Capture or Kill Read online

  CAPTURE

  OR

  KILL

  TOM MARCUS

  MACMILLAN

  This book is dedicated to my wife.

  Without you, I would have been lost a long time ago.

  Semper Vigilat.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I SPY: MY LIFE IN MI5

  PROLOGUE

  Standing in the doorway of my flat, I take one last look. It’s clean and orderly, the home of a righteous man. And yet, beneath the surface, I know it could be defiled. There may be bugs hidden somewhere, spies listening to my every word. Well, if so, they will have heard many prayers, but not our plans. I put my phone on the shelf by the door before walking out onto the landing. With your phone, they can track you wherever you go. And of course, they can record what you say. Which is why Mohammed and I never communicate electronically. If we need to meet, we fix the place the night before, during last prayers at the mosque. Only the two of us know the plan. We never meet in the same place twice and never inside a building or an open space like a park. Following these rules keeps us alive, and lets us hope we may, in the future, live in a different world from this corrupted one.

  I walk down the stairwell and leave my block of flats, walking calmly but purposefully, watching for anyone who looks out of place or who is paying too much attention to me. I see no spies, but I have to be sure. Before crossing the street, I wait at the traffic lights, looking both ways. The light changes to green, but I don’t cross yet, instead I wait for cars or people to react to me, stopping suddenly or changing direction. Still no sign of anyone.

  Moving onto the other side of the road lets me look up and down the street, checking for anyone hiding in their cars. There’s a phone shop on the corner and I check that the owner is alone before entering. He nods to me as I walk past the counter and out of the side door into a narrow alley, which leads to the back of the houses behind. If anyone follows me down here, I will know they are spies.

  The alley is dark. I put my hood up and look back onto the street. In the darkness I am like a ghost; no one can see me. But the end of the alley is lit up like a TV. Anyone looking down here to try and see me would stand out.

  Still clean. I turn and walk to the other end of the alley, away from the lights of the main road, until I reach the bottom of a grimy stairwell. I can see the silhouette of Mo’s bulky frame, ambling towards the same pre-arranged spot from the opposite direction, I greet him.

  ‘As-salãmu ’alaykum.’

  ‘Wa’alaykumu s-salãm.’ Mo replies as we keep our voices to a whisper. No one could be listening to us here. But there’s a reason neither of us has ever been arrested or even spoken to by the police. We are always careful, always following the rules we have made for ourselves.

  ‘Mo, the two brothers I told you about yesterday, I believe they are ready. It is time.’

  ‘And we trust them? We must assume they are being followed.’

  ‘I gave instructions to them at first prayers this morning how to disappear. They’ve been trained well.’

  ‘And you’re sure they are capable of executing the plan?’

  ‘I’m controlling what they do at each stage. Only we know the full plan. But they will do their part. Then we can move to the caliphate.’

  ‘Then proceed, brother.’

  I embrace Mohammed quickly before we go our separate ways. Our meeting has lasted less than a minute. Now I need to get to work, to fulfil my part in society, hiding in plain sight. It’s only a two-minute walk from here, but I don’t take the fastest route. Instead I start off in the opposite direction, turning back on myself to make sure I am still not being followed. Finally, I see my place of work, shining brightly, a picture of Western opulence.

  Walking through the entrance, I’m met with the familiar face of the receptionist. The way she flaunts herself is degrading, the usual garish red lipstick as familiar as her greeting.

  ‘Doctor Khan, how are you?’

  I don’t show my disgust. ‘I’m very well, thank you.’

  ‘I hope you’re ready for the night shift. We’re short-staffed again.’

  ‘I’m always ready,’ I reply, waving a hand as I walk past her.

  I smile to myself. She has no idea how ready I am.

  1

  Stumbling, a junkie badly in need of a fix. It’s raining and my filthy jeans and ripped parka are already soaked through. Rainwater squeezes in through the holes in my trainers, and I start coughing – a nasty rattling that makes me sound as if I’m properly sick. Through half-closed eyes I can see the abandoned building, but I don’t head straight for it. Instead I lurch into a corner of the disused park opposite and collapse under a tree that gives at least some protection from the downpour. Surrounded by bits of old tinfoil that glint in the passing lights of the odd car, I catch sight of a broken syringe and an old burned spoon. Under the penetrating smell of cat shit, I can detect the faint but distinct odour of heroin, like rancid vinegar burning its way into my nose. Flipping the hood of my parka up with a grimy hand, I fix my gaze on the door of the building opposite.

  ‘From Zero Three, I have direct on the house, I can give them away, but can’t go with.’

  Talking into my radio, my voice is hushed but clear.

