‘And who else?’ asked Jat, impossible to impress.
‘Anwar Masood was in Karachi yesterday. He went to see Lieutenant General Abdel Iqbal, who then asked me to make my enquiries,’ said the agent. ‘Anwar Masood is D’Cruz’s unofficial security head . . .’
‘I know Anwar Masood. He’s a gangster,’ said Jat, cutting him dead, his mind in overdrive. ‘What else?’
The agent was used to this. Jat never gave him any picture. All he got was specific instructions. Curiosity was treated as suspicious. He always had to hold things back to maintain Jat’s attention and to ensure that he was invited to return.
‘There was one other thing,’ said the agent, ‘but I don’t want to talk about it because the picture is incomplete. I am awaiting a final report to come from Mumbai.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I only have one source.’
‘Which is?’
‘The police.’
‘Yes, and we know how reliable they are.’
‘It will take time to get it corroborated by the Indian Intelligence Bureau.’
‘Tell me.’
‘A British agent was shot this morning.’
‘Where?’
‘In Mumbai, the Dharavi slum.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘The police are interrogating one of Anwar Masood’s men.’
‘Does that mean they think he was responsible?’
‘That is unclear. The weapon used in the shooting has not been found.’
‘Why would Anwar Masood be going after a British MI6 agent?’
This was the point at which the special agent decided to turn off the information tap. Always leave Amir Jat with a question to turn over and over in his endlessly machinating mind.
‘This happened only a few hours ago. My police contact just phoned me. All I know is that Anwar Masood’s men came up against a rival gang and this Englishman was killed. What he was doing there is not known.’
‘And the rival gang?’
‘Nobody has been caught. The police investigation is still in progress.’
‘Find out more. I want to know everything,’ said Jat. ‘Go now.’
The agent stood, dithered in the customary way. Amir Jat gave him an envelope, dismissed him by looking out into the dark garden.
Amir Jat remained fixed in his seat behind the mosquito screens on the veranda. He sipped his now lukewarm boiled water, while his mind played in the three dimensional chess game of Pakistani politics and intelligence.
Questions seethed through his brain. Some were more straightforward than others: why had Anwar Masood gone to Lt General Iqbal and not directly to him? Unless there was some suspicion at his involvement in the kidnap. Perhaps Masood’s enquiry was a roundabout way of giving Jat the opportunity to clarify his position. Or was it? He was always wary of the answer that immediately presented itself. In this world there was always another layer or two of subterfuge.
Jat realised very quickly that he needed information and unfortunately most of that information was only available in London. As first light came up he was conscious, too, of the irony of this situation. He was regarding this attack on Frank D’Cruz, the man he hated most in the world, as an attack on himself. This inevitably led him down the path of the continuing antagonism of the Pakistan Taliban to his authority, to his connections, to his control of vital drug funds from Afghanistan. He needed to find out what they were doing as well.
In his office, while he searched through his passports for one suitable for a trip from Dubai to Paris, he made arrangements for his inside man in the Afghan Taliban to pay him a visit. Once that was done, he booked a flight from Karachi to Dubai, but then decided against booking a separate flight in a different name from Dubai to Paris. Instead he sent an encrypted email to an operative in the United Arab Emirates, asking him to make arrangements.
Finally, he called Lt General Iqbal in Karachi and asked him to gather as much information as possible, either from Anwar Masood or directly from Frank D’Cruz, on the nature of the kidnap of Alyshia D’Cruz. He also told Iqbal that he would take the first available military flight from Lahore down to Karachi and that he should meet him there at the airfield before he proceeded to the international airport.
Only then did he sit back and wait for some more water to boil.
Dan was stunned to see the two dead men, the viewing panel shattered, the diamonds of glass mixed with blood on the concrete floor. Somehow he’d expected to find Skin tied naked to a chair, head bloodied, lips split, eyes swollen.
‘Open the side door, get the van, drive it right in, close the door. You got that, Nurse?’ said Skin, with extraordinary command in his voice. ‘Nurse!’
