(2005) Rat Run (57 page)

He hardly listened. Gaunt could have written the script.

'We are the providers and you, gentlemen, are the customers, and I think - bar some small blemishes -

we have provided well. It seems to me that the point at issue is whether to intercept at sea—'

'It should be at sea,' Bill, the liaison man, said. 'At sea is where my people have expertise.'

'—or whether we should go for the land option.'

'So much tidier if it's us doing it,' Jimmy, the assistant chief constable, said. 'On land and done by us or Suffolk.'

Dennis was asked, did he have a dog in this fight?

He shrugged. 'Doesn't matter to us, we'd be easy with land or sea.'

Watching his Almighty, who had descended from an upper-floor firmament, Gaunt saw the lips purse and the forehead of the assistant deputy director furrow. He could predict the judgement, as if from Solomon's seat. Divide the baby, chop the little beggar in half and then there would be two parts to the corpse. Special Forces to shadow the trawler and watch for a drop-off short of the coast, with constant readiness for intervention
and
a cordon of guns from the Suffolk and Norfolk forces to be on the quayside at whatever port on the East Anglian mainland the trawler docked. It was theatre but it would be compromise. The Almighty, or Solomon, held his hands together in front of his mouth and pondered, the prayer gesture, and took the deep breath. Gaunt knew what he would say, could almost recite it.

'I believe a median solution will see us where we all want to be. I suggest that—'

'Excuse me.'

Gaunt flashed a glance at the source of the interruption, the Special Branch officer.

The assistant deputy director flicked a tongue -

Gaunt thought it a snake's strike - across his lips. 'Yes, Trevor?'

Not lifting his head, speaking with a gentle Welsh accent, Trevor said, 'Excuse me, but I think you miss the essential.'

'Do we, Trevor? Well, that's a late but interesting contribution. We are all busy men, so perhaps you could enlighten us. How do we "miss the essential"?

You have the floor.'

Gaunt thought it that sort of moment when men in waders stand in a wretched stream and identify the reward, a trout, and prepare to cast a fly over it.. .but a damn great cormorant comes from the clear blue sky and nicks the fish. His mood lightened and he anticipated amusement.

Trevor said, 'We are missing the essential. I tell you what is our fear in the Branch, and the same fear will be mirrored at Thames House. That fear is the "sleep-ers". Each time we go out on an arrest job I feel little elation. The fear is not bred by what I know, but what I don't know. I am in ignorance of the sleepers. How many? Where are they located? What are their common factors? I will answer each point. There might be ten sleepers, a hundred or a thousand, I don't know. They are located anywhere you choose to put a pin in a map, in any major city or in any provincial town. The common factors are that they swim unrecognized in our society, are normal and ordinary in every outward facet of appearance -

and they hate us and all that we in this room seek to defend. I go further in explanation of us missing the essentials, with due humility. We are told that a resourceful and valued man, a co-ordinator of attacks, is seeking covert entry to Britain. Such a man does not waste his time, and hazard his freedom, if the individuals he will work with are of second or third grade. He will only travel if he believes he will meet young men or women of dedication and skill - and the purpose of his journey is to wake them. Who are they? I don't know. How do I find them? I can't. What is my assessment of their worth? A team of sleepers can inflict, guided by a strong hand, damage to us not equalled since the blitz bombing of the 1940s. We have to find them.'

He paused. Gaunt reflected that any of them round the table could have made that speech - perhaps not with such Celtic flourish - and hit the same nails . . .

but none had. No chair scraped, no pencil was twirled, no fist masked a yawn. The Branch man used his hands as if he spoke of something of childlike simplicity, outstretched them. Said it, like it was obvious to an idiot.

'He takes us there. Arrest him at sea or in port and we will gain little because he will carry no laptop, won't have a convenient and uncoded address book.

He leads us to this disparate cadre. The new leaders are trained in counter-interrogation methods, trained well, and I doubt he would talk even without fingernails and with his testicles wired to the mains.

His is the road we follow. Lift him at sea, or on a dock-side, and we would have the empty shell of a body and not his mind's contents. I suggest we permit him to land and we are with him . . . Under close and expert surveillance, we let him run.'

