Fire Hawk (40 page)

‘So what we seem to have is a small cell of dedicated men,' Waddell insisted. ‘Colonel Naif Hamdan, his brother-in-law Doctor Husayn Shenassi and Captain Omar Hasan, who may well have served with Hamdan at some point. Then there was the older man who gave Sam
the warning in Baghdad, who seems to have had a sudden attack of conscience and tried to sabotage his co-conspirators' plans by telling us about them. Then there were a few others not yet identified. Three of that group are now dead, two by their own hand. Why? Our suspicion is it was because Saddam had finally found out what they were up to and didn't much like what he saw. In fact, it put him into such a panic he decided to close the shutters on the UN and kick them out until he'd cleared up the mess.' He leaned forward on his hands. ‘It
does
have a ring of logic to it, Jennifer.'

The CIA woman shifted uncomfortably. ‘I'll agree it has to be considered.'

Martin Kessler pushed the glasses back up his nose, deciding it was time to take charge of the meeting.

‘Let's focus on intentions now. If all this speculation is correct, and Hamdan is acting independently of the Iraqi leadership, what is it that he wants? Could it be connected with an attempt to overthrow Saddam Hussein? Any guesses on that one, Jennifer?'

‘It doesn't match anything
we
know about. The only opposition group we thought stood a breath of a chance against Saddam was the Iraqi National Accord, a link-up between exiled politicians overseas and rebel officers inside Iraq. But as you know, the coup they were trying to stage fell to pieces a few months back. The Mukhabarat had the whole set-up infiltrated from top to bottom. Hundreds were tortured and shot and we had to stage an emergency airlift from the Kurdish zone to get out our own people and as many of the INA as we could rescue. Nope. Colonel Hamdan hasn't featured on any list of names that
I've
ever seen. And if he's hoping to use anthrax to kill Saddam he'll need to get it into the guy's bedroom rather than smuggle it out of the country.'

‘Quite,' Kessler answered. ‘So we're back to guesswork. Does Hamdan have some bizarre personal motive
perhaps? Revenge against the US for blowing his wife to bits in the Amiriyah shelter? A remarkably elaborate and costly scheme if that
were
the case. Or, might he be a pan-arabist or Islamic fundamentalist set on clobbering the Israelis?'

He looked around the table for comments, but received none.

‘Any of that's possible,' said Burgess sombrely.

‘Without some new intelligence all we can do is distribute the file on Hamdan to any nation that's a potential target – the Israelis, Kuwaitis and Saudis – and also crank Interpol into action, though it'd be a bloody miracle if any border guard managed to pick him up from that blurry photograph.'

‘My God! This is a nightmare!' Jennifer tapped on the table with her pen. ‘The potential for some major incident with a massive loss of life . . . it's, it's just huge.' She turned to Burgess and put a hand on his arm. ‘Dean, your guys back home'll have to make darned sure it isn't
us
that gets hit.'

Burgess nodded. ‘I have to make some calls,' he declared, looking at his watch.

There were wheels to be set in motion before he caught the flight. He thought of Carole and the kids. When he'd called her last night she'd told him of a Pledge for the Family rally in Washington next weekend, which she wanted them all to go on. Needed to ring her again to say he wouldn't be able to make it.

‘Let me just tell you what else we're doing,' Waddell continued, ‘SIS has strong contacts with the SBU and we're working on them to dig up everything they can about Mr Voronin's organisation and the activities of Dima Grimov in Odessa. But we have to be realistic. Mafiya gangs like the Voroninskaya have tremendous power in Ukraine. The SBU does not have the clout of the
old KGB and the Ukrainian Militsia are heavily corrupted. We may not be able to get hold of the information we need that way. So any other leads anybody can come up with – it could make all the difference.'

The meeting broke up. Burgess was running short of time. The plane to Washington was in three hours.

Kessler stood up to bid the Americans goodbye. As he shook their hands he said, ‘Whatever these monsters are planning, we've got to stop them.' There was almost a touch of passion in his voice.

‘Amen to that,' mouthed Burgess.