‘You did it,’ said Dan.
‘Just fucking do what I tell you to do and get back in here with the vodkatini.’
Dan went out, elated, amazed, impressed by Skin’s sudden transformation into decisive hard man. He rolled up the side door, got into the van, reversed it into the warehouse. It was as if Skin was high on something. Yes, well, that’s what he said he always did before a job. But this seemed like something different. A better high than a dexy gave you. A real high. Yes. That was it. He was showing off. And who would Skin be showing off to? Not to him. Not Nurse Dan. It was the girl. He hadn’t thought about that possibility. He reversed the van in, lowered the door, took his syringe box, opened the back. On the way into the refrigeration unit, he grabbed the roll of carpet, dragged it along with him. This was an added dimension, he thought, as he looked through the empty frame of the viewing panel to find Skin, head cocked, appraising Alyshia in her underwear.
‘Let’s get her covered up,’ said Dan, stripping off the old latex gloves, stuffing them in his pocket, pulling on a new set.
‘With what?’ asked Skin, looking around. ‘Just put her out.’
‘I know your voices,’ she said, ‘you were in the house . . . where the cabbie took me.’
‘Shut it!’ roared Skin.
‘Don’t put me out,’ she said. ‘Please don’t put me out.’
‘Can’t take that risk,’ said Dan, who injected her through the cannula in her arm. She slumped back on the bed. They lifted her onto the roll of carpet.
‘She going to be all right in this?’ asked Skin. ‘Not going to suffocate or anything?’
‘I’ll open it out when we’re in the back, put her in the recovery position for the drive. She’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll go in the back with her,’ said Skin.
‘I thought I was the nurse.’
‘You are, but . . .’
‘But what?’ said Dan, giving him a hard look.
‘All right,’ said Skin. ‘What are we going to take from here?’
‘Everything on that desk for a start.’
Skin dragged a couple of plastic boxes over, found one was half full of cheap mobile phones, SIM cards. He dumped the electronic equipment from the desk on top, opened the drawer, emptied that in there, too. In the other box, which had restraints, gags, cuffs, eye masks, he put some files and the notebook Jordan had been using.
‘Check the bodies,’ said Skin.
Dan did Reecey first, lying face down with one arm still behind his back. Empty pockets. Not a thing. Not even a coin. He tried Jordan next and came up with one mobile phone switched off, nothing else.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘These guys . . .’
‘What?’
‘They’ve got nothing on them. No ID. No wallet. Nothing personal.’
‘Take that box; we’ll come back for the girl.’
They loaded the boxes, got Alyshia lying down in the back of the van, Dan sitting next to her, checking her vital signs.
‘Take these,’ said Dan, giving Skin a pair of latex gloves and the ethyl alcohol, ‘wipe down everything you’ve touched. It might be worth it.’
Skin went back into the refrigeration unit, pulling on the latex gloves, took one last look around. Hung for a bit to fool Dan and left turning
off the lights, closing the doors to the refrigeration unit.
‘That was quick,’ said Dan.
‘Didn’t touch much that would pick up prints.’
‘So you’re going to Rio with yours?’
‘What?’
‘This is a small island with a lot of people on it. You don’t last long with the police on your tail,’ said Dan. ‘You want me to go in there and do it for you?’
‘I’m fucked anyway.’
‘And what about me?’ said Dan. ‘We’re joined at the hip now.’
Skin started the van, pulled out, went back to shut the door, ducked underneath it as it came down. They left the warehouses, took a different route back through the Blackwall Tunnel, and then up north towards Mile End, where they headed west to the unit on Branch Place. It was 4.30 a.m. when Skin backed the van up to the double doors. They unloaded the girl, took her up to the flat.
‘You’d better get that van out of here,’ said Skin.
‘I’d better get that van out of here?’ said Dan. ‘What about my patient? I’m not leaving her until she’s conscious. Then I’ll give her a full medical. You move the van, and not just round the corner. We don’t want any link between that van and us here.’
