Paddington Green police station was a grim place, even grimmer than Liz had expected. A colleague had once described to her his interrogation of a suspect there and had said that it made Wormwood Scrubs look like a five-star hotel. Now, as she was escorted down two flights of stairs and along a narrow corridor, flanked by cells, Liz understood what he meant. Forbidding though the Santé prison in Paris was, at least it had a history, both fictional and real. Carlos the Jackal and Noriega rubbed shoulders in its corridors with characters from the novels of Alexandre Dumas and Georges Simenon. Here, in Paddington Green, there was no gloss of history, and the brutal concrete walls seemed to match the squalid violence of the modern-day terrorists whom it had been built to accommodate. It was, thought Liz, a truly awful place.
The police officer escorting her opened a steel door and stood back to let her enter the room, then followed her inside. A single light bulb illuminated a bare table and chairs, cement floor the colour of day-old porridge, and blank walls. Liz was expecting to find that the prisoner she’d come to see would introduce a note of elegance to these stark surroundings. She remembered the stylish even glamorous woman she had met in David Blakey’s office at the beginning of this whole business, and how she had admired, not to say envied, the understated linen dress the other woman had been wearing and her gold jewellery.
So she was startled by the appearance of the person sitting at the table. It was difficult to believe it was the same one. Katherine Ball was wearing a plain cotton caftan and long, wide trousers over flat pumps. At first sight Liz wondered if this was some sort of prison uniform, but Katherine Ball had not been charged and was entitled to wear her own clothes, so these must be her choice. Her face was bare of make-up and her hair, which Liz remembered as fashionably tinted blonde, was completely covered by an unflattering scarf. Only her bright blue eyes were unaltered and they seemed to burn as they stared at Liz.
‘Mrs Ball,’ said Liz, taking a seat across from her. ‘We met in David Blakey’s office some time ago. My name is Jane Forrester.’
Katherine Ball arched an eyebrow. ‘I remember you well. You work with that man who was a colleague of David’s when he was in MI6… what’s his name? Tall, dark and not entirely handsome. Fane – that was it. So you’re a spook too.’
‘I’m with the Home Office.’
‘Oh, I see, we’re talking in euphemisms. What you mean is that you’re MI5, not MI6. Isn’t that what you’re trying to say, Miss… Forrester. Now, tell me, what are you here for?’
‘ I was wondering – ’
‘Don’t wonder,’ said Katherine Ball fiercely, her eyes suddenly ablaze. ‘There’s nothing to speculate about, nothing ambiguous in any of this. Believe me: if you want to know about me, I’ll tell you. Frankly, I’m delighted you’re here; nothing will please me more than to say what I have to say to a representative of Western Intelligence.’
‘What is it you’d like to say?’
But Katherine did not need to be asked. Liz’s presence seemed to have breached the dam behind which she had been concealing her true personality and feelings.
‘You in Western Intelligence – you once had something worth defending and an enemy worth fighting. For all the shortcomings of life in the West, Communism was worse, much worse… corrupt, oppressive of its people, twisted. Getting rid of them was a just cause.’ She paused for breath and went on, ‘But when the Wall fell, so did your raison d’être. You didn’t have a role any more. Just what exactly were you fighting after that, and what were you defending? I mean, what does democracy consist of when a hedge fund trader makes three billion dollars trading off the back of some poor black people in Detroit who’ve taken out a mortgage?
‘So you became stooges of the Americans. Dancing to their tune. Fighting a war on terrorism – “those who are not with us are against us”. Anyone who thinks differently from them is a threat and has to be destroyed. And the rest of the world is supposed to admire this, and stick out their bowl for the thin gruel the likes of UCSO graciously bestow on them.’
‘So you chose an alternative solution.’ Liz kept her voice cool. There was no need to needle this woman to get her to talk.
‘I’d have thought that was obvious. There is only one positive ideology in the world today, don’t you think?’
Liz ignored the question and replied, ‘I’m curious to know how you found this cause. I know your husband was Middle Eastern, but my understanding is that he was Westernised.’
‘You know nothing about my husband.’
‘I’m told he was a businessman in Beirut.’
‘He was. But the 9/11 pilots were living quietly in America while learning to fly planes. You should know about cover stories, Miss Forrester. It’s your job – playing a role. But others can do it too. My husband played a role. He lived and breathed it and I’ve been doing it ever since he died.’
