The Angel (5 page)

Chapter Nine

I
sabella wandered aimlessly all morning. She crossed the river on Waterloo Bridge, walked down the Strand to Trafalgar Square, whiled away an hour in St James’s Park and then, finally, ambled along Birdcage Walk to Parliament Square.

She slowed her pace. There was a demonstration, anti-war protestors raging against the suggestion that the British military be put to fresh use against ISIS in Iraq and Syria. She stopped to do up a lace that did not need tying, and used the opportunity to surveil the armed police who were observing the spectacle with wary attention. She looked up to the rooftops: there were officers with video cameras recording the faces of the protestors.

Isabella felt vulnerable, and pulling up her hood, she skirted the crowd. She put on her sunglasses, barely hearing their angry chants in response to the exhortations of the orator, who was addressing them from a raised box with the assistance of a portable amplifier.

Her skin crawled as she walked within range of the cameras. She only regained her equilibrium as she proceeded south down Abingdon Street. She passed Westminster Abbey, and with no real destination in mind, turned into Victoria Park Gardens. The park was adjacent to the south-west corner of the Palace of Westminster and named for the tower that loomed above it. She walked by the statue of Emmeline Pankhurst and Rodin’s sculpture of
The
Burghers
of Calais
, until she was at the stone wall that looked down on the sluggish greeny-grey waters of the river below.

She rested her elbows on the wall and gazed out onto the Thames. A towboat was hauling six barges upstream, and one of
the bri
ghtly-coloured commuter clippers passed it going in the opposite direction. The sky overhead was blue and clear, latticed with the fluffy contrails of passing jets.

She had been lying to Pope. She didn’t have a flight to catch. She hadn’t known why he wanted to see her, and so she had left her return open. She had nothing to do and no place to go. There was her continued training, the regimen that she had interrupted to make this visit, and she would pick it up again when she returned to her riad, but apart from that, there was little else to occupy her. She had no friends. No connections. No reason to be anywhere or do anything. Usually, that was something that did not concern her. She preferred a life with no tethers. Today, though, looking down onto the water, she wondered whether she had it all wrong.

She turned her head and looked at the Palace of Westminster. Her mother had dedicated her life to furthering the interests of the government whose decisions were debated within those imposing walls. She had hidden her occupation from her husband – Isabella’s father – and it had killed him. She thought about the things that her mother had told her during the short time that they had spent together. Beatrix had explained the betrayal that had inspired her vendetta. She had been unable to complete it before the cancer that had raged through her body had rendered her too weak to follow through with her original plan. She had sacrificed herself in an effort to complete her revenge; when that had failed, Is
abella ha
d finished the job. She looked down and found that her fingers
had drift
ed unconsciously up to the sleeve of her shirt, up towards her shoulder. Her fingers traced over the spot where she wore the tattoo of the rose. It marked that final death, the final addition to the set that her mother had been unable to complete.

She opened her right fist and trailed the fingertips of her left hand across the silver locket.

She was disappointed. She realised that at a dim and distant level, she had been entertaining the prospect that Pope was going to offer her something to do. Something, perhaps, that her mother might have done before her.

She allowed herself a laugh.

That was foolishness. She was fifteen years old. What use could Control possibly have for her?

She unclipped the clasp of the chain, put it around her neck and fastened it again. She slid the locket between her T-shirt and skin and let the warmed silver drop down to her chest.

The blare of the tugboat’s horn brought her around again. There was no point in dawdling. She wasn’t interested in
sightseeing
. She reached into her pocket for her phone and called up the map of the Underground. She needed to get to Heathrow. She could
take the Jubil
ee Line at Westminster, change onto the Bakerloo
Line at
Baker Street and then get the Heathrow Express from
Paddington
. It would take her an hour to get across the city.

No,
she thought.
There is nothing for me here. No reason to stay.

Time to leave. She would be back in Marrakech by evening.

Ibrahim drove the Mercedes Sprinter carefully. He had driven the route two times before in order to familiarise himself with it, and that familiarity bred confidence. It was twenty miles, and in the heavy morning traffic, he knew it would take between an hour and an hour and a half. That was fine. The itinerary had been designed with that in mind, and it would be flexible enough to be adapted, should that be necessary.