‘You want me to spend a couple of hours wiping it down?’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Dan. ‘And we should clear it out, too. We’re not going anywhere near that van again. They find it, they’ll be watching it.’
‘What are you worried about?’
‘Time,’ said Dan. ‘Pike will know he’s got trouble by nine this morning. The police? We don’t know where they are yet.’
‘Police?’ said Skin, his brain stumbling a little, coming down from the dexy high.
‘There’ve been a few murders, if I recall,’ said Dan.
Amir Jat was packed and ready to go. His small case was in the back seat of his car and the driver was in position. Jat was on the veranda at the back, waiting for his last visitor. He was surprised to find himself in a state he’d rarely known: anxious. A situation had occurred which had wrested control from his claw-like hands.
He was aware that when two male animals were seen together as constant companions it was not because, in that sentimental western way of thinking, they liked each other. It was, rather, the reverse. They were inseparable because they had to keep an eye on each other, in case an advantage in mating or food rights should present itself. Hate was the binding factor. With the kidnap of D’Cruz’s daughter, Jat now felt exposed, as if he’d lost sight of his loathsome mate and it would somehow lead to catastrophe.
His next guest was his protégé, Mahmood Aziz. He came sauntering up the garden path, as if he had no more care in the world than to score a few runs in a local cricket match. But Jat knew he had masterminded some particularly ruthless bombing campaigns since Benazir Bhutto’s return to Pakistan, and had even claimed her assassination, which was not impossible, as he had long-established links with al-Qaeda. Jat and he had worked together closely since they’d planned the attacks on the NATO fuel convoys in retaliation for the US drone attacks.
Mahmood Aziz didn’t even look Pakistani. He had short hair, was clean-shaven and had a Western cast to his handsome face. He was the last person anyone would suspect of radical Islamic views. But what Jat particularly liked about the thirty-seven-year-old Aziz was that he had spent the first twelve years of his life in Upton Park. He even spoke English with a London accent. He thought that Aziz would have some very useful contacts for him.
Before they even uttered a word, Jat handed Aziz an envelope containing $10,000. He didn’t say what it was for. It was just a clear indication of his support for whatever Aziz had in mind. Aziz received the gift with both hands.
‘As-Salaam Alaikum,’ said Jat.
‘Wa-alaikum As-salam,’ replied Aziz.
They had a protracted discussion for several minutes about the health of family and friends. Jat’s demeanour was completely different with this man. He was full of the utmost respect. Finally, they sat, Aziz with tea made and poured by Jat.
‘Are you aware of any operations in progress in London at the moment?’ asked Jat.
‘By my people, no,’ said Aziz. ‘The Olympic Games are too obvious a target. The security situation is impossible. MI5 have stepped up their recruiting since 7/7 and the level of watchfulness is very high in all our communities. We have only just managed to root out the three double agents, who betrayed our plans for co-ordinated attacks in London, Paris and Berlin in 2010. We don’t want to give away any more of our structure than is already known to MI5, the DGSE and the BND. Our policy remains the same: look for weak targets, always launch with the benefit of surprise. I would be amazed if any other group had embarked on operations at a time like this.’
‘The operation that’s come to my attention was not a direct attack on an active target, but more of an auxiliary action, a diversionary tactic, a pressurising strategy,’ said Jat.
‘Are you able to be more specific?’ asked Aziz. ‘I mean, we are continuing a number of research projects, seeking targets for the future—’
‘No, no, this is something entirely different,’ said Jat. ‘A kidnap.’
‘For ransom?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Or obtaining information?’ said Aziz. ‘Forcing the government into an embarrassing position? Pressurising them to succumb to demands? But in London . . . that’s never been done before, I don’t think. I mean, it’s not so easy to hold someone secure in such a place, with so many people and the police with all their informers on the ground, plus MI5.’
‘So you think it unlikely that any of your groups would be involved in such an operation?’
