Stella Rimington: Dead Line

‘Not a lot,’ said Fane.

‘Sami Veshara – well, I think we can say he’s not Anglo-Saxon.’

‘Lebanese perhaps,’ said Charles. He added drily, ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

Fane shrugged again. He’s being purposely irritating, thought Charles.

Liz went on, ‘And Chris Marcham. That has a familiar ring to it – or is it just because it sounds English?’

Suddenly Fane looked slightly flustered. ‘Actually, that’s a name we do know something about. He’s a journalist, specialises in the Middle East. Freelance now; used to be on the staff of the Sunday Times . We have talked to him in the past. Not often. Bit of an odd fish, frankly.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Liz.

‘He made his name reporting first-hand on the Falangist massacres in the South Lebanese refugee camps. For a moment, the world was his oyster. He’s extraordinarily knowledgeable about the Palestinians, and one of the few Western journalists all their factions seem to trust. He could have become another Robert Fisk, but something seemed to hold him back. He doesn’t write that much nowadays.’

‘Personal issues?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fane. ‘He’s a loner – no wife that we know of. He travels a lot – must be out there at least half the year.’

‘We should be able to find him easily enough.’

‘Yes, I’d suggest you start with him.’

‘Start?’

Charles caught Liz’s outraged gaze. But he had already made up his mind. ‘Geoffrey and I have agreed this story needs looking into, if only to establish there’s nothing to it. I want you to do the looking.’ He shrugged and knew that when she calmed down Liz would realise that he had no choice. To be told that people, operating in the UK to disrupt a peace conference, were also targets for assassination required some response – even if, as he suspected, it all proved to be absolute balls.

Fane’s smug expression made it obvious that whether he was passing along a ticking bomb or a damp squib, he was in the clear now.

‘When do you want me to begin on this?’ asked Liz, knowing the answer.

‘Right away,’ Charles told her and added what he hoped would be a consolation. ‘Have Peggy Kinsolving help you.’

Liz suppressed a laugh. She knew Fane had been irked when Peggy had switched allegiances from MI6 to Thames House.

But Fane seemed unfazed. ‘Good idea,’ he declared. ‘She’s a clever girl.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, I’ll ask Templeton to try and get more out of this source of ours.’ He grinned at Liz. ‘It will be good to work with you again, Elizabeth.’

‘It’s Liz,’ she said curtly.

‘Of course it is.’ Fane was still smiling. ‘How could I forget?’

Honours even, I think, said Charles to himself as Fane left the room.

‘This is really good!’ Peggy exclaimed, and Liz had to suppress a smile. Only Peggy could be delighted by a cheese sandwich bought from a deli on Horseferry Road.

They were lunching at Peggy’s desk in the open-plan office, surrounded by reference books and working papers. Liz glanced with distaste at her own lunch, a grim salad of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and a piece of rubber passing as a hard-boiled egg.

‘All right,’ she said to Peggy. ‘Let’s start with the Syrians. What do we know about their people here?’

‘Not much’, replied Peggy, ruffling through her papers. ‘I spoke to Dave Armstrong in counter terrorism, but he says the Syrians aren’t one of their priority targets, so they haven’t done any close work on them recently. And we haven’t had a counter espionage case involving them for many years. All we know is what’s on their visa applications. I’ve checked the names with European liaison and the Americans and got three possible intelligence traces.’

‘We’d better get A4 to take a look at them and get some better photographs, so we can begin to build up an idea of who we’ve got here.’

Peggy nodded and made a note.

‘Now,’ went on Liz, ‘what about these two names? How have you got on with Sami Veshara?’

‘I’ve found out quite a bit about him. He’s a Lebanese Christian who’s lived in London for about twenty years. He’s a prominent member of the Lebanese community here, and runs a very successful business importing foodstuffs from the Middle East: olives and pistachios from Lebanon, wine from the Bekaa Valley – all sorts of items, not just from Lebanon. He seems to supply virtually every Middle Eastern restaurant in London; speciality shops take his stuff, and even Waitrose carry his olives. He has a wife and five children, and he travels a lot – Lebanon, of course, but also Syria and Jordan.’

‘Politics?’

‘He doesn’t seem to have any, though he gave a lot of money to the Labour Party, and supposedly he was in line for some kind of gong until the Honours scandal erupted.’

‘Any trouble with the law?’

‘No, but he’s sailed pretty close to the wind. I talked to the Revenue, and they said they’d audited him four times in the last six years, which is pretty unusual. They wouldn’t say much, but I had the feeling they didn’t think Veshara was completely straight. His is the kind of business where cash changes hands and transactions aren’t always recorded.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Customs and Excise have been keeping an eye on him – apparently some of his shipments come in by boat.’ ‘Something wrong with that?’

‘No. But these aren’t large containers. Some of these boats are no bigger than a fishing trawler, and they’re sailing from Belgium and Holland, then offloading in East Anglia – Harwich mainly. It seems an odd way to bring in olives.’

‘What did they think he was bringing in?’

‘They wouldn’t speculate. But drugs is the obvious possibility.’

‘If they think that, they’ll be checking him out themselves. Better watch out for crossed wires. But we do need to know more.’

Peggy nodded. ‘How about you? Have you managed to locate Marcham?’

‘No. I gather he’s been away on some sort of assignment for the Sunday Times Magazine . He’s just interviewed the President of Syria, and he’s supposed to deliver the piece next week. That may explain why he’s not answering his phone. He lives in Hampstead, so I thought I might try to root him out there.’

‘Maybe he drinks.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Liz, slightly surprised.

‘I don’t know. Don’t all journalists drink too much?’

Liz laughed, as the phone on Peggy’s desk rang. Peggy picked it up and listened for a minute

‘Where are you?’ she said. ‘Waitrose would have been much better.’

Waitrose? What was this about? thought Liz, amused. Peggy was listening intently, then suddenly erupted. ‘No, not broccoli. Green beans.’

And then it dawned – Peggy had a boyfriend. Well blow me down, thought Liz. It had barely occurred to her that Peggy had any personal life at all; she seemed so utterly caught up in her work. Good for her.

Suddenly remembering Liz’s presence, Peggy blushed deeply, her face the colour of beetroot. ‘I have to go,’ she said tersely and put the phone down.

Liz grinned. She couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘He’s not good on vegetables, then?’

Peggy shook her head. ‘Hopeless.’

‘Still, I’m impressed if you’ve got him doing the shopping. Can he cook?’

Peggy sighed. ‘He can’t make an omelette without using every bowl and frying pan in the kitchen. Deep down he thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay. Are all men like that?’

‘By and large,’ said Liz. ‘What does he do when he’s not destroying your kitchen?’

‘He’s a lecturer in English at King’s. He’s only just started.’