“It had to be asked,” Hedge snapped.
“But differently put. Your way, it kind of sounded as if you were blaming her. Maybe it was your tone.”
“I’m sorry!”
They walked on, heading back for the Foreign Office: a score of times Hedge nearly lost his life in the traffic: he always crossed roads as though one wave of his umbrella would bring London to a halt. Shard said, “A little progress but in effect leading to another dead end. No names, only a vague description that could fit anyone from Tunis to Mecca via Port Said, and a clutch of possible embassies.”
“We do have a positive link now, though.”
“With the Middle East — sure! We pretty well had that already, hadn’t we?”
*
On arrival back at his desk, Shard was given word by Detective Sergeant Kenwood: the Cabinet was meeting at 1430 hours in Downing Street and his presence as co-ordinator was ordered. The brass wanted a report. Shard took a pub lunch in the Sherlock Holmes off Northumberland Avenue, wishing he were half as good a sleuth: Holmes would have had this lot sewn up in one tailwag of a Baskerville hound. At 1415 he was receiving the salute of the copper outside Number Ten. The meeting started a little late as the brass finished its after-lunch brandy, and it started with post-prandial bonhomie — too much bonhomie, Shard thought, feeling sour at an overall lack of real, basic concern. They were all there, with sundry co-options, under the lowering eye of the Prime Minister: Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary, Secretary for the Environment, Secretary for Health and Social Security Commissioner of Metropolitan Police who greeted Shard as an old member of staff, Minister of Defence together with his acolytes for Navy, Army and Air Force. A very full muster: Shard felt flattered as he gave his report to a largely attentive audience. But the attention wandered when he moved into speculation as to what might happen if the malevolent stockpiles of the Chemical Defence Establishment should be breached. They just didn’t believe him, mostly; except for the Defence Minister, who had clearly been briefed by Henry Carver, they tended to jeer. Maybe it was the brandy’s afterglow; but Shard, growing angrier, thought them a bunch of fools with their heads firmly in the sand. The Chemical Defence Establishment, according to the Home Secretary, was watertight.
“Against a bomb?” This was the Defence Minister, in reference to his own department; if anyone carried weight, he should.
“The size of bomb is important, is it not?”
“Of course. How do we know these people haven’t big stuff at their disposal?”
A laugh: “My dear chap, we don’t even know who ‘these people’ are, yet! We really can’t have the country panicked — have you any conception of the interference to life that would be caused?” Home Secretarial eyes rolled to the ornate work of the ceiling. “Hospital services, police, social services, the armed forces to back the civil power — we certainly haven’t enough civil police to cope with all the enforcement of the regulations that would become necessary. Believe me, it’s just not on.”
“But look here —”
“I repeat — whatever you say —”
Shard caught the eye of the Prime Minister across the barneying table: there was a shrewd glint, half of amusement, half of anger, in that eye, and Shard took what he fancied might be a hint. He got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said loudly. “Gentlemen, please.” One by one the voices subsided: silence reigned. Shard said, “I’m not asking for anything like full precautions yet. I have a lot to do, a lot to find out — though meantime I would like some awareness in the Worthing area. At least I think the hospital and local doctors should be warned, though I understand my own chief doesn’t agree.” He glanced towards the FO’s Head of Security, who looked down at his blotter and doodled with a Biro. “Also I think some excuse could and should be manufactured for moving troops into the South Downs. As for Porton, Salisbury Plain can do some troop shifting too — it’s in their area. The general public needn’t know the reason. All that apart, what I’m most positively asking for now is this: that all concerned ministries and departments should plan at once for a possible national emergency … involving not thousands, not hundreds of thousands, but millions of casualties!” He thumped a fist into his palm, raised his voice louder to the assembled brass: “When it comes, it’ll be sudden, that’s obvious. It’ll be too late then. We have to be ready now.”
