Dead Line (21 page)

When he returned to the hotel there were three men at the reception desk, wearing suits and ties, white shirts, and tasselled loafers. One had an earpiece, and wore a miniature American flag pinned to his lapel. Aleppo stopped at the desk, ostensibly to ask for a newspaper in the morning, but really to confirm his suspicions that these were Secret Service men.

‘It’s just preliminary,’ one of them was saying to the manager. ‘Next week we’ll be up to check every room thoroughly. For now, it’s just to acquaint ourselves.’

He moved away casually and went up to his room, thinking hard. The Secret Service men would be back for their room-to-room inspection of the place; they’d be followed by British police, using state-of-the-art detection equipment and sniffer dogs.

It simply wouldn’t be possible to hide anything in the hotel itself. The IRA had done that at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, almost managing to murder Margaret Thatcher and most of her Cabinet. They’d concealed a long-fuse bomb behind the panelling in the bathroom of one of the central tier of rooms. It had been put there so far in advance that it had escaped the sweeps made just days before the Conservative Party Conference had begun. But things had moved on a lot since then in the security world.

So any action would have to take place somewhere else in the grounds. They’d be heavily policed, of course, and a perimeter would be established out on extended boundaries. But with hundreds of acres to police, it might just be possible to think of something that would escape the combined efforts of the UK police, foreign security, sniffer dogs, and state-of-the-art detection machines. But it wasn’t going to be easy and to do that he’d need help -and from someone who knew the place far better than he was ever going to. Someone with access. He’d need a local ally, with local information.

That night he dined again in the Italian trattoria, but this time he asked the maître d’ for a table towards the back of its big room, where he knew he would be waited on by the pretty sandy-haired girl.

‘Good evening,’ she said, as she came to take his order.

‘Good evening, Jana,’ he said, reading the name tag on her blouse. She gave a faint smile.

Each time she came to the table, he greeted her approach with an admiring gaze that he was glad to see her reciprocate. At last, as she brought his after-dinner coffee, he said quietly so no one else would hear, ‘What time do you get off?’

‘And why would that be of interest?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, looking down at his demitasse, ‘I thought you might let a foreigner buy you a drink. In return for some local knowledge.’

‘Oh I see, you’re looking for a tutor, are you?’ She gave a knowing smile, but then just as quickly frowned. ‘Seriously, though, we’re not allowed to fraternise with the residents. It would be more than my job was worth.’

‘Maybe it wouldn’t have to be in public.’ He opened his hand; in his palm lay his room key, with its number face up ′411. ‘You have a good memory, don’t you, Jana?’

She looked a little startled by his boldness. ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

‘It’s just a drink. I have a rather enormous minibar. Too much for me on my own.’

‘I thought I’d heard them all,’ she said with a laugh, then went off to see to another table.

But later, as he sat in his room, reading the local paper, he was unsurprised by the slight tap at the door, and when he opened it, the girl Jana was standing there. She was out of uniform now, wearing jeans and a pink crop top. As she slipped quickly into the room, he closed the door behind her.

‘I’m not sure I should be doing this—’ she began

‘Shhhh,’ he said, putting a finger to his lips and leaning over to kiss her waiting lips.

Much later, when it was closer to morning than midnight, but while it was still pitch-dark outside, the door of 411 opened, and Jana came out silently, then walked speedily down the corridor to the back stairs. She felt happy to have conducted her rendezvous unobserved, and a little exhilarated, especially since the man had said he would be back in three weeks’ time.

THIRTY-SIX

Peggy was being so solicitous that Liz found herself growing impatient. ‘I’m fine,’ she protested again in the face of her junior colleague’s repeated offers of aspirin, ibuprofen, paracetamol. ‘If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to call the Drug Squad.’

Mercifully, Charles Wetherby appeared in the doorway and Peggy went back to her desk.

‘Liz, Tyrus Oakes is flying in from Washington. He’s due here at ten tomorrow morning, and I’d like you to join the meeting.’

‘That was quick,’ she said. Wetherby had only been back from Washington two days.

He nodded. ‘I think we’ll be getting an answer this time, or he wouldn’t be taking the trouble to come in person.’

The next morning, when she entered Wetherby’s office, she was unsurprised to find a stranger sitting there, but she was utterly astonished to find Andy Bokus with him. What on earth was going on?

