Fortress (36 page)

Tom was improvising wildly yet something was working. Vestey was nodding slowly, as he rolled out the names, no doubt flash-banging images in his head. A hand came up to his face to wipe away a tear.

‘You understood that, and his need to make a difference, to make something happen, and you fixed it for him. Was it at your place he said his last prayers, on the mat in your spare room?’

Vestey registered a flicker of interest but said nothing.

‘And his girlfriend’s out there somewhere. She’s seen his name all over the media, but who can she go and grieve with? Who will hold her hand and say—’

‘She’s not grieving.’

‘How come?’

‘She sent him.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He did it for her. That’s how strong their tribe is. Mine, I just fucked them up.’ Tears were now falling down his face, into his lap. He suddenly looked fragile, like a sad schoolboy.

‘Mate, have some more water. You want a brew, two sugars?’

Vestey kept his head low. ‘I don’t need anything.’

Then he jumped up and charged at the guard, who was still by the door.

Tom sprang after him. He knew what was happening.

‘Mick, don’t!’

But it was too late. Vestey had got both hands on the guard and was using both hands to try to get his pistol from him. Two more guards came in, weapons drawn.

Tom was now on the other side of the table. ‘No!’

But he knew it was too late and that the guards would do the right thing. As soon as they saw Vestey had physical contact, just a touch of the weapon, two loud, dull thuds filled the room.

81

The garage had once been a KwikFit, but had changed hands several times and was now owned by a company called Expo. The main windows had been bricked up with breeze blocks and there was no sign of any business being done. It was on a back-street of lock-ups and small industrial units, none of which seemed to be much in use.

Rafiq touched the wipers and the Transit’s screen cleared of the grey, greasy rain that was bucketing down. Of all the short straws, this one beat the lot. It was moments like these when he had to have a quiet laugh about signing up for MI5. Recruitment had warned him to forget James Bond, that much of the work was mundane, but that didn’t begin to cover it. And he had turned down Goldman Sachs. His best mate, who had graduated from LSE with him, was now in Manhattan pulling in a hundred K a year. And here he was sitting in a surveillance Transit on a back-street in Hatfield. Hatfield! And now it was raining. Was twenty-three too early for a mid-life crisis?

The only people he could find were a couple of guys with industrial face masks re-spraying some car wheels in a lock-up down the street, one stripped to the waist with a Union Jack tattoo on his back. At first they had paid no attention to his polite enquiry about the former KwikFit, but he persisted.

‘Do you know any of them – the guys who’ve got that place?’

The man shook his head and turned away.

‘Only I’m trying to find my brother. I think he may be working round here.’

That got them going. The tattooed man took off his mask. ‘Too many of your fuckin’ brothers over here, mate. You know what you lot should do? Fuck off home, back where you came from.’

Rafiq nodded, as if he would indeed give it some thought. ‘So they looked like me, the guys who worked there?’

‘Yeah, like you couldn’t tell them apart.’

Rafiq gave them a big smile and thanked them.

He had found forty-five garages in or near Hatfield. First he eliminated the franchised dealers and service stations, which brought the figure down to twenty-two. Then he visited each one, armed with enough innocent enquiries to get him into the back offices and have a cursory look round. Of the last three, one was a burned-out shell, the second was occupied by very pale squatters and an alarming canine menagerie – and the third was this one.

On the face of it, it appeared that no one had been there in months. There was an overflowing wheelie-bin outside and the letterbox had junk mail oozing out of it. But to Rafiq’s trained eye, it was evident that the locks had recently been turned, and there was some tell-tale condensation on a small, high window. He slipped the probe of a Borescope inspection camera under the roller door, which revealed a black people-carrier with a current tax disc.

