The Inquiry Page 23
They sat silently, watching him, listening to the bleeps, trying to make sense of the various graphs’ interminable repetitive progress. A repetition whose interruption spelt danger. The one thing he understood was that she, not he, should break the silence.
Instead, it was the nurse. ‘Can I bring you tea – or coffee?’ she asked brightly. Sara turned and shook her head. Patrick followed her lead. ‘You must rest,’ said Bridget, ‘nothing will change tonight.’ Patrick tried to catch Sara’s eye, to give her the energy to move and convey the understanding that it was her father’s will, not hers, that would save him.
Eventually – time was relative and unmeasured – she rose and left, Patrick following. Only when they reached the family room, she flopping on the sofa, he sitting opposite on a hard-backed chair, did she say something meaningful to him.
‘The accident doesn’t add up.’
‘You’re ahead of me,’ he said. ‘A universe ahead.’
‘I can’t think properly. I’m hungry.’
‘I’ll check the place out.’ Within a few minutes, he was back. ‘They keep a corner of one of the canteens open overnight.’
They sat at a Formica table opposite each other on plastic chairs. Patrick stirred sugar into coffee, not wanting to tell her that he’d been drinking at a club when she phoned, and then sucked peppermints as he drove. She sipped from a can of Diet Coke and munched monotonously on a plastic-looking sandwich and a banana. Around them were the quiet stirrings of bleary-eyed night life in a hospital that never slept; the anaesthetist telling a joke to the theatre nurse; the three generations of black-scarved, black-robed women – grandmother, wife, daughter – waiting for news of their male loved one; the curly-haired West Indian cleaner rhythmically swishing her mop over the linoleum floor; the cashier flopped on her elbows, forcing her eyes to stay open for the next customer.
Sara leant back and poured the final dregs of Coke down her throat, Patrick trying not to watch her too closely.
‘Do you want to talk?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know if I’m inventing things,’ she said. ‘The shock is probably distorting it all.’
‘Take me through your day. Yesterday you had that phone call. I saw your excitement. It was all you could think about.’ He paused, a regretful kindness in his eyes. ‘You hardly said goodbye.’
She stretched a hand across the table. ‘I’m sorry.’
With one hand, he took it, with the other he stroked the back. ‘What for?’
She described the train journey; the valley; Elizabeth Green; Marion; the deserted Welsh farm; the rescue; the tragedy of destroyed lives. Arriving home, opening the door, his body by the stairs, the voices of the paramedics still echoing in her mind. The kind nurse. The gentle registrar. The fight for life. The last question.
‘What was he implying?’ asked Patrick.
‘I don’t think he was implying anything. He just couldn’t understand it.’
‘And you?’
She allowed a moment to pass. Yes, he had to know. She withdrew her hand and sat up straight. ‘We had visitors in our street.’ Patrick screwed up his eyes, concentrating hard. ‘Parked in a black car. Watching. When they came a second time, my dad went over to ask who they were and what they were doing. One had a Scottish accent, the other was big and burly. They told him it was way above his pay grade, they were there to protect me, f— off back into the house.’
Patrick took a deep breath. ‘I see,’ he said calmly.
‘Sounds like your visitors.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘It’s interesting it was the same two men.’
She frowned, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘It suggests that whatever is or isn’t happening, this is a very tight operation. It may be authorised, known just to a handful. Or it may be off the books.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I still have that tiny element of faith,’ he said, ‘that official would be better.’
‘He could just have tripped at the top.’ Patrick stayed silent, waiting for her. ‘Or someone hurled him down, smashing his head against the post.’ She peered down, hands circling the Coke can, the canteen seeming to go eerily quiet.
‘I imagine you never read James Bond,’ said Patrick, breaking the moment.
She looked up and smiled. ‘It’s hardly a feminist tract.’