Wetherby made the introductions. Tyrus Oakes looked dapper in a grey summer suit. He exuded the old-style charm of a Southern plantation owner — he shook her hand, gave a gallant little bow, then pulled back a chair for her. Wetherby watched the performance with barely suppressed amusement. Bokus, looking hot in a khaki suit, just nodded at Liz. ‘We’ve met,’ he said curtly.

‘Good to see you, Charles,’ Oakes said affably as they all sat down again. ‘As I promised, I’ve come with an explanation and to clear up a misunderstanding.’

Wetherby’s eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly. ‘Thank you,’ he said mildly. ‘That’s good.’

The thoughts flashing through Liz’s mind were less charitable. Were they questioning the authenticity of the photographs she saw lying on Wetherby’s desk? It was certainly true that thanks to computer technology, pictures could tell all sorts of lies: you could morph images to seat people next to each other when in fact they were on different continents; you could delete whole mountains from landscapes, or remove entire buildings from an urban panorama. But in this case the camera was telling the undeniable truth: Andy Bokus was sitting next to a suspected Mossad officer at the Oval cricket ground.

Or would Oakes try and suggest that Bokus had run into the Mossad man ‘by accident’?

Oakes said, ‘What I am about to tell you is of course completely confidential and I hope I can count on its remaining that way.’

Wetherby said sharply, ‘We are looking forward to what you have to say. To put your mind at rest, Liz is here because she is in charge of our investigation of the Israeli trade attaché in the pictures. As I told you in Washington, Ty, we have reason to suspect he is not a trade attaché at all. ‘He pointed to the incriminating photographs on his desk. ‘That’s how these came to be taken. She has also been liaising with your chap Brookhaven about this Syrian business and the Gleneagles conference.’

Oakes said, ‘My concern is not about who knows what here in MI5 or in MI6. It’s to do with the Israelis.’ When Wetherby looked at him questioningly, Oakes explained, ‘What I’m saying Charles is that yes, your people saw Andy meeting with a Mossad officer - Kollek.’

Wetherby didn’t say anything. Liz noticed Bokus had reddened and was looking uncomfortable, like an oversized schoolboy who’d been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

Oakes said, ‘What the photographs don’t show is that he’s
our
agent.’

Silence fell over the room. Wetherby looked stunned. ‘You’re running a Mossad officer in London?’ he asked at last. His surprise was undisguised.

‘That’s right. And until these came to light’ - Oakes pointed to the photographs - ‘this was a very closely held operation. Only a very few in the Agency knew of it. As you’ll well understand, this type of operation is our most sensitive.’

‘Quite,’ said Wetherby crisply. ‘Thank you for being frank with us. I’ll need to inform DG of course and Geoffrey Fane, who is aware of the photographs and has I think been frank with you about other things.’ He glanced momentarily at Bokus, then looked back at Oakes with a steady gaze. ‘But there’s no need for anyone else outside this room to be told. Though there are some things we’d like to know about this agent you’re running under our noses,’ he said with the slightest of smiles.

‘Such as?’ said Bokus, speaking for the first time.

‘Why is Kollek undeclared by the Israelis? There has to be a reason or they’d never do it - Mossad knows what our reaction would be if we discovered they had an undercover officer operating here. What is Kollek doing that’s so important for them to take the risk?’

Oakes looked over at Bokus and nodded. The big man was sweating slightly, and he hunched his shoulders and leaned forward as he said, ‘Kollek’s role here is to look after Mossad sources living in the UK, or passing through. He’s their local point of contact.’

‘How long has he been working for you?’ Liz asked.

Bokus shrugged. ‘Not long. Maybe nine months, a year.’

Wetherby was rolling a pencil in his fingers, considering this. ‘May I ask what his motivation is for working for you?’

‘He made the approach.’ Bokus seemed unabashed. He’s regaining his confidence, thought Liz, now that he knows he’s in the clear.

‘What reason did he give?’ asked Wetherby. Liz was glad to see he was taking nothing on faith. He added with a hint of acidity, ‘Or was it money?’

‘Good God no,’ Oakes interjected, with what Liz felt was contrived horror. ‘I’m not exactly sure of his motives. Andy?’ He turned to his head of station.

