‘He’s just a good Muslim who isn’t happy when he sees other Muslims trying to hurt this country. He knows who the jihadists are but he’s not privy to their secrets. It’s up to us to put the names he gives us under surveillance and find out what they’re doing.’

  ‘And how did we miss Alpha One, the guy who had the second storage unit?’

  ‘His name is Hammad Gill. Hammy to his friends. Though not sure why a Muslim answers to the name of a pork product.’’

  ‘Gill? That’s a British name, surely?’

  ‘It’s a Punjabi tribal name. His parents moved from the Punjab in the eighties. They came over with three kids and had another three when they moved to Birmingham. The three they brought with them are pillars of the community. The girl’s a nurse and two sons run a corner shop. The three kids born in the UK have all gone jihadist. Two of the boys are in Syria. Hammad has been over to Pakistan twice in the last three years, each time for two months. He’s generally well behaved, probably told to maintain a low profile until he was needed. He lives in Birmingham and took out the contract on the storage unit two months ago. We can probably assume he acquired the weapons in Birmingham and brought them down.’

  ‘Had he had any contact with Daar in the past?’

  ‘It’s early days but we haven’t found anything yet.’

  ‘So someone else planned this? Someone put Daar together with Gill?’

  Willoughby-Brown nodded. ‘This attack took a lot of planning and I don’t think Daar has the brains for that. He was just a cog in the machine. Gill’s involvement opens up the whole investigation, obviously.’

  ‘And the weapons. Twenty Uzis and Kalashnikovs, all that ammunition. There aren’t many dealers who can come up with that much hardware.’

  ‘We’re looking at that, obviously.’

  ‘So, is there more intel coming from this source?’ he asked.

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Your man is obviously well placed,’ said Shepherd. ‘How come I’m not running him?’

  Willoughby-Brown grinned. ‘This one’s special.’

  ‘Too special for me to know about?’

  ‘He’s not for general consumption,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘You’re running him yourself?’

  ‘I’m involved. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Willoughby-Brown shook his head. ‘You’re like a dog with a bone. You really won’t let go, will you?’

  ‘I just thought today’s operation was such a success – Dave Loftus notwithstanding – I’d like to do more, that’s all. But if you want to keep the source to yourself, that’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not about hogging the glory, I hope you don’t think that. We’ll be keeping our customary low profile and SCO19 will be taking the credit for today. It’ll be known that Five was involved but my face isn’t going to be plastered over the tabloids, obviously.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘I trust you, of course I do. I trust those people I’ve hired, and I trust the people I work with.’ He grinned. ‘Most of them, anyway. But I can’t vouch for every single person who works at Thames House these days, and the source is too valuable to risk.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘You think there could be a leak in Thames House?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying there’s a risk, no matter how small, so we’re keeping him under wraps.’ He settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘You moved to Five from SOCA, didn’t you? The lovely Charlotte Button made the move and brought you with her.’

  Shepherd nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I was recruited at university. My tutor invited me around to his rooms for cigars and malt whisky. I thought it was a group thing but when I got there it was just me and him. I thought he was going to offer to suck my dick, but he had something different in mind. He suggested I join MI6. He said I was just the sort of person they needed and that I’d be a great fit. That’s how I was recruited, by someone who knew me and was prepared to vouch for me. And that’s what happened with you, too. Charlotte vouched for you. The problem is that since Nine Eleven and Seven Seven all that’s changed. Five and Six wanted to bring in more ethnic minorities – they wanted Arabs, Somalians, Iraqis, Iranians. They wanted people who spoke the language and understood the culture. But in the rush to do that, short-cuts were taken. Same as has happened in the police and Border Force.’

  ‘Lowering standards, you mean?’

  ‘Partly that, though obviously we still have positive vetting. But I think there’s a rush to give people the benefit of the doubt. A Muslim guy with a degree in communications says he wants to serve his country. He speaks Arabic and English and hasn’t ever been in trouble. Bang, he’s hired, and within a few months he’s handling all sorts of confidential information. But you and I both know that post Nine Eleven and Seven Seven, the bad guys changed their strategy too. They’ve been doing whatever they can to infiltrate our institutions. We catch most of them but it’s a matter of playing the odds. Some get through. It’s happened at the airports and it’s happened in the cops and in the armed forces, and I’m damn sure we’ve a few bad eggs in Five and Six already.’

  ‘Sleepers, you mean?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Some will be in it for the long haul, but others are being used for intel. They only need one cop to have access to the Police National Computer. They only need one MI5 officer to have access to our databases. We’re in a very difficult position. We want to recruit more Muslims, but the very fact that we’re recruiting so many puts our security at risk.’ He shrugged. ‘We can’t ever say that, of course. But what I can do is protect my sources, wherever possible.’

  He reached down and picked up a battered leather briefcase. He swung it onto the desk and opened it. ‘Now, on the subject of trust, I have your next job. Have you ever come across this girl?’ Willoughby-Brown passed a photograph across the desk. It was a head-and-shoulders shot of a young woman with a dirty-blonde bob, grey-blue eyes and a cheeky smile.

