Secret Asset (9 page)

18

L
iz could hardly sit still. Tom Dartmouth had been talking on and on about Marzipan, but after the first few minutes she'd stopped listening. He had nothing to tell her. Anyway, why was
he
talking to her? He hadn't known Sohail. Marzipan was her agent—she'd recruited him, she'd run him, and almost as soon as she'd handed him over, they'd got him killed. He'd trusted her. She'd promised to look after him and she hadn't. She needed to talk to Charles. Why wasn't he here? Why had he given Marzipan to Dave? Not that she blamed Dave. He was her friend and he was good at his job. But somehow, somebody hadn't looked after Sohail. And now he was dead.

All these thoughts were going round and round and Tom was still talking, sitting behind his desk in an expensive blue suit. He was talking in a calm, reasonable voice that Liz was finding more and more infuriating. “I can't answer all your questions,” he said. “Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know the answers myself.” He looked at her directly, almost coolly, though his eyes were not unfriendly.

“But why wasn't there counter-surveillance on him? Especially after the three men didn't show.” She clenched her left hand tightly on her lap.

“We certainly thought of it,” said Dartmouth, “but there was no reason to think that there was any link between their failure to show and Marzipan. Believe me, Dave went through it with him very carefully the next day.”

Liz conceded the logic of this. Protecting Marzipan with counter-surveillance might have increased rather than reduced the risk, since there was always the danger of it being spotted.

But then what had they missed? Or was he suggesting there was nothing there to miss? She asked, trying not to sound annoyed, “Are you telling me you believe this was a race murder?”

“No, of course not. And we've made it clear to the Met that we have an interest in this. Special Branch have arranged for all the CCTV within a square mile of the murder site to be collected. The local Underground stations are being checked—all the ticket collectors and the stationmasters are being questioned. Ditto the drivers on the bus routes. If any of those three was in the area, I hope we'll spot them.”

Liz nodded. “Did Sohail look at the Dutch pictures before he was killed?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Dave was going to meet him at the safe house tonight.”

“Oh God,” said Liz, not far from tears.

         

Liz had to get out of the building. The death of Marzipan had affected her more than anything in her working life, but it wouldn't do her or anyone else any good at all to show how upset she was. She walked along Millbank, her mood matched by the sodden pavements and the gutters where water had collected in long oil-streaked puddles which passing cars were spraying everywhere.

Sohail Din's murder was such a personal blow to Liz that it was only as the shock subsided that she saw the extent of the disaster. His death had effectively cut their one link to the bookshop three, and unless they could be found, many more people than Sohail might be destined to die. It was hard to separate her upset about Sohail Din from her worry about the catastrophe which might now ensue. Finding Sohail's killers was essential to help them unravel whatever was being planned.

At the Tate's vast front steps, she turned around to walk back to Thames House. The ice-cream van had reopened after the rain, and the vendor smiled at her. He wore a white shirt and red scarf, and looked transported from a Venetian gondola. “Just one Cornetto,” he sang out to Liz, in a voice that was Puccini via Stepney, but Liz just scowled at him.

Back in the building she stopped by the corner conference room, hoping it would be empty, and found Peggy working on her laptop. “Oh Liz,” she said. “Dave Armstrong is looking for you.”

“Thanks,” said Liz with a sigh. “I can guess why.” Then trying to pull herself together she asked, “How are you getting on?”

“I've just come back from Oxford.”

She seemed to hesitate, so Liz asked, “Did you find anything?”

“I don't know yet—I'm waiting to hear from Technical Ted.”

“Okay,” said Liz. “I'll go and find Dave.”

Oxford and IRA moles seemed inconsequential.

19

I
rwin Patel had never wanted the cameras. As he had explained to his wife Satinda, “What good is this thing supposed to do then? I know which of those little boys stuffs packets of crisps under his jacket. I don't need a camera to identify them. And I can tell when the drunks try and put the wine bottles in their bags. Suppose I catch them on this wretched thing? Do you really think the police will take the time to look at
movies
of a petty theft? It is not realistic.”

But Satinda was insistent. “That is not the point, Irwin,” she said sternly, in a tone he had long ago learned was not worth arguing with. She had been a beauty when they met, so presumably she must have thought him a promising prospect. How had she put up with the disappointment of his career? Simple, he thought ruefully; she had taken over and now she called the shots.

He had never appreciated being a stereotype, though being an intelligent man, he knew that is what he was. His parents had been Ugandan Asians, thrown out of their country by Idi Amin when Irwin was just five. In England, they had altered the names of their children. Irwin was an English name and Christian, and they liked it, failing to realise that the retention of “Patel” would give the game away anyway.

