A Deceit to Die For (90 page)

Bob’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed to slits.

“Then, I’d say it is even more important that you hear what Jack has to say.”

“After Parker is out of my office.”

Parker made for the door. Bob held out his hand to stop him.

“Sir, I’ve known Adam since university. We were at the Academy together. If you don’t respect my judgment enough to let him stay in the room, I can tender my resignation effective immediately.”

McIntosh put his head in his hand. Without looking up, he said, “What do you have, Jack?”

“Sir, I’ve tracked the emails that went out on the RSS feeds after Parker posted the message. There were five different emails, but they were all read from the same IP address today. That is strange enough, but after Parker made his call, I sent a test message to all five. They all bounced. They’ve been shut down. The blog that Parker used to send messages is also gone.”

“What is at the address where the emails were read?”

“It’s a financial services company at 19 Nutford Place named Baraka
.
It’s one block east of Edgware Rd. They specialize in
sukuk
, but they also operate several import-export companies and a real estate management firm.”

“What the hell is
sukuk
?”

“Islamic bonds, sirs.”

His ears pricked at the mention of another connection with the Middle East. McIntosh reached over and punched the intercom button on his office phone, “Jeff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any luck tracing that cell phone number called in on the anonymous tip?”

“Sir, that cell phone has not registered on any towers since we received the call. They must have pulled the SIM card.”

McIntosh stood up and turned to the city map that covered half of the wall.

“What did the retroactive usage profile show?”

“It was last used this morning at 8:43. Before that, the phone was generally connecting with towers north of Hyde Park, east of Paddington, south of A501 and West of Marylebone.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

McIntosh turned back to Bob.

“That’s interesting. The cell phone number provided by the tip was used in locations near this same address. What else did you learn?”

“The majority shareholder is a holding company named Waqf International Trading Ltd., incorporated in Beirut. I contacted a friend at MI6 and found out that they have had Baraka under surveillance for almost three months. He wouldn’t give me any details, but Baraka has violated a number of corporate privacy laws and is under suspicion for sabotaging several British counter-terrorism operations.”

“What’s the connection with the O’Brien case?”

“Parker says his last instructions were all related to the O’Brien case. He relayed information on the bust at the hotel to his handler.”

“So, how did the O’Brien boy know this?”

“That I can’t say.”

Adam cleared his throat and dared to speak.

“O’Brien must have had a tap on a communications link somewhere, sir. That’s the only way he could have known.”

“So, why the hell haven’t we shut this Baraka establishment down?”

“Because every week there is a new revelation about how extensively they have infiltrated our security system. MI6 is identifying each victim and rehabilitating them.”

“Victim? Rehabilitation?” asked McIntosh, the words obviously coming as somewhat of a surprise.

“Sir, all of the inside assets that have been identified so far were aiding the organization unwittingly. Each believed they had been recruited by bona fide agents of the UK government.”

McIntosh turned to Parker.

“What evidence can you offer me that you’ve been played and are not the one playing us?”

“Sir, with all due respect, there is no evidence except for my own testimony confirmed by MI6. I have been providing information about Muslim extremist groups. I was told that a Muslim group had assets on the inside here at the Metropolitan Police Force, that they were tampering with data and destroying evidence related to counter-terrorist operations. My job was to help find the mole.”

“You were on a rat hunt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only to find you were the one being ratted out?”

“Apparently so, sir.”

“Bob, I want whoever is heading up this operation at MI6 over here in half an hour. That will be all.”

Bob took a deep breath. McIntosh wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“Sir, Jack already asked his friend at MI6 to come over and brief us on the operation. They refused. I called myself to explain the gravity of the matter. They still refused. That’s why I’m here. They say the operation is ongoing and that they cannot risk compromising it.”

The smile that spread across McIntosh’s face as he turned to Jack surprised him.

“Jack, you found the address, right? On your own and without any assistance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is actionable enough for me. Spooks have their job, and we have ours. I want a low-profile surveillance team in place immediately. Find out what we are dealing with. Get specs on the building, an arrest warrant and run background checks on company officers and employees. Be ready to move at my command. MI6 doesn’t dictate what happens here. I do.”

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M
ADRID
Terminal 1 reminded Zeki of a bygone era, of a time when government projects were driven by functionality, and aesthetics were a luxury. It immediately conjured up images of the old Esenboga airport in Ankara. The parking lot in front of the terminal was not the multi-storey structure found in a modern airport, but rather a simple paved lot lined with cedar trees. The covered parking areas that lined the front of the parking lot were the best indication of the facility’s age. They were essentially just rough sheds covered with corrugated tin. What surprised him most, however, was the long line of red and white taxis waiting for customers. He had never seen so many taxis sitting idle. The drivers didn’t look like they expected the line to start moving any time soon either as most of them were standing outside their car smoking or talking on a cell phone.

