Secret Asset (22 page)

46

I
mpressive, thought Liz, as she entered Geoffrey Fane's office. It was a large eyrie, beautifully appointed, high up in the postmodern colossus on the South Bank that is the headquarters of MI6. Fane was one floor above the suite of C, the head of the Service.

Fane was on the phone but when he saw Liz in his outer office, he waved her in. She sat down in a padded leather chair in front of his old-fashioned partners desk. He was speaking to South America. Liz's eye was caught by the framed sets of mounted trout flies on the wall and she got up to look at them. She knew Fane was a keen fly-fisherman and she remembered Charles saying that he had been invited to join him for a day's fishing on one of the best beats—the Kennet or the Test.

All the time she was mentally reviewing what she was going to tell him. He'll be surprised, she thought, though I bet he won't show it.

“Forgive me,” said Fane, putting down the phone and standing up to shake hands. “Our man in Bogota is a little verbose.”

He wore a blue pinstripe suit, which accentuated his height, and an Honourable Artillery Company tie. With his high cheekbones and aquiline nose, he cut a dashing figure, though, as Liz already knew, he was hard to warm to. His manner of talking was articulate and often amusing, and like Wetherby he spoke with an air of appreciative irony, but unlike Wetherby, his irony could suddenly turn to biting wit. For Geoffrey Fane, professional matters were personal. He needed to win and Liz knew that he could suddenly, capriciously turn on people. In their few encounters, Liz had never found him entirely trustworthy.

They sat down again, and Fane looked out the window. “Rain's coming, I'm afraid.”

In the distance Liz could see the office blocks in Victoria Street and a tight blanket of scudding cloud fast approaching. The windows at Vauxhall Cross were triple-glazed against mortar attack, and this cast a grey-green filtered tint on the world outside, making it sombre on even the sunniest day. She went straight to the point. “I wanted to see you about this Irish business.”

“Ah yes, the peculiar legacy of Sean Keaney. Tell me, how is Peggy Kinsolving working out?”

This is not what Liz wanted to talk about. “She's very good,” she said swiftly. “She's helped make an important discovery.”

Fane raised an eyebrow. “Discovery?”

“Yes. We've come to the conclusion that there actually is a mole.”

“Really? In place. Planted by the IRA?” Fane sounded incredulous.

“Originally,” said Liz. “But we think he's moved on.”

Fane shot both cuffs rather carefully, and Liz suppressed a smile. For all his patrician air, he had a dandy's showman instincts. Wetherby had precisely the same habit, but with him you felt it was done out of a desire for sartorial order; with Fane, she decided, it was designed to show off his cufflinks.

“Left the Service, you mean? Do you know who he was?”

“No. I don't mean left the Service. He's still here. We think it's Tom Dartmouth.”

“Tom Dartmouth?”
Fane could not disguise his surprise. “Does Charles share this view?” he said with sharp scepticism.

“He does,” she said coolly. She was not going to be bullied by Fane.

“Are you sure about this?”

“The evidence so far is entirely circumstantial.”

Fane sat up straight. He looked ready to challenge her, so she continued quickly. “It's likely to remain that way for the moment, too, because Tom has vanished.”

“Vanished?” said Fane, his aggression suddenly deflated.

“Obviously we wanted to let you know right away,” said Liz. “Particularly because of Tom's secondment to Six. But I'm also here to find out more about his time in Pakistan. We're concerned that he may have moved on from the IRA and that he is helping a small Islamic terrorist group we're trying to find. It's the group you know about from the CTC. The bookshop group. Operation FOXHUNT. We think it's possible he first made contact with them in Pakistan.”

“Yes, of course I know about FOXHUNT, but what has that to do with the IRA?” said Fane. “I must say, Elizabeth, this seems completely confusing.” By the time Liz had explained her thesis, Fane's expression had turned from scepticism to gravity. “Well, as it happens, our station chief in Islamabad is with us this week. He's been over at the Foreign Office but he may well be back by now.”

