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  All but forgotten last week were the countless lost opportunities in Afghanistan, where poor communications, flawed intelligence or an over-extended chain of command allowed Osama Bin Laden and Muller Omar, the Taliban leader, to slip from Washington’s grasp. This time the CIA spotted its man – and nailed him.

  Randy Scheunemann, an intelligence analyst who has advised senior officials, said the significance of the Yemen attack was that the highly perishable nature of intelligence had at last been understood. ‘If you get information like this, You don’t necessarily have three hours to make satellite phone calls and to hold inter-agency meetings in time zones 12 hours apart.’ He said. ‘You need rapid action, and the US government has streamlined its procedures to provide exactly that.’

  It was soon after the September 11 attacks in 2002 that President George W Bush authorised the CIA to begin ‘lethal, covert action’ against Al Qaeda fugitives. A B ‘Buzzy’ Krongard, the CIA’s executive director, told a private intelligence gathering at the time: ‘Today there is only one rule and that is: there are no rules.’

  The capture of Al-Qaeda planners such as Abu Zubaydah and Ramzi Binalshibh – a Yemeni seized in Karachi – has increased the flow of actionable intelligence and helped American officials to roll up Al-Qaeda networks from Buffalo, New York, where another cell with Yemeni connections was exposed last September, to Bali.

  It was a little-reported incident in Sana’a, the Yemeni capital, that launched the CIA on the trail of al-Ahdal and al-Harthi. In the searing summer heat of August an explosion in a block of flats in the Bir Obeid district rocked market stalls nearby.

  One man died instantly at the scene, another on his way to hospital. The two had blown themselves up while making a bomb. When investigators arrived they found a stash of documents and weapons, including rocket propelled grenades. A third man sharing the flat was detained and he provided a breakthrough in the long hunt for the bombers of the USS Cole. Last December a force of Yemeni troops tried to ambush al-Harthi in the tribal village of al-Hosun. The operation turned into a fiasco; 18 soldiers were killed and the terrorist escaped. Now the CIA was back on his tail.

  American officials have long insisted that they prefer to capture Al Qaeda suspects alive so that they can be interrogated, not least about possible clues to the whereabouts of Bin Laden. But it was clear to Washington that short of sending a significant invasion force to Yemen, they had little chance of winkling targets out of their well-protected refuge among the Empty Quarter’s Islamic tribes. If they found al-Ahdal or al-Harthi. They would have to kill them or risk another escape.

  The Predator took off from an airstrip in Djibouti on Sunday afternoon. The French military outpost 100 miles from Yemen has become a key American base for anti-terror operations. On Tuesday a contingent of 400 US Marines set sail from Norfolk, Virginia on board the USS Mount Whitney, an amphibious command ship that will anchor off Djibouti’s coast to co-ordinate future operations in the region.

  In a borrowed French hangar the Predator’s remote operators – known in the Pentagon as the ‘joystick generation’ for their computer guiding skills – watched a bank of video monitors as the 27ft drone closed in on its target. The same pictures, transmitted by secure satellite link, were visible half the world away on CIA screens in Langley, Virginia.

  It may never be clear how the CIA knew exactly where to find al-Harthi, but the betting in Washington last week was that the information had come from a satellite telephone intercept.

  Either way, the terrorist was doomed from the moment the Predator’s 360-degree revolving camera pod picked up the speeding Land Cruiser. This time there was no need for military commanders to consult White House lawyers or to wait for the President’s approval.

  Bush had long ago issued his orders and the rules of engagement were clear. Al-Harthi was the enemy and America was at war. Someone pressed a button and a Hellfire missile roared.”

  Shan passed the clipping back to Alan, shook his head and mused, “It still doesn’t prove it was his mobile.”

  Alan laughed and replied, “Well that’s a moot point especially when you’re trying to outrun a 950 mile an hour Hellfire missile,” he leaned across toward Shan and continued, “let me give you another example. Two weeks ago I was on the M60 Motorway in Greater Manchester. We were in a traffic jam and the person I was with used their mobile to find out the problem. They tapped in 1200 and a voice said, “You are on the M60 driving due east between junction 21 and 22 approximately 18 miles from Manchester. Don’t you see the point? They know where Joe Public is and they’re not even after him. What chance for Al Qaeda or your colleagues? Not a snowballs. Please understand that as long ago as 1949 a father and son called Wright and especially the son called Peter Wright started developing listening devices to help the US and UK listen to the Russians and there’s been a hell of a lot of technological advancement since then. If you think about it the US have poured so much money and effort into technology that it’s all they rely on now. Technology will find them their quarry and technology will take that quarry out cleanly; at least as the Americans see it. You now deliver anything, electronically or even mechanically and they will be listening. Big Brother really is listening and watching.

  The only way we communicate is my way. It’s slow, boringly slow, it’s not even 100% safe, but it’s close to 100% and they won’t send a Hellfire missile down Euston Road. No phones, mobile or landline, no faxes, no emails, no letters, only the minimum of knowledge for each party involved, and only people you have known for years. On top of this is the problem of money and banks. Every single dodgy bank account will now be being watched. The money I need has to come from a clean source as do the people. I know this will take time and my work may not finish for a few years, but the cause will go on for generations and therefore the principles of communication I am encouraging are appropriate.”

