Free Payback by James Barrington Page A

Simpson said. ‘The report from Dubai was very specific. Holden definitely predicted Friday’s suicide bombing in Damascus. There’s absolutely
no discrepancy about the dates. His statement was filed over a week beforehand, and they’ve got that in writing. And don’t forget that he’s been back to the embassy since, and
that’s what the Americans are really interested in.’
    ‘The first report could have been a coincidence.’
    ‘The Americans don’t think so, and they’ve got something of a track record in this field. Haven’t you ever heard of Sun Streak? Or Grill Flame? Or even Star
Gate?’
    ‘Like the TV series?’ Richter asked. He’d recently had Sky television installed at his flat, and was already beginning to regret it.
    Simpson shook his head. ‘No, not like the bloody TV series. They were US government-funded projects, and they all dealt with this kind of thing. Get the relevant files out of the Registry
and read them, and anything else we’ve got – and do that today.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘And then you can pack your swimming trunks and bucket and spade and get yourself out to Dubai and find out exactly who this Holden character is, and just what the hell else he knows. And
Richter,’ Simpson warned, ‘this is a simple, straightforward investigation of an event that has no immediately obvious logical explanation, so not even you should be able to make a
Horlicks of it. But remember this when you’re lying about and soaking up the rays out there in the Gulf – fuck this one up and I’ll drop you deeper than whale shit. Got
it?’
    ‘Got it,’ Richter agreed. The briefing appeared to be at an end, but he just sat there.
    ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
    Richter looked across at Simpson appraisingly. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? Why would you waste your time sending me all the way out to Dubai just to talk to this guy,
when any of the Six officers at the local embassy could do it? What else do you know?’
    Simpson nodded slowly. ‘Very perspicacious, Rich-ter,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘You’re quite right. If we’d just been given the tasking by itself, I’d have
told Vauxhall Cross to stuff it, but there’s more, and I suppose you might as well hear about it now. Between you and me, that Legion Patrol didn’t just stumble across Khatid’s
cell in Stratford – we leaked the location to them, through a low-level informer.’
    ‘That makes more sense,’ Richter said. ‘I suppose Khatid asked for an emergency exfil?’
    ‘Exactly. I do have a new tasking for him, but it’s not that urgent. Khatid wanted out because of what he heard in Berlin, and there was no other way to debrief him.’
    ‘So what did he hear?’
    Simpson shrugged. ‘He thinks Osama and his merry men have another plan afoot, but this one’s a bit different.’ He leant forward and depressed a button on his desk intercom
unit. ‘Is Khatid still in the building?’
    There was an answering squawk that made no sense to Richter, but Simpson nodded briskly. ‘Good. Tell him to get his arse up here right now.’
    A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door and Khatid walked in, smartly but casually dressed in designer jeans, shirt and leather jacket, and walked across to the other seat in
front of Simpson’s desk.
    The only incongruous note was his personal grooming: his hair was unwashed, long and unkempt, the black beard straggly and untrimmed, his nails cracked and dirty. He also wasn’t wearing
deodorant. It completely ruined the effect created by the clothes, but Richter knew exactly why it was important. When Khatid went back to Afghanistan or Pakistan under deep cover, any trace of
contact with Western civilization – such as the smell of deodorant or even washed hair – could spell his death warrant.
    ‘You’re going back that soon?’ Richter asked, as Khatid sat down.
    ‘You think I’d want to smell like this if I wasn’t? I’m still waiting to