Close Call (2 page)

‘I hope so.’ Peggy got up to go. ‘I’ll leave you to catch up.’

But as Peggy walked out of the door she bumped into someone coming in. ‘Whoops. Sorry, Geoffrey. I was just going. Liz will be delighted to see you!’

The tall, heron-like figure of Geoffrey Fane, a senior MI6 officer, sauntered into the room. ‘Good morning Elizabeth. Delighted to see you looking so fit and well. Been on holiday I hear. I hope you had a wonderful time and that our friend Seurat is in good form.’

One of Geoffrey Fane’s characteristics, which drove Liz mad, was his inquisitive interest in her private life and his delight in showing how much he knew about it. She would much have preferred him not to know that she was seeing Martin Seurat of the French Military Intelligence Service, the DGSE. But he did know, and she suspected that he had learned about it from Bruno Mackay, who had been the deputy head of MI6’s Paris Station when she’d first met Martin.

What she didn’t like to acknowledge, though everyone else knew it, was that Geoffrey Fane himself would have liked to be in Martin Seurat’s shoes. He was divorced, a lonely man and evidently deeply attracted to Liz, who though she admired and respected his professional skill, couldn’t disguise the fact that on a personal level she found him pompous and patronising. What she couldn’t – or wouldn’t let herself see – was that much of his manner towards her was a cover for his feelings. So he went on calling her ‘Elizabeth’, though he knew that she preferred to be called ‘Liz’, and she went on grinding her teeth at the sight of him while everyone marvelled that they seemed to have such a successful working relationship.

Now Fane folded himself elegantly into the chair that Peggy had just left and crossed one long, tailored leg over the other, showing a length of subtly striped sock and a highly polished black brogue. ‘I was delighted to learn we’ll be working together on the arms supply front,’ he said.

‘Yes. I’ve just heard about it from Peggy. I gather we’ve been given a watching brief and no extra resources, so I don’t suppose we’ll be doing much active investigation. Anyway, Peggy told me that there’s no specific intelligence about any UK arms dealers being involved, and we certainly haven’t the time to go looking.’

Fane leant forward in his chair. ‘That might have been true last week, but things are moving on. I had a call from Andy Bokus over the weekend. They’ve just posted a new man into Yemen. An old friend of yours if I’m not mistaken. Miles Brookhaven. I’m sure you remember him from when he was here at Grosvenor with Bokus. I gather he was quite smitten.’

Liz gazed at the languid figure in the chair, clenched her jaw and said nothing. Fane smiled slightly and went on, ‘He had a bit of a rough time on his previous posting but he’s recovered now. The Agency have sent him to Sana’a to pick up a rather promising contact of the Embassy. Bokus seems to think there may be something interesting to come out for us as well as for the Agency.’

Chapter 3

Miles Brookhaven’s shoulder still ached at night if he turned over awkwardly in bed, and now driving the heavy SUV he felt a twinge of pain whenever the car bounced over a rut in the road or he had to turn the wheel suddenly to avoid a pothole. The long knife had slashed the tendons at the top of his arm and the doctors at the military hospital in Germany to which he had been evacuated had told him that they would never properly heal. But, under pressure from CIA headquarters in Langley, the doctors had finally authorised his posting. There was a shortage of experienced case officers with fluent Arabic, and as the Arab Spring spread and jihadis joined the rebels in one country after another, the need for intelligence both from the front line of the fighting and from the countries on the periphery had become urgent.

From NSA at Fort Meade and CIA at Langley to GCHQ in Cheltenham, the eyes and ears of the West were focused on the movement of weapons around the world, and in particular to the countries where rebel groups were fighting governments. It was clear that supplies of some of the most sophisticated weapons were getting through to jihadis.