A few telephone calls later, and Miles Pennington, MI6's head of station in Pakistan, walked into Fane's office. Pushing fifty, Miles Pennington had receding hair and a bluff manner. According to Fane he was an “old Asia hand”—six years in Pakistan, a stint in Afghanistan, another in Bangladesh—and with his deep tan and lightweight khaki suit he certainly looked the part. Extending a firm, dry hand for Liz to shake, he sat down and listened while Fane explained they needed his help. Liz broke in to ask for his signature on the indoctrination list for the mole hunt. “I already have your signature, Geoffrey,” she said. The indoctrination list, activated for the most secret operations, not only meant that the operation could only be discussed with others on the list, but also produced a complete index of those in the know, in case there should be a leak. As he looked at the sheet which Liz handed him and saw how very few names there were on it—Liz, Peggy, Charles Wetherby and Geoffrey Fane, C of MI6 and DG of MI5, as well as the Home Secretary and a few other names he didn't recognise, Pennington blanched. That sort of list indicated a very serious operation indeed.

“We want to talk about Tom Dartmouth,” said Fane, all languor gone. “Elizabeth will explain what we're looking for.”

Liz and Fane had agreed that Miles Pennington did not need to know about the IRA angle and so she focused only on the immediate problem. “We are urgently trying to locate three suspected terrorists here in the UK. They are all British, but of Asian origin—there's one we have identified and he's from a Pakistani family in the Midlands. The other two are unknown to us.”

She paused, aware that Pennington must be wondering what this had to do with Tom Dartmouth, whom he knew only as a junior colleague, seconded from MI5. Taking a deep breath Liz said, “We have reason to believe that Tom Dartmouth has been in contact with the terrorists, and in fact may be actively helping them.” She ignored Pennington's stunned expression. “Unfortunately, he's gone to ground. So we're trying to understand what's behind all this.”

Pennington managed a hesitant nod, but was clearly still trying to take it in. Liz said, “Could you give me your view of Tom? One of the problems we're having is that he's only been back here in London for four months and before that he'd been with you for four years. What did you make of him?”

Pennington took some time to respond. At last, choosing his words with care, he said, “Intelligent, fluent Arabic speaker, worked very hard—without getting too intense about it.”

“Intense”—how typical, thought Liz. The cult of the English amateur—legacy of a Victorian public-school ethos—still alive and kicking in the offshore stations of MI6. Work hard but pretend you're not, make the difficult seem easy—all from an era when gentlemen ran the vestiges of an empire.

“What about life outside work?” she asked. “Did you see much of him then?”

“Yes. We are all pretty close, given the circumstances in Pakistan. Though of course he was in Lahore and I'm mainly in Islamabad. He seemed to fit in pretty well. That doesn't always happen when we get someone from Five.” Pennington suddenly looked embarrassed, remembering where Liz worked. “He liked a drink, but not to excess. There was the odd girl around, but again nothing improper—he's divorced isn't he?”

“Was there anything strange about him, anything remarkable?”

“Not really,” said Pennington, who spoke with a hint of a drawl. “He wasn't the most outgoing of colleagues.” Liz could see he was struggling to remember the attributes of a man he had never envisaged occupying centre stage. “He wasn't mysterious or anything like that. Even with the benefit of hindsight,” he added, glancing at the indoctrination form, “I'd still say that.”

He gave a low sigh, half regretful, half resigned. “I suppose the right word to describe him would be ‘detached.' Not so much as to make one notice; as I say, he fitted in well enough. But thinking about it, I'd say he was always keeping something in reserve.”

“Can you tell me about his work?”

Pennington looked relieved to move to less psychological ground. “Bit of a mixed bag really, but quite straightforward. He kept a sharp eye on the madrasas, to see which were kosher, so to speak, and which were up to no good. In particular, he watched which ones were trying to recruit any of the young British Asians coming out to study. Contrary to what the papers say, many of these students coming from the UK only get radicalised once they're in Pakistan. They go out with perfectly respectable religious motives, then fall under the sway of extremist imams.”

Pennington scratched his cheek lazily, comfortable again. “He was liaising with Pakistan Intelligence much of the time.”

“How did Tom report to you?”

“Directly,” said Pennington confidently. “We spoke almost every day, unless one of us was travelling, and once a fortnight he'd come in for our station meeting. He'd always put something in writing—a summary of what he'd been doing.”

“Did you see his reports to MI5?”

Pennington looked startled. “Not all of them personally, but they would have been duplicates of what he gave us, plus anything else he thought would be of specific interest to your lot. The ones I saw were chiefly about the people he was watching.” He stopped and glanced at Fane, who was studiedly looking out the window throughout this recital. “And of course his own efforts.”

