The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (14 page)

‘Is that right? What’s your theory?’ Gerry asked.

‘Oh it’s obvious. Sources of supply are drying up. Demand is increasing from China, India and the other developing nations, and my country can make up the shortfall, if only the infrastructure can be installed.’

‘So you’re an expert on the geopolitics of oil are you? I thought you were a language student,’ Gerry replied.

‘Well when you’ve learned what I’ve learned, you discover new interests.’

‘Oh yes? So tell me what you’ve learned,’ said Gerry.

‘There’s no way I can trust you. My father, my whole family could be killed if anyone thought we knew.’

‘Knew what?’ Gerry asked her interest suddenly aroused. 

‘Last time I went back to Iraq. This American guy Colonel Jasper White made me carry a document for Hakim Mansour of the old regime. Something called Gilgamesh. My father translated it into Arabic, and I read both the Arabic and English versions at our home in Baghdad.’ Rashid stared at her for a moment. ‘Are you pregnant?’ he asked. She saw him glance at her left hand, lacking a wedding ring.

‘Yes I am. Does it show?’

‘Not much, but I remember my cousin doing that back stretching and rubbing thing whenever she sat down.’ He gave a little demonstration.

‘Oh, right,’ said Gerry. ‘Look can I borrow your loo please…it’s being pregnant. You need to go all the time.’

He said nothing but waved in the general direction of the bathroom. She stood up with some effort and went in. After using the loo she stared at herself in the mirror and wondered if she was really going to carry out the idea that had been going through her mind ever since she had seen Rashid. It was ridiculous. She was a loyal agent. Just because Philip had been killed didn’t mean that she should abandon her core beliefs. But…She went back into the sitting room.

‘How did you get out of Iraq?’ she asked.

‘My father had somehow obtained Lebanese passports for us, and my parents had a little money put by for emergencies. I managed to get across the border, but my mother insisted on staying in Baghdad. She wouldn’t leave without knowing where my father was.’ He gave Gerry an accusing stare. ‘Do you know what’s happened to him?’

‘I’m very sorry, I’ve no idea, but listen Rashid, I was sent here to abduct you again.’

‘You fucking bitch!’

‘Oh shut up and listen to me. First of all have you got any money?’

‘I have a little with me, but mostly in the bank.’

‘Ok. You need to go to the cash machine and get out all you can. Then you need to take the train to Holyhead and then go by ferry to Dublin. Officially you don’t need a passport if you are a British citizen, but you might have to show some form of ID to get in.’

‘I’m not British and I don’t have a British passport.’

‘Yeah I know that, but have you got a driving license? A UK one I mean.’

‘Yes I have actually.’

‘That will get you into the Republic of Ireland. Then you must use your own passport to go home.’

He stared at her for a moment and then realised the implications. ‘How long have I got?’

‘If you’re lucky they won’t put out a ports and airports on you until tomorrow evening; however they might have done so already, but this is your best, your only chance.’

‘Why are you doing this for me?’

She gave him a sad smile. ‘I’m really not sure. I think I’m just rebelling because someone who I was close to has just died on duty, and I think the bastards are lying to me about it. Maybe because a creep called Neil Samms is involved. Now get the hell out of here.’

Later that same evening, a month before the summer solstice, it was barely dark as Gerry waited in the van outside Rashid Hamsin’s apartment. Neil Samms shifted in his seat and began to hum tunelessly. Since the previous occasion, he had added a drooping moustache to his pony tail which Gerry thought did little to improve his appearance. She had taken an instant dislike to him when they had last met and she liked him no better now.

‘So a pregnant broad, huh?’ he had said with his gold toothed grin when they had met to discuss the operation. ‘Mind if I get Mike to tag along too?’ Gerry knew that in her loose fitting coat her condition would be hidden from a casual observer and she wondered who the hell had told Samms and she had struggled to hide her irritation.

Mike turned out to be a twenty stone giant who now occupied the driver’s seat of the van reading the latest edition of Playboy magazine, every so often turning the pages sideways to gain a better appreciation of the delights on view. The three of them waited in silence for Rashid Hamsin to come home. Samms passed the time by listening to music on his I Pod while Gerry mourned Philip and considered her future whilst gazing at the monitoring screens fed by the discrete roof mounted cameras.

