A Spy in Exile

LONDON, MI5 HEADQUARTERS, FEBRUARY 15, 2015

The silence in the conference room adjacent to the bureau of the director of MI5 was deafening. Sitting there side by side were the head of the Counterterrorism Division, the head of the East London Field Department, and the head of the Desk Department. The head of the Research Department, with a cup of hot tea in his right hand and a stack of cardboard files under his left arm, was trying to open the door to the conference room with his shoulder, and only the quick reaction of his personal assistant spared the faded carpet, the color of which was already something of a mystery, from another stain. There was plenty of room around the shiny mahogany table, which was covered with a greenish shade of leather with gold trim on the edges. They were waiting for the director to enter. They had taken a hard hit, and knew their boss was fuming.

The interleading door between the bureau and the conference room opened and the MI5 director’s bureau chief walked in, greeting those present in the room with a glance. “Sir Robert will join you in a few minutes,” he declared. “He’s on a call with Number 10.”

When he entered the conference room, the look on Sir Robert’s face was more serious than ever. He sat at the head of the table and nodded to the head of the Counterterrorism Division, as if to say: Speak! The division chief motioned to the head of the Desk Department, Mary Clarkson, who clicked on her computer mouse.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her voice as soft and refined as ever. The image of Anjam Badawi appeared on the screen. “This is Anjam Badawi, a radical Muslim preacher from a mosque in Bethnal Green. Here at MI5, he goes by the code name Winter Fox. We arrested him three years ago on suspicion of incitement and posing a threat to public security. During the course of his detention, we were able to turn and recruit him, and in time he became our most valuable agent among the Muslim extremists in London. One could say, in fact, that he was our most valuable asset in the entire United Kingdom. Two days ago, while leaving the mosque after Friday prayers, he was killed by a single shot from a sniper. A second shot struck, presumably inadvertently, a seven-year-old girl, who was waiting outside the mosque for her father, one of the worshippers that day.” The screen displayed a picture of Yasmin al Hussein, sprawled on the ground, blood staining her white dress, her legs at an unnatural angle, one of her shoes tossed aside in the courtyard, the white sock on her left foot a stark focal point in the image.

“Do we have any idea who may have killed Winter Fox,” the MI5 director asked.

Clarkson turned to glance questioningly at the head of the Research Division. Terry James looked like a professor from the University of London, complete with thick-lensed glasses and a worn corduroy jacket. His appearance wasn’t a far cry from reality. James ended up at MI5 following an impressive academic career. He wasn’t from London, though, but from York, in the north, and had devoted most of his life to studying philology at Durham University. Before beginning his studies, he served for seven years in the SAS, the Special Air Service, the British army’s elite commando unit. He was older than everyone else in the room, even Sir Robert.

“No,” he said, “we still have no idea who killed Winter Fox, but we can hazard a guess. More so than guess, we can evaluate. First of all, the hit was the work of professionals. Ballistic examinations carried out by the forensic crime lab have identified the bullets that killed Winter Fox and the young girl as rounds from a Russian-made sniper rifle, used by the Red Army’s special forces, among others. According to the ballistic experts, the shots were fired in all likelihood from a distance of four to five hundred yards. The police are still searching for the precise location the sniper used. But they’ll find it soon, and maybe turn up some evidence there, too. Or so we hope. In any event, it all points to the work of a highly skilled sniper. Someone entrusted to carry out a targeted killing successfully from such a distance has to be.”

“Do you mean to say that the Russians assassinated Winter Fox?”

“No, Sir Robert, we have no reason to suspect them in particular. Russia’s military forces aren’t the only ones who use the type of weapon that served the sniper. It’s been used in the war in the Balkans, and we know that arms dealers are selling it on the black market, too. Here, in Britain, over the past two years alone, Scotland Yard has seized four such rifles from crime gangs. We believe there are a lot more out there. Our suspicions, therefore, are not directed at the Russians in particular, even though they also view radical Islam as an enemy, and as far as they’re concerned, combating Islamic terrorism is best done far beyond the borders of Russia. I believe we’re dealing with an intelligence organization of a state, and not an internal conflict between rival Islamic factions. The targeted killing was too professional a job to be attributed to them. And as for possible state involvement, there are very few countries that fight terrorism in such an active and aggressive fashion. We, the Americans, and the Israelis. And the Russians, whom I’ve already mentioned. Naturally, we didn’t liquidate the best intelligence source we had. And it doesn’t have the look and feel of an American operation either. Despite all their arrogance and audacity, they wouldn’t carry out a targeted killing operation like that on English soil.”

“All you’ve said until now is mere guesswork,” the MI5 director commented. “Okay, not guesswork, speculation. But do you have anything on which to base your assessment? Do you think Badawi’s assassination is related to the events in Belgium a few days ago?”

“Exactly! Osama Hamdan, who perpetrated the attack at the central synagogue in Brussels, was assassinated in the Belgian capital. He was already in detention and was on his way to a court hearing. They killed him in a prisoner-transport vehicle, for God’s sake! It wasn’t a targeted killing. Plastered all over the operation in huge letters is the word ‘revenge.’ I’m convinced the Israelis killed Hamdan. And four days later Badawi is assassinated in London. There are no such things as coincidences in our line of work. It’s starting to look like a finely tuned campaign with an Israeli signature. The Mossad. I don’t know when and where they’ll strike again, but my money would be on some time soon.”

“It’s been more than twenty-five years,” Clarkson remarked.

“What are you talking about?”

“In 1987, the Mossad was involved in the assassination of that Palestinian cartoonist, what was his name . . .”

“Naji al-Ali,” said the head of the Counterterrorism Division. “But Arafat’s people were probably the ones who did the actual killing . . .”

“Yes, whatever, but the Mossad was involved up to its neck in the affair. They had an agent here who had the weapon stashed at his home. In any event, they’ve been holding back ever since, and haven’t conducted any violent operations on British soil. Uncharacteristic restraint, considering it’s the Mossad. It must have come to an end.”

“Sons of bitches,” said the director of MI5. “Tony”—he turned to his bureau chief—“bring Alan in here.” Alan Foster was the agency’s deputy director. “I want him on a plane to Tel Aviv by tonight, for talks with the head of the Mossad. We need to put a stop to this madness immediately. They can’t be allowed to run wild here, to assassinate our assets and murder little girls along the way.”

“Uh-umm”—the bureau chief cleared his throat—“it’s Sunday and Mr. Foster is surely at his home in Exeter.”

“So he can move his ass and get here. Right away. Fucking Sunday. Find out where he is and send a helicopter to collect him. I hope he’s not out on a fox hunt or something.”

“Sir,” Tony said, “fox hunting is for the MI6 people only.”

“And our fox has already been hunted,” Clarkson remarked cynically.