Stella Rimington: Dead Line

Now Malouf asked, ‘Where to, Mr Veshara?’

‘Just home. Then you can have the rest of the day off.’ He would drive himself to his early evening meeting, since he trusted no one, not even Malouf, to accompany him there.

The call came on his mobile as Malouf turned the car around and headed north, towards the Vesharas’ twenty-room mansion on Bishops Avenue in the Highgate hinterland.

‘Yes,’ he said into the mobile.

‘The shipment arrives tonight.’ The voice was low, and respectful. ‘How many?’

‘Five.’

‘That’s one short.’

‘I know. There was an accident.’

‘Accident? Where?’

‘In Brussels.’

Not on his watch then. Sami was relieved: the last thing he wanted was Interpol sniffing around. He asked, ‘Is the ground transportation all arranged?’

‘It is. And we have a house in Birmingham.’

‘Let me know when the packages arrive there.’

‘Yes.’ And the line went dead.

Malouf was watching in the mirror. ‘Forgive me, sir, but there is a large car behind us, a limousine. It’s staying very close. Could it be one of your friends from lunch?’

Sami looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a black limo almost on their bumper, and as they went under the flyover and through the green light it momentarily flashed its lights. Who could it be? Not one of his lunch companions, he was sure of that. They were businessmen, but none of them could run to a stretch limousine. Yet he was not alarmed; London was full of idiots in cars. This wasn’t Baghdad, after all.

‘Relax, Malouf. It’s just some fool showing off.’

Suddenly a Range Rover pulled out sharply from the right, and cut in ahead of them on Edgware Road, forcing Malouf to brake. After its initial burst of speed, the Range Rover slowed, forcing them to cut their own speed even further.

‘I don’t like this, Mr Veshara.’

Neither did Sami. For the first time he sensed a threat; they were being boxed in. ‘Take the next right turn. But do not indicate.’ That should shake them off.

Malouf nodded. He angled slightly to make the turn but suddenly a large 4×4 appeared on their right side, drawing up alongside. When Malouf slowed, so did the 4×4. It hogged the middle of the road, and cars coming the other way were forced to move over, one blinking its lights furiously and its driver giving a vigorous two-finger salute.

Sami wondered who could be in these cars surrounding him. Had they mistaken him for someone else?

‘Turn left,’ he ordered. His throat felt dry, constricted.

But on that side, too, another car suddenly appeared, almost close enough to clip the Mercedes’ wing mirror. It was a white van, like the kind the police used to shuttle prisoners around, with smoked windows that screened its occupants from view.

The Mercedes was now effectively surrounded and Sami no longer had any doubt they were working together. Who were these people? The Russian mob had been making noises lately about his little sideline, the one that needed small boats running across the North Sea to the dock he’d rented near Harwich. Who else could it be? For a brief moment, he wondered if his deeper, darker secret might have been discovered. No, it was impossible. He had always been exceedingly careful. So maybe it was the Russians, after all. But what did they want? And for Allah’s sake, what did they intend to do? They couldn’t be trying to murder him in broad daylight, and a kidnapping seemed equally preposterous. They’re just trying to scare me, he thought, and if that was their aim they were doing a good job.

‘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.

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.