Authors: Stella Rimington
‘Hang on a minute. Was the sender the same person in England who’s contacted him recently?’
‘Yes, well, at least it is the same email address.’
Liz had told Seurat about Peggy Kinsolving’s fact-finding mission to the northern town of Eccles. Atiyah, apparently the real name of the young Arab they’d been calling Zara, had visited Yemen within the last year according to the neighbour. It all fitted. ‘What about more recent communications?’ he asked Thibault.
The young boffin shook his head. ‘Not yet. There is a large gap to be filled between these first exchanges and the last email, which we’ve already seen. I am confident of filling in this gap, but it will take some time.’
‘Oh,’ said Seurat, sounding disappointed. Thibault was obviously elated to have recovered even a small part of what had been deleted, but if it didn’t actually tell them much then there didn’t seem any reason to get excited.
Thibault said, ‘I will send you the transcripts of what I have managed to disinter.’
Seurat wondered if there was any point in passing this on to Liz. Probably not; the ‘breakthrough’ hadn’t amounted to much.
Thibault shifted in his armchair, ready to depart. Then he said, ‘There is one other thing that may be of interest. It’s a reference in the very first email from Yemen to the man who made the introduction to Milraud.’
Seurat was suddenly alert. ‘Does it give his name?’
‘No, because he was careful not to use it. But does sound as if the man is a senior person in the government. Possibly a minister, I can’t tell exactly.’
Miles Brookhaven was used to working in the Middle East, but each year as winter hove onto the horizon he thought fondly of home. He had just been reading a letter from his mother, describing the Thanksgiving dinner she was planning in the small town in upstate New York where she lived. It would soon be snowing there, with icy winds coming in over the Great Lakes from Canada.
It all seemed a very long way away from this café in Sana’a where he was sitting at an outside table under a hot Yemeni sun, watching as Arack used his fork to attack a second helping of pistachio and syrup-laden pastry. CIA HQ back in Langley must have seen some odd expense claims over the years, everything from ‘booze and babes’ to a legendary purchase of a racehorse, but Miles couldn’t imagine what they would think of the three-figure bill he was planning to submit for the purchase of Yemeni patisserie.
Not that he had much to show for it in return: Arack seemed as mystified by the disappearance of Baakrime as Miles was. Arack said between mouthfuls, ‘No one knows anything. I made up an excuse to ring his office at the Ministry. It’s quite obvious that his secretary doesn’t have a clue where he is. My own Minister’s secretary was trying to contact him to find out if he was coming to a meeting just two days ago, but no one could say whether he was coming or not.’
He looked contemplatively at his fork. Noticing a vestigial smear of cream on one of its tines, he licked it clean, then said, ‘His son has disappeared as well, you know. That is also a mystery. He worked for the Minister’s charity but no one there seems to know where he is either.’
‘That’s interesting. What do
you
think it’s all about?’ asked Miles. He couldn’t prevent his mind recalling the bloodied, white-robed corpse, whose shiny black shoes seemed to make the mental image even more gruesome.
Arack shrugged, and looked over at the waiter, who fortunately for Miles’s expense account was occupied serving another table. He said, ‘Someone must know something. You have to remember what kind of man Baakrime is.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s rich, he’s powerful; inevitably, he has enemies. Maybe something has frightened him enough to go into hiding. And that would also frighten anyone who knows his whereabouts. All one can do is keep asking, though it requires care in order not to make people suspicious.’ Arack’s face suddenly broadened into a smile. He had caught the waiter’s eye.
Two nights later, Miles left the embassy after attending a reception given by Ambassador Rodgers for what he called ‘a visiting fireman’ – in this case, a natural gas producer from Monroe, Louisiana. It was a three-line whip for most of the Embassy staff, and the trade representatives of other missions and embassies had also been invited. The party was never going to be a barrel of laughs, but Miles didn’t mind – among the other conscripts was the voluptuous Marilyn.
But when Marilyn cut him dead in the embassy foyer and went instead to talk to the other secretaries, Miles realised she was still cross with him for cancelling their dinner date. His disappointment turned to annoyance when a little while later he saw her with Bruno Mackay, who seemed to be putting something into his phone – probably her number, thought Miles jealously.
Miles compensated for Marilyn’s snub by having three glasses of wine, which meant he left the party feeling mellow. He lived in an apartment in the old quarter of the city, and he drove there in the dark with extra caution. Since the events on the road from Baakrime’s farm he had changed the car he drove, but he still felt uneasy driving at night, even in the city.
He parked in the underground car park of his apartment block. As he slammed and locked the car door his eye caught a movement behind a car two spaces along the row. His stomach lurched and he stood still, keeping the car between himself and whoever was there, alert for what might happen next.
Then a figure emerged into the light, and after a second or two Miles recognised Minister Baakrime. Standing just fifteen feet away under the yellowish glow of the car park lights he was a changed figure. The finery of his office apparel – silk ties, handmade shoes from London – was all gone. He wore a brown canvas jacket with side pockets, and unpressed cotton trousers; he looked utterly nondescript, which must have been his intention, though no doubt it galled him.
‘What are you doing—’ Miles began to ask, but Baakrime put an urgent finger to his lips, then beckoned him into the shadows in the corner of the car park. ‘Quiet, my friend. I do not want to be seen by anyone.’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ whispered Miles.
Baakrime gave a melancholy smile. ‘You are not the only one.’
‘Why have you disappeared?’
‘I had no choice.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘My son was murdered. That was a warning to me that I would be next.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Miles. There was no point in saying that he had seen the body of the young man. ‘Who did it? Who’s after you?’
‘I know their identity, and it will be of great interest to your country and the British. But I cannot stay in Yemen much longer; I want to emigrate to America. I think I have information to earn that right; I have been of considerable assistance to you in the past and I have more to tell.’
