Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (9 page)

‘And what happened to them after that?’ asked Liz.

‘Most came back. I got three names from Boatman and they’re under surveillance. But the interesting thing is that at least two others don’t seem to have returned.’

And now those in the present group were being offered the chance to travel to Pakistan as well, to ‘study’, they were told, with a renowned imam near the Afghan border.

Kanaan said, ‘Boatman is asking me what he should do. We’re stalling for the moment, but they’ve started to put him under pressure. Boatman told Abdi Bakri he couldn’t afford to leave his job for long – they’ve said he’d be gone at least two months. But now the imam has explained that all his costs would be met, and that if he lost his job they would help find him another one when he returned.’

If
he returned, thought Liz. ‘Who’s they?’ she asked.

‘The imam and his associates at the New Springfield Mosque.’

Liz thought hard for a minute. If Boatman went to Pakistan, he might be able to discover what had happened to those who didn’t come back. But the pressing requirement was for information about people in England, particularly Amir Khan. ‘When has he got to give them a definite yes or no?’

‘Pretty soon, I think. As I say, they’re beginning to put the pressure on and if he doesn’t either agree to go or come up with a convincing reason why he can’t, they’re going to get suspicious. I’m afraid he may be frozen out and then we’ll lose our access.’

Liz told Kanaan about Amir Khan and how he had come into the hands of the French Navy off the Somalian coast.

‘That’s not a name that rings any bells,’ Kanaan said with a shake of his head. ‘But I’ll look back at my reports to see if it’s been mentioned. There’d be a trace in the files if Boatman ever said anything significant about him.’

‘There isn’t. Peggy has looked him up.’

‘I’ll ask if he can find out anything.’

‘Tell him to go easy,’ Liz cautioned. ‘I’d sooner he did nothing than have his cover blown.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be careful. He’s pretty sensible. But what do you think about Pakistan? Should he go? He doesn’t want to, but he’ll do it if I tell him it’s important.’

‘I’m going up to talk to Khan’s parents tomorrow with the local DI. Let’s wait till we hear what they have to say. Who’s your group leader?’

‘Nicholas Carraway.’

Liz nodded. She didn’t know him well, but he had a good reputation. ‘OK. Let’s all get together when I come back from Birmingham and we’ll make a decision then. If anything comes up in the meantime, let Peggy know.’

Chapter 12

Liz had half an hour before she needed to leave to catch the train for Birmingham. She closed her office door and started to type a note for the file about her conversation with Amir Khan. She hadn’t completed more than a few words when the door opened a crack and a familiar face peered in. Her heart sank.

‘Good afternoon, Elizabeth,’ said Geoffrey Fane. She was convinced he used her full name just to annoy her.

‘Geoffrey,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

‘Just passing through. Had to see Charles on a minor matter, and my secretary said you’d rung.’

At the mention of Charles Wetherby, Liz’s eyes narrowed. She suspected Fane had brought his name up on purpose. She saw very little of Charles these days, and Fane, who prided himself on knowing everyone’s business, would be aware of that.

Fane himself was divorced and never seemed to have any close female companion. Peggy was convinced that he was keen on Liz and had been jealous when her relationship with Charles Wetherby had grown close. Now that it no longer was, perhaps he fancied his chances.

Liz’s professional dealings with Fane had always been edgy, but they’d hit rock bottom a few years ago at the time of an investigation into a Russian illegal in Britain. That case had ended badly, with an unnecessary death – tragic by any measure. Fane had been deeply shaken, and for a time it seemed to Liz that he’d been humanised by his role in the débâcle. But in the last year he had gone back to his former ways: arrogant, patronising and manipulative.

Now he said, ‘So how are things across the Channel?’

‘Where precisely?’

‘In Paris, of course,’ Fane said cheerfully. ‘I gather you’re there quite often these days. Our mutual friend Bruno Mackay says he’s run across you several times.’

Liz face was expressionless as she looked at him How dare you? she was thinking. Standing here in my office, in your beautifully cut suit, with your arrogant expression, poking around in my private life. But all she said was, ‘Yes, my work does take me to Paris from time to time. As you know I’m our main liaison with the French services on counter-terrorism.’

