Capital Punishment (36 page)

Just from the tension during the standard greeting procedure, Lt General Abdel Iqbal could tell that Amir Jat was in a heightened state, could feel it in his hands. He knew then that the task given to him by Mahmood Aziz would be easy: do nothing to assuage this man’s fears.

The military flight from Lahore to Karachi had taken Amir Jat two hours, but the airbase was close to the Jinnah International Airport, allowing enough time for a meeting with Iqbal before he had to catch the 12.10 p.m. flight to Dubai.

They were meeting in a prefab building close to the runway, within sight of a camouflaged C130 Hercules being loaded. There was a table and two chairs. The ceiling fan did not work. It was already hot.

‘Did you manage to speak to Frank D’Cruz?’ asked Jat.

‘I spoke to him earlier this morning, but only for a few minutes and the line was bad. He was very tired; it was in the small hours for him. We had a coded exchange, in which I told him we were making enquiries and he told me that something bad had happened to his daughter, but it wasn’t terminal. Other than that, there had been no further developments.’

‘And what about Anwar Masood?’

‘I called him back for a meeting earlier this morning.’

‘First, tell me about the meeting you had with him, when he told you the girl had been kidnapped,’ said Jat. ‘What do you think the design of that information was?’

‘The design?’ asked Iqbal.

‘Why didn’t he come directly to me?’ asked Jat. ‘I have far better access to the sort of information he wants.’

‘But here, in Karachi, I am closer. This is not the sort of thing you discuss over the phone.’

‘Do you think that’s all it was?’

‘Are you implying that Anwar Masood might have thought that you were in some way responsible for what has happened in London?’ said Iqbal.

‘Anwar Masood knows that you will come to me. I am the centre of all operations,’ said Jat. ‘And yet, for something as important as the kidnap of his master’s daughter, he goes to you. There’s something not right about that.’

‘I can’t quite see what it is.’

‘It’s not transparent behaviour,’ said Jat.

‘What is transparent behaviour in this world?’ asked Iqbal.

‘That Anwar Masood comes directly to me,’ said Jat. ‘What his action has done is to plant doubt in our minds.’

‘Not in my mind,’ said Iqbal, who was quite stunned at the level of paranoia this incident had engendered in his comrade. ‘Frank D’Cruz made an enquiry using Anwar Masood, whose nearest access point to our intelligence operations is me, here, in Karachi, not you up in Lahore, two hours flight away. I have the ability to get an agent to you with the necessary information and back-up intelligence within hours. Don’t read anything more into it than that, my friend.’

‘There’s something not right here and I’m going to find out what it is.’

‘Has someone carried out an operation in London?’ asked Iqbal.

‘Not to my knowledge. I have made my initial enquiries and it’s thought to be unlikely, what with the Olympic Games so close and inland security operations tightening up by the day,’ said Jat. ‘I’m awaiting confirmation, but only the powerful organisations can perform internationally, not the splinter groups. And I’m ninety-nine per cent certain our people are not involved.’

‘Then that is what we will tell Anwar Masood,’ said Iqbal. ‘What concerns him, or rather Frank D’Cruz, is something he mentioned to me just this morning: the kidnappers have made no demands. That is, no
financial
demands. What they have asked for is somewhat abstract, shall we say, and that has raised concerns in Frank D’Cruz’s mind because he doesn’t—’

‘Abstract?’ said Jat, neck lengthening in indignation. ‘What sort of a kidnapper deals in abstractions? They are the most physical criminals in the world. What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The kidnappers asked for a “demonstration of sincerity”.’

‘What is this?’ said Jat immediately. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Frank D’Cruz himself doesn’t know what it means, what it is alluding to. He’s worried that someone is moving against him, undermining his power. The feedback he’s had from his Indian enterprises indicate that he has nothing to worry about from that direction, so he naturally thinks of his more dangerous allies.’

‘Dangerous? Is that what he called us? Did he use that word?’ asked Jat.

‘No, I used that word. Perhaps I should have said: “his allies who are engaged in the more dangerous theatre of operations, with international networks capable of pulling off such a thing as a kidnapping in London”. I’m sorry if I misled you.’

‘We have to get to the bottom of this,’ said Jat, disappointed that he hadn’t caught D’Cruz out.