Yemen was a special focus of attention. Overhead surveillance had shown piles of what appeared to be ­weapons crates stacked on the dockside at Aden. The photographs had landed on the desk of an analyst in Langley at the same time as a report from the Commercial Counsellor at the US Embassy in Sana’a. The diplomat’s report described his meetings with the Minister of Trade, one of his main contacts. The Minister seemed uninterested in developing trade with the US except in one area – weapons. The Minister explained this as the need for his government to be able to protect both its own citizens and foreigners against increasingly aggressive jihadi groups. But the Embassy report pointed out that the same message was coming from the Interior and Defence Ministers – departments where issues of weapons supply seemed a more natural fit.

The other notable feature of the diplomat’s meetings with the Minister of Trade was the frequency of his ­references to ‘his’ Foundation, set up he said to help the homeless and in desperate need of funds. But research by the Embassy had thrown up no sign of such a charity. It was this last point that had brought the diplomatic cable onto the desk in Langley and which had resulted a few months later in the diplomat being moved to a senior post in another country and Miles Brookhaven turning up in the Sana’a Embassy as the new Commercial Counsellor. He had one brief – to recruit the Minister of Trade.

As he drove, Miles could see the mountains in the west, ranged in a rough semicircle around the city. His health not fully restored, it had taken him a few days to get used to the thin air of Sana’a. This was to be his first meeting with Jamaal Baakrime, the Trade Minister, his recruitment target, and he was feeling rather nervous. In normal circumstances he would have taken months to get to know a target, to assess weaknesses and vulnerabilities before he made his pitch, but he had been told not to hang about with this one but to go straight in and offer him cash for information. If the approach failed he would be quickly withdrawn and posted somewhere else where he could be useful.

He parked on a wide street and walked, turning into a much narrower side street lined by squat government buildings, concrete blocks mostly, put up in the Sixties with US aid money. They were interspersed with a few more recent constructions built as Yemen began to develop its oil resources. Not that Yemen nowadays showed much sign of being oil- or gas-rich. On the streets, even here in the capital, poverty was rife, and as he walked along Miles reflected that if the Minister’s charity existed there was plenty for it to do.

Inside the Trade Ministry, a guard with a holstered pistol was sitting in a chair in one corner of the entrance hall reading a magazine. He raised his eyes lazily as Miles came in, then resumed reading. A young uniformed woman behind the front desk took his name, consulted a sheet of paper, then waved Miles to follow her. She led him up the stairs to the first floor, into a large open-plan office where a dozen men and women sat typing, and on into a long corridor with dark little offices on either side, occupied by men sitting behind desks covered with piles of papers.

At the end of the corridor she knocked on a large, closed door. A loud voice boomed out in Arabic and the woman opened the door and ushered Miles inside.

Baakrime’s office could have been in a different world. It was roughly forty feet long, lined by picture windows with fabulous views of the mountains. The floors were polished mahogany boards overlaid by a rich sprinkling of fine Persian carpets. Gaudy oil paintings hung on the walls, scenes from the Arabian Nights, featuring scantily draped female figures.

Baakrime came out from behind a large antique desk, his hand extended. He was a diminutive square-shouldered man, with short black hair brushed back in a lacquered wave, and a thick Groucho Marx moustache. ‘It is delightful to meet you, Mr Brookhaven. Your predecessor and I had an excellent relationship,’ he declared. ‘Come, let us make ourselves comfortable.’ He gestured towards a sitting area, where two sofas were adorned by soft cushions covered in coloured damask.

They sat down at right angles to each other. ‘Coffee is coming,’ Baakrime said hospitably. He wore a light grey suit and a white shirt with a canary-coloured tie. A triangle of paisley silk handkerchief peeked out from the breast pocket of his jacket.

‘It’s good of you to see me,’ said Miles. ‘I know you have a full schedule.’

‘Nonsense. I always have time for my friends,’ said Baakrime. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And you know what they say – if you want to get something done, ask a busy man.’

They chatted for a few minutes inconsequentially. Miles was accustomed to the Arab insistence that all business, however pressing, was prefaced by small talk. The coffee arrived, brought in by a young woman, smartly dressed in Western clothes – a noticeably short skirt and a blouse unbuttoned at the top. Baakrime ogled her legs with unconcealed pleasure and, as she put the tray on the low table and bent down to pour out the coffee, his eyes moved to her cleavage.