  Now my team knows I’m in position. The targets are inside, and as soon as they move, we can keep control of them. All I have to do now is what junkies do best: wait. My cover is good – no one would believe the foul-smelling, dishevelled wreck slouched under the tree, surrounded by syringes and other junkie paraphernalia, could be an undercover surveillance officer. Which is fortunate, as in this run-down area of Birmingham, the drug gangs pretty much own the streets, and if they made you as police, you’d be dead. And the truth is, most surveillance officers wouldn’t be capable of doing it in a convincing way. It’s one thing looking and smelling the part: anyone can put on piss-soaked jeans and a grimy T-shirt, leave off shaving or washing for a few days, get some nicotine stains on their fingers and dirt under their nails. It’s another thing to walk and talk like a down and out, to think like someone who survives on the streets. To really live the part.

  For me, though, it comes naturally. I grew up on streets like this. I learned the hard way how to survive. And though, thank God, I never became an addict, I spent a lot of time with people who did. Which made me a unique asset within the intelligence services. I wasn’t comfortable working in posh areas like Chelsea, trying to blend in with the upper classes, but out here, getting into the mindset of a hardcore junkie, was no problem at all. Which might have explained my nickname during training: ‘Tramp’.

  They didn’t call me that for long, though.

  ‘Roger that Zero Three, you have Zero Eight in close to support you and Charlie Seven Seven has taken note of all the vehicle registration numbers in the area, base acknowledge.’

  The team leader, Lee, already had control of this operation, making sure the operations officers back at Thames House were in the loop but also responding instantly to us.

  ‘Base roger, we’ve checked those VRNs, no results showing on the grid, For information Iron Sword last seen dark jacket, light blue jeans and Stone Fist green jacket, black bottoms. And for information we don’t have any technical assistance on this, no t
racking at all.’

  Those were the code names for the brothers, and having no other way of tracking these two other than our team following them, it meant if we didn’t keep hold of them, they’d disappear. As a surveillance officer, that was your worst nightmare. Especially since we suspected that was exactly what they were planning to do. But right now, I knew the rest of the team would be finding all sorts of places to conceal themselves, waiting for me to send the stand-by signal over the radio. The brothers would have to show capabilities we hadn’t seen before to escape our iron grip. It was only the bosses, the people who gave us our orders, I sometimes worried about. The police are already becoming accountable for their actions in open courts. I just hope we have enough protection higher up so the same thing doesn’t start happening to us.

  Keeping my eyes on the front door, I shuffle over as a group of half a dozen locals appears, parking themselves under my tree. This is when I need to keep playing my part for all its worth; if one of them gets the idea I’m not who I’m pretending to be, it’s game over. But they seem too drunk or wasted to take much notice, and fortunately they have plenty of pills, and a plastic bottle of cheap cider they’re passing around, so hopefully they’re not going to bother me. My attention is still focused on the door, and these lowlifes are not my concern. They could start murdering each other and I wouldn’t budge. But we’re trained to notice everything when we’re on a job, to take in every detail, in case something is out of place, something isn’t right, and we need to change our plans immediately to avoid being compromised. So while most people would just try to shut them out and pretend they weren’t there, I find myself noting every detail about them.

  From the state of their hair and fingernails, they’re clearly living on the streets and have been for some time, stuck in the vicious cycle of searching for their next fix and then finding somewhere relatively safe to come back round. The woman in this group of six addicts, in her early twenties I’d guess, though you could be forgiven for thinking she was twice that from her gaunt and haggard features, is so off her face her ripped tracksuit bottoms have slipped halfway down her arse, showing off a ragged thong which clearly hasn’t been washed in a while. She stumbles over and collapses in a heap next to me as one of the men starts urinating behind our tree.

  A small voice inside my head asks me what the fuck I’m doing sitting under a tree in the rain, getting splashback from a homeless drug addict, but suddenly I can see a blade of light creeping from behind the door of the house as it slowly opens, and I focus my mind on what I’m here for. Wasted as they are, my new friends are too close for me to risk talking on my radio, so I’ll have to use the covert messaging method instead.

  The door opens fully, and I can see the side profile of a male coming out. He’s talking to someone still inside the house and is being handed something that looks at this distance like the pistol grip of a small weapon, I can’t be sure, and I can’t yet see if they’re our targets. I catch myself frowning in concentration as I try to make out who they are, and tell myself to relax my body position, to not give away that I’m interested in the house. Then a second figure leaves the house and turns to face in my direction.

  It’s one of the brothers. I have to alert the team but can’t talk. Using the covert message system, I give the stand-by signal.

  ‘STANDBY STANDBY heard! Zero Three, are both Iron Sword and Stone Fist out?’

  My team leader knows the right questions to ask me, but I need to alert the team to this small unknown item that looked dark and small enough to be a pistol.

  Responding, I use our covert message to tell the team leader yes.

  ‘Roger that Zero Three, both out. Are they walking away from you south?’

  I message back a negative, as I can see the brothers and they’re walking fast, directly towards me on the other side of the road. Even with the rain and the crappy street lighting I can tell it’s them because of the distinctive scars on their faces, mementos of their last prison stay. Something’s definitely different about them, though, since the last time we deployed on them. They’ve suddenly become super-vigilant, looking at everything, complete three-sixty awareness. I tell myself not to react, not to tense up. Just live your cover.

