Authors: Stella Rimington
Was this why Abboud had called an urgent meeting? wondered Templeton. It was all interesting stuff, but hardly worth the risk each man had taken coming here.
Sensing Templeton’s impatience, Abboud held out a reassuring hand. ‘Do not worry - I am coming to the point. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.’ He looked at his watch, a sliver of gold that glinted in the harsh, still-rising sun. ‘In two months’ time there is going to be an international conference in Scotland. You may know about it. It has not attracted much interest so far because only the moderates have agreed to attend. But my government wants progress. We need a settlement for the stability of our country. So we have decided to attend. I am to be part of our delegation, which is why Tibshirani told me the story.’ He raised his eyes to the sky.
‘What story?’
‘We have information that certain parties are working to disrupt the process. We know of two individuals acting to prevent any peaceful solution to the current stalemate. They intend to blacken the good name of Syria and thus to destroy all trust at the conference.’ ‘How will they do that?’
‘I don’t know. But I can tell you my friend that if they succeed there will be a bloodbath in the region.’
‘Do you know who they are, who is directing them?’
‘I know they have connections to your country, and I know their names. But Tibshirani does not know who is controlling them. He does not think it is the British.’ He smiled, a gleam of white teeth in the sunlight. Then he gave Templeton two names, reciting each one twice, quite slowly, to make sure there was no misunderstanding. Nothing was committed to paper by either man.
‘Okay,’ said Templeton, having memorised the two names. ‘Where does this information come from?’
‘That I cannot tell you.’ Abboud laughed as he saw the irritation spreading across Templeton’s face. ‘But only because I do not know myself. Believe me, it’s not worth my trying to find out; I already know more than I should. I believe it to be true, and so does Tibshirani. But listen to me; here is the most important thing. These people, these two parties who are working against us - my colleagues are going to move against them before they can do harm.’
‘Move?’
Abboud merely nodded. They both knew full well what this meant.
‘When will they “move”?’
‘Soon, very soon. They will do it in the UK. Secretly. So it will not be known who has acted. My side does not want anything to disrupt this conference. We see much for Syria to gain - we hope to get back our country from the Israeli invaders. So my superiors consider that action against these people is worth the risk if it keeps the conference alive. Personally, I fear that if they make a mistake it may have the opposite effect, which is why I am telling you. But now I must go,’ said Abboud, standing up.
Templeton stood up too, looking out down the mountainside. The kestrel was no longer circling; it must have found its prey.
TWO
Liz Carlyle was not in the best of humours as her taxi came to a grinding halt in a traffic jam in Trafalgar Square. She had spent the morning at the Old Bailey giving evidence in the trial of Neil Armitage, a scientist who had been arrested in Cafe Rouge in St John’s Wood, in the act of handing over a briefcase of top-secret documents to a Russian intelligence officer.
It was her first time as a witness in court, an experience that once had rarely come the way of MI5 officers, though now with frequent arrests of terrorists, it was more common. Liz had not enjoyed it. She was at her happiest when she was using her analytical and intuitive skills to make sense of complicated intelligence - working to put the case together that led to arrests. Court no. 1 at the Old Bailey was not her natural environment, and she had found it surprisingly stressful.
Knowing that her identity and appearance would be protected, she had expected to sit behind some sort of screen. Instead, the court had been cleared of the press and the public and she’d emerged from a rear door straight into the witness box, where she stood directly facing the defendant in the dock. Although he didn’t know her name, he knew he was there largely because of her work. She felt like an actress entering from the wings onto a stage, without a script, exposed and not in control. For one used to working in the shadows, it had been an unnerving experience.
So she was not best pleased when, just as she was recovering with a strong coffee and the
Guardian
crossword puzzle, her boss, Charles Wetherby, had rung to ask her to go and represent the service at a meeting in Whitehall.
‘It’s about that Middle East peace conference in Scotland,’ he had said.
‘But Charles,’ she had protested, ‘I hardly know anything about it. Aren’t the protective security lot dealing with that?’