When she had left, Baakrime continued chatting idly, asking after the welfare of Miles’s family. When Miles explained that he was unmarried, Baakrime asked after his parents. He moved on to describe the location, ambience and menu of a new restaurant that Miles must try, and recommended two holiday resorts on the Egyptian coast along the Red Sea.

When finally Baakrime paused to sip his coffee, Miles said, ‘I understand that your Department has a role in the import of arms to your country.’

Baakrime stopped sipping but continued to hold his cup to his mouth. He said nothing for a moment, then put the cup on the table, looking all the time at Miles. He said, ‘That is true. It is a trade that interests me greatly. We have, as you know, many threats to our country, both internal and external.’

‘Yes indeed,’ replied Miles. Then, with the instruction from Langley to ‘get on with it’ at the front of his mind, he said, ‘It is also a subject that greatly interests those who sent me to your country.’

Baakrime didn’t reply. Miles hoped that he had picked up the hint he had been offered about who Miles worked for. Then, his eyes slipping away from Miles, Baakrime remarked, ‘These affairs can be a little complicated, but I might be able to help you get started on your work.’

Miles’s heart gave a lurch. Baakrime had recognised the bait. It was time to see if he would swallow it. He said, ‘That would be very much appreciated by my government. You know, data is freely available these days – we in the West with all our computers are positively awash with information. But knowledge is scarce, and can be expensive to find. Don’t you agree?’

Baakrime smiled and nodded. ‘How true that is, my friend.’

Miles ploughed on. ‘My colleague also told me that another interest of yours is the Foundation you have set up to help the homeless in your country. That is such an excellent cause that I am authorised to offer you substantial and regular contributions to help in its work. In fact,’ he said, reaching into his pocket, ‘not knowing what the bank account details for the Foundation are, I have brought our first contribution of ten thousand dollars with me.’ And he put a thick white envelope on the table, thinking that if Langley had got this wrong he was going to look awfully stupid.

But Baakrime rapidly swept up the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘That is so very kind and much appreciated. The Foundation is helping many people, I am glad to say. But the recent upheavals in my country mean more people are suffering than ever before, and we cannot keep up. We find it is better not to operate through the banks. They are not so reliable always. This’ – he patted his pocket – ‘would be the best way to make your contribution in future. I will ensure the cash gets to where it can best be used.’

You bet, thought Miles, but he merely smiled and nodded.

Baakrime said, ‘In return for your generosity to my Foundation, you must tell me how I can best help you.’

Miles decided to strike while the iron was hot. ‘We know that Yemen is one of the countries through which weapons are reaching rebel groups. And not just legitimate rebels – but others fighting with them, outsiders. Jihadis, extremists, al-Qaeda supporters.’

Baakrime smiled and shrugged but said nothing.

‘What we want to know is the sources of those weapons and in particular any sources in Europe or the United States.’

Baakrime’s manner changed from the wily to the businesslike. ‘These young men. They think they are all Osama Bin Ladens. They are crude and cruel and defame the name of Islam. They are indeed a threat to us all. I will do what I can to help you, my friend. Come back in one week and I will see what I can find out.’

Chapter 4

A raw day. Viewed from the window of Liz’s office, the Thames looked battleship-grey, sprinkled with the frothy white lines of waves stirred up by the October wind. To Liz, her skin still brown from her holiday in the Pyrenees, the sun was a faraway memory.

She turned back to the pile of forms on her desk. The Service was blessedly free of much of the bureaucracy that affected the Civil Service, but it strongly believed in annual appraisals of staff, and now that Liz was responsible for managing a team of people, she had to write their performance assessments. She took the task seriously, knowing how important it was to the careers of her team, as well as to the Service itself as a tool for getting the right people in the right jobs. But it was not her favourite pastime. Even though she was now a manager, Liz was still an operational officer at heart. Too much time spent sitting behind her desk made her restless and irritable.