Bokus put a large hand under his chin, pensive. ‘I think he feels things are moving too slowly in the Middle East for there ever to be peace. He sees things getting worse. He thinks it will take America to make his leaders move, and unless we have the full picture that’s not going to happen.’

Wetherby asked, ‘And how is he helping to paint this “full picture”?’

When neither American answered, Wetherby stared down at his pencil dourly. He seemed to be avoiding looking directly at Oakes, as if not to challenge him unnecessarily. But when he spoke his voice was firm: ‘I said you can count on our discretion, Ty. But in return we need to hear what Kollek is telling you. He’s operating in our territory undeclared - both by the Israelis
and
by you - in a clear breach of protocol,’ he said, raising his eyes now and staring fixedly at Oakes.

Liz understood what Wetherby was getting at: a
quid pro quo
. They’d say nothing to the Israelis, but in return the Americans would relay the information they got from Kollek.

Bokus hunched down further in his chair, but Oakes looked entirely unfazed. He might have been at a golf club committee meeting, discussing an application for membership. ‘Of course,’ he said rapidly - too rapidly, thought Liz, who knew they would get only selected excerpts of Kollek’s information. Still, excerpts were better than nothing.

Oakes turned again to Bokus. ‘Why don’t you start the ball rolling, Andy?’

Bokus reached for his briefcase and brought out a file. He extracted a single page and handed it across the desk to Wetherby. ‘These are the people he’s been running in London.’

Wetherby scanned it intently, then handed it across his desk to Liz.

There were six names. Liz had never come across any of them, though two were international businessmen she’d heard of, and a third was a Russian exile who was always in the press. She looked at Wetherby and shrugged.

‘Are they known to you?’ asked Oakes a little anxiously.

‘I’ll have to check,’ she said. ‘Obviously, I’ve heard of some of them.’ She looked at Wetherby, who nodded to confirm this. Then she pointed a finger at the sheet. ‘Markov owns a football team in the north. His personal life is always in the papers - I’m surprised he has time to talk to Mossad.’

Wetherby put his pencil down. ‘What sort of intelligence are these people providing?’

Bokus didn’t answer, letting Oakes reply. ‘Well, it’s early days, Charles. Certainly nothing very dramatic has come down the pike to us yet. Nothing about the UK or of course we’d have made sure you had it… in one way or another.’ Wetherby inclined his head minutely in acknowledgement. ‘But we can brief you in more detail if you like.’ He looked at Bokus. ‘If Miles is the liaison with Miss Carlyle here, why don’t we have him come over and take her through your reports on Kollek?’

Bokus nodded, though Liz could see that he was not at all delighted by the idea of Miles being involved. From the sound of it, there wouldn’t be much for Miles to tell her, but Liz’s thoughts in any case were focused on something else. It was not the names on the list that had caught her attention, but the names that weren’t there. Sami Veshara wasn’t there - perhaps not so surprising as he’d told Charles he only met the Israelis in Tel Aviv - but nor was Hannah Gold. What did that mean? Perhaps I was wrong, she thought. Maybe Kollek had no ulterior motive for his careful courting of Sophie Margolis’s mother-in-law. Perhaps it was just friendship, as Hannah had said. Even intelligence officers need friends, she told herself. Though from what she knew of Kollek, sentiment played little part in his character.

Liz tuned in to the conversation again to hear Wetherby saying to Ty, ‘That will be fine.’

‘How often do you meet Kollek?’ she asked Bokus, her mind still on Hannah.

The big American looked annoyed by the question. When Oakes didn’t come to his rescue, he replied tersely, ‘Once a month. Sometimes less often.’

A sudden intuition made her follow this up - she could not have said why. ‘Before your meeting at the Oval, when was the last time you’d seen him?’

Now Bokus’s irritation was obvious. He hesitated, then said crossly, ‘Not since June. He was away for a while.’

There was a brief silence, which Wetherby ended. ‘Anything else we need to discuss, Ty?’

‘There is one thing. As Andy can testify, Kollek is kind of a nervous guy, very careful, almost to the point of paranoia. If he had an inkling of this conversation we’ve been having, then I think he’d stop talking to us right away. Isn’t that right, Andy?’

Bokus’s big head nodded vigorously. ‘Tighter than a clam.’