Exit wound ns-12 Page 11

  Julian put down his mug. His expression was sympathetic, but his body language was confident and assured. On the phone, he sounded like he’d shared a school desk with Dex. Maybe he had. If I hadn’t had to keep this job from the others, I might have asked old Biggles if they’d ever run the 100 metres together.

  I got the brew in both hands and did the squaddie trick of testing my tongue against the mug. Gulp straight from a metal mug and you could peel the roof off your mouth. It was too hot. That was a good sign. It meant I was trusted with scalding liquids.

  He looked at me with concern. ‘It wasn’t us who wanted you lifted, Nick. I hope you know that.’

  I held up the cuffs. ‘What about these, mate?’

  ‘In case you misunderstood why you’re here.’

  ‘You got any water? I’m gagging here.’

  He looked over my shoulder and nodded.

  I shifted on the hard seat. ‘They’re both dead – so’s Spag.’

  For a moment, he looked defeated. I knew he wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Why would he have compromised the job before the end?

  ‘I guess it made sense for them to drop the four of us after we delivered. The three bar they paid us in advance is peanuts compared to what they’ve got now.’

  I stopped talking shop as the door opened and Ginger delivered two bottles of Tesco’s own sparkling and a couple of white plastic cups. Fuck knows why – everything was being recorded and there were plenty of people listening in. ‘Where am I, Julian?’

  He gave Ginger a nod. He seemed a bit confused, having a white guy in these cells. ‘Paddington.’

  That made sense. Out came the keys as Ginger was given the go-ahead to unlock.

  Julian had recruited me immediately after Tenny’s death. Up until then, Tenny had been Julian’s man on the crew. He’d applied to join the Security Service when he’d finished his time. This was to have been his early entry job. Red Ken and Dex hadn’t had a clue what was going on. All they knew was that they were getting fronted by Spag, and it was a commercial job for their own slice of the world’s best steak. Then Tenny’d got zapped, and that was why I was here.

  I’d accepted the job on the same condition that Tenny had: Red Ken and Dex would never be prosecuted, and they – we – would lose in the Isle of Man whatever cash was left. I had a document tucked away to prove it, signed by the prime minister himself. As I’d told Red Ken at the mall, I was looking out for them both. Mates have to cover each other’s back, because no one else will. I just wished I’d done a better job of it.

  My task had been simple: follow the gold, find out who handled it, find out what it bought and from whom. Then follow the weapons, drugs, trafficked women or whatever, and find out who planned to use them. Only then would the job be compromised – once Julian could be sure of hitting everybody in the chain. There’d be a terrorist connection somewhere along the line. This job had one for sure – it was just that Julian didn’t know who, where, when or how.

  Julian had been on Spag’s case from the moment he’d come into the UK to recruit Red Ken, who had brought in Dex and Tenny. That was what the Security Service did: they protected the UK. Spag had been making hay while the war on terror’s sun was shining. The problem was, since binning the CIA he’d been doing it for the wrong side. No one could claim he wasn’t loyal: he’d had a long-running love affair with the greenback.

  I’d been part of HMG’s revised Counter-terrorism Strategy, CONTEST. It felt strange to be part of a strategy. Its four strands, known as the four Ps, were:

  Pursue terrorists wherever they are and stop terrorist attacks;

  Prevent people from becoming terrorists or supporting violent extremism;

  Protect the UK by strengthening our defence against terrorism; and

  Prepare to respond to an attack to lessen its impact.

  The first P was where I came in.

  Ginger left the room, still looking a bit perplexed. The last time the high-security cells at Paddington Green had played host to white faces, they’d had Irish accents.

  With some Tesco’s own tipped into the brew I could start getting the muddy liquid down my neck.

  Julian sat there, watched and waited. I liked and trusted him, and you didn’t get many of those to the pound. In all the dealings I’d had with him so far, he’d played it absolutely straight. He was the one who’d pushed for the MOU, the memorandum of understanding covering their immunity from prosecution. He might just have been an excellent conman who’d fuck me over like the rest of these people always had – but my instincts told me he was a good guy in a world full of bottom-feeders.