‘Where the hell is he?’ Samms complained.

‘Maybe he’s at a party,’ said Gerry, ‘he might not be home until late.’ She wondered how far Rashid would have travelled by now. ‘We’ll just have to wait. Try and be patient Neil.’

Shortly after midnight Samms groaned. ‘I don’t think he’s coming back here. Maybe he’s shacked up somewhere else. Maybe he’s too pissed to come home.’

‘He doesn’t drink,’ said Gerry, ‘let’s give him a bit longer.’

‘Well ok.’

An hour and a half later Gerry called Cornwall and admitted that they had not found Hamsin.

‘Where the hell is he, then?’ he demanded.              

‘I’ve no idea; we’ve just had a look round his flat; there are clothes strewn about on his bed and the place looks empty. No suitcases anywhere. I think we should keep the place under observation in case he turns up, but I rather suspect he’s left the country.’

‘Without leaving any trace? I rather doubt that, but maybe he’s holed up somewhere, staying with friends perhaps. Anyway, why the hell should he suddenly disappear?’

‘Perhaps it’s something got to do with the fact that he’s already been abducted once and we’ve invaded his country,’ Gerry had been on the point of suggesting. Instead she said ‘Maybe he left some time ago. I’ve copied the hard drive from the desk top computer here. I could bring that in tomorrow morning and maybe we’ll learn something from it.’

Having slept for only five hours, Gerry was yawning as she checked through security and took the elevator up to her floor. As she approached her desk a colleague she knew vaguely named Vincent Parker came up to her.

‘Miss Tate? Jarvis would like to see you in his office, straightaway.’

Gerry gazed at him. ‘What…Jarvis? Not Richard Cornwall!’

She was somewhat nonplussed. She wondered why Don Jarvis, Director of Operations, Richard Cornwall’s immediate superior,  wanted to see her and why had he not merely left a note in her electronic ‘in’ tray for her to pick up when she signed in. She was more surprised when Parker followed her along the corridor. ‘I do know the way, actually,’ she said with some asperity.

‘Yeah I get that, but Jarvis told me to come with you,’ he insisted. Rather than expressing further curiosity Gerry nodded briefly as if she found this a satisfactory explanation.

Another surprise awaited her when she entered the office and found that Sir Hugh Fielding himself was sitting in a chair to one side of the desk. He carried on reading through a brief and did not bother to acknowledge her entrance, but Jarvis stood up and greeted her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Tate. Please sit down.’ This time the chair in front of the desk was indicated. Gerry sat on it, aware that Parker had sat down behind her at the conference table.

‘Please could you give a verbal report about what happened yesterday?’ Jarvis requested. Sir Hugh stared at her over his reading glasses then closed the report and slapped it down on the desk; Gerry realised it was her operational briefing. Gerry paused for a moment while she marshalled her thoughts.

‘The operation proceeded according to plan, except that Rashid Hamsin turned out not to be there.’ She recounted a heavily censored version of the day’s events up until the time that she had called Cornwall. ‘I left the Americans on watch and then I went home. I’ve slept for five hours or so and now here I am. Oh and here’s the copy of  Hamsin’s hard drive.’ She reached forward and dropped it defiantly on the desk and sat back in her chair.

In the silence that followed she saw Donald Jarvis look at Sir Hugh Fielding who shifted slightly and seemed minded to say something. Before either man could speak she continued ‘Shall I get on with filing my report now?’

Jarvis and Sir Hugh exchanged glances.

‘Don and I have discussed the matter of your maternity leave and we have decided it is effective immediately.’

Gerry stared at them both for a moment. ‘But I’m not meant to be on maternity leave for weeks.’

‘Nevertheless, in view of your recent physical injury, we have decided that it is fair to grant you extra leave.’

Gerry looked from one to the other and she realised any further protests would be useless. ‘Very well sir. Shall I go and file the report?’

