operating bases of Helmand, word had reached the men of the bloodshed and violence the Syrian government was inflicting on its own people.
‘The anti-government rebels are fragmented,’ Carrington went on. ‘Different groups, different agendas. Some of them have a genuine political focus, some are simply opportunists taking advantage of the civilian unrest. The usual story. The PM has made it perfectly clear that the UK would welcome an orderly transfer of power. He’s even gone so far as to offer senior members of the Syrian administration safe passage out of the country should they decide to stand down.’
‘Give them a seat next to me,’ Spud said. ‘I don’t have much use for kid-killers.’
‘Quite,’ Carrington murmured. ‘In any case, it may or may not surprise you to learn that we have opened up lines of communication with certain rebel factions. All completely under the radar, of course. Our intelligence networks have identified the faction most likely to come to power in the event of a regime change. Clearly, the British government would like to be on good terms with whoever succeeds the current Syrian regime.’
Carrington held up an A4 photograph. It was taken with a long-distance lens and showed an elderly Middle Eastern-looking man wearing a red and white keffiyeh. Danny was put in mind of pictures of Yasser Arafat he’d seen on TV when he was growing up. ‘This is Baltasar Farhad,’ Carrington explained. ‘He is the patriarch of a rebel family most likely to have a leading role in any future Syrian administration. Or perhaps I should say, he was . Two weeks ago Farhad was assassinated in a suicide attack. You probably heard the news at the time.’
Danny hadn’t. He squinted at the picture. In the background, a little blurred, he saw the arch of a Métro station. ‘Paris?’
Carrington nodded. ‘Farhad was in exile. The French had given him asylum. He himself had always been sympathetic to French interests in Syria. That made him a very valuable asset to the French. They were vexed, to say the least, when he met his maker.’
‘Who did it?’ Jack Ward asked.
‘The intelligence points towards a young Algerian man wanted on terrorism charges.’
‘Kids today,’ Spud muttered. ‘They blow up so quickly.’
Carrington ignored that. ‘To be frank,’ he said, ‘who did it isn’t our biggest problem. Our concern now is to deal with the aftermath. Farhad was more than just a figurehead. Even in his absence, he was the glue that stopped his own family from falling apart. He has two sons. Chalk and cheese: one by the name of Sorgen, the other called Asu. Sorgen is a chip off the old block. Like his father, he is mostly sympathetic to French interests. Asu, on the other hand, has spent a good deal of time in London. Our intelligence tells us that he has a penchant for British women – we’ve located four separate prostitutes who claim to have been regular clients of his during his time in the UK. He even had a season ticket for . . . Tottenham Hotspur, was it, Hugo?’
Buckingham nodded.
‘Footy and hookers,’ Greg Murray said. ‘Makes you proud to be British, don’t it?’
‘Yes, well, football isn’t really my cup of tea. Whatever the reason, though, Asu is something of an Anglophile. He and Sorgen loathe each other. Always have done. Their father was the only person who could keep them from each other’s throats. Out of respect for him, they avoided open hostilities. Now that Farhad has gone, they clearly see no reason to keep up the pretence. The family has split into two distinct factions. This is, of course, good news for the Syrian administration, as it means that their most significant rebel threat has been weakened. However, our analysts remain convinced that one or other of these brothers will lead the new administration when the time comes. It goes without saying that the British government would prefer to see Asu in that role, rather than Sorgen.’
There was a
‘The anti-government rebels are fragmented,’ Carrington went on. ‘Different groups, different agendas. Some of them have a genuine political focus, some are simply opportunists taking advantage of the civilian unrest. The usual story. The PM has made it perfectly clear that the UK would welcome an orderly transfer of power. He’s even gone so far as to offer senior members of the Syrian administration safe passage out of the country should they decide to stand down.’
‘Give them a seat next to me,’ Spud said. ‘I don’t have much use for kid-killers.’
‘Quite,’ Carrington murmured. ‘In any case, it may or may not surprise you to learn that we have opened up lines of communication with certain rebel factions. All completely under the radar, of course. Our intelligence networks have identified the faction most likely to come to power in the event of a regime change. Clearly, the British government would like to be on good terms with whoever succeeds the current Syrian regime.’
Carrington held up an A4 photograph. It was taken with a long-distance lens and showed an elderly Middle Eastern-looking man wearing a red and white keffiyeh. Danny was put in mind of pictures of Yasser Arafat he’d seen on TV when he was growing up. ‘This is Baltasar Farhad,’ Carrington explained. ‘He is the patriarch of a rebel family most likely to have a leading role in any future Syrian administration. Or perhaps I should say, he was . Two weeks ago Farhad was assassinated in a suicide attack. You probably heard the news at the time.’
Danny hadn’t. He squinted at the picture. In the background, a little blurred, he saw the arch of a Métro station. ‘Paris?’
Carrington nodded. ‘Farhad was in exile. The French had given him asylum. He himself had always been sympathetic to French interests in Syria. That made him a very valuable asset to the French. They were vexed, to say the least, when he met his maker.’
‘Who did it?’ Jack Ward asked.
‘The intelligence points towards a young Algerian man wanted on terrorism charges.’
‘Kids today,’ Spud muttered. ‘They blow up so quickly.’
Carrington ignored that. ‘To be frank,’ he said, ‘who did it isn’t our biggest problem. Our concern now is to deal with the aftermath. Farhad was more than just a figurehead. Even in his absence, he was the glue that stopped his own family from falling apart. He has two sons. Chalk and cheese: one by the name of Sorgen, the other called Asu. Sorgen is a chip off the old block. Like his father, he is mostly sympathetic to French interests. Asu, on the other hand, has spent a good deal of time in London. Our intelligence tells us that he has a penchant for British women – we’ve located four separate prostitutes who claim to have been regular clients of his during his time in the UK. He even had a season ticket for . . . Tottenham Hotspur, was it, Hugo?’
Buckingham nodded.
‘Footy and hookers,’ Greg Murray said. ‘Makes you proud to be British, don’t it?’
‘Yes, well, football isn’t really my cup of tea. Whatever the reason, though, Asu is something of an Anglophile. He and Sorgen loathe each other. Always have done. Their father was the only person who could keep them from each other’s throats. Out of respect for him, they avoided open hostilities. Now that Farhad has gone, they clearly see no reason to keep up the pretence. The family has split into two distinct factions. This is, of course, good news for the Syrian administration, as it means that their most significant rebel threat has been weakened. However, our analysts remain convinced that one or other of these brothers will lead the new administration when the time comes. It goes without saying that the British government would prefer to see Asu in that role, rather than Sorgen.’
There was a
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