Stella Rimington - Secret Asset

He turned to someone at the end of the table whom Liz did not recognise. He was a broad-shouldered man, smartly dressed in a well-cut suit and scarlet tie with a face that was friendly and a little craggy. Just short of outright handsome, she observed to herself.

“Tom,” said Wetherby. “What about the Imam? Do we know who he is?”

The man called Tom replied in a soft voice—speaking, Liz wryly thought, in what used to be known as received pronunciation, “proper English” as her mother would have called it. “His name is Mahmood Abu Sayed. He’s the head of a madrasa in Lahore. And yes he is a teacher, as Judith suggested. But his madrasa is known as one of the radical hotbeds. Abu Sayed himself comes from near the Afghan border. His family has strong Taliban connections. Even as radicals go, he’s a hardliner.” He paused for a moment. “We’ll check with Immigration but he probably came in under another name. I’m willing to bet he’s never been in Britain before. English students have always travelled out to him in Lahore. If he’s come here then I’d guess there’s something pretty important in the wind.”

There was silence for a moment, then Michael Binding, red-faced in his heavy tweed jacket, leaned forward in his chair and waved his pencil to catch Wetherby’s eye. “Look, Charles, I sense we are running ahead rather fast. Resources are pretty tight in A2 just now. This Imam may be a firebrand but in his world he’s presumably a distinguished kind of fellow. Is it really so remarkable that Muslim youngsters want to hear him speak or that he should get a few budding disciples together? They may just want to sit at his feet. In Northern Ireland—”

Liz interrupted, trying not to sound too impatient. “That was not Marzipan’s impression and to date his instincts have proved at least ninety per cent right. That video wasn’t exactly theological. Marzipan thought that these people were preparing for a mission, and I’d back his opinion.”

Binding leaned back in his chair, looking cross, scratching his nose with his pencil. Wetherby smiled grimly. “CTC have accepted that in the light of these events there may well be a specific threat,” he said. “And I think so too. Our working assumption has to be that these three young men are preparing an atrocity of some sort under guidance and what we have seen is the conditioning, the stiffening up if you like, designed to make sure they stay the course to the end. With no information to the contrary we must assume that what is in preparation is an attack in this country.” He paused. “Of an extreme kind,” he added.

A small chill seemed to enter the room. A suicide bomber, unless detected before his mission can begin, is virtually impossible to stop. Three suicide bombers could make it three times more difficult. One would be bound to get through. Exactly what was intended was still unclear but, Liz reflected, Marzipan had at least given them a chance.

Wetherby was speaking again. “The operation will be run by Investigations and led by Tom Dartmouth. The code word is FOXHUNT. Dave, you will continue running Marzipan—you should be the one who sees him this evening.”

Liz’s stomach turned suddenly to lead. She felt her face redden with disappointment. Dave Armstrong was looking sympathetically at her but all she could conjure up was a wan smile. Her time off work hadn’t been his fault. He had inherited Marzipan on fair terms, before the agent had become a “star.” It was logical that he should continue with him. Beyond the feeling of disappointment, she found it difficult to analyse her own feelings. It was something about Marzipan—his vulnerability, his helplessness, almost his principles . He was in so many respects alien, a member of a different culture to hers, from a totally different background and yet his principles were identical to hers. Did he fully understand the risks he was running? She couldn’t say. There was something almost naïve about the way—yes, the way he yielded to them. She bit her lip, said nothing. Wetherby was speaking again. She almost hated the matter-of-fact manner, the steady confident tone of his voice.

“The aim for the moment is to find out more,” he was saying. “There is no obvious advantage to us in moving in just yet. The video proves nothing. We have nothing to hold anyone on. Our first step must be surveillance on the shop. I’d like eavesdropping and covert cameras too as soon as we can get them in. Patrick, can you see to the warrant?”

Patrick Dobson nodded. “I’ll get on to the Home Secretary’s office. He’s in London, I know, so it should be quick. Hopefully by six. I’ll need a written application within the hour.”

Tom nodded. “Judith, will you take that on please?”

Wetherby turned to Binding. “Sorry, Michael. That’s it. If we get the warrant I want your chaps to go in tomorrow night. Can you do that?”

Binding nodded slowly. “We can probably do it if Marzipan can sketch a plan of the inside of the building. We’ll need prior A4 surveillance of course, who the key people are, what time they leave, where they live, who has keys. We don’t want to risk being disturbed. I’ll talk to Special Branch as well. Tom, I’ll need to know from you how much we can tell them.”

Tom nodded. “We’ll talk about it straight after this.”

Reggie Purvis looked at Liz. “We’ll be briefing the A4 teams at four. I hope both you and Dave can come to the meeting. We’ll need to know whatever background on the area and the people you’ve got from Marzipan.”

Liz looked at Dave and nodded. Wetherby gathered up his papers. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow in my room. I’ll want situation reports from one representative of each section. And, Judith, an action note, please, through Tom and circulated.”

As the meeting began to break up, Wetherby called Liz over. “Can I see you in my office, say at noon? I need to make a quick call first.”

As Liz left the room Dave Armstrong came up and walked with her to the stairs. “Thanks for standing in for me last night,” he said.

“Any time,” she said. “How did it go up north?”

Dave shook his head. “A lot of fuss about nothing,” he said, rubbing his bristly chin. “I’ve come straight down. Haven’t even been home yet. But at least this one sounds real.”

They came out of the stairwell onto the fourth floor. “Tell me,” said Liz, “who is that man Tom? I’ve never seen him before. Is he new?”

“Tom Dartmouth,” said Dave. “And no, he’s not new. He’s been in Pakistan—got seconded to MI6 there after 9/11, poor bugger. He’s an Arabic speaker. I should have introduced you but I didn’t realise you didn’t know him. I suppose he came back while you were off sick. You’ll like him; he’s a nice bloke. Knows his onions.”

He looked at Liz for a moment, then slowly a smile came over his face. He poked her playfully with an elbow. “Don’t get excited now. I’m told there’s a Mrs. Dartmouth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Liz. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”

Walking down the corridor to see Wetherby, Liz felt a mix of trepidation and anticipation. She had seen him only briefly since returning to work, when he had come out to greet her on the first morning, then had to rush off for a meeting in Whitehall. She was very disappointed but in her heart of hearts not surprised that he had returned Marzipan to Dave Armstrong’s control, but she hoped that he would have something else equally important for her. Goodness knows, there seemed enough to do—one of the old hands in Counter-Terrorism had said the day before that even at the height of the IRA bombings in London, life at Thames House had not been so frantic.