The Inquiry Page 29

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you were to, there’d be an obligation on us to report it to the police.’

  ‘Correct. “Secret” does not, and never can, mean “illegal”. Those are the rules under which the Security Service operates.’

  Patrick thought of the contract with Kareem. ‘Sara?’

  ‘I’m OK with this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Isobel composed herself. ‘I understand that you have become interested in the secret arrangements of which you are aware, Patrick, with Kareem bin-Jilani.’

  ‘Could I inquire how you understand that?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, now asserting herself. ‘By legally authorised surveillance of a person suspected of a criminal act.’

  ‘What criminal act?’ asked Sara.

  ‘A breach of the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘You’ve been bugging Walter Thompson,’ said Patrick.

  ‘You can’t expect me to comment on that.’

  ‘Nor can you expect either of us to comment on any part of ongoing investigations made within the remit of this Inquiry.’

  ‘You make an inference about “remit” with which I might not necessarily agree,’ said Dame Isobel, ‘but that’s not relevant to me being here.’ Sara was beginning to see how this precise, careful, evenly modulated woman had unobtrusively risen to the top. ‘To cut to the chase, there’s something you need to know about Kareem.’

  ‘About his activities?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Allow me, Patrick. As you’re aware, Kareem joined the staff of the Security Service in late 2005 under conditions which had to be kept secret. Over the coming decade, he performed services for the British nation for which its people would honour him if they were ever able to know. As the Islamist threat adapted, so too did Kareem. In the summer of 2016, in the role he was playing as an important figure in British Islamist circles, he travelled to Mosul in Iraq for a meeting with leaders of ISIL, DAESH, IS, whatever you like to call it. During that meeting he buttressed his trusted position with those leaders. He was also able to impart to us information of enormous potential future interest about their activities and habitats.’

  She paused, turning to the tray of coffee and biscuits. ‘Could I have a cup, please, as someone has so considerately prepared it? I rarely talk as much as this.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Patrick. Sara suspected there was nothing genuine about the request. This was someone who understood how to play an audience; an unexpected talent belied by her appearance. Isobel poured a splash of milk into her cup and reached into her bag for a pack of sweeteners. She ejected one, dropped it in, slowly stirred, took a sip and resumed her story.

  ‘On the morning of the 25th of July 2016, Kareem left Mosul in an unmarked car – a Mercedes SUV – driven by an ISIL driver and accompanied by an ISIL guard. What followed was, I’m afraid, a misunderstanding. Our American colleagues, unbeknown to us, had been tracking the man believed to be ISIL’s second-in-command in Raqqa, who goes by the name of Mohammad Kalkani. This man had been previously identified as travelling in this particular car. When it was seen leaving Mosul, setting out west, an assumption was made that this key ISIL figure was heading for Raqqa in Syria. It’s a journey that begins on the same exit road from Mosul as the route to the Turkish border point on the Syria frontier which Kareem was being taken to.’ She paused, a sadness clouding her stark face. Though Patrick and Sara anticipated what was coming, they gave no reaction, allowing her to close the loop. ‘The driver’s face had been captured in reasonably high resolution. It confirmed that he was the ISIL leader’s usual driver. Neither the passenger nor the guard had been caught on camera. After further confirmation of the car’s identity, a decision was made to take it out with a missile from an MQ-9 Reaper drone. That operation was carried out to perfection.’

  Though no tear was visible, she wiped both eyes with a handkerchief. The room fell silent, interrupted only by the muffled burst of a mechanical digger and distant shouts from workmen. Subconsciously attracted by them, Patrick walked over to a window and stared out. Sara stayed in her seat, watching Dame Isobel’s moment of grief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sara murmured, wanting Patrick not to hear.

  Patrick rejoined them. ‘If the Americans had taken out such a major target, they’d have announced it. At least let it be known.’

  ‘They did,’ said Isobel. ‘I’m sure your excellent archivist,’ she failed fully to curb the irony, ‘will have the reports to hand.’

  ‘They didn’t correct the identity of the target.’

