Dead Line (6 page)

‘Hold on sir,’ said Malouf, and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands. On their left ahead, a man in a green shirt was getting out of a parked car. He seemed oblivious to the tense convoy approaching them, and though the white van honked its horn furiously in warning, made no effort to get out of the way.

The white van was forced to slow down, and it was then Malouf made his move, swinging the wheel sharply and steering the car fast into a side street, its wheels screeching like a B-movie car chase. Narrowly missing a trio of mothers crossing the road, buggies pushed before them, Malouf accelerated and sped on. When Sami looked back, only the white van was following, now a hundred yards behind.

When they reached the junction with a large avenue, the light was green, but inexplicably Malouf slowed down. ‘Go, go,’ shouted Sami. He noticed the older man was sweating.

But Malouf knew what he was doing. The van was closing behind them, and Sami was about to shout again, when Malouf floored the accelerator and joined the main road just as the light turned amber. The flow of traffic on the larger road meant there was no way the van could run the red light. It gave them at least a minute head start.

Sami leaned forward and spoke urgently. ‘Malouf, do not drive to the house. There may be others waiting for us there. Find a hiding place, but quickly.’ He noticed the Egyptian was now sweating even more profusely.

They drove through a bewildering maze of side streets. God knows where they were. Sami kept looking back, but they had lost the van. At last Malouf pulled into a small mews, and turned the car around so they could exit rapidly. He left the engine running while Sami thought what to do next.

He didn’t want to call the police. What could he tell them? ‘Officer, four cars surrounded me, and I am sure they wanted to…’ what? Kidnap him? Murder him? The police would think him paranoid - he could give them no evidence of what had happened. Besides, it was important to keep his profile as low as possible with the law enforcement authorities.

No, he needed security of a private sort, which wouldn’t ask for evidence, and wouldn’t pose difficult questions. Mahfuz came into his mind, a cousin who ran several nightclubs in the northern suburbs of London. He employed all sorts of ‘muscle’ to sort out trouble in his clubs. Once he had shown Sami a handgun he carried when he had large amounts of cash to transport.

‘I need to make a call, Malouf. Then I’ll tell you where to go next.’

There was no reply from the driver. Sami dialled Mahfuz’s home, but got his wife. He was doing an inventory at one of the clubs, in Finchley, she said. He thanked her and was about to ring there when he noticed that Malouf was still sitting upright in his driver’s seat.

Sami said sharply, ‘Malouf.’ The man didn’t move. Sami leaned forward and touched the old retainer gently on the shoulder, but there was no response. He could have been a statue.

‘Oh no,’ said Sami. The old man’s heart had given out. The excitement had killed him.

NINE

Geoffrey Fane disliked visiting the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. The litter of concrete blocks and ill-shaped flower tubs spread all over the road and round the gardens offended his aesthetic sense. What a mess we’ve made of London in the name of ‘the war on terror’, he reflected.

His taxi dropped him on the opposite side of the square from the embassy. ‘Can’t get any nearer, Guv,’ the driver told him, echoing his thoughts. ‘New barriers up since last month. If the Yanks didn’t go round the world interfering where they’re not wanted, we could have our streets back. No one wants to live round here now, you know. Used to get top whack for these properties, now they can’t give ’em away.’

Well, not quite, thought Fane, as he walked towards the police post in front of the weighty, white building that filled one side of the square. The huge gold eagle on the top shone in the late summer sunshine, loudly announcing the presence of Britain’s dominant ally.

Today, Fane had a lunch engagement at the nearby Connaught Hotel, so instead of summoning Andy Bokus, the CIA station head, to his office in Vauxhall Cross, he had decided to call on him. By the time he had emerged through the slow, deliberate security measures at the door, he was regretting his decision. The breezy cheerfulness of the long-legged, squeaky clean American girl who collected him on the other side, with her wide grin of perfect, white teeth and her
Good morning, sir
, did not improve his humour. Utterly sexless, he thought to himself.

It was five years now since Fane’s marriage had broken up and Adele had gone off to live in Paris with her rich French banker. In some ways it had been a relief. Quite frankly, he could now admit to himself, she had been a drag on his career. She had never taken to being an MI6 wife. She had had no sympathy with his work or any wish to understand it and was merely irritated by the frequent postings abroad and her husband’s mysterious and unpredictable absences.

