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Authors: Roger Pearce
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Kerr took the chair beside Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritchie, head of operations and his immediate boss. Ritchie was forty-eight, with a full head of dark hair and a paunch just about held in check. Few people knew about his brush with prostate cancer eighteen months before. He was still married to his first wife, a primary-school teacher, with two grown-up children. A career Special Branch officer, he had joined the Met straight from school and would reach thirty years’ pensionable service in a year. Ritchie had worked against every extremist group in the UK since the mid-eighties, eventually heading up the squads countering the IRA, domestic extremism and international terrorism. Everyone respected his impeccable operational record, and MI5 were always seeking his advice and judgement.
These days, as deputy to Weatherall, he looked distinguished in a dark, single-breasted suit, blue striped shirt and silk tie, but to Kerr he often appeared to be straining to get back on the plot. Since Weatherall’s arrival he frequently had to act as a buffer between her and the guys on the ground, and his discomfort showed.
‘How’s it going, Bill?’ said Kerr.
Ritchie’s sideways look suggested there had already been complaints. ‘You tell me,’ he murmured.
Weatherall always tasked Donna to provide a litre bottle of water as soon as she arrived in the morning, and another after lunch. She was pouring from it now, and Kerr noticed it was already a third empty. Weatherall’s TV, balanced awkwardly on the air-conditioning vent beside her desk, was switched to BBC24, with breaking news of Jibril’s arrest.
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t suspend you right now,’ said Weatherall, without preamble. ‘Your officers were totally unprofessional. Again.’
Kerr shot a glance at Ritchie, who appeared to be weighing his options. ‘But the Trojans were going to shoot him.’
‘To incapacitate him.’
‘They had a gun to his head, for Christ’s sake.’
Weatherall took a sip of water. ‘To arrest a terrorist suspect they believed could be armed and dangerous. My order was perfectly clear.’
‘Your order was clearly ambiguous. You ordered them not to let him get to the Tube.’ He felt Ritchie’s shoe nudge his leg under the table, but he was on a roll. ‘We have your actual words,’ said Kerr, reading Alan Fargo’s scribbled note. ‘You said, “Don’t let him get to the Underground.” What does that mean?’
‘I’m not going to argue with you.’ Weatherall was speaking to Kerr, but aimed the glare at Ritchie. She held up a printed email, as if the irrefutable proof lay in her hand. ‘I’ve had the initial readout from the firearms team leader and it’s quite clear your pair of mavericks compromised an armed operation.’
‘Well, he’s talking bollocks. Jack Langton and Melanie Fleming saved that man’s life.’ Kerr held out his hand. ‘Can I see it? Please?’
Weatherall returned the email to its folder.
‘Bill, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kerr, turning to Ritchie, ‘I was there. We told her Jibril was unarmed. He wasn’t carrying any device, posed no threat to life.’
‘He wasn’t on any agreed target list, either,’ said Ritchie quietly, ‘so I’ll be asking why you deployed surveillance without authority.’
Kerr exhaled. ‘Look, Joe Allenby gave him to us a few hours before Jibril boarded the plane for London. We’re talking the head of station in Yemen here, Bill. A respected player. In one of the world’s most volatile countries.’
‘So why did he send only you the tip-off? We select targets through the joint tasking group. With MI5, right here in the UK, not on the say-so of your mate on the other side of the world. That’s what we’re all signed up to. So why did Allenby throw away the rule book?’
Kerr had been asking himself the same thing, but kept his misgivings to himself. ‘It was a Sunday afternoon,’
Kerr took the chair beside Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritchie, head of operations and his immediate boss. Ritchie was forty-eight, with a full head of dark hair and a paunch just about held in check. Few people knew about his brush with prostate cancer eighteen months before. He was still married to his first wife, a primary-school teacher, with two grown-up children. A career Special Branch officer, he had joined the Met straight from school and would reach thirty years’ pensionable service in a year. Ritchie had worked against every extremist group in the UK since the mid-eighties, eventually heading up the squads countering the IRA, domestic extremism and international terrorism. Everyone respected his impeccable operational record, and MI5 were always seeking his advice and judgement.
These days, as deputy to Weatherall, he looked distinguished in a dark, single-breasted suit, blue striped shirt and silk tie, but to Kerr he often appeared to be straining to get back on the plot. Since Weatherall’s arrival he frequently had to act as a buffer between her and the guys on the ground, and his discomfort showed.
‘How’s it going, Bill?’ said Kerr.
Ritchie’s sideways look suggested there had already been complaints. ‘You tell me,’ he murmured.
Weatherall always tasked Donna to provide a litre bottle of water as soon as she arrived in the morning, and another after lunch. She was pouring from it now, and Kerr noticed it was already a third empty. Weatherall’s TV, balanced awkwardly on the air-conditioning vent beside her desk, was switched to BBC24, with breaking news of Jibril’s arrest.
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t suspend you right now,’ said Weatherall, without preamble. ‘Your officers were totally unprofessional. Again.’
Kerr shot a glance at Ritchie, who appeared to be weighing his options. ‘But the Trojans were going to shoot him.’
‘To incapacitate him.’
‘They had a gun to his head, for Christ’s sake.’
Weatherall took a sip of water. ‘To arrest a terrorist suspect they believed could be armed and dangerous. My order was perfectly clear.’
‘Your order was clearly ambiguous. You ordered them not to let him get to the Tube.’ He felt Ritchie’s shoe nudge his leg under the table, but he was on a roll. ‘We have your actual words,’ said Kerr, reading Alan Fargo’s scribbled note. ‘You said, “Don’t let him get to the Underground.” What does that mean?’
‘I’m not going to argue with you.’ Weatherall was speaking to Kerr, but aimed the glare at Ritchie. She held up a printed email, as if the irrefutable proof lay in her hand. ‘I’ve had the initial readout from the firearms team leader and it’s quite clear your pair of mavericks compromised an armed operation.’
‘Well, he’s talking bollocks. Jack Langton and Melanie Fleming saved that man’s life.’ Kerr held out his hand. ‘Can I see it? Please?’
Weatherall returned the email to its folder.
‘Bill, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kerr, turning to Ritchie, ‘I was there. We told her Jibril was unarmed. He wasn’t carrying any device, posed no threat to life.’
‘He wasn’t on any agreed target list, either,’ said Ritchie quietly, ‘so I’ll be asking why you deployed surveillance without authority.’
Kerr exhaled. ‘Look, Joe Allenby gave him to us a few hours before Jibril boarded the plane for London. We’re talking the head of station in Yemen here, Bill. A respected player. In one of the world’s most volatile countries.’
‘So why did he send only you the tip-off? We select targets through the joint tasking group. With MI5, right here in the UK, not on the say-so of your mate on the other side of the world. That’s what we’re all signed up to. So why did Allenby throw away the rule book?’
Kerr had been asking himself the same thing, but kept his misgivings to himself. ‘It was a Sunday afternoon,’
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