He retreated to the Transit, reciting the registration to himself to keep the letters and numbers in sequence, and called up Cindy in the hangar for a plate check. It was with a company based in Sheffield. Fifteen minutes later she was back on the phone. ‘Interesting. The address for Expo’s in Sheffield, but the company’s been dissolved and the property in Sheffield has been re-let. I got on to the agent for the landlord, who said it was some kind of medical-aid charity. He told me it was wound up very suddenly a few weeks ago. The woman he’d been dealing with, a Leanne Grove, vanished, owing them three months’ rent. He was about to get a bailiff onto it when out of the blue all the money was wired to him from an overseas account. I persuaded him to go through his records and he found it had come from a bank in St Croix.’

‘Where the fuck’s that?’

‘Virgin Islands.’

‘Not famous for their terror cells.’

‘Not famous for anything much, apart from beaches and tax avoidance. Interesting, though.’

‘Okay, keep digging.’

He called Woolf, who told him to stay put and keep watch for anyone coming or going. The rain began to come down harder. He was about ready to pack up and leave, when the roller door started to move and the black people-carrier pulled out. Three men – two his age, one older – who could all have been his ‘brothers’ were on board.

He gave them a minute to clear the street, then returned to the garage with a parcel he had prepared and labelled with the address. He hammered on the door good and hard, shouting that he had a package needing a signature. Then he held open the letterbox and listened. The only sound was a low, intermittent murmur, which could have been a radio. He tried the camera probe again, and saw some large white tubs and cardboard packaging.

His phone buzzed.

Cindy was almost hyperventilating. ‘Are you ready for this?’

‘Go on.’

‘The account the money came from for the rent, the one in the Virgin Islands, is held by a company called Excelsior, described as an international courier company, a subsidiary of another firm that’s an agency for offshore contractors – they supply infrastructure and personnel to the oil and gas industry. I got a contact at Vauxhall Cross to see if they could dig any further into their dealings. They couldn’t come up with any names of the board or employees or anything, but elsewhere in the account details there was a big fat debit: one million two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. It’s from a numbered account but it has a forwarding address in Houston.’

Rafiq was excited now too. ‘Oryxis?’

‘No! Better than that. Remember Brandeis’s slide of Zuabi’s house? All innocent-looking and suburban?’

‘No shit!’

‘Yes shit. That’s the forwarding address!’

‘Mother of fuck.’

82

Bob Heron, the chief constable of Hertfordshire Police was not in the habit of getting personal calls from the home secretary, and certainly not at two a.m.

At first he assumed it was someone’s idea of a hoax, a bloody unfunny one. But something about Sarah Garvey’s free use of expletives – to the effect that he’d better sit the fuck up and pay fucking attention NOW – suggested this was the real thing.

‘Yes, ma’am. I completely understand, ma’am. Consider it done.’

In any other circumstances he would have been inclined to have a quiet word with the Met commissioner about this, but the home secretary had made it very clear that his promotion prospects – and Herts, let’s face it, was a bit of a backwater – were directly connected to his ability to keep this one to himself and just get it done.

So he did what any sensible chief constable would do in those circumstances and called his deputy with the details of who to liaise with at MI5. ‘We’ve got next to nothing to go on, so belt and braces. Firearms team fully bombed up. Maximum care – we don’t know who’s in there, what they’ve got and if they know how to use it. But keep the guys under control – I want no dead bodies we have to go to court over. Just get it done quickly and do not advertise. Use some tact and surprise for once.’

But the occupants of the garage had prepared for just such an eventuality. The blast blew the front roller door clean off and littered the street with shrapnel from the disintegrating breeze blocks. And by the time Tom and Woolf rolled up, forensics had found the remains of three men and, on the face of it, not much else but a charred mess.

‘Basically they had the place wired and ready,’ the Herts DI, who had taken charge of the site, explained mournfully.

A team in white coveralls were picking over the place with scrupulous attention. Even in this blackened, ruined state it was a potential treasure trove of information. There were several round plastic tubs about a foot deep, containing wholesale quantities of chapati flour and black pepper, along with plastic jerry-cans of hydrogen peroxide, every bomber’s hairdressing product of choice. Littered about the floor were a lot of triple-A batteries and the remains of several digital clocks and cheap mobile phones – all the components for homemade timers and detonators. And every one of these items, one of the team noted drily, was freely available on the high street.

