'

‘Hell, that was six years ago,' Sam protested.

‘Yes, but see what you can remember. Names, conversations, even casual ones. Let's see if we can crack this mystery, shall we? There's probably a simple explanation we've all overlooked.'

‘Very well,' Sam shrugged. He began to list the people he could think of. Baghdad 1990. A turning point in his life in more ways than one.

‘Christine Taylor – as she called herself – she was there too, wasn't she?' Charles prompted, as if reading his mind.