Close Call

Chapter 28

Liz had had a bit of a struggle persuading the Home Office that she had enough on Lester Jackson to justify a warrant to intercept his communications. On the face of it, a small-time Manchester club owner with no criminal record, let alone any proved involvement in terrorist-­related activity, did not present any threat to national ­security. She had argued strongly that his covert contact with Milraud, a man well known to the French as an arms supplier, in an apparent plot to supply weapons to a group of jihadis, justified the warrant. Eventually she had won the day, but the warrant was to be reviewed after two weeks and if by then no information indicating a national security threat had emerged, it would be cancelled. She had come away from the meeting in Whitehall feeling disgruntled. Two weeks was a very short time in which to prove anything.

She was reading the first transcripts when her phone buzzed – an internal call. She picked it up, impatient at the interruption.

‘Liz, you’d better come down.’ It was Wally Woods in the A4 Operations room.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Your Zara operation. The meeting took place and we’ve got the Frenchman back safely in our custody. That’s all OK, but we’re following Zara and I need to know how you want us to handle it.’

‘Give me five minutes?’

‘Make it three.’

She rang off and looked at the transcripts again. At 16:45 the day before, Jackson had taken a call on his mobile. The caller had been located two thousand miles away, though they still hadn’t tracked the signal down specifically. The conversation had been in English, with the caller speaking fluently but with what sounded like a Russian accent. The transcript read:

Liz shook her head, trying to make sense of it, then got up and walked to the lifts in the centre of Thames House. As she went, she thought about the transcript. Given Jackson’s background, it would be fair to assume the conversation was about human trafficking – the goods being East European women shipped over on a lorry for service in places like Slim’s.

But something was wrong with that – Liz simply didn’t believe twenty would be coming in one shipment, one lorry perhaps. Not to work at Slim’s at any rate, where Halliday had explained only half a dozen women were on the game upstairs in the club. And even if Jackson was involved in trafficking women for other places, twenty pieces seemed an improbably large number at one time and an odd term (‘pieces’) to use, even if the caller was not speaking in his native language and was trying to be discreet. And wasn’t it rather strange to say he was no expert, if he was talking about women?

So what on earth was Jackson importing? If it was guns, why only twenty, if they were then going to be re-sent to… God knows where? Was this what Milraud had been talking to him about?

She pondered all this as she walked along to the A4 Ops Room. Inside Wally Woods and two colleagues sat, headphones on, in front of a row of TV monitors. Wally was talking into the microphone on the desk and waved her to the battered old leather sofa just inside the door that was kept specially for visiting case officers. The Ops Room was Wally’s domain and no one was welcome when an operation was going on except by invitation.

‘Which side of Pentonville Road?’ he asked the ­micro­phone.

Over the speaker a voice Liz recognised as Daley, a veteran surveillance officer, replied, ‘South side and walking fast.’

‘I have him,’ said another voice, more muffled.

Wally kept his eye on the screen but spoke to Liz. ‘This Zara’s led us a pretty dance. He walked all the way to Great Portland Street station and went into the Tube. We had to rush in there, but then the bugger came out again and caught a bus.’

‘Do you think he saw you?’

Wally shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. You told us to take extra care and we have. I just think he’s been trained, and he’s being extra careful too.’

‘Where did he get off?’

‘In Euston Road, by the British Library. He hung about for a bit – I think he wanted to see who else got off the bus. None of us was on it – I’ve got three cars on this so he was easy enough to follow. It must be the only time in my life I’ve been grateful for the traffic on the Euston Road.’

As they spoke, video pictures appeared on one of the TV screens of Zara walking up the Pentonville Road, just past King’s Cross. It was a hazy picture, taken through the window of one of the surveillance cars, but Liz could clearly see the tall, dark-suited figure striding along the pavement. She watched as it turned and moved towards the entrance of a large building set back from the road. A group of young people were talking by the front door.

Maureen Hayes’s voice came through the speaker. ‘Zara entering a building. It looks like some sort of college. Groups of young people outside.’

Wally replied, ‘Send Tia up to check it out.’

And as Liz watched, a young woman in a hooded jacket and headscarf walked to the front of the building. She threaded her way through the groups of chattering young people, went up the steps and inside.

She was gone about five minutes, and when she came out she said, ‘It’s called Dinwiddy House.’

Wally turned to Liz, who shrugged. Tia was saying, ‘It’s a hostel for students at London University. Most of them are at SOAS – School of African and Oriental Studies.’

It made sense. Zara was young, Middle Eastern, like any number of SOAS students.

‘Any sign of Zara?’ asked Wally.

‘No. There’s a common room and bar on the ground floor but I couldn’t see him in there, though it was pretty crowded and I might have missed him. But I think he went upstairs. That’s where their rooms are.’

Wally turned his swivel chair to face Liz. ‘You want us to ask around a bit? Try and find out if he lives there?’

Liz shook her head. ‘Too risky, especially if he comes downstairs again when you’re asking questions. But I’d like an eye kept overnight, just in case he’s only visiting. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend there. Can you do that?’

Wally nodded. ‘It’ll be another team but I’ll make sure they’re well briefed. What do you want us to do if he leaves? Follow him?’

Liz nodded. ‘Yes, please. And keep Peggy posted. I’ve got to go out now to debrief Milraud.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks, Wally. That’s a great help. Now I’ve got some chance of finding out who this Zara is.’

Two hours later, after Peggy had made a series of urgent phone calls resulting in a senior university administrator being rooted out of his home to consult the file in his office, Liz knew. Zara did indeed live in the hostel known as Dinwiddy House, and was studying for a Masters degree in International Relations at SOAS. He was a Yemeni called Samara and was in the UK on a temporary students’ visa. The address given on his visa application and supplied to the college was in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. He hadn’t drawn himself to the attention of the college authorities in any way and a search of the records in MI5 and MI6 came up ‘No Trace’. But then, thought Liz ruefully, if this guy was any good, that’s what you’d expect.