House of Spies

  All at once he thought of a recent afternoon in Venice, a corner table in Harry’s Bar, a Bellini, Gabriel . . . He had told Isherwood it was not too late, that there was still time for him to marry and have a child or two. The ragged face in the glass begged to differ. He was well past his expiration date, he thought. He would die alone, childless, and with no wife other than his gallery.

  He made another check of the time. Eight fifteen. Now it was Fiona who was late. It wasn’t like her. He dug his mobile from the breast pocket of his suit and saw that he had received a text message. sorry julian but i’m afraid i won’t be able to . . . He stopped reading. He supposed it was for the best. It would spare him a broken heart. More important, it would prevent him from making a damn fool of himself yet again.

  He returned the mobile to his pocket and considered his options. He could stay and dine alone, or he could leave. He chose the second; one didn’t dine alone at the Ivy. Rising, he collected his raincoat and with a mumbled apology to the maître d’ went quickly into the street, just as a white Ford Transit van was braking to a halt outside St. Martin’s Theatre. The driver emerged instantly, dressed in a bulky woolen peacoat and holding something that looked like a gun. It was not any gun, thought Isherwood, it was a weapon of war. Four more men were now clambering out of the van’s rear cargo compartment, each wearing a heavy coat, each holding the same type of combat assault rifle. Isherwood could scarcely believe what he was seeing. It looked like a scene from a movie. A movie he had seen before, in Paris and in Washington.

  The five men moved calmly toward the doors of the theater in a tight fighting unit. Isherwood heard the splintering of wood, followed by gunshots. Then, a few seconds later, came the first screams, muffled, distant. They were the screams of Isherwood’s nightmares. Again he thought of Gabriel and wondered what he would do in a situation like this. He would charge headlong into the theater and save as many lives as possible. But Isherwood hadn’t Gabriel’s skills or his courage. He was no hero. In fact, he was quite the other thing.

  The nightmarish screams were growing louder. Isherwood dug his mobile phone from his pocket, dialed 999, and reported that St. Martin’s Theatre was under terrorist attack. Then he spun round and stared at the landmark restaurant he had just departed. Its well-heeled customers appeared oblivious to the carnage taking place a few paces away. Surely, he thought, the terrorists would not be content with a single massacre. The iconic Ivy would be their next stop.

  Isherwood considered his options. Again he had two. He could make his escape or he could try to save as many lives as possible. The decision was the easiest of his life. As he staggered across the street, he heard an explosion from the direction of Charing Cross Road. Then another. Then a third. He was not a hero, he thought as he careened through the door of the Ivy, waving his arms like a madman, but he could act like one, if only for a moment or two. Perhaps Gabriel had been right. Perhaps it was not too late for him after all.

  3

  Vauxhall Cross, London

  They were twelve in number, Arabs and Africans by ethnicity, Europeans by passport. All had spent time in the caliphate of ISIS—including a training camp, now destroyed, near the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra—and all had returned to Western Europe undetected. Later, it would be established they had received their orders via Telegram, the free cloud-based instant-messaging service utilizing end-to-end encryption. They were given only an address and the date and time they were to appear. They did not know that others had received similar instructions; they did not know they were part of a larger plot. Indeed, they did not know they were part of a plot at all.

  They trickled into the United Kingdom one by one, by train and by ferry. Two or three had to undergo a bit of questioning at the border; the rest were welcomed with open arms. Four made their way to the town of Luton, four to Harlow, and four to Gravesend. At each address a British-based operative of the network was waiting. So, too, were their weapons—explosive vests, combat assault rifles. The vests each contained a kilogram of TATP, a highly volatile crystalline explosive manufactured from nail polish remover and hydrogen peroxide. The assault rifles were AK-47s of Belarusan manufacture.

  The British-based operatives quickly briefed the attack cells on their targets and the objectives of the mission. They were not suicide bombers but suicide warriors. They were to kill as many infidels as possible with their assault rifles, and only when cornered by police were they to detonate their explosive vests. The goal of the operation was not the destruction of buildings or landmarks, it was blood. No distinction was to be made between man or woman, adult or child. They were to show no mercy.

  In late afternoon—in Luton, in Harlow, and in Gravesend—the members of the three cells shared a final meal. Afterward, they ritually prepared their bodies for death. Finally, at seven that evening, they climbed into three identical white Ford Transit vans. The British-based operatives handled the driving, the suicide warriors sat in back, with their vests and their guns. None of the cells knew of the existence of the others, but all were headed toward the West End of London and were scheduled to strike at the same time. The clock was Saladin’s trademark. He believed that in terror, as in life, timing was everything.

  The venerable Garrick Theatre had seen world wars, a cold war, a depression, and the abdication of a king. But never had it witnessed anything like what occurred at 8:20 that evening, when five ISIS terrorists burst into the theater and began firing into the crowd. More than a hundred would perish during the first thirty seconds of the assault, and another hundred would die in the terrible five minutes that followed, as the terrorists moved methodically through the theater, row by row, seat by seat. Some two hundred fortunate souls managed to escape through the side and rear exits, along with the entire cast of the production and the stagehands. Many would never work in the theater again.