As Jennifer slipped on a long black raincoat, with a helping hand from Kessler, Waddell took Sam by the arm. ‘Don't you leave just yet.'

Burgess reached back to shake Sam's hand.

‘A privilege to meet you.' He held on to it as if to show his respect. ‘I sure admire your guts.'

‘Well, thank you.' Sam felt himself colouring with embarrassment. ‘But really it wasn't—'

‘No. Don't get all British about it. Keep well. So long now.'

The Americans were gone. Kessler and Waddell sat back at the table and indicated Sam should do the same.

‘We've another mission for you, Sam,' Kessler announced without further ado. ‘Needed the cousins out of the way first. The thing is we don't know if it's connected with the Hamdan business or not.'

Another mission?
What Sam had been through in the past few weeks had been enough trauma for one life.

‘What are you talking about?' he demanded.

‘There's somebody who wants to come across to us,' Waddell intoned, sounding like an old cold warrior.

‘What d'you mean “come across”? Where?' Sam asked uneasily.

‘Kiev. He's a major in the Ukrainian army. Claims to have information about some sophisticated weapon or
other that's been acquired by the Mafiya from his own military.'

‘Christ! But that's exactly what—'

‘I know. It sounds highly relevant, but we haven't been able to talk direct to the man yet. Defections are tricky diplomatically. That's why we need to send someone from here to question him. He's scared to death of going to his own security people because he thinks they're all involved with the Mafiya. Sounds a little paranoid between you and me. Even seems to think there's a contract out to kill him.

‘The Major's holed up with his sister who happens to work at the British Embassy. As a receptionist. She would have been there at the time of your last visit to Kiev a year ago.'

Sam had a vague memory of a woman with dark hair and blue eyes.

Kiev. Where he'd first encountered Rybkin. Once he'd established whether the Major was relevant to the Iraqis' anthrax plan, he would track the former SBU man down, a man with a lot to answer for.

‘When?' he asked.

‘Tomorrow. You'll need to get a visa sorted in the morning. It'll be a quick trip. Straight in and out. Damn . . .' Waddell snapped his fingers. ‘To get your visa you need an invitation to go to Kiev from a Ukrainian business. We've set up a paper company over there for just that purpose. I've got the letter for you, but it's in my car.' He stood up feeling in his trouser pocket for the keys. ‘Back in a minute.'

Alone with Kessler, Sam felt acutely uncomfortable. But not for long, because Kessler took the initiative.

‘I'm glad for a moment alone, Sam,' he began. ‘Something I wanted to say.' He held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘Forget the past. Forget our . . . conflict. We have a common interest now, do we not?'

Sam watched the man's discomfort, reminded unkindly of the squirming of a worm. How much had
he
known about Chrissie's life, he wondered? Could it be that he'd tacitly condoned her other relationships as the price for keeping her?

‘There's a smell, Sam,' said Kessler, cutting through his thoughts. ‘A nasty one, and it's sticking to Chrissie.' Sam saw fear in his eyes now. ‘It's because of the way she died. The circumstances. Too much that hasn't been explained.' Kessler's hands squeezed together until the knuckles went white. ‘It's a question of what the record will say. In the Firm. I'm sure you would share my wish that Chrissie's file should be blemish-free.'

‘Of course,' Sam mouthed, taken aback at this appeal.

‘It's why I wanted it to be
you
who went to Cyprus,' Kessler explained, crushed-faced. ‘And to Kiev. Wanted someone on the case who had Chrissie's interests at heart. You
do,
don't you?'

‘But of course—'

‘Yes. So, if there's anything you can think of that'll make things smell a little sweeter . . .'

Sam felt pegged to the chair, convinced suddenly that Kessler wasn't so much concerned about his dead wife's reputation as his own. Worried the smell could spread
his
way.

‘I . . .'

They heard Waddell returning.

‘That's all, Sam,' Kessler mumbled in conclusion, ‘all I wanted to say. Just that. That it would be best if Chrissie were remembered well.'