‘I would have to confirm that to you, but yes, I think it extremely unlikely.’
‘Would you know of a group in London who could make something like that happen?’
‘What sort of a figure are we talking about? A politician, a business person?’
‘It’s less about the person, who is not someone obviously important. It’s more about the situation,’ said Jat. ‘It would be a question of finding the whereabouts of a hostage, and then taking over the kidnap from another group.’
19
7.05 A.M., TUESDAY 13TH MARCH 2012
Branch Place, Hackney, London N1
‘And where the fuck have you been?’ asked Dan, looking up from the files he’d been reading, pulling out his earbuds and turning off the voice recorder. ‘It’s past six o’clock.’
‘Growing my hair,’ said Skin. ‘My new disguise.’
He grinned, running his hand over his still shorn pate.
‘Where d’you put the van, Skin?’
‘Yeah, no, that’s why I’ve been so long. I had an idea.’
‘I don’t like you out there thinking all on your own.’
‘While you sit here swotting up for The Weakest Link?’
‘Mastermind, Skin,’ said Dan flatly. ‘Specialist subject: Alyshia D’Cruz. Where’s the van?’
‘I took it to my mate.’
‘What’s he going to do? Paint it pink and put in some curtains?’
‘No. I watched him stick it in the crusher. It’d fit under that table now.’
‘You took it to a breakers yard?’
‘That way they’ll never find it.’
‘What about the plates?’
‘They’re in the canal.’
‘And where’s your mate’s breakers yard?’
‘Three Colts Lane.’
‘That’s Bethnal Green,’ said Dan. ‘Nice and local for Pike to walk into. Does he know how to keep his mouth shut?’
‘Course he does, and he’s got some heavy help in the yard ’n’ all.’
‘It’s a bit bloody close for comfort.’
‘If I’d known a breakers yard in Watford, I’d have gone there, but I don’t,’ said Skin, annoyed. ‘And even if I did, how do you think they’d react to someone like me asking them to crush a car like, fuck
ing, now! I know this guy and he’s reliable.’
‘As long as he’s more scared of you than he is of someone else.’
‘Pike?’ said Skin, derisively. ‘Pike doesn’t know where he is on this side of the river. His SatNav stops at the Thames.’
‘So you keep telling me,’ said Dan. ‘At least you remembered the newspaper.’
‘How’s the patient?’ asked Skin, chucking him a copy of today’s Sun.
‘I don’t know, I sent her out to get some bacon sarnies half an hour ago and she hasn’t come back.’
‘Wasp got up your arse or what?’ said Skin, opening the bedroom door a crack, enough to see a lump in the bed.
‘She’s sleeping,’ he said. ‘Blood pressure, temperature and pulse are all normal. She’s in perfect condition. I handcuffed her to the bed. Is the Sun the best you could come up with? We don’t want them thinking we’re cretins.’
‘They’d run out of the Daily Star,’ said Skin, still looking into the bedroom.
‘Why don’t you make us a cup of tea?’
‘All right,’ he said, closing the door softly. ‘And you can tell me what you’ve found out about our specialist subject.’
‘Read it yourself.’
‘It sticks better when I’m told,’ said Skin. ‘I only ever look at the pictures in the Sun.’
‘You can’t play the thicko with me,’ said Dan. ‘You’re just being a lazy sod.’
‘So what were you listening to?’
‘The tapes of Jordan talking to Alyshia,’ said Dan. ‘That guy, I tell you, he was very highly trained.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’ve worked in mental hospitals. I’ve seen psychologists and psychiatrists in action. He was more aggressive in his style, which makes me think he was maybe military, like PsyOps or something. But I’m looking at his research and listening to him and he’s got all the interrogation techniques and a shedload of psychological profiling and analysis,’ said Dan. ‘And the notes he’s taken: there’s order to them. He scribbles shit down and then reorganises it into bullet points and then drafts questions to suit. Fucking brilliant.’
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