Authors: Stella Rimington
Aleppo stepped forward and Ahmad tensed, waiting for the assault. But the agent laughed harshly. ‘Don’t be so frightened,’ he ordered. ‘Not yet, that is.’ And he walked straight out of the Portakabin door, leaving it swinging and squeaking gently on its hinges as the Syrian sat still, trying to regain his composure. Aleppo might be a valuable source, but Ahmad was now convinced he was also crazy.
He sat there for several minutes until his breathing returned to normal. The odd thing was, he thought as he left the Portakabin, locking the door carefully behind him, he had been telling Aleppo the truth. Something
was
going to happen that week. Only it wasn’t going to happen in England.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Peter Templeton was hot, even sitting in the shade of the portico in the corner of the monastery’s long terrace. He could hear cicadas on the slope beneath him, but the heat must be too much for the kestrels, for the sky was empty of life. As Templeton peered down the valley the air shimmered slightly, oscillating jelly-like in the unremitting glare of the high noon sun.
He had come, as always, in convoy with his colleague. The other car sat two miles below at the cafe, waiting for Jaghir to drive past. Just outside Nicosia a large Peugeot saloon had joined them, making Templeton nervous. He had been relieved when it had finally turned off, and sped south towards the coast.
His mobile vibrated. ‘Yes,’ he said, keeping his voice down, though he had the terrace to himself - the monks were all at prayer.
‘A couple of miles away. I can see the dust. I’d say five minutes to here; twenty to you.’
‘Okay. Keep an eye out for any other cars,’ he added, thinking again of the Peugeot.
Templeton waited tensely, resisting the temptation to look at his watch. He had called this meeting, prompted by Vauxhall Cross’s agitated requests for confirmation of Jaghir’s original story and, if possible, more detailed information. Against Templeton’s better judgement, Jaghir had insisted on meeting him here at the monastery again. Vauxhall Cross had been so adamant that he talk with Jaghir right away that he hadn’t protested.
Something stirred in the far corner of the terrace, and Templeton turned quickly, alert. A lizard hopped once, then twice into the shadows cast by the rough stone wall. Then Templeton’s phone vibrated.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s just passed.’
‘Anything else around?’
There was a pause. ‘Negative.’
Soon Templeton saw the first dust cloud stirring from the track at the base of the hill. He peered across the valley and could just make out a dark saloon edging its way carefully up the slope. Gradually the image magnified as the car approached, taking the sinuous bends carefully, since the track was narrow and perched on a knife-edge high above the valley. On the few short straight stretches the car accelerated briefly, and now Templeton could see the solitary figure at the wheel. Jaghir.
The car disappeared momentarily where the track cut into the hillside, then reappeared in the last big bend before the final precipitous climb to the top. Templeton could hear the tyres gripping on the sandy surface, the rough throttle of the engine as the automatic transmission slipped in and out of gear. Then a flat thud, like a hand giving a short sharp slap against a rubber mat.
Suddenly Templeton saw the car veer like a child’s toy out of control. It headed at a sharp angle for the edge of the track, then the tyres seemed to catch themselves and the car moved away from the edge. Like a slow-motion film replay, the car now slewed across the thin wedge of track in widening swerves.
Templeton held his breath as he watched Jaghir desperately trying to regain control. But the Syrian must have swung the wheel too sharply - the car now careered towards the edge. A front tyre left the track and hung briefly in mid-air, then the back tyre joined it.
For a moment the car teetered perilously, tilted at an angle, as if in suspended animation. Then the entire vehicle tipped sideways and fell through the air, descending for almost a hundred feet until it just caught the protruding edge of a large boulder sticking out of the hillside. This flipped the saloon 180 degrees and it landed on its side on the sharp downward slope, gaining momentum, crashing through the brush, with a noise like dry cereal crushed by a spoon. The car rolled over and over until it came to the bottom of the valley, where it flipped over with a final movement onto its roof, and stayed completely still.
Whoomph!