‘We have just recorded your verbal report; a written one is not required.’ He looked at his watch. ‘This meeting concludes at 1433 on May 21
st
2003.’ Jarvis reached for a hidden switch to turn off the recorder and smiled at Gerry, an artificial smile which did nothing to convey any warmth. ‘It only remains for us all to wish you every comfort and happiness for your forthcoming arrival.’

‘Thank you sir,’ Gerry replied with as much sincerity as she could muster, but nevertheless she felt as if she was being dismissed rather than going on leave. There was a knock and Fielding’s personal assistant looked round the door.

‘Sir, there’s a call from General Bruckner in Washington; priority and personal.’

‘Thanks, I’ll take it in my den.’ Fielding left without giving Gerry a further glance and walked to his office.

21
st
May 2003

Following her apparent suspension disguised as maternity leave at the instigation of Donald Jarvis and Sir Hugh Fielding, Gerry left the building and walked across to the wall overlooking the river. She gazed at a Thames barge as it negotiated a passage between the piers of Vauxhall Bridge, the fast running tide sending waves slapping against the prow. She derived some satisfaction from the inference that Rashid Hamsin had escaped his pursuers. She could safely assumed that if he had been taken then he would inevitably, if reluctantly, have revealed her role in his flight.

The morning cloud had mostly cleared and it was turning out to be a pleasant early summer afternoon but the weather did not match her troubled mood. She looked back at the building and tried to suppress a weird feeling that she would not be permitted to enter it again. Then her mobile phone bleeped and she read a text message reminding her that she had an appointment for a scan in two hours. ‘I thought that was on Wednesday,’ she muttered, then she realised that of course it was Wednesday. She shoved her phone back in her bag and began to walk to her car but then it rang again. ‘Bloody hell what now!’ she snapped, and decided to let the recording system take it, but then felt guilty when a few minutes later she sat in her car and played the message.

‘Gerry, it’s your mother here. You said you were coming to see me this weekend, and I haven’t heard a word from you for a week, so if you could kindly let me know…thank you.’

The obstetrician explained that she was the expectant mother of a perfectly healthy looking daughter and presented her with a grainy black and white photograph. She was somewhat disconcerted when Gerry inspected the picture for no more than a few seconds and said, ‘A girl is it? Well thank you very much doctor,’ before tucking the picture in her handbag. 

As she walked back to her black Volkswagen Golf GTI, Gerry pulled out her mobile phone; scrolled to ‘Anne Tate’ and dialled her mother’s home.

‘Hi mum, it’s me.’

‘Gerry, dear. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Look I’m sorry I haven’t called, but I did send you an e-mail.’

‘Oh! Did you? I’m having trouble with the computer again, so I didn’t get that. Never mind. How did the scan go?’

‘Everything’s fine. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you...ok?’

‘Did they let you have one of those pictures?’

‘Yes they gave me one. Now I really have to be getting on. I’ll show you the picture when I come to see you.’

‘Well don’t forget to bring it…your memory sometimes.’

‘I know mum…sorry.  Look I’ll call you this evening…bye.’

Gerry’s memory was prodigious, but for years she had used the excuse of a poor memory to explain away the various inconsistencies that resulted from her job and concealed from her mother the fact that she was a member of the security services. She walked to her car, climbed in then she opened her bag and took out the grainy photograph, stared at it for a few seconds, put it away and started the engine, blinking away incipient tears. She pulled out her mobile and telephoned her mother.

‘Hello mum, it’s me again.’

‘Let me guess; something’s cropped up at work and you won’t be able to come.’

‘No mum, not at all,’ she replied trying not to be affected by her mother’s weary cynicism. ‘I’ve been given some days off and if it’s ok with you I’ll drive up this evening. I should be there by oh…eight o’clock.’

‘That’s lovely Gerry. Dinner will be waiting for when you arrive.’

‘Thanks mum, see you later.’

