But something was wrong with that – Liz simply didn’t believe twenty would be coming in one shipment, one lorry perhaps. Not to work at Slim’s at any rate, where Halliday had explained only half a dozen women were on the game upstairs in the club. And even if Jackson was involved in trafficking women for other places, twenty pieces seemed an improbably large number at one time and an odd term (‘pieces’) to use, even if the caller was not speaking in his native language and was trying to be discreet. And wasn’t it rather strange to say he was no expert, if he was talking about women?
So what on earth was Jackson importing? If it was guns, why only twenty, if they were then going to be re-sent to… God knows where? Was this what Milraud had been talking to him about?
She pondered all this as she walked along to the A4 Ops Room. Inside Wally Woods and two colleagues sat, headphones on, in front of a row of TV monitors. Wally was talking into the microphone on the desk and waved her to the battered old leather sofa just inside the door that was kept specially for visiting case officers. The Ops Room was Wally’s domain and no one was welcome when an operation was going on except by invitation.
‘Which side of Pentonville Road?’ he asked the microphone.
Over the speaker a voice Liz recognised as Daley, a veteran surveillance officer, replied, ‘South side and walking fast.’
‘I have him,’ said another voice, more muffled.
Wally kept his eye on the screen but spoke to Liz. ‘This Zara’s led us a pretty dance. He walked all the way to Great Portland Street station and went into the Tube. We had to rush in there, but then the bugger came out again and caught a bus.’
‘Do you think he saw you?’
Wally shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. You told us to take extra care and we have. I just think he’s been trained, and he’s being extra careful too.’
‘Where did he get off?’
‘In Euston Road, by the British Library. He hung about for a bit – I think he wanted to see who else got off the bus. None of us was on it – I’ve got three cars on this so he was easy enough to follow. It must be the only time in my life I’ve been grateful for the traffic on the Euston Road.’
As they spoke, video pictures appeared on one of the TV screens of Zara walking up the Pentonville Road, just past King’s Cross. It was a hazy picture, taken through the window of one of the surveillance cars, but Liz could clearly see the tall, dark-suited figure striding along the pavement. She watched as it turned and moved towards the entrance of a large building set back from the road. A group of young people were talking by the front door.
Maureen Hayes’s voice came through the speaker. ‘Zara entering a building. It looks like some sort of college. Groups of young people outside.’
Wally replied, ‘Send Tia up to check it out.’
And as Liz watched, a young woman in a hooded jacket and headscarf walked to the front of the building. She threaded her way through the groups of chattering young people, went up the steps and inside.
She was gone about five minutes, and when she came out she said, ‘It’s called Dinwiddy House.’
Wally turned to Liz, who shrugged. Tia was saying, ‘It’s a hostel for students at London University. Most of them are at SOAS – School of African and Oriental Studies.’
It made sense. Zara was young, Middle Eastern, like any number of SOAS students.
‘Any sign of Zara?’ asked Wally.
‘No. There’s a common room and bar on the ground floor but I couldn’t see him in there, though it was pretty crowded and I might have missed him. But I think he went upstairs. That’s where their rooms are.’
Wally turned his swivel chair to face Liz. ‘You want us to ask around a bit? Try and find out if he lives there?’
Liz shook her head. ‘Too risky, especially if he comes downstairs again when you’re asking questions. But I’d like an eye kept overnight, just in case he’s only visiting. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend there. Can you do that?’
Wally nodded. ‘It’ll be another team but I’ll make sure they’re well briefed. What do you want us to do if he leaves? Follow him?’
Liz nodded. ‘Yes, please. And keep Peggy posted. I’ve got to go out now to debrief Milraud.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks, Wally. That’s a great help. Now I’ve got some chance of finding out who this Zara is.’
Two hours later, after Peggy had made a series of urgent phone calls resulting in a senior university administrator being rooted out of his home to consult the file in his office, Liz knew. Zara did indeed live in the hostel known as Dinwiddy House, and was studying for a Masters degree in International Relations at SOAS. He was a Yemeni called Samara and was in the UK on a temporary students’ visa. The address given on his visa application and supplied to the college was in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. He hadn’t drawn himself to the attention of the college authorities in any way and a search of the records in MI5 and MI6 came up ‘No Trace’. But then, thought Liz ruefully, if this guy was any good, that’s what you’d expect.
Chapter 29
The Royal Standard Hotel was in an undistinguished street between Victoria Station and Buckingham Palace. Though it billed itself as ‘situated in the shadow of Buckingham Palace’, it was in fact much nearer to Victoria Station. An anonymous sort of place, part of a small chain, it provided everything a mid-level businessman or official visiting London might require: wi-fi, cable TV with ‘adult’ films, in-room tea and coffee, minibar and even an ironing board and iron. All of its 361 rooms were furnished identically, and carpeted and upholstered in variations on the colour theme of beige and maroon.
All in all it was the sort of place where people could come and go without anyone taking much notice. Which is why, a few years ago, Liz Carlyle’s colleagues had identified it as perfect for the sort of rendezvous they occasionally needed to conduct. The manager had been recruited as what was called a ‘facilities agent’, to provide a room or rooms as required, without asking any questions about who might occupy them or what might go on in them. In return he received a present at Christmas and the satisfaction of knowing that he was helping Her Majesty’s Government.
On this occasion, two pairs of interconnecting rooms had been booked on different floors. In one of the pair on the eighth floor, Liz Carlyle was sitting, waiting for Dicky Soames, the burly A4 officer and member of the team ‘minding’ Milraud while he was in London, to produce his charge, so she could find out what had happened at the meeting on Primrose Hill.
There was a light tap on the door and a deep cockney voice said, ‘Here we are. OK to come in?’ Milraud entered followed closely by Soames, who closed the door firmly behind him and put the lock on.
‘I’ll be next door, if you want anything,’ said Soames, and he went into the other room leaving the intercommunicating door slightly ajar.
Liz motioned the Frenchman to one of the two chairs. She thought how tired and strained he looked. Much more so than when she’d first met him in the safe house in Montreuil.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked. ‘There’s tea or coffee, or a drink from the minibar if you’d prefer.’
Milraud shook his head. ‘Non, merci,’ he said shortly. He had kept on his mackintosh, and he looked chilled, even though it was warm in the room.
Liz switched the kettle on, and as she waited for it to boil, she pointed out of the window at the coloured lights strung across the street. ‘Christmas starts earlier every year,’ she said cheerfully. Milraud glanced out and nodded, but he seemed a million miles away. Liz took her time making coffee for herself and chatting inconsequentially, hoping to relax the man a little.