They were lunching at Peggy’s desk in the open-plan office, surrounded by reference books and working papers. Liz glanced with distaste at her own lunch, a grim salad of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and a piece of rubber passing as a hard-boiled egg.
‘All right,’ she said to Peggy. ‘Let’s start with the Syrians. What do we know about their people here?’
‘Not much’, replied Peggy, ruffling through her papers. ‘I spoke to Dave Armstrong in counter terrorism, but he says the Syrians aren’t one of their priority targets, so they haven’t done any close work on them recently. And we haven’t had a counter espionage case involving them for many years. All we know is what’s on their visa applications. I’ve checked the names with European liaison and the Americans and got three possible intelligence traces.’
‘We’d better get A4 to take a look at them and get some better photographs, so we can begin to build up an idea of who we’ve got here.’
Peggy nodded and made a note.
‘Now,’ went on Liz, ‘what about these two names? How have you got on with Sami Veshara?’
‘I’ve found out quite a bit about him. He’s a Lebanese Christian who’s lived in London for about twenty years. He’s a prominent member of the Lebanese community here, and runs a very successful business importing foodstuffs from the Middle East: olives and pistachios from Lebanon, wine from the Bekaa Valley – all sorts of items, not just from Lebanon. He seems to supply virtually every Middle Eastern restaurant in London; speciality shops take his stuff, and even Waitrose carry his olives. He has a wife and five children, and he travels a lot – Lebanon, of course, but also Syria and Jordan.’
‘Politics?’
‘He doesn’t seem to have any, though he gave a lot of money to the Labour Party, and supposedly he was in line for some kind of gong until the Honours scandal erupted.’
‘Any trouble with the law?’
‘No, but he’s sailed pretty close to the wind. I talked to the Revenue, and they said they’d audited him four times in the last six years, which is pretty unusual. They wouldn’t say much, but I had the feeling they didn’t think Veshara was completely straight. His is the kind of business where cash changes hands and transactions aren’t always recorded.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Customs and Excise have been keeping an eye on him – apparently some of his shipments come in by boat.’ ‘Something wrong with that?’
‘No. But these aren’t large containers. Some of these boats are no bigger than a fishing trawler, and they’re sailing from Belgium and Holland, then offloading in East Anglia – Harwich mainly. It seems an odd way to bring in olives.’
‘What did they think he was bringing in?’
‘They wouldn’t speculate. But drugs is the obvious possibility.’
‘If they think that, they’ll be checking him out themselves. Better watch out for crossed wires. But we do need to know more.’
Peggy nodded. ‘How about you? Have you managed to locate Marcham?’
‘No. I gather he’s been away on some sort of assignment for the
‘Maybe he drinks.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Liz, slightly surprised.
‘I don’t know. Don’t all journalists drink too much?’
Liz laughed, as the phone on Peggy’s desk rang. Peggy picked it up and listened for a minute
‘Where are you?’ she said. ‘Waitrose would have been much better.’
Waitrose? What was this about? thought Liz, amused. Peggy was listening intently, then suddenly erupted. ‘No,
And then it dawned – Peggy had a boyfriend. Well blow me down, thought Liz. It had barely occurred to her that Peggy had any personal life at all; she seemed so utterly caught up in her work. Good for her.
Suddenly remembering Liz’s presence, Peggy blushed deeply, her face the colour of beetroot. ‘I have to go,’ she said tersely and put the phone down.
Liz grinned. She couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘He’s not good on vegetables, then?’
Peggy shook her head. ‘Hopeless.’
‘Still, I’m impressed if you’ve got him doing the shopping. Can he cook?’
Peggy sighed. ‘He can’t make an omelette without using every bowl and frying pan in the kitchen. Deep down he thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay. Are all men like that?’
‘By and large,’ said Liz. ‘What does he do when he’s not destroying your kitchen?’
‘He’s a lecturer in English at King’s. He’s only just started.’
‘That’s nice. How did you meet?’
‘At a talk he gave at the Royal Society of Literature. It was on John Donne – that’s Tim’s speciality. OUP are going to publish his book,’ she added proudly. ‘I asked a question, and he came up to me afterwards. He said he didn’t feel he’d answered it properly.’
I bet, thought Liz. She could imagine it: earnest but pretty Peggy, with her freckles and glasses; the worthy Tim, impressed by her clever question, but also attracted in a strictly unintellectual way. The time-honoured way of all flesh, thought Liz.
SEVEN
Wally Woods knew this depressing block of 1930s flats just off the North Circular Road. Years ago when he was a young A4 surveillance officer, starting his career, he’d often sat outside it. In those days, at the height of the Cold War, the block had been home to a group of East German intelligence officers and their families. When the wall had come down in 1989 they had melted away like snow.
Wally and A4 had moved on to other targets. New, younger surveillance officers had been recruited and now he was a team leader. Apart from his partner, Maureen Hayes, he was the only one of the team who actually remembered the Cold War. Halton Heights had moved on too, though it still looked just as down at heel. Now it was home to some Syrian diplomats and their families.
It was a quiet day for A4. For once they had no big operation on, and Wally and his team had been briefed to observe the comings and goings at Halton Heights. The briefing officer, Liz Carlyle of the counter espionage branch, had told them that this was part of establishing background information on a new target. The job was to photograph anyone going out or coming in. But if any one of three men suspected to be intelligence officers appeared – and she had handed out rather poor-quality photographs which looked as if they had come from passports or visa applications – they were to follow him and report on his movements, as well as photograph whoever he met. It was the sort of job A4 hated – vague and promising little action.
By ten a.m. on this hot, sultry morning, nothing at all had happened. Wally was happy with his position, parked in a layby outside a line of small shops at the side of the flats. He had a good view of the ends of the semi-circular drive that led to the front door. Maureen was in the launderette, one of the shops in the row, putting some old clothes from the A4 store through a wash. If the call came to move, she’d just abandon them.
From where he sat, Wally could see Dennis Rudge apparently dozing on a bench just opposite the flats, with a full view of the front door, while a few yards behind him, in a little park, the youngster of the team, Norbert Bollum – they called him Bollocks – sat on another bench reading a paper. Other members of the team were parked up in nearby streets or driving slowly around in the vicinity.
Wally yawned and looked at his watch. Another four hours before the shift ended. Then his eye caught a movement – Dennis Rudge, whose head had been sunk on his chest, had suddenly looked up.
Wally’s radio crackled. ‘There’s action at the front door. One male. I think it’s Target Alpha.’
The door of the launderette swung open. Maureen came out and got into the car beside Wally. Several streets
