Lost causes

TWENTY-SEVEN

The headline news next morning was that terrorist attempts to contaminate drinking water at pumping stations supplying large parts of four major British cities had been foiled by police. It was not yet known whether other attempts had been successful or if the captured terrorists had been responsible for the first attack. The population was urged to remain vigilant. All water should be boiled until the all-clear was given.

There was an air of so-far-so-good about the COBRA meeting at ten that morning.

‘I wouldn’t like to go public on it right now,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘but I think we may have got them all. All pumping stations have been examined thoroughly and none report any signs of interference during the night. I think we have to congratulate the police and our security forces on a job very well done.’

‘Was it a breakthrough or a tip-off?’ asked Steven. He thought it was a reasonable question to ask but the slightly embarrassed looks that passed between the heads of MI5 and Special Branch and the Metropolitan Police commander seemed to suggest not.

The MI5 man cleared his throat and said, ‘We did receive a tip-off, but it’s not clear at the moment whether or not it came from one of our undercover people.’

‘I see,’ said Steven.

‘I’m sure you appreciate the dangers involved in placing operatives in dangerous situations. We have to keep information about them as secret as possible.’

Even from each other, thought Steven, seeing what he thought might be a case of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing.

‘No matter,’ said the deputy Prime Minister, intervening. ‘The main thing is we have eight terrorists in custody.’

There were murmurs of agreement round the table.

‘Do we know anything about them?’ asked Steven.

‘First reports suggest they’re home-grown and very young,’ said the Met commander.

‘And presumably Asian?’

‘Yes, but born in the UK.’

‘But they must have been subject to outside influence, and given assistance,’ said Norman Travis. ‘You don’t exactly find cholera cultures in the cupboard under the sink.’

The MI5 head nodded. ‘It’s almost certain we’re looking at disaffected youths being exploited by Islamic terrorists for their own ends.’

‘After being recruited locally,’ added the Met commander bitterly. ‘This damned Afghan war is making it all too easy for these Fagin-like figures.’

‘Be that as it may…’ began the deputy PM, coughing to cover his embarrassment, ‘it’s a truly sad reflection on our society that British-born youths should feel so… un-British.’

The expression on the Met commander’s face suggested that such social considerations were the last thing on his mind. ‘Well, they’ll have the rest of their natural lives to reflect on their Britishness or lack of it from behind bars,’ he growled. ‘Perhaps we should be more concerned with those who’ve died and those who might yet join them.’

‘Indeed,’ said Norman Travis. ‘Our first priority must be to remain focused on stamping out the epidemic we still have on our hands. We can’t afford to let down our guard even if we have — hopefully — deactivated its source.’

‘Hear hear,’ said several round the table.

‘So we continue with the preventative measures we’ve put in place?’ said the deputy PM.

Everyone agreed.

Steven walked back to the Home Office wondering why he didn’t feel a whole lot better than he did. The capture of what looked to be the whole terrorist strike force was a major triumph, and yet he found himself feeling uneasy without knowing why.

‘Wonderful news,’ said Jean Roberts when Steven walked in. ‘Aren’t our police wonderful?’

‘We are indeed blessed,’ replied Steven, tongue in cheek.

‘Oh, come on, Steven, I know you and Sir John have had your differences with the police and intelligence services over the years, but you have to admit they’ve come up trumps this time.’

‘You’re right; they have.’

‘All the health boards you asked about have now reported back. None of them knew anything about any new scheme coming into operation in the autumn.’

‘Thanks, Jean.’

Steven had barely sat down in his office when the phone rang.

‘They’ve caught them! I can hardly believe it,’ said Tally.

‘It’s real enough.’

‘This is just what we need to get on top of things,’ said Tally. ‘It’ll give us time to get everyone vaccinated so even if there’s another attempt we’ll be prepared. Is something wrong? You seem a bit distant.’

Steven struggled with a response. ‘Something is wrong,’ he confessed, ‘but I don’t know what.’

‘I know that feeling,’ said Tally. ‘Sometimes I get it with the kids at the hospital. All the lab results are telling you one thing but you know in your heart that it’s not the whole story: there’s something else going on.’

‘That’s it exactly,’ said Steven. ‘The jigsaw looks complete but you’re left with one piece in your hand.’

‘Go and see Sir John,’ said Tally. ‘You and he have this thing… You can probably work it out between you.’

