PART X: SINS OF THE PAST
What can you say to a man who tells you he prefers obeying God rather than men, and that as a result he's certain he'll go to heaven if he cuts your throat?
Voltaire
Wednesday 05 April, late evening
The Grid
The anguish in his son's voice knifed through Harry. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently, "are you in danger?"
"What? Uh. No. Not right now," the young man answered, unexpectedly warmed by his father's concern.
Harry released a relieved breath. "Good. Now tell me what happened."
Graham relayed his conversation with Kenny in as much detail as he could remember, instinctively aware that the smallest point could make a difference to the operation. As soon as Harry recognised the nature of the incident he gravitated back to Ruth's desk and put the call on speaker so that she could listen in.
"I'm sorry," Graham ended, sounding crestfallen, "if I've ruined everything."
"No need to apologise," his father responded crisply. "You were trying to save your friend, and I think that rather noble."
Ruth gave him a small smile, aware that, just for a moment, she had been in the presence of Harry the man rather than Harry the Intelligence Officer. With it came a realisation that once someone he loved deeply became involved, Harry was as incapable as the next man of setting aside his emotions, of putting the country first. And she pondered: was this why he had remained unattached for so long?
When Graham spoke again, his voice sounded firmer, assured by Harry's response. "I don't understand it," he stated, his bewilderment evident. "Kenny is an intelligent guy. How could he fall for this? How could he allow Imad to talk him into killing himself and a score of innocent people?"
Harry looked toward Ruth, proud that his son, at least, had not fallen for the Syrian's rhetoric. "Yes. That is the eternal question. But religion is not rational, Graham. It never has been. I think more people have been killed in the name of religion than for any other cause."
"There must be something I can say to get through to him," the younger Pearce persisted, and Ruth wondered whether Harry was aware that both his children had inherited his desire to save the world, to fight injustice. Graham might not have it on the same scale as Catherine did, but he did have a decent dose of it.
"Ruth is with me," Harry said, "I'll let her respond."
The words were met by a surprised silence at the other end of the line and Harry belatedly realised that his son might jump to the wrong conclusion – well, not wrong in the sense that his father was seeing his analyst, but that their current togetherness was pleasure-related. Too bad, there was no time now to correct him.
Ruth took a breath to order her thoughts. "That is probably one of the most difficult questions to answer," she began slowly and Harry, sensing a lecture coming on, dragged another chair up to her desk and settled himself to listen. "But unfortunately, the short answer is no, there is probably nothing you can do."
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, it is extremely difficult to argue against a religious motivation. If a person firmly believes that it is indeed an order from God – Allah – to do something, only a counter-order from the same source will nullify it." That was no help and Graham did not respond, so Ruth continued. "There is a theory that suicide bombers are spurred on by a pre-existing psychological motivation. In other words, there is already a desire to commit suicide, but by doing it for religious reasons the perpetrator tries to give the act meaning, to justify it." She looked at Harry and added, "I'm not sure, though, that this theory isn't based on our Western minds' need to make sense of the inexplicable, rather than fact."
Graham absorbed this. "Yeah, not sure this applies to Kenny. He is always so upbeat – I have never picked up any indication that he wants to kill himself."
Ruth shrugged, caught up in the conversation and forgetting that the young man couldn't see her. "There aren't always signs," she said gently. "Some people go to great lengths to hide their intentions until the day they actually commit suicide."
Graham knew this was true; if one moved in the circles he did, you were apt to be exposed to suicide at some time. "I'll keep that in mind. But is there any religious argument I could make? You know, show him from the Qur'an that it's wrong?"
"Of course you can, but if his mind is made up it will likely fall on deaf ears," she responded. Harry rested his chin on one hand and listened attentively, unexpectedly warmed by the conversation, the evident intellectual connection between his wayward son and the woman he loved. Ruth continued, oblivious to his scrutiny. "For instance, the Qur'an explicitly states that suicide is forbidden in 4:29 and 30, and this is further expounded on in the Hadith-Bukhari 7:670." She quoted, "'The Prophet said, "Whoever purposely throws himself from a mountain and kills himself, will be in the (Hell) Fire falling down into it and abiding therein perpetually forever; and whoever drinks poison and kills himself with it, he will be carrying his poison in his hand and drinking it in the (Hell) Fire wherein he will abide eternally forever; and whoever kills himself with an iron weapon, will be carrying that weapon in his hand and stabbing his abdomen with it in the (Hell) Fire wherein he will abide eternally forever."' Of course, the hadiths are deemed to be inferior to the Qur'an so people conveniently ignore them. But they are also the words of the Prophet and cannot be discarded by serious Muslims."
