Hellfire (8 page)

‘Wait,’ said the military attaché. He clutched his forehead, as if he couldn’t believe he was in this situation. ‘There’s just four of you. You can’t go up against half of Boko Haram by yourselves. They’re better equipped than the army and there’s about ten thousand of them. They control an area the size of Belgium, for Christ’s sake.’

Danny just gave him a calm stare. ‘Mapping,’ he said, ‘and intel on the terrain. You’ve got five minutes. Then we leave.’

Four

MI6 Headquarters, London. 00.00 hrs.

When intelligence staff gather round a table at MI6 headquarters at an hour before midnight, it’s seldom good news. And if the chief of SIS himself has joined them, it’s guaranteed bad.

But then, today had been the mother of bad-news days.

Sir Colin Seldon sat at the head of a long table in a featureless room overlooking the Thames. The chief had the crumpled, exhausted look of a man under pressure. Small wonder. If something passed them by that led to a serious incident, all of
Whitehall would lay the blame at
his
door. So it had been with the abduction of the British High Commissioner to Nigeria twelve hours ago. The PM on the phone every twenty minutes wanting updates. Horrific conversations with the commissioner’s tearful wife, assuring her that they would find her husband and keeping quiet that he thought the man was a bloody idiot to be touring round the Niger Delta without proper close protection. And constant – unsuccessful – quarrels with the Director of Special Forces to free up more than a single four-man unit to insert into Nigeria. Not that he blamed the director. The Regiment and the SBS were stretched to breaking point, and in any case, everyone quietly assumed that the abductees were dead already. No point wasting precious resources to hunt down corpses.

And now this.

He looked down the conference table. To his left sat a heavily bearded man in an electric wheelchair, his head leaning against a red padded headrest. Daniel Bixby didn’t look up to much, but he was Seldon’s most trusted Middle East analyst. Four of Bixby’s sub-analysts completed that side of the table. At the far end sat Tessa Gorman, the Foreign Secretary, whose face was also pinched and tired. To Gorman’s left sat Hugo Buckingham, an intelligence officer whose rise had, in recent months, been meteoric – much to Seldon’s dismay. Buckingham was a handsome bastard, a good Arabist and a decent intelligence officer, but he was also a backstabber and a sneak, and Seldon couldn’t help but think he had his eye on the top job. Trouble was, Buckingham had political backing – the CIA seemed to love him, and he was Tessa Gorman’s man. In the Firm, that was currency.

And even Seldon had to admit Buckingham had a habit of coming out of shitty situations smelling of roses.

Sitting next to Buckingham were three intelligence officers whose names Seldon couldn’t remember – two male, one female. And a female clerk, taking notes that wouldn’t be made public for another thirty years.

‘I want to know one thing,’ Seldon said, ‘and so will the PM: is this a credible threat?’

‘We take all threats to be credible, Sir Colin,’ Bixby said mildly. He didn’t – couldn’t – move his head as he spoke.

The chief closed his eyes in frustration. ‘For God’s sake, Daniel, it’s been a very long day. Give me a straight answer, would you?’

Bixby inclined his head. ‘What we have is this: a single message on a single internet forum. As you know, internet forums are a very popular medium for extremists to propagate messages. The message can be downloaded to a thumb drive, given to a courier, taken halfway across the world, encrypted and then posted from any internet-enabled computer. Even if GCHQ manage to establish the IP address of the computer that posted the message, it’s impossible to use that to find the location of the person who actually wrote it in the first place. To make things more difficult for us, we have thousands of people writing aggressive, extremist opinions on these forums, only a tiny fraction of whom will ever get close to providing a serious threat to our national security. So when it comes to internet forums, the challenge lies in separating the signal from the noise.’

The chief made a rolling hand gesture that said: get on with it.

‘It’s 20 April today,’ the analyst continued. ‘The London Marathon’s in six days. Before major events such as this, there’s always a spike in terrorist chatter. As I said, most of it’s noise rather than signal, and I’d be inclined to dismiss this message as just that, if it weren’t for one thing.’ One of Bixby’s sub-analysts handed Seldon a piece of paper. ‘This is the message, verbatim.’