‘Of course. They’ve been working on it for months and they’re completely on top of it. But they’ve got no one available to send this afternoon. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be decided at this meeting. The Home Office have called it at the last minute just so they can demonstrate they’re in charge, before the Home Secretary goes to Cabinet tomorrow. I knew you’d have finished in court and you were close by, so I volunteered you.’
Thanks very much, Liz had thought ruefully, for dumping this on me after the morning I’ve had. But though she was irritated, she couldn’t feel cross with Charles for long. She’d worked with him for a good part of her ten years in MI5, and he was everything she admired - calm, considered, professional and without vanity. He made people feel part of a committed team, working with him as much as for him. It was more than admiration, she had to admit to herself. She was strongly attracted to him and she knew he cared about her too. But it was an unspoken affection, an invisible thread that neither acknowledged. Charles was an honourable man - one reason why she admired him -and he was married to Joanne. And Joanne was very ill, terminally ill perhaps. Charles, she knew, would never contemplate leaving her, and Liz couldn’t have respected him if he had.
Meanwhile Liz, at thirty-five, was not getting younger and a series of unsatisfactory relationships was not what she wanted. Why had she allowed herself to fall for someone so unavailable?
So here she was, stuck in a cab, likely to be late for a meeting about something she wasn’t briefed on and probably about to get soaked into the bargain, she reflected, as the lowering clouds began to deposit their first drops of rain on the taxi’s windscreen. Typical, she thought; the summer had so far been unusually dry and she had not brought an umbrella.
But Liz was not one to be gloomy for long. There was too much in her job that she found genuinely fascinating. And when, as was the way with London traffic, the jam suddenly cleared and the cab moved on, her mood lightened; by the time she was dropped halfway down Whitehall, outside the door of the Cabinet Office, in good time for the meeting after all, she felt positively cheerful.
A vast square table dominated the first-floor meeting room, which would have had a fine view over the gardens of Downing Street had the windows not been obscured by yellowing net blast curtains. Good thing, thought Liz, remembering the mortar shell that had landed on the back lawn, fired in the 1980s by the IRA through the roof of a van parked less than a quarter of a mile away.
‘I suggest we begin now,’ said the senior civil servant from the Home Office in a dry voice that made it clear he had chaired countless meetings like this before. Liz had missed his name when he introduced himself and now, gazing at his bland, unremarkable features, she mentally named him ‘Mr Faceless’.
‘As you all know, the Gleneagles conference will take place in two months’ time. We have recently learned that, contrary to previous expectations, all the main players are likely to attend, which of course greatly raises the level of the security issues. I believe all the departments and agencies represented here are already in close touch with each other and with the allies.’ And here Mr Faceless nodded towards two men, obviously Americans, sitting together on the opposite side of the table from Liz.
‘The purpose of this meeting is to emphasise the importance the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister attach to the success of this conference. It is vital that nothing should occur to disrupt it. Ministers feel, and I believe their colleagues in Washington feel the same, that this conference, given the wide attendance, represents the first real possibility of a fundamental breakthrough in the region.’
As Mr Faceless continued his remarks Liz discreetly scanned the table. He had not troubled to begin with the normal chairman’s courtesy of going round the table for everyone to introduce themselves, so she amused herself by working out who everyone was. A deputy commissioner from the Metropolitan Police - she’d seen his photo in the newspapers though she’d never met him - was sitting next to a man she guessed was also a policeman, probably a Scot. Then there were the two Americans. They must be from the CIA London station; they didn’t look like FBI and anyway she knew most of the FBI characters at the embassy. One of them wore horn-rimmed glasses, a khaki summer suit and a striped tie that shouted Ivy League. The other, older than his colleague, was a heavy-set, balding man, who seized on the opportunity of a pause in the chairman’s remarks to say, ‘I’m Andy Bokus, head of station at Grosvenor.’ CIA, as she had suspected. He spoke in a flat, uninflected voice. Like a Midwestern car dealer in a film, thought Liz. ‘And this is my colleague, Miles Brookhaven. To date we have received no specific negative information relative to the conference.’
