E.V. Seymour - The Mephisto Threat

At the earliest opportunity, he went to the check-in counter, joining the queue displaying the hand luggage sign. It was extremely busy. When it came to Tallis’s turn, the looks were stony, but he was cleared and given the appropriate accreditation.

Approaching 3.30 p.m., Tallis found himself anxiously watching the terminal’s clock. Still his flight had not been called. A curdled feeling slopped about in the pit of his stomach. What if Koroglu turned up? What if he arrived with a bevy of armed police? What if CIA operatives stalking the airport already had him staked out and in their cross-hairs? What if…?

There was some disturbance down the far end of the lounge. Several armed police officers were on the move. They were making for the departure lounge for British Airways flights. Oh, Jesus, Tallis thought. Koroglu was striding along behind them. Then came an announcement:

‘KLM, flight number 082, originally due to depart at 14.35 hours and departing now at 16.30 hours, will be leaving from terminal…’

Tallis was on his feet, jaw grinding, walking with as controlled a step as he could. He handed his passport and ticket over to a young Dutch woman with milk-white skin and almond-green eyes. He met her steady gaze with a relaxed smile and watched her cheeks flush pale pink. She handed back his belongings. ‘Have a safe journey, Mr Tallis.’ She smiled back.

Amen to that, he thought.

He wasn’t happy until the plane had taken off. Even then he spent the first couple of hours fretting. Only when they finally touched down at Madrid did he start to breathe easily.

The next flight to London left at 7.10 via Iberian Airways. The ticket desk was closed. Already well past midnight, he decided to sit it out at the airport. By the time the desk was open, the flight had already left. Pissed off and exhausted, he eventually caught a flight that arrived at Heathrow, terminal 2, shortly after three in the afternoon. He fully expected to be stopped and searched at Customs, but was waved through, mainly, he suspected, because it was choking with people as a result of delayed flights, understaffing and a lack of screening machines. From Heathrow, he took the tube to Kensington and booked into the Kensington Close Hotel, where he was escorted immediately to the room already allocated to him. Inside, he found a wardrobe of clothes his size. He also found the safe. Entering the code, the door clicked open, yielding one thousand pounds in used notes and a mobile phone. Tallis pocketed the money and punched in the number given to him by Asim. He waited while the call was routed. Asim answered straight away.

‘Paul,’ he said, warmth in his voice. ‘How are you?’

‘Apart from surviving an earthquake, having a gun pulled on me by an a-Q operative and escaping from the clutches of some CIA bastard who took a fancy to my balls, I’m good, thanks.’

WHEN Tallis finished, Asim said, ‘Welcome to the club.’

Tallis pointed out dryly that he wasn’t part of anyone’s club.

‘Is that the reason you didn’t reveal your true ID?’

‘What is this? Phone a friend?’ More to the point, whom should he have called? Tallis wondered. As far as MI5 were concerned, he wasn’t officially working for them. He was, without doubt, one of many freelancers, paid for his expertise, yet utterly deniable if he screwed up, a spook of sorts but without formalised backing. Strangely, it didn’t bother him, perhaps because he had nobody to worry about and nobody to worry about him. The attraction for the security services was obvious: expendability.

Asim’s voice trickled with laughter. ‘Wasn’t a criticism. You did the right thing by keeping schtum.’

‘What I want to know is why they thought I had connections to the Moroccan.’

‘They mention the guy’s name?’

‘No, but shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.’

‘True.’ Asim paused. ‘Sounds to me as though they had limited intelligence, you burst into the picture, they decided to add three and three together and made fifteen.’

‘ They being?’

‘Not entirely certain.’

Bet you have some idea, Tallis thought. ‘And Morello?’

‘A side-show.’

Tallis didn’t agree.

‘You said at least one of the hit team was British,’ Asim said.

‘Yup.’ He remembered the words: ‘…fuckin’ out of here’ .

‘That may be significant as far as the hunt for the people behind Morello’s murder are concerned.’

More than significant, Tallis believed. He thought it was their first cock-up. All he had to do was find the next.

‘And this guy, Koroglu—an American you say?’

‘No doubt about it.’

Another pause. Tallis decided to go the direct route. ‘Are the Yanks outsourcing their detention centres to Turkey?’

‘The Turks are under pressure from extremists, too. They might see it as being to their advantage.’

‘Are they, or aren’t they?’ Tallis said, stubbornly pushing his luck.

‘I don’t know,’ Asim said smoothly.

‘Oh, come on,’ Tallis said. ‘You must have some idea. We’re all supposed to be best buddies.’

This time Asim’s laugh was hard. ‘Notwithstanding the change of head honcho across the water, a political event that takes time to download to the game on the ground, the Americans are no longer happy to play when it comes to intelligence concerning potential a-Q suspects.’

‘Because our government decided to voice opposition to Guantanamo Bay, and reduce our forces in Iraq?’

Asim concurred. ‘We’ve reached a fairly dire situation. If we want to know something from a suspect held in American custody, we’re no longer able to fly out and talk to them. We have to put the question to the American operative who will ask on our behalf.’

How very Russian, Tallis thought, remembering the Litvinenko investigation in which Scotland Yard officers were denied direct access to suspects.

‘It signals a grave lack of trust,’ Asim continued, ‘something that needs to be restored and quickly, which is why the head man is so hell-bent on getting Five, the Secret Intelligence Service and all the other British law enforcement agencies to bond together in the fight against terrorism.’

And they needed to, Tallis thought. It was reputed that at any given time there were two thousand terrorists and two hundred plots aimed against British citizens. No longer was it a case of if there would be an attack but when . In response to the threat, MI5 had launched a hip recruitment campaign aimed at young Brits, including Muslims, doubled its size, regarded languages for its operatives as crucial and had adopted a policy of international and national co-operation right across the board.

‘They ever thought about using organised crime?’

‘What?’ Asim said, baffled.

‘Use a thief to catch a thief.’ Asim gave a snort of ridicule. But Tallis wasn’t going to be deflected. ‘The CIA recruited Mafiosi to kill Castro.’

‘One man,’ Asim pointed out. ‘We’re up against entire legions, people from every walk of life, who think nothing of exploiting each single easy route into our country.’ Tallis thought of the Middle Eastern doctors who’d taken advantage of a shortage in the NHS to blag their way in and initiate a reign of terror in Scotland. ‘Who, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Asim continued pointedly, ‘are rumoured to have links with organised crime, which is what we’re investigating.’

‘I was wondering when you’d come back to that,’ Tallis said briskly. ‘Well, this is how I read the runes. I think the two incidents are connected. Morello discovered something. The fact he chose the Byzantium, a known criminal hangout, for a meeting is significant. Whatever he knew, someone wanted to shut him up. Somewhere our Moroccan is involved. You mention the purported links between British organised crime and terrorism. Well, I think I just stumbled across them.’