The silence, into which only the Welsh voice had intruded, broke.

'By God, that's high-octane stuff.'

'Exciting, fascinating, challenging - a cell block filled with little scrotes.'

'Sends a signal to whatever cave that bearded bastard's in that we're on top of him, crushing him.'

The assistant deputy director smacked the palm of his hand on the table. 'I congratulate you, Trevor.

Original thinking where we were lacking - we let him run. First class. What I like,
everybody
is involved.

Special Forces shadow at sea. Suffolk and Norfolk are at the landfall, creating a sanitized perimeter. The Service, Dennis, are singing off the same hymn sheet as the Branch, Trevor, and will do the clever stuff, the surveillance in co-operation. I would like to suggest, if there are no dissenters, that I should chair a daily meeting of principals - I think noon as good a time as any. We're a big family and so much the more effective when we pull together. "We let him run". Brilliant.

Let's get it in place, gentlemen. Let's do the detail.'

Gaunt stood, and it seemed not to be noticed. The photograph of Anwar Maghroub lay on the table, and the women who did the shorthand had the details of Ricky Capel's life, and of the trawler that was called the
Anneliese Royal,
and of the island. He thought he had no longer a part to play. He turned to Gloria and, almost imperceptibly, raised an eyebrow, then flicked a glance at the door. He saw her smooth her skirt and drop her pad into her bag.

Around the table there was a sudden explosion of voices. A call to Hereford and the alerting of the section on stand-by, done staccato, then Poole notified. A barked demand to Constabulary Headquarters for firearms officers to be pulled off all other duties - no, not Sandringham. A full muster of Thames House guys and girls, A Branch people who did surveillance and bugs, to be made ready. Special Branch teams to be put together that afternoon. Gaunt moved towards the door, Gloria alongside him. He saw, from the corner of his eye, the look on her face of suppressed fury, her man put down, then hung out to dry - unwanted. He stepped aside to let her go through the door before him.

A voice, Dennis's, piped behind him: 'When you next call your island out-station, Freddie, tell the rookie we want the departure time, nothing more.

Imperative that she does not show herself - no intervention - just sits on a sandcastle a mile back.'

Then Bill, the bloody man booming as if he were on a survival run in the Brecons, 'And tell her to keep old White Feather clear - not that he sounds like a hero -

right out of it.'

They went up together, and the lift was full. Neither spoke, but in the corridor he said quietly, 'They didn't want a doubter, did they? Didn't want a Thomas, a sceptic. Such excitement, such certainty . . . What happens if they bloody lose him, or never bloody find him? What happens if
we let him run
screws up. I think, with our man across the water, you get one chance, and not to take it is a criminal act, but they didn't want to hear that. And they didn't want to hear what the professor up north told me: "Eradicate from your mind the due process of law - kill him." It'll rub off, always does, the gloss of excitement, and you and I will then be behind a big high wall of sandbags. Ah, well... time to say it was all right when it left us.
We let him run.
I wouldn't have but my opinion was not requested. What I think we need is a good strong cup of tea, with sugar.'

Inside his office, his sanctum, he dropped his briefcase as if he had no more use of it, dialled the number, heard the ringing, then her voice, the far-away wind and the cry of gulls.

Polly sat apart from him.

The phone was now back in her pocket. When it had rung she had crawled away from him and gone down a gully where the wind couldn't reach her. She had listened to Freddie Gaunt's faint voice and thought she heard his exhaustion. She had been left with the sense of a beaten man.

His back was to her. He tracked and scanned with the binoculars over the dunes and the beach, and watched the horizon; the swing of his head behind the eyepieces was the only movement he made. She did not know what the sex in the sleeping-bag meant to her, or what it meant to him. And always the bloody wind was on her, and the bloody rain . . . She did not know. She steeled herself, came and eased down beside him, but his hands stayed on the binoculars and he did not loop his arm round her.

Polly said, 'My people have decided what they want, Malachy. I don't know how it'll fit with you but it's the way it's going to be.'