Still, his name would hardly have mattered if Irwin had prospered, like the children of so many of his parents' fellow immigrants, and become a lawyer or doctor. But Irwin had struggled, failing the eleven-plus just twelve months before it was abolished by a Labour government, and suffering accordingly. Nearly thirty years after his parents' arrival, he still ran the same newsagent shop his father had bought and run all those years before. True, it carried a wider range and a better class of magazine, but Irwin was all too aware that his was simply one of thousands of shops throughout Britain owned by men called Patel.

“The purpose of the cameras,” Satinda declared, “is to deter. Whether it catches the offender, that is not important. It keeps people from thieving in the first place.”

And that was that, the end of the argument. So he had paid Steinman Son, the local security firm, to come in and install the camera, and at Satinda's insistence, had even paid them to make sure it continued to work. And the result? Hour after hour of footage, all of it easily reviewed in the back room of the shop whenever he wanted. Which, rapidly, he did not care to do, since what was the point of looking at footage of the same three rows of shelves in his shop with the same customers buying the same items—a loaf of sliced white, a packet of tea biscuits, a pint of milk—day after day?

So he was puzzled when a local policeman appeared at the till that morning. Usually they came in once or twice a week for cigarettes or a packet of Polo mints, and would chat sometimes, about Arsenal's latest match or when the road repairs in the High Street would finish. Today, however, this constable was all business, with a clipboard, a pencil, and a ground-down expression on his face. “Morning,” he said, “I need a word about your CCTV. It works, doesn't it?”

Irwin nodded, a little warily. He had always thought of the police as allies, if unreliable ones, but he tried to ask very little of them and they had never before asked anything of him.

“We need all your footage for the last ten days,” the policeman said curtly. “Please,” he added as an afterthought.

“Gladly,” said Irwin, wondering how on earth to provide it. He would have to ask his son, Oscar, when he got home from school. Oscar understood these things; he even had his own computer, in the bedroom he shared with his sister, upstairs above the shop. “What are you looking for?”

The constable shrugged. “Ours is just to do or die, PC Plod does not ask why.”

He laughed, rather shortly, and Irwin thought it politic to laugh with him. “Would this afternoon be all right?” he said.

“Only if you can deliver it to the station. I'm trying to collect it all today.”

20

A
fter Wetherby's meeting, Liz decided to go home once it was clear there was nothing useful she could do by staying. As the lift doors on the fourth floor started to close, a hand intervened and they slid open again. Tom Dartmouth entered, and gave Liz a weary smile. She was tired, too. It seemed incredible that she had started the day in Belfast with her mind focused on Liam O'Phelan and since she had arrived back in London she had thought about nothing but Sohail. She was looking forward to getting back to her flat and trying to get the day's events in some sort of order.

“What a day,” he said, loosening his tie with one hand. “Especially for you. Fancy a drink?”

It was said casually, but warmly. She was still angry, but no longer with Tom—in fact she felt badly for having been so aggressive with him that afternoon. “Why not?” she said, and glanced at her watch, though she had no plans at all for the evening.

They went to the bar in a new steel and glass hotel not far from Thames House, a venue far slicker than the pubs which were the usual watering holes for MI5 staff. “I've nothing against the Compton Arms,” Tom explained, “but I thought it would be a little quieter here.”

The bar was full of well turned-out business types, not the rather seedy bunch of civil servants and journalists that haunted the pubs round Horseferry Road and Westminster. She was wearing the linen jacket she had taken to Belfast, which she was relieved to see had survived its two-day excursion in good order, so she felt reasonably comfortable there. It was the first time she had seen Tom other than in meetings or in the fraught circumstances of earlier in the day and she noticed now how attractive he was. He was a tall man, one or two inches over six feet, and square shouldered, but rangy not muscle-bound. In his lightweight blue suit, a bright tie that any television news-reader might have envied, and the remains of his tan, he was turning a few female heads.

Liz ordered dry white wine and as she found herself almost obsessively crunching her way through a large bowl of rice crackers on the table in front of them, she realised how hungry she was. The last time she'd eaten was breakfast in the Culloden Hotel. She wasn't sure whether Tom saw this outing as an opportunity for a social chat, or as business.

“I wanted to ask you about Marzipan,” he said as soon as their drinks arrived. “I know Dave was running him while you were off, but you knew him longer.” He took a rice cracker from the rapidly emptying bowl and munched it thoughtfully. “If there was anything in Marzipan's history that was worth pursuing, you'd be the one to know.”

“I've been racking my brains.”

“Of course,” he said. “I was just wondering about his friends—you know, that perhaps he'd said something to one of them he shouldn't have. Even the best agents sometimes feel the need to confide in someone.”

