They emerged into the night. Kite looked up and was astonished to find that they were on the Isle of Dogs. Sixteen years earlier, the headquarters of BOX 88 had been moved from west London to an anonymous high-rise in Canary Wharf. The new Cathedral was almost within sight of the barge where Kite had been held prisoner. Across an expanse of blackened water was a glittering skyline of towering apartment blocks and corporate towers. Judging by the full illumination of the buildings and the density of passing traffic, Kite guessed that it was no later than nine o’clock in the evening. He had been on the barge for about thirty-six hours. That MI5 had failed to find him in that time was both a tribute to Torabi’s professionalism and proof that even the most sophisticated state-of-the-art technology would buckle in the presence of old-fashioned tradecraft.
‘Where are we?’ he asked, feigning ignorance. The barge was moored opposite three other vessels in a narrow rectangular inlet. A vast tarpaulin had been hauled across it, heavy enough when combined with the noise in the local area to have smothered the sound of the gunshots. ‘Is that Canary Wharf?’
‘South Quay,’ Torabi replied, securing the door. ‘The station is just over there.’
He indicated a Docklands Light Railway line running overhead a hundred metres to the south. Kite assumed that Torabi wouldn’t risk the CCTV on a train and instead had a car waiting for him on the road. To get to it, he was going to have to move from the relative seclusion of the inlet onto a pedestrianised walkway, risking exposure and possible attack in the open.
‘How many of you are left?’ Kite asked.
‘Enough,’ Torabi replied.
‘Are you all registered with the Iranian embassy?’
Torabi looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘You know why. I can arrange immunity. You release Isobel, you see your father, you can all be on a plane to Tehran in twelve hours.’
‘We no longer work for the Iranian government.’
Kite had not expected such a candid reply, but it matched his assumption that Kamran, Hossein and the other goons in Torabi’s employ were hired mercenaries, not operational MOIS.
‘So it’s just you and me out here?’ he asked.
The fact that Torabi ignored the question made Kite certain that he was working alone. Nobody was waiting for him on the outside, nobody else had emerged from the ship. All the Iranian seemed to care about was seeing his father. In that respect, he was going to be bitterly disappointed. They were standing beside a chain-link fence separating the barge from the walkway. Torabi had put the gun in the waistband of his trousers and was calling someone on a mobile.
‘Is that Hossein?’ Kite asked.
Torabi ignored him. It looked as though he was waiting for somebody to answer the call. After thirty seconds he gave up. He wore a look of concentrated frustration.
‘Was that Hossein?’ Kite asked again. ‘Was that the cottage?’
‘Not your business who it was.’
‘They’re not answering, are they? You can’t get through.’ Was that good news or bad? ‘We don’t go to see your father until Hossein knows we have a deal.’
‘We are going to Marble Arch,’ Torabi told him. ‘We are going to see my father.’
Then confirmation at last that MI5 had closed the net. As Torabi indicated that they should walk towards the station, Kite caught sight of ‘Emma’, the woman who had approached him at the funeral. She was standing seventy-five metres away on the road, holding a mobile phone. It wasn’t immediately clear that she had seen him. When she did, Kite hoped to God that she would know what to do.
61
‘This is Jannaway. I have positive ID on Kite. I say again, positive ID on Kite.’
Cara had immediately hung up on Vosse and activated the commslink in her jacket. Her breathing had quickened. Kite was on the western side of the narrow harbour, clear as day, standing next to the Middle Eastern man from the funeral.
‘Seven zero metres from South Quay station, western side of the dock near a barge, possible enemy alongside.’
‘Copy that,’ said Jason.
‘Moving to you,’ said STONES.
Cara heard a crackle of feedback in her earpiece – then the link went down.
‘Jason? KAISER? You there?’
No response. She tried again.
‘He’s with the Middle Eastern guy from the funeral. The one in the car.’
Nothing. The connection was down. Pulling the earpiece free, Cara looked to her phone, turning back to face the station in case the Iranian had spotted her. Vosse was trying her again. She rejected the call and pulled up Fred’s number. He answered on the first ring.
‘It’s Cara. My comms are down. I’m on the road beside South Quay station. Kite is below me on the dock with the guy from the funeral. Looks like it’s just the two of them.’
‘OK.’ Fred sounded very calm, very controlled. ‘I can see your position. I’ll let the others know. Stay on the line.’
Cara heard a quick exchange between Fred and Jason on comms. Kite and the Iranian were moving towards her.
‘It’s just the two of them,’ she said. ‘They’re heading this way. There’s a kind of switchback ramp beside me leading down to the quay. They’ll be on the ramp in twenty seconds.’
‘Weapon?’ Fred asked. ‘Jason in one minute. He