‘You don’t think we’re there already, I mean, from our point of view? Frank D’Cruz has made his enquiry and you’ve just told me there are no operations currently in progress,’ said Iqbal. ‘That’s the end of it, surely? Why couldn’t this just be a London gang taking the opportunity to make a great deal of money out of kidnapping a billionaire’s daughter?’

‘Because, as you’ve just said, they’ve made no demands in four days,’ said Jat. ‘And the only demand they have made is oddly abstract. Surely you must be able to grasp that an attack on Frank D’Cruz is potentially an attack on our organisation.’

‘Potentially,’ said Iqbal, who now realised what a masterstroke it had been to mention “the demonstration of sincerity”.

‘And to answer your question: no, I do not think we’re there already,’ said Jat. ‘I think we’re like a stone skipping across the surface of a deep, dark lake.’

It was a dark day on Bethnal Green Road, of the sort that brings first light but nothing much brighter. Mercy and George Papadopoulos sat on one side of a table in E Pellicci’s, drinking strong, sweet tea while Nelson sat on the other side, filling his fork with bacon, sausage, egg and beans. The light in the room was warm and yellow, which made it look like night outside. Italian flowed over their heads from the till area to the kitchen. Mercy, face propped up on her hand, closed her eyes and, for a brief moment, imagined herself elsewhere.

‘Can’t you hear it?’ asked Nelson. ‘It’s bloody humming round here.’

Mercy, eyes still closed, wound her finger round.

‘Get on with it, Nelson.’

‘No, I’m telling you, in the last couple of hours, this place has come alive. You know what that means?’ said Nelson. ‘Joe Shearing’s on the hunt and that’s not all I’ve heard.’

Pause for effect, while the admiral filled his face, chewed it over. Mercy’s eyes clicked open.

‘Don’t string it out, admiral. This is important. We need to know. Time is marching on.’

‘The two geezers they’re looking for have gone rogue from a south London gang run by Archibald Pike from Bermondsey. Do you know him?’

‘I know Pikey,’ said Mercy. ‘You can’t miss him. What do you mean by gone rogue ?

‘What I’ve heard only comes from Joe’s lot; I don’t know Pike,’ said Nelson. ‘What they tell me is that the two who shot Jack Auber and Vic Scully and ran off with Jack’s five grand have also shot another two and taken off with some of Pike’s merchandise.’

‘Merchandise?’ asked Papadopoulos.

‘Don’t know what they’re talking about,’ said Nelson, his face a mask of innocence. ‘Nor did my informer.’

‘We got any names for this rogue duo from Pike’s crew, apart from Bonnie and Clyde?’

‘Not very helpful ones,’ said Nelson. ‘Skin and Dan.’

‘I suppose that first one’s got a shaved head, like a million other blokes in London,’ said Papadopoulos.

‘But he has got a distinguishing mark,’ said Nelson. ‘A spider web tattoo that goes up the side of his neck and over his right cheek.’

‘He’s going to regret that.’

‘You want to see it, you’d better be quick,’ said Nelson. ‘They’re going to flay him alive when they catch him.’

‘Anything on the other one?’

‘Oh, he was a nurse, that’s it,’ said Nelson. ‘And a poof.’

‘In whose opinion?’ asked Mercy, giving him the dead-eye.

‘The nature of an intelligence coup is that the fewer people who know about it, the better,’ said Simon Deacon to DCS Makepeace and Martin Fox.

‘We are just trying to alleviate your concerns,’ said Joyce Hunter. ‘We’ve been watching Frank D’Cruz very carefully since the assassination attempt, which means we follow him wherever he goes, monitor his mobile and fixed line calls, his internet use, go through his rubbish and put agents as close as possible to people he meets, as well as maintaining a Level 2 surveillance on them.

‘What I can tell you from the reports I’ve seen is that the kidnappers have made no direct contact with Mr D’Cruz. That is not to say that he hasn’t been complying with the kidnappers’ veiled demand by keeping his mouth shut.’

Silence, while the two sides considered whether this was the impasse moment: the point of no further information.

‘Who has Frank D’Cruz been in contact with since he’s been in London?’ asked DCS Makepeace, seeing if he could warm them up a bit more.

‘Outside of your immediate circle, his property consultant, Nicola Prideaux, who doesn’t do much for him in the way of finding residential property anymore, but does occasionally keep him warm at night. She’s his mistress,’ said Hunter. ‘And he seems to have taken the opportunity to involve himself in the launch of these new electric cars he’s proposing to manufacture in the Midlands, so he’s been in touch with the events organiser in the City and Goldman Sachs, who are the underwriters for the Initial Public Offering.’