“He was a genuine loner,” said Liz. She took a sip of her wine. “It's one of the things we established when he was first recruited. He didn't have a best friend, or even any really close pals, though he got on all right with his schoolmates. Most of them are at university now.” She faltered slightly. “As Marzipan was supposed to be…” She looked down for a moment to compose herself. She hated being emotional in front of a colleague.

“I know this has been hard for you,” he said sympathetically.

“It's hard for Dave too,” she said a little curtly, then reminded herself that Tom was trying to be nice and besides, none of it was his fault. She added, “Did you ever have this sort of thing happen to you in Pakistan?”

“Yes, I did once,” he admitted, “and it happened to colleagues too. It's always awful. The worst in my experience was a Pakistani named Fahdi. He was extremely Westernised—I think he'd been to college in Texas. But he worked in Lahore and had relatives on the Afghan border.”

“Like the Imam,” said Liz.

“Yes, only Fahdi was definitely on our side. He was certain that his rural cousins had been helping Bin Laden. This was after the Yanks missed him in the caves at the end of the Afghan war. I have to say I was sceptical—we were getting about twenty sightings a day, none of which materialised—but he was absolutely positive. So we packed him off, with a GPS transponder sewn into the bottom of his rucksack.”

Tom stopped and took a long swallow of his drink.

“What happened?” asked Liz.

“Two weeks later we got notification of the signal. It was just over the Pakistani border in Afghanistan. We sent in a small group of SAS with American backup from Special Forces. They went in at night expecting a firefight—the area was full of Taliban and Al Qaeda. They'd pinpointed the source of the GPS signal in a valley, and the helicopter landed on the hillside above it. But when the SAS moved down the hill there was no one there.”

“What about the signal?”

“I should have said there was no one there
alive.
They found the body of Fahdi, pinned by his arms to the ground. In his mouth they found the transponder, popped in like a sweet. Apparently, it was still working when the SAS took it out.”

“How horrible,” said Liz.

“What bothered me most was that I let him talk me round. I thought it was far too dangerous, but he insisted. I shouldn't have let him call the shots—that was my job.” He looked up at Liz. “So I think I know what you're going through.”

She shrugged. “I'm all right.”

He signalled for the bill, and when it came insisted on paying, despite Liz's offer to go halves. “Nonsense,” he said, “I asked you, remember.”

As they walked out of the hotel Liz stopped and pointed in the opposite direction from Thames House. “I'm going that way to the Tube. Thanks for the drink.”

“Would you like a lift?” asked Tom. “I've got my car today.”

“You don't even know where I live,” said Liz firmly. “I might be taking you miles out of your way.”

“Kentish Town, right? Dave Armstrong mentioned it the other day.”

Why was Dave Armstrong talking about her to Tom Dartmouth? She didn't know whether to feel flattered or annoyed. But drinks had been pleasant, and a lift would save her time—not that she had much to do that evening. Solitary supper, the news on TV, her mandatory five minutes reading before she turned the bedside lamp off and tried to sleep.

“If it's really not inconvenient,” she said, “that would be great.”

In the car both were quiet at first, as Tom navigated around the evening traffic near Victoria. He said, “I seem to alternate between loving the independence of driving and thinking cars should be banned from all of central London.”

“Compromise. Ban all of them except yours,” suggested Liz, and Tom laughed as he drove towards Hyde Park Corner.

He's much more relaxed outside work, she thought, without seeming to be someone else—some of her colleagues were like Jekyll and Hyde in their split personas between work and non-work. “Did you grow up in London?” she asked. She didn't really know a lot about Tom other than a collection of facts from his CV: the schools he'd gone to, the subjects he'd studied at Oxford, the maiden name of his mother.

“Yes. In Kensington.” He glanced over at her. “Back then the middle class could still live there.”

“Then Oxford,” she said quietly.

He seemed taken unawares, then nodded. “That's right. I did a BA, then another degree. In Arabic Studies.”

“You must have done well to be able to stay on.”

“I scraped a First. My tutor was as surprised as I was.”

“You could have landed a plum job in the City.”

He mused on this. “Perhaps. But banking never really appealed.”

“So why did you apply to MI5? I'd have thought that if you studied Arabic you'd have been natural Six material.”

“Oh, I don't know. Five does the real business,” he said, with a small deprecating laugh she found appealing. He seemed so self-confident at work that it was refreshing to find he didn't take himself altogether seriously. “Anyway, it's your turn,” he said, accelerating through a yellow light in Southampton Row, a manoeuvre Liz approved of, since she hated namby-pamby drivers. “How long have you been in the Service?”

“Almost fifteen years.”

“Never,” he said. “You're far too young.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Liz declared.

“Well, it certainly won't get me to Kentish Town,” said Tom as they stopped at a traffic light, and he looked around, puzzled.