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I know your trick memory is pretty infallible and that you never forget a face, but this girl is different. She’s something of a chameleon. She’s always changing her appearance.’ He slid a second photograph across the table. This time she had blue eyes and long blonde hair and was giving the camera an ice-maiden stare. It was definitely the same girl, but Shepherd had to look twice to be sure. ‘I’ve not crossed paths with her.’

  Willoughby-Brown gave him a third photograph. Short black hair cut in a fringe and green eyes. She was wearing wire-framed spectacles and had braces on her teeth.

  Shepherd shook his head again.

  ‘Okay, well, that’s something, at least,’ said Willoughby-Brown, taking the photographs back. ‘Her name is Lisa Wilson, currently an undercover operative for the National Crime Agency. Using the name Lucy Kemp, she’s been deep under cover for the past eight months, getting close to a British drugs dealer by the name of Marcus Meyer.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘Meyer is a Dutch name, surely?’

  ‘His father is Dutch and, strictly speaking, he holds dual nationality, but so far as we’re concerned he’s a British problem.’ Willoughby-Brown passed Shepherd a surveillance photograph of a good-looking man with swept-back blond hair climbing out of a Ferrari. ‘This was taken in London a few years ago. He doesn’t come here often – he’s usually somewhere in the Med or out in the Caribbean. He’s been on our watch list for a while and the DEA would love to get their hands on him.’

  ‘No European Arrest Warrant out for him?’

  ‘He’s a clever bugger. I’m sure you’ve come across his type before. Never goes near the drugs, keeps the money at arm’s length. Almost impossible to catch him with the goods, which is why the NCA put Lisa on the case.’

  ‘So if there’s an undercover agent inserted already, why am I here?’

  Willoughby-Brown looked down at the photographs. ‘The quality of her intel has taken a dive in the last few weeks and there are worries that she might have gone over to the dark side.’

  ‘So pull her out.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, is it? It could be that there isn’t much happening. Or that Meyer suspects her. If she’s pulled out, the whole operation has effectively been a waste of time because what she’s come up with so far isn’t enough to put him away. Meyer is a big fish and we need to reel him in.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We’ll get you close to Meyer, and you can kill two birds with one stone. Put together a case against him, and check up on Lisa. Now, how good are you with boats?’

  ‘I can handle a rigid inflatable well enough – in fact, anything with an engine.’

  ‘What about real sailing? Tacking and jibing and the rest?’

  ‘I know which is port and which is starboard but that’s about it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m considering ways to get you close to Meyer. The NCA used one of their snouts to introduce Lisa to him, but I’m wary of going the same route. In fact, I’m reluctant to share any intel with them.’

  ‘Even though they asked you for help?’

  ‘They didn’t. This is off our bat.’

  ‘So the NCA don’t know what you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s a matter of trust, Daniel. Let’s face it, they can’t rely on their own agent, why should I trust them? If, as we suspect, Lisa has gone native, how do we know that there aren’t others who’ve gone bad? Like I said, I need to protect my assets and the fewer people who know what you’re doing, the better.’

  ‘So you’ll put me in under cover and no one else will know?’

  ‘It works in our favour,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We’ll check with them to see what Lisa’s reported back about you. They won’t know you’re with Five, so we’ll see what she says. Now, what are you doing this weekend?’

  ‘I was planning on heading back to Hereford.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the lovely Ms Katra. How’s that working out, you shacking up with the au pair?’

  ‘To be fair now, Jeremy, she was an au pair when Liam was a kid. He’s an adult now. And it’s going fine, thanks for asking.’

  ‘I’m just saying, she was your au pair and now she’s … Well, how would you describe her?’

  ‘Girlfriend is just fine, Jeremy. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Actually, personal relationships are very much our business. Getting you to admit that your relationship had changed was like pulling teeth, whereas you know full well that as an MI5 officer you’re required to keep the agency informed of any and all personal contacts and any changes thereof.’

  ‘Katra was vetted several years ago,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And passed with flying colours,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But that’s not the point.’ He held up his hands. ‘Anyway, water under the bridge. I’m glad it’s working out well for you both. Can you tell her you’re going to be otherwise engaged this weekend?’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘I’m going to teach you the fundamentals of sailing.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’ve a thirty-five-footer moored at Brighton.’

  ‘You’re a sailor?’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I just never had you pegged at the helm of a boat, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Daniel,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  Standing’s patrol drove slowly into the camp and parked their dust-covered quad bikes behind one of the Nonstandard Tactical Vehicles used by the Navy SEALs. The Americans did love their jargon. In fact, it was a Toyota Tacoma four-door pick-up truck that had been modified with belt-fed machine-gun mounts, grenade launchers, roll bars, infrared headlights, satellite communications and tracker units. It was a monster, and as it looked like a Syrian rebel vehicle, it could often pass through high-risk areas where a military vehicle would have been fired on.