  Shan shifted position, finished his orange and started to rise to bring an end to the discussion, but he still needed further confirmation. “Why are you prepared to do this to your own people?”

  “My own people, have you seen the mix of people in the UK now, there are more tribes here than anywhere. My own people, they’re not anymore. Look at this a different way, I shouldn’t really quote this because I think it’s Jewish, but the quote is, ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ I’ve worked for this bloody government for years, actually not really the government; they’re just figureheads, just puppets. Actually I’ve worked for the Civil Service and they’ve fucked me up. Anger’s a funny thing isn’t it; for years I’ve listened to these Oxbridge upper middle class bastards who know sweet fuck all about the real world, but get privileged positions in the Service because they know people; Daddy is something somewhere and even Mummy can quote Latin. Those bastards are given the power to send people to their deaths and they can discuss it all over a gin and tonic in some leather chair in some strange club in town. It’s payback time. I don’t really want to hurt Joe Public but through him I’ll get those bastards in Whitehall. That might make a step change in how this country is run or maybe it won’t make a blind bit of difference, either way the money you pay me will come in handy.”

  He finished his Grolsch, looked at Shan, nodded and changed the subject. “Do you still have an interest in horse racing?”

  “Yes I do, it’s a way for the family to spend its ill gotten gains while rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy and big business.”

  “Good, I think we should meet again at the June meeting at York races. Do you still have the family box there?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll meet you in the Moet and Chandon bar after the first race of the first day, at the June meeting. I hope you’ll have news for me about our adventure, and possibly a horse to back.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not the one in the first race then, I’d hate you to miss out on a certainty.”

  “If onl
y there was such a thing.”

  “There’d better be if you expect us to find 5 million pound, there had better be certainty.”

  “I was talking about horse racing Shan, horse racing.”

  “Yes I know. I’ll see you at York,” he nodded and left the bar.

  Alan looked at his empty glass and decided there should be no more drink that night; through years of training he knew he required a clear head in the morning. He took the glasses back to the bar and placed them among others in that area of all English bars reserved for the empties. Candles now flickered on each table. The arched brick ceiling helped the cosy, enclosed wine bar effect; a few more people had entered; each group obviously tourists not knowing whether to sit and wait or approach the bar. “Poor sods,” he thought and wondered if their tour operator informed them of the strange world of the English bar. He traversed the stone floor, turned left into the Gents and distributed the first pint of Grolsch into the pee stone, thinking, “This takes longer now, the pressures going.

  He finished his pee and turned toward the sink, “Now wash your hands,” his mother’s orders flashed into his mind and he smiled as he carried out the order then dried them on a towel. “Towels are much better than those blow driers, this place still has a little style,” he thought as he departed the gents.

  He climbed the fifteen steps to the ground floor and then entered the hotel lobby; knowing few people would see him because the entrance was discreet, being slightly above the lobby floor and surrounded by potted plants and fake marble columns. To the left was a tourist shop displaying London’s finest trinkets, innumerable pictures of Princess Di, Prince Charles, a Beefeater, Big Ben and a Horse Guard. To the right was a single table with two chairs, surrounded by potted foliage and vacant. He took a seat and observed. The position was quite remarkable and safe, you could see everything in the lobby without being observed and you could hear the approach of people behind you from the steps of the cellar bar. Three minutes proved he was alone, no tails.

  “Anorak on, gloves on, hat on, leave when the doorman is busy with airline pilot and crew; getting older didn’t stop him admiring stewardesses in uniform; oh dear they’re gorgeous,” he thought.

  He then turned left out of the hotel and left again away from Euston Road along the side of the hotel, then down a no entry road making it difficult for cars, motor bikes and even cyclists to follow. Then right down Gower Street which curves and runs parallel to Euston road, past the University Buildings, then along 100 yards of straight pavement. He looked backward and saw nobody. He turned right and crossed the road into a pub, called for a half of lager and watched the door. He then walked through the pub and exited from another door back onto Euston road, turned right at the traffic lights and crossed over into Indian Territory.

  Some of the finest Indian restaurants in London were here, each of them close to shops selling Indian vegetables and others with exquisite sweets. He passed the internet, mail and telephone shop and the Asian trinket shop with giraffes from six feet tall to one inch small and thought, “Once upon a time I bought one for a girl, but they’re both long since gone now, giraffe and girlfriend. She wasn’t hit by a Hellfire missile, the bloody British killed her,” he cursed.

  He was nearly there now, he crossed at the cross roads, where he could already hear the Tannoy messages, “the 17.50 Virgin train for Liverpool is departing from Platform 3. The 18.00 Virgin train for Manchester Piccadilly is being prepared and the Platform number will be announced shortly.