Steven called John Macmillan’s home but was told by his wife that he was at the hospital having a check-up. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope,’ said Steven.

‘Far from it. He wants to go back to work.’

Steven sympathised with her and made arrangements to call round later. He spent the next few minutes standing at the window looking out at the traffic, trying to decide what to do next. He took out his mobile phone and flicked through the contact list till he got to John Ricksen, then hesitated for a few moments before pressing the dial button.

‘Ricksen.’

‘John, it’s Steven Dunbar. How are things?’

‘Sci-Med calling MI5 to ask how things are? I don’t think.’

‘There’s just so much cynicism in the world today…’ Steven lamented.

That drew a laugh from Ricksen. ‘Out with it, Dunbar. What are you after?’

‘All right. I’d like to talk.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘You can buy me lunch.’

The two men arranged to meet at the Blue Boar, a pub by the river, at one o’clock.

Although not close friends, Steven and Ricksen, an intelligence officer with MI5, had crossed paths several times over the years, and had come to respect each other despite the lurking departmental rivalry which had MI5 believing Sci-Med had a little too much freedom to operate as they saw fit, and Sci-Med asserting that MI5 lacked imagination.

The two men shook hands, and Steven ordered a couple of beers. ‘You guys must be feeling pretty pleased with yourselves,’ he said as they sat down. ‘I take it it was 5 who made the breakthrough?’

Ricksen took a sip of his beer. ‘Not exactly,’ he said slowly.

Steven let his expression ask the question.

‘It’s all a bit embarrassing. The informant gave details of all four proposed attacks on pumping stations but our people on the inside knew nothing at all about any of them. The same goes for Special Branch.’

Steven frowned. ‘If the operation was being kept that secret, how come one informant knew details about all four attacks?’

‘Exactly. The information had to have come from the very top, but we’ve no idea who. That’s a worry. It suggests that there may be home-grown terrorist operations out there that we know nothing at all about.’

‘And MI6 are still certain they didn’t come in from abroad?’

‘Absolutely. In fact, we know that the eight in custody have never been outside the UK in their lives. All are under twenty — they’re been-nowhere, done-nothing dumbfucks full of Islamic shit that someone rammed down their throats till they believed it. And here’s the killer

… They were all actually on our books.’

Steven’s eyes opened wide. ‘Now I can understand where the embarrassment comes in.’

‘We keep an eye on all the young firebrands in the Asian communities who sound as if they may be destined to cause trouble. Mostly it’s just running off at the mouth, but they invariably attract the attention of local recruiters and the next step can involve them disappearing for a “holiday” to the old country to see their roots for the first time — visiting Great-uncle Asif or some such crap. They actually spend their time in the training camps on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan and come back ready for business — able to strip down a Kalashnikov blindfold and handle Semtex like it was Play-Doh. But these eight were different: they were obviously recruited, but not through the usual channels or we would have known about it, and none of them went abroad.’

Steven let out a low whistle. ‘So the organ grinders are here in the UK, not just the monkeys.’

‘That’s what it looks like.’

‘But one of them blew the whistle.’

‘How lucky was that?’

Steven digested this comment in silence for a few moments before asking, ‘I take it none of them is saying very much?’

Ricksen smiled wryly. ‘I think the truth is that none of them knows very much. They’re all low-level operatives, told exactly where to go and what to do, and all of them are so full of holy shit that they didn’t question anything.’

‘You don’t think the fact that someone informed on them might change their outlook?’

Ricksen shook his head. ‘Because none of them knows anything about the size of the organisation they were working for, they just assume that someone somewhere up the chain of command betrayed them and will get his just desserts in the life to come. One of them did say something interesting, though. He claimed he was set up.’

Steven saw the difference. ‘Set up, not betrayed; that is interesting. Name?’

‘Anwar Khan, caught in Glasgow, possibly one of those who carried out the attack in Edinburgh.’

As they sat with coffee, Ricksen said, ‘I can understand Sci-Med’s interest in the fact that it was a cholera attack but why the interest in who carried it out?’

‘I wish I could give you a straight answer,’ said Steven. ‘I just have this feeling that something’s not quite right. Ostensibly I’m looking at a terrorist attack on the UK using a biological weapon. But when I consider the overall picture, the bug they used, the people who carried out the attack, the fact that they were betrayed — or set up — there’s something not quite right.’

‘You mean they’re going to hit us with smallpox while we’re all patting each other on the back?’

‘Christ, I hope not…’