  I knew what he was waiting for. ‘It was a French-built Dassault Falcon. The reg was RF89702.’

  He didn’t have to write anything down. He had people to do that for him.

  ‘I had to be careful not to piss off Spag or the lads by banging on and asking too much.’ I took another sip. ‘But, Jules, I saw a face.’

  Go on.

  I explained everything that had happened on the ground. I went through the whole job, finishing with the face at the cargo door and the shoot-out. I even came close to telling him that not all the gold had left the country, but something held me back. Maybe I sensed he didn’t want to know. A man like Julian would always feel he had to do the right thing. The cash might be pissed against a wall via some MP’s expense account, but he would have done his duty.

  ‘How did the UAE ping us?’

  ‘Spicciati was flagged up by their internal security. They don’t have too many illusions about him. They pinged him playing golf with three Brits and came to us after finding out where you were staying.

  ‘We’ve done a deal with them. They don’t want any adverse publicity or talk of anti-terror operations within their borders. They still have no idea about the gold. They were supposed to lift all three of you so we could bring you back here for questioning. We hoped they wouldn’t get you until after the gold had left the country. That would keep the UAE happy, while removing any potential problem and still keeping the operation covert.’

  ‘You going to try and find the lads’ bodies?’

  He’d known Red Ken and Dex even less well than I knew Sherry, but I could tell he was genuinely upset about them. ‘If the bodies were left at the strip they would have been found by now. Anything picked up by UAE will have been made to disappear. They don’t want anything to dull their shine. But the guys who killed them probably took them in the aircraft for op sec. I’m afraid I don’t think we’ll ever see them again.’

  ‘What about next of kin? How are you going to cover it?’

  ‘The normal, I suppose: no knowledge of anything, and if the bodies show up the Foreign Office will put it down to criminal activity.’ Julian got to his feet. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and into your own clothes. I’ll see if we can get the ball rolling for the Canadian couple. I’ll be back soon.’

  He got up but didn’t turn for the door. ‘Nick, I’m very sorry about Red and Dex. I know you all went way back.’

  ‘Yep, we did, mate. Let’s find these fuckers, yeah?’

  41

  Julian came back into the interview room about two hours later with a pile of blue folders under his arm. ‘Nice work, Nick. Nice work.’ He dropped them onto the table as he sat down. ‘We know who owns the Falcon. Well, which country. It’s the Federation.’

  I tried not to laugh because he didn’t. ‘Captain Kirk at the wheel?’

  I knew he meant Russia, but I was feeling a lot better now after my shit, shave, shower, and getting back into my own clothes – and, of course, after the full English in the police cafe upstairs. All my stuff had been packed and brought from the hotel room. My pink golfing shirt looked a bit out of place in the interrogation room, but not as much as Julian’s suit and blue striped shirt with white collar and cuffs.

  ‘At the helm, actually, I think you’ll find.’ He shoved the folder across to me. ‘Space, the final frontier…’

  I leafed
through endless pictures of Middle Eastern males – posing, swimming, eating, alone and in family groups. ‘I’m looking for the face, right?’

  ‘Correct. We’ve tracked the Falcon to Tehran. So these-’ he slammed his hand onto the folders ‘- these are Iranians who we believe have connections with the Russians. Russian arms trade, terrorism, you name it. Go through them, see what you come up with.’

  He stood up and left.

  There must have been a couple of hundred photographs, but it didn’t take long to go through them. Just as well. Julian was back within thirty minutes with more. By then I had just a handful of pictures spread out in front of me and the rest were piled up on the table next to my empty coffee cup.

  He sat down next to me.

  I’d picked out a selection of faded black-and-whites of a man in his twenties with a full head of curly hair. The focus was fuzzy, but the clothes and winged American pimpmobile he was posing against pegged it to the seventies.

  ‘You sure, Nick?’

  I nodded. I’d never forget that face – proud cheekbones, a big Roman nose, and those eyes… ‘These must have been taken thirty years ago – I reckon he must be in his sixties now – but the eyes haven’t changed. Yeah, this is almost certainly the man I saw… how many nights ago?’

