Trojan Read online

  He was looking forward to exploiting that weakness to its fullest.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monday, 10 July 2017

  Andrew Harvey opened the maritime website and entered the name of the vessel into the search box. The file next to him had been sent over by MI6 a couple of days earlier, but it had taken the resident technical wizard, Gerald Small, nearly forty-eight hours to get into the Syrian port’s computer to see which ship the consignment had been loaded onto.

  The screen zoomed in to show an icon with course and speed displayed next to it, and he expanded the view to see the expected arrival date. He jotted down the details, then did some research on the UK recipient.

  Half an hour later, Harvey was in a position to update Veronica Ellis on developments.

  He walked over to her glass-walled office, and the Director General waved for him to enter. He took a seat opposite her, a sparsely furnished oak desk between them.

  ‘The shipment is due to arrive in ten days,’ he said. ‘It’ll be offloaded in Southampton and collected by an import/export company, which will use a local courier to deliver it to the garage.’

  ‘Let SO15 know,’ Ellis said. ‘We’ll need Bomb Disposal, too.’

  ‘Already notified,’ Harvey told her. ‘I’ve also put the Syrian shipping company on the watch list. If anything destined for the UK is sent through them, we’ll know about it.’

  ‘Hopefully they won’t make another play for a while. I read Hannibal’s report, and he said it took them nearly a year to make the binary explosive. I don’t know if that includes R-and-D time or was purely manufacturing.’

  ‘I guess we’ll know more when the lab’s had time to analyse it,’ Harvey said. ‘Either way, this puts a big dent in their plans.’

  Ellis brushed a strand of platinum hair behind her ear. ‘What about the final destination – the garage? Any link between the owner and Saif al-Islam?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got Hamad and Sarah looking into everyone who works there, but at first glance they all appear clean. I’d like to set up surveillance to monitor phone and internet use.’

  ‘Put in the request,’ Ellis told him, ‘and I’ll sign it off.’

  With the boss updated, Harvey went back to his station.

  ‘Hamad,’ he said, looking over his monitor. ‘I need you to send me the profiles for the staff at Guler Motors.’

  Hamad Farsi sat opposite him, their computer screens separating them. Farsi had been a close friend and colleague for nearly a decade, a likeable and reliable operative who had put his life on the line more than once. He was still recovering from an incident earlier in the year, when a Spetsnaz team working for the Russian mobster Alexi Bessonov had mown him down in their SUV, and the injuries he’d sustained remained evident.

  ‘They’ll be with you in a second, though I can’t find anything on them,’ Farsi said. ‘Normally we have a known associate to work with, but these guys look squeaky clean.’

  ‘They’re hardly likely to announce their intentions,’ Harvey pointed out. ‘They’ve managed to stay under the radar this long, but they always slip up at some point. I’ve got the go-ahead to tap their phones and internet, but it’s going to mean a drive-by using some of Gerald’s kit.’

  Gerald Small had developed a bit of software that could detect mobile phones within a fifty-yard range and harvest the numbers on them. Going on the presumption that bad guys always use burner mobile phones, it enabled Harvey’s people to eavesdrop even on unregistered devices.

  ‘Want me to do it?’ Farsi asked.

  ‘Nah, Gerald can handle it. If anyone looks less like a spook, I’d like to meet them.’

  Harvey filled out a communications monitoring form using the information Farsi had provided, detailing the information they’d received about the perceived threat. He emailed it to Ellis for her electronic signature, then walked to Small’s office, where the lanky technician was busy with a colleague.

  ‘The problem you have there is line of sight, and the brickwork’s going to interfere with the signal—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Harvey said. ‘Gerald, I need you to go walkabout.’

  Small stood from his desk. ‘Sure, no problem.’

  Harvey explained the mission.

  ‘That’s all, just get their phone numbers?’

  ‘Simple as that. We’ll pass them on to GCHQ and wait for the results.’

  Small looked disappointed. ‘When are you going to let me play real spy?’ he asked.

  ‘Sadly, this is what spy shit is all about. Little tasks all adding to the big picture. I’ve got some data mining that needs to be finished by this evening, if that’s more your thing . . .’

  ‘Fine. When do you need the numbers?’

  ‘As soon as,’ Harvey said. ‘It relates to the shipment you worked on.’

  Small picked up a backpack and removed a device the size of two thick slices of bread. He checked the battery level, then replaced it in the bag. ‘Who’s the target?’

  ‘I’ll send the details over to you. It’s a garage in Wandsworth.’

  Harvey went back to his computer and pinged the details across to Small’s terminal, then walked over to Sarah’s desk and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he announced.

  She looked up and smiled. ‘Sure, just give me a second.’

  She finished an email and sent it, then picked up her bag and locked arms with Harvey. ‘What do you fancy today?’

  ‘I’ll let you choose,’ he said.

  They settled on the little sushi place around the corner and, once seated in a corner booth, Harvey ordered for both of them.

  ‘We’ve identified the boat carrying the explosives,’ he said, after the waitress delivered their mineral waters. ‘It’ll be here on the twenty-first, which gives us plenty of time to assemble a welcoming party.’