‘I did. As a disobedient boy under the bedclothes with a torch.’ He’d injected a thrill into his voice which relaxed her. ‘So you won’t remember Goldfinger’s three card trick. “They have a saying in Chicago, Mr Bond. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it’s enemy action.” That’s fiction, we have the reality. Happenstance is the Sayyid files, coincidence is Morahan’s death, third time… your father. Enemy action.’ Any trace of humour vanished.
‘Who’s the enemy?’ she asked.
‘Ask another question. What secret is the enemy after? Or trying to cover up?’
He was trying to tell her something; she reminded herself of their interrupted conversation. ‘A piece of paper, perhaps?’
He half-closed his eyes. ‘I never finished the story, did I?’
20
2005
His distaste slowly turned to a certain admiration. Kareem – a man being held in a pseudo-cell by senior MI5 officers with whom he was negotiating his freedom – should have been the one making pleas. But cool, calculating, bold, he had turned the tables. It was he who was deciding whether or not to grant them his favour, he who was laying down the conditions.
‘What makes you think they’ll give you a contract in any meaningful, enforceable sense of that word?’ asked Patrick.
‘Because they need me,’ replied Kareem. ‘They’re clueless. They have no inside knowledge.’ They had moved outside and he was looking over Patrick’s shoulder to the empty sitting room behind the glass. A growl was building in the sky; they craned necks and saw a jumbo jet lumbering on its midday approach towards Heathrow.
‘An ugly beast,’ declared Kareem. ‘How sad that we no longer see Concorde. My degree was aeronautical engineering. Perhaps instead of ending up here,’ he gestured to the walls around them, ‘I might have trained as a pilot and sat in the cockpit of that beautiful creation. It restored one’s faith in the genius of British design and creativity.’
Patrick couldn’t tell whether he was genuine or dripping irony. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Perhaps you may not have noticed, Patrick. The world changed.’
I will not react to the arrogance, the superciliousness, Patrick told himself. He wondered whether Kareem ever raised his voice; whether it was possible to goad him, to breach him. He suspected not. ‘So, your contract – what do you want it to contain?’
‘Standard elements for civil service and government employment. Salary with increments. Holiday. Pension scheme. Time off in lieu for weekend work.’
‘You want MI5 to give you a staff job.’
‘Why not?’
‘Have you raised it with them yourself?’
‘No. I prefer to use my lawyer.’ He gave Patrick a condescending nod of approval.
‘I’ll convey your terms to them.’
‘There is one other condition,’ added Kareem airily.
‘Yes?’
‘I require indemnities.’
‘Indemnities for what?’
‘The job they are offering me will expose me to situations where I may personally have to make unpalatable decisions. I require indemnities against any risk of prosecution as a result of any such decisions or actions by me.’
‘What job? What decisions and actions?’
‘Not relevant to you.’
‘Then how can I negotiate indemnities for you?’ asked Patrick.
‘Ask them. They are the intelligence services. I suggest they use their intelligence.’
Patrick recalled J’s similar play on the word – two peas from the same pod. ‘I will convey that request too.’
�
��Please understand, Patrick,’ the tone remained calm but a steeliness had emerged, ‘this is not a request, it is a requirement. I am not going to hang for them.’
‘And if they refuse it?’
‘I have no desire to appear in a court or go to prison but there will be no deal without it.’
‘What can you offer them in return?’
Kareem answered without hesitation. ‘Loyalty. I appreciate their offer, which will give my life a new purpose. As I think they understand, my reflections on these matters since the events of July have brought a change.’
‘Are you saying you positively want this job? Whatever it might be.’
‘It will give me the mission I need.’
His choice of words was so curious that Patrick, though he knew it would displease his ‘client’, tried again to probe. ‘Could you explain?’
‘Explain what?’ Kareem exhibited a faint contempt.
‘What your mission is. After all, you’ll be changing sides, betraying your own.’
‘My own, Patrick?’ The condescension was now deliberate and unconcealed.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘How little you understand of the world.’
