Read Agent of the State for Free Online

Ramadan. Or a terrorist who knew his every movement might be watched.
    Whichever, his behaviour made life hard for the team trying to keep track of him. To keep pace with the enemy, counter-terrorism officers need a staple diet of raw intelligence. They relish CCTV, voice recordings, accommodation addresses, flat, garage and car rentals, cash deposits, credit and Oyster card records. They crave emails, Internet searches, mobile-phone calls, texts, Facebook, Twitter and other traces of social contact.
    They follow a golden thread of interaction, for it is all they have. They can only guess where it will lead. It may snap at any time. And in the post-9/11 world the Islamic terrorist who operates alone is in a strong position.
    From now on Ahmed Jibril would give them nothing. He appeared to have come to London with the express purpose of watching television. That was the other problem. Because the job was strictly need-to-know, Kerr’s operatives covered their target with half a surveillance team, six officers, establishing an observation post in a block of council flats across the street. Jibril’s sudden arrival had also meant there was no time to insert cameras and listening devices inside flat nine so they had to rely on a microphone Jack Langton attached to the external wall.
    At eight in the morning on the first day, Jibril switched on the TV at high volume. Then, at exactly eleven o’clock, he crossed the busy junction by the Tube station and sauntered down Stockwell Road to make a show of checking out the fruit and veg on display outside the Indian general store.
    On each short journey he crossed the road twice, wandered down a couple of one-way side-streets to check out the traffic, then doubled back, as if he had forgotten something. He always returned to his hideout by eleven forty-five. This was classic counter-surveillance, known to the watchers as ‘dry cleaning’: they knew Jibril had no need to take the polluted air around Stockwell, except to lure them into the open. There were no other sightings, and the glow from the TV disappeared around ten in the evening.
    Within seventy-two hours they had concluded that Ahmed Jibril was probably another neutral, ascetic loner, of long-term security interest but of no immediate significance. After talking it through with Kerr, Jack Langton reduced 24/7 coverage in the observation post to one officer, with three on the ground, and switched to other targets. Which, as it turned out, was probably what Jibril had guessed they would do.
    So when at  08.12 on the fourth day,  Thursday, 13 September, he walked swiftly out of the door, he took them by surprise. As he turned right, striding towards the Underground, he should have been just about waking up.
    Tearing across Waterloo Bridge, Kerr spoke on the hands-free to Steve Gibb, the officer manning the observation post opposite Jibril’s address. Gibb was a trooper in 22 Regiment SAS on secondment to Kerr’s unit. Unassuming and inconspicuous, he was the smallest guy on the team, with the remains of a tan from a recent operation in Somalia. ‘What’s the score, Steve?’ said Kerr.
    ‘It’s the Yemen guy they slipped us under the counter, boss. He whizzed out of the house and off, off, off. Just as I was having a fucking leak.’ Gibb was a Glaswegian and sounded annoyed with himself, firing the words like bullets. ‘But I managed to get seven frames.’
    Kerr imagined Gibb using the SaniLav and trying to work the camera at the same time, probably getting piss all over his hands. ‘You did well to catch up. How many do we have assigned?’
    ‘Half the Red team. Two vehicles and the rest on foot.’
    Kerr heard Melanie’s voice again over the growl of Langton’s motorcycle. ‘You can sign me on. Jack’s dropping me off at the plot now.’
    ‘He’s making a right, heading north up South Lambeth Road,’ said Gibb, ‘and walking like he means business. Red Three, do you receive?’ Kerr heard a quiet voice