  ‘That’s great news, though I’m sure it won’t be their last attempt.’

  ‘It might be for the time being. We don’t know how long it will take them to get their hands on more explosives, and we’ve identified one of their routes. I know it isn’t quite game over, but we’ve got their moves covered for the moment.’

  ‘Thanks to Hannibal,’ Sarah agreed. ‘It’s just a shame we can’t get more people into their ranks.’

  It was indeed. With Hannibal feeding them genuine, reliable information, they were able to stay one step ahead of SAI. Unfortunately, as Sarah had pointed out, Hannibal was one of just a handful of operatives scattered throughout Syria and Iraq. While the intel they sent back about the players in the region was priceless, there was just too little of it.

  On top of that, Hannibal’s report of SAI bringing the fight to UK soil matched with intel received from one of their other operatives working in Damascus. That report suggested that the major Islamist group operating in Syria had begun sending soldiers into Europe posing as refugees. So far, the Damascus operative said, around a hundred terrorists had made the perilous journey by sea to Greece and Italy. But that was as far as the report went. MI6 had no names or faces to work with, making the task of detecting them almost impossible. Hannibal, thankfully, had fed them the identities of the people he was working with, so if any of them tried to make it into the EU, MI6 had a good chance of stopping them.

  ‘Exactly,’ Harvey said. ‘Having more people like Hannibal would go some way to help sort the operatives from the migrants.’

  ‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘Rather than simply suspecting them all.’

  While Harvey held what he considered to be a pragmatic position on the refugee crisis, Sarah had one foot in the ‘Let’s save them all’ camp. He’d found it strange that, given the nature of her job, she failed to see the danger.

  ‘A healthy dose of suspicion is about all we have, lacking better intel from Syria.’

  ‘The PM’s policy of only taking in refugees from the camps bordering Syria and Iraq is the sensible way of covering your concerns.’

  ‘In o
ne respect, it does,’ Harvey agreed, ‘but we can’t dismiss the million who made it into Europe last year. That’s where the real threat is going to come from.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘I just feel sorry for the children. It’s not much of a start in life when you’re forced to risk your life for weeks or months just to find a country willing to offer you a bed and some warm food.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And think about the ones who don’t make it out at all. And of the dozens of other countries with kids in the same situation. I think it’s a crappy time to bring any child into the world.’

  Their food arrived, and Sarah fell silent as they ate.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday, 20 July 2017

  Andrew Harvey put down the phone and walked round to Farsi’s desk.

  ‘They loaded the container onto the truck five minutes ago,’ he said. ‘It should reach the importer within the hour.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be at the garage when the police pick them up?’

  ‘No need,’ Harvey assured him. ‘Once they’re in custody, I’ll go and sit in on the interviews.’

  ‘Okay, but I still think this whole thing has a bad smell about it.’

  ‘I know, but we have little choice.’

  After ten days of thorough background checks and sifting through gigabytes of communications data, they hadn’t detected much to suggest that any of the staff at Guler Motors Limited were involved in a bombing plot. Apart from one mechanic who attended a mosque that was also frequented by a minor figure on their watch list, the worst transgression they’d uncovered was that the owner was cheating on his wife.

  ‘I still think the idea that they were pressured into accepting the package on someone else’s behalf should be revisited,’ Farsi said. ‘We could sit back and see if anyone we know makes a surprise visit.’

  It was a notion the team had batted around a few days earlier, but in the end it had been decided that they would strike the moment the shock absorbers were delivered; they simply couldn’t afford to let the consignment sit in the garage for too long. The contents of the shock absorbers could easily be removed and spirited off the premises in any number of ways, and they could hardly arrest everyone who left the building without giving the game away. Ultimately, the mosque attendance coincidence had been enough for Ellis to sign it off.

  ‘We already put that to bed,’ Harvey said. ‘This way, it’s win–win. We prevent the explosives being used on our soil, and possibly expose a cell we never knew about.’

  Farsi put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘You’re the boss,’ he said, and rose to walk to the coffee station.

  Harvey noticed that his friend’s limp was improving. Six months after being hit by the SUV, he was lucky to be alive, never mind walking unaided.

  ‘A tenner says I’m right,’ Harvey shouted after him.

  ‘Deal!’ Farsi smiled.

  Of course, there was always the chance the consignment could be switched or intercepted en route, but Harvey was satisfied that SO15 had that covered.

  Sergeant Toby Sitwell of the Counter Terrorism Command, also known as SO15, sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked Skoda as it tailed the lorry along the M3 motorway towards Basingstoke. A mile further back, another vehicle carrying four armed team members was ready to move up on his command. Like the driver, Sitwell was wearing plain clothes, but he’d chosen a suit rather than his colleague’s denims and casual jacket.

  So far, the operation had gone smoothly, but he knew his men would have to remain alert until the package reached its final destination. The next scheduled stop for the truck was the importer’s warehouse. MI5 had done background checks on the five personnel known to work there and had found nothing to suggest they were anything but innocent links in the supply chain. Still, Sitwell wasn’t about to risk his men’s lives by being blasé.

  The truck carrying the large blue container signalled its intention to leave the motorway at junction 7, as expected. Sitwell radioed the other car and told them to close the gap.

