With the courtesies done, the group began to work their way through the overseas reports. Geoffrey Fane started the ball rolling. A tall, aquiline figure-like a heron in chalk-stripes, Liz had always thought-Fane had built his career on MI6’s Middle Eastern desk, where he had acquired a reputation for unswerving ruthlessness. His subject was the ITS-the Islamic Terror Syndicate-the generic title for groups like Al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and the myriad others like them.
When Fane had finished speaking he darted his patrician gaze leftwards at his younger colleague. Leaning forward, Bruno Mackay shot his cuffs and addressed his notes. “If I might return briefly to my old stomping ground,” he began, “Pakistan liaison has reported a sighting of Dawood al Safa. Their report suggests that al Safa has visited a training camp near Takht-i-Suleiman in the tribal north-west of the country, and may have made contact with a group known as the Children of Heaven, who are suspected of involvement in the murder of a US embassy guard in Islamabad six months ago.”
To Liz’s acute irritation Mackay pronounced the Islamic names in such a way as to make it abundantly clear that he was an Arabic speaker. Just what was it with these people? she wondered. Why did they all think they were T. E. Lawrence, or Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient? A complicit flicker from Wetherby told her that he shared her sentiments on the matter.
“Our feeling at Vauxhall is that this activity is significant,” continued Mackay urbanely. “Two reasons. One: al Safa’s principal role is as a bag man, moving cash between Riyadh and the Asian terror groups. If he’s on the move, then something nasty’s in the pipeline. Two: the Children of Heaven are one of the few ITS groups thought to have included Caucasians in their ranks. A Pakistani Intelligence Service surveillance report from about six months ago indicated the presence in the camp of, and I quote, ‘two, perhaps three individuals of identifiably Western appearance.’ ”
He extended spatulate, sun-browned fingers on the table in front of him. “Our concern-and we’ve communicated this over the weekend to all stations-is that the opposition may be about to deploy an invisible.”
He let the remark hang for a moment. The calculated theatricality of his delivery did not lessen the impact of his statement. An “invisible” was CIA-speak for the ultimate intelligence nightmare: the terrorist who, because he or she is an ethnic native of the target country, can cross its borders unchecked, move around that country unquestioned, and infiltrate its institutions with ease. An invisible was the worst possible news.
“That being the case,” Mackay continued smoothly, “we would suggest that Immigration be brought into the loop.”
The Home Office man frowned. “What’s your view on likely targets and the timing of all this? We should probably up the security status of all government buildings from black to red, but that causes administrative problems, and I don’t want to move on it too soon.”
Mackay glanced at his notes. “Pakistan is already checking all passenger lists out of the country, with particular reference to… let’s see, non-business visitors under thirty-five whose stay has exceeded thirty days. So they’re very much on to the case. No idea of targets yet, but we’ll keep our ears very close to the ground.” He looked across at Wetherby, and then at Liz. “And we need to stay in constant touch with our agents this end, too.”
“That’s already happening,” said Wetherby. “If they hear about anything, so will we, but so far…” He glanced interrogatively at the GCHQ rep, who pursed his lips non-committally.
“We’ve had a bit more background noise than usual. No specific indicators though. Nothing approaching the traffic you’d associate with a major operation.”
Liz looked covertly around the room. The Special Branch officers, as usual, had remained silent. Their habitual attitudes were those of busy men whose time was being wasted in a Whitehall talking-shop. But both were now sitting upright and alert.
Her eyes met Mackay’s. He didn’t smile or look away but stared straight back. She continued her scan of the room but knew that the MI6 officer was still watching her. Felt the slow, cold burn of his gaze.
Wetherby, in turn-his tired, forgettable features voided of all expression-was watching Mackay. The circuit held for a long, taut moment and then Fane cut in with a general question about MI5 agents in the UK’s militant Islamic communities. “Just how close to the action are these people of yours?” he demanded. “Would they be amongst the need-to-knows if a major ITS operation was being mounted against this country?”
Wetherby let Liz field it. “In most cases probably not,” she said, knowing from experience that optimism cut no ice with Fane. “But we’ve got people in the right orbits. Time will see them move closer to the centre.”
“Time?”
“We’re not in a position to accelerate the process.”
She had decided not to mention Marzipan. The agent would have been a strong card to play but he had yet to prove his worth. Or, for that matter, his courage. At this early stage in his career as an agent she wasn’t prepared to reveal him-certainly not to a circle as wide as this one.
Wetherby, inscrutable, was tapping his lips with a pencil, but Liz could tell from his posture that he considered her decision the correct one. She had not allowed Fane to bump her into a statement that could later be held against them.
And Mackay, she realised with a faint sinking sensation, was still watching her. Was she unknowingly transmitting some kind of bat-like sexual sonar? Or was Mackay one of those men who felt that he had to establish a complicity with every woman who crossed his path, so that afterwards he could tell himself that he could have had her if he’d wanted? Either way, she felt more irritated than flattered.
Above their heads one of the tube lights began to flicker. It seemed to signal the meeting’s end.
3
In Trumper’s in Jermyn Street, a mile to the northwest, Peregrine Lakeby settled himself into the well-stuffed comfort of his chair. With some satisfaction, he surveyed himself in the angled mirror. It was not easy to look elegant while a barber fussed around you with his towels and brushes, but despite his sixty-two summers Perry Lakeby congratulated himself that he managed it. Not for him the thread veins, pouchy eyes and multiple chins that rendered his contemporaries so physically unappealing. Lakeby’s gaze was a clear sea-blue, his skin was taut, his hair a backswept gunmetal mane.
Why he should have escaped time’s attrition when others had not, Perry had no idea. He ate and drank, if not to excess, then certainly without moderation. The closest he got to exercise was the odd bout of adultery and, in season, a few days’ shooting. If pressed, he would probably have attributed his well-preserved appearance to good breeding. The Lakebys, he was fond of informing people, descended from the Saxons.
“Good journey up to town, sir?”
Perry raised a dyspeptic eyebrow. “Not too bad, barring the mobile phone louts. People seem to think nothing of broadcasting the details of their ghastly lives to the world. And at balls-aching bloody length, too.”
Mr. Park’s scissors flickered. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Back to the country tonight, is it?”
“ ‘Fraid so, yes. My wife’s got people coming over. The most boring couple in Norfolk, but there you go.”