Agent of the State by Roger Pearce Read Free Book Online Page A

the point. That’s why I’m heading this up.’
    ‘Your job as a manager is to be here in the ops room, briefing me.’
    Melanie’s voice crackled into Channel Five. ‘He’s off, off, off, and crossing the road. I’m with him, plus Red Three.’
    ‘Ma’am, can you stand by? I have to deal with this.’ Kerr cut the call without waiting for a reply. ‘Go ahead, Mel.’
    ‘He’s seen a northbound bus and he’s running hard for it, number two heading back towards Vauxhall station. He’s going in the opposite direction. Now heading north, repeat north, towards Vauxhall. This guy is totally paranoid. I’m dropping off.’
    ‘All received. Jack, he’s retracing his route, can your guys take this?’
    ‘Red Four, I’m on it.’ Red Four was a young linguist, fluent in French and Arabic, who had just been accepted for a post in the international-liaison section. His mike stayed open as he sprinted for the bus. ‘He’s going up . . . top deck . . . Shit, I need a mobile unit.’ They heard the officer banging on the door to the bus, and speaking to the driver. ‘Cheers, mate.’ Kerr realised he must have flashed his warrant card, not ideal for a surveillance officer. Then the breathless voice sank to a whisper: ‘I’m on.’
    ‘Good work,’ said Kerr, ‘and we need your exact location, so listen up, all units.’
    The voice murmured back against the traffic noise. On the crowded bus, Red Four would be just another Brixton schizo whispering to himself. ‘South Lambeth Road, junction Lansdowne Way, heading north.’
    ‘All units, I want containment around Kennington Lane, Nine Elms and Albert Embankment,’ said Kerr. ‘And Vauxhall Bridge in case he takes us over the river. If you think he’s got his sights on Westminster, tell us. I don’t want anyone being shy. Link man at this time is Red Four.’
    Kerr’s vehicle filled with twelve voices organising themselves along the route in staccato bursts. There was no need for call signs from people who worked together twelve or even twenty-four hours a day because each knew the other like family. Kerr redialled. ‘You wanted background, ma’am. The MI6 head of station in Yemen gave him to us Sunday afternoon, on the hurry-up.’
    ‘Not through proper channels, you mean?’
    ‘It was urgent because the target was about to travel.’
    ‘So without clearances, in other words.’
    Kerr felt a stab of vulnerability: Weatherall was already looking for a way out if things went wrong. She was on what Alan Fargo called the ‘scapegoat shoot’, the survival sport of choice for any aspiring big cheese. Further down the line, Kerr calculated, he was going to need heavy-duty back-up from Joe Allenby in Yemen. For the present, he fell back on operational fundamentals: go with what you see. ‘I believe we need to develop this, ma’am,’ he said. ‘You’re getting as much as me. He’s all over the place, plus his erratic movements on the street over the past three days. It’s either counter-surveillance or the guy’s nuts. I go for the first. I believe he’s going for a meet.’
    ‘Or to make an attack.’
    ‘No, there’s been no preparation.’
    ‘But he’s wearing something under that jacket,’ Weatherall said, performing another somersault. ‘There’s something round his waist. Could be a bomb.’
    ‘No, I’ve checked with Steve Gibb in the observation post. Nothing abnormal about his clothing when he left the address. We need to let him run.’
    ‘And I have to minimise the risk.’
    Channel Eighteen came to life. ‘This is Challenger One. I have two Trojan units at the RVP in Fentiman Road. We’re ready to deploy. Sit-rep, please.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Kerr. ‘Change to Channel Five for current status. Subject is in South Lambeth Road north towards Vauxhall station.’ Kerr turned back to the phone. ‘Ma’am, the Trojan firearms teams are on standby at the rendezvous point and I need a moment to check this out for you . . . Melanie,