The Inquiry. Will Caine

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СКАЧАТЬ OF HIS NATION, A NATION PROUD OF HIM’

      He allowed himself a short smile and felt an unexpected surge of bravado. Seeing the gap between the head of the grave lid and bottom of the headstone, he slid the envelope between them.

      Before heading upstairs, he googled ‘Sayyid’. A leader, a master. A man who demands respect. Although, he reflected, it could just as easily be a cover – there was no reason to suppose it was either a man or a Muslim. The one thing he did know was that, for the moment, he must play by Sayyid’s rules.

      Forty-eight hours later, Morahan retraced his steps to the same gravestone. In place of the white envelope he’d left was a plastic sleeve containing a smaller brown one. He hurried home, shaking with anticipation, and slit it open. Inside was a curt message saying no more than ‘Agreed’, followed by an instruction to return to a different grave in a further forty-eight hours. He felt both wound-up and deflated.

      Two nights later, as the hall clock chimed the three-quarter hour of 10.45 p.m., he called up that he was popping out again for a stroll. This time Iona emerged to glare down from the landing railings. ‘It’s becoming rather a habit.’

      ‘Yes, I will explain soon enough. Nothing to worry about.’

      The lid on the second gravestone was, as promised, unattached. It was also heavy – much heavier than he had anticipated. With his fingertips he could loosen but not lift it or ease it sideways. He had wondered whether Sayyid was a man or woman; now, a strong man seemed more likely. He himself was in his late sixties; while his legs adequately propelled his bicycle, his arms were used to no more than lifting legal submissions.

      He looked at his watch. 11.05 p.m. Iona would be agitating. He needed a crow bar or something similar; he couldn’t afford to delay and risk the morning light.

      He stalked home, went upstairs and looked into her bedroom.

      ‘I have to go out again.’

      ‘It’s all right, Francis.’

      ‘No, truly.’ His dry voice was urgent. ‘There’s a task I need to complete. I’ll explain everything tomorrow morning.’ He paused. ‘Unless you have other plans.’

      She eyed him quizzically and resumed her reading.

      Out in the garden he scrambled among the clutter in the shed, opening his old wooden tool box for the first time, it seemed, in years; his days of DIY were long over. Perhaps the claw of the rubber-handled hammer might do it; he shoved it into a pocket. He had a better idea, but it meant re-entering the house yet again to fetch the car key. He had to tell her tomorrow. Edging open the front door and stepping on tiptoes he took the key from the hall shelf. The light was still on upstairs; he heard the pulling of a lavatory chain and padding of feet. He exited, opened the car boot, pulled away the bottom flap and saw that he’d remembered correctly; the wheel nut spanner had a lever on the end of the handle.

      Weighed down, he set out again for the churchyard. He wondered how he would explain himself to a policeman. Caught in the act with an ‘offensive weapon’ – he imagined the headline, ’69-year-old Government Inquiry Chair is Secret Grave Robber.’ There seemed something fantastical about what he was doing. Yet he knew from the law courts just how easily chance, coincidence, or sheer misadventure could at a stroke change lives – and, sometimes, arbitrarily cut them short.

      He managed to insert the hammer claw into the gap below one side of the lid and the lever on the car spanner beneath its head. Kneeling, he pressed down on both with the palms of his hand. He felt upward movement and with his knee eased the lid an inch to the right. One more shove and he should be able to slip his fingers beneath. He was sweating; he stood up and breathed deeply. How could this be necessary? Was his resolve being tested? He bent down again and repeated the process. The gap was now sufficient to show the edge of a slim brown plastic package, again A4 size. He forced his hand through, scraping the knuckles against the stone’s sharp edge, far enough to grab the package between his second and third fingers. He stood up with it, back aching, heart thumping from the exertion, and concealed it in his coat.

      On the walk home, he saw a dark-coloured Mercedes saloon parked ahead. Someone was in the driver’s seat. He paused. Who? Why? Should he turn round, try to bypass it? No, stop being paranoid – too old for that. As he passed, he could make out the shape of a capped man, face burrowed down into a thick collar, sitting in the front, listening to the radio – Magic or Kiss or one of those other all-night stations churning out trans-generational beats. He glanced back at the rear window. It showed the round green disc of a licensed taxi. He relaxed.

      At home, Iona’s bedroom light was off. He sat down at his desk and gazed blankly for a few seconds at the package, lifted it and turned it through 360 degrees. No words, no markings on the brown beneath the plastic. He slid the envelope out and opened it with the paper knife. He extracted the small pile of contents. They were headed by a note in the same font.

       Dear Sir Francis,

       Thank you for your response.

       This initial package contains personal files on five young British Muslims.

       I have made two redactions.

       The first is the KV2 serial number. This is information you do not need and would present an extra danger both to you and me.

       The second is the name of the operation this was part of. Later I may give you this name, though not in writing. Knowledge of it is the most highly classified secret of British intelligence both now and since its inception. It is confined to very few.

       Nothing else is blacked out (unlike the intelligence files your Inquiry has so far received where redactions render them effectively useless).

       Of these five persons some are, or have been, combatants, others not. Some have disappeared. If you wish to fulfil your remit, you must attempt to trace these individuals or their families and take evidence. You must not use police or intelligence services to carry out this investigation. Those channels are compromised.

       Knowing the potential consequences, I need your confirmation that you wish to continue. I will then advise you on obtaining the help you need.

       These few files that I have been able to give you are the tip of a large iceberg. They are also its inception. From them a decade-long pattern follows.

       A final warning. Once you knock on the first door, you must move fast.

       Sayyid

      Morahan lay the note aside, absorbed the accompanying instructions and began to leaf through the files. They contained print-outs of photographs; phone call intercepts; logs of suspects’ movements. They were each headed by a brief biography containing a name, present suspected whereabouts, and previous addresses.

      Who was this secret informant? Sayyid. Was he, or she, to be trusted? What position was he in to have access to raw classified files? If the operation he claimed to know of had really existed, how and why was he one of the few who knew of it? Were his warnings genuine or for effect?

      Were the files themselves genuine? As a judge he was accustomed to recent police files, but his own experience of intelligence files on suspected terrorists went back to his brief time as Attorney General, mainly in the wake of 9/11, when the net was being cast far and wide. He tried to remember what these looked like; then realised it would be remarkable if the means of recording information in the digital age had not moved on. Did these print-outs have the ring of truth? Of authenticity? He stared at СКАЧАТЬ