She took a breath and her gaze drifted to Harry, and she was almost bowled over by the look on his face. Admiration, gratitude and ardour could be read plainly on his features in the most unguarded expression she had seen yet, and she momentarily lost the thread of the conversation. Graham's voice brought her back. "He said we'd be seen as martyrs."
"No, that's not true. If you were to die at the enemy's hand in a combat situation, then you would be a martyr in Allah's eyes. You must have a chance of survival, no matter how miniscule, and Allah will decide whether you live or die. But to die by your own hand whilst attacking non-combatants will not make you a martyr. Death is certain for you and takes control away from Allah. It is haram – forbidden by Islamic law. Only Allah can grant martyrdom, one cannot take it by force."
"Okay," Graham said wearily, "thanks Ruth. Maybe I can try again to convince him of the error of his ways."
Harry roused himself at that. "I'd prefer if you didn't," he said hastily. "Don't focus any further attention on yourself. Rather wait until we have foiled the attack and have everyone safe."
To Harry's surprise his son agreed readily, and this more than anything conveyed his discomfort with the situation. "Do you still need me in there?" Graham asked in a small voice, and it broke Harry's heart.
"Just for a few more days," he responded. "It'll create suspicion if you suddenly disappear. But I'll speak to Adam – we won't leave you in there for one second longer than necessary."
"Right, thanks," Graham said, and after a beat added on impulse, "Dad? I know you'll do everything you can to keep me safe." He disconnected before Harry could respond, and when the older man closed his eyes against the emotion, Ruth reached out and grasped his hand.
o0o
Half an hour later
He did not get to take Ruth home, in the end. He needed to speak to Adam, so half an hour later he found himself on the doorstep of his Section Chief. Adam opened promptly to his knock, forewarned by a phone call that Harry was on his way, and beckoned him inside.
"Tea? Something stronger?" he offered, but Harry shook his head.
"No. Where's Fiona?"
"She's checking on Wes," Adam replied, and a shadow crossed the older man's face. How he wished that his son was still a boy, safe in his mother's house.
"And how is young Wesley?"
Adam watched him sympathetically. "A touch of flu, but he's okay. No fever."
"Good," Harry responded, and squared his shoulders. "I want Graham pulled out," he announced with quiet conviction.
"Harry-" Adam protested wearily, but the other man overrode him.
"He's in danger," he said brusquely, and when Adam frowned in confusion, he briefly relayed his son's conversation with Kenny. "They'll be watching him, and if they pick up on his connection with us…" He took a breath, unable to bring himself to say it. "We have surveillance on their meeting place, we don't need him anymore."
"You know that's not true," Adam objected gently. "We have no guarantee that they will discuss everything they are about to do in that storage room. Besides, it will create suspicion if he disappears now." He felt terrible; Harry's anguish was almost tangible, and he wanted nothing more than to give him what he wanted. But he could not; it was his responsibility to safeguard the country, and that had to take precedence over all else. This was what Harry dealt with on a daily basis, he realised, these terrible decisions about life and death. He'd done it for so many years, and yet he was still standing, still sane, still fundamentally a good man. His respect for his boss had grown exponentially during this operation, and he was grateful that he would soon be able to hand back the reins. "I'm sorry," he added softly, and there was no doubting that it was heart-felt.
Harry dropped his gaze. He had known there was no chance, really, but he owed it to his son to try. So he nodded despondently. "Yes. You take care of Wes," he said, and it was almost an order. Don't make the same mistakes I have.
As he turned to leave, his mobile rang, and it was Ruth. Her suppressed excitement was palpable through the phone as she announced breathlessly, "I've got it. Tu'mah was in Afghanistan in 1988. There was a Russian intelligence training camp in Fayzabad at that time and I have managed to get my hands on the records of the people trained there. Adnan Elazar attended a counter-surveillance course from September to November. And guess who was one of the instructors," she closed triumphantly.
Harry's neck pricked. "Anytoly Kerzhakov," he responded, certain that he was right. "The owner of that building where the meetings take place."
"Yes," she confirmed.
They had their link.
o0o
Thursday 06 April, pre-dawn
Lambeth Bridge
Harry's eyes felt gritty; he'd only had a couple of hours' sleep and he sipped at the take-away coffee in his hand gratefully. A light drizzle fell but he hardly noticed it; his focus was inward, on his concern for his son. Footsteps approached from his left and he turned his head to watch the American approach, and to his surprise Morris didn't look much better than him. He nodded a greeting and asked, "Late night?"
