Dark Justice

Ferguson said, ‘In his last message, Bin Laden referred to the young extremists as “soldiers of God”, and what concerns us is that young men from this country could be among them. It makes places like the Queen Street mosque of special interest.’

Hannah said, ‘If you’re looking for suicide bombers, though, it doesn’t seem like the place.’ She opened a file and passed it across. ‘Dr Ali Selim, the imam. Forty-five, born in London, father a doctor from Iraq who sent the boy to St Paul’s School, one of our better establishments. Selim went to Cambridge, studied Arabic, and later took a doctorate in Comparative Theology.’

Blake looked at the file, particularly the photo. ‘Impressive. I like the beard.’ He passed the file to the others.

Hannah said, ‘He’s a member of the Muslim Council, the Mayor of London’s Interfaith Committee, and any number of government boards. Everyone I speak to tells me he’s a wonderful man.’

‘Maybe he’s too wonderful,’ Dillon said.

‘I’ve checked with the local police. Not a hint of trouble at the Queen Street mosque.’

There was a pause, and Ferguson turned to Roper. ‘Have you any thoughts, Major?’

‘I can only process facts, opinions, suppositions. Unless I have something to go on, I can’t help.’

‘Well, I’ll give you something,’ Blake said. ‘And it’s been intriguing the hell out of me. Does “the wrath of Allah” mean anything to you?’

‘Should it?’

‘When Clancy and I faced Morgan, in the moment before he bit on the cyanide tooth, Morgan said, “Beware the wrath of Allah.”’

Roper frowned and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t strike a chord, but I’ll run it by my computer.’

‘So, the way ahead on this one appears plain,’ Ferguson said. ‘I think you, Superintendent, should have another word with Mrs Morgan in your guise as a social worker.’

Hannah wasn’t comfortable, and showed it. ‘That’s a difficult one, sir. I mean, her son is dead and she doesn’t even know it.’

‘Which can’t be helped, Superintendent. It’s an unusual situation, I agree, but when one considers the gravity of the deed Morgan was trying to commit, I feel that any means that will help us to reach an explanation would be justified. See to it, and use Dillon as back-up. His knowledge of Arabic may prove useful.’ He turned to Blake. ‘We’ll drop Roper off at his house, and you and I can continue to the Ministry of Defence, where I’ll show you everything we have on Muslim activity in the UK.’

‘Suits me fine,’ Blake said.

Ferguson turned to the others. ‘All right, people, there’s work to be done. Let’s get to it.’

After leaving the pub on Kensington High Street, Greta and Ashimov crossed the road to the Embassy and got into a dark blue Opel saloon. She checked the glove compartment and found a digital camera.

‘Excellent,’ he told her. ‘You can drop me at my apartment in Monk Street and keep in touch on your mobile. Anything of significance, I want to know.’

‘Of course.’ She drove out into the traffic. ‘Where’s Belov at the moment?’

‘The good Josef is in Geneva. All those billions, my love, it keeps him so busy.’ There was an edge of bitterness there.

‘Come off it,’ she said. ‘Money is power and you love it, and working for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.’

‘To a point – only to a point.’ She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, ‘Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.’ He shook his head. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You must be raving mad,’ she told him.

‘Very probably.’ He patted her silken knee. ‘You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.’

He got out of the Opel and walked away.

Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.

Number Thirteen, that had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain and then a red Mini drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.

Hannah pressed the bell and they waited. Finally they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me, Mrs Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the social services. I thought I’d call again.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘This is Mr Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?’

‘Just a moment.’ The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.

All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.

In the small sitting room the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.

Hannah said, ‘I just thought I’d check on you, Mrs Morgan, as we happened to be passing.’

Dillon, more direct, said, ‘Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs Morgan. Have you heard from him?’

Her voice was muted, and she coughed, ‘Oh, he’ll be too busy. I’m sure he’ll phone when he’s got time.’

Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded and she carried on reluctantly. ‘Have you seen Dr Selim lately?’

‘Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son’s away Dr Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. It’s not far. He’s been very good, Dr Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry to discover our faith.’

Hannah felt wretched. ‘I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.’

‘Yes, he’s called around two or three times since Henry’s been away, with his friend.’

There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, ‘And who was that?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.’

Dillon said sternly in Arabic, ‘Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?’

She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, ‘There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.’

Hannah said, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.’

Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs Morgan on the forehead. ‘There you are, my love.’ He turned to Hannah and led the way out.

Outside, she said, ‘What a bastard you are. What were you saying?’