The Angel (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

P
ope visited the dead drop every day for the next three days. On the third day, the chalk mark on the seat indicated that there was something waiting for him. He walked on to the tree, waited until the path was clear and then retrieved the small slip of paper that had been left inside the nook. It gave a code that he knew referred to a motorway service station on the M25, a date and a time. The location was correct, but Pope deducted a day and an hour from
the tim
e to find the correct details for the rendezvous.

It was today’s date. He had three hours to get there.

He drove to Junction 9 of the motorway and came off at Cobham services. There was a branch of Costa Coffee, with a number of tables arranged outside. Vivian Bloom was sitting at one of them. He was wearing a knitted waistcoat under his tweed jacket, despite the warmth in the air. His tie was knotted loosely and bore a stain just before it disappeared into the waistcoat. He looked particularly ecclesiastical today, Pope thought. Tweedy and donnish.

Pope sat down next to him, and the spook shook his hand.

‘Good afternoon, Control. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘No, sir. I’m fine.’

A man passed them. Bloom waited until he was gone and then leaned forward. ‘Well done.’

‘No problems?’

‘None,’ he replied. ‘It was very well done.’

Bloom was thinner than Pope remembered him. There was a lilt in his voice, a sibilance to his consonants that gave him an effeminate aspect that Pope did not remember from before. He did remember the bookishness, the way he steepled his fingers when he was thinking, the sense that he was being assessed when Bloom fixed his rheumy gaze on him. He remembered the thin lips that whitened when he smiled, the mousiness, the same apologetic
loyalty
to decisions that he professed to find ridiculous. He remembered, too, the obvious sharpness of his wit and counselled himself to keep that in mind. Bloom had been a player in the intelligence community for many years. Pope was reminded of an old joke that had attached itself to the man during the Cold War. In the case of nuclear attack, it was said, the only things that would survive were cockroaches and Vivian Bloom.

‘Where’s Hussain now?’

Bloom chuckled. ‘You know better than to ask that, old boy.’

Pope knew enough to have a pretty good guess. The CIA had black sites on the territory of several compliant states, and given the limited range of the Gulfstream that had taken off with Hussain, he would have put money on Vilnius in Lithuania or Ain Aouda in Morocco. The location was irrelevant. He would have been taken to an anonymous cell in an anonymous building. As far as Hussain was concerned, he could have been anywhere. But Pope doubted whether it would have been something that would have had much of his attention. The treatment he would have been receiving would have been the main thing on his mind.

‘Did you get anything useful?’

Bloom took a pipe and a packet of tobacco from his pocket. He reached into the packet with his thumb and forefinger and drew out a wad of tobacco. ‘He has been very cooperative,’ he said as he pressed the tobacco into the bowl. ‘He’s confirmed that he was responsible for radicalising the three boys. His mosque ran a conference last year and flew in a handful of jihadi clerics. Two of them have been banned from Britain since then. Shouldn’t have been let in at all, you ask me, but there you go. The other one’s on the US no-fly list. Hussain admitted that he met Bashir and Hakeem at the conference, and that Bashir introduced him to Aamir. He spent the next six months grooming them.’ He put a match to the bowl and puffed until the tobacco was alight.

‘What about the others? The shooters?’

‘He says they had nothing to do with him. He says he just
supplied
the bombers. He says there’s another man.’

‘You believe him, sir?’

‘Our CIA friends believe him. They seem confident that he wouldn’t be inclined to lie to them. You know how
thorough
they are, Control. I think we can rely on their assurances.’

‘The organiser – does Hussain know who he is?’

‘Unfortunately, no. Only that he’s still in the country and that there will be follow-up attacks. The word he chose was that there would be a “wave” of them.’

‘That’s not very helpful.’

‘No,’ Bloom said, puffing on the pipe. ‘But it does get a l
ittle bett
er.’

He laid the pipe on the table and took a printout from his briefcase. He gave it to Pope. It was a photograph of a man and looked like some sort of promotional shot. The man was wearing a pristine white dishdasha topped with a red-and-white keffiyeh. He was handsome, with a well-trimmed beard and clear, laughing eyes. He looked confident. He looked like money.