  He found himself one car behind the truck, and though he was now more conspicuous, it didn’t really matter too much. The warehouse was less than half a mile away from the motorway, and it would soon be time to make his presence known.

  As expected, the truck took a left and then a right into the industrial estate before backing into a loading bay. Sitwell ordered the driver to pull up outside the reception office of Larkin Logistics, and as soon as the car came to a halt he barked, ‘Go, go, go!’ into his radio and climbed out.

  He marched through the office door and flashed his badge at the young female receptionist just as the reserve unit screeched to a stop next to the truck.

  ‘Police,’ Sitwell said. ‘Where’s the manager?’

  A man in his thirties emerged from a side office, wearing a yellow shirt and pink tie.

  ‘I’m John Larkin. Can I help you?’

  Sitwell held up his badge. ‘I’ve got four armed officers at your loading bay,’ he said. ‘We need to supervise the unloading of that truck.’

  ‘Could you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘There’s a package on that vehicle that’s of interest to us. We just need to ensure it makes the next stage of its journey without interruption.’

  ‘I can assure you, none of the consignments we receive are tampered with in any way.’

  ‘Understood,’ Sitwell said, ‘but we’re not taking our eyes off it. Who’s supposed to pick it up?’

  ‘I’d need to know which package and the delivery address,’ the manager said as he asked the receptionist to move and sat down at her terminal.

  Sitwell gave him the details, and moments later the information appeared on the screen.

  ‘Charlie Fenton, of T & C Couriers. He’s due here in about forty minutes.’

  ‘Then I suggest you start unloading. My men will make themselves scarce when he arrives, but if anyone warns him that we’re here, there’ll be consequences.’

  ‘I hardly think Charlie would be involved in anything,’ Larkin said. ‘He doesn’t even know which parcels he’ll be delivering until we receive them and arrange his route.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’m not taking any chances. How many deliveries will he be making from this shipment?’

  Larkin tapped a few keys and the printer spat out two sheets of paper. ‘This is his route. Seventeen stops in all. Your package is number fifteen.’

  ‘Too many,’ Sitwell said. ‘Has Fenton got a copy of this?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Good. Scratch the first fourteen items and make ours the first on his round.’

  ‘But our customers are expecting their deliveries today,’ Larkin argued. ‘We’ve got a reputation to maintain.’

  ‘Then here’s what you do. Have number fifteen ready. As soon as Fenton leaves, call another firm to deliver the rest.’

  ‘That’s going to leave me out of pocket. Are you going to pick up the tab?’

  Sitwell nodded. ‘Sure. Write up an invoice and I’ll give it to my superiors.’

  With this financial wrinkle ironed out, Larkin led Sitwell through to the warehouse, where unloading was under way. A forklift backed out of the container with a pallet loaded with dried figs, which the driver skilfully stacked in a corner.

  ‘Once the truck’s empty,’ Sitwell said, ‘put number fifteen near the loading bay, then tell everyone to clear out. Send them shopping, or to the pub, I don’t care. They can come back when he’s gone. I’ll be with you all the time, so pretend I’m a potential new customer looking to use your services.’

  Within a quarter of an hour, the warehouse staff cleared out and the targeted packages were waiting for the courier to collect them. The second police vehicle had retreated two hundred yards down the road, awaiting Sitwell’s instructions. Sitwell’s driver joined him and Larkin in the reception area.

  ‘What does Fenton’s van look like?’ Sitwell asked.

  ‘It’s a white Transit,�
� Larkin told him. ‘It’s got his logo splashed along the side, so you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Okay, then here’s the plan. When Fenton gets here, you keep him talking here on reception for at least a minute, then let him go and pick up his packages. Once he’s gone, we’ll clear out, too. And please don’t try calling him later to tell him what’s been going on. It’ll be easy for us to get all of his phone numbers and see what calls were placed to him. Likewise, if we suddenly get a demand from him for lost wages, we’ll know you spoke to him in person and told him why his route is so short today.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t going to be fair on him,’ Larkin said. ‘He’s always grumbling how money is so tight these days.’

  Sitwell was becoming exasperated. ‘Then accidentally pay him what he should get for the original route. I’m covering the other delivery, so no-one’s out of pocket.’

  Sitwell could see the businessman weighing up the options, trying to select the one which would make him the most money, and he decided Larkin was unlikely to tell Charlie Fenton the real reason for the curtailed route.

  He took his driver off to the side. ‘Go and get the tracker ready.’

  As the man disappeared, Sitwell checked his watch, passing on Larkin’s offer of a cup of coffee.

  Fenton turned up five minutes early and, while initially chipper, seemed genuinely disappointed with the short list Larkin handed him.

  ‘At least you’ll be home in time to watch EastEnders,’ Larkin pointed out.

  Fenton, in his forties and sporting a crew cut, made disparaging noises at the suggestion, but folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket. He was heading for the warehouse when Larkin called him back.

  ‘I see Chelsea have put in a bid for Lionel Messi. What do you think their chances are?’

  ‘The way we started last season, we need him,’ Fenton said, ‘but £120 million is far too much to pay for a twenty-nine-year-old.’