Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (40 page)

Tahira nodded. ‘That’s what he said – that I might not see him again here, but that he was certain we would meet in future.’

‘Yes. I am sure that’s what he thought,’ said Liz, and Tahira seemed satisfied by this explanation.

But Liz wasn’t. From where she sat in the car, she could see down the side of the stage to the park. It was a sad sight on that late-summer afternoon: the litter-strewn field, the stage being dismantled, and two white-coated orderlies lifting a stretcher into the back of an ambulance.

Her mind was full of questions. If Malik really had cared for Tahira, would he have wanted to murder her? It certainly looked as if he’d intended to. But did he actually believe he would see her again in Paradise? As far as Liz understood, the celestial rewards were reserved for martyrs – and though Malik might have considered himself a martyr, it was hard to see how his killing Tahira would have made her one as well.

No, he must just have seen her, like the Chick Peas and everyone else at the concert – men, women and children – as a sacrifice, to be killed in pursuit of his objective. And what was that objective anyway? Was it his personal desire to become a martyr, or did he really think of himself as a warrior in a justified war, defending his religion?

Yet he’d had more than half a chance to do what he’d set out to do. He could have exploded his suicide belt at any minute – he’d had plenty of time, even after he’d spotted the armed police coming towards him. The Chick Peas would have escaped – he hadn’t got close enough to the stage – but he could have killed dozens of ‘Infidels’, mainly silly teenage girls, having fun at a harmless entertainment that he disliked.

So why hadn’t he? Why didn’t he pull the cord as soon as he thought he would be captured or shot? If he was the loyal
jihadi
that he seemed to have been, why hadn’t he gone ahead and achieved his aim?

It didn’t make sense. All these contradictions – to kill but not to kill; to kill a friend but not to kill strangers. There’d never be an answer now. Not with Malik lying dead on a stretcher.

There was only one thing left to do – look after the living. Liz put her arm round Tahira’s shoulders again as Fontana arrived back at the car. This girl still had a life ahead of her.

Chapter 62

‘Liz around?’

Peggy looked up to find Kanaan Shah standing in front of her desk. ‘No, she’s away for a few days. Holiday.’

‘Well deserved.’

‘I’ll say. How’s it going with you?’

‘Fine, thanks. I’ve just come from seeing Salim and Jamila. The Boatmans. They’re adjusting pretty well, all things considered. Jamila would love to see Liz sometime.’

‘Liz said she’d visit her as soon as she gets back.’

‘Good. I’ve got something here for you both to read. The last sentence is mind-boggling.’

He handed a ragged piece of newsprint to Peggy. It was a cutting from a recent edition of the
Birmingham Asian News
:

Local cleric Abdi Bakri has strenuously denied police allegations that he masterminded a plot to detonate an explosive device at a pop concert. A 27-year-old man identified as Malik Sukari, a native-born resident of Birmingham, was shot dead by Special Branch officers during the concert, featuring the all-girl Indian group, the Chick Peas.

Labelled a suicide bomber by police, Sukari was found to have been wearing a belt containing enough explosive, in the words of one officer, ‘to blow up half of Birmingham’.

Somalia-born Bakri, founder of the New Springfield Mosque, claimed he was the victim of a smear campaign designed to link him not only with Sukari but also with four British Pakistanis, all members of his Birmingham mosque, who were recently arrested during the attempted hijacking of an Athens-registered tanker off the Horn of Africa.

Speaking to the
Asian News
, Bakri said, ‘I had no knowledge that these young men were going to Somalia and did not assist them in any way. As for Sukari, he was acting entirely on his own, and I do not condone what he did – though when the Western powers are daily killing our Muslim brothers all over the world, actions like his must be expected.’

Bakri claimed to have been a victim of religious persecution as a young man in Somalia, and said he would resist any efforts by British authorities to deport him there.

Bakri also announced that he planned to ask for political asylum from the UK government.

In the UCSO Athens office, Anastasia was typing a letter for Claude Rameau when Falana walked across to her desk. It was Thursday afternoon, the usual time for the two girls to discuss which club to go to on Saturday night. But Anastasia could see something else was on Falana’s mind – her dark eyes were wide with excitement.

‘I’ve just seen Elena. She said a policeman’s been to see Mr Berger,’ she whispered.

Anastasia sighed. ‘It’ll just be about poor Maria Galanos again, I bet.’ The police had visited the office so many times that their visits had become routine.

‘Yes, but not in the way you think. They were asking about Mr Miandad.’

‘Mo?’ she asked, not being as deferential as Falana.

Her friend nodded. ‘Yes. They wanted to know where he was. Mr Berger said we hadn’t seen him here for weeks and they should ask the shipping agency, but the police said they already had. No one knows where he is.’

Anastasia scoffed. ‘He’s probably run off with yet another woman.’ They had heard about Katherine Ball’s arrest in London, and decided she must have been the blonde who had been spotted with Miandad in a sleazy hotel.

‘No. That’s not it,’ said Falana. ‘Apparently they want to talk to him about the murder of Maria Galanos.’

‘They think Mo knows something about that?’

‘They think he did it.’

‘Mother of God! No wonder he’s disappeared. I wonder where he’s gone.’

‘Pakistan,’ said a voice, and the girls looked up to see Alex Limonides in the doorway. ‘That’s where he’ll be. And they’ll never find him there.’

‘Coke and a slice of lemon,’ said the CIA Station Head, London, Andy Bokus. ‘Lots of ice.’

The Athenaeum Club wine waiter allowed the merest flicker of surprise to cross his face. But when Fane ordered a glass of Chablis, he smiled.

