Three Great Novels (54 page)

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Authors: Henry Porter

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BOOK: Three Great Novels
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He stopped and surveyed the drawn faces around the room. ‘Look, I don’t think there’s much more you can do tonight. I’d rather have you all fresh for tomorrow than working through the night. There is very little we can do until these arrests have been made and we can begin to assess the information they produce. ’
‘There’s a ticking bomb,’ said Herrick. ‘Loz said something would happen eleven days from last Wednesday night. That could be either Friday or Saturday, according to which day he was counting from.’
‘We
think
there’s a ticking bomb, which is not quite the same thing, is it? Youssef and Jamil Rahe are out of the picture; the nine suspects will be in the bag shortly; and the evidence is leaning towards Loz being killed on the island. We gather from Foyzi that four bodies were found, one very close to the spot where you say Loz was. Even with this unknown - and I am inclined to think that is
not
an unknown - the network you have done so much to expose, Isis, is dead.’
‘But there are the other men in the photograph from Bosnia,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got around to matching the faces with names from Dolph’s research on the Haj switch.’
‘All that’s true. But go home now, then return as early as you like in the morning. By then the nine will be detained and we may know more.’ He said goodnight and beckoned Herrick out into the corridor. ‘Pace yourself, Isis. Get some sleep tonight. I mean it. You look bloody awful.’
She did not go straight home, but instead took a cab to Brown’s Hotel, where she explained to an assistant manager what had happened to Robert Harland. After switching on the midnight news and checking with the hospital, he eventually agreed to let her into Harland’s room. He watched as she gathered together some dark blue pyjamas, underpants, socks, shirt and a sponge-bag. She noticed a slim black phone book by the telephone and put it together with the clothes in a small overnight bag, then asked whether the manager would mind if she took a bunch of flowers that were on top of a bureau. He shook his head wearily and she wrapped them in a hotel laundry bag. Later, she dropped everything off at the hospital and talked to a nurse about her three friends. She heard that Harland’s sister had been in touch and would be flying back from holiday.
 
