She rose, stepped over the corpse and hefted the bed a little further into the room so she could get at the wall-hanging that disguised the entrance to the compartment. She lifted it and felt along the side of the entrance for possible booby traps. Satisfied that the entrance was clear, she reached inside and pulled at the cord switch. A single fluorescent strip flickered. She squeezed through the opening and immediately realised that the compartment had not just been taken from the bedroom, but ran the entire length of the flat, shaving space from three different rooms. At the far end there was another door which opened into the utility cupboard in the kitchen. Judging by the dusty impression of his hands around its edge, this was the preferred way in and out, even though it must have required Rahe to crouch down. She turned round. The compartment was oppressively narrow, measuring only four feet across, and was without natural light or ventilation. There was an air freshener at each end, yet there was still a marked staleness in the air, the odour of tedium and sweat. At the end nearest the street there was an old-fashioned army camp bed propped against the wall. Next to this was a rolled up prayer mat and some lifting weights.
Her eyes moved to a shelf where there was a cloth laid out with half an apple, an open packet of cheese crackers and a bottle of mineral water. Underneath she noticed a small red lightbulb. The wire from the socket ran down the wall and through the floor to the bookshop below. She guessed this was a warning light, operated from the cashier’s desk. But there were no other power points - nowhere to plug in a computer or charge a phone.
She moved towards two wire coat hangers on a waste pipe that ran from the flats above. On one of these was an old brown suit jacket with biro stains in the lining. She felt the jacket with a clapping motion, then stopped, delved inside the pocket and withdrew a passport and a wallet. She was about to examine these when a man’s voice called out from the bedroom. ‘Don’t shoot,’ she shouted.
She left the foetid atmosphere to find four policemen in the room, two of them wearing body armour and carrying Heckler and Koch machine guns. One of them said, ‘You have to leave the building now, Miss.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You know where to find me when you need a statement.’
‘You can tell the officer downstairs,’ came the reply.
In the event, she slipped away without being challenged and melted into the crowds that had gathered in the street to watch Harland being helped into an ambulance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Herrick rushed to St Mary’s Hospital but was told she would have to wait for news. After an hour, a woman in her thirties, still dressed for theatre, came to speak to her. Lapping’s injury was far more dangerous than Dolph’s because the bullet had grazed the femoral artery and he had been on the point of dying from blood loss when he was brought into casualty. He was now very weak, but out of danger. Dolph’s injuries would take a lot longer to heal. The collar-bone had been shattered by the impact of the 9mm bullet and his shoulder blade would need further surgery. It would be three or four months before he was able to work again. Harland was also still under anaesthetic, having had an operation to repair the damage done to the muscle tissue and skin on his back. He wouldn’t be fit to see anyone until the following day.
As the doctor spoke, she touched Herrick’s shoulder. ‘You know, you look pretty drained yourself. If you were involved in the shooting, you may experience some shock.’
She shook her head and said she had better be getting back to work. She left the hospital by the main entrance and walked through the courtyard. As she hit the street she saw a couple hurrying from a cab. They were unmistakably Dolph’s parents. The man in his sixties moved with Dolph’s heavy, rolling walk while the woman had his alert eyes. They looked modest people and somehow ashamed of the worry. Herrick turned to say something as they passed but suddenly couldn’t find the words. She stopped in her tracks, realising she needed to sit down and collect herself, maybe have something to eat. Across the street there was a pub named the The Three Feathers, festooned with hanging baskets of petunias. She entered an almost empty lounge bar, where a barman and the few customers were glued to
Channel Four News
. A distant shot of the Pan Arab Library was being shown: police tape was stretched across the road, forensics were entering the building as plain-clothes officers left with boxes.
Herrick ordered a double whisky and a meat pie that was sitting unappetisingly in the display cabinet. She perched on a bar stool while the pie was microwaved and tried to get a hold of herself by concentrating on the pocket of anxiety lodged at the top of her diaphragm.
As the pie was presented to her on a paper plate, she heard a voice from her left. Walter Vigo stood with one hand on the bar. ‘A bad business, Isis. Are they all right?’ He attempted a sympathetic smile but produced only a leer.
She turned and examined him for a moment. ‘No, they’re bloody well not all right. Joe Lapping nearly died. What the fuck are you doing here anyway?’ She cut into the pie. Vigo looked down at the flow of gravy with acute distaste.
‘I was concerned to see how they were and spotted you crossing the road.’
‘Right,’ said Herrick, grimacing. ‘What is it you really want?’
‘A word - somewhere more private, perhaps.’
‘I’ve got to go back to the office in a few minutes.’
‘This can’t wait,’ he said.
‘Then say it now.’
He waited for the barman to move away. ‘I want to know what you found in the bookshop.’
‘If I had found anything it would be none of your fucking business.’
Vigo’s mouth pursed into a tight little hole. ‘I need to know - lives may depend on it.’
She said nothing and continued eating the pie, noticing that the strange throbbing in her left arm had developed into an ache.
‘It’s important that I know. I gather there have been some useful discoveries in Bristol.’
‘Then go to Bristol.’
‘Look, Herrick. These are my people, Jamil and Youssef Rahe. They’re my contacts. Where would we be if I hadn’t made use of them?’
This amazed her. ‘Well, three of my friends wouldn’t be in hospital for a start. You were suckered. No one is going to see it any other way.’
‘I don’t care what they think about this. There may have been significant intelligence in that shop that only I am in a position to appreciate.’
She was struck by the plaintive note in his voice, and if she had been feeling less strange she would have thought about it more deeply. ‘You forget, Walter, you’re on the outside now. I can’t talk to you about any of this.’ She gestured to the TV set.
‘Do you think I would bother to come here and talk to you if it wasn’t important?’
Herrick shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t care what your interest is.’