She managed to beat the afternoon rush hour traffic out of London and settled down to cruise at 80mph along the M40. She spent the journey in quiet contemplation of her immediate future. By the time she reached her mother’s house in the village near Stratford she had recovered much of her equanimity and as usual she begun to hum ‘The Archers’ theme tune as she drove through farmland, past the pub and then turned up the lane that lead to her cottage. In a more light-hearted frame of mind she pulled her case from the boot and a bunch of flowers from off the rear shelf and walked up to the front door with a fairly cheerful smile in place.

Gerry stared down at the trousers she had brought with her. She had forgotten that her expanding waist would not allow her to wear them. She pulled a safety pin from the sewing kit she had taken some months back from the Sheraton Hotel in Brussels and tried to fasten the waist with them, but it wasn’t long enough. She put her skirt back on and went downstairs to join her mother in the kitchen.

‘Hello, I thought you were changing?’ Anne remarked.

‘I was, but the clothes I brought don’t fit me anymore.’

‘Have you bought any maternity wear yet?’ Anne asked.

‘No, I haven’t; I haven’t had time,’ Gerry replied, trying not to sound like the sulky teenage daughter she used to be.

  ‘You can’t stay in denial about your changing shape, you know.’ Anne eyed her daughter’s tall frame, inherited from her late husband. ‘Though knowing you, you’ll exercise back to your original shape about a fortnight after having your baby. Do you know when you’re going to stop work yet?

‘Well actually I have stopped work…and,’ she hesitated. ‘If possible I would like to stay an extra night…then we can do some shopping, and I’ll have time to fix your computer as well.’ She saw Anne’s face light up.

‘Well that would be lovely Gerry; I’m not working at the shop this weekend. It will be nice to spend a bit more time together.’

Gerry immediately felt guilty that she had not spent more time with her mother in the two years since her father had died. Her brother and his family lived in Seattle so her mother did not see them very often. She suddenly felt even more guilty as it occurred to her that she might need her mother’s help with childcare and perhaps she should try and persuade her to move in with her for a while when the baby was born. Anne managed a charity shop and perhaps she would be unhappy to be away from it for too long. Gerry was hit by the realisation that she was likely to be dependent on other people for the first time in years, and with a strange sense of bewilderment she announced ‘I’m going to need you, Mum!’

Mother and daughter spent Friday shopping in Stratford, and despite having to compete with crowds of summer tourists Gerry felt a little better despite the dull ache in her mind. In the evening Anne began to cook, but when Gerry suggested that she should help, she was banished from the kitchen and told to relax. After watching the news and weather forecast Gerry wandered into the study and gazed at the family photos in their silver frames. She picked up the picture of her and Philip sitting in the garden. It showed the two of them seated side by side on the bench. They were both reading sections of the Sunday newspaper clad in shorts and tee shirts in the afternoon summer sunshine; she sat with her right leg crossed over his left knee and they had put the pages down and smiled at the camera. He was good at smiling for the camera, she decided for the hundredth time; she wore a bit of an idiotic grin.

She replaced the picture and sat down in front of the malfunctioning computer. It was an old one that she had passed on to her mother after she upgraded her own when Windows XP was released. Anne had learnt to use the internet and e-mail capably enough but on the occasions that something went wrong that she did not understand, she would shut down the computer and wait for her daughter to fix it for her.

Gerry switched it on and waited for the Windows 98 operating system to go through its start-up procedure. She entered her mother’s password and the computer desktop appeared. When she tried to open Outlook Express, a small window came up requesting a password. She frowned; that was unexpected. She entered her mother’s password again but the computer immediately shutdown. She mumbled a curse and walked into the kitchen and asked her mother if she had changed her password.

‘No, I’ve no idea how to do that.’

‘Well what were you doing when the system crashed? It seems to have picked up a virus.’

Her mother looked very uncomfortable; she put down the chopping knife and sat down on the stool. ‘I had just opened an e-mail.’ She paused, and then with a rush said ‘It was from Philip. It just said that he hoped I was alright and that he should be coming home in a couple of days and the two of you would be up to see me soon. Then he mentioned it was your birthday and he had a big birthday surprise that he was going to keep a secret from you and the details were in an attachment. I clicked on it but there was a password needed and then it shut down. I haven’t been able to start it since.’