  ‘What would have been the point? Owning up to the biggest intelligence own goal of the decade,’ she said bitterly. ‘I understood. Far better to claim the triumph and celebrate.’

  ‘And when Kareem failed to return?’

  ‘Oh, he’d hardly have been the first “jihadist” to venture into the war zone and go missing.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Patrick. ‘Some of them by his own hand, as we understand it.’

  ‘You’re straying, Patrick,’ she said icily. ‘This is not the forum. I came here only to try to help you both,’ she said, addressing herself to Sara.

  She accepted the olive branch. ‘We appreciate that.’

  ‘I believe that Kareem was – became – a good person. It would be unfair to besmirch his reputation either in the public sessions of this Inquiry or in camera.’ She paused and looked from one to the other. ‘Particularly as he is no longer here to defend himself.’

  Sara gave Patrick the slightest flick of the head. He understood and looked at his watch. ‘I have another meeting, Dame Isobel, I hope you’ll forgive me.’ He rose and left the room. Neither Isobel nor Sara moved.

  ‘Patrick has grown up,’ said Isobel, relaxing.

  Sara smiled at her. ‘Have you really not seen him since… since…’

  ‘No. As he said, nearly fourteen years. He was – how shall I put it? – more biddable then.’

  ‘He knows that now. And he regrets it.’

  ‘He shouldn’t. What was done was right. It worked.’

  Sara remembered J using similar words. She didn’t challenge them – her aim was different. She allowed a moment and then, adopting a shy hesitancy, asked the question.

  ‘Did you love him?’

  Isobel, betraying surprise but not shock, hesitated not at all. ‘Did you?’

  Sara’s brow creased; she hadn’t expected it. ‘I’d like to have seen him again. To have understood him. To hold him to account perhaps.’

  ‘Would you?’ replied Isobel, frowning. ‘Would you really?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘I’d never have thought that.’

  Suddenly, impetuously almost, Isobel stood up, collected the black jacket from her chair and slid it on. The trouser suit enhanced her, a woman who had come to dominate a man’s world. ‘You’re an interesting person, Sara,’ she said sweeping through the door like a panther returning to a forest of obscuration.

  Patrick was waiting in the Legal office. ‘Well…’ he began as she stepped in. He sprang up to shut the door behind her.

  ‘Well indeed.’ Sara was reflecting on this mysterious woman, keeper of secrets not just of the state but of her own life too. ‘I think they were lovers. But I’m not so sure she was his victim. He may have finally bitten off more than he could chew.’

  ‘You’re on the right track – but only halfway there.’ He spoke with rare certainty. ‘Go the full circle. Follow the evidence, the chronology. Look for simultaneities.’ He moved closer to her; she sensed him preparing an announcement that would shatter their preconceptions, so seminal that even the walls mustn’t hear. ‘Look, Sara, of course Isobel wasn’t his victim, for God’s sake, he was her bloody victim.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘The summer of 2016, Isobel Le Marchant is in final reach of her goal. Director General of MI5. Icing on the cake, she becomes a Dame. Route to the top – her brilliant handling of the operation which has made Britain safe
. Imagine her peddling it. In the eleven years after 7/7, the Islamist threat in the UK is nullified, plots intercepted, arrests made, jihadists disappear to the Middle East never to return. But Kareem has served his purpose. She’s arrived. And only she and he know what he’s been doing to get her there. Maybe only he knows where the bodies are buried. The one potential loose cannon out there who can now threaten her. The skeleton in the cupboard. The darkness in the soul.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘That drone strike’s not a cock-up or own goal. She’s in on it. Knows precisely who’s in that car. She’s the one who’s celebrating.’

  ‘Is she capable of doing that? To a man she loved.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘she’s Director General of MI5. She’s no softie. There’s another angle. She knows jihad in the UK is changing. Lone wolves, single nutters, technology available to all. The Kareem gambit is out of time. Its success relies on there being networks, or parts of networks – however small – that can deliver him the so-called “traitors”. Or the future “martyrs” to be vetted and tested. Kareem has no access to lone wolves. His usefulness is dwindling. She’s squeezed him dry.’ He hesitated, unsure how Sara was taking it. ‘Maybe those long legs squeezed him dry too.’