‘I am in touch with people who need this information and can make far better use of it than you. You have the opportunity to save lives.’
‘Who?’
He shook his head.
She pulled out her phone and pressed the key to redial the Chief’s office.
‘What’re you doing?’ he snapped.
‘If you want access to what I know, go through the Chief. You can talk to him now.’
Without a word, Vigo turned and made for the door. Herrick gave it a few seconds before hopping off the bar stool and rushing to the window. A new model Jaguar pulled out from the kerb with Vigo at the wheel. Then she put the phone to her ear and was about to speak to the Chief’s assistant, but he interrupted her. ‘You’re needed here. Please return immediately. ’
Herrick laid out the phone, wallet and US passport in front of the head of the MI5-MI6 controllerate, Colin Guthrie. He let out a low whistle. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘And after that?’
‘I needed some time, so I had a drink. Guess who I bumped into? Vigo. What the hell’s he doing? He wanted to know what I had got from the bookshop.’
Guthrie thought for a moment. ‘I imagine he’s up to something in his capacity as head of Mercator. One always forgets that when Vigo was pushed out last time round he set himself up as a private intelligence agency. We thought it was pretty much dormant but perhaps we were wrong. Anyway, we’ve got a lot to get through so let’s make a start.’ He picked up a printout of an email. ‘First, Jamil Rahe. He hasn’t said a word since he was arrested, but a search of his house and a garage nearby produced a great deal - twenty passports, equipment to forge visas, blank credit cards, the records of 152 different credit cards, acquired by a skimming device, a telescope, airline schedules, a notebook logging arrival and departure times at Heathrow, computer records of payments to foreign banks, a mass of extremist literature and the usual bloody videos of Mujahadin victories in Chechnya et cetera.’ His description tailed off as a dozen or so of Herrick’s colleagues filed into his office.
He let the paper slip to the desk and gave them a brief update on the condition of the men in hospital, then divided the group into three teams to chase up leads provided by the items Herrick had taken from the bookshop. She was still feeling odd, but the tasks ahead moved the anxiety to the back of her mind and when Nathan Lyne appeared for a meeting on the Haj switch she began to feel better.
The passport she had found was held in the name of David Zachariah, a thirty-eight-year-old jeweller living in White Plains, New York. Herrick had opened it on the way to Vauxhall Cross and silently saluted Hélène Guignal for predicting that the name Zachariah would appear somewhere in Rahe’s portfolio of identities. While Rahe’s replacement had been tortured and killed, Rahe had crossed the Syrian border. Fourteen days later he travelled as Zachariah to New York, with a stopover at Athens. He had stayed in the US until the previous weekend, then took an overnight flight back to Britain and landed at Gatwick Airport.
The wallet contained impressive confirmation of the existence of Zachariah. There were three different credit cards with billing addresses in White Plains, each of which was settled regularly by an account held at a bank in Manhattan, where all mail was delivered. Adding credibility to Zachariah’s life were the business cards, a membership card of the American-Israeli Friendship Society, a US driver’s licence, a dry-cleaning ticket in his name and various notes addressed to Zachariah. There was no such place as 1014 Jefferson Drive in White Plains, and no trace of Zachariah in any local records.
As crucial as the record of these recent trips was the evidence of his movements across Europe during the previous winter. Cross-referencing the point-of-entry stamps in its pages with payments made on his credit cards - acquired with his usual authority by Nathan Lyne - they produced dates for the purchases of airline and train tickets in Hungary, Germany, Italy, Denmark and Sweden, and for the payment of hotel bills. It was obvious that Youssef Rahe had used the Zachariah identity as a cover for his meetings with the helper cells all over Europe. This in itself would be useful evidence in subsequent prosecutions of members of the helper cells.
The credit cards had most recently been used in New York - again hotels and restaurants were in evidence. He also drew $8,800 in cash from his account at the Stuyvesant Empire Bank on 5th Avenue, leaving a balance of $22,000.57. Rahe was well-funded, but where from? The bank revealed that payments of $15,000 were made on the third of each month by a company named Grunveldt-Montrea, of Jersey City, New Jersey. No such company existed in the phone directory. Before leaving New York for London, Zachariah hired a car for a period of three days on one of the cards. Lyne put in a request to the FBI to see if any trace of his journey could be picked up by speeding or parking tickets, or even motel registers, because he had evidently not used his cards to buy gas. Herrick made a note, which ended with the word Canada and three question marks.
The cell phone produced less definite information, although it was now established that the call stifled by Youssef Rahe while he was hiding above the bookshop had come from his ‘brother’, Jamil. Police reported observing Jamil Rahe switch the SIM cards and dial a number at 6.15 p.m., presumably the agreed check-in time. When he failed to get an answer, he was seen to lower the phone and check the display with a look of puzzlement. At this point the police moved in and arrested him.
It was also clear that this particular phone of Youssef Rahe’s was only used to receive calls. Several had been made to him in America over the first half of the year, but they weren’t identified in the phone’s memory and it would take time for the two or three phone companies likely to have handled them to search the records of millions of subscribers. Herrick was sure that elsewhere in the bookshop there would be other phones to investigate, and that in time much would be exhumed from the computer, although it was now being examined by the Security Services, who had proved resistant to suggestions that SIS should have access.
At 11.15 p.m. the Chief came in, looking grave. The news media had, it seemed, been well briefed by Special Branch about the involvement of SIS ‘cowboys’, to explain why two people were dead and a further three lay in hospital.
‘We’re bringing the arrests in Europe forward because the coverage may alert the suspects,’ he said. ‘However, Rahe’s use of multiple identities may work to our advantage. It’s likely the people he dealt with on the continent knew him only as Zachariah. They may not make the connection when they hear of the raid on the bookshop.’