But the premises wasn’t just used for bomb-making: there was evidence of makeshift sleeping quarters, with three camp beds and inflatable mattresses, a washing-machine and a clothes-airer hung with T-shirts.

Tom found Rafiq in less than triumphant mood. ‘Hey, you tracked it down. This is a direct connection to Zuabi. It changes everything. We’ll find out who these guys were and we’ve got their vehicle, so we can do retrospective number-plate recognition. You should be very proud.’

Rafiq looked pained. ‘After everything you went through in Texas, the least we could have done was not fuck this up.’

‘Bullshit. These guys had planned and prepared for this shit. If you’d gone in there you’d have been history. No amount of planning would have guaranteed against this going tits up. So don’t worry about it. You’re still alive, they aren’t – simple as that.’

One of the men in white chipped in: ‘And at least it’s over. The clock’s not ticking on this little bundle of fun. So we can take our time and make the most of what we’ve got here.’

Tom didn’t feel that it was over, but he had no concrete reason for thinking that. Just as he was reflecting on it, another of the forensics team yelled for quiet. Everything stopped.

The forensics guy was a small man in a disposable suit and shoe covers. He’d stepped back from a now pitted and scorched green-painted door. It was clearly reinforced, having taken the concussion wave of the blast and all the secondary missiles that the explosion would have ripped apart and hurled about the garage at supersonic speed.

The forensics guy put out a hand to open the door.

Tom grabbed Rafiq and pulled him with him as he instinctively stepped back. ‘Stop! Stop!’

It was too late. The door was open, but only to reveal darkness. The guy’s torch penetrated the gloom. ‘We’ve got a body,’ he said. ‘I think it’s alive.’

Tom let go of Rafiq and headed for the door. ‘Leave it! Don’t go in!’

He took the torch from him. ‘Get a couple of firearms guys.’

The forensics techie ran off and Tom scanned the darkness with the torch-beam. First impressions had been right. There was a body, face-down, feet towards the door, about three metres in.

And there was movement.

Shallow breathing.

Tom shone the torch on the soles of the feet, which were grimed with layers of filth as if their owner had walked through tar. He tilted the torch to try to get eyes-on, see if the guy was reacting to the light. He couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open – it was the wrong angle. ‘You! You on the mattress! Sit up and show your hands!’

Tom got no reply. He quickly checked the doorframe, then around the narrow, damp concrete cell.

Two firearms officers turned up in full black gear, slightly out of breath with all the body armour on. They peered into the darkness.

‘I think he’s breathing but I’m getting no reaction to commands. I’ll go in, but here’s what I want you two to do.’

Tom rested his hand on the taller one’s shoulder. Physical contact was always good in these situations. It made things more personal: it meant they might go the extra mile if Tom landed up in the shit.

A small crowd had gathered in the doorway to look at the body. Tom kept his hand on the policeman’s shoulder, but directed himself at the crowd first. ‘If it’s booby-trapped, we’re all going to be history. You need to move out now, go on – go.’

His hand was still on the taller officer’s shoulder. ‘Switch on your weapon torch and keep aiming at him all the time. Centre mass of his head. Don’t aim at the body. If he’s got a device and the explosives are homemade, a round will detonate it. And don’t come in. Get an angle into his head from the doorway.’

Tom turned to the other policeman. ‘Okay, what I need you to do is get down on the ground right on the threshold, and use your torch to check under the body when I move it. You okay with that?’

There was a nod.

So far, so good.

‘I’m going to lie down on his right, right against him – almost spooning him. I’m going to grab him and lift him up, almost over me, so you can check there’s nothing underneath. All right?’

He faced the taller one. ‘That’s when you’re going to come into play. If anything is under that body, your mate will shout, “Device!” I’ll drop him and roll out the way, and you just get rounds into his head. You need to drop him like liquid so he can’t detonate. Easy …’

Tom gave a little smile. These lads were doing thirty-seven-and-a-half-hour weeks; they went home; they had mortgages; they had loans on their cars – and they’d be going on holiday with their wives and kids. If they didn’t get blown up.