*
Walking back through to the Foreign Office, Shard looked at his watch: Mrs Micklam would by now be ensconced in Worthing. Her aged aunt, saved by Mrs Micklam’s Samaritan act from becoming a statistic in the geriatric department, lived in — where was it? — Heene Road. Close to the sea … if the bloating sickness should reach Heene Road, the old lady could be wheeled in for a dip, which might also save Mrs Micklam. But never mind Mrs Micklam: in Worthing itself there were upwards of 65,000 people, and a lot more in the adjacent areas. So far, not one of them knew a thing. In a sense that was just as well: Shard had to recognise the opposing point of view. Lavington hadn’t seemed inclined to panic, and he should know. But the line was a thin one and the limits had to be recognised in the very moment that they thinned even more. Time could be short or long: right now there was no knowing. Shard reported to Hedge, who had just returned from a monumental lunch at the Athenaeum in compensation for self-fending at home. He said, “I don’t know how much ice I cut, Hedge, but the feeling was against me.”
“We’ll be told soon. In the meantime, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to find that non-Arab Arab. Or try to.”
Hedge said, “A needle in a haystack. Isn’t there anything else?” His internal line burred and he answered, looked up. “For you, Shard. Your detective sergeant.”
Shard took the receiver. “Yes, Harry?”
“Two reports, sir. One from Dr Lavington. Porton Down’s okay, nothing known to be missing and security tight. The other’s more kind of operative, sir.”
“Let’s have it, then, for God’s sake —”
“Yes, sir. Surrey Police, Guildford nick. They have word that one of the villains who shot up the mobile has been arrested at Gatwick — anyway, they think it could be him. He’s being taken to Guildford now. Any orders, sir?”
“I’ll be right down. Thanks, Harry.” Shard returned the receiver to its rest. “Action, Hedge. You wanted something else — maybe we have it now.”
He left the room, feeling a surge of excitement and anticipation.
9
“How,” SHARD ASKED in the Guildford police headquarters, “did they latch onto this villain, Mr Gotham?”
“Arrested on suspicion, under the 1974 act.”
“What, precisely, aroused this suspicion?”
The superintendent blew smoke. “Initially, it was a matter of luck. There was a passport irregularity —”
“Irregularity?”
“It appeared to be forged, Mr Shard. The man was questioned and then searched. He became unco-operative and violent. They found this.” Gotham reached into a drawer of his desk and produced a certificate of AA membership which he handed to Shard: it was made out in the name of a Mr K.P.L. Carmichael.
Shard asked, “Well?”
“Our villain was fairly obviously no Carmichael. We’ve been given details of the passport. Saudi Arabian, issued by their London embassy in the name of Ibrahim Azzam. That may or may not be a false name, but we can check —”
“You haven’t done so?”
“No, sir. I advised Gatwick to wait instructions from you. I thought you’d wish that.”
“You thought right, Superintendent. I’ll deal with that after I’ve seen the man.” Shard waved the AA membership certificate. “This Carmichael. Does the name mean anything at all?”
The superintendent was smiling. “It does indeed. The vehicle that got away — the one Mrs Hedge was in — we traced it via Stolen and Suspect Vehicle Index at C.R.O. As expected, it had been stolen, and it —”
“Belonged to a Mr K.P.L. Carmichael?”
&nb
sp; “Right, sir.”
Shard grinned. “Well done, Superintendent! Now I’d like to see Mr Azzam.”
*
Chance, as ever, played a big part in detection: it had been careless of the owner to leave his AA certificate in the car, but for the fact that he had done so Shard was deeply grateful. From the fact that the villains had evidently seen a use for it, Shard made the deduction that one at least had been of white complexion; though why it had finally turned up in Azzam’s possession was currently a mystery. The answer to that as well as other matters might shortly be dug out. On the way to the cells Gotham told Shard that Azzam was still violent: there had been fireworks when he was being taken to the police car at Gatwick, again en route, and again on his way to the cells. He was being guarded now by four constables in spite of being handcuffed.