Everything was proceeding as he had planned. Allah was
smiling
upon them.

Relaxing was out of the question, but as he idled before a red light on the North Circular, he did allow himself a moment to think about the events that had led to this day.

Ibrahim had fought the
peshmerga
in the ultimately futile battle of Kobani, and Abdul had been involved with the foreign
hostages
in Aleppo and Raqqa. Ibrahim did not have to try very hard to remember what it was like to be pinned down in a defensive
position
as imperialist jets screamed overhead, dropping their laser-guided bombs and demolishing vehicles and emplacements. He had seen brothers whom he had fought alongside torn to pieces by the bombs. And he had met others, older than he was, who had done battle with the fascists in Afghanistan and Iraq, and others who had fought the Jews in Palestine. He had heard stories of what the enemy had done during the conflicts. He had seen videos of the atrocities at Abu Ghraib, read about the torture at the CIA’s black sites and fulminated over the continued injustices at Guantánamo.

The caliph had decreed that retaliation was in order. Ibrahim was honoured to have been chosen to put the plan into effect.

He was a British citizen, born and bred. There were ten of them who had been selected from the ranks of the British fighters who had offered themselves into the service of the Islamic State. Some of them, like himself and Abdul, had seen plenty of fighting in the two or three years that they had been in the Middle East. Others were less experienced, but no less dedicated to the cause.

The government had made it clear that nationals who
travelled
to Syria and Iraq to fight for the caliphate would be treated as
terrorists
if they were to return.

Terrorists!

The hypocrisy turned his stomach.

Nevertheless, they could not risk the likelihood that they would be arrested if they returned by air. Mohammed had crafted a detailed and thorough plan that would make that unnecessary and mean that they could travel without fear of detection. They had travelled by sea on a series of cargo ships, trawlers and pleasure craft, transferring from one to the next in the middle of the ocean, far from prying eyes. Muammar Gaddafi had used similar methods to supply the IRA with weapons in the 1970s, and it was just as effective today as it had been then. The final transfer had been in the Atlantic off the coast of southern Ireland. The final trawler had deposited them in a deserted cove close to Kinmel Bay in North East Wales, and they had dispersed into safe houses around the country. They were well funded, with no need to work, and provided with false identities.

The preparation had been perfect. Nothing had gone wrong.

Now they needed to execute the plan.

Chapter Ten

P
ope had had just about enough. ‘Home Secretary, I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak frankly again. I was reluctant to be Control, as you know. But I have seen things. We live in a world with people in it who are not prepared to observe the usual rules of engagement. They will fly planes into skyscrapers. They will blow up bags of high explosive on Underground trains and buses. They have no compunction in killing themselves if that is what is necessary to achieve their objectives.’

He couldn’t hide his anger, and as he spoke, he became angrier still. ‘We live by the rule of law. They do not. And because of that, the rule of law has to be a flexible concept. Those men and women are enemies of the state, and they can’t be reasoned with. Diplomacy is useless, and intelligence is useful only up until a point. The only way to deal with them is to speak the same language that they do: fight fire with fire. And who is going to do that, ma’am? Are you? Are people at the “highest echelons”?’

He slammed his palm against the table. His wedding ring struck the wood, and the noise was louder than he had intended. His anger had caused stupefaction in the room. They were stunned by his candour. He could see that and knew, clearly, that he was talking himself into a world of trouble, but he couldn’t stop.

‘I’ve heard the arguments against the work that I do. But when I hear them, it makes me think about the things I’ve seen. I know that the only way to prevent these people is to kill them before they kill us. Sometimes it has to be without trial. Sub judice.’

‘Captain Pope—’

He looked around the table. The home secretary was agape at the strength of his denunciation, Stone was shocked and Bloom watched with a mixture of surprise and, Pope thought, amused admiration.

He was talking himself into obsolescence. He knew he should stop. But he couldn’t.

‘We can agree that Rubió’s death was a tragedy. I know Sergeant Snow will never be able to forget what he did. It was a dreadful, horrific error, but if blame is being attributed, it should be attributed correctly. The intelligence was flawed. That is an MI5 issue. The police response was badly flawed. That is an issue for them, and for you, Home Secretary. My agency is a tool. We were given a target; we eliminated the target. You don’t blame the tool when it is put to the wrong use.’