All the same, now she was gone he was lonely. He hated the vulnerability and he disguised it. His thoughts often turned to the MI5 woman, Liz Carlyle. She would be an attractive companion. She understood him, he knew -perhaps too well. She appreciated how important his work was. For a time last year he thought they were growing closer, but now that Charles Wetherby was back, it was damned obvious that he was the one she was keen on. What a waste, thought Fane. A dry old stick, Charles, and too cautious by half. Well not old perhaps, he thought ruefully, since Charles was a good five years younger than Fane.

Down in the depths of the building, in the CIA station, Andy Bokus was waiting for him in his office with Miles Brookhaven, a young CIA officer whom Fane had met only once, a couple of months ago, when Brookhaven had paid his courtesy calls on arrival in the country. Fane, standing taller than either of them, his heron-like figure clad elegantly in a dark grey suit, his tie sporting the discreet stripes by which Englishmen communicate with each other, surveyed them with his sharp blue eyes.

He had heard about Brookhaven from Bruno Mackay, who’d met him at the Downing Street meeting about the Gleneagles Conference. Fane could take in the man at once: a classic east coast WASP, Anglophile, another Yank keen to show he was at home in Britain - doubtless, like others Fane had known, Brookhaven would soon be pressing him to sign the book on his behalf at the Travellers Club.

Bokus he found infinitely more interesting, and harder to read. When it came to Americans he preferred someone who was not trying to be a European, someone like Bokus, who had amused Fane when they had had lunch at the Travellers, by asking for a Budweiser. From the framed team photographs lining the office wall, he saw that Bokus had played American football (unsurprising given his bulk and obvious strength) at some university Fane had never heard of, somewhere in the Midwestern sticks. Perhaps that was the origin of his remarkable accent. He didn’t speak English as Fane recognised it, but rather as Fane imagined a stevedore on the Great Lakes might speak. It was an act - wasn’t it? Behind the beefy, balding exterior of the man, Fane suspected - though he couldn’t be sure; he had dealt with some dozy CIA officers - there lay a first-rate intelligence, one with enough confidence not to need to show itself, except when absolutely necessary. It would be very easy to underestimate Mr Andy Bokus, Fane concluded. He might be as stupid as he looked, but there would be no harm in assuming the opposite.

‘Gentlemen,’ Fane said now with a practised smile, deciding that if Bokus could act like a professional football player, he would adopt his most patrician manner, ‘it’s most awfully good of you to see me. I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable time, but I thought you’d want to know a little more about what was behind Sir Nicholas’s intervention at the Cabinet Office meeting the day before yesterday. Perhaps we might withdraw and I will expand a little.’

This was the signal for the three of them to move into the safe room, that insulated bubble that intelligence stations in embassies keep, where they can speak without fear of eavesdropping. It always slightly amused Geoffrey Fane to think that the normal function of a safe room in an embassy was to prevent eavesdropping by the intelligence services of the host nation. Whenever he penetrated the Grosvenor Square bubble, Fane, from the heart of British intelligence, felt like the cat invited into the goldfish bowl.

Fane took his time telling his story of Jaghir’s revelation of the threat to the Gleneagles conference, drawing it out to disguise how much he was leaving out. When he had finished neither Bokus nor Brookhaven would have known from which country, much less which source, the information came.

Bokus scratched his forehead, as if he still had the hair that had once grown there. ‘What are these two individuals meant to be planning to do to screw up the conference?’ he asked.

Fane shrugged. ‘It’s not clear. We’re pushing our source to try to find out.’

‘I mean, is it supposed to be a bomb?’ demanded Bokus. ‘Or a bullet? Or maybe an embarrassment? One of your newspapers catching a president or a Prime Minister in bed with an eight-year-old girl.’

Fane laughed politely, noticing that Brookhaven could only manage a wan smile. There was nothing very subtle about Andy Bokus. Fane said, ‘If the
News of the World
was the extent of the problem, I wouldn’t be troubling you with this. No, we can only assume that it’s something dramatic - and lethal.’ He sat back against the taut padding of the couch, adding almost casually, ‘I was hoping you might know something about these two people.’

