Stella Rimington - Rip Tide

‘I’m sorry your husband died. He had a heart attack, didn’t he?’

‘Is that what your research department told you?’ She was growing angry now. ‘Tell them to have another look. My husband was murdered – he dropped dead in a Damascus souk. A coronary, they tried to say, but he had the heart of a lion. Mossad killed him – who else?’

Maybe God did, thought Liz. Or Nature, depending on one’s theological views. ‘Is that when you took up his cause?’

Ball looked at her scornfully. ‘I was already on his side. Who wouldn’t be? Have you seen the camps in Gaza, Miss Forrester? Have you asked your Jewish friends why they’re letting people die there? Why they continue to take other people’s land? Have you ever discussed with your American bosses what their “policies” are doing to people all over the world, or why their impact is never reported in the Jew York Times?

‘When he died I went to Iran to live with his family. I studied and converted to the true faith, Islam.’ She stopped talking for a moment and closed her eyes. Then suddenly she opened them again. Glaring at Liz, she half-rose from her chair. ‘I don’t believe you have any faith at all. You disgust me, you know; you have the nerve to oppose us without having any beliefs of your own. Even our worst enemies, the Jews, believe in God.’

‘Sit down,’ Liz said sharply, and the woman slowly did. ‘So you studied in an Islamic school. What else did they teach you beside the faith? Did they teach you to wage war on the West?’

‘They taught me to teach.’

‘I’ve heard about your teaching,’ said Liz. ‘In a mosque in London. I gather you were inspirational.’

For the first time Katherine Ball hesitated.

‘Inspirational,’ Liz repeated.

‘Whoever told you that is flattering me.’

‘Ah, flattery,’ said Liz thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, ‘Was it by flattery that you attracted David Blakey?’

Katherine Ball’s face twisted in distaste. ‘It’s one thing playing a role; it’s quite another pretending you’re enjoying it. I found that side of things revolting.’

‘Was that true of Mo Miandad as well?’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘You two slipped up. You were seen at a hotel in Athens. You were supposed to be flying in the following day, but we checked with the airlines and you landed a day early. In time for a rendezvous with Mo.’

‘Not that kind of rendezvous,’ she snapped. ‘What an ass your friend Berger made of himself. He hangs around, thinking he’s a detective in a Raymond Chandler novel – then ends up locked in a broom cupboard. As for Mo, he may have been wild once upon a time, and he was happy for people to think he was still a corrupt philanderer – it was the perfect cover story. But he’s a true Muslim,’ she declared defiantly.

‘And a murderer it seems. You have an alibi for the death of Maria Galanos – you’d gone back to London. He doesn’t.’

‘Try proving that. You’ll need more than speculation for the Greek authorities. Speaking of slip-ups, placing that girl in the UCSO office was a very stupid thing to do. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Ingratiating herself with the two Greek girls, trying to find out about everybody – it was ridiculous.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re a far better actress than Maria.’ Liz added coldly, ‘And she paid the price, didn’t she?’

Katherine said nothing, so Liz went on, ‘Speaking of acting, your performances at the London mosque seem to have had quite an impact. Several British Asians have left this country to fight jihad because of you.’

‘That wasn’t acting, Miss Forrester. I only preach what I truly believe. But you have no proof that I persuaded anyone to go anywhere.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. And I don’t think it was only persuasion. I think you were a key part of the organisation that recruited young men and sent them out to train and fight. We’ve managed to detain the four most recent travellers on their way to Somalia. They’ll be extradited here, and in the fullness of time put on trial. I wouldn’t rate their chances myself. And some of them may choose to tell the whole story.’

But Katherine Ball seemed unmoved by this news. In fact it seemed to calm her. Her voice became less excitable and her face looked almost serene. If she answered Liz at all, it was in monosyllables; her attention was elsewhere. Liz drew the interview to a close but she felt dissatisfied. She had an uneasy feeling that for all Katherine Ball had revealed, she was still hiding something important.

Geoffrey Fane had been delighted by the outcome of the operation off the Somalian coast. ‘Despite your colleague’s misadventure,’ he had said smoothly, ‘I think you’d have to agree it’s a very satisfactory result. Between us, Elizabeth, we’ve captured some pirates – who I’m certain will turn out to be Al Qaeda or Al Shebab, not that I think there’s much difference – and we’ve killed the rest of their gang. We’ve prevented the Birmingham recruits from reaching Somalia, where they would have been trained and hardened and probably sent back to kill us, and we’ve got your friend Dave out safely. Good job done, I’d say. We must have a drink on it. Perhaps you’ll join me at the Athenaeum one evening.’

Liz wasn’t so sure. The Somalian end of the operation might have been shut down, and thanks to Peggy’s research into Xenides’ role, the Athens conduit for Al Qaeda recruits had been closed by the Greek authorities (though Mo Miandad was still at large). But Liz was worried about Birmingham. As she sat in her Thames House office, gazing out of the window at the Embankment, dry and dusty in the evening sun of a late August day, she reviewed the strands of the UK investigation.

Katherine Ball, the woman who had inspired young recruits and organised their journeys out to train for jihad, was safely held in Paddington Green police station. She would not be doing any more harm, but Liz still felt uneasy about her. She had ranted and poured out her hatred, yet at the end, even when she had learned that her mission had failed, had seemed calm, almost satisfied. Was it just a reaction to all that bile spilled or was there something else? And Abdi Bakri – he was still preaching at the New Springfield Mosque and no doubt still inflaming malleable young people with talk of their religious duty to wage war.

‘Liz?’ It was Peggy. Liz came out of her reverie and waved her into the chair opposite the desk. Peggy sat down, clutching a sheaf of paper. She looked flushed.

‘I’ve got more info – two things actually. The Techs say Abdi Bakri has been emailing this parallax repository again. They’ve made some more progress with the encryption, and they say Bakri’s talking about something on for this weekend. No real indication of where, though, or what.’

Liz thought for a moment. ‘It can’t be the hijack in Somalia. That’s already happened.’

‘No, they think it’s closer to home. Somewhere in the UK.’

‘I bet it’s Birmingham. His acolytes all come from the New Springfield Mosque. Like the four we captured on the Aristides.’

‘But we’ve had nothing before from Bakri to suggest any UK plans for action. He’s more of a preacher, surely. He preaches jihad but leaves it to others to organise it.’

‘I know,’ said Liz, thinking of Katherine Ball.

‘Where do we start?’ asked Peggy despondently. ‘This is when we could have used Boatman.’

Liz thought fleetingly of Salim and his wife, who were ensconced in a safe house well away from both Birmingham and London. Kanaan Shah was looking after them and doing a good job, she’d heard. She would visit them as she’d promised, but only when this new threat had been dealt with. She said to Peggy, ‘I know what you mean, but we’ve still got one agent in place.’