‘I know there’s one French service you are very involved with,’ he replied, and she could see he was struggling to keep a smile off his face.

‘I wouldn’t believe everything Bruno Mackay tells you.’ Mackay was number two at MI6’s station in Paris, and an old sparring partner of Liz’s. Clever, self-confident (over-confident Liz would have said), charming if he wished to be, yet often simply arrogant, Bruno had always enjoyed teasing her. So he knew about Martin Seurat, she thought crossly. She was perfectly happy for people to know she was seeing Martin, but she disliked the thought of being gossiped about, especially by Bruno Mackay and Fane.

‘Sadly I’m going to have to find a new source of information from Paris.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Liz. She had seen Bruno at the embassy only last month.

‘We’re posting Bruno.’ And before Liz could ask where, Fane leaned over her desk and said teasingly, ‘Will you be my source of Paris social news then, Elizabeth?’

She gave a thin-lipped smile and shook her head, hoping he’d had his fun and would now get to the point. She said, ‘I have a train to catch – and before you ask, no, it’s not to Paris.’

‘What I was wondering,’ said Fane, sitting down in her visitor’s chair, ‘was how it went with this Amir Khan character. I heard that the French had asked for your help. Did you get anything out of him?’

‘I was just writing up my report when you came in. Khan hasn’t opened up at all to the French and he wasn’t much more forthcoming with me. I was going to come and tell you about it.’

‘He wouldn’t talk at all?’

‘Silence wasn’t the problem.’ She told him about Khan’s long-winded monologue, and how he’d obviously decided to try and bury her in words. ‘We’ve learned he went to Pakistan eight months ago and didn’t come back. I tried to get him to say how he’d got to Somalia, but he just fed me a cock-and-bull story. He even claimed the pirates had taken
him
prisoner. ‘

‘That’s disappointing,’ said Fane, with a note of mild reproof.

‘I thought so too,’ admitted Liz cheerfully. ‘But then he slipped up.’ She waited while Fane looked at her with undisguised curiosity. ‘I asked him who had given him his orders in Pakistan, and before he thought, he said that it hadn’t been in Pakistan.’

‘Ah-ha,’ said Fane approvingly.

Liz felt as if she’d been awarded a gold star by the headmaster. ‘Frankly, he’s pretty green. I think his defiance is a big act and underneath he’s scared stiff. Though if he’s scared of us, I think he’s even more scared of whoever got to him in the first place.’

‘Well, he’s got that right. We might keep him in prison but we’re not going to kill him.’

‘He claimed the French Navy chaps roughed him up.’

‘They probably did,’ said Fane dismissively. ‘The
Marine Nationale
can be a little over-zealous. But if he didn’t get his instructions in Pakistan, where did he get them? Here?’

‘Possibly. Or in some other country he went to after Pakistan. That’s why I rang you when I got back; I thought you might be able to help.’

The trace of a smile touched Fane’s lips. Liz knew he was pleased. He liked nothing better than to be asked for help, particularly by her. At heart he was an old-fashioned chauvinist, instinctively assuming superiority over all women. There were still a few of that breed left in Liz’s own service. She thought particularly of Michael Binding, most recently her boss in Northern Ireland. He could not take any advice from a woman, but expected only to issue orders and receive slavish agreement; if that wasn’t forthcoming, he got angry and shouted.

But Geoffrey Fane was a much more complex character. Fane positively enjoyed disputes, though he was always sure he was right. He liked to watch Liz getting angry when he did something to annoy her. She knew that and therefore tried always to keep her temper. But it was difficult to do when she found him out, as had often happened, in some outrageous piece of double-dealing or concealment. He would show enough grace to apologise, though she always felt that even then he was secretly enjoying his own cleverness.

Fane leaned back in his chair and crossed one flannelled leg over the other. ‘Do you know anything about the ship the pirates tried to hijack?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Liz immediately felt cross with herself, since she hadn’t pursued that angle of the investigation at all. She made a mental note to ask Peggy to look into it. ‘I know the ship is called the
Aristides
.’