“I think,” Shard said, “I’ll take the cuffs as sufficient security, Superintendent.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“I can take care of myself. You’ll agree. I’m sure, that questioning is best done without an audience.”
“That’s as maybe, sir.”
Shard stopped and faced Gotham. “You sound unhappy. We have a good lead, a positive one. For reasons that may soon become all too clear, I aim to follow it up all the way through and I may have to become unkind. D’you follow?”
Gotham nodded. “I think I do, sir. With respect, I must remind you this is my nick. I don’t want —”
“Never mind what you want, Superintendent. I shall take all the responsibility and the less you know the better. Now: the PCs to be removed, please.”
“As you wish, sir.” Gotham was being formal; he didn’t like this but, as the gaoler opened up the cell door to admit Shard, he gave the order. The four constables withdrew. Shard went in and the cell was again locked. In one corner a thickset Arab stood, glowering with his back to the wall and his hands in the steel cuffs in front of his body. Shard looked at him in silence for a few moments: he saw red-flecked eyes, watchful eyes, full red lips in a clean-shaven face. The man was keeping very still but there was an inherent threat, the threat of a desire to kill, in the very way he was holding his hands with the fingers open and the cuffs stretched as far apart as they would go.
Remaining by the locked door, Shard said, “You’re Ibrahim Azzam?”
There was no answer.
“If you’re not, we shall know soon. But I doubt if your identity’s of particular importance. We have your body, and that’s what counts.” He paused, watching the Arab closely. “Vulnerable things — bodies. Do you agree?”
The Arab’s lips bunched and a stream of saliva shot out, the head striking forward like a snake. Shard laughed. “That breaks no bones. Have you anything you wish to tell me … in order to avoid trouble, perhaps?”
The Arab glared, an almost mad look of naked hate. “I have complaints. I know, I think, your laws. I have been improperly treated.”
“In what way, Mr Azzam?”
The handcuffs rattled. “I am in a cell, but not charged with any crime. I have committed no crime. I should be in the charge room, not a cell.”
“That’s for your own protection. You might damage police property!” Shard grinned, icily. “We do the same with drunks. In the meantime, I’m not having you charged formally. This is a time for questions — and answers, Mr Azzam. Those answers I mean to get, so —”
“Who are you?”
“Detective Chief Superintendent Shard — from London. Just to forestall your next question, I have the authority to hold you without charge and incommunicado for five days under current anti-terrorist regulations. I propose to use my authority, Mr Azzam, and do not propose to inform the Saudi Arabian Embassy in the meantime. I hope that’s quite clear. A lot can happen in five days, and believe me, it will. Is that clear too?”
The eyes blazed more than ever. “These are threats?”
“These are certainly threats,” Shard said evenly. “Having digested that, you can digest the questions. First, I want to know what you and your associates intending doing with the lady you kidnapped —”
“I know of no kidnap.”
“Don’t give me that,” Shard said. “We know. Remember Mr Carmichael? And don’t lose sight of the fact that you may be charged with the murder of a man in Eaton Square. If your associates don’t drop into the bag, Mr Azzam, you’ll stand the rap for that on your tod … whether or not you’re the one who actually killed him. There are other matters that I’ll be going into soon, but for now I want to know about the kidnap. Along with that, I want to know the name of your organisation and the names of all your associates and contacts in this country — all of them.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“I’d advise you, strongly, to have second thoughts. Now we have your body, Mr Azzam, we can find out plenty by patient checking. But that takes time, and time’s short. And I have a funny feeling, Mr Azzam, that you know just what I mean by that. I’m asking you, in your own interest as well as ours, to shorten the proceedings. I —”
He broke off sharp: Azzam was a fast mover. Without a flicker in his expression, he had launched himself as it were into space, straight at Shard. Just in time Shard dodged left; Azzam, who had seemed as though he must crash into the cell door, landed lightly in a crouching stance like a wild animal at bay, breathing heavily through his over-red lips. From the corner of his eye Shard was aware of Gotham peering through the spy-hole from outside, and then, in a flash, Azzam was on the move again. This time. Shard was not quite fast enough: the Arab came down on him heavily, his sheer weight bringing Shard to the floor with a crash. The Arab’s fingers went round his throat, squeezing powerfully. With every last ounce of his strength, Shard brought his knees up into the thick chest and forced upwards. The arms began to straighten but the grip on Shard’s throat failed to slacken: just in time, the cell door banged back against the wall and men poured in.