And for the next ten minutes Liz concentrated on giving directions, until suddenly she realised they were about to turn into her street and the evening, at least as far as it concerned Tom Dartmouth, was about to end. And to think, she told herself, that before she went to Belfast she had actually cleaned up the flat to visitor standard, a rare feat for Liz when she was so busy at work.

She wondered if she should ask him in—she was still regretting her anger that afternoon, and was actually enjoying his company. She hadn't learned much about him, she reflected, but he seemed congenial as well as attractive.

In front of her house he pulled into an empty parking space, and kept the engine running. Hesitantly, Liz said, “It's kind of you to drive me home. Your family must be waiting for you.”

He looked puzzled. “Family?”

“I thought you were married.” Liz saw no point being coy.

“Who told you that?”

“Dave Armstrong, naturally,” she said. “Who else?”

He shook his head with a degree of wonderment. “He was right about Kentish Town, but wrong about me. I
was
married, that's true enough. But I'm divorced.”

He said this dispassionately, showing none of the emotional baggage so often carried by divorced men—some bitter, some still in love with their ex-wives, a few jubilant as schoolboys at their liberation from a virago they were all too willing to talk about. What a relief not to hear that in Tom's voice, just cut-and-dried acknowledgement of a fact.

And partly because of this, Liz thought again about asking him in. Why not? It wasn't as if she were throwing herself at him; that wasn't what she had in mind at all. But it would be nice to know him better, see what else lay behind the façade of professional competence. She was on the verge of asking if he'd like to come in for coffee when he looked at his watch pointedly. “Listen, I'd better go and leave you to your beauty sleep. And actually, I could use some myself. I've been flat out at work for the last two weeks.”

She nodded, feeling slightly disappointed, though part of her knew she too was exhausted and needed an early night. Then he added cheerfully, “Now that I know how to get here, maybe we could do it again sometime.”

“What?” she asked teasingly. “Another lift home?”

“Why not?” he said. “One of my uncles was a chauffeur. I'm sure I've inherited some of his genes.”

Liz was a little surprised, having pegged Tom as middle class through and through. He said, “Do you ever go up to the Heath?”

“Sometimes in summer,” she said. “It's nice and fresh up there in the evenings. Why?” she asked curiously.

“I used to go there as a little boy with my father. He was absolutely mad about kites, but hopeless at flying them. We'd spend hours trying to get them off the ground.” He gave a little laugh, as if visualising his father's ineptitude.

“Then one Saturday, my father brought home a new kite he claimed was extra special. It was autumn, and we went to Hampstead Heath right away because the light went so early in the afternoon. The wind was blowing incredibly hard—it seemed like a gale in one of those naval films. The kite was about twice as tall as I was, and I was sure we would never get it up into the air. But somehow we did. And then it flew for
hours.”
For a moment he seemed lost in memory. Then emerging from his reverie, he turned and gave a quick smile at Liz.

“What were you doing in North London?” she asked.

“Oh, we used to live around here. Though it wasn't quite so gentrified then.” He gestured at her road. Liz's neighbours were lawyers, teachers, accountants—the working class in her street had long since moved to cheaper pastures.

“I thought you said you grew up in Kensington.”

He nodded. “I did, but that was after my father died.” He smiled wistfully. “He got knocked down by a car on his way to work. Once my mother remarried, we moved to Kensington. I suppose you could say she did rather better for herself second time round.” He said this lightly as well, but Liz sensed genuine hostility underneath his mild mockery.

They said goodnight, and Tom waited to drive off until Liz had unlocked the door to her building and waved. As she entered her flat and turned on the light, she nodded approvingly at its rare state of tidiness. Tom doesn't know what he's missing, Liz thought with amusement, since in three or four days the flat would be back to its normal state of half-controlled chaos.

She kicked her shoes off, poured a glass of Sauvignon from an open bottle in the fridge, then sat down on her one comfortable chair. She realised how much she had liked Tom Dartmouth this evening, though not for the reasons an outside observer might deduce.

Yes, he was good-looking in a kind of rough-hewn way that doubtless made some women swoon; yes, he was excellent at his job, tough-minded yet also sophisticated, highly educated without boring you to death with gratuitous displays of erudition.

None of which cut much ice with Liz. On a personal level what had struck her had nothing to do with credentials. If anything, it was Tom's wry, levelling sense of humour that first appealed—especially the fact that he didn't hesitate to poke gentle fun at himself. And he seemed to go out of his way to show he wasn't as inflated as his CV. She liked the way he said he'd “scraped” a First, though she knew from Watts, the hidebound Merton don, that he'd had the best degree in his year. And he wasn't afraid to acknowledge his failures, as with the agent Fahdi he'd lost in Afghanistan, or reveal that he felt them deeply.