‘Captain Pope!’

‘I’m nearly finished, ma’am. The fact is, you will be put in a position again, very soon, where a similar call will need to be made. Another threat will be identified, at an early stage, and we will have a choice. We either strike pre-emptively and run the risk that the intelligence is incorrect, or gamble and hope that it isn’t right. But if you get that wrong, it won’t be one jihadi we are mourning. And it won’t be a single innocent man who was wrongfully killed. It will be tens or hundreds or thousands of civilians. Yes, Rubió’s death was a tragedy. But we have to be strong enough to keep making those decisions because they will save more innocent lives than they cost. And that means that the existence of an agency like Group Fifteen is necessary. You can talk about moderation and proportionate responses and due process all you like, but when it comes down to it, you need the cutting edge we provide. And I think if you are honest with yourselves, you’ll admit that’s true.’

Pope stood. Snow was pale. McNair was shaking his
head, his
mouth open and an expression of good-humoured surprise on
his fac
e. He was wise enough to have read the same signs as Pope.

Morley was red in the face. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You are suspended, Captain.’

‘Yes, ma’am. What shall I tell my agents?’

‘That the Group is suspended. Everyone is to stand down.
Everyone.
Anyone in the field is to return home. Everything stops. Effective immediately.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’

Snow and McNair stood, and Pope took a quarter turn before he stopped.
In for a penny,
he thought. The writing was on the wall. They were going down. Might as well go out swinging.

‘One more thing. With respect, I’m not interested in defending my position to a civilian. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But what I would say is this: if you’re serious about suspending the Group, then you should be prepared to explain to the country that your morality is worth more than the blood of the men and women who will die to pay for it. I suspect that will be a difficult speech to write. You should probably ask your aides to start thinking about it now.’ He straightened out his suit with two brisk downward
brushing
movements. ‘Good day to you all.’

Chapter Eleven

T
he van pulled up at the goods in/out entrance on
Abingdon
Street at five minutes before twelve. A service road led off to the left, passing through a gate and then a checkpoint beyond that. Ibrahim waited patiently as the van was photographed. Software compared the registration with the list of permitted vehicles, and when a match had been found, the gate slid aside. Ibrahim edged ahead, stopping before the metal bar of the checkpoint. Beyond that, a ramp was raised. There was a small office built into the archway through which the road descended, and inside sat two armed policemen. The security was impressive.

Ibrahim had passed through the checkpoint many times before, and he knew the procedure. The detail changed regularly, and he didn’t recognise the policeman who came out and approached
the va
n.

‘Is this usual?’ Abdul asked nervously.

‘It is fine,’ Ibrahim murmured. ‘Just act normal. Relax.’

The policeman came up to Ibrahim’s window and indicated that he should wind it down.

‘Name, sir?’

‘Ibrahim Yusof.’

‘Purpose?’

‘Food delivery.’

‘Your friend?’

‘Abdul Mansoor.’

‘Wait there, please, gents.’

The man went back into the office and spoke with his colleague. Ibrahim rested his fingers on the wheel and drummed them lightly, presenting as normal a picture as he could. He was nervous, and he could see that Abdul was, too. He knew that he was as well prepared as he could be, but it would only take a moment of
inattention
on his part or intuition on the part of the guards for the scheme to be compromised. There was a plan B, of course, but that was not the point. Plan A was what he had worked so hard to bring to
fruition
, and to fail at the final hurdle would be the
cruellest
of
ironies
.

Ibrahim had studied the Palace of Westminster for six months. It was simple enough to glean information from online searches, but he had supplemented this with two field trips, posing as a
tourist
on the official tour and visiting his local MP. It was an impressive building even if he did not agree with its purpose or the decisions that were made there. The Gothic edifice was a vast temple of legislation that covered an area of nearly nine acres. It presented a river
frontage
of nearly one thousand feet to the east, and there was a
centre
portion
sandwiched by towers, two wings, and wing towers at each end. Inside, there were fourteen halls,
galleries
, vestibules and other apartments that could accommodate large crowds. Thirty-two river-facing apartments served as committee rooms. There were libraries, waiting rooms, dining rooms and clerks’ offices. There were eleven internal courtyards and scores of minor openings that allowed light inside.

