Miles remembered the British voice in the armed gang who had forced him and Bruno Mackay off the road. ‘Believe it or not, I did know that too. But tell me more.’
‘Do you know their plans?’
‘Which plans?’
‘Ah,’ said Baakrime, ‘I thought not. These British men are here only temporarily. Soon they will be returning to their country, with a small stop in Paris. I don’t think they’re going there to see the Eiffel Tower.’ He laughed. ‘And when they get to England I don’t think they’ll be training to become lawyers.’
‘What are they going to do?’ Miles demanded. Baakrime didn’t reply. Miles insisted: ‘What are these men planning to do?’
‘It’s not entirely clear,’ said Baakrime, which to Miles meant either he didn’t know or he was holding the information as a bargaining chip. The latter seemed most likely when he said, ‘I believe I can find out.’ He paused, then added, ‘If…’
‘If you can tell me when these men are going to Paris and what they are planning to do in England, then I think I may be able to help you. It will take forty-eight hours and the information will need to be checked.’
Baakrime said slowly, ‘Forty-eight hours is a long time in my position.’
‘You’ve made it this far; what’s a few more days? Get me the information I want and then I’ll set everything up. How long will it take you?’
‘I will meet you tomorrow at this time, but not here.’
‘I have a small place I keep as a safe house,’ said Miles and he gave him an address in the old city. ‘Come there tomorrow but be sure you are not followed.’
‘Trust me, my friend. I still have a few friends who look after me.’
Chapter 35
At eight o’clock the following morning Liz Carlyle, Geoffrey Fane and Andy Bokus were sitting in the basement secure room in the Grosvenor Square Embassy. Each had in front of them a copy of the message that had come in overnight from Miles Brookhaven in Sana’a, describing his meeting with Baakrime in the car park.
‘Well,’ said Bokus, looking at his two British visitors, ‘I’ve been in touch with Langley overnight. We don’t want this Donation guy, so it’s up to you. Are you prepared to have him?’
‘Come now, Andy,’ said Fane in his most patronising tone. ‘I know it’s early in the morning and you may well have been up half the night, but let’s just talk about this for a minute. As I read what Baakrime said to Brookhaven, it’s the US he wants to go to. He made no mention of the UK.’
‘He wants to get out of there before someone tops him, and I don’t suppose for a minute he’s going to turn down a passage to London. It seems to me that it’s you who stand to benefit from whatever he has to say. He’s talking about British jihadis, not American, so it’s your side who should bear the cost. That’s what I’ve advised Langley and they agree.’
There was silence for a moment. Geoffrey Fane was leaning forward on the bench with his elbows on the table and his fingertips together. Liz Carlyle knew that any meeting between these two had to begin with some sort of ritual sparring match, and she was used to biding her time until the first bout was over. It looked as though it was, so she said, ‘I think you’ll agree, Andy, that it’s crucial that we find out what Donation knows about these British jihadis he’s talking about. It seems to me that Miles has asked him all the right questions. What we don’t yet know is whether he can answer them. It’s far too early to consider giving him asylum, let alone accepting him as a defector.’
‘It’s easy for you to say that, sitting here in London,’ replied Bokus testily. ‘The guy wants an answer and he’s expecting Miles to give him one. Can he get out of the country or not? That’s what he wants to know. Miles may not be able to get him to spill his guts if he can’t give him the assurance he wants.’
‘I hear what you say,’ said Fane, ‘but you and Langley seem to have made your mind up that the answer’s No. It’s just as much in your interests as ours to find out what these jihadis are planning to do. They may be British, but how do we know they’re not planning an attack on a US target? Maybe it’s the Embassy here. You won’t look so clever if your colleagues get blown up.’
‘Give it a break, Geoffrey. Our security is better than a bunch of home-grown jihadis can breach, and you know it.’
Round two over, thought Liz as Fane turned to her. And asked, ‘Is your Service prepared to sponsor this character at the Defector subcommittee?’
Liz knew that doing that would mean making a case that Donation was likely to have information, or had already given information so valuable to the UK that he should be accepted as a defector with all the expenditure of cash and resource that that implied.
‘Not as things stand now,’ she replied. ‘They’d never accept it. I’m afraid I think we will have to rely on Miles to extract whatever information Donation has, while making no promises about his future.’
‘He’s going to love that as a brief,’ grunted Bokus.
‘Have you any better idea?’ asked Fane.
‘I’m sure he’ll do it perfectly,’ said Liz with a charming smile. I hope so, she thought to herself. If not, all we’re left with is the Jackson end of this puzzle and whatever we can get out of Antoine Milraud.
‘OK,’ said Bokus with a shrug. ‘I’ll let Miles have the good news.’
Chapter 36
It was an unprepossessing kind of place – just a small room with a little kitchen and a lavatory on the first floor above a minimarket in the old city. But it was safe. The minimarket was owned and run by the father of a longstanding and trusted CIA contact who lived in Virginia. Access to the upstairs was through the shop and under the watchful eye of its owner.
Miles and Bruno Mackay sat on a scruffy sofa gloomily contemplating a bottle of scotch and three glasses lined up on a low table in front of them. They’d read the instructions that had come in from Bokus earlier in the day.
‘God knows how they expect us to get the story out of him when we’ve got nothing to offer in return,’ Miles had said angrily.
‘I know. I sometimes wonder if our lords and masters have forgotten what it’s like at the sharp end, dealing with real people. String him along, they say, cheerfully, till he’s told you all he knows, then we’ll think about whether it’s good enough and if not we’ll throw him back to whoever’s hunting him.’
They’d made their plan: who was to start the conversation, who was to say what and when, and now they sat in silence waiting for the concealed buzzer that would indicate that their visitor was in the shop. Silence; just the sound of shopping going on downstairs and the ring of the till as purchases were made.
Time passed. Miles looked at his watch for the third time. The Yemeni was now half an hour late. They both knew not to expect punctuality in this part of the world, but how long should they wait?
‘I’m having a drink,’ said Bruno suddenly. He unscrewed the cap on the whisky bottle and poured out two generous slugs, slopping in some water from a jug.
Miles was brooding over the fact that Marilyn had sent him an email, asking if he would be her guest at a small chamber concert hosted by the Ambassador’s wife that evening. Though he wasn’t especially interested in classical music, he was still interested in Marilyn, but he’d had to decline the invitation because of this meeting. Not being able to tell her the truth about his evening plans, he’d had to give her a vague excuse, and from her reaction he’d sensed that that had been his last chance. If Baakrime wasn’t going to turn up it would be all the more galling.