  He walked into the station via the small back entrance, passed a British Transport Police van and down the narrow passage into the concourse proper; to mingle with the hundreds of people; the noise and smells of coffee, bacon butties and rancid fat from beef burgers and quick fry chips. He pushed past people old and young, avoiding suitcases and children, bought an Evening Standard from the guy at the top of the Underground escalator, looked around and thought everybody seemed OK. He then turned right, then immediate left down the very narrow alley in the concourse between the Underground escalator and the travel and beauty shops. He stopped near the exit for Network Rail HQ, looked behind to confirm he wasn’t being followed then walked on straight past the Ticket Office and the new pine shop; then down the steps and back to the cross roads. He turned a quick right looked back again then turned left into the Ibis hotel and walked straight to the bar. He sat opposite the entrance, ordered a pint of Grolsch and watched.

  “Shouldn’t have the Grolsch,” he thought, “said so in the wine bar, but needs must. Forgive me,” he mumbled to himself. “I do forgive you; now shut up, listen and watch.”

  He knew what to listen and look for, he had asked that question twenty five years ago on joining the SAS. “Bloody good training they gave me, bloody good,” he thought. “Before I left there I knew what to listen and look for, Mr Greys meeting Mr Greys.”

  He finished his Grolsch, it tasted good, but he would have no more. He decided to go to bed and took the stairs to the second floor. The exercise would do him good and the concrete steps and fire doors were noisy when used, making it difficult for people to follow him without being heard. He turned left then right, then after a few yards left again until he found himself near the fire exit. He had one last look back and saw nobody. He entered his room and began the nightly ritual of sit ups, press ups, positive thinking and planning, then brushed his teeth, stripped and got into bed.

  Chapter 2

  June 3rd York, England, The AST Design Agency.

  Changing identity was always risky, you had to become the part, to be the new and different man and to concentrate to such an extent that you would not be discovered or blow your cover through simple memory mistakes. Alan Johnson had practised well over the past years and he knew to keep the second identity as simple as possible. The SAS had taught him to use the same initials when choosing a name in order to reduce the risk of discovery but he new that when they discovered his visits to York they would look for a man named Alan Johnson and when that failed they would look for as many other AJ’s in the city centre as possible. Thus it was that Alan Johnson became Alan Walsh.

  Alan Walsh climbed the three steps passing the black on gold sign which read AST Design agency, opened the door and approached the reception desk. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Alan Walsh to meet Dave Bentley.” A very pretty, smartly dressed young woman smiled back at him and replied, “Take a seat Mr Walsh, Dave is with someone at the moment but I know he is expecting you.” Alan put down his portfolio, surveyed his surroundings and took a seat.

  “Would you like a coffee while you wait?” asked the receptionist.

  “Please, black with sugar. Is it out of a machine or the real stuff?”

  “It’s the real thing, mug or cup?” she replied.

  “Mug please, black with two sugars.”

  The coffee duly arrived and the receptionist asked, “have you come far today Mr Walsh?”

  “From London on the train, I’ll be staying a couple of nights in York, I’ve some business to do here on the Knavesmire.”

  “Ah, a racing man, I hope you win!”

  “Maybe I will,” he took a drink of the warm dark coffee and observed the receptionist on her way back to her desk, thinking, “Nice legs, a girl with legs like a race horse, long and slender with thin ankles.”

  He caught her attention as she sat down behind her desk and asked, “Who designed these chairs?”

  “I don’t know, is there a problem?”

  “They seem cold somehow, all metal and wood and seem to push into your back,” he responded then thought, “not designed for lingering, which is another sign of middle age.”

  Out of a door fifteen minutes later emerged Mr Design Man, designer hair, tinted glasses, striped shirt, tie and braces; “but I don’t know about the shoes,” he thought, “shoes are often a giveaway, you should spend money on shoes,” he grimaced then inwar
dly said, “Oh for Christ’s sake stop analysing the guy.”

  “I’m Dave Bentley, are you Mr Walsh?”

  “Yes I am, it’s good to meet you,” he replied proffering his hand.

  “Please come this way,” responded Bentley gently shaking Alan’s hand.

  Alan picked up his portfolio and followed. They walked through steel doors on wooden floors through an open plan office into a small private room.

  “Please sit down Mr Walsh and tell me how we can help. Would you like another coffee?”

  “No, that’s OK.” Alan paused, intent on getting Dave’s full attention; then continued, “in a nutshell, we wish to create a new image for our trading company and we would like you to bid for the development, design and printing of all our media from letterheads, posters, advertisements, product wrappers, etc. Price of course is important but even more important is timing. I need the product covers in ten weeks. We have three major exhibitions in four months in Stockholm, London and Munich and I need full colour portfolios available for then. Can it be done?”

  “Maybe, but it’s difficult if we have to start from scratch.”

  “That’s not going to be necessary,” he replied and placed his portfolio on the desk then opened it, “as you can see from this it’s not a new concept. All we need is for the products to be updated and of course the company name and logo need to be included. Can it be done?”

  “I have a designer I could assign to the job; though she would have to be on it full time I think.”

  “She’s a she?”

  “Yes, a young lady, late twenties.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Yes, but more importantly she’s a damn good designer.”

  “You would say that wouldn’t you. Ask her if she’d like a day at the races. I may need an escort.”