accident. It looks as though a car tried to run her down.’
‘Are they sure?’
‘Well, they’ve got a witness and the car didn’t stop.’
‘But who would do this?’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’ Charles’s voice was cool now. ‘Is there anything you haven’t told us? When you briefed us on your source, you didn’t give the slightest indication that one of my officers could be in danger.’
‘Steady on, Charles. There wasn’t any reason to think so. As far as I can see, there still isn’t. It may not have anything to do with that.’
‘Nonsense.’ Charles was emphatic. He could picture Fane in his office, high as an eyrie in the central block of MI6, reclining in the padded leather chair he favoured. The image infuriated him. ‘She’s got nothing else on that could pose this kind of a threat.’
‘I know you’re upset-’
‘Upset? There’s a very real possibility she may be injured for life. We certainly knew nothing of any danger. You were obliged to let us know if there was even a possibility of this.’
‘I know my obligations,’ Fane protested.
‘If you’ve held anything back, I want to know what it is. Is that clear? Otherwise, I’ll consider you to have placed one of my officers in danger quite unnecessarily.’
They both knew how serious a charge that would be. Charles was about to say something further, then thought better of it. He knew he’d got his point across.
Charles sensed Fane was trying to stay composed. ‘I certainly hear you, Charles,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
TWENTY-THREE
Fane put down the phone. He was more badly shaken than he would have expected. Liz Carlyle had somehow got under his skin. This accident, attack, whatever it was, affected him badly. He knew as well as Charles that it almost certainly came from her investigations, ones that he had set in train. He didn’t blame himself for that – if he hadn’t passed on the information from Cyprus, he wouldn’t have been doing his job.
But it gnawed at him nonetheless. Cross as Charles had been, he’d refrained from saying what they both knew to be true: this wasn’t the first time an MI5 officer had been put in danger in a case where Fane was involved. As they both knew to their cost, the previous time it had proved fatal, arguably because Fane had not been entirely forthcoming.
There must have been a leak somewhere, one that had almost resulted in Liz being killed. Where could it have been? he thought. Not within Vauxhall Cross, he was confident of that. He doubted there were more than four people in his building who knew Liz was working on the case. And only two, himself and Bruno Mackay, knew any detail of what she was doing.
No, the leak must have come from outside. And there was only one place, other than Thames House, where he’d talked. Grosvenor Square.
He picked up his phone and dialled an internal extension. ‘Bruno, it’s Geoffrey. Got a minute?’
Mackay arrived in short order, spruce in a blazer and club tie. Fane said, ‘Someone’s had a go at Liz Carlyle -ran her down.’
For once Bruno Mackay’s aplomb deserted him. He looked horrified.
‘I know, I know,’ said Fane, ‘it’s perfectly awful. She’s hurt, but it looks as if she’ll recover. The thing is, she’s been working on this Syrian business, and I think somewhere, somehow, somebody’s talked. Nothing else explains it. I’m wondering if it could be Grosvenor Square. Maybe just loose talk, possibly something more sinister. Either way, we need to plug that leak and do it quickly. I want you to take a closer look at young Mr Brookhaven – check him out very thoroughly. His last posting was Damascus, and he may have more contacts than we realise. If you need more resources let me know. But keep it strictly to yourself at present. All right?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Bruno, his composure restored. ‘I’ll get onto it now.’ Fane knew he didn’t think much of the Americans. ‘Let me know how Liz gets on. I’d like to take her some grapes.’ He grinned.
As Mackay got up to go, Fane said, ‘Be discreet, Bruno. I don’t want Bokus in here like some mad bull.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Sami Veshara was frightened. Not for his safety – since the attempted hijacking of his car, he’d surrounded himself with bodyguards – but for his liberty. He had an appointment that morning at Paddington Green police station, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was about.
When Chaloub hadn’t rung at midnight as scheduled, Sami hadn’t been particularly perturbed: sometimes the trip from Holland took longer than expected; once Hanoush had got the tides wrong and the trawler had been forced to wait four hours before disembarking its passengers.
But when Sami had still not heard from them by breakfast, he knew something was up. He began to make inquiries, and by suppertime he’d learned that Chaloub and Hanoush were both in custody. The ‘cargo’ too had been impounded, and he’d had an angry call from the owner of a Manchester massage parlour demanding to know where his new employees were.
It had still been a shock to be asked to come in for ‘a chat’ the following morning. Why Paddington Green? Wasn’t that where terrorists were questioned? A big solid block of a place under the flyover of the A40 as it tipped down to Marylebone Road – Sami passed it every day on his way home – which seemed to feature on the television each time the Prevention of Terrorism Act was pressed into service.
He left home in plenty of time, wearing one of his smartest Milan suits and a Hermes tie. One could not be intimidated, he decided. He was driven by his new chauffeur, Pashwar, the son of an Afghan refugee who owed him a favour. Behind them another car followed closely, a Mercedes sedan with two of his cousin Mahfuz’s heavies. They were probably armed, but Sami made it a point not to know.
As he got out of the car at the police station, he scanned the pavement nervously, before realising that this was probably the one place in London where he was unlikely to be attacked. Above him, cars thundered along Westway.
Inside, he gave his name to the receptionist, and immediately a uniformed policewoman led him down two flights of stairs, along a corridor bleakly lit by overhead bulbs, to a small, windowless room containing a table, two chairs, and nothing else. She closed the door behind her as she left.
Claustrophobic at the best of times, Sami had a moment of panic, wondering if he would ever breathe fresh air and see grass again. This modern-day dungeon seemed designed to play on his fears. Pull yourself together, he told himself sternly; this is England, not Saudi Arabia. I can always ask to see my lawyer.
He waited twenty minutes, sitting on one of the hard chairs, growing more anxious every minute. The door opened and a man came in. Middle-aged, conservative suit, his face businesslike but not unfriendly. He was carrying a folder. Sami relaxed just a touch.
‘Mr Veshara, my name is Walshaw. Thank you for coming in.’ The man sat down on the other side of the table and looked at Sami, his eyes fixed and expressionless. Sami shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps he was not so friendly after all.
‘I am happy to help in any way I can,’ said Sami. He tried to make a joke – ‘You know, to assist the police in your inquiries.’
The man gave a fleeting smile but said, ‘I’m not a policeman, Mr Veshara. They’ll be along in a little while to speak to you. I think you may know what it’s about.’
‘’No,’ Sami said theatrically, turning both hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I see,’ said Walshaw. He fixed Sami with a stare of such intensity that the Lebanese felt unnerved. The man’s eyes seemed to look right through him like an X-ray.
Then Walshaw shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, of course. From what I understand, the police think you have a good