  ‘She has emotions,’ protested Sara. ‘I saw them. There were suppressed tears in her eyes.’

  ‘Crocodile tears.’

  ‘Even if you’re right – even if she felt she had to do it – she still would have mourned him.’

  ‘OK, maybe. But like the dramatist, we sometimes have to kill our darlings.’

  He walked over to the window. A concrete lorry passed below, carrying the foundations for another addition to the jungle of affluence. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, eyes glazing over the sprawl of buildings growing, it seemed, photosynthetically towards the late-morning sun. ‘How? Why? It really doesn’t matter. She’s the boss, he’s dead and all we have are a few files we’re told are the tip of an iceberg and an arrangement between the state and a probable socio or psychopath that I once signed my name to.’

  She walked over to him. Only now did she fully see the guilt that had stuck. ‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘We all have choices, Sara. They make us who we are.’

  He turned back to the window, burying his own small darkness in the sprawling mass of humanity’s energy. For a moment he regretted allowing her to see it; to witness his brutality in isolating evil. But truth was just that; pleasant and unpleasant, good and bad. False optimism – making the best of things – was the biggest lie of all.

  Her phone rang. He turned as she listened, saying little more than the occasional ‘yes’. Her eyes brightened, as if a cloud had scudded across a midday sky to reveal the sun at its zenith. She removed the phone from her ear, went and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest.

  ‘It’ll take time but he’s out of danger.’

  He wanted to tighten his arms around her but was stopped by a knock on the door. ‘Who’s that?’ They broke away.

  ‘Sylvia.’

  ‘Come in.’

  She entered, hardly seeming to notice them, carrying a computer print-out of a newspaper page. She placed it on a desk and pointed to a three-paragraph article on the bottom right column. The headline was ‘DROWNING VICTIM NAMED.’ Below, it read:

  The body washed up on the shore of Walmer beach in the small hours of yesterday morning was named today as that of Walter Thompson, a former civil servant who retired five years ago to a seafront apartment in Deal. He lived alone with no known relatives. Police have appealed for any family members to contact them. Neighbours said Mr Thompson was a polite man who was always willing to pass the time of day. It is believed that he was in the advanced stages of lung cancer and police are not viewing his death as suspicious.

  ‘I told you to keep him safe,’ croaked Sylvia. They could see she’d been crying.

  Sara put an arm round her. ‘I’m so sorry, Sylvia.’

  ‘He was a good man. And they crushed him.’ She retrieved the page and, without a further word, left the office.

  ‘Two deaths. One near death,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Which can all be explained away as accidents,’ said Sara.

  ‘No. It’s too much. Happenstance, coincidence, enemy action. Kareem may be dead, but someone is still protecting him.’ He searched Sara’s eyes.

  ‘We need evidence. Concrete evidence. Clues. Remnants. DNA. Bodies.’

  ‘I’ll go looking. But not you. Your father needs you. You can’t risk yourself.’

  ‘You already know what I’m going to say to that.’ She glared at him. ‘Just give me the rest of the day so I can see for myself that he’s fine and sort the aunties’ and cousins’ visiting roster. Poor Dad, he doesn’t know what’s coming to him.’

  Her brief smile turned to a grim ferocity. She grabbed her coat and bag, murmured ‘I won’t let whoever did this to him get away with it,’ and shot out of the office.

  One old man survives, another dies, thought Patrick. It had begun with the young men buried in the iceberg of unredacted documents – the executed, the disappeared, the tortured. But the chase had changed. Two deaths, one near death in the here and now. A secret killer still on the prowl, a foetid conspiracy still in play. To end it, they would have to find and destroy its still beating heart.

  27

  6 a.m. Sara slid into the passenger seat of the black Audi Patrick had hired.