The chief read the message. It was brief.

26/04. 74:26-30. Ordered by the Caliph. S/N 2121311.

‘You’ve all seen this?’ the chief asked the room in general. Everyone nodded. ‘And 26/04 is the date of the marathon, right?’

‘Yes, Sir Colin,’ Bixby said.

The chief and the Foreign Secretary exchanged a look. ‘We can’t cancel it,’ said Gorman. ‘The PM won’t have it, it makes us look weak.’

‘Not as weak as a re-run of the Boston Marathon bombings,’ the chief muttered. ‘But of course we’re not going to cancel it on the back of a one-liner on some obscure internet forum.’

‘I must say,’ Hugo Buckingham butted in loudly, ‘that it all looks rather obvious to me.’ He gave the analyst a bland smile. ‘I’d have though our analysts would understand that people aren’t stupid. Surely a real terror suspect would encode their messages in some way?’

‘I agree with Hugo,’ said the Foreign Secretary. She sounded relieved that somebody had seen fit to question the validity of the threat. ‘Messages like this must be two a penny in the lead-up to a major event . . .’

‘I disagree, Sir Colin,’ Bixby said. The Foreign Secretary gave the disabled analyst a dangerous look, but he continued regardless. ‘Encoded messages are much more likely to stand out. I agree that a message like this looks like one of hundreds posted by Walter Mittys all over the world, but our opinion is that whoever posted this one could well be trying to hide in plain sight. And the reason it concerns us is this word here.’ He jabbed the paper, pointing at the last word in the message: ‘Caliph.’

‘Go on,’ the chief said.

Hugo Buckingham cleared his throat. ‘If I may, sir,’ he said, with the air of a man wanting to impart his knowledge. ‘You understand the meaning of the word “Caliph”, of course. Historically, a Caliph is the leader of a Caliphate – a sovereign state of Muslim believers, ruled according to Sharia law. It’s the aim of certain extremist organisations – IS among them – to establish a modern-day Caliphate, and indeed some of their leaders have already given themselves the title of Caliph. It’s window-dressing, sir. We know who all these people are. They may have very limited powers in certain parts of the Middle East, but the chances of them—’

In an uncharacteristically raised voice, Bixby interrupted. ‘In the past three months, Sir Colin, we’ve been receiving intelligence chatter about an
unidentified
extremist figure who gives himself exactly that title. We know very little about him, and that always rings alarm bells.’

‘Go on,’ the chief said. ‘For God’s sake let him speak, Buckingham!’

‘Thank you, Sir Colin.’ Bixby collected his thoughts for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. We haven’t a lot to go on. We don’t know what this S/N number represents – some kind of serial number, we presume, but we’ve run it through all our systems and we’ve come up with no positive matches. We’re almost certain, though, that 74:26-29 refers to a certain passage from the Koran.’ He cleared his throat and recited from memory: ‘
I will drive him into the Hellfire. And what will explain to you that which Hellfire is? It allows nothing to endure, and leaves nothing alone. It blackens the skins of men
.’

Silence in the room.

‘Well, what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’ the chief said finally. ‘There’s a type of missile called a Hellfire, isn’t there? Is that what it refers to?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bixby. He sounded unconvinced. He cleared his throat again. ‘We know almost nothing about this self-styled Caliph. We’re pretty sure he exists, but any attempts by our assets in Syria or Iraq to find out more about him are completely stonewalled. There is a suggestion that he might be of Qatari origin, which makes some kind of sense because to stay off the grid requires large quantities of ready cash, and the Qataris are massively oil-rich. So are the Saudis, of course, and we’ve pretty good evidence of wealthy individuals from both states funding Islamist groups across the Arabian Peninsula and elsewhere. But a couple of independent references we have to this Caliph come from intelligence sources in Qatar. If we want to find out any more about him, I’d suggest that would be a good place to start.’

The chief nodded and fell silent for a minute. All eyes were on him. ‘What assets do we have in Qatar at the moment?’ he asked.