The eyes were as humble as a beggar's.

Kessler knows something, thought Sam. Some dark secret, darker than all the others. And suspects that
I
might know it too.

A WEARY ISRAELI
official stepped from the customs house on the main quay of Haifa Port and climbed into his car. Onto the seat beside him, he smacked down the clipboard on which he'd fixed a cargo manifest provided by the agents of the ship that had just arrived from Limassol. He'd been on shift since six that morning. He'd had enough for one day. He started up and pointed the wheels towards the container jetties.

An engine problem had delayed the vessel's departure from Limassol by a day, and further problems on the voyage had made its arrival here even later than expected. That in turn was delaying his own journey home and the chance to watch the football game his son had taped for him off the satellite sports channel – unless the kid had forgotten.

There was only one container from the ship that he needed to spot check, a forty footer whose documents listed the contents as vegetable juice. The box had been shipped out of this very port just over two weeks earlier but had been returned by the customer because the goods inside it were defective. That, however, was not the reason for his decision to inspect the box – the return of unsatisfactory goods was a regular enough occurrence.
What had caught his attention was simply that the container had begun its return journey in Ukraine, and cargoes from that part of the former Soviet Union were infrequent to say the least. After all, the country had precious little worth exporting.

Ukraine was a place he'd learned about from a neighbour in the street where he lived halfway up the slopes of Mount Carmel. The man had emigrated from the country three years ago and never stopped telling him to watch out for anything that originated from there because the place was controlled by organised crime.

He'd had no intelligence to go on. No tip-offs. It was curiosity more than anything else that was drawing him to this particular pier.

He flicked the wheel to avoid running the tyres into the rail tracks embedded in the road surface, then turned down through a standing area where containers waiting to be stuffed with cargoes for onward movement were stacked three high. Two lifts were working the ship, their massive gantries humping the containers from the deck to the quayside. Tractors and trailers queued up to remove those boxes that were authorised for immediate departure.

The customs official parked his car well clear of the activity on the quay and strolled over to the dock officer who was checking the container numbers against the manifest.

‘You're in luck. The one you want to look at is next off,' she told him.

He watched the rust-red box swing to the shore suspended by steel cables. Once on the dockside a forklift moved it clear of the roadway so the trailer trucks could continue their work. He inspected the wire seal put on by the Ukrainian customs in Odessa, then broke it while the dock officer looked on.

‘What're you expecting?' she asked.

‘Something that don't smell too good.'

He unhitched the clasp and swung back the door. The stink was enough to make them flinch. Both of them.

They stared at the cartons of juice bulging out of their shrink-wrap of polythene. Some had already ruptured. The container floor was wet and sticky. The packs were stacked to within ten centimetres of the container's roof, leaving just enough space for a torch beam to reach down the gap. Holding his breath, he stepped on the edge of the pallet and aimed the light to the rear of the container. The line of cartons stretched all the way – as far as he could tell.

He stepped back. There was only one way to be sure that contraband
wasn't
hidden in the load and that was to order the removal of every single pallet.

But it was late. He was tired. And the football game was waiting.

‘Enough,' he said. ‘Shut the stink up again.'

Ninety minutes later the container was driven through the dock gates. The truck turned right onto the Sederot Ha-Hagana and headed for the main road south which led to Tel Aviv, the largest Jewish city that has ever existed.

STRAIGHT-BACKED AND STIFF-LEGGED
like an old soldier much older than his forty-two years, Naif Hamdan pressed the door button on the blue and white commuter train standing at platform seventeen of Waterloo station and stepped inside. He was making an effort to create the impression that he did this every day, despite not having been in London since the warmer climate of the 1980s when Britain had been perfectly happy to sell his country the materials it needed to make chemical and biological weapons.

He chose a window seat and looked round as casually as he could manage to check there were no signs of his being followed. The British visa stamped into his Jordanian passport had secured him easy entry for what he'd declared to be a three-day ‘business' trip. He was certain that with his almost European looks he had avoided attracting the suspicion of the authorities, but dropping his guard could be fatal.