“I found out quite by accident. You know Amanda, she’s very discreet.”
“Too bad Charles wasn’t.” Seymour reached for the door but stopped. “Any idea why she wants to see me so urgently?”
“The pleasure of your company?”
“Come on, Miles.”
“All I know,” said Kent, “is that it has something to do with guns.”
Seymour went into the corridor. The light over Amanda’s door shone green. Even so, he knocked softly before entering. He found Amanda seated at her large desk, with her eyes cast downward toward an open file. Looking up, she treated Seymour to a cool smile. It looked, he thought, as if she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror.
“Graham,” she said, rising. “So good of you to come.”
She stepped slowly from behind the desk. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored pantsuit that flattered her tall, awkward frame. Her approach was cautious. Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace had entered MI5 in the same intake and had spent the better part of thirty years battling each other at every turn. Now they occupied two of the most powerful positions in Western intelligence, and yet their rivalry persisted. It was tempting to think the attack would alter the dynamics of their relationship, but Seymour believed otherwise. The inevitable parliamentary inquiry was coming. Undoubtedly, it would uncover serious lapses and missteps on the part of MI5. Amanda would fight tooth and nail. And she would do her utmost to make certain that Seymour and MI6 shouldered their fair share of the blame.
A drinks tray had been placed at the end of Amanda’s gleaming conference table. She mixed a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a martini with olives and cocktail onions. Her toast was restrained, silent. Then she led Seymour to the seating area and gestured toward a modern leather armchair. The BBC flickered on the large flat-panel television. British and American warplanes were striking ISIS targets near the Syrian city of Raqqa. The Iraqi portion of the caliphate had been largely reclaimed by the central government in Baghdad. Only the Syrian sanctuary remained, and it was under siege. The loss of territory, however, had done nothing to diminish ISIS’s ability to conduct terrorist operations abroad. The attack on London was proof of that.
“Where do you suppose he is?” asked Amanda after a moment.
“Saladin?”
“Who else?”
“We’ve been unable to definitively—”
“You’re not speaking to the prime minister, Graham.”
“If I had to guess, he’s somewhere other than the rapidly shrinking caliphate of ISIS.”
“Where?”
“Perhaps Libya or one of the Gulf emirates. Or he could be in Pakistan or across the border in Afghanistan controlled by ISIS. Or,” said Seymour, “he might be closer at hand. He has friends and resources. And remember, he used to be one of us. Saladin worked for the Iraqi Mukhabarat before the invasion. His job was to provide material support to Saddam’s favorite Palestinian terrorists. He knows what he’s doing.”
“That,” said Amanda Wallace, “is an understatement. Saladin almost makes one nostalgic for the days of KGB spies and IRA bombs.” She sat down opposite Seymour and placed her drink thoughtfully on the coffee table. “There’s something I need to tell you, Graham. Something personal, something awful. Charles has left me for his secretary. She’s half his age. Such a cliché.”
“I’m sorry, Amanda.”
“Did you know he was having an affair?”
“One heard rumors,” said Seymour delicately.
“I didn’t hear them, and I’m the director general of MI5. I suppose it’s true what they say. The spouse is always the last to know.”
“Is there no chance of reconciliation?”
“None.”
“A divorce will be messy.”
“And costly,” added Amanda. “Especially for Charles.”
“There’ll be pressure for you to step aside.”
“Which is why,” said Amanda, “I’m going to require your support.” She was silent for a moment. “I know I’m largely to blame for our little cold war, Graham, but it’s gone on long enough. If the Berlin Wall can come down, surely you and I can be something like friends.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
This time, Amanda’s smile almost appeared genuine. “And now to the real reason I asked you to come.” She pointed a remote toward the flat-panel television and a face appeared on the screen—a male of Egyptian descent, lightly bearded, approximately thirty years of age. It belonged to Omar Salah, the leader of the so-called Harlow cell who had been killed by a special firearms officer inside St. Martin’s Theatre before he could detonate his explosive vest. Seymour was well acquainted with Salah’s file. He was one of several thousand European Muslims who had traveled to Syria and Iraq after ISIS declared its caliphate in June 2014. For more than a year after Omar Salah’s return to Britain, he had been the target of full-time MI5 surveillance, both physical and electronic. But six months prior to the attack, MI5 concluded that Salah was no longer an imminent threat. A4, the watchers, were stretched to the breaking point, and Salah appeared to have lost his taste for radical Islam and jihadism. The termination order bore Amanda’s signature. What she and the rest of British intelligence didn’t realize was that Salah was communicating with ISIS central command using encrypted methods that even the mighty American National Security Agency couldn’t crack.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Seymour quietly.
“Perhaps not,” answered Amanda. “But someone will have to take the fall, and it’s probably going to be me. Unless, of course, I can turn the unfortunate case of Omar Salah to my advantage.” She paused, then added, “Or should I say our advantage.”
“And how might we do that?”
“Omar Salah did more than lead a team of Islamic murderers into St. Martin’s Theatre. He was the one who smuggled the guns into Britain.”
“Where did he get them?”
“From an ISIS operative based in France.”
“Says who?”
“Says Omar.”
“Please, Amanda,” said Seymour wearily, “it’s late.”
She glanced at the face on the screen. “He was good, our Omar, but he made one small mistake. He used his sister’s laptop to conduct ISIS business. We seized it the day after the attack, and we’ve been scrubbing the hard drive ever since. This afternoon we found the digital remains of an encrypted message from ISIS central command, instructing Omar to travel to Calais to meet with a man who called himself the Scorpion.”
“Catchy,” said Seymour darkly. “Was there any mention of guns in the message?”
“The language was coded, but obvious. It’s also consistent with a bulletin we received from the DGSI late last year. It seems the French have had the Scorpion on their radar for some time. Unfortunately, they don’t know much about him, including his real name. The working theory is that he’s part of a drug gang, probably Moroccan.”
It made sense, thought Seymour. The nexus between ISIS and European criminal networks was undeniable.