‘That’s right,’ said Fane approvingly. Again, she felt as if she were being patted on the head. ‘It was leased by a charity called UCSO. Quite coincidentally, I had a call from the charity’s director, a chap named Blakey. Used to be one of us – Head of Station in Hong Kong for a good while. He’s based here in London, though UCSO also have an office in Athens.’

Liz’s antennae were vibrating now. ‘Did he say anything about the hijack attempt?’

‘He mentioned it,’ said Fane airily. Something in the tone of his voice struck her as suspicious. She knew he was holding something back. Then he said, ‘Tell you what: let me have another word with him. It could be that the hijack attempt and the fact the ship was an UCSO one are connected. If they are, we’ll need to liaise closely.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘You’ll enjoy that, Elizabeth. We work well together.’

Chapter 13

There was no need for introductions. Liz could recognise a Special Branch officer in the dark. DI Fontana clearly felt the same about MI5 officers; he strode up to her as she walked towards the end of the platform at Birmingham New Street station and greeted her with a handshake. ‘Liz Carlyle,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

He was tall, lean, athletic-looking – and disconcertingly blond, thought Liz, given his Italian surname. They walked towards his car, which was parked on a double yellow line outside the station.

‘You sound as if you’ve lived here all your life.’

‘I’m third-generation Brummie. My grandfather came over from Italy in the thirties; he couldn’t be doing with Mussolini. He made his living selling ice cream from a van – a real Eyetie,’ the DI said with a grin. ‘Then he married an English woman.’ He raked a hand through his blond hair. ‘That’s how I got this.’

‘Tell me about the Khans.’

‘I started as a beat policeman, and for a few years I was stationed in Sparkhill. That’s when I got to know them. I used to stop in at one of their shops sometimes – you know, for a chat and a quick cup of tea. Shopkeepers like to keep in touch with the local bobby and they always seem to know what’s going on in their neighbourhood. It’s a two-way process. Not that I’d say I know them well . . . not nowadays anyway.’

‘Do they have other children?’

‘Lots. Amir must have six or seven brothers and sisters. I could never keep track of them all, though I do remember him as a little boy. He’s the youngest – unless his mum’s had any more since then, but she’s getting a bit long in the tooth now. She doted on Amir. Mr Khan was very strict with all the kids; too strict, I’d say.’

Not a good combination, thought Liz. It would have made the boy keen to cut his mother’s apron strings as well as want to rebel against his father.

Fontana went on, ‘When I first knew them the family had two corner shops; now they must own a dozen. One of them’s a small supermarket.’

‘So Mr Khan’s done well.’

‘The whole family has,’ Fontana said. ‘It’s a team effort. The kids are put to work in the shops pretty much when they start school. God knows how many child labour laws their father’s broken. Still, he’s a classic Asian success story. It’s a pity it hasn’t rubbed off on the next generation.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘With Amir?’ said Fontana, glancing over at her as he stopped at traffic lights. They’d reached the Stratford Road, an urban High Street with residential streets running off it like spokes.

The lights changed. Fontana pointed ahead towards a park on their right: acres of grass ringed by tall weeping birches, only now fully leafing. ‘That’s Springfield Park,’ he said, and Liz wondered why he wasn’t answering her question. ‘In a way, it’s a symbol of what’s happened to parts of the Asian community here. One of the Royals is supposed to come at the end of the summer to dedicate a new playground. Yet the older generation – Mr Khan, for example – never set foot in the place. They’re too busy running and expanding their businesses, completely focused on financial success.

‘They want success for their kids too, but they want them to become professionals. They drive them hard to do well at school; they’ve got to be top of the class, go to uni, become doctors or lawyers. But at home the likes of Mr Khan still cling to the more traditional Pakistani way of life: his wife stays in the house; he arranges marriages for his daughters; socially they only mix within the Pakistani community. It’s not surprising that some of the next generation rebel. They meet people at school who have a very different way of life, and they want some of it too. So they conform at home, but when they get the chance they’ll be hanging out in the park, smoking and drinking, and going to watch American films.’