Bokus leaned forward and said, ‘I hear one of your former colleagues has gotten the push.’

‘Who might that be?’ asked Fane mildly, though he knew full well who Bokus was talking about. David Blakey had resigned as Director of UCSO three days before. Word must have travelled fast if Bokus already knew about it.

‘You know who I mean. What exactly did he do? Get caught with his pants down? I hear it’s not the first time.’

‘Something like that,’ said Fane mildly.

‘He got taken for a ride by that Ball woman. Some piece of work she is. I hope she gets all the payback that’s coming to her.’

‘Evidence, Andy. Evidence. We’ll have to see what we can prove. Her partner in crime, that Pakistani shipping agent Miandad, has disappeared.’

‘Yeah, I heard that. He’ll be in the tribal region by now. The only thing that’ll get him is a drone.’

Their drinks came, and Fane decided on a charm offensive. ‘Cheers, Andy,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Nice to see you in more peaceful surroundings. Last time we met, the fur was flying off the Horn.’

Bokus grunted and studied the menu. He had been furious that the British Special Forces had gone into Somalia without even informing the American warship that had been especially despatched to provide firepower.

Fane couldn’t resist rubbing it in. ‘Sorry you couldn’t take part in the show, but I think you’d agree our chaps handled the whole thing rather successfully. We managed to pull MI5’s irons out of the fire and get their chap out safely. Can’t think what he was doing there in the first place. Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I hope it was useful for your lot to see how we do things.’

Bokus’ face turned red.

‘Well, we should order,’ said Fane, taking up the little pad to write the order down. ‘What will you have, Andy?’

‘I’ll have the lobster. A whole one,’ Bokus said angrily, ignoring Fane’s raised eyebrow. ‘And I’ll start with the caviar.’

God knows what they’d make of his expense account this month, thought Fane, but he’d happily have paid for dinner himself just to see Bokus’ reaction to being . . . what did the Americans say? Ribbed?
Yes, that was it.
Ribbed
.

For a luxury cruise ship, the SS
Tiara
was small, but its amenities were second to none. An indoor pool, an outdoor pool, three restaurants (including a sumptuous seafood buffet), a bar that literally never closed, a casino and a live entertainment show each evening (admittedly pretty dire), and enough boutiques to keep the most shopaholic matron satisfied.

After Dave Armstrong had been freed from the pirate compound on the Somalian coast, he’d spent three days on board a French corvette sailing back to the Mediterranean, from where he’d been choppered to the French naval base in Toulon. There he’d been debriefed by a pleasant man from the French DGSE, Martin Seurat, whom he’d met the previous year when an operation had ended in France. Seurat had kept in touch with Liz Carlyle and, from what Dave had heard, they were now an item. Then an MI6 officer from Paris had turned up to question him; he’d assumed Dave would want to fly back to England straight away and had offered to arrange it.

But Dave knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn’t a flight back to England. He needed a break. He wanted to go somewhere comfortable but not over the top; somewhere where he could do nothing and be alone when he wanted to, but with people around if he felt like socialising. In short, somewhere where he could completely relax.

So, instead of flying to London, he had joined the
Tiara
, which was sailing from Toulon, down the coast of Italy and up the Adriatic to Venice. The shipping agents for the
Tiara
were contacts of the DGSE, and after Martin Seurat had spoken to their CEO, it turned out that there was a vacant berth in first class and that Dave would be welcome on board as an honoured guest of the company.

Now as the ship cruised gently through the Ligurian Sea, he looked out from the deck at the coast of Italy in the evening sunshine and saw the island of Elba rising from the deep blue water. He found himself beginning to feel very fortunate to be alive.

He thought of his narrow escape from the pen in Somalia. It was the second time he’d been abducted within the space of a year. Was he getting careless? Had his capture each time been his own fault? It was hard to say. He still loved his work, but without the youthful passion he had brought to it during his early years in the Service. Now, there were times when he’d encounter a situation and feel an almost weary sensation of déjà vu, a feeling that he’d seen the same thing many times before. There were only so many variations to an intelligence operation, only so many different kinds of terrorist to pursue or agent to run. Maybe he was just getting stale. Maybe it was time to look for another job.

He was paid to risk his life if necessary, but that hadn’t made it any less frightening when he was faced with the imminent prospect of death. If Taban hadn’t got away, who knows how long it would have taken the SAS to find the compound. And by then he might well have been tortured, or murdered, or both, by the fanatics who’d taken him captive.

He owed a lot to the African boy, whom he’d seen again on the French corvette. He had even been able to help him after explaining to the French crew that he owed his life to Taban. The Captain – was it Thibault? Some name like that – had understood at once, and when Martin Seurat had come aboard, the two of them had talked about Taban and promised Dave that they would do their best to help him stay in France, where he could get an education. Dave was glad he had done something for the boy, and he had promised to keep in touch with him through Martin Seurat.

As they sailed smoothly on down the coast of Italy he pushed the buzzer on the table in front of him. When the waiter came, he ordered a gin and tonic – a large one.

The days wore gently on. The ship called at Naples and Dave stirred himself enough to join the organised trip to Pompeii, where he listened to the guide’s account of the eruption of Vesuvius, and bought some postcards in the gift shop, which he didn’t send.

A few days later, as he was sitting on deck at his favourite table, he looked up and saw Mount Etna silhouetted against a deep blue sky, snow-capped and majestic, with a trail of smoke wafting from one of its volcanic cones. The waiter brought his drink, and when he’d gone Dave raised his glass. This volcano was alive; so, by the skin of his teeth, was Dave.