Dead Spy Running

34

Paul Myers had been drinking heavily all evening in the Morpeth Arms, watching the lights of Legoland across the Thames burning brightly into the night. He knew that what he was about to do could lead to his dismissal. It was also a betrayal of Leila, one of the few people he had been able to call a friend. But she had betrayed him, and he now realised that he was left with little option. Draining his fifth pint of London Pride, he stood up and walked outside, making his way across the Embankment to the pavement by the river.

He watched the dark water running silently beneath him as he dialled the personal mobile of Marcus Fielding. Very few people knew the number, and even fewer were allowed to ring it. But when you worked at GCHQ, with the security clearance of a senior intelligence analyst, there were ways. Myers looked up at the Vicar’s office as the number began to ring.

‘Who’s this?’ Fielding said.

‘Paul Myers, senior analyst, Asia desk, Cheltenham,’ Myers said, aware of a slight slurring of his words.

‘This is neither an appropriate channel of communication, nor an appropriate time,’ Fielding said. ‘Who do you report to?’

‘Sir, it’s about Leila. I need to speak to you tonight.’ Despite the alcohol, Myers detected a missed beat at the other end of the phone. ‘We’ve intercepted some of her calls. I think you should see the transcripts. I’ve got them with me.’

A pause. ‘Where are you?’

‘Just across the water.’ Myers glanced up at the buttressed bay window at the top of Legoland. He couldn’t see anyone, but imagined the Vicar looking out into the darkness.

‘I’ll pick you up in my car,’ Fielding said. ‘I’m on my way out.’

Ten minutes later, Myers was in the back of a Range Rover, next to Fielding, as they were driven down the Thames towards Westminster. Myers was much as Fielding had imagined: few social skills, heavy-rimmed glasses, little personal hygiene, drink problem, and an IQ off the scale. A typical Cheltenham data cruncher, in other words.

‘The first call showed up on the grid a few hours after the marathon,’ Myers said. ‘We were listening to everything, desperate for a lead. It was mayhem, a bit like 7/7. South India was obviously in the frame, so we were scanning for Malayalam, Tamil, Telugu. But we were on the lookout for Farsi, too. I picked up this. I knew it was Leila’s voice straight away.’

He passed Fielding a printout of a phone transcript. Fielding read it through carefully.

Mother (Farsi): ‘They came tonight, three of them. They took the boy — you know him, the one who cooks for me. Beat him in front of my eyes.’

Leila (Farsi): ‘Did they hurt you, Mama? Did they touch you?’

Mother (Farsi): ‘He was like a grandson to me. Dragged him away by his [feet?].’

Leila (Farsi): ‘Mama, what did they do to you?’

Mother (Farsi): ‘You told me they wouldn’t come. Others here have suffered, too.’

Leila: ‘Never again, Mama. They won’t come any more. (English) I promise.’

Mother (Farsi): ‘Why did they say my family are to blame? What have we ever done to them?’

Leila (English): ‘Nothing. (Farsi) You know how it is. Are you safe now?’

[Line dropped.]

Fielding passed the transcript back.

‘Did you log this, give it to anyone else?’

Myers was silent for a moment, bobbing his head. ‘No. I know I should have done. Leila and I were friends. Good friends. I thought nothing of it. She had talked to me before about the nursing home, the way the staff mistreated her mother. To be honest, I felt a little awkward listening in. Felt like family business.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Well obviously the news that she was working for the Americans. I hated her for that when I heard. It felt very personal, a personal betrayal. I went back to the transcript, read it through again.’

‘And?’

‘I’d overlooked the most important part of it, the transmission data. Leila had always talked about her mother as if she was in a nursing home in Britain. When I heard her talking about a cook, the beating, I assumed it was just about the nursing staff. The call had been made to a UK mobile number, but I checked back through the intercept log and realised that it had been routed via a mobile network in Tehran.’

They had all missed it, Fielding thought. Everyone except the Americans, who had not only learnt that Leila’s mother had moved to Iran, but had used that information to turn Leila. More worryingly, it meant that the Developed Vetting system had failed, the first casualty of the Service’s new policy of casting its recruitment net wider. How many more would slip through in the future?

‘We used to look out for each other,’ Myers continued.

‘In what way?’

‘The odd thing, here and there.’

‘Go on.’

‘At Cheltenham we heard some chatter on the morning of the marathon. I passed it on, told her to be careful.’

‘Did you tell anyone else?’

‘No. At the time I thought it was nothing. I just knew she was running. She thanked me, said she would pass it up the line, but I know she never did.’

‘And you think that’s important now?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Why?’

‘My line manager recently received instructions from MI6 to focus solely on the Gulf. We picked this up on today’s grid. It’s from a phone booth in Delhi. Leila’s voice again. I’ve run it through profiling. She’s trying to talk to her mother — in Tehran.’

He handed Fielding another transcript.

Leila (Farsi): ‘Mama. It’s Leila. Things will be better soon.’

Unidentified Male (Farsi): ‘Your mother’s in hospital.’

Leila: ‘Who is this?’

Unidentified male: ‘A friend of the family. [Male voices in background] She’s fine and, inshallah, will have the best treatment dollars can buy.’

Leila: ‘I want her looked after, that was always the deal.’

Unidentified male: ‘I will tell her you called. And that her health rests in your hands.’

[End]

‘Do we know who the male voice is?’ Fielding asked, passing the transcript back.

Myers paused. ‘Ali Mousavi, a senior officer in VEVAK, the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security.’

‘I know him,’ Fielding said. ‘Takes personal pleasure in persecuting Bahá’ís.’

‘Does he also enjoy masterminding marathon attacks?’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve listened again to the chatter I picked up that night, before the race. All we got was one side of a conversation, London end. South Indian accent, clean mobile.’ Myers handed Fielding another transcript. ‘But the call came out of Iran. This afternoon I finally managed to trace the phone. It was used once earlier this year by Ali Mousavi.’

Fielding looked up at Myers. Like everything in intelligence, it wasn’t conclusive, but it was enough for him. He read the transcript:

Unidentified male (English, South Indian accent): 35,000 runners.

Caller: [no data, encrypted, out of Iran]

Unidentified male: Acha. 8 minutes 30.

[End]

Fielding asked for the other two transcripts back, and studied them again.

‘Thank you for showing me these,’ he said, sifting through the pages. ‘I appreciate the risk.’

‘We heard that the Americans were paying for Leila’s mother’s healthcare in return for her working for them. Her mother was a Bahá’í, so they were more than happy to support her.’

‘That’s what we heard, too.’

‘VEVAK believe all Bahá’ís are Zionist agents, get wind of this, turn up at her mother’s house, answer Leila’s call when she rings.’

‘That would be the logical explanation. But if the arrangement between Leila and the Americans was secret, as we must assume it was, then why would she say to an unknown Iranian who answers the phone in her mother’s house: “I want her looked after, that was always the deal”?’

Myers sat quite still, staring at the footwell of the car. For a moment Fielding thought he was going to be sick. Then he looked up and turned towards Fielding.

‘Leila wasn’t working for the Americans, was she?’

‘No, she wasn’t.’

‘And there wasn’t an American mole in MI6.’

‘No. There wasn’t. There was an Iranian one, who is now working for the CIA in Delhi, seventy-two hours before the new US President touches down. I think I need to drop you off.’