Thames House, London. MI5 HQ
‘Right people, settle down and we’ll make a start.’
T2/0, the Assistant Director – actual name Alexander Dyer – called the meeting to order. Present were fourteen of his section and departmental heads, some of whom drew an unsettling glare when they responded a little slowly to his request.
Like Toni, Dyer was a former Royal Navy officer. Also like her, he was new in post. What was interesting, and what seemed to be having an unsettling effect on some of the more traditional officers, was the fact he seemed to have adopted a far more inclusive policy than his forerunners with regards to keeping his subordinates in the information loop. Soon after taking up his post, he had identified the ‘Long Room’ – so called because of its shape – as a suitable venue for meetings and had installed a series of paintings, a coffee percolator and a kettle to provide some creature comforts. At the head of the table, a rather shabby and ancient chair had been replaced by a large leather one of the kind so often favoured by a ship’s captain. The Long Room had now taken on the style and appearance of an officer’s wardroom, similar to those found in all naval vessels, both at sea and ashore.
Toni approved of the changes – she found them reassuringly comfortable and familiar, and suspected the new Assistant Director did likewise.
The previous month’s Long Room meeting had discussed, without reaching any real conclusion, the progress of an enquiry into the murder of William Stobie, a former Special Branch detective from the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Stobie had been shot dead two weeks after being acquitted of involvement in the murder of a solicitor in 1989. The Assistant Director wanted to discuss recent press speculation that Stobie was an asset. He’d met a wall of silence from those in attendance that had surprised Toni and angered Dyer. He ended that meeting with a clear warning to all that such a response would not be tolerated in the future.
As the recently appointed head of T1/B department, Toni was now on the official list of expected attendees. Although she had been looking forward to the meeting, she noticed – as the Assistant Director must have – the slumped shoulders and glum faces that now all turned in unison toward the head of the table. It was clear many of her peers would rather have been elsewhere.
On the agenda for today were a number of reports from T2/2 (Research and Threat Assessment) and T5B (Arms Trafficking) and, of particular note, they were to discuss the recent acquittal of Sulayman Zainulabidin on charges of preparing for acts of terrorism. Zainulabidin – who had changed his name and converted from Catholicism in 1979 – had been accused of planning a terror-training camp that he called ‘Ultimate Jihad Challenge’. Toni suspected this planned discussion to be the reason for the solemn faces; nobody was likely to relish the prospect of analysing their failings.
She was right, and being so new in post, she remained little more than an interested observer as her peers ducked and dived the questions Alex Dyer wanted answered.
‘Why had the prosecution failed?’ he asked. A simple enough question which Toni expected would generate a discussion on the standard of the evidence and the defence that Zainulabidin put forward. Instead, the two officers closest to the enquiry simply blamed the jury for swallowing the explanation offered by the defence. ‘Not our fault,’ they said, almost in unison. Toni smiled inwardly at the backtracking and outright deflection of blame. More like ‘don’t try and pin the failure on me Mr Assistant Director’, she mused. Spooks well versed in the art of covering their arses.
But Dyer was on a mission. He reminded everyone present – as if they needed reminding – that two other trials had also collapsed earlier in the year. Lotfi Raissi – an Algerian pilot accused of training the 9/11 pilots; and Yassir al-Sirri – who provided the press accreditation to the assassins of Ahmed Shah Massoud in Afghanistan just two days before the 9/11 attacks. Both had been acquitted.
‘Three trials since 9/11. Three failures.’ The Assistant Director was tight-lipped, his voice low and demanding attention. ‘This isn’t a witch hunt,’ he added, ‘but this cannot continue. I want answers.’
Nobody spoke.
Dyed-in-the-wool spooks, thought Toni, as she also remained silent. Entrenched in the doctrine of secrecy. They were all being careful what they chose to divulge, keeping their heads down until the flack died down. Not one of them was prepared to stick their head above the parapet.
It was only when they reached the point of ‘any other business’ that, for the first time, Toni learned not to feel quite so smug at the discomfort of her peers. Dyer raised a late item, not on the agenda: the recent death of Iraq weapons inspector Julian Armstrong and a report from the local police Special Branch on the circumstances of his demise. They’d all heard about the death, of course. It wasn’t every day that a weapons inspector committed suicide. But, to the best of Toni’s knowledge, although Armstrong had a PF – a Personal File – he wasn’t an asset or considered a security risk.
It was as the Assistant Director reached below the table to retrieve a thick bundle of papers from his briefcase that Toni started to feel her world going awry. He placed a loose pile of A4-sized paper on the table in front of him and, as he did, she noticed him carefully scanning the faces of those present. She saw that the top sheet bore Arabic writing, and wondered, Could it be?
A cold shiver ran up her spine. If it was, Finlay needn’t bother to go and look for it.
‘Bring me up to speed on this, people,’ Dyer asked, looking around the room once more as he appeared to search for a reaction. The less experienced looked confused. Others, certainly those more practised in the dark arts of the service, remained impassive.
‘What do we know about Julian Armstrong?’ he added.
Miles Chadbourne from T5C spoke up. ‘An eccentric former weapons inspector living, or perhaps I should say, who lived in Wales. There’s a PF on him, I believe.’
Toni wondered what that file might contain, whether it might flag up her interest in Armstrong were she to now take a look at it.
‘Was he an agent?’ asked Dyer.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ replied Chadbourne.
‘Anyone else?’ The question was abrupt, impatient, and hinted strongly that the Assistant Director didn’t believe those present were being open with him.
Silence. Dyer waited for several seconds. A pen clicked at the far end of the table.
Toni hesitated to say anything. He could find out about Armstrong without her contribution. There would be plenty on file about the doctor. And, if the document now sat before him on the table was what she thought it was, it may be best she remain quiet.
‘And what about this?’ he asked, finally, as his gaze returned to the document.
Toni studied Chadbourne’s face as the Assistant Director flicked through the pages. He knew something, she could smell it.
‘Is there anyone amongst you who might be able to fill me in on what this document is?’
No reaction.
‘Is there anyone who can tell me what “Al Anfal” is?’
Chadbourne’s face twitched very slightly. For a moment Toni doubted what her own eyes were telling her but it had been there, she’d seen it. Chadbourne recognised the name.
‘OK,’ the Assistant Director continued, sounding increasingly angry. ‘If nobody is going to help me out here, I guess I’m going to have to start the ball rolling. Armstrong was found by his housekeeper. His last conversation with her was a telephone call during which he asked her to delay calling by as he had company. At this moment in time we have no idea who he was referring to, and I find it a little surprising his mind-set could have changed so markedly in the hour following that call that he reached a point where he decided to top himself!’
Several in the room jumped as Dyer slammed his clenched fist on the document in front of him.
‘Could we ask the local Special Branch to organise a full forensic search?’ The question came from Sian Phillips, who was sat at the far end of the table and seemed unaffected by her Assistant Director’s outburst. Sian was T2/1, Deputy Head of Section, responsible for investigations. Hers were shoes that Toni hoped to one day fill.
‘Already in hand,’ said Dyer, his voice, once again, calm. ‘What I want to know, people, is if any of you know how Armstrong came to be in possession of this document?’ He tapped the papers firmly with his pen.
No further hands were raised or contributions forthcoming. But Toni felt the almost palpable tension in the room.
And the Assistant Director also appeared to sense it.
But he remained silent. Returning the document to his briefcase, he slid back in his chair and, making no further comment, he walked the short distance to the closed door. And then he was gone, the door closing firmly behind him, leaving those present wondering exactly what had just happened.