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‘And fails in that respect.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Dillon said, ‘Blake, the world’s gone to hell in a hand basket. Terrorism, al-Qaeda, all that stuff since nine-eleven, has changed everything. It can’t be combated by the old-fashioned rules of war. It isn’t like that.’
‘I agree.’ Blake shrugged. ‘A few years ago I’d never have said that, in spite of what I had to do during my time in Vietnam. I believed in the decencies, the rule of law, justice, all that stuff. But the people we have to deal with these days – there are no rules as far as they’re concerned, so there are no rules as far as I’m concerned. I’ll take them down any way I can.’
‘Good man yourself, I couldn’t agree more.’ Dillon lit another cigarette. ‘I speak Arabic, you know that, and I’ve spent my share of time in the Middle East. Even worked for the PLO in the old days when I was a naughty boy, and I think I know the Arab mind a bit. Most Muslims in the States or the UK are decent people, interested only in making a living and raising their families, but there’s a few of them who have a different political agenda, and it’s dealing with them that’s the problem.’
‘Take Morgan. English father, Muslim mother, raised a Christian,’ Blake said. ‘I know what happened to his parents, his mother returning to the Islamic faith and Morgan finding that same faith himself. But what turned him into the assassin who tried to take out the President?’
‘Well, that’s what you’re here to find out,’ Dillon told him. ‘And Ferguson, Hannah and Roper are waiting at Cavendish Place to discuss it with you.’
The Embassy of the Russian Federation is situated in Kensington Palace Gardens and it was typical November weather, rain falling, when Greta Novikova emerged through the main gates and paused at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the traffic to pass.
She was a small girl, unmistakably Slavic, with black hair to her shoulders, dark intense eyes and high cheekbones, and she wore an ankle-length coat in soft black leather over a black Armani suit. She would have made heads turn anywhere. She was a commercial attaché at the Embassy and had the degree to prove it, but in fact at thirty-five years old she was a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.
She crossed the road during the break in the traffic and entered the pub opposite. Early lunchtime it wasn’t very busy, but the man she was seeking was at the far end of the bar in the window seat reading The Times.
He was a couple of inches short of six feet, and wore a fawn raincoat over a dark wool suit. His hair was close-cropped, and a scar ran from the bottom of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. The eyes were cold and watchful, and the face powerful. The face of a soldier, which in a way he had been. A man of forty-five who had joined the KGB at twenty and had made major when he had moved on to other things. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq in the old days – he’d seen it all. His name was Yuri Ashimov.
He stood up and kissed her on both cheeks and spoke to her in Russian. ‘Greta, more lovely than usual. A drink?’
‘I’ll have a vodka with you.’
He went to the bar, ordered two, brought them back, sat down, took out a pack of Russian cigarettes and lit one.
‘So, as nothing incredibly shocking has happened in New York, you must have a story for me.’
‘Not a thing,’ she said.
‘Come on, Greta, GRU handles all things Arabic and Muslim. There has to be something.’
‘That’s the point. There isn’t. The President didn’t keep his damned appointment with Senator Black. After the function at the Pierre he went straight to Washington.’
‘And Morgan?’
‘Certainly went to Gould & Co. as usual. One of our New York associates confirmed this. The only unusual activity was some sort of paramedic ambulance going down into the underground parking lot. It left half an hour later.’
‘Did our associate follow?’
‘He deemed it unwise.’
‘I should bloody well think so. It stinks.’
‘Do you think they got him?’
‘Sounds likely. But if they have they won’t let on, and it won’t affect us anyway. There were no direct contacts.’
Greta nodded. ‘I think they’d want him alive to see what he had to say. On the other hand, our American friends are a lot lighter on the trigger these days and he did have the cyanide tooth.’
‘Alive or dead, they won’t advertise the fact. What about the mother?’
‘I called yesterday, as you suggested. Brought flowers and a basket of fruit, supposedly from friends at the mosque.’
‘How was she?’
‘Faded – slightly confused as usual. She told me everyone at the mosque was so kind, Dr Selim was fantastic. And she mentioned that someone from the social services department had visited her. A woman, apparently.’
Ashimov frowned. ‘Why would the social services visit her?’
‘Because she’s handicapped?’
‘Rubbish. Her son’s well enough off. Why would social services visit?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. Did she say if they would visit again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Be there, Greta. Just in case. If somebody turns up, I want a photo. I get an instinct for things.’
‘Which is why you’re still here, my love.’
‘True. But something here isn’t right. Let’s try and find out what it is.’
At Cavendish Place, Dillon and Blake were admitted by Kim, the General’s Gurkha manservant, and found Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Roper in the drawing room. Ferguson was in his sixties, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and a Guards tie. Hannah Bernstein was in her early thirties, with close-cropped red hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her Armani trouser suit was certainly more expensive than most people could afford on police pay. Major Roper sat in a state-of-the-art electric wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, hair down to his shoulders, his face a taut mask of the kind of scar tissue that comes from burns, the explosion that had ended his career.
‘Here he is, the man of the moment,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m sure he’ll give it to us in graphic detail,’ which Blake did, everything that had happened in Manhattan.
Afterwards Blake said, ‘So there it is. For the disposal system I’m indebted to you, General. We’re fighting a new kind of war these days, although I can understand Hannah’s moral principles being bruised a bit.’
‘Bruised or not, the Superintendent works for this department under the Official Secrets Act. Isn’t that right?’ Ferguson glanced at her.
Hannah didn’t look easy, but said, ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good. Tell us about Mrs Morgan, then.’
