Sleeper Cell (3 page)

‘And that’s changed recently?’ Richard said.

‘Chatter has increased in the last twenty-four hours. Again, non-specific. There were symbolic indications of a significant event coming, but nothing – I have to stress that, nothing – that indicated what it might be or that it was aimed at Britain. The reference to ‘the arrow’ would also seem apt. They’re striking out of established IS territory.’

Richard sat staring out of the window for a moment, his fingers tapping on the desk.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So IS have got the means to do this and the motive to hit London, but we can’t categorically say that their target was the peace talks.’

‘Not categorically,’ Commander Thorne said.

‘Then that’s our line: we distance this from the talks. We can not afford to make any link between the two. I think we agree that this has all the hallmarks of a militant Islamist operation but we need a credible attribution. The media are not going to be interested in the subtleties. Call in the best people you have, stop at nothing to get a name. Get a clear motive. We must be in a position to close this down, for it to be a past tense event before the delegates arrive. Something reassuring in time for the morning papers would be good.’

‘We’re going to need to make an announcement to the media much sooner than that,’ Sarah Forsyth said. ‘What do we tell them?’

‘I’ll make a broadcast later in the day. Fix something for the six o’clock news. For now, we appear to be in full control of the situation and our joint forces dedicated to upholding the rule of law and democracy. I think it’s important that for now we don’t raise the threat level from Severe to Critical either. That risks setting off panic. This must not turn into an excuse for sectarian anarchy.’

‘Prime Minister,’ Lord Silverton said. ‘With respect, I think that is a mistake. You need to address the country now. An information vacuum will attract hysteria if it is not confidently filled.’

‘Sarah,’ Richard said, ‘get an interim statement drawn up, and circulate it to the news agencies. Frame it as an unexplained explosion; don’t use the word bomb. And make sure the press office toe the line: this is an isolated incident. I will make a statement, but not until we’ve shored up our defences and got on top of this thing.’

Lord Silverton removed his glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him. ‘And if there’s another attack?’ he said.

‘I am relying on you all to make sure there isn’t. Find the culprits. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak to the Israeli Ambassador. God knows what capital they’ll get out of this.’

Leila Reid’s landline rang at 1.25pm, almost an hour and a half after the bombing. She listened to it cut off mid-way through the third ring and the answering machine click in. Her voice on the recorder was followed by a man’s, but she could not hear what he said. It would be nothing she wanted to hear.

She kicked the light summer duvet off and lay staring at the ceiling. The bedroom was filled with muted sunlight and stale moveless air. A vague sensation in her stomach told her it was breakfast time.

The mobile on her bedside cabinet rang, a perfect mimic of an old-fashioned dial phone. Awake now, she reached out and peered at the screen. No name and not a mobile number she recognised. She pressed Answer. She could do with telling someone to go fuck themselves.

‘DS Reid? Hello?’

‘Hello? Who’s this?’

‘It’s DCI Lawrence.’

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Afternoon, and it’s not a good one. Where are you?’

‘In bed.’

‘Well get up; we need you here.’

‘At CTC? Didn’t you fire me six months ago?’

‘You weren’t fired, Reid. You’re on suspension.’

‘We both know it’s coming. You just haven't found a legal way to do it yet.’

‘Think of it as you wish. Anyway, we’re suspending your suspension. We’ve got a situation.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘You haven’t heard? Where have you been?’

‘Asleep.’

‘There’s been an explosion near the Israeli Embassy.’

‘Shit.’ Leila sat up. ‘And Counter-Terrorism’s on it?’

‘We’re convening in anticipation. Commander Thorne’s at Downing Street now. We’re putting together the Executive Liaison Group.’

‘I’m not cleared for ELG work.’

‘No, but you are still cleared for investigations on the ground, and you’re still the best this department’s got.’

‘Thorne’ll never go for that.’

‘He’s already signed off on it. It’s not an open door back to your old job, but it’s a chance to show you’re still an asset.’

‘An asset.’