He walked to the head of the line and addressed a fellow who looked to be twenty-something.

“¿Habla usted Ingles?”

“No,” the young man replied with a simple shake of his head.

Zeki paused for a second, trying to form the sentence.

“¿Puedes llevarme a la Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid?”

“Si senor.”

He looked down at his watch. It was 3:15 local time, giving him only one hour and forty-five minutes before the library closed.

“Podemos hacerlo antes de que la Biblioteca cierra ya que cierra a las 5:00”

“No hay problema.”

The cabby put his bag in the trunk while Zeki slid into the back seat of the red and white taxi. Five minutes later, they were out of the airport and zipping down a highway on their way to the city center. The weather had been clear on their approach, giving him an excellent view of the countryside. They had crossed a range of mountains which gave way to a smattering of tidy farms in a pale chalky soil which, for some reason, he always associated with an arid climate. Olive groves and vineyards covered the gently sloping hills. Most of the fields were covered with the brownish-yellow stubble left after the wheat harvest.

This was his first time in Andalusia. He had traveled through most of Europe, but never to Spain. All he could think about during the forty-five minute drive were the stories his grandfather had told about how the cruel, heartless Spanish had forcibly converted the Muslim population to Catholicism after the conquest. How they had instituted the Inquisition to ferret out insincere converts, and after decades of torture and persecution, had finally decided that a multicultural society posed too much of a risk. So, they had uprooted Muslims who had lived there for centuries and sent them into exile.

The imams had drilled it into their heads. The most important duty of a Muslim after the five pillars of Islam was to reclaim any territory that had once been in the House of Islam and was later overrun by the infidel. Israel topped the list; Andalusian Spain was certainly second. In the airport, he had seen television coverage of the attack today in Austria. A large, electrical substation had been blown up, taking out security cameras over five city blocks. Five armed men had stormed Heeresgeschichtliches, the Museum of Military History. The news report gave no further details. Zeki didn’t need them. He knew what the target was. It was the unnamed shame of the Turkish people—their defeat at the Battle of Vienna where the banner of Islam from Mecca was captured.
Had they recovered it?
He felt certain they had.

The centuries-old conflict continued and he was in the middle of it, but on which side? That was the problem. The middle didn’t have a side. This middle ground he now occupied was contrary to everything he had been taught. Every instinct of culture and upbringing told Zeki he was a fool playing with fire, that he should be taking sides. But, how could one be on either side and still be on God’s side when both were so obviously wrong?

The taxi came to a stop. Zeki handed the man a fifty Euro note and took the change. The taxi drove off, leaving him standing in front of the
Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid
. He walked in and looked around for an information desk. He found it to his right, tended by an officious looking lady in a white and blue uniform. He walked towards her and smiled when she looked up.

“¿Se habla usted Ingles?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied. “How can I help you?”

“I would like to see and obtain a copy of a certain Morisco document, BNM MS 9653.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then I’m sure that it will be tomorrow at the earliest.” She pointed over his right shoulder. “If you take the elevator to the second floor and talk to Mr. Santiago, I’m sure he can help you.”

“
Muchas gracias, senorita.
”

He felt in his pocket for his cell phone and quickly typed a simple text.

VSS snpr rfl. Two clps of subsonic ammntn. Intrrgtion kit. Confirm.

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L
ONDON
 
 
At the Chanbeli Indian restaurant, a waiter felt his cell phone buzz to herald the arrival of a new text. His eyes scanned the crowd and the buffet. The tandoori chicken was almost gone. He walked through the double doors into the kitchen.

“Aman, we need more tandoori chicken.”

“The next batch is coming out in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” he replied, slipping out the back door into the alley where he retrieved his phone and read the text. His face registered no emotion. He thought about it for a minute.
Zeki’s coming to London. Somebody’s bridge is about to come tumbling down.

CHAPTER
70

B
LACK
S
EA
C
OAST,
N
ORTH OF
I
STANBUL
 
 
For over two hours, the man in the apartment had been watching four teenagers brave the waves in flirtatious horseplay. The two guys and two girls had only come out of the water once over the last four hours. The only other people on the short beach were two women who had brought their young children to play in the sand. It had been one of the most boring surveillance duties he had ever been given. That was good. When things got exciting, they got dangerous. Though he could not see them, he knew that a massive bank of thunderheads had formed in the east. The forecast called for severe storms that evening as they moved westward. Yet, from this window facing the setting sun, there was not a hint of the storm that was brewing.