‘Christ.’ Holm felt his knees weaken and moved to a spare workstation. He slumped down in the chair and logged in using a fingerprint scanner. ‘There was nothing, Farakh, nothing.’
‘Sure.’ Javed held his hands up. ‘You don’t have to convince me, sir. You couldn’t have done any more.’
You. Holm noted the word. Javed was distancing himself. He didn’t want to be caught in the sticky web that was awaiting Holm.
Javed got up from his station and walked off, and Holm turned to the far wall where a towering bank of screens showed news reports, live operation maps, stock prices and currency rates. A glance at one of the screens told Holm the Tunisian dinar was under pressure. The markets were spooked. Tourists had only just begun to return to the country after the atrocities a few years back at the Bardo National Museum and the resort of Sousse. Now they would stop coming once more and the foreign exchange the country needed would dry up.
Holm refocused on his own screen. He needed to rustle up some kind of supporting document. Bullet points. A graphic or two. Concluding remarks. He bent to the keyboard and flicked his fingers over the keys.
‘Stephen.’ His name sounded cold and harsh, an icicle spiking into his right ear. He turned to see Fiona Huxtable beside him. ‘Nice of you to join us.’
Holm had more than ten years on Huxtable but he couldn’t help thinking of his boss as a stern headmistress, him as the naughty schoolboy. The image was one he was sure she cultivated. Her stick-thin body was always bulked out by a thick tweed jacket and skirt, but whatever she wore did little to disguise her angular figure. Bony, a colleague of Holm’s had described her as, and he hadn’t only been talking about Huxtable’s appearance.
‘I came as soon as I heard.’ Holm began to rise out of politeness, but Huxtable’s hand pressed down on his shoulder and held him in his seat. ‘Seven dead. Not good.’
He didn’t know why he’d said that. The casualty numbers only served to compound his error and that it was not good was bloody obvious.
‘The latest figure is nine.’ Huxtable’s gaze flicked to a nearby screen and then back at Holm’s monitor. She appeared to be reading the three bullet points Holm had managed to think up. ‘Unsubstantiated reports? Is that the best you can do, Stephen?’
Holm opened his mouth to say something. He was aware of Huxtable’s hand still resting on his shoulder. A reminder she was in control. That he was in her grasp.
‘My office in one hour with something better than this crap.’ She removed her hand. ‘And don’t even think of mentioning you-know-who, OK?’
With that she was gone, leaving Holm in a sweat as he struggled to add something meaningful to his document. Something that didn’t involve you-know-who.
Chapter Three
You-know-who was the cause of all of Holm’s sleepless nights and most of his problems. He blamed you-know-who for his increased drinking, the loss of half of his hair, for his marriage break-up, for the fact he lived in a one-bedroom flat with a fridge stuffed with ready meals, for his lack of supportive colleagues at work, for his failure to progress up the ladder in the last few years. And now for this farce which could well lead to his dismissal. Of course he’d be offered the chance to take early retirement, the easy way to sanitise the whole unpleasant business. After many years distinguished service… blah, blah, blah. There’d be a short announcement in the internal daily briefing, a glass of sherry in Huxtable’s office, the meeting possibly graced with the presence of the head of MI5, Thomas Gillan. Back in the situation room a couple of bowls of hastily purchased snacks would be placed on a desk, and an envelope would be handed over. Inside a card signed by everyone and an Amazon gift voucher because nobody could be bothered with leaving presents these days. A few words would be said. There’d be some reminiscing about the good old days but nobody would mention the reason he was leaving the service. Nobody would mention you-know-who.
You-know-who. MI5 code name RAVEN. Street name – almost certainly an alias – Taher.
Taher…
The name hissed through Holm’s thoughts, the two syllables drawn out as if part of a Siren’s song calling him to his doom. Time and again he’d been beguiled by the name, led astray, his attention diverted from other mundane but important tasks. He could almost hear the whispers at his leaving do. A nod and a wink as he turned his back to reach for a bread stick.
‘The poor boy lost it, don’t you know? Became obsessed.’
‘Obsessed?’
‘Yes. Focused on chasing one individual instead of disrupting the network. Old style. Couldn’t update himself to deal with the reality of the post-9/11 world. Analogue not digital. Social circles rather than social media. So sad.’
A pause. Then a joke at Holm’s expense.
‘Not that the old boy had much of a social circle. Somewhat of a loner, wasn’t he?’
Muttering in agreement. A laugh. Some management speak and then a segue into a safer topic, perhaps football or cricket or the extramarital dalliances of a celebrity couple that someone in Five had inadvertently picked up on a phone intercept.
Somewhat of a loner.
With a tinge of bitterness Holm had to admit it was true. He hadn’t played the game in either the police force or the security services. No union, no Masonic handshake, he hadn’t gone to the right school or university, and he definitely wasn’t what they called clubbable.
He batted away the daydream and focused on his document, but nothing came to mind except a bunch of lame excuses, none of which would wash with Huxtable.
Sod it.
He looked up from his terminal and across at the screens. One news channel showed the centre of Tunis teeming with military personnel, another a beach full