‘Leila, we need you here. What did Moore say on 911? ‘A good day to bury bad news’? Well this could be your good day to bury a bad reputation.’

‘No, Michael. I’m sorry, but I’m just not playing politics any more. Not again. Goodbye.’

Before her old boss could reply she disconnected the call and threw the phone back onto the cabinet. She planted her feet on the cool wooden floor and sat for a moment staring at the points of bright sunlight forcing their way through the curtains.

The phone rang again.

It would ring eight times before going to voice mail.

She stood and drew back one of the curtains. Hard, merciless sunlight streamed in through the dusty windows and formed a hot pool at her feet. In another half hour it would have moved far enough to start baking the front rooms of her small but adequate Victorian terrace in Upper Tooting. By nightfall the whole house would be an oven. She stepped back out of the sun, still unwilling to answer the phone.

The fifth ring. He was persistent.

Should she answer? Should she go back? Was there anything they could offer her to make things right again? She had already decided weeks ago that she would let her suspension run its course then resign, assuming they hadn’t found a way to fire her in the meantime. It had crossed her mind that she could return for a while, knowing that she would be sidelined from any major investigations, then sue for constructive dismissal. But she had grown dull these last few weeks.

Six.

She wanted to move on, maybe go back to the Middle East. She needed an edge, grit in her shoe, something to make her
feel
again.

Seven. She picked the phone up, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Eight.

She hit Answer.

‘Tell me one thing,’ she said as soon as the phone connected. ‘Why did you tell me Thorne’s approved my coming in when he hasn’t?’

Michael Lawrence breathed heavily at the other end.

‘I’m going to hang up now,’ Reid said.

‘OK, wait… He said he wants to assemble the best team we’ve got. He didn’t mention you, and nor did I. I figured once you’ve proved your worth to the investigation, he’s more likely to get you back here full time.’

‘Don’t lie to me again.’

‘Again? That sounds hopeful.’

‘If you don’t lie to me again.’

‘How did you know?’

‘How did I know that the guy who hung me out to dry in an IPCC inquiry wouldn’t want me back on the team? What do you think? Plus, you’re calling from your own person cell, not the desk phone. My caller ID didn’t recognise your number. It’s a big clue you’re not dealing straight.’

‘Fine. You want the truth? I need you back here. Or rather, I need you out there, feeding back useful intel without getting bogged down in false trails. You understand this business better than anyone.’

‘So what do you want me to do? Assuming I agree.’

‘Just go to the site. Get a feel for it. You’ll know within five minutes whether this fits with you. If it does, call me. If not, you can go back to bed.’

‘I’ll take a look. You’ll have my answer within the hour. And call whatever monkeys you’ve got manning the perimeter at the Embassy. Tell them I’m on my way.’

‘Already done. I’ll speak to you in an hour.’

This time Lawrence hung up first.

She ran down to the kitchen and threw a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. She dressed from whatever she could find in the basket of clothes waiting to be ironed and splashed cold water over her face. She resisted the usual urge to turn on the radio, preferring not to have her first impressions of the morning’s event filtered by the news media. She had to get this fresh. An explosion (that was the word Lawrence used – not bomb but explosion – so it might yet prove to be nothing) near both the Israelis and the Palace would have the media in a frenzy of speculation. They had rolling news to fill, and they would fill it with whatever they could come up with on the spur of the moment. None of which helped her. Intuition was fragile in the face of innuendo.

With a slice of dry toast in her mouth, she quickly assembled the tool roll that she always carried in the field: a leather pouch containing lock picks, multi-bladed knife, highly illegal mini cell jammer, Oasis monocular, a tube of Super Glue (useful for closing deep cuts), two pairs of forensic gloves, £200 in £20 notes and a tiny can of mace, just in case. The gun cleaning kit was still in the car, not that it was much use without a gun.

She didn’t bother to dead-lock the door behind her. Ten to one she’d be back by three o’clock.

Phillip Shaw had no interest in the video link that appeared on the right-most of his three screens, set exactly thirty degrees apart on a desk devoid of anything not directly connected to his home-made computer. He glanced at the link, scanned some of the chat, then went back to what he was doing.