“Sorry?” said Liz.

Pennington explained. “Part of his job was to try and turn anyone we thought either had been or might be recruited—by the extremists. It's always a long shot, but worth a go.”

“And did he have any success?”

“Ultimately no. But for a while he was working on one boy in particular, someone who'd come over for six months.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No,” said Pennington. “But it will be in the file.”

In Islamabad, thought Liz, her heart sinking. Pennington turned to Fane. “You'll have a copy here, won't you?”

“Yes,” said Fane, happy to re-enter the conversation with a solution. “Give me a moment, Elizabeth? I'll get it dug out for you.”

         

Liz walked over the bridge and went back to Thames House. You had to hand it to Tom, she thought, with grudging admiration for his act, as she waited for the lift. He had played things perfectly, merging chameleon-like into his environment until even his boss couldn't recall a single distinguishing characteristic.

“Is Judith about?” Liz asked Rose Love, who was halfway through a mug of tea and a chocolate biscuit at her desk.

“She's gone home, Liz. She wasn't feeling very well.”

Damn, thought Liz. She needed help right away. She'd returned from Vauxhall Cross with three names, each the target of an approach from Tom Dartmouth. They included the boy Pennington had mentioned, whose real name—carefully written down by Liz from the copy of Tom's report—was Bashir Siddiqui.

“Can I help?” asked Rose.

Liz looked at her appraisingly. She seemed a nice girl, very pretty, but slightly shy and unself-confident. Liz was reluctant to use her now. There wasn't any need for Rose to sign the indoctrination form, but Liz didn't want rumours flying around about her pulling the files of a colleague. But she didn't see any alternative; Judith might be out for days.

“Would you do a lookup for me on these names? I think you'll find something about them in reports from Six's Pakistan station. Probably sent by Tom Dartmouth when he was seconded over there. There'll be quite a lot of reports but presumably the names will have been pulled out and indexed. Tom's away at present, so I can't ask him.”

“Okay,” said Rose, cheerfully.

Liz went back to her desk, worried about how long it would take Rose to sift through the reports. She answered some e-mails and did some paperwork and then went to the conference room she and Peggy were using, intent on looking through Tom's personnel file again. She was surprised to find Rose Love there, chatting to Peggy. “I was just about to come and find you,” said Rose. “I've got the answer you wanted.”

“You have? That was quick.”

“I just did a lookup on the names. Two of them are there in the reports, but not the third. I searched for all sorts of spelling variants too. Still no luck.” She handed a piece of paper to Liz. The missing name was Bashir Siddiqui. Protected by Tom, when recruited in Pakistan, by the simple expedient of omitting his name from his reports to MI5.

“Thanks, Rose. Now I just have to figure out how to find him.”

Rose looked puzzled. “Oh I've done that too.” Seeing Liz's surprise, she turned shy about her show of initiative. “I thought you'd want that.”

“I do,” said Liz, eagerly.

“I cross-checked his name against the list of British Asians travelling to Pakistan for long periods of time.” She added proudly, “It didn't take long to find him.”

“Do we know where he's from?” pressed Liz. Be patient, she told herself, Rose has saved you days of work.

“Yes. The Midlands.”

“Wolverhampton?”

“How did you know that?” asked Rose.

47

E
ddie Morgan didn't want to get fired, but since it would be the fourth time in five years he was at least used to it. “Anyone can sell,” his boss Jack Symonson liked to declaim. Then with a sarcastic sideways glance at Eddie, “Well, almost anyone.”

His wife, Gloria, would be upset, Eddie knew, but she should know by now that there was always another job, another slot in the flexible framework of the used-car business. The pay was tilted so heavily in favour of commission rather than salary that there was little risk in taking someone on—especially if, like Eddie, they had been around the trade for almost twenty years.

He knew cars—that wasn't the issue. Give him a used Rover with 77,000 miles and he could tell you after no more than a quick sniff how long it would last and what it could be sold for. What he didn't have—there was no use kidding himself—was the ability to close a deal. Customers liked him (even his bosses conceded that) and he could talk fluently about anything on four wheels. But when push came to shove…he couldn't close.

Why can't I? he asked himself for the third time that week, as a blonde woman in shorts, recently divorced and looking for something sporty, said, “I'll think about it,” and left the forecourt after forty minutes of his time. Eddie stood, leaning against a five-year-old Rover, soaking up the sun.