  The rest of the previous day, he’d prepared too. They’d agreed to involve Sylvia, no one else. Knowing their phones might be used to track their movements, he’d bought pay-as-you-go burner phones for the day – including one for Sylvia for any urgent communication. They left their own phones in Sara’s house.

  Leaving early, the journey should be doable in under four hours. That would allow nearly ten hours to search before nightfall.

  ‘It always rains in Wales,’ Patrick had said. ‘Don’t forget your wellies.’ Each saw the other trying to make light of the trip, all the while thinking of the ‘accidents’ that had befallen others. J’s drowning would never be legally provable as anything but an accident, Morahan’s ugly end likewise. Tariq Shah’s recovery and Sara’s certainty that it was too professional an operation to have left evidence would deter police interest – unless her father remembered what had happened. It was better for him, and maybe her, if he didn’t.

  Each knew the trip was probably the last roll of the dice.

  At traffic lights Patrick plugged in his iPod. The first track was Mendelssohn’s ‘O for the Wings of a Dove’.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘I sang it as a chorister,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, this playlist is what they call eclectic. Next Led Zeppelin. Then the great Roy Orbison.’ As the third track built to its crescendo of the repeating ‘It’s over,’ he tried to cheer her by joining in.

  She listened, eyes alight. ‘You really can sing. How do you reach those top notes?’

  For a few seconds, he smiled with a joyful innocence, then darkened. ‘I wish today was over.’

  Beating the morning rush-hour, they were on the M4 within twenty-five minutes, past Bristol in good time, then saw signs leading to Abergavenny. The single-teated breast of the Sugar Loaf mountain came into view.

  ‘The land of Mother Earth,’ Sara said.

  ‘These hills and mountains paint so many different pictures.’ She inspected him; the trip was providing further glimpses into Patrick’s soul. ‘I once had to do a yomp here with that ridiculous school’s corps. Masters acting out SAS fantasies, eager teenagers licking their boots. None of that could hide the magic of the place.’

  Past Abergavenny and Crickhowell, the full spread of the Beacons lay ahead. ‘Somewhere among that lot was Kareem’s interrogation centre,’ said Patrick. ‘Let’s hope Marion’s mother’s bearings stand the test of time.’

  They rounded the town of Brecon and headed towards a fold of long
-backed hills. After a few miles, they came to a narrow lane.

  ‘I think that’s the turning,’ said Patrick. ‘But let’s climb first. See the whole vista from on high. Survey the battleground.’ She felt him camouflaging his fear.

  They wound their way up between long slabs of mountainsides, scarred by ancient gullies where surging rivers once flowed. On the roadside, a leafless, stunted hawthorn tree leant to the east, the casualty of decades of buffeting from the west wind. The only spectators were sheep, the bare green of the hills dotted with a coppice or two on far ridges and the occasional deserted shepherd’s hut. They reached the shoulder over which the next valley stretched, parked and walked up a few hundred yards to the nearest summit. Below them lay a steep fall into a valley which seemed to spread for ever into far vistas of England and Wales.

  ‘The innocent hills of Britain,’ said Patrick. He breathed deeply, puffing out his chest, and closed his eyes. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Let me check in with the hospital first.’

  He frowned. ‘Do you have to?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Maybe I’m being paranoid – or overestimating their paranoia. But say they’re monitoring the hospital exchange, they get the number of your burner phone.’ He hesitated, then grinned. ‘To hell with it, I am being paranoid. ’Course you should.’

  A few minutes later, two miles down the lane they’d located, they came to a gate leading into a driveway and stopped. It led downhill to a square farmhouse of dark stone and mullioned windows.

  ‘Too small,’ said Sara.

  ‘And too visible,’ added Patrick.

  ‘It should be more sunken. We need the solid gates to identify it. The buildings here all seem the same dark grey stone. Elizabeth Green said the end wall of the barn by the entrance gates was whitewashed. But lots of walls have had that done to them.’

  ‘It could have peeled off.’

  They returned to the car and crept along the lane. The description on the map had brought them as far as they could, now it was for their eyes only.