A few seconds later an alert on the left screen caught his eye. His mother had specifically tasked him to watch his sister, and this screen was his window into her life. He’d cloned every device she owned and had a running log of her activity. At fourteen, she was never far from her phone or tablet.

He opened the mirror of her iPad and watched Esther click on the link to the video. A sub-screen logged her browser routing through a series of servers before the video itself opened.

It was a single-camera movie of a hotel, probably in London, though Phillip was not familiar with much of the city. For five seconds nothing happened, then a ball of flame and dust erupted from an opening at the foot of a squat tower. The camera shook in the blast, then settled again as the dust cloud advanced rapidly towards it and the building began to topple forwards. The image grew darker, obscured entirely, paused for a moment, then cut to a view of the collapsed building across the road.

Esther replayed the video, but Phillip had seen enough. He ran a trace to see who had sent her the link (it turned out to be her best friend and neighbour JoLynn, who was more than likely sitting right next to Esther at the time).

His sister was safe, no need for concern.

He turned to the right-hand screen and maximised the top-most of the dozen or so chat feeds. The Dark Web was alive with discussion of the bomb video. It had, apparently, been shot just an hour and a half earlier in central London. Speculation was rife as to who had managed to get round the almost fanatical security of the city to mount such an audacious attack.

It meant very little to Phillip. Although his flat on the Broadwater Farm estate was just a few miles north of the city, it might as well have been on another planet. What happened in leafy central London was of little concern to him. Indeed, what happened more or less anywhere off the internet grid was of little concern to him.

Phillip Shaw, eighteen, unemployed and unemployable, was just another black kid on an inner city estate that meant nothing to anyone until it caused trouble. And since the heady days of the 1985 riots, the Farm had not caused enough trouble to warrant attention from anyone.

Phillip had never run with the gangs of the estate. Like many of his contemporaries, his education was limited but he had no interest in gang life. He had his own interests. As he drifted away from school and faded from the attention of social workers and teachers, his entire world became computers. Loose acquaintances in the Waterboys sourced bits of hardware for him (some legal, most probably not), and he built ever more sophisticated machines. He learned to hack, to spy, to subvert the efforts of the authorities around the world. He sold his countersurveillance software for pocket money. A routine that bypassed Chinese governmental spyware might earn him a thousandth of a bitcoin, but there were a lot of Chinese customers and he now had a decent little savings account, at least in the virtual world he called home.

But wealth didn’t interest him. His mother didn’t know he had the talents to be rich or she might have insisted that they move to a better neighbourhood. Phillip couldn’t risk that. He felt safe in the Farm. He knew where he was. People planted bombs in other parts of the city.

If wealth, power, politics and the world in general didn’t interest Phillip Shaw, there was one thing he could never resist: a challenge.

The internet was alive with the bomb video and speculation about who might have been behind it. If no one knew yet, the video must have been carefully cloaked and whoever was behind the events just a few miles down the road was trying to stay anonymous.
This
was a challenge.

Phillip logged on to the Dem0nAg3nt board and started to gather his team together.

Leila Reid stopped her anonymous blue Peugeot 208 right in the middle of Kensington Road. Parking was never easier than in a crisis. The uniformed officers at the De Vere Gardens cordon had been satisfied with her explanation that she was with CTC, sent by Lawrence on a preliminary scouting expedition. They’d slid the barrier aside for her then turned their attention back to the crowds who were trying to see what was going on a hundred yards further up the road.

She walked towards the wreckage of the Park Hotel. A steady breeze blew along Kensington Road from the west, low and laden with fine dust. She’d seen the aftermath of bombs in southern Lebanon during her time with the Foreign Office, but this was different. There was none of the acrid ammonia smell that hung in the air hours after a kitchen-table IED had detonated. Here the air smelled of burnt rubber and concrete. All the fires were out but trails of smoke still emerged from deep within the rubble that had been the west wing of the hotel.