‘What about you?’ Joanne replied, turning to Harry. ‘You were both with Five. Surely you’ve got contacts who might know him?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. Any friends we had have moved on. Those that haven’t won’t help.’ It wasn’t strictly true, and for two reasons: he’d already thought of calling Bill Maloney, his operational partner on several jobs. If anyone could get him a hearing, it would be Bill. But it might be at the expense of his job and Harry couldn’t do that to him. Compromising his former colleague was not an option — not unless they were right up against the wire.
The second reason highlighted a dilemma. He did have a route into the security world — a legitimate one. But it was one he didn’t want to use unless he was forced to. Any information from carded personnel would be treated as high priority until checked out. It would open up a major response over which he would have no little or no control, because the moment he made contact, the system would light up like a Christmas tree.
He pushed that idea aside. It needed to be much more focussed, to reach a man with real decision-making powers. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Vauxhall Cross or Thames House?’ The headquarters of MI6 and MI5 were both situated on the Embankment a few hundred yards from where they were sitting. But going anywhere near either of them would be like sticking their heads into the lion’s mouth. The question was, which lion and which mouth?
Joanne reacted with surprise. ‘Are you nuts? They’d slap us in a cell the moment we stepped through the door.’
‘I’m not saying we actually go there. But if we can get a message to Marshall, one he can’t ignore, he might respond.’
‘It’d have to be a good one.’ Rik balled up a napkin and dumped it in his empty mug. ‘Something that lit a bomb under his arse, otherwise, we’ll be waiting for ever. That’s if he even gets it.’
‘Oh, he’ll get it all right.’ Harry spread out his own napkin and reached for a pen. ‘What do these guys live by?’ he asked. ‘What governs their every action?’
They both looked blank. He wrote in block letters on the soft tissue, then spun it round so they could see what he’d written.
The words read: OPERATION PAMPER, followed by a row of numbers.
‘Dude,’ Rik drawled, feigning hero-worship. ‘You’re like, so
Harry smiled in appreciation. ‘I have my moments, sunshine. I have my moments.’
Joanne stared at them in wonder. ‘Would you two tell me what’s going on or is this strictly a boys-only moment?’
‘He’s giving Marshall your operation code name,’ Rik told her, ‘and a mobile where he can call us. Marshall won’t be able to resist it.’ Then he added without apparent irony, ‘These spooky-dooky types love all that stuff, like codes and numbers. If Marshall’s still around, it’ll draw him out.’
‘But they’ll trace us through the phone number,’ she pointed out.
‘I bet they won’t.’ Rik stared at Harry. ‘It’s nicked, isn’t it?’
Harry shrugged modestly. ‘It’s a spare I picked up. And we won’t be on long enough for him to get a fix. You two ready?’
He led them outside and along the street until they reached a small post office. Inside, he went to a rack of envelopes and selected two large, white A4-size envelopes and a plain white notepad. He paid for them and went to the writing counter near the window, and scrawled in large block letters the operational code name PAMPER followed by the stolen mobile phone number. He did this on two separate pieces of paper, then inserted one in each envelope and wrote on the outside. One was addressed to Major Andrew Marshall at Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, the other to Marshall at Vauxhall Cross, which housed MI6.
‘We don’t know for sure where he works or who for,’ Harry admitted, sealing the envelopes, ‘but it’s a fair guess it’s one of them. This gives us two bites at the cherry. Now we need a delivery method.’
‘How about him?’ Rik nodded towards a motorcycle courier outside. He was dressed in an orange tabard and grungy leather trousers, and lounging on his machine, chewing an apple. A stream of chatter was pouring from a radio clipped to his jacket.
‘He’ll do,’ said Harry.
Rik took some money from his wallet and reached for the envelopes. But Joanne intercepted him.
‘Let me.’ She took the money and envelopes and walked out the door. Moments later she was in conversation with the courier, who stopped chewing his apple and sat up. Seconds later, he was stuffing the two envelopes in his pouch.
‘She’s good,’ Rik said approvingly. ‘Better than me.’
‘Prettier, too. He’d have told you to get stuffed.’
They left the sandwich bar the moment the courier was out of sight and walked to Victoria Station, where they found a corner table at a cafe close to one of the exits. Then they settled down to wait. The crush of travellers was an added barrier against being spotted, or being overheard by anyone if Marshall should ring. Leaving the sandwich bar had been a simple precaution; if the courier were detained and asked where he had picked up the envelopes, it wouldn’t take long for an active unit to be out trawling the streets.
‘What if he doesn’t call?’ Joanne asked. ‘He might be away.’
‘He’ll call,’ said Harry. ‘Somehow, it’ll get through to him.’
‘You sound very sure of yourself.’ Her tone was less hostile now, as if she was warming to him after their earlier fall-out.
‘Actually, I’m not,’ he admitted frankly. ‘But when you’ve nothing else to go for, you have to follow your instincts.’
‘Is that how you work when you’re finding people — by instincts?’
‘Sometimes. Planning works, too.’
‘What he means,’ Rik interjected, setting his chair back on its rear legs, ‘is that he does the planning and I have the instinctive flashes of brilliance. It’s the flashes that work best.’ He reached out and scooped up a discarded newspaper from the next table and flicked through it.
Seconds later, he sat forward with a thump. ‘Christ, look at this.’ He dropped the newspaper flat on the table so that Harry could see the headline.
Libyan Bank Official ‘Executed’, Claims Brother
In a plot worthy of a thriller writer, Libyan bank official, Abuzeid Matuq, 42, who disappeared from his London office recently, allegedly taking with him somewhere between?100,000 and?800,000 of his employers’ money, has been found dead on a beach near Dunwich, in Suffolk. His brother, Muhammed, speaking from Paris, where he claims he is in hiding, says Matuq was set up by high-ranking enemies within the Libyan government and that he was innocent of any theft. This is their way, he claims, of dealing with people they disapprove of, and his brother Abuzeid has paid the price for running foul of somebody jealous of his success. Muhammed Matuq does not go so far as to implicate the country’s ruler, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, who is currently working hard to gain rapprochement with the West following 9/11, but points the finger at ‘elements within his inner circle of ministers’. So far, police are not commenting on whether the death is suspicious, but have confirmed that none of the missing money has yet been recovered.
‘One of the men you were looking for?’ asked Joanne.
‘Not just looking — we found him,’ said Rik. ‘Or Harry did. Trouble is, so did someone else.’
‘But why dump him in the open? It would have been easier to bury him.’
‘Someone must have decided it was better to have him surface.’ Harry shook his head, exchanging a look with Rik.
Joanne caught the silent exchange. ‘What?’
‘It felt like a pro job at the time, but there was no proof, no motive.’ Harry nodded at the newspaper. ‘But if we’re right and it was the same man who tried to kill Rafa’i, then we were used to trace Matuq so the killer could slip in and finish him off.’
‘If this killer works for the British government, why would they want to kill a Libyan banker?’
‘I’m not sure they do. The government wouldn’t sanction killing someone on behalf of the Libyans. . but someone with a vested interest might.’
‘Jennings,’ Rik muttered sourly.
Joanne looked at Harry. ‘Hang on. If the killer has been the same one all along, and he was in Iraq with Humphries and Marshall, he might know what I look like. How could he have mistaken Cath for me?’
