Stella Rimington - Secret Asset

Pennington looked relieved to move to less psychological ground. “Bit of a mixed bag really, but quite straightforward. He kept a sharp eye on the madrasas, to see which were kosher, so to speak, and which were up to no good. In particular, he watched which ones were trying to recruit any of the young British Asians coming out to study. Contrary to what the papers say, many of these students coming from the UK only get radicalised once they’re in Pakistan. They go out with perfectly respectable religious motives, then fall under the sway of extremist imams.”

Pennington scratched his cheek lazily, comfortable again. “He was liaising with Pakistan Intelligence much of the time.”

“How did Tom report to you?”

“Directly,” said Pennington confidently. “We spoke almost every day, unless one of us was travelling, and once a fortnight he’d come in for our station meeting. He’d always put something in writing—a summary of what he’d been doing.”

“Did you see his reports to MI5?”

Pennington looked startled. “Not all of them personally, but they would have been duplicates of what he gave us, plus anything else he thought would be of specific interest to your lot. The ones I saw were chiefly about the people he was watching.” He stopped and glanced at Fane, who was studiedly looking out the window throughout this recital. “And of course his own efforts.”

“Sorry?” said Liz.

Pennington explained. “Part of his job was to try and turn anyone we thought either had been or might be recruited—by the extremists. It’s always a long shot, but worth a go.”

“And did he have any success?”

“Ultimately no. But for a while he was working on one boy in particular, someone who’d come over for six months.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No,” said Pennington. “But it will be in the file.”

In Islamabad, thought Liz, her heart sinking. Pennington turned to Fane. “You’ll have a copy here, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Fane, happy to re-enter the conversation with a solution. “Give me a moment, Elizabeth? I’ll get it dug out for you.”

Liz walked over the bridge and went back to Thames House. You had to hand it to Tom, she thought, with grudging admiration for his act, as she waited for the lift. He had played things perfectly, merging chameleon-like into his environment until even his boss couldn’t recall a single distinguishing characteristic.

“Is Judith about?” Liz asked Rose Love, who was halfway through a mug of tea and a chocolate biscuit at her desk.

“She’s gone home, Liz. She wasn’t feeling very well.”

Damn, thought Liz. She needed help right away. She’d returned from Vauxhall Cross with three names, each the target of an approach from Tom Dartmouth. They included the boy Pennington had mentioned, whose real name—carefully written down by Liz from the copy of Tom’s report—was Bashir Siddiqui.

“Can I help?” asked Rose.

Liz looked at her appraisingly. She seemed a nice girl, very pretty, but slightly shy and unself-confident. Liz was reluctant to use her now. There wasn’t any need for Rose to sign the indoctrination form, but Liz didn’t want rumours flying around about her pulling the files of a colleague. But she didn’t see any alternative; Judith might be out for days.

“Would you do a lookup for me on these names? I think you’ll find something about them in reports from Six’s Pakistan station. Probably sent by Tom Dartmouth when he was seconded over there. There’ll be quite a lot of reports but presumably the names will have been pulled out and indexed. Tom’s away at present, so I can’t ask him.”

“Okay,” said Rose, cheerfully.

Liz went back to her desk, worried about how long it would take Rose to sift through the reports. She answered some e-mails and did some paperwork and then went to the conference room she and Peggy were using, intent on looking through Tom’s personnel file again. She was surprised to find Rose Love there, chatting to Peggy. “I was just about to come and find you,” said Rose. “I’ve got the answer you wanted.”

“You have? That was quick.”

“I just did a lookup on the names. Two of them are there in the reports, but not the third. I searched for all sorts of spelling variants too. Still no luck.” She handed a piece of paper to Liz. The missing name was Bashir Siddiqui. Protected by Tom, when recruited in Pakistan, by the simple expedient of omitting his name from his reports to MI5.

“Thanks, Rose. Now I just have to figure out how to find him.”

Rose looked puzzled. “Oh I’ve done that too.” Seeing Liz’s surprise, she turned shy about her show of initiative. “I thought you’d want that.”

“I do,” said Liz, eagerly.

“I cross-checked his name against the list of British Asians travelling to Pakistan for long periods of time.” She added proudly, “It didn’t take long to find him.”

“Do we know where he’s from?” pressed Liz. Be patient, she told herself, Rose has saved you days of work.

“Yes. The Midlands.”

“Wolverhampton?”

“How did you know that?” asked Rose.

Eddie Morgan didn’t want to get fired, but since it would be the fourth time in five years he was at least used to it. “Anyone can sell,” his boss Jack Symonson liked to declaim. Then with a sarcastic sideways glance at Eddie, “Well, almost anyone.”

His wife, Gloria, would be upset, Eddie knew, but she should know by now that there was always another job, another slot in the flexible framework of the used-car business. The pay was tilted so heavily in favour of commission rather than salary that there was little risk in taking someone on—especially if, like Eddie, they had been around the trade for almost twenty years.

He knew cars—that wasn’t the issue. Give him a used Rover with 77,000 miles and he could tell you after no more than a quick sniff how long it would last and what it could be sold for. What he didn’t have—there was no use kidding himself—was the ability to close a deal. Customers liked him (even his bosses conceded that) and he could talk fluently about anything on four wheels. But when push came to shove… he couldn’t close.

Why can’t I? he asked himself for the third time that week, as a blonde woman in shorts, recently divorced and looking for something sporty, said, “I’ll think about it,” and left the forecourt after forty minutes of his time. Eddie stood, leaning against a five-year-old Rover, soaking up the sun.

Someone whistled, and he looked and saw Gillian, the receptionist, beckoning him from the showroom door. “Boss wants to see you, Eddie.”

Here we go, thought Eddie as he went inside, doing up his tie like a man tidying up on his way to the firing squad.

He was surprised, after knocking and entering Symonson’s office, to find him with another man. “Eddie, come in. This is Simon Willis, from DVLA. He wants to ask you about a car.” Willis was young and informally dressed—he wore a parka and chinos. He looked friendly, though, and as Eddie sat down, he grinned.

What was DVLA doing here? wondered Eddie, more curious than nervous. Or was this guy a cop? Whatever his weaknesses, Eddie had always been straight when it came to business, a bit of a rarity in the second-hand car game.

Willis said, “I’m looking for a Golf, T-reg, that our records say was sold here about two months ago.”

“By me?”

Willis looked at Symonson, who laughed derisively. “Miracles do happen, Eddie.”

Hilarious, thought Eddie sourly, but gave a fleeting, insincere smile, then looked back at Willis as Symonson continued to chortle at his own joke. Willis said, “The car was bought by someone named Siddiqui. Here’s a picture of him.”