*
“I did warn you,” Gotham said, not without a certain grim irony. “Feeling better, are you?”
“Yes.” Black coffee and a shot of Scotch had helped. “The man’s stark, staring mad — must be!”
“Aren’t they all?” Gotham said gloomily.
“It was so bloody pointless!”
“Not to him, Mr Shard. It’s all pointless really — all the killing of the innocents. Don’t forget, I’ve had it right here in my patch!”
“I know, Superintendent.” Shard rubbed at the back of his neck: there would be brusing there soon. Meanwhile it felt half broken. “Well, I’m wasting time right now. Part Two’s due to begin!”
Gotham cocked an eye at him. “What’s that to be, then?”
“I’m taking over custody of Azzam as of now, that’s what. Personal custody. I have to get my answers — it’s vital. I’ll want your help, Superintendent, and here’s how: I’ve taken your point about violence. I’m asking you for an escort of six PCs under a sergeant. Your best men — best in the sense of discretion, of not being liable to open their mouths afterwards. All right?”
“To go where?” Gotham asked.
“Into West Sussex.”
“You know as well as I do, my fiat doesn’t run there.”
“But mine does. Rustle up those men pronto, if you please, Superintendent.” Shard’s tone was brisk and authoritative. “And I’ll want a van, a closed van — not a police van, a plain one. If you have to hire, hire. Give no reasons. Just do it fast — time is of the essence, as I keep on saying.” Shard paused. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“The coppers, all of them, to be in plain clothes. And armed.”
Gotham stared. “Armed, sir? I —”
“Have no authority without the Chief Constable’s say-so? There’s not the time, Mr Gotham, for explanations to the Chief Constable. I’m your authority, and if you doubt that, get in touch with Downing Street — afterwards!”
*
They drove fast into West Sussex, heading for
Wiston House: before leaving Shard had made contact by telephone with Major Bentley and had received from him certain promises. In the closed van Azzam sat in his handcuffs against the front partition, his legs stretched out on the steel floor: facing him were the armed policemen, ready to bring out their revolvers. Up front Shard sat beside the driver, not speaking, occupied with his thoughts. He was sticking his neck out and he knew it, knew that the consequences could be the chop, but he was very much aware that Ibrahim Azzam was all he had and that he had to make the best use of him. Of the Arab’s involvement there was no shadow of a doubt: but involvement — the actual kidnap of Mrs Hedge apart — in what? That remained to be found out; Shard, playing his strong hunches, keeping Katie Farrell’s grisly end in mind, meant to do the finding out and never mind Hedge or the Head of Department, who were not going to like it. Shard had been handed the job of co-ordinator: he had to have something to co-ordinate against and currently he was suffering a nasty sense of failure. It seemed that everything, the executive order to mount all the possible counter-measures for the protection of life, was waiting for him to produce. Like the conjuror whose white rabbit gets left behind, Shard was faced with professional ignominy.
The van stopped outside Wiston House: Shard got down and banged on the rear door. The sergeant opened up. “Blindfold,” Shard said. A piece of black material was secured over the Arab’s still mad-looking eyes and a coat was thrown over his head for good measure; then he was helped down under strong guard. As he came out, Bentley appeared, sniffing and twitching.
“Well, Shard. This is all very irregular, you know.”
“I do know, Major. I’m deeply grateful for your cooperation.”
Bentley grunted, looking unhappy. “Very well,” he said. “Come along, then.” He lowered his voice, and slowed so that the prisoner and escort, heading for the front door of the house, drew a little ahead. “Suppose he’s innocent. Shard?”
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