Rip Tide

Martin nodded knowingly. ‘We have similar problems. We find the recruitment takes place in France, usually in one of the new radical mosques, but the instruction in terrorist tactics occurs elsewhere. We have many second- and third-generation French Algerians, for example, who have become disaffected with the West. They return to Algeria under the cover of a family visit, but come back knowing how to blow up a train.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘There is no easy answer to the problem.’

Liz said, ‘We’ve learned one thing just recently from his family: we think he went to Athens sometime between his stay in Pakistan and Somalia.’

‘Athens?’ Martin digested this for a moment.

‘Ring any bells?’ asked Fane.

‘I’m afraid it does not. The links we’ve uncovered recently with our own Al Qaeda sympathisers have been with Yemen and North Africa. That’s why I was intrigued when I heard Khan had been picked up off the Somalian coast. Still, it will be useful when I see him to know that he was in Greece – especially since Khan doesn’t know that we know he went there.’

‘It’s the best position to be in, don’t you think?’ demanded Fane. He looked sharply at Martin, and spoke with the faintest hint of a sneer. ‘I mean, when you know something and the other chap doesn’t know you know.’ He looked at Liz then. It was quite clear to her that he was no longer talking about Amir Khan.

That evening Liz and Martin met up in Gaylord’s, a wine bar halfway between Victoria and the river, just off the Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was slowly filling up with professionals who worked in the area, having a drink before the long weekend.

Martin was in a good mood. He had left the Athenaeum with Fane and they’d gone together by taxi to Vauxhall Cross. Still fuming over Fane’s antics, Liz had declined their offer of a lift and had walked back to Thames House on her own. She found Fane’s breezy lack of concern for the death of the undercover agent, and the absence of any sense of personal responsibility for what had happened, quite astonishing. As a rule she had little sympathy for Bruno Mackay, whom she found self-satisfied and patronising, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him when she saw how his boss was subtly shifting blame for an agent’s death on to his shoulders.

‘You know,’ said Martin, sipping his glass of Chablis, ‘I found Geoffrey Fane rather strange today.’

‘Oh, yes?’ asked Liz a little warily. Now did not seem the right moment to tell Martin that Fane knew about their relationship.

Martin shrugged. ‘As a Frenchman, one knows that there are always Englishmen who think we are buffoons, and that there are others who simply dislike us. But many Englishmen seem to like the French, even admire our culture. I always thought Fane was one of them.’

‘And you no longer do?

Martin lifted his hands, perplexed. ‘I found him different this afternoon. He seemed to become competitive, sparring with me if you like.’ He gave a small smile. ‘But I think I know the reason.’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘The presence of Mademoiselle Carlyle! He is quite keen on you, I believe, and not very happy that you should be associated with the likes of me – a foreigner. However good the relations between our bureaux, he sees me as a competitor nonetheless.’

So Martin realised Fane knew about them, thought Liz, impressed that he had sussed that out for himself. Before she could say anything he went on, ‘I don’t take it personally. He would feel that way about any man you were with, I sense.’

He took an appreciative sip of his wine, then said cheerfully, ‘Anyway, it is of no real consequence. Geoffrey Fane remains formidable in many respects, and he will continue to have my respect. But I will soon encounter someone who to me is far more daunting.’

‘You will?’ asked Liz. Did Martin have another meeting he hadn’t told her about?

He looked at her with a sly smile. ‘The weather is supposed to be very fine tomorrow. I expect I will be meeting your mother.’

Chapter 24

Sound chap, Blakey. Fane’s words were in the back of Liz’s mind as she sat in the office of the Director of UCSO. David Blakey had the characteristic poise of an MI6 officer, but seemed a good deal more relaxed than the version Liz usually found herself working with. True, Blakey’s suit was beautifully cut, but she noted with relief that there were none of the flamboyant extras that Geoffrey Fane and Bruno McKay liked to affect – no paisley silk handkerchief peeping out of the top pocket, no obvious shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks, no regimental tie.

Blakey had calmly explained the history of UCSO’s concerns: how his original call to Fane had come after the head of UCSO’s Athens office, Mitchell Berger, had become suspicious about the recent spate of hijack attempts on valuable shipments. Now, as Liz moved the discussion on to the murder of Maria Galanos, David Blakey begin to look uneasy.

She said, ‘We’re still waiting for the Greek police report, but we know Maria Galanos was strangled.’