Someone whistled, and he looked and saw Gillian, the receptionist, beckoning him from the showroom door. “Boss wants to see you, Eddie.”

Here we go, thought Eddie as he went inside, doing up his tie like a man tidying up on his way to the firing squad.

He was surprised, after knocking and entering Symonson's office, to find him with another man. “Eddie, come in. This is Simon Willis, from DVLA. He wants to ask you about a car.” Willis was young and informally dressed—he wore a parka and chinos. He looked friendly, though, and as Eddie sat down, he grinned.

What was DVLA doing here? wondered Eddie, more curious than nervous. Or was this guy a cop? Whatever his weaknesses, Eddie had always been straight when it came to business, a bit of a rarity in the second-hand car game.

Willis said, “I'm looking for a Golf, T-reg, that our records say was sold here about two months ago.”

“By me?”

Willis looked at Symonson, who laughed derisively. “Miracles do happen, Eddie.”

Hilarious, thought Eddie sourly, but gave a fleeting, insincere smile, then looked back at Willis as Symonson continued to chortle at his own joke. Willis said, “The car was bought by someone named Siddiqui. Here's a picture of him.”

From his lap Willis drew out a photograph and handed it to Eddie. It was an enlarged passport shot of a young Asian man with dark mournful eyes and a wispy attempt at a goatee.

“Do you remember him?” asked Willis.

“I'll say,” said Eddie. How could he forget him? It was his first sale in almost two weeks; Symonson had started making the first of the grumbling dissatisfied noises that had recently approached a crescendo.

Then one morning a young Asian man had come in and started looking around, curtly rejecting the offers of two of the other salesmen for help. Eddie had therefore approached him tentatively, but the man had been receptive enough to let Eddie escort him around the cars in the forecourt, through the Peugeots and Fords and the two used Minis they had in stock, until suddenly the Asian stopped in front of the black Golf. Sixty-three thousand miles on the clock. In reasonable nick, though it could do with a respray.

Eddie had begun the spiel, but the Asian—unusually, since as a rule Eddie found those people very polite—had cut him off. “Spare me the bullshit,” he'd said. “What'll you take for it?”

Eddie said to Willis now, “Yes, that's the one. We haggled a bit over price, but in the end he seemed happy enough.” He wanted Symonson to feel he had handled the sale adroitly, but his boss's expression remained indifferent. Eddie asked, “Why? Is there a problem?”

“Not with the car,” said Willis. Eddie looked at him more closely. Eddie had seen enough policemen over the years to know that, whatever Willis said, this was not your average copper.

Eddie said, “If he had a problem with the van, that's his lookout. I warned him it was pretty iffy.”

There was silence in the room as Willis seemed to digest this. Finally Willis asked quietly, “What van?”

“The one he bought two days later. When I saw him come in I reckoned he'd had a problem with the Golf. Or just changed his mind—people often do that right after they buy a car. But no, he wanted a van as well. So I sold him one.”

“What make?”

“I think it was a Ford. It'll be in the books.” He gestured towards Symonson. “But it was six years old, I remember that. White, of course. He insisted on climbing into the back to see how big it was. I got three and a half for it. I warned him about the transmission, but he didn't seem to care.”

“Did he say what he wanted it for?”

“No.” The second time the young man called Siddiqui had been even terser than before, so Eddie hadn't bothered trying to pitch.

“Did he say anything about where he might be going?”

Eddie shook his head. “He didn't say much at all. No small talk. There'll be a name and address in the books but he paid cash—both times.”

Willis nodded but Eddie could tell he wasn't happy. “If there's anything at all you remember about this man,” said Willis, “please give me a ring.” He took out his wallet and extracted a card, then handed it to Eddie. “That's my direct line. Ring me any time.”

“Okay,” said Eddie, looking at the card. I'll be damned, he thought, he is from DVLA after all. “Is that it?” he said, looking back and forth between Symonson and Willis.

It was Willis who spoke. “Yes,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

As Eddie got up to go, Symonson said, “Will you be around later, Eddie? I need to talk to you.”

Where else does he think I'll be? thought Eddie sourly. Honolulu? The Seychelles? “Yes, Jack,” he said, knowing full well what they would be talking about. “I'll be here.”