‘His name is Salim Hasan Mafuz Muslim al-Khawari. Bit of a mouthful, I know. Prominent Sunni cleric, naturalised Lebanese, partly resident in the UK until last year, lived in a big place in
Mayfair
. His family made their money in oil, he inherited it and now he’s as rich as Croesus. Hussain says al-Khawari is the financier behind the attack.’

A family of four, laughing and joking, strolled past. Pope waited until they were out of earshot.

‘Were we watching him?’

‘Of course we were, but we didn’t have a clue he was anything other than an Arab playboy who comes over here to get the things he can’t get back home: booze, whores – you know. Hussain says he’s heavily involved with the Kuwait Clerics Union, which we know has channelled tens of millions of dollars to ISIS and other jihadi groups in Iraq and Syria. He’s made a big PR play about a big collective fundraising trust he set up for Syria involving a host of Kuwaiti charities. But Hussain says that’s all bollocks. The money’s been sent to fund the caliphate, and a million of it was earmarked to help those boys blow up the House of Commons.’

‘You think it’s credible?’

‘There’s always a financier. The Qatari who provided ‘financial support’ for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed before 9/11. The Saudi prince who paid for training and equipment for 7/7. I don’t think it’s beyond the pale at all.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Switzerland. His European businesses are headquartered there. He’s not usually in the same place for long. Tends to live in hotels. But his family is there. His wife – one of them, anyway – and his children.’

Bloom put the stem of the pipe back into his mouth and inhaled. Pope felt that he was being assessed.

‘Sir?’

‘How close were you to the third bomber?’

‘Very close.’

‘What happened to McNair? You saw it, didn’t you?’

‘I was very close to that, too.’

‘How do you feel about that afternoon?’

It was a strange question. ‘If you’re asking if I’m all right, I am. I’ve seen a lot of death in my time.’

‘But not like the bomb? The civilians?’

‘Are you asking whether I feel angry? I do.’

‘Surely more than anger, Control?’

Pope found the questions irritating, and he spoke with sudden heat. ‘Are you asking if I want to be involved in making sure it doesn’t happen again? Yes, sir. I do.’

‘You’ve said it yourself, Captain. You’ve seen a lot of death. And in my experience, most men have a tolerance for that which cannot be exceeded without consequences. Episodes. Breakdowns. Your friend Captain Milton is a perfect example of what can happen if a careful watch is not kept on these things.’ He smiled benignly. ‘
I supp
ose what I’m saying, Captain Pope, is that I want to be quite sure, if we are to continue with this, that you have the mental capacity to carry out my instructions. What comes next has the potential to be rather more difficult than abducting a one-legged, one-eyed man from his bed.’

Pope found his watery gaze discomfiting, but he held it. He saw the street outside Westminster station, the man with the
rucksack
on his back, the certainty in his stride as he walked into the middle of the crowd of shocked onlookers; he saw the flash as he scrubbed himself from existence; he saw the flayed skin and the blood; he smelled the cooked flesh. He put firmness into his answer. ‘Let’s stop with this charade, sir. I haven’t reached my tolerance yet. You don’t need to worry about that.’

‘You are happy to continue?’

‘I am.’

Bloom nodded at his conviction. ‘I believed that would be your answer, but you’ll understand why I need to be sure. We are already in choppy waters. Conditions will get worse before they get better.’

For God’s sake,
thought Pope,
I’ve told you that I’m in. Get on with it.
‘You want me to have a word with him?’

‘I’d like that very much, but I’m afraid al-Khawari will be rather more difficult. It isn’t Moss Side. His security is rather more effective than a couple of sleepy bobbies. The direct approach is unlikely to be successful.’

Pope had the impression that he was being very mildly
belittled. ‘So
?’

‘We need evidence of his involvement. Interrogating him would be best, but we think that will be too much to ask. There’s the problem with him being on neutral territory, of course. You
know
how the Swiss would play it if we took him. That prized neutrality.’ He shook his hand as if waving away an unpleasant smell. ‘We need to go about things more quietly. We need to get into his computer.’

