‘Did you find anything?’
‘A notebook.’ She gave half a laugh. ‘I don’t mean a notebook computer, I mean an actual, old-fashioned paper notebook. Taped in a recess above the toilet pipe as it went into the wall. I’ve got it in a safe place, but so far it hasn’t been much help. Most of it’s written in some kind of personal shorthand. Nothing even a codebreaker could crack, because it’s not designed to be read by a single other human being.’
‘Then why did he want you to find it?’
‘Most of it’s in code. But a few names come up, written in normal language. Iraqi Thunder Fist is one. Mohammed Al-Bayati is another.’
‘So you staked out the ITF office.’
She shrugged. ‘What could I do? From that moment on, I caught Charlie’s paranoia. He’d obviously known he was at risk of being killed, which is why he rang me. Me, not his line of command. It suggested he at least suspected someone within the Service of being an enemy. That meant I had to regard everyone, the whole of the Security Service, as a potential threat. It meant I couldn’t access any of the databases any more, couldn’t search for Mohammed Al-Bayati’s home address, in case it triggered alarm bells. So I had to do it the hard way. Watch the office and see if he turned up.’
Purkiss sifted through the information she’d given him, calculating how much she probably knew, and how much she didn’t.
‘Ms Holley — ’
‘Hannah.’
‘Hannah, what do you know of the circumstances of Morrow’s death?’
‘That he was shot on an estate somewhere in the Home Counties, with a long gun.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it. Through the grapevine.’
There was no point holding back, Purkiss thought. He said, ‘He was meeting the Home Secretary. He was going to blow the whistle on something within the Service.’
Hannah’s eyes flared. She sat back in her chair, letting out a long breath through pursed lips, managing to sound vindicated and wondering at the same time.
‘Don’t ask me how I know,’ he continued. ‘But it’s one hundred per cent reliable information. And I’m here as an outsider, to find out both who killed Morrow and what he was about to expose.’
When Hannah leaned forwards again there was something gone from her eyes. It was the professional reserve, the forced coolness. Uncovered, the blackness of her dilated pupils threatened to suck Purkiss in.
‘I’ll help you,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.
‘You said “a few” names came up in Morrow’s notebook,’ said Purkiss.
‘Yes.’
‘There are others?’
‘There’s one more.’
Nineteen
Within twenty seconds of the blast, Tullivant was gone, driving at an unhurried pace north towards Greenwich.
He’d been parked for six hours at the end of the street, in the road with which Al-Bayati’s street formed a T, so that he had a clear view of both the Range Rover and of the entrance to the man’s house.
Ten minutes before climbing into his parked car to wait, he’d approached the Range Rover, a leather bag over one shoulder. The street was all but deserted at five thirty in the morning, not even an early jogger or dog walker to be seen. Nonetheless, there were bound to be people up at this hour, some of them even looking out of their windows as they sipped their first mugs of tea, so he had to make everything look as natural as possible.
Tullivant disabled the Range Rover’s alarm and the locking mechanism with a piece of electronic equipment not widely available commercially. He popped the hood, lugged a bottle of windscreen washer fluid round together with a small package which he’d taken from the leather bag concealed against it, and reached under the raised bonnet as though filling up with the fluid. He withdrew the dipstick, muttered as though finding the oil level low, and lowered himself to peer under the chassis, looking for a leak. Quickly, carefully, he fitted the package of C-24 explosive under the chassis.
Back in the car, he prised away the panel around the ignition and wired up the detonator. It wasn’t his favourite type of car bomb. Motion-sensitive ones, triggered by a human bulk lowering itself onto the seat, were more elegant; but in a busy residential street like this one they were too risky. A child climbing onto the bonnet might set it off. And Tullivant had discounted a remote-controlled device, because the signals jammed too frequently.
At that point, Tullivant could easily have driven away. He could have been on the other side of the country by the time the bomb exploded, reducing considerably his chances of being caught. But he needed to see for himself that the hit was successful. So he waited.
Once, during the six hours, the front door of the house had opened, and Tullivant had stiffened in his car seat. But it had only been one of the bodyguards, going out for the newspaper and a bottle of milk. Tullivant was relieved the man went on foot. It would have been embarrassing if he’d blown up the street in the process of popping out for a few essentials.
Around noon, it had all kicked off, and very nearly unravelled.
Al-Bayati and his entourage emerged in a seeming hurry, heading straight for the Range Rover. As they were climbing in, the tall man whom Tullivant had been aware of on the periphery of his vision suddenly stepped onto the road, his hand extended, holding some sort of identification card.
John Purkiss.
The shock of recognition made Tullivant feel disorientated, as if he’d slipped into someone else’s dream.
Reality intruded again. Tullivant had the Timberwolf in the car. If he moved quickly, he could take out Purkiss, and hope that Al-Bayati and his guards took fright and chose to start the car.
A woman was running up the road towards Purkiss, from behind him so that he couldn’t see her. Dark hair, slim build.
She collided with Purkiss and, as if he was the trigger, the car went up.
Tullivant ducked beneath the window, felt the heat sear his head. The roar made his car judder.
He raised his head once more. Dense smoke choked his throat and stung his eyes.
Through the haze he saw the rolling, screaming bodies, the tumbling fireballs of debris.
The frame of the Range Rover loomed into view, haloed in flame.
Satisfied, Tullivant started the engine of his own car and pulled away. Nobody would notice his departure in the chaos.
Negotiating the streets one-handed, he hit the speed-dial key on his phone.
‘Target’s neutralised,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘One thing,’ said Tullivant. ‘John Purkiss was at the scene.’
He relayed what he’d seen: Purkiss approaching Al-Bayati with some sort of card in his hand, as though posing as a police officer or other figure of authority.
The news was received in silence. Tullivant didn’t ask, do you want me to take Purkiss out? He’d wait for his instructions, without speculation, without pre-emption.
‘Another target.’
‘Yes,’ said Tullivant.
‘This is a little more complicated.’
Tullivant listened, angling towards Rotherhithe and the tunnel that would take him across the Thames. There was a lot of detail to be absorbed. Tullivant had a visual memory, so that he retained facts by converting them into a flowing series of images. He used the system to memorise the target’s name, address, and the specifics of exactly when he was expected to move in and do the hit.
Yes, this was going to be more complicated than the ones so far. But in many ways more interesting, for that very reason.