Authors: Stella Rimington
‘What are you doing on this boat?’
‘We come for work,’ she declared.
‘What kind of work?’
‘Modelling,’ she said seriously, and Liz winced. Is that what she really thought? Had a woman like this really believed the lies told her back in her village - the vision of a glamorous life in the West, high wages and innocent work?
Liz thought of what had been lying in store for this ‘cargo’- the journey to some strange English city in an overcrowded van, the squalor of their new accommodation, the coercive threats, the ‘initiating’ rapes, until they were sufficiently degraded to be put to work in the sex industry. What industry? thought Liz angrily. This was white slavery.
TWENTY-ONE
They reached Harwich at three a.m. Gradually the spirits of the female ‘cargo’ had lifted, and there was even a small cheer when
The Clacton
tied fast in the harbour. The two Middle Eastern men looked a lot less happy. They’d been searched for weapons on board, and once inside the terminal Harrison had them searched again.
Both were carrying British passports, with addresses in London suburbs - Walthamstow and Pinner. The men’s names were Chaloub and Hanoush, which sounded Lebanese to Liz - Veshara’s men.
Not that they were talking: Chaloub, the more senior man, was an old pro, and asked at once to see a lawyer. When he turned and spoke tersely in Arabic to Hanoush, Liz sensed it was to tell the younger man to keep his mouth shut.
Liz saw no point in hanging around; she’d hear from Harrison in due course what he’d managed to get out of the two - not very much, from the looks of it. But there was plenty to charge them with, and the link to Veshara was indisputable; his company was the registered owner of
The Dido
. What Liz couldn’t see was any connection to Syrian intelligence, or to the Gleneagles conference, which was now just six weeks away.
Though it was now the middle of the night, she decided to drive straight back to London; three hours’ sleep in a Travelodge wasn’t going to do her much good. The A12 was virtually empty, and even the M25 proved comparatively painless, so Liz made good time: the sun was just tipping over the horizon as she reached the outskirts of London. This early, the city looked deserted, like the landscape of a post-apocalypse film.
She drove across north London through Dalston and Holloway towards her flat in Kentish Town, passing a solitary milk float wobbling along Fortess Road. As she turned into her own street, she saw a minicab waiting outside one of the houses. An early-morning start for some young City type, she thought, off for a meeting in Zurich or Rome.
Inside her flat, Liz put the kettle on and ran a bath. Though her bed called seductively, she rejected the idea of a nap; it would just leave her groggy for the rest of the day. Better to soldier on and collapse early in the evening.
An hour later, she slammed her front door, climbed the basement steps and turned towards the Underground station. The neighbourhood was slowly waking up, and she was surprised to see the minicab still waiting further down the street. Her neighbour must have overslept.
There was some traffic now on Kentish Town Road, though not many people on the pavements - it was another week or so before the school term began, and most people still seemed to be away on holiday. Even at work, people were thin on the ground at the moment, though Peggy wasn’t going off until the autumn, doubtless on some cultural jaunt with her new friend Tim.
Charles was still at work, even though his boys must be on holiday. Joanne’s condition meant they didn’t go away on family holidays these days. Liz would see him later this morning, to tell him about the previous night’s escapade off the Essex coast. Sami Veshara must be wondering where his ‘cargo’ had got to, and Liz imagined that Harrison was looking forward to interviewing and then arresting the Lebanese businessman about the covert side of his business. She intended to suggest to Charles that she should see Veshara as well, and try within the rules to leverage the charges he was certain to face, against cooperation with the service.
She stopped at a newsagents’ to buy the
Guardian
and exchange her daily hello with the cheerful Pakistani owner. She was about three hundred yards from the Underground station now, thinking of how best to squeeze Veshara, when she looked up and saw a woman standing still on the pavement not more than ten feet away. She was looking at Liz with an expression of absolute horror.
Then Liz realised the woman wasn’t looking
at
her, but
behind
her. Instinctively she turned around, just in time to see a car, off the road and on the pavement, coming rapidly straight at her.