  Standing climbed off his quad and unfastened the green nylon case containing the SOFLAM from the back carrier. Parker was transporting the shit-filled plastic bags. As usual the patrol had played Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who did the dirty work. Also as usual Parker lost, and Standing figured it wouldn’t be much longer before he realised the other three were colluding against him. Parker carried the bags to a disposal area while Standing, Williams and Cox walked towards the tented barracks area, their weapons slung over their shoulders. A group of four Navy SEALs walked by and grunted in unison. The three SAS soldiers grunted back.

  Standing needed a shower and a shave, and then he planned to help himself to a burger or two and ideally a cold beer. Alcohol was supposedly banned in the camp but the SEALs seemed to have acquired a never-ending supply of Budweiser that they were happy to share with the Brits. Early on in the conflict the SAS had based itself in Jordan, crossing the border into Syria to help the New Syrian Army take on Islamic State. Early work had involved building defences and bunkers and organising logistics, but as the fighting intensified the SAS had taken on a more active role. When the Americans had set up a base in the Syrian desert between al-Raqqah and the Iraqi border to help support the Syrian rebel forces as part of Operation Inherent Resolve, the SAS had moved in. While the British government had never approved ground troops going to Syria, the SAS always operated independently and their missions were rarely, if ever, publicised. The special-forces camp was tiny, measured against the army cities that had been built across Iraq, but it was still luxurious compared to the facilities the SAS generally had to put up with.

  ‘Standing, you bastard!’

  Standing stopped and turned. Captain Waters was walking towards him, red-faced and breathing heavily. He was wearing desert camo fatigues and a floppy camo hat and had a smear of white sunscreen down his nose. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘Heading for a shower and then some scoff,’ said Standing.

  Williams and Cox faced Waters. Standing held up his hand. ‘It’s okay, guys, I’ve got this.’

  ‘Are you sure, Sarge?’ said Cox. ‘He’s not a happy captain.’

  ‘I can handle it. You guys go and get cleaned up. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  The two men headed off as Waters walked up to Standing. ‘You disobeyed a direct order out there,’ said Waters. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, his chin jutting aggressively. ‘I told you to light up the target. You aimed your laser at the wrong bloody building.’

  ‘These Syrian buildings all look the same,’ said Standing, laconically. ‘It’s easy to make a mistake.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Standing. You said you didn’t want to light up the target, and the next thing is we’re raining destruction down on what I’m told was an empty building. The Americans are as mad as hell and want to know who fucked up.’

  ‘They’ve got plenty of missiles,’ said Standing. ‘They’ll get another chance.’

  ‘I gave you a fucking order.’

  ‘There were kids. I’m not killing kids.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ said the captain. ‘They use kids to set IEDs out here. They use kids as suicide bombers. You’ve seen the videos – kids here hack the heads off prisoners and laugh while they’re doing it.’

  ‘These weren’t terrorist kids. They were regular children, minding their own business.’

  The captain narrowed his eyes. ‘So now you’re an expert on children, are you?’

  ‘They were coming back from school. That’s what it looked like. They were carrying books.’

  ‘I don’t care if they were carrying a stack of fucking Bibles,’ said the captain. ‘We had one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists in our sights and you let him go.’

  ‘We’ll get another chance.’

  ‘You don’t know that. For all you know he could be training jihadists to take the fight to the UK. Did you think about that? He could be sending fighters to kill our friends and families. We could have stopped him cold and now he’s out there planning God knows what.’

  Standing shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, there’s no point in crying over spilled milk, is there?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that. You disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer. That’s a court-martial offence.’

  Standing laughed. ‘This is the SAS. We don’t do courts martial.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ sneered the captain.

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  Standing turned to go but the captain gripped his shoulder. ‘Don’t you fucking walk away from me while I’m talking to you,’ he said.

  ‘Get your hand off me,’ said Standing, glaring at the officer.

  The captain tightened his grip. Standing grabbed his wrist and wrenched the hand off his shoulder. The captain swore at him, then pushed him in the chest with both hands. Standing put up his own to defend himself, and immediately the captain tried to grab him by the neck. Standing twisted, pivoted on his back foot and brought his right elbow up, clipping the captain under the chin. The captain’s head snapped back and Standing’s hand was already moving, clenched into a fist and travelling down to smash onto the man’s nose. Blood spurted down the captain’s chin and he fell back, arms flailing. He tripped and hit the ground hard. ‘You’re fucking done for now, Standing!’ he shouted, sitting up. Then he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll fucking have your stripes for this.’

  ‘You’re welcome to them,’ said Standing, as he walked towards his tent, the hot desert sun burning the back of his neck. He licked his knuckles as he considered his options, but having broken his superior officer’s nose he figured he didn’t have many. He hadn’t planned to hit the captain – he’d reacted totally on instinct – but even the SAS didn’t allow its men to go around smacking officers, even when they’d asked for it.

  Standing was lying on his bunk, staring up at the roof of his tent, when he heard his name called. He stood up slowly. ‘Yeah?’ he replied.

  ‘The major wants you, ASAP.’ It was Dave Mearns, a young trooper from Wales who had been with the SAS for less than a year.

 

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