  The terrorists emerged from the Garrick seven minutes after entering it. Outside, they encountered two unarmed Metropolitan Police officers. After killing both, they headed to Irving Street and slaughtered their way from restaurant to restaurant, until finally, at the fringes of Leicester Square, they were confronted by a pair of Met special firearms officers. The officers were armed only with 9mm Glock 17 pistols. Even so, they managed to kill two of the terrorists before they were able to detonate their explosive vests. Two of the surviving terrorists set off their bombs in the lobby of the cavernous Odeon Cinema; the third, in a busy Italian restaurant. In all, nearly four hundred would perish in that portion of the attack alone, making it the deadliest in British history—worse, even, than the 1988 bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland.

  But unfortunately the five-member cell was not acting alone. A second cell—the Luton cell, as it would become known—attacked the Prince Edward Theatre, also at twenty minutes past eight precisely, during a performance of Miss Saigon. The Prince Edward was far larger than the Garrick, 1,600 seats instead of 656, and so the death toll inside the theater was considerably higher. What’s more, all five of the terrorists detonated their suicide vests in bars and restaurants along Old Compton Street. More than five hundred lives were lost in the span of just six minutes.

  The third target was St. Martin’s: five terrorists, twenty minutes past eight precisely. This time, however, a team of special firearms officers intervened. Later, it would be revealed that a passerby, a man identified only as a prominent London art dealer, had reported the attack to authorities seconds after the terrorists entered the theater. The same London art dealer had then helped to evacuate the dining room of the Ivy restaurant. As a result, only eighty-four would die in that portion of the attack. On any other night, in any other city, the number would have been unthinkable. Now it was a reason to give thanks. Saladin had struck terror into the heart of London. And London would never be the same.

  By morning the scale of the calamity was plain to see. Most of the dead still lay where they had fallen—indeed, many still sat in their original theater seats. The commis
sioner of the Metropolitan Police declared the entire West End an active crime scene and urged both Londoners and tourists to avoid the area. The Underground canceled all service as a precautionary measure; businesses and public institutions remained closed throughout the day. The London Stock Exchange opened on time, but trading was suspended when share prices plummeted. The economic loss, like the loss of life, was catastrophic.

  For reasons of security, Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster waited until midday to tour the devastation. With his wife, Diana, at his side, he made his way on foot from the Garrick to the Prince Edward and finally to the St. Martin’s. Afterward, outside the Met’s makeshift command post in Leicester Square, he briefly addressed the media. Pale and visibly shaken, he vowed the perpetrators would be brought to justice. “The enemy is determined,” he declared, “but so are we.”

  The enemy, however, remained curiously quiet. Yes, there were several celebratory postings on the usual extremist Web sites, but nothing of authority from ISIS central command. Finally, at 5:00 p.m. London time, a formal claim of responsibility appeared on one of the group’s many Twitter feeds, along with photographs of the fifteen operatives who had carried out the attack. A few terrorism analysts expressed surprise over the fact that the statement made no mention of anyone named Saladin. The savvier ones did not. Saladin, they said, was a master. And like many masters, he preferred to leave his work unsigned.

  If the first day was characterized by solidarity and grief, the second was one of division and recriminations. In the House of Commons, several members of the opposition party lambasted the prime minister and his intelligence chiefs for failing to detect and disrupt the plot. Mainly, they asked how it was possible that the terrorists had managed to acquire combat assault rifles in a country with some of the most draconian gun control laws in the world. The head of the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command issued a statement defending his actions, as did Amanda Wallace, the director general of MI5. But Graham Seymour, the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, otherwise known as MI6, chose to remain silent. Until recently, the British government had not even acknowledged the existence of MI6, and no minister in his right mind would have ever dreamed of mentioning the name of its chief in public. Seymour preferred the old ways to the new. He was a spy by nature and upbringing. And a spy never spoke for attribution when a poisonous leak to a friendly reporter would suffice.

  Responsibility for protecting the British homeland from terrorist attack fell primarily to MI5, the Metropolitan Police, and the Joint Terrorism Analysis Center. Still, the Secret Intelligence Service had an important role to play in detecting plots abroad before they reached Britain’s vulnerable shores. Graham Seymour had warned the prime minister repeatedly that an ISIS attack on the United Kingdom was imminent, but his spies had failed to produce the hard, actionable intelligence necessary to prevent it. Consequently, he regarded the attack on London, with its horrendous loss of innocent life, as the greatest single failure of his long and distinguished career.

  Seymour had been in his magnificent office atop Vauxhall Cross at the time of the attack—he had seen the flashes of the explosions from his window—and in the dark days that followed he rarely left it. His closest aides pleaded with him to get some sleep and, privately, fretted over his uncharacteristically worn appearance. Seymour curtly advised them their time would be better spent finding the vital intelligence that would prevent the next attack. What he wanted was a loose thread, a member of Saladin’s network who could be manipulated into doing his bidding. Not a senior figure; they were far too loyal. The man Graham Seymour was looking for would be a small player, a runner of errands, a carrier of other people’s bags. It was possible this man might not even know he was a member of a terror organization. It was even possible he had never heard the name Saladin.