"Yeah," Morris stifled a yawn. "I don't have much time," he added and Harry got straight to the point.
"We have found a link between the Syrian and the Russians." He explained succinctly and Morris listened in silence, perturbed. Then he turned to Harry and gave him a long, penetrating look.
"In that case you're not going to like what I have to tell you," he began, and icy fingers tapped down Harry's spine. "You remember those visits of Enfield to Russia? Well, we've confirmed that one of the people he met with over there was Kerzhakov." He hesitated, then added almost reluctantly, "And he has a meeting scheduled with the man for this morning, here in London."
Harry clasped both hands around the railing and leant heavily on his arms. This was not good; it was not good at all. "Do you know where?"
"No."
"Can you put surveillance on him?" he asked bluntly; the time for pussyfooting around was long past.
Morris stared at him, conflicted. He was a patriot, and this Englishman was asking him to spy on a US government official. How could he justify such an act?
As though he'd read the American's thoughts, Harry said harshly, "Enfield is colluding with the Russians to perpetrate a terror attack on British soil. If you do nothing, you will be complicit."
Morris dropped his gaze and sighed. "All right. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything."
The conversation had seemingly come to an end, but neither man moved. Morris glanced sideways at the other man before asking, "Why do you think Enfield is doing this?"
Harry took his time before answering. "I can't say for certain. But my best guess is that he was one of the Trump groupies the Russians targeted during the campaign. They were hoping to use these people to influence your President's decision-making."
"Yes, I got that far as well. But what possible purpose could this attack serve?"
"I don't know," the British spook admitted. "But Trump has been widely condemned in the West for his draconian policies towards Muslims – maybe this is an attempt to justify those policies and buy him some goodwill."
"But why here? Why not stage an attack in the US then?"
"Because it would make Trump look weak."
Morris stared at the sluggish river below them, deeply troubled. If Harry Pearce was right, this was a callous enterprise to shore up a wobbling, weak President, and it was unforgivable. He made his choice. "There's something else you should know: Tonight we will launch a missile attack on Syrian government positions, in retaliation for their recent use of chemical weapons on the rebels."
o0o
11:25
Clapham North
The embassy car pulled up in front of the office building and George Enfield reached for the door. "Go get a cup of coffee," he told the driver, "I'll call you when I'm ready to leave." With that he stepped out and disappeared into the building. The driver waited until he was out of sight before he made a call.
"He went into an office block in Clapham North," he informed the person on the other end, and provided the address.
Back in Grosvenor Square Carl Morris replaced the receiver and reached for another phone – this one the secure line between the US Embassy and the British Intelligence Services. He called Harry Pearce's direct number, and reported what he had learnt. There was a brief pause, then Harry replied tersely, "That is Kerzhakov's building."
o0o
The Grid
They assembled around Ruth's desk and Harry informed them of the latest development. Adam reached for his mobile and instructed Zaf to get over to the office building and see what he could find out. As soon as he disconnected the call the phone rang again, and this time it was Jo. "Tu'mah has just entered the mosque," she reported, and Adam looked at Harry.
"That must mean that they'll be meeting in the basement – surely Enfield can't be seen talking to this man openly in an office," he opined, and Harry concurred. "And we have the surveillance in place, at least we'll know what they discussed," the Section Chief continued, but Harry remained uneasy.
"Will we know soon enough? I suspect the Syrian will use the pending US bombing to reveal his true plans to the five young men tonight. Things are going to develop quickly from now on. And if there is the slightest doubt about Graham's commitment, they're going to do something about it today. Is someone keeping an eye on his flat?" he asked, and Adam nodded.
"Yeah, Colin is out there in the van. We have it wired, so we'll know if anyone enters." But all the same he turned to Fiona. "Better get over there as well, we don't want to be caught short-handed."
When Zaf got to the office building a few minutes later, he found the basement entirely sealed off by Russian goons. There was no way he would be able to retrieve the recording until after they had left. When he reported this to the Grid, Harry closed his eyes and Ruth looked worried. Adam said nothing, knowing that their hands were tied for now.
o0o
Clapham North
Enfield paced the length of the storage room whilst they waited for the Syrian, glancing at his Russian companion every now and then. Kerzhakov was a big man, with a once powerful body now running to fat, and he sat on a chair and smoked, ignoring the pacing American. Theirs was a marriage of convenience and he did not bother to pretend that he liked the other man. Kerzhakov was former KGB, and when Putin had called and instructed him to assist in Russia's operation to ensnare the men close to Donald Trump, he had obeyed. One did not say no to Vladimir Putin without consequences, and he enjoyed his comfortable life here in London. The door opened and the Syrian stepped through, and the two men turned to him in unison. The Russian lumbered to his feet and held out his hand. "Hello, Adnan," he greeted, using the Syrian's original name, "how are the preparations going?"