  ‘You’ve been in transit two days.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  I looked up at the camera. ‘Any chance of another brew?’ I gave the universal gesture.

  Julian stared down at our man. He tapped one of the pictures with a well-manicured finger. ‘We don’t know his name. We call him Altun. It’s Farsi for “golden”. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you lads come up with them?’

  ‘I blame the computer – it just spews them out. The Americans are using the same codename.’ He raised his bottle of Tesco’s sparkling. ‘Here’s to the Special Relationship.

  ‘This is the last known picture of him.’ He tapped it with a fingernail. ‘Taken in Tehran, just before the Islamic Revolution.’

  The cell door opened and Ginger came in with two proper mugs and a couple of mini-packets of ginger nuts. I was still in a good mood. ‘Family recipe?’

  He laughed. He was all right. I’d had a brew with him in the canteen over breakfast. He’d even apologized for giving my wrists the good news.

  Julian wasn’t one for distractions. ‘He was a student when Khomeini took power in ’seventy-nine. He spent four years piecing together documents that the Shah had shredded before he fled. Imagine working on the world’s biggest jigsaw puzzle, day after day.’

  ‘So what’s he doing now, on a Russian aircraft? Doesn’t sound good, mate.’

  Julian’s jaw hardened as he opened one of his new folders. ‘He’s Iran’s backroom negotiator. He makes the deals with the Taliban, Iraqi insurgents, Hezbollah – any extremist group that needs training, support, weapons. In fact, anyone Iran supports against the West.’ He passed over the folder. ‘We have a big problem, Nick. That aircraft is not just any Russian aircraft. It’s Russian government – hence the RF marking. That would be bad enough, but worse still, the plane really belongs to M3C.’

  ‘The rapper? He a mate of yours?’

  The most recent folder was brimming with brochures. Like any other company on the planet with something to sell, Moscow Missile Manufacturing Complex didn’t hold back on the glossy marketing bumph. The only difference was that M3C wasn’t flogging shower units or timeshares by the Black Sea.

  We sat there in silence. I was sure we were thinking the same thing. Had Saddam’s doors been used as payment for some of this shit? If so, where was it going to end up, and who was going to be on the receiving end?

  Julian grimaced. ‘Scary thought, isn’t it? Can you imagine a C-130 full of troops or an Apache getting shot down over Kandahar? Or missiles coming into this country, taking out commercial flights on their way into Heathrow? The good citizens of Putney won’t be too pleased if a giant Airbus comes down their chimney.’

  I dunked my ginger nut and gave it a munch. ‘Not good, mate, not good. But I’m in north London. I don’t think I’m on a flight path.’

  He wasn’t about to let himself be thrown off course. ‘It’s becoming increasingly obvious that the US cannot stabilize Afghanistan or Pakistan. This company’s activities could result in a mountain of body bags. If domestic pressure made Obama pull out, China would close its borders with Pakistan and establish a Pak-Taliban pact. Iran would then pull out all the stops in Afghanistan, just as it has in Iraq. And nuclear India? They won’t just stand by and watch. They’d be forced to take action against a nuclear Pakistan.’

  He turned down my offer of a biccie. ‘Then we all bunker down and wish we were born two hundred years ago.’

  ‘You’d have been singing “Old Man River”.’

  I finally got a smile. ‘While we’re on the subject of slavery, I have a job for you. More CONTEST.’

  I didn’t reply, but I didn’t have to.

  ‘The Falcon landed in Tehran. There were no stopovers, so that’s where the gold was taken. There’s an arms fair starting there in three days, and M3C is an exhibitor. You’re the only one who might be able to make a positive ID of our prime suspect. I want you to find this guy Altun and get me an up-to-date photograph. I want to know who he meets, where and why. Maybe then we can find out what’s being sold and to whom.’

  Julian went into smile overdrive. ‘Today Paddington. Tomorrow Tehran. We’ll finish my briefing here, then there’s someone across town who needs your full attention.’