Brookhaven looked surprised, but Bokus responded stolidly. ‘What are their names again?’ he asked nonchalantly.

‘Veshara and Marcham.’

‘Sounds like a Vaudeville act,’ Bokus said, and this time Brookhaven made a better show of laughing.

‘I’m afraid these two have rather limited comic potential,’ Fane said, letting his tone slowly frost. ‘Veshara is Lebanese; lives here in London. That’s all we know so far. Marcham’s a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll find out more about them in due course, but I thought you might save us some time.’ There was nothing casual about his tone now. ‘Can you?’

Bokus looked questioningly at Brookhaven. The younger man shook his head at once. ‘Neither rings any sort of bell. I’ll check the files, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Fane and looked again at Bokus.

Bokus stared at him blankly, but then his mouth opened, as if it were not being controlled by his brain. ‘We’ll check it out with HQ in Langley if there’s nothing here, but maybe…’

‘Right,’ said Fane, accepting defeat. But he wasn’t through yet. ‘I’d like to stay in touch with this. Our protective security people are already liaising, but this is highly sensitive intelligence and I want to keep it like that for the time being.’

Brookhaven interjected hesitantly. ‘I’m talking to MI5 about the conference. Are you suggesting something else?’

Fane lifted his palms about an inch and a half from his knees to indicate reassurance. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘Charles Wetherby is completely au fait. I told him I was coming to see you. He’s got one of his best people on this already -I’m sure he’d want you to deal with her.’

‘Liz Carlyle?’

Was there a hint of eagerness in Brookhaven’s voice? Fane hoped not. ‘That’s the one,’ he declared.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Bokus. ‘Miles here will intermediate with Carlyle.’ His voice took on a peremptory tone. ‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ said Fane, as they left the bubble and returned to Bokus’s office, ‘though if we could have a quick word
à deux
, I’d be grateful.’ He smiled at Brookhaven to show it was nothing personal. Turning slightly red-faced, the younger man made his excuses and left.

Fane remained standing as Bokus went back to sit behind his desk. ‘As I hope I’ve made clear, strictly speaking this is a matter between you and Thames House.’

‘Strictly speaking, yes,’ said Bokus, giving nothing away.

‘Well, what I’d like to suggest - that is, if we can speak off the record?’

‘Off the record?’ Bokus seemed amused for the first time. ‘You sound like a reporter from one of those… what do you call them, red tops?’

Fane inclined his head slightly. ‘Well, perhaps. But between us, I think you and I should have a sort of
informal
channel of communication. Just to keep in touch - about this matter, of course, and anything else that might crop up. It seems important, given the possible urgency.’

‘Sounds okay to me,’ said Bokus without enthusiasm.

TEN

When Fane had left, Andy Bokus picked up the phone and dialled an extension. ‘Miles, could you come back for a minute?’ he said, though it wasn’t really a question.

There was something puppy-like about Brookhaven that annoyed Bokus almost as much as his East Coast manners, his English-style clothes (elbow patches for Christ’s sakes) and his open admiration for all things English.

What kind of a name was Miles Brookhaven anyway? His people were probably landing in Massachusetts while Bokus’s forebears were shovelling shit in the Ukraine. ‘Miles’ for godsake - anybody with a first name like that had ivy twined round his head.

Bokus hadn’t been poor, but unlike most of his Agency colleagues he had come from America’s small-town heartland, where ‘sophisticated’ was not a word used admiringly. But he had always believed in himself, and in the American promise that anyone in that country could, if they worked hard and put their mind to it (and, he admitted to himself, enjoyed a fair share of luck), do anything. When a football injury in his second year at college had put paid to his hopes for a professional career, Bokus had for the first time in his life paid attention to his studies. A political science major, he had known he wanted to see a bigger world than rural Ohio had to offer, so when one of his professors had suggested he take the Agency’s exams, he had seized the chance.

And by now, he’d seen a fair amount of it. His most recent posting before London was Madrid. He spoke Spanish fluently and he had liked the Spanish people - the men were dignified but straightforward, the women often beautiful and full of grace. He’d been there at an interesting time, too - the Madrid train bombings had been a real wake-up call in that country and had put the Agency’s Madrid station into the front line at Langley. He’d done well in Madrid, which was why he’d got this plum job of London.