Miles said nothing while he digested this. His estimate of Baakrime was that he was a wily old crook who had probably got what he deserved, though what had happened to his son could not be wished on anyone. It was not as if the Minister had been helping the United States out of the goodness of his heart: each time he’d imparted any information he had been well paid for it. There was no question of giving him free passage into America and, as he no doubt hoped, a pension to live on when he got there. Those who held the purse strings in Washington would never authorise it unless he had a lot more to offer.
Miles spoke carefully now. ‘You have been a valuable friend to my country, but I think you will admit your efforts have always been rewarded. In the end we are all in business, even if our goods are information. I need to know what more you have to offer before I can put your proposal to my superiors. I need to know a lot more about these people. Why are they hunting for you, where do they come from, what are their plans? If you can tell me that, then maybe I can help you.’
Baakrime didn’t reply at first. He exhaled noisily, wiped at his thinning hair impatiently, then looked around. He was less agitated now, but his shoulders were slumped; clearly Miles had not told him what he had been hoping to hear. At last he spoke, ‘Very well. I see the position, even if I regret it. I will tell you what I know, though I want guarantees of protection – until you arrange for me to go to America. Is that agreed?’
‘There’s only so much I can do in Yemen. Once you have left this country I can guarantee your safety. Until then, I can only give advice.’
Baakrime thought about this, his lips pursed. ‘It will have to do for now,’ he said grudgingly. Then he added reluctantly, ‘The man attending the meeting in Paris is not working for the rebels of the Arab Spring. He is working for jihadis. Ones that are based here in Yemen.’
He looked at Miles as if he had handed him a gift of unexpected value, but Miles shook his head, to show that he would have to do better than this. ‘We already know that. We have learned a lot more since you alerted us to the meeting in Paris.’
If the Yemeni was disappointed he didn’t show it, but like a magician whose rabbit has failed to impress, simply produced another one. ‘Of course, but I doubt you know much about these jihadis. You see, they are not Yemeni, they are British.
Miles remembered the British voice in the armed gang who had forced him and Bruno Mackay off the road. ‘Believe it or not, I did know that too. But tell me more.’
‘Do you know their plans?’
‘Which plans?’
‘Ah,’ said Baakrime, ‘I thought not. These British men are here only temporarily. Soon they will be returning to their country, with a small stop in Paris. I don’t think they’re going there to see the Eiffel Tower.’ He laughed. ‘And when they get to England I don’t think they’ll be training to become lawyers.’
‘What are they going to do?’ Miles demanded. Baakrime didn’t reply. Miles insisted: ‘What are these men planning to do?’
‘It’s not entirely clear,’ said Baakrime, which to Miles meant either he didn’t know or he was holding the information as a bargaining chip. The latter seemed most likely when he said, ‘I believe I can find out.’ He paused, then added, ‘If . . .’
‘If you can tell me when these men are going to Paris and what they are planning to do in England, then I think I may be able to help you. It will take forty-eight hours and the information will need to be checked.’
Baakrime said slowly, ‘Forty-eight hours is a long time in my position.’
‘You’ve made it this far; what’s a few more days? Get me the information I want and then I’ll set everything up. How long will it take you?’
‘I will meet you tomorrow at this time, but not here.’
‘I have a small place I keep as a safe house,’ said Miles and he gave him an address in the old city. ‘Come there tomorrow but be sure you are not followed.’
‘Trust me, my friend. I still have a few friends who look after me.’
At eight o’clock the following morning Liz Carlyle, Geoffrey Fane and Andy Bokus were sitting in the basement secure room in the Grosvenor Square Embassy. Each had in front of them a copy of the message that had come in overnight from Miles Brookhaven in Sana’a, describing his meeting with Baakrime in the car park.
‘Well,’ said Bokus, looking at his two British visitors, ‘I’ve been in touch with Langley overnight. We don’t want this
Donation
guy, so it’s up to you. Are you prepared to have him?’
‘Come now, Andy,’ said Fane in his most patronising tone. ‘I know it’s early in the morning and you may well have been up half the night, but let’s just talk about this for a minute. As I read what Baakrime said to Brookhaven, it’s the US he wants to go to. He made no mention of the UK.’
‘He wants to get out of there before someone tops him, and I don’t suppose for a minute he’s going to turn down a passage to London. It seems to me that it’s you who stand to benefit from whatever he has to say. He’s talking about British jihadis, not American, so it’s your side who should bear the cost. That’s what I’ve advised Langley and they agree.’
There was silence for a moment. Geoffrey Fane was leaning forward on the bench with his elbows on the table and his fingertips together. Liz Carlyle knew that any meeting between these two had to begin with some sort of ritual sparring match, and she was used to biding her time until the first bout was over. It looked as though it was, so she said, ‘I think you’ll agree, Andy, that it’s crucial that we find out what
Donation
knows about these British jihadis he’s talking about. It seems to me that Miles has asked him all the right questions. What we don’t yet know is whether he can answer them. It’s far too early to consider giving him asylum, let alone accepting him as a defector.’
‘It’s easy for you to say that, sitting here in London,’ replied Bokus testily. ‘The guy wants an answer and he’s expecting Miles to give him one. Can he get out of the country or not? That’s what he wants to know. Miles may not be able to get him to spill his guts if he can’t give him the assurance he wants.’
‘I hear what you say,’ said Fane, ‘but you and Langley seem to have made your mind up that the answer’s No. It’s just as much in your interests as ours to find out what these jihadis are planning to do. They may be British, but how do we know they’re not planning an attack on a US target? Maybe it’s the Embassy here. You won’t look so clever if your colleagues get blown up.’
‘Give it a break, Geoffrey. Our security is better than a bunch of home-grown jihadis can breach, and you know it.’