Read Online At Risk by Stella Rimington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stella Rimington
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first encountered Ferris when, as an agent-runner for the organised crime team, she had been part of a move against an Essex syndicate boss named Melvin Eastman who was suspected of—amongst other crimes—moving large quantities of heroin between Amsterdam and Harwich. Surveillance had identified Ferris as one of Eastman’s drivers, and when gently pressured by Essex Special Branch he had agreed to provide information on the syndicate’s activities. Essex Special Branch had passed him to MI5.
From her earliest days with the service Liz had had an instinctive understanding of the dynamics of agent-running. At one end of the scale there were agents like Marzipan who informed on their colleagues out of patriotism or moral conviction, and at the other end there were those who worked strictly out of self-interest, or for cash. Zander was halfway between the two. With him, the issue was essentially an emotional one. He wanted Liz’s esteem. He wanted her to value him, to give him her undivided attention, to sit and listen to his catalogue of the world’s unfairnesses.
Discerning this, Liz had made the necessary time, and gradually, like flowers laid at her feet, the information had come in. Some of this was of dubious value; like many agents avid for their handlers’ approval, Ferris had a tendency to flannel Liz with half-remembered irrelevancies. But he managed to note and pass on the landline and mobile phone numbers of several of Eastman’s associates, and to list the registration numbers of vehicles which visited the Romford works unit where Eastman then had his HQ.
This was useful, and added substantially to MI5’s knowledge of Eastman’s operations, but Ferris was never admitted to Eastman’s inner circle, and had little or no access to hard intelligence. His days were spent as a glorified minicab driver, ferrying female croupiers from Eastman’s casinos to and from lunch with Eastman’s business associates, delivering smuggled tobacco to pubs, and distributing cases of bootleg CDs and DVDs around the markets.
In the end, it had proved impossible to build a satisfactory case against the highly security-conscious Eastman, and as a result he had grown stronger. And probably, thought Liz, moved into the sale of worse and more profitable commodities than dodgy CDs. He was certainly responsible for the regular distribution of Ecstasy to the many nightclub dealers in his area—a hugely profitable enterprise—and the Branch were certain that several of his legitimate businesses were covers for scams of one sort or another.
Essex Special Branch had remained on the case, and when Liz moved to Wetherby’s counter-terrorism section, the running of Zander was taken over by one of their officers, a hard-bitten Ulsterman named Bob Morrison. It was Morrison rather than Liz that Ferris should have rung.
“Tell me, Frankie,” Liz began.
“Big drop-off Friday, at the headland. Twenty, plus a special, from Germany.” Ferris’s voice was steady, but he was clearly nervous.
“You’ve got to tell Bob Morrison, Frankie. I don’t know what this means, and I can’t act on it.”
“I’m not telling Morrison any fuckin’ thing—this is for you.”
“I don’t know what any of it means, Frankie. I’m out of that game, and you shouldn’t be ringing me.”
“Friday, at the headland,” repeated Frankie urgently. “Twenty plus a special. From Germany. Have you got that?”
“I’ve written it down. What’s the source?”
“Eastman. Took a call when I was there a couple of days ago. He was furious—really done his bollocks.”
“You still working for him?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“You in a phone box?”
“Yeah.”
“Make another call before you leave. Don’t leave this as the last number dialled.”
They hung up, and for several minutes Liz stared at the scraps of phrases on the notepad in front of her. Then she dialled the Essex Special Branch number and asked
From her earliest days with the service Liz had had an instinctive understanding of the dynamics of agent-running. At one end of the scale there were agents like Marzipan who informed on their colleagues out of patriotism or moral conviction, and at the other end there were those who worked strictly out of self-interest, or for cash. Zander was halfway between the two. With him, the issue was essentially an emotional one. He wanted Liz’s esteem. He wanted her to value him, to give him her undivided attention, to sit and listen to his catalogue of the world’s unfairnesses.
Discerning this, Liz had made the necessary time, and gradually, like flowers laid at her feet, the information had come in. Some of this was of dubious value; like many agents avid for their handlers’ approval, Ferris had a tendency to flannel Liz with half-remembered irrelevancies. But he managed to note and pass on the landline and mobile phone numbers of several of Eastman’s associates, and to list the registration numbers of vehicles which visited the Romford works unit where Eastman then had his HQ.
This was useful, and added substantially to MI5’s knowledge of Eastman’s operations, but Ferris was never admitted to Eastman’s inner circle, and had little or no access to hard intelligence. His days were spent as a glorified minicab driver, ferrying female croupiers from Eastman’s casinos to and from lunch with Eastman’s business associates, delivering smuggled tobacco to pubs, and distributing cases of bootleg CDs and DVDs around the markets.
In the end, it had proved impossible to build a satisfactory case against the highly security-conscious Eastman, and as a result he had grown stronger. And probably, thought Liz, moved into the sale of worse and more profitable commodities than dodgy CDs. He was certainly responsible for the regular distribution of Ecstasy to the many nightclub dealers in his area—a hugely profitable enterprise—and the Branch were certain that several of his legitimate businesses were covers for scams of one sort or another.
Essex Special Branch had remained on the case, and when Liz moved to Wetherby’s counter-terrorism section, the running of Zander was taken over by one of their officers, a hard-bitten Ulsterman named Bob Morrison. It was Morrison rather than Liz that Ferris should have rung.
“Tell me, Frankie,” Liz began.
“Big drop-off Friday, at the headland. Twenty, plus a special, from Germany.” Ferris’s voice was steady, but he was clearly nervous.
“You’ve got to tell Bob Morrison, Frankie. I don’t know what this means, and I can’t act on it.”
“I’m not telling Morrison any fuckin’ thing—this is for you.”
“I don’t know what any of it means, Frankie. I’m out of that game, and you shouldn’t be ringing me.”
“Friday, at the headland,” repeated Frankie urgently. “Twenty plus a special. From Germany. Have you got that?”
“I’ve written it down. What’s the source?”
“Eastman. Took a call when I was there a couple of days ago. He was furious—really done his bollocks.”
“You still working for him?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“You in a phone box?”
“Yeah.”
“Make another call before you leave. Don’t leave this as the last number dialled.”
They hung up, and for several minutes Liz stared at the scraps of phrases on the notepad in front of her. Then she dialled the Essex Special Branch number and asked
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