The government spin on Islamist atrocities was ‘Not if but when’. Consequently, the fight against terror was heavily funded, great for the profile and practically unchallengeable. As Gold, Weatherall assumed complete operational responsibility for any action against Jibril the moment she took her seat.
The ops room was a rectangle four windows long and five paces wide, with workstations for Alan Fargo and the three comms specialists. The small adjacent office to the right had been converted into an observation room, separated by a glass partition. Fargo sat with his back to the door, opposite the windows. The two large TV screens were fixed to the left wall, with the comms staff facing them. The young man nearest the window was also responsible for processing surveillance stills and video onto both screens. Weatherall occupied a table at right angles to Fargo behind these experts, with her own radio link. Beside her were places for a couple of intelligence officers to add value from Room 1830. The room was not intended for the pair of uniformed, uninformed brass who had squeezed through the door in Weatherall’s wake. The three monitors turned, horrified by the extraneous noise of the brass, then spun back, clutching their headsets closely to their ears in disgust.
‘Sit-rep,’ demanded Weatherall. She used her normal speaking voice, for she was sitting closest to Fargo, with less than an arm’s length separating them. Never slow to pull rank, she was shrewd enough to know that success this morning depended upon the bulky detective sergeant from Room 1830 and his wizard computer.
As he briefed her, Fargo indicated the photographs of Jibril and his address on the wall beside the TV screens. ‘Ahmed Mohammed Jibril, ma’am, code-named “Avon”, subject of investigation by the SIS station in Yemen, who passed him to us last Sunday because he was about to travel.’
‘And?’ Weatherall was already looking pissed off.
‘That’s all we have, ma’am. At this stage.’
Alice, the comms monitor, interrupted before Weatherall could reply, her blonde hair flicking round as she turned to face Fargo. Alice was a civilian officer, slim and single, a diligent expert the surveillance operatives trusted with their lives. She always occupied the seat nearest Fargo. ‘Still on the eighty-eight travelling south, into Stockwell Road towards Brixton Underground, junction with Clapham Road.’ Alice was rapidly working her desktop. ‘This route takes him down to Clapham Common. Melanie has him.’
Fargo paused to acknowledge her. ‘Thanks, Alice.’ It was an unnecessary intervention, but Weatherall should already have known the background, and Fargo knew Alice was reasserting the priorities. ‘As I say, MI6 head of station gave us a heads-up and we picked him up at Terminal Four on Monday morning. He led us to a bedsit in Lambeth. We believe he may be here to contact or service an active cell.’
‘Why?’ Weatherall was staring at the photograph of Jibril on the left TV screen.
‘Because he’s highly surveillance-conscious and disciplined, following a strict routine.’
‘Until today, apparently,’ said Weatherall, turning her attention to updated surveillance images scrolling through the other screen. ‘He’s not carrying any bags. But he is wearing a quilted jacket, yes?’
‘A Puffa jacket, correct.’
‘Loose fitting. And what can you tell me about that, about his intentions?’
‘Well, to be honest, he did nothing unusual before he left the address.’
Alice interjected again. ‘ETA for the firearms team three minutes, rendezvous point the builders’ yard corner of Fentiman Road and Vauxhall Park.’
‘Thanks, Alice.’
Suddenly there was video of Jibril on the right screen. ‘Did you have sight of him all the time?’ asked Weatherall. ‘I mean continuously?’
‘Not every second, no.’
‘Quite. And certainly not inside the flat while he was getting dressed. There’s something around