At Risk Read Free

team.
    To Liz, imbued as she was with the restrained, self-deprecatory culture of Thames House, Mackay appeared slightly preposterous. For a man of his age, and he couldn’t have been more than thirty-two or -three, he was much too expensively got up. His good looks—the deep tan, the level grey gaze, the sculpted nose and mouth—were far too emphatic. This was an individual, and every ounce of her professional being rebelled against the idea, whom people would remember. For a moment, and without expression, her eyes met Wetherby’s.
    With the courtesies done, the group began to work their way through the overseas reports. Geoffrey Fane started the ball rolling. A tall, aquiline figure—like a heron in chalk-stripes, Liz had always thought—Fane had built his career on MI6’s Middle Eastern desk, where he had acquired a reputation for unswerving ruthlessness. His subject was the ITS—the Islamic Terror Syndicate—the generic title for groups like Al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and the myriad others like them.
    When Fane had finished speaking he darted his patrician gaze leftwards at his younger colleague. Leaning forward, Bruno Mackay shot his cuffs and addressed his notes. “If I might return briefly to my old stomping ground,” he began, “Pakistan liaison has reported a sighting of Dawood al Safa. Their report suggests that al Safa has visited a training camp near Takht-i-Suleiman in the tribal north-west of the country, and may have made contact with a group known as the Children of Heaven, who are suspected of involvement in the murder of a US embassy guard in Islamabad six months ago.”
    To Liz’s acute irritation Mackay pronounced the Islamic names in such a way as to make it abundantly clear that he was an Arabic speaker. Just what was it with these people? she wondered. Why did they all think they were T. E. Lawrence, or Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient ? A complicit flicker from Wetherby told her that he shared her sentiments on the matter.
    “Our feeling at Vauxhall is that this activity is significant,” continued Mackay urbanely. “Two reasons. One: al Safa’s principal role is as a bag man, moving cash between Riyadh and the Asian terror groups. If he’s on the move, then something nasty’s in the pipeline. Two: the Children of Heaven are one of the few ITS groups thought to have included Caucasians in their ranks. A Pakistani Intelligence Service surveillance report from about six months ago indicated the presence in the camp of, and I quote, ‘two, perhaps three individuals of identifiably Western appearance.’ ”
    He extended spatulate, sun-browned fingers on the table in front of him. “Our concern—and we’ve communicated this over the weekend to all stations—is that the opposition may be about to deploy an invisible.”
    He let the remark hang for a moment. The calculated theatricality of his delivery did not lessen the impact of his statement. An “invisible” was CIA-speak for the ultimate intelligence nightmare: the terrorist who, because he or she is an ethnic native of the target country, can cross its borders unchecked, move around that country unquestioned, and infiltrate its institutions with ease. An invisible was the worst possible news.
    “That being the case,” Mackay continued smoothly, “we would suggest that Immigration be brought into the loop.”
    The Home Office man frowned. “What’s your view on likely targets and the timing of all this? We should probably up the security status of all government buildings from black to red, but that causes administrative problems, and I don’t want to move on it too soon.”
    Mackay glanced at his notes. “Pakistan is already checking all passenger lists out of the country, with particular reference to . . . let’s see, non-business visitors under thirty-five whose stay has exceeded thirty days. So they’re very much on to the case. No idea of targets yet, but we’ll keep our ears very close to the ground.”