Gavin Esler - Power Play

‘Maybe I made a mistake about Steve.’

‘You mean you’d prefer to be the wife of a history professor in California than to work in the White House?’

She laughed. We were still holding hands.

‘Maybe I’d prefer to be the wife of a history professor than to work with Bobby Black.’

She laughed again and kissed me suddenly on the lips, just a peck.

‘I guess not,’ she said.

We stopped holding hands and walked on, briskly. We started to talk about business, once more about what we could do about Bobby Black, and then about the problems Carr was having with Speaker Furedi and the Democrats in Congress, but I remember the grasping of our hands and that peck on the lips as one of the most erotic encounters of my life. We reached the Watergate.

‘I’d invite you up but …’

‘No,’ I protested, taking the hint. ‘I have to get back.’

‘Early start.’

‘Yes, always an early start. Sleep is for cissies.’

‘We should do this again,’ she said. I nodded.

‘Pursue our secret jazz vice together.’

‘S a deal.’

‘Deal.’

We stood silently again for a moment by the doorway to the Watergate, knowing that something important had passed between us but not fully understanding what it was. She put her arm again on mine and it was as if I had been connected to some kind of energy source. I wanted to kiss her properly, but I stopped myself from trying. It was impossible, I decided. Don’t even think about it.

‘Thank you for the drinks,’ she said as I kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Thank you for our conversation,’ I replied. ‘I … really like your company.’

I felt like an adolescent.

‘Me too.’

I watched her hit the keypad on the building and fumble in her bag for keys. When she was on the far side of the glass she turned and gave me a sad little wave, and a smile. Don’t even think about it, I repeated to myself several times in my head. I decided I would walk the mile and a half back to the embassy.

Don’t even think about it, I told myself with every stride.

Don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about it.

But that meant that I was thinking about it. I could not stop thinking about it.

I walked fast, to clear my head. Plenty of cabs tooted but I let them pass, until I reached the Great House and my bed just after two in the morning, which is around 7 a.m. British time. Just as I was ready to switch off the lights, my secure phone rang. At least by now I was sober. It was Andy Carnwath, the PM’s Communications Director.

‘Alex, we have a problem.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Several problems.’

One problem that I already knew about was that the Prime Minister was scheduled to fly to Washington for an IMF meeting in a couple of weeks time. London told me that my ‘absolutely top priority’ was to secure a one-on-one with President Carr, and it would be regarded as a humiliation for all of us if I failed. In the current mood of anti-British feeling I had not nailed it down yet. I thought that might be the reason for the call. It was something worse.

‘Our security people say it is very important that we all back off on the Khan case. All of us. Immediately. And especially you, Alex. We don’t want Khan mentioned in any way to the Americans; we don’t want him talked about publicly; we want none of this to cloud the Prime Minister’s visit. Most especially we don’t want any more fucking aggro with the Vice-President.’

Andy Carnwath stopped talking.

‘Delighted as I am to hear your voice Andy, why does this require a two a.m. phone call and not an email?’

‘I don’t know all the details,’ Carnwath said, ‘but I do know that Khan is a dirty little fucker. And his family is. It’s complicated, Alex, but I needed to stress it to you in person. Our people are on top of it.’

‘Manila?’ I started to feel very uneasy.

‘No, thank fuck,’ Carnwath sounded relieved. ‘Something else, something slow burning and, according to our people, something even worse than Manila–if you can believe that.’ I could believe anything. ‘Khan’s relatives are on the Watch List. The PM’s been told that being too robust in the defence of Muhammad Asif Khan will blow back and haunt him. So, back off–but, here’s the thing, under no circumstances must you tell the Americans why you are backing off. You got that, Alex?’

‘Of course.’

The ‘Watch List’ was the Security Service list of people thought close enough to staging a terrorist attack to demand up to twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance.

‘And one other thing I need to tell you,’ Andy said. ‘Brother Yank has been asking questions about you. You’ll hear it from the embassy security people. Discreet approaches from the US Secret Service to our people to check and make available all your security clearances and background.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ I said. And then, despite myself, I smiled. Maybe Kristina was checking me out. And then I stopped smiling. Maybe someone else was checking us both out.

‘Any reason we should be worried, Alex?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Goodnight then, Alex. Sorry to wake you, but I’m heading to Berlin right now with Fraser for the Euro-fucking-bollocks, and you can see why this would not keep.’

‘Yes, of course. Goodnight, Andy.’

I was completely sober now, and unable to sleep. I lay and looked at the ceiling, thinking about the implications of the Khan case, and about whether Kristina might help me out of a jam by fixing the one-on-one meeting between Davis and Carr that Downing Street so desperately wanted. I finally fell asleep. As I did so I dreamed about Kristina’s hair brushing my face.

As we were eventually to find out following the publicity over the Heathrow conspiracy trials, the British Security Service, MI5, really was on to something with Muhammad Asif Khan. A cousin of his, Hasina Khan Iqbal, had been flagged up as a security risk after she applied for a job at Heathrow Airport. MI5 started looking at Hasina and then at other members of the family, including her older brother, Shawfiq. It turned out that Shawfiq already had a file fat enough to ensure that the whole family was put on the Watch programme. The Iqbals’ father was dead, but the brother and sister, mother and maternal grandmother lived in Hounslow in west London. Shawfiq–and this interested our security people a great deal–chose to go out of his way to attend a mosque in Slough that was well known for the extremism of some of its members. For her part, Hasina, as is obvious from the newspaper pictures during the trial, is a strikingly statuesque woman. At the time I was tipped off by Andy Carnwath about the Khan family, Hasina would have been twenty years old. In the newspaper pictures her face is always set off by a black hejab and abaya. By her own later account to counter-terrorism police officers, it was shortly after the disappearance of Muhammad Asif Khan, and the Carr administration talk about vengeance against the perpetrators of the Manila bombing, that Shawfiq instructed Hasina to get a job at Heathrow Airport, Terminal One. Shawfiq was now head of the family and Hasina did as she was told. She applied to a confectionery and newspaper chain, but was told the only job vacancies were in Terminal Five.

‘Go along for interview anyway,’ Shawfiq instructed. ‘Take the job. You can get a transfer later.’

On the day of the interview, a Saturday, the watchers recorded that Hasina Khan Iqbal appeared to have dressed with special care. She had put on her dark kohl eyeliner and a hint of make-up, repeatedly making sure that not a single stray hair emerged from her tight-fitting black headscarf. Shawfiq was filmed by the watchers as he drove her from the family home in Hounslow to Hatton Cross Tube station. Hasina caught the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow. The newspaper store manager offered Hasina a job in Terminal Five immediately. The police reports showed that later he claimed he had had one minor reservation. Looking at her CV it was obvious that Hasina Khan Iqbal was overqualified for the position of shop assistant.