  ‘Can’t I go home first and get some real gear on?’ I tugged at my polo shirt.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Trinny and Susannah won’t be there.’

  42

  DIS building, London

  Sunday, 3 May

  1430 hrs

  We walked the three miles from Paddington Green to Whitehall. After two days of incarceration, Julian thought I’d want to stretch my legs. While we were at it, he briefed me on the DIS and Squadron Leader Gavin Kettle.

  According to their website, the mission of the Defence Intelligence Staff was to provide ‘timely intelligence products, assessments and advice to the Ministry of Defence to guide decisions on policy and commitment and employment of the UK’s armed forces, to inform defence procurement decisions and to support military operations’. Alongside MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, it went on, DIS also contributed to the UK’s threat assessment picture at any given time. Despite the general cutbacks, the DIS still seemed to be relatively well resourced.

  ‘Just don’t mention weapons of mass destruction,’ Julian had said. ‘They still can’t see the funny side of that particular load of bollocks.’

  If this man ever did make it to the top, the Queen could sleep easy in her bed at night. The security of her dominions would be in good hands.

  ‘You ever had dealings with them?’

  I shook my head. Not in ten years with the Regiment, or the same again as a deniable operator.

  ‘Well, they have in excess of four thousand staff on their books. More than six hundred are threat analysts. They’re good at what they do.’

  Julian didn’t spot the box that had been left a couple of feet inside Squadron Leader Kettle’s doorway. He only stopped himself falling by shoulder-charging a filing cabinet. A couple of box files crashed to the floor, spilling old aircraft magazines across the well-worn carpet tiles.

  I came in behind him. The office, without air-conditioning, smelt like a teenage boy’s bedroom, right down to the lingering whiff of illegal nicotine.

  A stern-faced man in his early forties knelt to pick up the mags with the reverence of the obsessive collector. He wore a check flannelette shirt and brown tie that reminded me of the bed sheets I used to have as a kid. A half-eaten prawn sandwich lay next to an old-fashioned light box on his desk. Strips of film were scattered across the backlit glass. I’d thought transparencies had gone out with the Ark. Timely intelligence products? Binning the 35mm an
d going digital would have been a good place to start.

  The squadron leader finished gathering up his mags, then retrieved the upturned box and set it on his desk. Using both hands, he carefully removed something resembling a mirror, roughly the size of a jam-pot lid, attached to a random collection of cogs and springs from an ancient grandfather clock.

  He held it up to the window and gave it the once-over.

  Double-glazing muffled the rumble of traffic and squeals from the excited Italian teenagers we’d passed minutes earlier as they jumped over the lions at the bottom of Nelson’s column and posed for each other’s camera phones. The stone of the plinths matched the colour of Kettle’s classic RAF handlebar moustache.

  Thirty seconds had passed without any form of verbal or eye contact between us. Maybe the squadron leader wasn’t too happy about being called into the office on a weekend.

  Julian tried to break the ice. ‘What’s that thing?’

  Kettle glanced up and peered at us both for the first time. ‘That thing is the seeker-head of an AA-11 Archer – a Russian air-to-air missile.’

  Julian was probably as unmoved as I was, but he was better at disguising it. ‘I thought you were a surface-to-air specialist?’

  Kettle thawed a little. ‘I am. But during the nineties the Serbs adapted the AA-11 to fire from truck-mounted ground-launchers. It was surprisingly effective.’ He glanced between the seeker-head and Julian’s foot. ‘Lucky the Russians built them to last, eh?’

  I pointed at the light box. ‘Holiday snaps?’

  All Julian’s good work was undone. Kettle put the seeker-head down and stared at me. ‘You must be the chap who’s taking my place.’

  Once my MoE into Iran had been agreed, somebody senior would have told him the good news: after months of anticipation he wouldn’t, after all, be going to Tehran; his place had been taken by someone else.

  If Kettle was looking at me the way Dex had examined his plastic glass on the Emirates flight, it was with good reason. Julian had warned me that, for DIS specialists like him, field trips to events like IranEx were the culmination of years of mind-numbing analysis work that would have taken him no further than his office.