The Syrian shook the proffered hand and turned hooded eyes to the third man. "Who is this please?" he asked in his beautiful voice, and Enfield bristled. The Russian smirked; the American expected everyone to recognise him now.
"This is George Enfield, on whose behalf you have been working these last few months."
The Syrian frowned. "It is a risk, bringing him here," he said disapprovingly, and Enfield blanched.
"He is here because he calls the shots," the Russian said opaquely, and Tu'mah's face turned hard and expressionless. "Are you ready?" Kerzhakov asked the Syrian, who nodded.
"I have five men ready to go."
The Russian looked pointedly at Enfield, who dutifully took over. "Good, because I want it done tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?! You said Easter, which is a week away," Tu'mah protested.
"I know what I said, but now I'm changing it."
"The impact will be much less-" the Syrian began, but Enfield overrode him.
"The mighty US military is about to give you something else that will boost the impact," he stated, grinning, and even Kerzhakov looked at him in surprise. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed, "A soon as darkness falls on the Al Shayrat airfield from where the Syrian government launched those chemical attacks on the rebels, we will light it up again."
There was a stunned silence. "You are going to launch a missile strike against a Syrian government target?" Kerzhakov asked in disbelief; his government would not be happy about this.
"Yes. Now, who have you got?" Enfield asked the Syrian. "Are they all immigrants, or children of immigrants?"
Tu'mah was watching the American with some distaste. "All but one."
This brought Enfield up short. "Who's the other one?"
"His father is a big-shot in the civil service. I think it will carry weight if such a man, raised in privilege, turned against his country and his father."
Enfield looked dubious. "Is he at least black?" he asked, oblivious that the man in front of him was also a person of colour and might take offense.
"He is white," Tu'mah responded coldly, and the American immediately shook his head.
"No. That won't do. Get rid of him. You can still go ahead with four."
"How am I supposed to get rid of him now? By this time they have all guessed what they're being prepared for – he might go to the authorities."
Enfield looked to Kerzhakov, who shook his head unobstrusively, and the American took a breath. "Then you better silence him," he said. "Hell, he's a former druggie, right? Just shoot him full of shit and dump him on the street."
Across the passage the recorder ran silently, but there was no-one to listen to it.
o0o
17:00
When Graham and Kenny entered the basement, he noticed the burly men stationed at opposite ends of the passage and a tendril of fear began to curl around his heart. "Who are they?" he asked, but Kenny did not respond. Come to think of it, his friend had been aloof ever since collecting him from his place of work earlier, telling him the evening's meeting had been brought forward. Something was wrong, and he had been too obtuse to notice it. Oh, God, what was about to happen? "Kenny?" he asked again, openly fearful this time, but the other man would not respond. He thought about running, but when he looked round one of the burly men was right behind him, ready and alert. He looked back to the front to see Imad Tu'mah step from the storage room, his face dark and forbidding. He held something in his hand and when Graham managed to focus on it, he realised it was a hypodermic needle. He turned and ran anyway, but connected with a hard body and was easily lifted from his feet. Fear squeezed the breath from his body; he wanted to plead but he couldn't get the words out. Tears began to stream down his cheeks as they pinned him down and wrestled his arm into position, and then the Syrian was tapping the crook of his elbow for a vein. At last he found his voice, and he was babbling, pleading, promising, entreating, but Kenny just stood and watched. He felt the stinging sensation, and watched in horror as Tu'mah pressed down the plunger and emptied the syringe into his bloodstream. It was too much, he would overdose, and he tried to tell them as the heroin began to race through his bloodstream. "Too much," he said, as the world began to spin, "…too much…" And then he was lost.
Tu'mah turned to Kenny. "Where can they dump him? It needs to be somewhere that will cause maximum embarrassment to his father."
"…Asherton Alley," Kenny said, shaken by the whole experience. "He was arrested there once – it's where rent boys pick up men."
The Syrian nodded, satisfied, and turned to the two Russians. "Take him there. Go through to the mosque, don't leave from this building." He watched wordlessly as they hefted the tripping man and carried him away.
tbc