Pope frowned. ‘So give it to Group Three?’

‘Yes, of course, we’ve tried that already. Our friend is very particular with what our specialists describe as ‘network hygiene.’ Very particular, and lavish with the funds he spends on it. I’m told access is possible but that it needs to be done in situ.’ Bloom smoked his pipe for a while and then said, ‘You’re familiar with Cottonmouth?’

‘Yes. I’ve used it.’

Group Six had perfected a wide range of devices that could be used to bug the IT equipment belonging to persons of interest. Cottonmouth was a particularly neat piece of kit that they had invented. It was a USB plug bugging device and was disguised either as a keyboard’s USB plug or as a type of USB extension cord that could be connected unnoticed between a peripheral and the computer itself. It could send and receive radio signals and made it possible not only to monitor the bugged computer and its compromised network but also to send commands to both. They were small and so discreet as to be almost undetectable unless you knew to look.

‘Wonderfully clever piece of kit,’ Bloom said, ‘but we need someone to go in and fit the device. And that isn’t going to be easy to do. I’m open to ideas.’

Pope felt himself being sucked deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole, but he was committed now. He knew he wouldn’t be able to pull back. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to. There was no guarantee that the Firm would be able to find the jihadist who had promised Hussain that there would be additional operations. More would be killed. This might be the best chance they had to track him down.

Bloom looked down at his pipe for a while. Pope puckered his lips for a moment before settling on a recommendation. ‘Surveillance first. Let’s see what we can find out. Everyone has a blind spot. You just have to know where to find it.’

‘The same parameters apply. We’ve never spoken about any
of this
.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘And if you get into a sticky situation, you’ll be on your own.’

A driver wandered a little too close to their table.

Pope waited until he was gone. ‘I’ll need to communicate with you online.’

‘Visit the dead drop before you go. I’ll leave instructions.’

Bloom stood. There were no goodbyes. He turned and set off into the car park.

Pope waited for him to leave. A police van sped along the motorway, its lights flashing and siren wailing. A helicopter buzzed overhead, a mile to the west. There were two armed soldiers at the entrance to the services. Again he noticed that London felt as if it was under siege. Pope watched as Bloom’s sleek, expensive car pulled out into the sluggish traffic and headed onto the slip road.

He put on his sunglasses and started the walk back to his car.

Chapter Thirty-Four

P
ope decided that he would conduct the surveillance himself. But since a target like al-Khawari would be difficult to track alone, he pegged Number Nine and Number Twelve to assist. It wasn’t just a question of numbers. Hannah Kelleher was from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment and was the best undercover surveillance operative that he had; it made sense for her to be included. Snow, on the other hand, needed confidence. Number Twelve had tried to brush off the mauling that he had received at the hands of the steering committee, but Pope had seen through it. It was not surprising that he felt bruised. Add that to the guilt he would be feeling over the death of Fèlix Rubió, and it was important that the soldier got back on the job as quickly as possible.

They flew to Geneva on separate flights, using false diplomatic passports. They took rooms at the Ibis Geneva right next to the airport. They had arrived late, and Pope decided it made more sense to get a full night’s sleep so that they could start early the following day. It was a bland, anonymous hotel. Beige walls, beige
carpet
, identical layouts. They could have been anywhere in the world. They ate room service in Pope’s room, discussed what they would do tomorrow, and then went to their own rooms for sleep.

Pope showered, undressed and lay on the bed for thirty minutes with the BBC News channel playing on the flat-screen TV. It was a week after the attack, and there was still practically nothing else that made the bulletin. New CCTV footage had just been released
of th
e shooters trying to force their way into the Commons. Pope saw
the m
en and remembered their professionalism, their familiarity with their weapons and the ingenuity of their plan. They had been lucky that the casualties inside the House were so minor compared to what might have happened. They had McNair to thank for that.