It was 6.45 a.m. when she reached her floor next morning. Lyne was at her desk, using her computer. Nearby was Laughland who she assumed had been told to keep an eye on the CIA officer.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked Lyne, dropping the bag.
He looked up. ‘So much for
The Subtle Ruse
, Isis. These guys all meant business. Explosives, nerve agents. You name it, they got it.’
She moved to the coffee machine, thinking furiously. ‘Do we know when they were going to attack?’
‘No, I’ve only been here five minutes. I know no more than I’ve told you, but right now there’s a briefing.’ Laughland was already at the door agitating to leave.
By the time they reached the Chief’s office the briefing was underway. There were about thirty people in the room. Herrick noticed several members of the Joint Intelligence Committee and one or two people from the COBRA meeting of two days before. The Chief was sitting in the window holding up his hand against the reflection of the sun, which bounced off a convoy of waste barges on the river below.
Guthrie was speaking. He paused for the three new arrivals to find a place to perch, then continued. ‘The pattern was set by Fayzi al Haqq, the Pakistani national in Bradford. Al Haqq was armed, but was also in possession of a belt of Semtex. He was arrested before he could use either and is now in Leeds. He will be transferred to London later today. We believe he acquired these weapons only recently, and they must have been passed to him or were moved into his home right under the gaze of RAPTOR surveillance. Clearly the helper cells also served as armourers and scouts for the operation. The seven individuals that came in contact with al Haqq have all been arrested, together with a further six in London who were associated with the Turkish suspect, Mafouz Esmet. He is still in a coma.’
He drew breath and looked over his glasses. ‘I am afraid that the surveillance not only missed the preparation that has been going on this past week, but it gave us no hint of the precise nature of these men’s deadly intentions. So far it has been determined that three of them were in possession of nerve agents: Nassir Sharif in Stockholm, Lasenne Hadaya in Paris, and Ramzi Zaman in Toulouse, all had fifty millilitres of one of two different agents. Hadaya was equipped with GB - or Sarin - in an aerosol spray; the other two had VX, which is less volatile, but much more potent and long-lasting. We do not yet know how they intended to deploy these nerve agents, partly because all suspects are still suffering from the effects of the disabling darts or injections used to stop them biting into suicide pills. There is much work to be done on their targets and on the lines of supply. To this end, the helpers are being questioned exhaustively.
‘So the theme emerging is one of random and varied suicide attacks. The Pakistani in Bradford was clearly going to blow himself up at some public target, as was Hadi Dahhak, the Yemeni suspect in Budapest. One of his helpers had the belt and another was discovered with a very recent batch of Czech Semtex - as you know, it’s chemically dated. At some time in the near future these materials would have been brought together.
‘But what of the other four men? What did they plan? All were detained last night, but no weapons or means of attack were found in any of the safe houses in Rome, Sarajevo or the two in Copenhagen. They are being taken apart piece by piece, as are the homes of helpers in each city, but nothing has been found. What we do know is that two of the men were planning to travel this coming Friday. The Saudi from Sarajevo had booked himself on a flight to Vienna and the Syrian in Copenhagen was due to go to Cologne. But we don’t know why.’ He paused, and let his gaze skate across the room.
Herrick rose so that Guthrie could see her. ‘It’s obvious that Sarajevo wouldn’t be an ideal place for an attack because the population is Muslim.’ She stopped, realising she was speaking too loudly. But then the sentence fled from her. She shook her head and waited as the words slowly came into focus. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit early for me. And. . . and. . . in Copenhagen they had doubled up. So maybe one was flying out to take the place of the man in Stuttgart who died.’
Guthrie gave her an odd look, and there were one or two concerned glances from around the room. Beside her, Lyne discreetly touched her elbow. Then she realised that the hand holding the empty coffee cup had been seized by a violent tremor. She sat down, placed the cup on the floor and gripped her wrist with her other hand.
The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Yes, both those thoughts are probably right,’ he said quietly. ‘But it means they would have to be armed or equipped at their destinations and that seems to break with the pattern. My impression is that the organiser of this plan, likely to be the man we know as Youssef Rahe, took a view that the best way to achieve his ends was to put his chaps in place, then let the helpers service all their needs, including storage of the explosives and nerve agents. They minded each one, took all the burden until the moment arrived when he was required to kill himself. It’s slightly different to the set-up of the earlier al-Qaeda cells where they lived together and each man had a defined role.’
The briefing went on for a further fifteen minutes. At the end, the Chief made a small speech about the success of the operation, again congratulating Herrick, Dolph, Sarre and Lapping for the work they had all done. But far from being triumphant about the arrests, Herrick left the room in a sombre mood, not helped by the return of the heaviness in her chest and the ache in her arm.
An hour later, just as she had recovered a little of herself and was able to focus on what Nathan Lyne was telling her about the Haj switch, she received a call from the Chief’s office and was asked to hold. She waited, reading the conclusion of Dolph’s brilliantly tight description of the switch, which gave the names of four more people who had not shown up in the Heathrow switch or on any watch list.
The Chief came on. ‘Isis, I’m going to be direct about this. You’re off the case. I believe you’re suffering from exhaustion. Christine Selvey will be down in a few minutes. She is going to see to it that you get to a doctor in Upper Sloane Street.’
‘But there’s still work to do,’ she said feebly.
‘Not by you. You’re prohibited from entering this building until I am satisfied you are fit for work. I don’t expect to hear from you for at least two weeks. Is that understood? You have earned the rest. Now take it.’
Selvey was already at the door of her office as she put the phone down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A young doctor at the private practice saw her quickly. He was short, with wiry black hair curling over a receding hairline and red blotches either side of his nose. Within a few minutes of Herrick describing her symptoms, he started nodding.
‘You’re suffering from an anxiety disorder,’ he said. There was a slight hiss on the ‘s’ in disorder.
‘You mean panic attacks,’ she said aggressively.
‘Yes. I don’t mean to be rude, but judging by your appearance, they’re caused by all-round exhaustion - lack of sleep, poor diet, too many stimulants - and of course general pressure. Do you take any exercise?’
‘No time.’
‘You should make time, and you should certainly look into your diet and eating habits. Do you bolt your food? Eat irregularly? Sleep poorly?’
She nodded to all three.
‘And you have a fair degree of unpredictable stress in your life? Do you ever relax?’
She shook her head. She knew this man was SIS-approved and must have seen the odd case of burnt-out spy before. Although the Service was notoriously bad at helping the casualties of the trade, it reacted quickly to any hint of psychological disrepair.
‘So, how long is this going to last? What can you give me for it?’ As she talked, the heaviness in her chest began to disappear and she breathed more easily.
‘Nothing. As soon as you take some rest the symptoms will leave you but in future you’ll have to learn to manage your stress levels. I suggest regular physical activity, maybe some abdominal breathing exercises. Perhaps you should consider yoga?’
‘Yoga!’ she said contemptuously.
He shrugged. ‘Look, it’s up to you. I can’t give you a pill to affect the choices you make. You have an overactive fight and flight response. This releases your body’s hormones to enable you to meet a dangerous situation, or flee from it. You’re leading your life at such a pitch that your body is unable to distinguish between what is real danger and what is simply pressure. You’re constantly on the alert, boiling over with unspent hormones. This is the first episode and there is very little to concern yourself about. It’s an amber light, that’s all. If I were you, I’d go home, have a sleep and then take some time off. If you don’t accept this advice, you will eventually find yourself with more serious problems - possibly a nervous breakdown, alcohol dependency, that sort of thing. You have to look after yourself, you’re getting on.’
‘I’m in my early thirties!’
‘As I said, getting on.’
‘Do you have any advice for the short term?’ she said sharply.
‘If you experience the hyperventilation again, you can stop it by breathing into a paper bag to slow your intake of oxygen. But it’s not ideal. It may not give the right impression. ’
‘I see that,’ she said.
She left the surgery with Christine Selvey, whom she found sitting primly in the waiting room reading the
Economist
.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Selvey pointedly.
‘Iron deficiency,’ said Herrick. ‘A few supplements and some rest and I’ll be fine.’
‘Good. Then we’ll see you in a couple of weeks or so. I hope you don’t mind me saying that the Chief was quite emphatic you take the time off.’
They parted, Selvey giving her a last matronly nod.
‘Fuck it,’ said Herrick, as she made her way up Sloane Street to find a cab.
 
When she reached home she had no difficulty in falling asleep. She woke at 2.00 p.m. feeling disorientated and vaguely guilty. How the hell was she meant to turn off just like that? She called her father, but found herself being evasive when he asked why she had so much time to talk. He was busy painting - the light was right, the tempera just mixed - and he would prefer to ring her later on. She read the paper and ate some salad with self-conscious restraint, then phoned St Mary’s Hospital. Dolph and Lapping were still too poorly to receive visitors, but Harland was sitting up in his room. She asked them to tell him to expect her.

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