Liz suppressed a groan. What was it with so many Americans? Met informally, they could be the friendliest, least pretentious people in the world, but put them on a stage and they turned into automatons.
Bokus went on. ‘Liaisons with the Federal Bureau of Investigation are ongoing. So far, also negative. A representative of that agency will attend any future meeting.’ He paused. ‘The Secret Service may also attend.’
‘Really?’ asked a tall, sandy-haired man, leaning back languidly in his chair.
Oh God!
It was Bruno Mackay, an MI6 officer Liz had run up against before. She hadn’t seen him for several years but he hadn’t changed at all in that time. Still the deep tan, the sculpted nose and mouth, the beautifully cut suit that spoke of Savile Row. Mackay was clever, smooth, charming and infuriating in equal measure -and also, in Liz’s experience, deeply untrustworthy. Now he caught her looking at him, and he stared back into her eyes with cold, professional detachment, until suddenly he gave an unmistakable wink, and his face broke into a wide grin.
Ignoring him, Liz turned her attention back towards the rest of the table, and realised that Mackay’s intervention seemed to have flustered Bokus, who was now silent and frowning at the chairman. Clearing his throat, Mr Faceless remarked in hushed tones, ‘Although it is not widely known, even among departments and agencies - and I would ask you all to protect this information for the present - there is a strong possibility that the President will attend the conference.’
Well, perhaps there is a chance of a breakthrough after all, thought Liz. The President certainly wouldn’t be attending if this was going to be just another pointless summit. As if to confirm that this was something different, the door to the room opened and a man came in, walking briskly towards the chairman’s seat.
He looked familiar to Liz, and she was at a loss for a moment until realising why. It was Sir Nicholas Pomfret. She had never seen him in the flesh, but recognised him from his many appearances on television and in the press. A saturnine figure, bald and dark-skinned, with coal-coloured eyebrows, a hawk nose and sharp, intelligent eyes, he was a near-legendary political Mr Fixit. But he also had a solid core of government experience; for many years he’d been a civil servant at the Home Office, before becoming senior political adviser to the last prime minister but one.
He’d left government for a while, becoming first CEO then chairman of a leading investment bank. Then, after the election of the new Prime Minister, he’d returned to number 10 Downing Street. The PM had sent him on several overseas missions as his personal ambassador -soothing ruffled Saudi feathers when an arms deal was threatened by a hostile UK press, helping various British firms with difficulties doing business in Hong Kong under mainland Chinese control.
Most recently, he had been named as the new security
major-domo
, reporting directly to the PM. His appointment had caused muttering when announced, since he was a political veteran rather than a security professional. But long tenure in the Home Office meant he knew the ins and outs of both the police and the intelligence services and his status as the PM’s personal advisor meant that he had influence with foreign heads of government, so he was now generally accepted as a good thing among that most closed of worlds, the security community.
His presence at this meeting suggested an urgency. Liz found herself sitting slightly more upright as, after a nod to the chairman, Sir Nicholas began to speak.
‘Sorry to miss some of your proceedings, but I’ve just come from the Prime Minister. One of the things we’ve been talking about is this conference, and I wanted to say a few words to you before you go.’
He paused dramatically, knowing he now had everyone’s attention. ‘A month ago one might have been forgiven for thinking the prospect of another conference on the Middle East distinctly… unpromising. With only the usual participants lined up, it was hard to see how any progress could be made.
‘Today, however, I’m very pleased to say that things have changed. It now seems increasingly likely, thanks to prolonged and intensive lobbying by Her Majesty’s Government, in which I was privileged to play a part, that
all
the relevant parties to the conflict in the Middle East are likely to be at Gleneagles. Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and even Iran have indicated their intention to participate.’
He’s revelling in this, thought Liz, though there wasn’t any doubting the importance of what he was saying. ‘Gleneagles could be the breakthrough that’s so desperately needed. It’s a great opportunity, but if it fails, there won’t be another peace initiative any time soon. I’m sure the seriousness of what I’m saying is apparent to us all.