‘She’s sixty-five and looks much older. I managed to get hold of her hospital records, and it’s bad. The car accident that killed her husband almost finished her off. She narrowly avoided being a paraplegic, but she has money. Her husband owned a pharmacy, which was sold after his death, and there was insurance, so she’s well fixed.’
‘Go on.’
‘Her family disowned her when she married a Christian, but now she’s returned to Islam, as you know. Her son started taking her to the Queen Street mosque in her wheelchair. It used to be a Methodist chapel.’
‘And he turned, too?’
‘Apparently.’
Blake said, ‘That really interests me, the idea of a highly educated man, ostensibly English for thirty years of his life, a university academic, turning to a faith he’d never accepted before in his life.’
‘And then ending up in Manhattan with the intention of killing the President,’ Dillon said.
‘Which makes me wonder what goes on at the Queen Street mosque,’ Blake said. ‘Some of these places are hotbeds of intrigue, pump out the wrong ideas. Sure, we finally captured Saddam in Iraq. But how long ago was that and how many terrorist attacks have there been since?’
Ferguson said, ‘In his last message, Bin Laden referred to the young extremists as “soldiers of God”, and what concerns us is that young men from this country could be among them. It makes places like the Queen Street mosque of special interest.’
Hannah said, ‘If you’re looking for suicide bombers, though, it doesn’t seem like the place.’ She opened a file and passed it across. ‘Dr Ali Selim, the imam. Forty-five, born in London, father a doctor from Iraq who sent the boy to St Paul’s School, one of our better establishments. Selim went to Cambridge, studied Arabic, and later took a doctorate in Comparative Theology.’
Blake looked at the file, particularly the photo. ‘Impressive. I like the beard.’ He passed the file to the others.
Hannah said, ‘He’s a member of the Muslim Council, the Mayor of London’s Interfaith Committee, and any number of government boards. Everyone I speak to tells me he’s a wonderful man.’
‘Maybe he’s too wonderful,’ Dillon said.
‘I’ve checked with the local police. Not a hint of trouble at the Queen Street mosque.’
There was a pause, and Ferguson turned to Roper. ‘Have you any thoughts, Major?’
‘I can only process facts, opinions, suppositions. Unless I have something to go on, I can’t help.’
‘Well, I’ll give you something,’ Blake said. ‘And it’s been intriguing the hell out of me. Does “the wrath of Allah” mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’
‘When Clancy and I faced Morgan, in the moment before he bit on the cyanide tooth, Morgan said, “Beware the wrath of Allah.”’
Roper frowned and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t strike a chord, but I’ll run it by my computer.’
‘So, the way ahead on this one appears plain,’ Ferguson said. ‘I think you, Superintendent, should have another word with Mrs Morgan in your guise as a social worker.’
Hannah wasn’t comfortable, and showed it. ‘That’s a difficult one, sir. I mean, her son is dead and she doesn’t even know it.’
‘Which can’t be helped, Superintendent. It’s an unusual situation, I agree, but when one considers the gravity of the deed Morgan was trying to commit, I feel that any means that will help us to reach an explanation would be justified. See to it, and use Dillon as back-up. His knowledge of Arabic may prove useful.’ He turned to Blake. ‘We’ll drop Roper off at his house, and you and I can continue to the Ministry of Defence, where I’ll show you everything we have on Muslim activity in the UK.’
‘Suits me fine,’ Blake said.
Ferguson turned to the others. ‘All right, people, there’s work to be done. Let’s get to it.’
After leaving the pub on Kensington High Street, Greta and Ashimov crossed the road to the Embassy and got into a dark blue Opel saloon. She checked the glove compartment and found a digital camera.
‘Excellent,’ he told her. ‘You can drop me at my apartment in Monk Street and keep in touch on your mobile. Anything of significance, I want to know.’
‘Of course.’ She drove out into the traffic. ‘Where’s Belov at the moment?’
‘The good Josef is in Geneva. All those billions, my love, it keeps him so busy.’ There was an edge of bitterness there.
‘Come off it,’ she said. ‘Money is power and you love it, and working for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.’
‘To a point – only to a point.’ She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, ‘Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.’ He shook his head. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘You must be raving mad,’ she told him.
‘Very probably.’ He patted her silken knee. ‘You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.’
He got out of the Opel and walked away.
Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.
Number Thirteen, that had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain and then a red Mini drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.
Hannah pressed the bell and they waited. Finally they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s me, Mrs Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the social services. I thought I’d call again.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘This is Mr Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?’
‘Just a moment.’ The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.
All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.
In the small sitting room the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.
Hannah said, ‘I just thought I’d check on you, Mrs Morgan, as we happened to be passing.’
Dillon, more direct, said, ‘Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs Morgan. Have you heard from him?’
Her voice was muted, and she coughed, ‘Oh, he’ll be too busy. I’m sure he’ll phone when he’s got time.’
Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded and she carried on reluctantly. ‘Have you seen Dr Selim lately?’
‘Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son’s away Dr Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. It’s not far. He’s been very good, Dr Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry to discover our faith.’
Hannah felt wretched. ‘I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.’
‘Yes, he’s called around two or three times since Henry’s been away, with his friend.’
There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, ‘And who was that?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.’
Dillon said sternly in Arabic, ‘Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?’
She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, ‘There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.’
Hannah said, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.’
Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs Morgan on the forehead. ‘There you are, my love.’ He turned to Hannah and led the way out.
Outside, she said, ‘What a bastard you are. What were you saying?’