The shockwave of its crash landing rose up the valley, filling the hot moist air with a blanket of sound. Staring down, Templeton saw flames begin to creep from the bottom of the wrecked saloon, licking the side windows, then reaching the tyres that sat like circles of dark chocolate on top of the upended car. The fire spread over the exposed chassis, and Templeton, watching horrified from the terrace above, waited for the petrol tank to catch fire.
It did, in a series of muffled explosions. Now the entire vehicle was ablaze, and Templeton realised that while it was improbable that Jaghir had survived the descent, it was inconceivable he could survive the fire.
Templeton’s phone vibrated and an agitated voice said, ‘I see smoke.’
‘I bet you can. The target went off the track.’
‘Did he get out?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything I should do?’
Soon someone would spot the blaze - if not below in the valley, then here at the monastery when the monks came out of prayers. Fires were no joke in this tinder box of arid scrub - people would watch to make sure the fire didn’t spread; someone would go down to investigate and then the police would be called. There was time, but not much.
‘Leave at once. And go back a different way. Meet me back at the office.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. Just go.’ And he switched off his phone.
Templeton left the terrace immediately and got into his car. He was shaking as he drove as quickly as he dared down the track, stopping when he came to the bend where Jaghir’s saloon had left the road. He left the engine of his own car running while he got out and looked quickly at the tyre marks that ran through the dust until they stopped, on the edge of the cliff. Templeton peered down, stunned by how steep the fall had been. He could see the massive, obtruding boulder that the car had hit on its way down, leaving a smear of dark paint on the rock. His eyes followed the vertical trail as the saloon had somersaulted, crushing the scrub in its way, until it came to a halt on the bottom where it blazed now, like a final punctuation mark.
Templeton turned and quickly walked along the track, following the twists and turns of the tyre marks until he came to their first erratic move. What had gone wrong? A blow-out? Possibly, though at such relatively low speed it should have been possible to control the saloon until it had stopped safely on the narrow road.
He looked carefully around the track to see what might have caused the accident. A nail, broken glass, something sharp; perhaps, he thought, even a small remote-controlled explosion. He found nothing.
He had better get going. He jogged back up the fifty yards of track, climbed into his own car, then drove down towards the junction, anxious to get away before a patrol car arrived and trapped him on the one-lane track.
Five minutes later, he was far enough away to think about what had happened. Could it have been a simple puncture after all? Realistically he had to admit that the odds of a blow-out at low speed on the way to a covert meeting, resulting in Jaghir’s death, were minimal. Far more likely that Jaghir’s work for a foreign agency had been discovered and his Syrian masters had extracted the penalty. But he’d found no evidence to support that theory, either. It was only as he saw the residential apartment blocks of Nicosia appear on the horizon that he remembered something else - the dull crack he’d heard just before the ill-fated saloon first veered. His hands shook. If Jaghir had indeed been killed, how had he been detected?
TWENTY-NINE
Charles Wetherby was sitting in his armchair by the window of his office reading the draft JIC papers for the next day’s meeting, when his secretary tapped on the door and put a tentative head in. ‘It’s Geoffrey Fane on the line.’
Wetherby was a patient man, but even he had his limits. What did Fane want now? Yesterday he’d revealed that the two ‘names’ and their threat to the Gleneagles conference had come from some highly placed Syrian source whom the Americans had actually
donated
to Fane’s people. And who had done the donating? Miles Brookhaven for pity’s sake, seemingly a bit of private enterprise. And what were these two names up to? Just about everything except threatening the conference, so far as MI5 had been able to find out. But Fane had calmly come over and asked him to protect them. From what, exactly? To judge by the attack on Liz, it was MI5 who needed the protection. Just who was deceiving whom? And why in the name of hell and damnation had Fane not found out sooner about Brookhaven’s links to Syria - if that’s what he had - while that young man was enjoying a ringside seat on all the security arrangements for Gleneagles? He’d asked Fane that and got no plausible response. But at least Fane had volunteered to talk to Andy Bokus about it. That might be a tricky conversation. How did you tactfully tell someone like Bokus that his man might be working for the opposition? Well that was Fane’s problem, thank God. And now what did the man want?