Bixby opened the manilla folder on the table in front of him and withdrew a sheaf of paper. The chief scanned it quickly: there was a picture of an Arab man in traditional headgear, and beneath it a lot of dense writing. ‘Give me the edited highlights,’ Seldon said.

‘His name is Ahmed bin Ali al-Essa,’ Bixby said. ‘His SIS handle is codename Murdock. He’s an oil magnate with several concessions from the Qatari government to pump oil offshore in Qatari waters. He has a massive workforce out in Qatar, as well as very close ties with the Qatari government. But he has substantive trade agreements with the UK which he very much needs to keep intact. As a result, he’s open to the idea of passing intelligence on to us – we’ve received good stuff from him over the past five years, all high-grade, all accurate. I’d say he’s a friend of the Firm, Sir Colin. Our analysis is that if he were to put out feelers among his workforce about this Caliph character, it could be beneficial.’

‘Do it,’ said the chief.

‘It’s not entirely straightforward,’ Bixby said. ‘Ahmed Al-Essa insists on face-to-face contact. Not surprising, really – we’d be astonished if the Qatari authorities didn’t have him under electronic surveillance. But if we’re going to get anything out of him, we’ll need a man on the ground.’

‘Or a woman,’ said the Foreign Secretary.

‘No,’ said Bixby. ‘A man. It’s the way things are out there.’

‘Where is Al-Essa currently situated?’

‘Saudi Arabia. Riyadh. On business.’

‘We don’t have much time, Sir Colin,’ the Foreign Secretary said briskly.

‘Thank you, Foreign Secretary,’ the chief said. ‘If an extremist group drops a bomb on London, you’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?’

Gorman visibly bristled, and the intelligence staff around the table avoided catching anyone else’s eye. The chief pinched his nose again. His head ached. There was too much to take in, and he knew he didn’t have a hope in hell of getting any sleep that night. Not the best state in which to be making decisions. His eyes followed the line of intelligence officers down the right-hand side of the table, and came to rest on Buckingham.

‘Isn’t Riyadh your old stomping ground, Buckingham?’ He seemed to remember that Buckingham had once been their man in Saudi.

Buckingham looked startled. For a moment, he seemed lost for words. ‘Yes, Sir Colin,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, it is. I spent a number of years at the embassy there.’

‘I want you on the first plane to Riyadh. Make contact with our asset and see what he knows about the Caliph.’ Buckingham looked distinctly unenthusiastic about the prospect. The chief didn’t care. He turned to the remaining intelligence officers. ‘If this Caliph is planning something in London, somebody, somewhere knows about him. I want us to comb through any and every cross-agency intelligence report that might be relevant for the past six months. If you draw a blank, start on the six months before that. Nothing slips through the net, ladies and gentlemen. And I trust it goes without saying that no word of this leaves these four walls. You don’t tell your family or your friends. Any leaks will be dealt with under the Official Secrets Act. We can’t afford a panic. Rest assured that the security services will act as and when it becomes necessary. Is there anything else?’

Buckingham cleared his throat.

‘Yes?’ the chief asked.

Buckingham looked like he was going to complain. But he just bowed his head. ‘Nothing, Sir Colin,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Good. Get to work, everyone. Now.’

There was a scraping of chairs, and the whirring sound of Bixby’s electric wheelchair moving back, as the analysts and intelligence officers left the room. ‘A word, Sir Colin,’ the Foreign Secretary called above the noise.

The chief nodded, then looked towards the door where Hugo Buckingham was loitering. He raised an eyebrow at him. Buckingham looked embarrassed and left, leaving the chief and the Foreign Secretary alone.

‘I apologise for snapping,’ Seldon said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Forget about it. This marathon threat, is it really a thing, in your opinion?’

The chief nodded. ‘Bixby’s my best man. I’ve never known him be wrong. Something like this
will
happen, Tessa. You know that as well as me. We’ve foiled seven or eight plots in the final stages of planning, and that’s just in the last nine months. Whether
this
is the one where those IS crazies get us, I don’t know. My feeling is that our biggest threat will come from a lone-wolf jihadi, radicalised on the internet and trained up by Islamic State in Syria. But wherever the hit comes from, it
will
happen, sooner or later.’