Kareem was giving no more. ‘Let’s go back inside,’ said Patrick, ‘I’ll talk to them.’
‘Thank you. If you do not mind, I prefer to stay out here. It can become a little enclosed.’ Patrick turned to leave. ‘Perhaps you could ask someone to bring me a cup of mint tea. In addition to the cigarettes, their research was sufficiently professional to have some in the kitchen.’
Lowering the brass handle of the garden door, Patrick was interrupted in mid-action. ‘One final thing…’ He stopped to look back. Kareem was a picture of insouciance. ‘As I will be devoting my life to your Majesty’s Service, I would like the honour of an invitation to a Buckingham Palace garden party so that I may shake the hand of the reigning monarch.’
Patrick gave an acquiescent nod. ‘Of course.’ Restraining himself from kicking the door open, he went inside.
J and Isobel Le Marchant walked in through the internal door opposite. They were accompanied by a newcomer, a blond-haired man in his thirties.
‘May I introduce you to John, Patrick?’ said Isobel. ‘He’ll be joining us on this.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Patrick. John Donald.’ He stretched out a hand; Patrick noticed a hint of Scottish burr. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Patrick assumed the three of them had been watching.
‘He’s biting,’ said J.
‘We’re biting,’ said Patrick gloomily.
‘Wise up, Patrick,’ said Isobel sternly, ‘it has to be a two-way deal.’
‘He’s got some nerve.’
‘It’s bravado,’ she replied. ‘His reaction to being cornered. He can’t afford to show weakness.’
Patrick turned to J. ‘How do you know you can trust him?’
‘That’s Isobel’s call. She’s the boss, I’m the gofer.’
‘Hardly, J,’ she said without smiling. There was something of the schoolmistress about her, thought Patrick, wondering what hidden depths had allowed her to rise so fast in such a traditionally patrician organisation. Perhaps that itself was the reason. A diverse MI5, ‘fit for purpose’ in New Labour’s twenty-first century. Perhaps they looked at him and thought the same.
‘The decision will go to the top,’ said Isobel, ‘but this is a unique opportunity. I’ve brought John in as our third pair of eyes. He agrees that we’ve never before had a chance to recruit such a high-quality asset from this particular world.’
Patrick, after his initial experience of Kareem’s slipperiness – not to mention his priggishness – wondered how they could possibly be sure of him.
Sensing his hesitancy, Isobel continued. ‘You see, Patrick, I personally have spent time with Kareem. I can see inside him. That is my job. Particularly as I will be his handler; I would not contemplate it unless I was sure.’
Patrick hoped J would interrogate her further. He didn’t. The show was moving on. ‘This contract,’ said J.
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
J smiled gently. ‘Is this the way to represent your client?’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Isobel without sharing the smile. ‘If he wants this so-called contract, I have no issue with that.’
‘He won’t accept it unless it’s a genuine contract of employment. And he didn’t seem amenable to negotiation on the terms.’
‘That’s better,’ said J, ‘your client would be proud of you.’
‘It will have to be signed by a senior officer of MI5. Including his so-called indemnities.’
‘It cannot be with MI5,’ said Isobel. ‘For reasons of security.’
Patrick asked himself what reasons but, again, judged it best not to question her. ‘Then with whom?’ he asked instead.
‘That’s really a matter for government lawyers,’ she replied. ‘I’d imagine you’d want to oversee any employment contract in circumstances as unusual as this.’
‘Perhaps I should speak to my boss,’ suggested Patrick.
‘Perhaps you should.’ She turned to J, smiling sweetly. ‘Shall we leave Patrick to make his call?’
‘What did you do?’ asked Sara. She had finished the banana but a rubbery remnant of the sandwich remained on her plate, curling slightly at the edges.
‘I phoned Keith Barron,’ said Patrick.
