Thursday 28th January 2016
London
Deep within the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross in London, an operational crisis is unfolding within the core project team involved with Operation Contango. Contango is the code name assigned by Rory Beaumont, the current head of MI6’s Middle Eastern Section, to the periodic surveillance of the overseas business activities of one Mohammed Ahmed Hassan Al-Shawabi, the man more commonly known simply as Ricky. Having just ended an urgent, encrypted call from his deep-cover field agent based in Monaco, Beaumont feels the information he has just received warrants a crash meeting with the deputy head of operations, Annie Maclean. Maclean’s secretary is shrewd enough to spot an emergent crisis and has told Beaumont that he can have five minutes with the DHO as soon as she is free. To that end, Beaumont is now pacing in the small anteroom immediately outside Maclean’s office, waiting for her to finish a transatlantic teleconference call.
“You can go in now,” the secretary says to Beaumont, seeing that Maclean’s call has come to an end.
Maclean’s office has a sterile, functional feel to it. Devoid of all unnecessary papers and files, it is a cold and featureless box of a room complete with utilitarian furniture: its only redeeming feature is the magnificent angled view northwards across the River Thames towards Tate Britain and, in the distance beyond, the Houses of Parliament.
“Rory. What’s the problem?” Maclean says, winking at Beaumont.
When Beaumont had first started working for Maclean, he thought he was being singled out for special treatment by this unusual habit. Over time he noticed Maclean winking at most people. It was occasionally off-putting but maybe that was the point? It no longer bothers him and he usually ignores it. Maclean is a cold, tough woman in her mid-forties and not one to waste time with superfluous flirtatiousness.
“We have a situation unfolding rapidly in the Middle East. It involves Ricky Al-Shawabi. Are you aware of Operation Contango?”
They are standing either side of Maclean’s desk, Maclean holding a pair of reading glasses in one hand, twirling them slowly as she eyes Beaumont carefully.”
“Trading oil in return for financing ISIS with cash in Iraq, is that the one?”
“Correct. We had thought the cash delivery was likely sometime in the coming weeks. We now know from our source in Monaco, where Al-Shawabi is based, that it is imminent. A plane stuffed with US dollar bills is apparently in the air as we speak, heading via Nice to the Middle East overnight tonight.”
“Going where exactly?”
“Flight plan says Dubai.”
“Doesn’t sound likely. What’s the aircraft?”
“It’s a Cayman-registered Boeing 737-800. It’s new. Longer range than the old 737s. We think it’s Saudi-owned ultimately but it’s hard to be certain.”
“Are you thinking it might put down in Saudi rather than Dubai?”
“More than likely. The Iraq border crossing with Saudi is just north of a city called Arar.”
“I know Arar. We’ve had one or two operations of our own in and around there over the years. Usually at around the time of the Haj.”
“There’s a complication.”
“What?”
“It appears that one or two of the protagonists on Ricky’s team claim to be working for the British. If they are, they are not ours.”
“I don’t understand.”
So Beaumont explains what he has just been told by his agent in Monaco.
“What the fuck’s going on? This is diabolical! Who on earth could it be?”
“It can’t be ‘5’, we’ve been collaborating with them over Al-Shawabi this last week when he came to London. I wondered if it might be the boys and girls at the NCA.”
“The NCA? Are you serious? They shouldn’t be getting themselves in this sort of overseas operational stuff. If it’s true, it’s outrageous. Should I be contacting the DG?”
“I wouldn’t burden Sir Desmond with this just yet. Why not go straight to Malcom Scott? He’s the NCA’s top man. Confront him with this and let’s see what he says.”
“Right, I’ll call in just a moment. Meanwhile, what are we going to do about Contango?”
“If we can commandeer a Reaper drone in theatre starting in about four hours from now, then I think we can stay on the front foot.”
“You mean follow the cash to its final destination?”
“Correct. I’ll need you to authorise it from our side first, then I can get on to the Ministry of Defence immediately.”
“Approved,” she says. “It is totally congruent with current Allied mission objectives against ISIS in both Syria and Iraq. Even the Russians should be supportive. How much cash are we talking about, by the way?”
“About three hundred million dollars, so we’re told.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of cash. Right, you go and talk to the MOD, get this cleared at the highest levels. Any problems, they can call me directly. Let me know when we have this all green-lighted and we can both go and watch the action in the war room. We haven’t had an all-nighter for a few days.”
The war room is the special operations control centre deep with the bowels of the building where live satellite and drone camera feeds allowed field operations to be watched live.
“Meanwhile, I am going to talk to Scott at the NCA. If they really have got an asset live in Al-Shawabi’s operation and they haven’t checked in with us first then there’s going to be hell to pay, you mark my words. Heads will roll! Good work, Rory,” she says as she reaches for the phone.