She saw that his eyes followed the waving of the coarse grass stems on the dunes.

'You are - without belittling your achievements -

outside the loop. They're all grateful in London, of course. We've moved on - there's a plan in place. It does not include you. I'm sorry, Malachy, but the concept of the plan is in concrete.'

His head tilted and she could follow the lenses' aim.

She saw the stark, empty beach, and thought he followed the flight of the gulls.

'We have the name of a beam trawler, when it left and which port it sailed from. We have the identity of the boat's skipper, and his link to Ricky Capel, the detail of the debt between the Capel family and the Rahman clan in Blankenese . . . More than that, we can put a face and a biography to a big player in the international game, terrorism: he's the package to be lifted off here by the trawler. We accept that parts of the jigsaw were put in place by you, but that's history.

If it sounds brutal it is not intended to - I'm just telling you how the facts play.'

The binoculars were lifted. She followed them and saw the mist haze among the furthest white splash of the waves and the grim, grey line of clouds where the horizon met the water. She had thought, before Gaunt's call, that she would go back to the swamp in the island's centre and try to make a peace with the old lunatic, the recluse who had jarred her with the story of a concentration camp and victims, and pump him for what he had seen during the day but now, after the call, she had no need of him - or of Malachy.

'Under no circumstances am I to intervene in the pickup, that is a very clear order. I watch and I report.

I do not go near them and I do not alert them. I am told they should board the trawler, however many there are, and not know they are under observation. I see, at a distance, the lights and I communicate that to London. The plan drops into place, and my role in all this is complete - your role, Malachy, is already finished - and I'm on my way home. The trawler will be tracked across the North Sea, will be under surveillance, and will be allowed to drop off our target. He's to be permitted to run - in the greater interest of national security - and lead the appropriate agencies, God willing, to those he would hope to meet and work with . . . I don't wish to be cruel, Malachy, but you should feel free to go back to the ferry, get to the mainland, take a shower and eat a meal, and start again on whatever life it is you want to make for yourself. Those are my instructions.'

A shaft of sunlight, low, narrow, golden, broke the cloud and fashioned a corridor over the surge of the sea, ran to the whipped sands and the grasses and lit them. His shoulders swung and he looked to his right, away from her, to the dunes.

'Damn you, Malachy . . . I'll not forget you, or what you've done and who you are . . . Can you not say something? He's to be permitted to run, we don't intervene. I have to watch and report. Isn't it enough for you, what you've already done? Have you nothing to say, nothing for me?'

She saw his forehead knitted, his concentration on the sands and grasses that made the dunes.

He was deep in holiday-leave charts, the bane of the life of a senior officer - and waiting for him were over-time dockets - when he heard the stampede of feet in the corridor. Johan Konig saw his door snap open, no knock, of which his rank should have assured him.

A detective panted, a step inside his room, and hadn't a voice, but beckoned him.

He took his time, killed the computer page, pulled his jacket from the hook and turned his back on the picture of the egret perched on a hippopotamus. He locked the door after him. He did not scurry down the corridor. It was not, in the book of Konig, good for juniors to see a ranking officer run, but he felt a rising excitement although he had no idea of its source. The detective led him to the new communications room he had demanded for his unit. His whole team, twelve men and two women, were crowded inside and their attention was on a black-and-white monitor screen.

None saw him come, and none made way for him. He elbowed his way through, pushed forward.

He saw her, a small figure. The focus was poor from the camera in the roof of the neighbouring house.

He had only seen photographs of Alicia Rahman, taken covertly for her husband's file and showing her with her children at the school gate.

He peered forward, blinked to see better. She was high on the roofing tiles of the house and her arms were looped round the width of a chimney stack. The curtains of an open window flapped below. She wore a robe, at which the wind tore, but either the buttons and the belt had not been fastened when she had come through the window and climbed or they

had been ripped undone. He saw her naked body and the scars, which were vague on the picture but recognizable; long, darkened marks on her chest and on her stomach, close to the dark hair mass and on her thighs. The men and women around him - all chosen for his unit because of hardened experience - cursed what they saw.