The news anchor cut away to an interview with the prime
minister
. Pope reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The report began with the moment, preserved forever on the cameras inside the chamber that had been recording
PMQs
, when the boom of the first explosion in the Underground station had
interrupted
the childish squabbling between the PM and the leader
of the
opposition. A particularly effective riposte had seen the MPs on the
government
benches waving their motion papers at their rivals across the chamber. Their boorish laughter had been interrupted by the muffled crump of the blast. The PM’s coup de grace died on his lips. The chamber was quiet when the second bomb detonated. This one was in the open, nearer the palace, and deafeningly
loud. Th
e windows nearest the blast were blown in by the pressure wave. There were screams and shouts of panic.

The footage cut away to a head-and-shoulders shot of the PM. He was dressed in black. There were the usual questions about what had happened in the chamber when they had heard the bombs, and then the reaction when the Serjeant at Arms had sprinted past the Bar of the House to the Speaker’s Chair, and then the instruction from the Speaker, his ragged panic barely suppressed, that they were under attack and should begin an orderly evacuation. The anchor led the PM through some set questions so that he could deliver the sound bites that his scriptwriters had prepared for him. Pope shook his head at the dull predictability of it. The terrorists were cowards. The nation grieved. A debt of gratitude was owed to the men and women of the Metropolitan police.

He was about to switch off the screen when the interviewer posed her final question.

‘Prime Minister, do you have a message for those responsible?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’ He paused for a moment, as if composing himself, and then he turned from the quarter shot and looked directly into the camera. ‘We are under threat because we are a
country
of freedoms, and because we are a country of freedoms, we will neutralise threats and punish aggressors. No one should think that he can act in the United Kingdom in a way that is contrary to the principles of the United Kingdom, and attack the very spirit
of thi
s country: the idea of democracy itself. My thoughts today are with the victims. More than two hundred people have died, and many others are hovering between life and death. That is where we stand right now. We are committed to finding those responsible. They will be hunted down by our police and intelligence
services
. There will be nowhere for them to hide. And when they have been found, they should be in no doubt that we shall exact the full
measure
of justice. Thank you.’

Pope killed the screen.

The full measure of justice.

That was as near as he had ever heard to a politician making it plain that those guilty of the attack would never make it to court.

Vivian Bloom had provided him with a dossier of information on Salim Hasan Mafuz Muslim al-Khawari. His property in
Switzerland
was a sprawling mansion that had cost him £50 million when he had purchased it last year. It was in the small village of Genthod, on the outskirts north of the city. They hired two cars and set off, Pope in the lead car, with Snow and Kelleher in the car behind him. They drove north-east, the airport to their left, and followed the E25 to Chemin des Rousses in Bellevue.

Snow’s voice came over the radio.
‘How do you want to play this?’

‘We’ll take a look today. If we can get eyes on him, so much the better, but we’re going to have to be careful. If he is our man, he’s going to be on edge. And he can afford very good security.’

They reached Genthod and followed the picturesque streets down to the roads that overlooked the hugeness of Lake Geneva. As they drove to the north, the properties became fewer and farther between, set in vast grounds and secured by tall walls and wire-tipped fences.

‘Exclusive neighbourhood,’
Kelleher said.

‘Keep driving,’ Pope said. ‘You keep going. I’m going to have a quick look.’

‘Copy that.’

Pope slowed as he approached the gates, saw that there were security cameras there and pulled away again. He drove on for half a mile, took a turning that led him to a quiet country lane and parked the car out of sight.

He was able to stay off the main road, following a cycle path to the south-east. The terrain was hilly, rising up to a height of fifty feet to his right and then sloping down to the shore of the lake to his left. He turned off the path so that he could climb, forcing his way through the undergrowth until he reached the crown of the hill. There was a small clearing there, and as he turned and assessed the landscape to the east, he had his first good look at the property he was interested in.

It was a big house, four storeys tall. It was surrounded by enormous grounds and enjoyed perhaps half a mile of prime frontage onto the lake.

‘Control, Nine, Twelve. Report.’

‘We’ve stopped,’
Kelleher said.
‘Lay-by on the Route de Malagny. What’s your location?’

