‘Via Vauxhall Cross,’ Richter pointed out.
‘As you say, via Vauxhall Cross, but it’s still a CIA request and we’ve been instructed by Six to implement it. And I’ve chosen you.’
‘Why? Am I at the top of your shit list again?’
‘Not quite, as it happens. You got Khatid out of that flat in Stratford very competently, so this is by way of being a reward.’
‘A reward? This tasking is complete bollocks. It’s just a stupid waste of time and effort, and you know that as well as I do.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Simpson said. ‘The report from Dubai was very specific. Holden definitely predicted Friday’s suicide bombing in Damascus. There’s absolutely no discrepancy about the dates. His statement was filed over a week beforehand, and they’ve got that in writing. And don’t forget that he’s been back to the embassy since, and that’s what the Americans are really interested in.’
‘The first report could have been a coincidence.’
‘The Americans don’t think so, and they’ve got something of a track record in this field. Haven’t you ever heard of Sun Streak? Or Grill Flame? Or even Star Gate?’
‘Like the TV series?’ Richter asked. He’d recently had Sky television installed at his flat, and was already beginning to regret it.
Simpson shook his head. ‘No, not like the bloody TV series. They were US government-funded projects, and they all dealt with this kind of thing. Get the relevant files out of the Registry and read them, and anything else we’ve got — and do that today.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you can pack your swimming trunks and bucket and spade and get yourself out to Dubai and find out exactly who this Holden character is, and just what the hell else he knows. And Richter,’ Simpson warned, ‘this is a simple, straightforward investigation of an event that has no immediately obvious logical explanation, so not even you should be able to make a Horlicks of it. But remember this when you’re lying about and soaking up the rays out there in the Gulf — fuck this one up and I’ll drop you deeper than whale shit. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ Richter agreed. The briefing appeared to be at an end, but he just sat there.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
Richter looked across at Simpson appraisingly. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? Why would you waste your time sending me all the way out to Dubai just to talk to this guy, when any of the Six officers at the local embassy could do it? What else do you know?’
Simpson nodded slowly. ‘Very perspicacious, Rich-ter,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘You’re quite right. If we’d just been given the tasking by itself, I’d have told Vauxhall Cross to stuff it, but there’s more, and I suppose you might as well hear about it now. Between you and me, that Legion Patrol didn’t just stumble across Khatid’s cell in Stratford — we leaked the location to them, through a low-level informer.’
‘That makes more sense,’ Richter said. ‘I suppose Khatid asked for an emergency exfil?’
‘Exactly. I do have a new tasking for him, but it’s not that urgent. Khatid wanted out because of what he heard in Berlin, and there was no other way to debrief him.’
‘So what did he hear?’
Simpson shrugged. ‘He thinks Osama and his merry men have another plan afoot, but this one’s a bit different.’ He leant forward and depressed a button on his desk intercom unit. ‘Is Khatid still in the building?’
There was an answering squawk that made no sense to Richter, but Simpson nodded briskly. ‘Good. Tell him to get his arse up here right now.’
A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door and Khatid walked in, smartly but casually dressed in designer jeans, shirt and leather jacket, and walked across to the other seat in front of Simpson’s desk.
The only incongruous note was his personal grooming: his hair was unwashed, long and unkempt, the black beard straggly and untrimmed, his nails cracked and dirty. He also wasn’t wearing deodorant. It completely ruined the effect created by the clothes, but Richter knew exactly why it was important. When Khatid went back to Afghanistan or Pakistan under deep cover, any trace of contact with Western civilization — such as the smell of deodorant or even washed hair — could spell his death warrant.
‘You’re going back that soon?’ Richter asked, as Khatid sat down.
‘You think I’d want to smell like this if I wasn’t? I’m still waiting to hear exactly which godforsaken country I’m being sent to but, yes, apparently it’s imminent.’
‘And then it’s back to camels and donkeys instead of black cabs and limos?’
‘Only if I’m lucky,’ Khatid said. ‘I think I walked most of the way across Afghanistan last time.’
‘If you two want to chat, do it in your own time,’ Simpson snapped. ‘Khatid, tell Richter what you heard in Germany.’
‘Right, Paul. It isn’t much, and it’s fairly non-specific. While we were in Berlin, I drove Hussein — he was the leader of our cell — to a meet with an Al-Qaeda planner. The two of them talked in private, in a small safe house. I was told to guard the door, which meant I was very close to them, and I could hear some of their conversation. Mostly, the planner discussed tactics and techniques, and I’ve already passed that data on to Five and Six.’
‘It was much better information than we’ve had for a while,’ Simpson interjected.
Khatid looked pleased, and continued. ‘Anyway, right at the end of their conversation the planner told Hussein that a new attack was imminent, and that although there would only be a small number of people involved, the results would be spectacular.’
‘There weren’t many terrorists on the front line in 9/11, and I think you could say the results of that attack were pretty spectacular,’ Richter pointed out.
Khatid shook his head. ‘Hussein said something like that, but the Al-Qaeda planner told him it would be completely different, not a direct attack on the West at all. It wouldn’t be a big bang, he said, but the effects would be felt all around the world.’
‘You mean they’re not aiming to blow up a building or hit an embassy, nothing like that?’
‘That’s the impression I got. Based on what I overheard, my best guess is that this time Al-Qaeda’s chosen an economic target, and probably one located somewhere in the Middle East.’
‘Like what?’ Richter asked. ‘An oilfield?’
‘That’s an obvious possibility,’ Simpson said. ‘We don’t know any more at the moment, though Six has put some feelers out. Anything else, Khatid?’
‘No, that’s it. That was all they said.’
Richter stood up and shook hands with him. ‘Take care of yourself, Salah. Send me a postcard from Kabul.’
When the door closed behind Khatid, Simpson finished his briefing. ‘Right, so although I’m expecting you to check on this Holden character, you’re really going out to Dubai for two different reasons. First, because that Damascus suicide bombing might have something to do with whatever foul little scheme the Al-Qaeda planners have come up with — it’s in the right area, at any rate. And the second reason is that I want somebody out there, one of my people rather than a Legoland paper-pusher, just in case the shit does hit the fan.’
Borisov had hoped to be out of the police station soon after Litvinoff left the interview room, but so far that hadn’t happened. The promised refreshments — tea and a selection of small cakes that appeared to have been retained well beyond their sell-by date — duly arrived, but of Litvinoff there had been no further sign.
By ten-thirty Borisov was getting worried, though he tried to remain as calm as possible, just in case there were hidden cameras watching him. At eleven the door opened, and a uniformed officer appeared to escort him to the detention area, but Borisov noted that he was being treated with a little more respect. Perhaps Litvinoff had instructed the officers that he was not just some common criminal.