Fox and Makepeace turned on their mobiles. They could tell the meeting was over. The phones immediately started to vibrate. They excused themselves and went into the corridor. Fox walked one way, Makepeace the other. They both turned at the same moment.

‘Are you getting what I’m getting?’ asked Makepeace.

‘This is Charlie, telling me the girl has changed hands.’

‘This is Mercy, telling me the same and that she’s since found out from her informer that the two men responsible for the Grange Road killings have gone rogue from a Bermondsey gang, killing another two men and taking Alyshia with them.’

‘Any names?’

‘Just Skin and Dan.’

‘That’s good,’ said Fox. ‘Charlie can use those. Anything else?’

Makepeace repeated Mercy’s descriptions of the two men given by Nelson.

‘That’s great. I’ll see you back at the office,’ said Fox. ‘Can you explain what’s just happened to that lot in there? I have to listen to this phone call and brief Charlie.’

Dan bolted out of sleep with a child’s cry, as if he’d just pulled out of the big dive into oblivion.

‘Shit,’ he said, looking at his watch. The research notes he’d been reading fell to the floor.

‘What?’ asked Skin, pulling the buds out of his ears. ‘You should listen to this shit. Fucking dynamite.’

‘Why did you let me sleep?’

‘You looked all in. Got to be sharp to negotiate a couple of mil.’

‘I had a bad dream,’ said Dan, still wild from it, getting to his feet.

‘Cheer up, me old son. You look scared shitless.’

‘What did she say to you back in the warehouse?’

‘About “doing something very stupid”?’ said Skin. ‘Well, it’s done now, innit? There’s no undoing it.’

He took out his gun, unscrewed the silencer, stood it up on the table.

‘If we go down, we might as well go down with the volume up.’

‘Do not leave this place,’ said Dan, staring at the silencer. ‘Keep an eye on the girl. Look out the front regularly. I might go out that way but I’ll come back over the canal.’

‘Run along, Nurse, and let’s get this done,’ said Skin. ‘It doesn’t have to be a million each, you know.’

‘So what would you accept now?’

‘The way you look, I’d take a fiver and run,’ said Skin. ‘Suck it in, Danny boy. Feel the part. You can do it.’

Dan took one of the mobiles from the box, put a SIM card in it, found the number, entered it into another mobile.

‘Your own mobile’s turned off, right?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t fancy hearing Pike’s dwarf telling me what he’s got in mind for us.’

‘Bin it. I’ll only call you on this mobile. And I’ll only use it in an emergency,’ said Dan. ‘If I tell you to run, just do it; leave the girl and get out over the canal. Turn left and you’ll end up in the Angel, turn right and it’ll take you down to Haggerston and all the way to Limehouse if you want.’

‘You sound as if you’re not coming back.’

‘I am. I’ve got every intention, but listen, Skin, this is real. We’ve left a trail of destruction: the two illegals, the cabbie and his friend, and now the two guys in Pike’s warehouse. We’ve got a hostage. But we’ve got no transport. We’ve got Pike after us, two mercenaries and soon we’ll have the police.’

‘You said it would take three days to match my DNA.’

‘We’re almost through the second day and you know what the cops are like. They’ve got people everywhere. Somebody from somewhere will have told them who’s looking for us,’ said Dan. ‘You think people love you so much they’d never snitch on you?’

Skin didn’t look in the slightest bit worried. Dan thought he couldn’t wait for him to leave so that he could get on with doing what he wanted to do: think with his cock.

‘If I don’t see you,’ said Dan, whacking him on the shoulder, ‘it’s been all right, Skin. Thanks.’

He made for the door.

‘You forgot somebody,’ said Skin, to the back of his head.

‘Who?’

‘The cabbie’s lot. They’ll be after us ’n’ all.’

Pike’s office and warehouse was in a double arched property under the railway line on St James Road in Bermondsey. The office was on a mezzanine above one of the arches and light came in through a semi-circular window at one end. Pike didn’t like too much daylight. He’d created another room with a stud wall behind the office, in which there was no natural light, only a mixture of yellow, green and red lighting. This sometimes made Kevin feel as if he was inside the cavernous Pike himself, listening to his noisy, noisome and restive habits, which were the same as those of a grossly obnoxious hound, meticulously lapping its parts over and over again.