Secret Asset Read Free

terrorism. Liz gave her a quick précis of what Marzipan had said, but none of it connected with anything Judith and her team were currently working on. Clutching the large leather portfolio Judith gave her, zipped tight and locked, she took the lift down to the basement garage and collected one of the anonymous fleet vehicles housed there. With three-quarters of an hour still to spare she drove back north, up Regent Street through Oxford Circus, eventually turning into the quiet streets of once-grand eighteenth-century houses, now the consulting rooms of doctors, dentists, psychiatrists, and other specialists serving London’s wealthier residents and visitors. Finally, she turned under an arch and into a dark, faintly lit mews of small houses, the former stables of the grand houses. A garage door swung up when she pressed the bleeper in the car, and she drove straight into a small, lit garage.
    Above the garage was a warm, cheerful sitting room, furnished with a couple of well-used sofas, covered in what the agent runners all referred to as “Ministry of Works chintz.” A square dining-room table with several chairs of an unidentifiable wood, a battered coffee table and a framed print completed the furnishings. Safe houses were one of civilisation’s dead ends. Strictly utilitarian, they were kept in readiness for use, the kitchen stocked with the essentials for making coffee and tea but never any food. A quarter of an hour later, as Liz was still unpacking the portfolio’s collection of photographs onto the dining-room table, the phone rang.
    â€œNinety seconds,” said a voice at the other end. “All clear.”
    She opened the door immediately when the bell rang and led Marzipan up the stairs.
    â€œWould you like something to drink—tea, perhaps, or coffee?”
    Sohail shook his head, slowly, seriously, saying nothing but taking in his surroundings. “Did you get something to eat?” she asked, hoping he had.
    â€œI don’t need anything now,” he said.
    â€œAll right, then let’s get started. I want you to take your time looking at these, but don’t think too hard about it. Usually your first instinct is accurate.”
    The pictures were from a variety of sources. The best were copies of those supplied with applications for passports and driving licences. The rest mostly came from surveillance—taken from a distance with hidden cameras—and were poorer. Sohail took his time, examining each photograph carefully before regretfully shaking his head. By eleven when they were only halfway through, it occurred to Liz that Sohail’s parents would start to worry if he were unusually late. “I think we should call it a day,” she announced. “Could you look at the rest tomorrow?”
    He nodded, and she said, “Then let’s meet up here again. Shall we say seven-thirty? Come just the same way as you did tonight.” She looked at Sohail. He seemed very tired. “You should take a cab home. I’ll call one.”
    She went and made the call. When she returned she said, “Leave here in ten minutes. Walk out of the mews, turn left, and a taxi will come along the street. As it approaches it will put on its light. The driver will drop you off a few streets from home.”
    She looked at the young man, and suddenly felt a concern, a tenderness towards him that was almost maternal. It was a pity he had yet to identify any of the three suspects. But she was not downhearted. She had long ago learned that success in her line of business took time and patience and often came suddenly, and unexpectedly.

3
    M addie came back to Belfast when her mother Molly telephoned to tell her the doctor’s news. There was nothing to be done except manage the pain. Sean Keaney would die at home.
    So she returned to the small brick house where her father and mother had lived for over forty years, just off the Falls Road in Belfast, a house as