‘But why? What was he trying to achieve?’
‘He was half-Iranian, and always said he wished he’d been a hundred per cent Iranian. If he hadn’t died so suddenly, we wouldn’t be sitting here, Miss Forrester. I’d be in Beirut, helping him organise resistance to Zionist incursions. My husband made a lot of money and he used a good deal of it to underwrite Hamas.’
‘I’m sorry your husband died. He had a heart attack, didn’t he?’
‘Is that what your research department told you?’ She was growing angry now. ‘Tell them to have another look. My husband was murdered – he dropped dead in a Damascus souk. A coronary, they tried to say, but he had the heart of a lion. Mossad killed him – who else?’
Maybe God did, thought Liz. Or Nature, depending on one’s theological views. ‘Is that when you took up his cause?’
Ball looked at her scornfully. ‘I was already on his side. Who wouldn’t be? Have you seen the camps in Gaza, Miss Forrester? Have you asked your Jewish friends why they’re letting people die there? Why they continue to take other people’s land? Have you ever discussed with your American bosses what their “policies” are doing to people all over the world, or why their impact is never reported in the Jew York Times?
‘When he died I went to Iran to live with his family. I studied and converted to the true faith, Islam.’ She stopped talking for a moment and closed her eyes. Then suddenly she opened them again. Glaring at Liz, she half-rose from her chair. ‘I don’t believe you have any faith at all. You disgust me, you know; you have the nerve to oppose us without having any beliefs of your own. Even our worst enemies, the Jews, believe in God.’
‘Sit down,’ Liz said sharply, and the woman slowly did. ‘So you studied in an Islamic school. What else did they teach you beside the faith? Did they teach you to wage war on the West?’
‘They taught me to teach.’
‘I’ve heard about your teaching,’ said Liz. ‘In a mosque in London. I gather you were inspirational.’
For the first time Katherine Ball hesitated.
‘Inspirational,’ Liz repeated.
‘Whoever told you that is flattering me.’
‘Ah, flattery,’ said Liz thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, ‘Was it by flattery that you attracted David Blakey?’
Katherine Ball’s face twisted in distaste. ‘It’s one thing playing a role; it’s quite another pretending you’re enjoying it. I found that side of things revolting.’
‘Was that true of Mo Miandad as well?’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘You two slipped up. You were seen at a hotel in Athens. You were supposed to be flying in the following day, but we checked with the airlines and you landed a day early. In time for a rendezvous with Mo.’
‘Not that kind of rendezvous,’ she snapped. ‘What an ass your friend Berger made of himself. He hangs around, thinking he’s a detective in a Raymond Chandler novel – then ends up locked in a broom cupboard. As for Mo, he may have been wild once upon a time, and he was happy for people to think he was still a corrupt philanderer – it was the perfect cover story. But he’s a true Muslim,’ she declared defiantly.
‘And a murderer it seems. You have an alibi for the death of Maria Galanos – you’d gone back to London. He doesn’t.’
‘Try proving that. You’ll need more than speculation for the Greek authorities. Speaking of slip-ups, placing that girl in the UCSO office was a very stupid thing to do. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Ingratiating herself with the two Greek girls, trying to find out about everybody – it was ridiculous.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re a far better actress than Maria.’ Liz added coldly, ‘And she paid the price, didn’t she?’
Katherine said nothing, so Liz went on, ‘Speaking of acting, your performances at the London mosque seem to have had quite an impact. Several British Asians have left this country to fight jihad because of you.’
‘That wasn’t acting, Miss Forrester. I only preach what I truly believe. But you have no proof that I persuaded anyone to go anywhere.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. And I don’t think it was only persuasion. I think you were a key part of the organisation that recruited young men and sent them out to train and fight. We’ve managed to detain the four most recent travellers on their way to Somalia. They’ll be extradited here, and in the fullness of time put on trial. I wouldn’t rate their chances myself. And some of them may choose to tell the whole story.’
But Katherine Ball seemed unmoved by this news. In fact it seemed to calm her. Her voice became less excitable and her face looked almost serene. If she answered Liz at all, it was in monosyllables; her attention was elsewhere. Liz drew the interview to a close but she felt dissatisfied. She had an uneasy feeling that for all Katherine Ball had revealed, she was still hiding something important.