  Policemen, secret or otherwise, have certain advantages in times of crisis. They stage raids, they make arrests, they hold press conferences to reassure the public they are doing everything in their power to keep them safe. Spies, on the other hand, have no such recourse. By definition, they toil in secret, in back alleys and hotel rooms and safe houses and all the other godforsaken places where agents are persuaded or coerced into handing over vital information to a foreign power. Early in his career, Graham Seymour had carried out such work. Now he could only monitor the efforts of others from the gilded cage of his office. His worst fear was that another service would find the loose thread first, that he would once again be relegated to a supporting role. MI6 could not crack Saladin’s network alone; it would need the help of its friends in Western Europe, the Middle East, and across the pond in America. But if MI6 were able to unearth the right piece of intelligence in a timely fashion, Graham Seymour would be first among equals. In the modern world, that was the best a spymaster could hope for.

  And so he remained in his office, day after day, night after night, and watched with no small amount of envy as the Met and MI5 rolled up remnants of Saladin’s network in Britain. MI6’s efforts, however, produced nothing of consequence. Indeed, Seymour learned more from his friends in Langley and Tel Aviv than he did from his own staff. Finally, a week to the day after the attack, he decided a night at home would do him good. The computer logs would show his Jaguar limousine departed the parking garage, coincidentally, at 8:20 p.m. precisely. But as he was heading across the Thames toward his home in Belgravia, his secure phone purred softly. He recognized the number, along with the female voice that came on the line a moment later. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” said Amanda Wallace, “but I have something that might be of interest. Why don’t you stop by my place for a drink? My treat.”

  4

  Thames House, London

  Thames House, MI5’s riverfront headquarters, was a building Graham Seymour knew well; he had worked there for more than thirty years before becoming the chief of MI6. As he made his way along the corridor of the executive suite, he paused in the doorway of the office that had been his when he was deputy director general. Miles Kent, the current deputy, was still at his desk. He was quite possibly the only man in London who looked worse than Seymour.

  “Graham,” said Kent, looking up from his computer. “What brings you to our little corner of the realm?”

  “You tell me.”

  “If I did,” said Kent quietly, “the queen bee would give me the sack.”

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Kent beckoned Seymour inside and closed the door. “Charles ran off with his secretary.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of days after the attack. He was having dinner at the Ivy when the third cell entered the St. Martin’s. Said it forced him to take a hard look in the mirror. Said he couldn’t go on living the way he was.”

  “He had a mistress and a wife. What more did he want?”

  “A divorce, apparently. Amanda’s already moved out of the flat. She’s been sleeping here at the office.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  Seymour was surprised by the news. He had seen Amanda that very morning at 10 Downing Street and she’d made no mention of it. Truth be told, Seymour was relieved Charles’s reckless love life was finally out in the open. The Russians had a way of finding out about such indiscretions and had never been squeamish about using them to their advantage.

  “Who else knows?”

  “I found out quite by accident. You know Amanda, she’s very discreet.”

  “Too bad Charles wasn’t.” Seymour reached for the door but stopped. “Any idea why she wants to see me so urgently?”

  “The pleasure of your company?”

  “Come on, Miles.”

  “All I know,” said Kent, “is that it has something to do with guns.”

  Seymour went into the corridor. The light over Amanda’s door shone green. Even so, he knocked softly before entering. He found Amanda seated at her large desk, with her eyes cast downward toward an open file. Looking up, she t
reated Seymour to a cool smile. It looked, he thought, as if she had taught herself the gesture by practicing in front of a mirror.

  “Graham,” she said, rising. “So good of you to come.”

  She stepped slowly from behind the desk. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored pantsuit that flattered her tall, awkward frame. Her approach was cautious. Graham Seymour and Amanda Wallace had entered MI5 in the same intake and had spent the better part of thirty years battling each other at every turn. Now they occupied two of the most powerful positions in Western intelligence, and yet their rivalry persisted. It was tempting to think the attack would alter the dynamics of their relationship, but Seymour believed otherwise. The inevitable parliamentary inquiry was coming. Undoubtedly, it would uncover serious lapses and missteps on the part of MI5. Amanda would fight tooth and nail. And she would do her utmost to make certain that Seymour and MI6 shouldered their fair share of the blame.

  A drinks tray had been placed at the end of Amanda’s gleaming conference table. She mixed a gin and tonic for Seymour and for herself a martini with olives and cocktail onions. Her toast was restrained, silent. Then she led Seymour to the seating area and gestured toward a modern leather armchair. The BBC flickered on the large flat-panel television. British and American warplanes were striking ISIS targets near the Syrian city of Raqqa. The Iraqi portion of the caliphate had been largely reclaimed by the central government in Baghdad. Only the Syrian sanctuary remained, and it was under siege. The loss of territory, however, had done nothing to diminish ISIS’s ability to conduct terrorist operations abroad. The attack on London was proof of that.