  There’s some tension showing back at base, though.

  ‘Stations from Base, we have nothing on this at all, no eavesdropping or electronic.’

  ‘Base roger from Team Leader, we’re on it. Zero Three, are they walking north?’

  Still unable to talk, I reply with a yes, ‘Roger that, Iron Sword and Stone Fist are walking north, north on Lozells Street towards Wills Street. Zero Eight acknowledge?’

  ‘Zero Eight roger and in position.’

  Shit. I’ve got to find a way of transmitting openly here. My team needs to know how aware both targets are, and if they are armed we could do with some police backup. But I sure as hell can’t do it now; the brothers are getting closer to my position, walking faster in the rain. As they hurry past, one of the addicts hauls himself to his feet and shouts out. The brothers both turn instantly, and the addict gestures to the woman, now halfway decent again and slumped against the tree. He mumbles something, most of it complete garbage. It’s got the word ‘fuck’ in it. He’s trying to sell her for sex. The brothers have other things on their mind and start moving on, but not before their eyes briefly lock onto me. I know I’m good, there’s nothing about my appearance or behaviour that can give away the fact that I’m not who I’m pretending to be, but all the same I feel a small surge of adrenaline. This is where it could all go wrong. This is where I could let down the team and fuck the entire operation.

  One of the brothers pulls the other by the arm and they’re gone. Now I just have to wait until both targets are under someone else’s control and I can get out of here. But right now, I can only get the team leader to interrogate me using the covert messaging system, in the world’s deadliest game of yes or no.

  Sending a message out onto the net, I’m hoping the team leader is on the ball and starts asking the right questions, quickly.

  ‘Zero Three is that you?’

  Perfect, now I’ve got to get this going and quickly.

  ‘Roger, have the targets stopped prior to the junction?’

  Fuck. This was going to take too long, time we didn’t have. I needed to get the message across right now.

  ‘Yeah. From Zero Eight, I have control of Iron Sword and Stone Fist, both extremely vigilant, Team Leader, this is what Zero Three might have been trying to say. I’d like to give these guys some room.’

  Thank God Dexter had taken control of the two brothers, and had already spotted that they were acting differently. Now I could get away from here and change my profile, get out of these piss-stained clothes. My van was parked a few streets away, so it wasn’t going to take me long. Hearing the team was in control of the targets and aware of their new behaviour was a huge relief. If we gave them some room, maybe everything was going to be all right.

  As long as we didn’t give them too much room.

  ‘Base, permission?’

  The operations officers at Thames House know they have to ask permission from the person in control of the targets, in this case, Dexter, to get onto the net to ask questions or give updates.

  ‘Go ahead, both walking west on Wills Street towards the food market, still very aware and now walking very slowly.’

  Their initial brisk walking pace could have been to get them away from Lozells Street, a risky place to be at night even for them, but I couldn’t help thinking this was classic operational behaviour, speeding up, then rounding a corner and slowing down, trying to catch out any surveillance.

  ‘Thanks, crews for information, we’d like you to keep a tight control of the brothers, intelligence from G Branch is suggesting they are going to try and drop off the grid. Base out.’

  ‘Roger that, crews close in and we’ll rotate it around as much as we can. Back to you Zero Eight.’

  Slowly gettin
g to my feet, using the trunk of the tree to slide up, I listen to Dexter as he gives a running commentary on what the brothers are doing, their appearance, their alertness levels. I step over the wannabe pimp, whose got a stillness about him I know well. His rigid breathing corpse, complete with a small bag of bright-yellow pills poking out of the top of his socks, is waiting to metabolize the chemicals that has incapacitated all of the group. The woman is out of it, curled up in a pool of her own piss under the tree. Now that the brothers are gone, I can afford to see them as fellow human beings rather than bit-part players in a drama of my own creation. I hated seeing people like that. I know from experience it was probably one wrong decision years ago that led them to being here in this state, that what they needed was a helping hand to haul them out of the shit. But although I could sympathize more than most, I was no social worker. My job was to stop terrorists killing civilians. If the civilians chose to kill themselves by putting a needle in their arm, there was nothing I could do about it.

  Ducking under the low branches and out into the rain, now easing to fine drizzle, I shuffle across the street and along the path, heading south past the house the brothers had left a few minutes ago. My van was only around the next two corners, but I had to keep living my cover. Head down, shoulders dropped, I manage a quick glance at the house. In complete darkness, it looks like any other derelict building in the neighbourhood. Until you clock the steel sheeting over the boarded-up windows. And while the door is covered in graffiti just like the others on the street, underneath it is solid steel too.

  I slow down, pretending to have a good cough. But the truth is, I’m using the moment to gain as much useful information as I can. What’s missing? What should be here but isn’t? What’s here but shouldn’t be? I only have a few seconds before I’ll start to look suspicious. Think! Nothing ground level. Nothing—Bingo! That’s it. A very small CCTV camera high up near the roof line, tucked away under the guttering on the church on the opposite side of the road.