She leaped desperately to get out of the way, but too late. The car hit Liz side-on, sweeping her legs from under her and catapulting her onto its bonnet, where she bounced like a floppy doll, hitting her head with a sharp crack against the windscreen. She felt a horrible pain in her temple and in her hips, then realised she was rolling off the car. She flailed her arms, but there was nothing on the bonnet to grab onto. As she fell to the pavement her one thought was that the car hitting her had been the minicab. And then she didn’t think at all.
TWENTY-TWO
Charles Wetherby looked up with a frown. He was in the middle of a phone call to the deputy head of GCHQ and there was his secretary, normally the most discreet of women, standing in the doorway waving her hands. Her face was a map of anxiety.
‘Hold on a moment, please,’ he said into the phone, and cupped his hand over the receiver. ‘What’s the matter? I’m busy at the moment.’
‘There’s a policeman on the line. He’s at the Whittington hospital. Liz Carlyle’s been brought in. She’s been hit by a car.’
‘My God. Is she OK? Is she badly hurt?’
‘I don’t know. He won’t say.’
‘Put him on,’ Charles said, rapidly cutting off his other call. ‘This is Charles Wetherby. Who am I speaking to?’
‘It’s Sergeant Chiswick, sir, Special Branch. We had a call from Camden District about a woman named Carlyle who was brought into A and E. She was carrying Home Office ID, but they didn’t get very far when they rang there. So we were brought in.’
‘Is she alive?’
‘Yes, though it was a close-run thing - if the ambulance had been ten minutes slower she wouldn’t have made it. She’s in surgery now, and the doctors seem to think she’ll pull through.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘She was hit by a car in Kentish Town. Near the Underground.’ He paused briefly. ‘The car hit her on the pavement, sir. A witness said it looked as if the vehicle left the street deliberately.’
‘Did the driver stop?’
‘No. We haven’t got much of a description, I’m afraid. It was a man - and that’s about it. The closest witness is a woman and she’s still in shock. But one thing she did say is that the car was a minicab. It had the sticker on the back window.’
Charles thought quickly. ‘Now listen carefully, Sergeant Chiswick. When Miss Carlyle comes out of surgery, I want her put in a single room and kept under police guard -armed guard. There may have been an attempt on her life; I don’t want another. If you have any questions, or if there is any problem, ring me back straight away. Is that understood?’
Once he put the phone down, Charles sat for a moment, tapping a pencil on his desk top, collecting his thoughts. He called his secretary in and asked her to find Peggy Kinsolving, get DG on the line, extract the contact details for Liz’s mother from her file (though he’d wait to ring her until after Liz was out of the operating room), and get the head of media relations to come and see him right away. The presence of Special Branch at the Whittington and now an armed guard on Liz’s room might well draw a reporter, tipped off by a member of staff, and he wanted that possibility closed down straight away.
There was one other call he needed to make. He got through right away.
‘Fane,’ said the voice, in that slow drawl Charles always found annoying.
‘Geoffrey, it’s Charles Wetherby. Liz Carlyle’s been hit by a car.’
‘No! Is she all right?’
At least his concern sounds genuine, thought Charles, though the last thing he was interested in right now was sharing his worry about Liz with Geoffrey Fane. ‘The thing is, Geoffrey, the police say this may not have been an accident. It looks as though a car tried to run her down.’
‘Are they sure?’
‘Well, they’ve got a witness and the car didn’t stop.’
‘But who would do this?’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’ Charles’s voice was cool now. ‘Is there anything you haven’t told us? When you briefed us on your source, you didn’t give the slightest indication that one of my officers could be in danger.’
‘Steady on, Charles. There wasn’t any reason to think so. As far as I can see, there still isn’t. It may not have anything to do with that.’
‘Nonsense.’ Charles was emphatic. He could picture Fane in his office, high as an eyrie in the central block of MI6, reclining in the padded leather chair he favoured. The image infuriated him. ‘She’s got nothing else on that could pose this kind of a threat.’
‘I know you’re upset—’
‘Upset? There’s a very real possibility she may be injured for life. We certainly knew nothing of any danger. You were obliged to let us know if there was even a possibility of this.’
‘I know my obligations,’ Fane protested.