‘South of you. I’ve found a good spot for a look at the house. Hold your position.’

Pope rested the holdall on the ground, unzipped it and took out the binoculars he had brought with him. He raised them to his eyes and gazed out onto the mansion. He estimated that he was three kilometres away from the property. As he adjusted the focus, it came into clear view.

He could see why it had been so expensive to purchase. It was enormous, for a start, with three separate wings that had been constructed in a distinctly modernist style. There was a huge amount of glass, with generous picture windows to every aspect. The east-facing side of the building was just twenty feet from the start of the lake, suggesting that there would be stupendous views from inside. A path cut down the gentle slope to a boathouse and a jetty. There was a pool to one side, a pair of tennis courts to the other, and a separate complex that looked like it housed the staff. Pope scanned across and saw a car showroom to the left of the house. He watched a Bentley Continental GT and a Land Rover Discovery being washed and polished by two members of staff.

The place would be very, very difficult to breach. He saw
security
cameras around the estate, and he would have been
surprised
if it wasn’t protected by laser tripwires and motion detectors. He saw guards. They would probably be armed. There would be a direct line to the local constabulary. It would be difficult to get in even with a large, well-equipped team. As it was, there were three of them, and they had very little in the way of kit.

He could see no easy way to infiltrate.

He was getting ready to put the binoculars away when he saw activity from the front of the house. A large door had opened, and two figures emerged. Two men. Business suits. One was much bigger than the other. The big man had a shaved head. The other had his back turned, perhaps talking to someone still inside the
property
.

‘Control, Nine, Twelve. Come in.’

‘Nine, Control,’
Kelleher responded.
‘Copy that.’

‘Turn around and start coming back. There’s activity at the house.’

‘Copy. The target?’

‘I’m just waiting for him to turn around so I can get a look at him.’ The man was gesticulating angrily. His irritation continued for thirty seconds, the gestures becoming angrier and more impatient, and then a third figure came out of the property. It was a teenage boy. Brown skin and long dark hair. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He lolled and when the other man stabbed
a fi
nger in his face and then pointed away to the cars, he set off with an ins
olent slou
ch.

‘Twelve, Control. We’re half a mile away. What do you want us t
o do?
’

‘Hold and wait for instructions.’

Pope squinted into the rangefinder, gently adjusting the focus, and then the third figure turned around. He tilted his head, and for a moment it looked as if the man was staring right into the binoculars. It was al-Khawari. The man was impossible to
mistake
. He looked like Omar Sharif, slight and dapper, his white hair standing out against the dark-tinted window that was behind him. Al-
Khawari
didn’t move, his eyes aimed right at him, and Pope wondered uneasily if he had betrayed himself. He dismissed that as foolish. The sun was behind him and it was impossible that he could be visible to the naked eye from there. The man turned to watch the teenager, and finally he set off in the same direction.

Pope panned right.

The big man was joined by another two who had been waiting in a small outbuilding. It was obvious now that these three were
al-Khawar
i’s personal security detail. Pope saw that one of the newcomers had a long gun, although he was too far away to identify it. The man with the rifle got into the Land Rover. The big man got into the driver’s seat of the Bentley. The third man disappeared into the garage and drove out again in a second Land Rover. The three cars lined up in convoy, with the Land Rovers bracketing the Bentley, and set off up the sloping driveway to the gate and the road beyond.

‘Control, Nine, Twelve. They’re coming out. Our man is in a Bentley, and he’s between two Land Rover Discoveries. Three men in a security detail.’

‘What are our orders?’

‘Follow.’

‘And engage?’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Do
not
engage. There’s an unidentified teenage male in the car. Could be his son.’

‘Copy that.’

‘I need to get back to my car. We’ll run surveillance as a team. Update me on their location, and I’ll catch up.’

He put the binoculars into his bag and moved as quickly as
he co
uld through the undergrowth on the flanks of the hill
until h
e was back down on the cycle path. He ran as hard as he could and reached the car in three minutes. He got into the car, turned it around and set off back to the main road.