‘Remind me—’
‘Head of the Treasury Solicitors, as they were then. He answered immediately. I had a sense this was all pre-arranged. I was just a cog in an engine that was purring smoothly towards an agreed destination.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I reported my conversation with Kareem and his various demands. Barron chuckled and said “cheeky bastard” or something. I think I said, yes, he’s some piece of work. Then I asked him about the contract. He said, “Well, Five seem very keen on it so I guess we should oblige them.” I couldn’t believe he was so nonchalant. Presumably he didn’t think it worth the paper it was written on. “Who’s going to draw it up?” I asked. “You’re our man on the spot, Patrick.” “What about signing it?” “Same goes. You have my unqualified approval.”’
‘What?’ Sara’s interruption cut through the canteen’s buzz of refrigeration and strip lights. A couple of mournful faces looked round. She lowered her voice. ‘Sorry, it just seems so – what’s the word? – cavalier.’
‘I guess lies were just one of the currencies in play,’ said Patrick. ‘Those imaginary Saddam Hussein weapons of mass destruction hadn’t been finally exposed. I didn’t know what to say, it all seemed so surreal.’
‘What next?’
‘I used a standard template. J filled in the main figures – Isobel had left the room, I got the impression she didn’t want to dirty her hands any further. I added Kareem’s indemnities as an appendix. Tried to make it read like a bureaucratic formality.’
‘Did you get Barron’s approval in writing?’
Patrick looked crestfallen. ‘I hinted that would make me more comfortable. He just laughed. Told me not to be a muppet.’
‘It gets worse and worse.’ She paused, recalling again the final words of Elizabeth Green. ‘Did they do tests on him?’
‘What tests?’
‘Psychometric, for example. Didn’t they think of bringing in a psychiatrist or psychologist?’
‘It was never raised.’
‘I don’t understand their confidence.’
‘It was Isobel more than J. She’d made her decision and that seemed to be it. J wasn’t being modest, he really was just the sidekick.’
‘Kareem charmed her, overwhelmed her,’ said Sara. ‘Just like with Marion…’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing. I was wandering.’
She was baulking at something; he tried not to show he’d seen it. ‘Maybe so, but it wasn’t just that. I got the impression that Kareem was excited.’
‘Yes. That’s exactly how it felt.’ How much more did she know, or understand, about Kareem?
She raised her eyes. ‘Finish the story.’
‘Len the “driver” had facilities in his little front office. Computer, printer, photocopier, scanner. We made three copies of the contract, signature page at the back. I took it out to Kareem. He read it silently and slowly, far more slowly than was needed to take it in. I could feel him celebrating within but his face didn’t even twitch. Finally, he signed all three, handed them back to me and said, “I’ll wait out here for my counter-signed and witnessed copy.” Not a further word, let alone a thank you. I went back inside—’
‘Who ended up as the counter-signatory?’ asked Sara. He wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t need to ask, do I?’ He shook his head once. ‘Oh, Patrick. And the witness?’
‘Len. Isobel and John – I forget his surname – had disappeared, J just looked at the ceiling. Len Rogerson, it said on the page. That certainly wasn’t his name. I later discovered that the address he gave was a block of council flats that had been demolished several months before.’
‘But your name and address were genuine.’
‘Yes.’ He slapped both palms on the table and looked beseechingly at her. ‘I was still in my twenties – just – for God’s sake,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘It was my first real government job. I felt… corralled. As if this was my big initiation test and my whole career might depend on it.’
‘Who kept the three signed copies?’
‘Kareem himself, a second was taken by J. I took the third.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘You’re interrogating me, Sara.’
‘I, we, need to know. Because what if happenstance is Morahan’s death and coincidence is my father’s fall? And the third stage – what converts the whole pattern into enemy action – is still to come.’
‘Are you telling me you know what that will be?’
‘No. If only I did. But the farm that terrorised Marion Green and Sami Mohammed has the smell of death. The very words Marion used. The files contain cases of unexplained disappearances. The tips of icebergs, our source says.’