‘Oh!’ said Gerry. She sat down as well and gazed at the pattern on the work surface. ‘When abouts did he send that?’ she asked eventually.

‘It was probably sent at the beginning of May. Anyway that’s about the time the computer broke down. Then you got the news about Philip, and I didn’t want to bother you about it of course, not when…well, you know.’ Gerry nodded. She felt slightly distressed that the last person Philip had e-mailed was her mother and not her, but there was another anomaly.

‘But Mum, why should he mention a birthday surprise? My birthday’s not until August.’

‘Well I know that dear, but mine is in May, and you know what men are like; always mixing up birthdays and anniversaries. At least your father did,’ she added.

Gerry sat brooding for a moment while Anne watched her. Then she looked up and said ‘I’ll take it with me. There’s probably someone from work who can get it sorted out. And I’ll bring you up another computer I’ve got at home as a replacement. That one was a bit old and slow anyway.’

‘Oh that would be nice, if you can spare it. I never thought for a moment I would miss having one. Now wash your hands; dinner’s ready.’

Gerry required all her professional resources to maintain an appearance of equanimity during dinner and afterwards when they watched an episode of Midsomer Murders together. When her mother had gone up to bed she tried to switch on the computer again but the operating program would not access the hard drive. She mumbled a stream of abuse at the Dell logo and then went upstairs to bed.

She lay awake thinking about the possible contents of the e-mail and imagined Philip sitting down in front of his computer in Nigeria and composing it, never imagining for one moment that it would be the last message he would ever send. She rolled over, thumped the pillows into shape, yawned wearily and at last she fell asleep.

The next morning Gerry said farewell to her mother and set off in her black Volkswagen towards the M40. She was negotiating a sharp bend slightly faster than the speed limit when she heard a bang and saw a puff of smoke emerge from the front of the engine compartment and swirl around the windscreen. She slammed on the brakes as the road straightened up and pulled into a convenient lay-by. Then she leapt out of her car and ran until she was about fifty metres away and crouched down on the verge. After half a minute she was satisfied that there was no further danger she began to walk back towards her car.  Two other cars had passed by the scene of her mishap, but the occupants had given no more than a curious stare as they drove by, but a third car pulled out of a small side road and crept to a halt twenty metres behind her car.

She walked towards the car, wondering if the driver was a possible Good Samaritan but she was suddenly suspicious; she wished that her handbag containing her gun was slung across her shoulder rather than sitting on the passenger seat. She stopped and glared at him as he climbed out of his car. He was taller than her, distinguished looking, late middle aged with cropped white hair and a thick white moustache gleaming in his suntanned face. He took a couple of paces towards her and held out his hand. ‘Jasper White,’ he called out.

‘I’m Gerry Tate,’ she replied, giving his hand a brief shake. She ran the name White through her memory and suddenly felt tense when she remembered Rashid Hamsin telling her about a Colonel White. ‘I suspect that you knew my name already. Perhaps you should tell me what you’re doing here?’

Clearly she had already rumbled him, but he kept up his act. ‘I’m here to help a lady in distress,’ he replied. He stopped by her car, leant through the driver’s doorframe and pulled the bonnet release. He opened the hood and looked inside. Gerry retrieved her bag from inside the car and then watched while he quickly reached inside with a handkerchief wrapped round his hand. He pulled out a small pyrotechnic device.

‘It’s just a little firework with a remote detonator. Doesn’t do any harm to the car apart from a bit of a scorch mark under the hood.’ He wrapped it up and put it in a pocket. ‘Needless to say the driver always thinks his car has a real problem and stops to take a look at it.’

Gerry stared at him, and then demanded ‘So explain why you’re here.’

‘What you’re really wanting to know is why I stopped you on a quiet road in the English countryside on a Sunday afternoon,’ he declared.

‘Yeah, that would be a good start.’

‘Ok, well perhaps we could sit inside my car for a minute and I’ll explain,’ he offered.

‘Yeah right,’ she scoffed. ‘I think we’ll sit inside my car and I’ll scan you for electronic devices before we talk.’

‘Ok, as you wish. You have a scanner?’ White asked.