‘If you’ve held anything back, I want to know what it is. Is that clear? Otherwise, I’ll consider you to have placed one of my officers in danger quite unnecessarily.’
They both knew how serious a charge that would be. Charles was about to say something further, then thought better of it. He knew he’d got his point across.
Charles sensed Fane was trying to stay composed. ‘I certainly hear you, Charles,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
TWENTY-THREE
Fane put down the phone. He was more badly shaken than he would have expected. Liz Carlyle had somehow got under his skin. This accident, attack, whatever it was, affected him badly. He knew as well as Charles that it almost certainly came from her investigations, ones that he had set in train. He didn’t blame himself for that - if he hadn’t passed on the information from Cyprus, he wouldn’t have been doing his job.
But it gnawed at him nonetheless. Cross as Charles had been, he’d refrained from saying what they both knew to be true: this wasn’t the first time an MI5 officer had been put in danger in a case where Fane was involved. As they both knew to their cost, the previous time it had proved fatal, arguably because Fane had not been entirely forthcoming.
There must have been a leak somewhere, one that had almost resulted in Liz being killed. Where could it have been? he thought. Not within Vauxhall Cross, he was confident of that. He doubted there were more than four people in his building who knew Liz was working on the case. And only two, himself and Bruno Mackay, knew any detail of what she was doing.
No, the leak must have come from outside. And there was only one place, other than Thames House, where he’d talked. Grosvenor Square.
He picked up his phone and dialled an internal extension. ‘Bruno, it’s Geoffrey. Got a minute?’
Mackay arrived in short order, spruce in a blazer and club tie. Fane said, ‘Someone’s had a go at Liz Carlyle -ran her down.’
For once Bruno Mackay’s aplomb deserted him. He looked horrified.
‘I know, I know,’ said Fane, ‘it’s perfectly awful. She’s hurt, but it looks as if she’ll recover. The thing is, she’s been working on this Syrian business, and I think somewhere, somehow, somebody’s talked. Nothing else explains it. I’m wondering if it could be Grosvenor Square. Maybe just loose talk, possibly something more sinister. Either way, we need to plug that leak and do it quickly. I want you to take a closer look at young Mr Brookhaven - check him out very thoroughly. His last posting was Damascus, and he may have more contacts than we realise. If you need more resources let me know. But keep it strictly to yourself at present. All right?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Bruno, his composure restored. ‘I’ll get onto it now.’ Fane knew he didn’t think much of the Americans. ‘Let me know how Liz gets on. I’d like to take her some grapes.’ He grinned.
As Mackay got up to go, Fane said, ‘Be discreet, Bruno. I don’t want Bokus in here like some mad bull.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Sami Veshara was frightened. Not for his safety - since the attempted hijacking of his car, he’d surrounded himself with bodyguards - but for his liberty. He had an appointment that morning at Paddington Green police station, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was about.
When Chaloub hadn’t rung at midnight as scheduled, Sami hadn’t been particularly perturbed: sometimes the trip from Holland took longer than expected; once Hanoush had got the tides wrong and the trawler had been forced to wait four hours before disembarking its passengers.
But when Sami had still not heard from them by breakfast, he knew something was up. He began to make inquiries, and by suppertime he’d learned that Chaloub and Hanoush were both in custody. The ‘cargo’ too had been impounded, and he’d had an angry call from the owner of a Manchester massage parlour demanding to know where his new employees were.
It had still been a shock to be asked to come in for ‘a chat’ the following morning. Why Paddington Green? Wasn’t that where terrorists were questioned? A big solid block of a place under the flyover of the A40 as it tipped down to Marylebone Road - Sami passed it every day on his way home - which seemed to feature on the television each time the Prevention of Terrorism Act was pressed into service.
He left home in plenty of time, wearing one of his smartest Milan suits and a Hermès tie. One could not be intimidated, he decided. He was driven by his new chauffeur, Pashwar, the son of an Afghan refugee who owed him a favour. Behind them another car followed closely, a Mercedes sedan with two of his cousin Mahfuz’s heavies. They were probably armed, but Sami made it a point not to know.