Close Call by Stella Rimington Read Free Book Online Page A

to need some assistance. ‘Yes. The poor. I hope our contribution helped a little.’
    ‘Yes indeed, my friend. We are so grateful. But there is so much need.’
    Miles felt in his pocket and produced an envelope. ‘Let’s hope this will satisfy some of it,’ he said, placing the envelope carefully on the tray of dishes beside him.
    Baakrime began to talk again as though there had been no interruption. ‘Yes. The people who run this trade are very clever at disguising themselves. But I have heard that there is a main middleman for deals from Europe. They call him Calibre . His real name is never used. I hear that he is meeting the leader of a group of jihadis or rebels – I don’t know what group or exactly who they are, though I understand they are being funded by al-Qaeda. The meeting is in Paris in the next week or so. It is to arrange a shipment. The delivery will come through Yemeni ports, I hear.’
    Miles nodded and waited. His face was calm but he was excited. At last he had something for his money, though it was pretty vague and probably not anything that could be acted on.
    But Baakrime had not finished. ‘I will try to find out more about this meeting and if I do my secretary will get a message to you.’ He stopped for a sip of juice. ‘There is one more thing. It is generally thought that the arms that come via this route are for use in Arab countries, and that may be so, but I have heard that the man behind those deals, this Calibre , is using someone from England to help with this latest deal. The arms trade is a very tight-knit network, almost like a club, but it seems someone British is applying for membership.’

Chapter 8
    It was eight o’clock in the evening and Liz was tidying up the kitchen after her supper. Unusually for her she’d been cooking. Martin was convinced that only French women knew how to cook and she had promised herself that next time he came to London for the weekend she was going to surprise him by producing the perfect soufflé. So she had been practising on herself and this evening she reckoned she’d cracked it. She had just eaten what she considered to be a masterly example – cheese and spinach soufflé à la mode de Carlyle. She was just wondering what to do with the half that remained, asking herself if it would be OK if she heated it up again for tomorrow night, when the phone rang. It was the Duty Officer.
    ‘Evening, Liz. The Six Duty Officer has just rung with a message for you from Bruno Mackay,’ he said. ‘Would you join him and Geoffrey Fane at Grosvenor tomorrow morning at half past eight for a meeting with Mr Bokus? Apparently something urgent has just come in from Langley. He said you should bring an overnight bag.’
    ‘Oh thanks,’ said Liz. ‘And did he say what I should put in it? Jeans and a T-shirt, a fur coat or a long black garment suitable for interviewing Arab sheiks?’
    ‘’Fraid that’s all the message said.’
    ‘OK. Thanks. I suppose I’ll just have to use my initiative.’
    ‘Good night then,’ said the Duty Officer cheerily, and rang off.
     
    At quarter past eight the following morning she was walking across Grosvenor Square towards the American Embassy, carrying an overnight bag, when she spotted Geoffrey Fane and Bruno Mackay getting out of a taxi. It was uncanny how similar they looked. Fane, his tall, slim, pinstriped figure, nowadays with a slight stoop that made him look even more heron-like than when he was younger. Bruno, equally tall and slim, equally elegantly clad, though his suit was finely checked rather than pinstriped and the colour lighter than Fane’s navy blue. Bruno’s shock of fair hair and deeply tanned face contrasted with Fane’s pale skin and black hair, but they might have been, if not father and son, at least related. They certainly came out of the same mould.
    ‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ said Fane as they all reached the steps up to the Embassy front door together. ‘Glad to see you’ve come