He walked over to his desk and picked up the telephone warily. ‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ he said.
‘Charles, I’m afraid there’s been a further development. Not a good one, either. Our Syrian source has been killed in the Troodos mountains in Cyprus. He was on his way to a meeting with Peter Templeton, head of our Cyprus station, who was running him.’
‘Was he assassinated?’
‘It’s starting to look like it. He drove off a narrow track that leads to the monastery where Templeton was waiting to meet him. The car was completely smashed up, and then there was a fire. Naturally Peter didn’t wait around to investigate, but he’s been talking to his sources in the Cypriot police. Apparently, the rear tyres in Jaghir’s car were both shot out - there must have been a sniper somewhere on the hillside.’
‘What have the Syrians said?’
‘That’s the interesting thing. They only cooperated minimally with the police. Didn’t seem to want to go into it much.’
‘Perhaps they were hoping to hide the fact that he was an intelligence officer.’
‘Perhaps. But in Syria they’ve hushed it up as well. I think they must have killed him.’
‘Which means we have another leak somewhere,’ said Wetherby bitterly.
‘Possibly,’ said Fane. ‘Or it could be the same one.’
THIRTY
Liz knew she’d made a mistake. She’d insisted that she felt perfectly well enough to do the interview with Marcham, though everyone - Charles, Peggy, her mother and even Edward, though he’d admitted it wasn’t his business - had disagreed.
Now, sitting in the taxi on her way to Hampstead, she knew they’d been right. She felt weak and shaky, her head hurt if she moved it too quickly and the yellowing bruise down one side of her face still attracted looks, if not comments. Why had she been so obstinate? Charles could have done the interview, or even Peggy at a pinch. But they wouldn’t have done it as well, she’d told herself, though now she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t stand the feeling she was on the sidelines. Was it a fear of not being needed? She shook her head painfully to get rid of her thoughts. This wasn’t the time to psychoanalyse herself; she needed to focus on Marcham.
He had cleaned up his house. It now looked bohemian rather than tatty - no overflowing ashtrays, the books and magazines once strewn on the coffee table were stacked neatly, and the filthy carpet looked professionally cleaned. Marcham had made an effort, or paid someone to make it for him. Liz wondered if the clean-up had extended to his bedroom, remembering the religious relics and icons in there when she’d looked in on her last visit. But now the door was firmly closed.
She sat uncomfortably on the lumpy sofa while Marcham flitted back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, making himself the cup of coffee she had declined. He seemed nervous. He’d tidied himself up, too, she noticed, observing the blazer with shirt only slightly frayed, flannel trousers, and brown brogues. He looked almost respectable.
At last Marcham sat down in an old patched armchair. Sipping his mug carefully, he winced, then, smiling ingratiatingly at Liz, he sat back and said, ‘So how can I help you now, Miss Falconer?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about Syria,’ said Liz. Marcham’s eyes flickered and she felt sure that whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘You’ve been there often, I understand, and I know you’ve just come back. What I wanted to ask you is whether on any of your visits there you’ve been contacted by the intelligence services.’
He paused. ‘No. Not as far as I know. I interviewed the President recently for an article I’m writing and I had to go through various official hoops, but as far as I know none of them were the intelligence services.’
‘Did you meet any hostility there? Did anyone make any threats or ask you to do anything for them?’
‘No. I can’t remember anything like that,’ Marcham replied. His voice, which had been deep and rather hoarse, rose an octave. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’
Liz ignored him. ‘Have you ever been approached by any intelligence services on your visits to the Middle East?’
‘Miss Falconer,’ he said, putting down his mug and rubbing the palms of his hands together, ‘in my job you’re always being approached by spooks of all sorts. I’ve learned to see them coming and I don’t get involved. It’s more than my professional reputation is worth.’
‘I know you’ve spoken to MI6 in the past,’ said Liz, in case any unnecessary loyalty was holding him back.
‘Yes I have. But I’ve never done more than talk in general and I’ve never done anything for them.’
‘Any others you’ve just spoken to without doing anything?’