He was particularly interested in its security, especially when it had been breached. Everyone knew about the failed gunpowder plot, commemorated every November with the burning in effigy of Guy Fawkes. Spencer Perceval had been shot here in 1812, the only prime minister ever to have been assassinated, and the building had been the target of Fenian bombs in 1885. The Irish Republican Army had struck it twice in the 1970s. In 1974, a twenty-pound bomb exploded in Westminster Hall, rupturing a gas main and causing extensive damage. Five years later, a car bomb claimed the life of Airey Neave, a prominent Conservative politician, while
he w
as driving out of the Commons car park in New Palace Yard. The subsequent threat of jihadist terrorism had upped the ante once again. Today, the palace was guarded by armed officers from
the Metropolitan
Police’s elite SC&O19 unit.

The policeman returned. Ibrahim couldn’t help but look at the Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine that was slung across his chest, his finger resting outside the trigger guard.

‘You’re on the list, sir, but not your friend.’

‘He should be.’

‘Says you normally have a Simon Williams?’

He smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right, we do. He didn’t come into work today. He called in sick.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have clearance for an Abdul Mansoor. I can’t let him in.’

Ibrahim sensed Abdul’s tension and spoke quickly before Abdul could say anything stupid. ‘Really? He’s been with us for as long as I have.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Call the office. I’m sure they’ll be able to clear it up.’ He reached forward and took a business card from a holder that had been glued to the dash. He handed the card to the policeman, who still
looked dubi
ous. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could clear it up. It’s going to take me twice as long to do on my own, and we’re already running late.’

‘All right.’

The man went back to the gatehouse. Ibrahim saw him take a telephone and put it to his ear.

‘There’s no one in the warehouse,’ Abdul hissed.

‘I know.’

‘So?’

‘The number forwards to Mohammed’s phone. He’ll sort t
his out.
’

But would he? They had taped the Smith & Wesson 9mm to the underside of his seat, and he allowed his arm to fall down next to the door so that he could feel the cold metal with his fingertips.

The policeman came back.

‘I spoke to your boss. Some kind of oversight. I’ll let it go for today, but you need to get it fixed. And I’ll need to take a look in the back. Could you come around and open up, please?’

‘Of course. Not a problem.’

The man drifted to the rear of the van.

‘We will be discovered,’ Abdul said, his voice tight with tension.

‘Relax. Whatever happens is His will. Be calm.’

Ibrahim reached for the keys to switch off the engine, but his hands were trembling and he fumbled them. Damn it. He needed to be calm, too. He managed to kill the engine, extracted the keys from the ignition and stepped out. He glimpsed the second
policeman
in the doorway of the little office, his carbine similarly held on a strap and angled down to the ground.

He unlocked the rear doors and opened them.

‘What have you got in here, sir?’

‘Ingredients for the kitchen. Meat, fish, vegetables. That sort of thing.’

The policeman took a half step forward, and for a horrible moment Ibrahim thought he was going to climb inside the van. Their doctored hiding places would not stand much scrutiny. But he did not. He stepped back and nodded his satisfaction.

‘Sorry to bother you, lads. We’re being careful.’

Ibrahim knew why that was. The assassination of Fèlix Rubió had caused all manner of consternation in the press and
there had
been protests and demonstrations afterwards. His funeral
last we
ek had ended with a riot that had been put down with
brutal
efficiency
. There was talk of retaliation, of radicalisation, of increased
terrorist ‘chat
ter’.

They had
no
idea.

Ibrahim knew that the man’s murder would be of benefit to their cause in the long run, but he wasn’t interested in that. His focus was on the short term. And the increase in security would make it more difficult to do what he had promised to do.

He got into the van.

‘Are we good?’

‘We are. Just smile and relax.’

He started the engine again. The policeman gave him a nod of recognition as his colleague raised the barrier and lowered the ramp. Ibrahim put the gearbox into first and pressed down gently on the accelerator. The van bumped over the exposed lip of the ramp and was swallowed by the narrow tunnel.