The Becket Approval

by Falconer, Duncan

  ‘Sit down,’ Rajik ordered.

  There was only one chair, the other side of Rajik’s desk. Saleem sat on it.

  ‘Well,’ Rajik said. ‘You are in much favour, it seems.’

  ‘I am?’ Saleem asked, looking hopeful.

  ‘Al-Baghdadi himself has sent you a message.’

  Saleem controlled himself but deep down he was electrified.

  ‘I am annoyed with you for communicating with higher command without going through me,’ Rajik said, giving Saleem a scolding look. ‘But I cannot punish you now that you have the ear of our leader.’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention to offend you. But secrecy is of extreme importance.’

  ‘What’s the secret, Saleem? Come on. You can tell me. I am your commander, after all.’

  Saleem’s eyes darkened at Rajik’s stupidity. ‘What is the message?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘You’re not going to answer my question first?’

  Saleem did all he could to mask his distaste for the fool. ‘Will you refuse to pass me our leader’s message if I do not?’

  Rajik smirked at the unsubtle threat. ‘Don’t you think I could be of assistance to you?’

  ‘Please give me the message,’ Saleem said, making an effort to be polite.

  Rajik gave up and sat back. ‘Your request, whatever it was, has been granted. You are to be given all assistance.’

  Saleem calmly exhaled, disguising his immense relief. ‘Anything about timings and travel?’

  ‘Won’t you miss your frequent trips into the desert to talk with your Russian friends?’ Rajik asked, slyly.

  Saleem’s eyes pierced Rajik’s at the disclosure of one of his secrets. ‘Who told you that?’

  Rajik grinned with satisfaction. ‘You have your secrets and I have mine. The Russians are our enemy and yet you talk with them. Frequently. And then they blow you up. What’s going on, Saleem? It’s a very curious situation.’

  Saleem wanted to tell Rajik to go to hell but chose to exercise restraint.

  ‘And then there’s the map of London on your desk,’ Rajik added.

  Saleem’s mouth opened, about to lose control. Rajik smiled with a nod to Araf who returned the smile, clearly the source of that snippet.

  ‘Intriguing,’ Rajik said, revelling in Saleem’s discomfort. ‘Russia. London. And what’s in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Afghanistan?’ Saleem asked, knowing nothing about the relevance of that country.

  ‘That’s where I’m to send you,’ Rajik said. ‘Mahmoud?!’ he suddenly shouted at the top of his voice giving Saleem a jolt. ‘Come here!’

  Footsteps could be heard hurrying along the corridor and a young Arab entered the room.

  ‘You know Mahmoud?’ Rajik asked Saleem.

  Saleem turned in his seat to look at the lad. ‘No.’

  ‘He’s English like you,’ Rajik said. ‘He just arrived. A new recruit.’

  ‘I’m from Balham,’ Mahmoud said.

  ‘Too many English here,’ Rajik grumbled. ‘Be good to get rid of some of you. You see how Mahmoud looks like you?’

  Saleem took another look at Mahmoud. ‘There’s a resemblance.’

  ‘I didn’t ask. I have my own eyes. Mahmoud is to become you and go to Turkey while you become someone else and go to Afghanistan.’

  ‘But I just got here from Turkey,’ Mahmoud complained.

  ‘Shut up! You will do as you are ordered.’

  ‘It took me months to get over the border,’ Mahmoud continued.

  ‘One more outburst and you’ll be impersonating Saleem as a dead man.’

  Mahmoud got the message.

  ‘You both leave right away,’ Rajik continued. ‘Vehicles are waiting for you in the courtyard. Take all of your belongings. Neither of you are coming back.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Mahmoud mumbled.

  Saleem got to his feet.

  ‘Wait,’ Rajik said. ‘There’s something else.’ A plastic folder was on his desk, bound in a strap and sealed in a manner so that it could not be opened without revealing it had been. Rajik pushed it towards him. ‘This is for you. It’s from Al-Baghdadi.’

  Saleem took the folder and began to put it in his pocket.

  ‘You’re to open it immediately on receiving it,’ Rajik said. ‘Those were my strict instructions.’

  Saleem used a knife to cut through the seal. He opened it and removed a single page.

  Rajik watched greedily as Saleem read the note. ‘Why you, Saleem?’ he asked. ‘You’re a nobody,’ he added with a sneer. ‘I don’t understand why they chose you.’

  Saleem looked at him. ‘You want to know what it says?’ he asked.

  It was obvious Rajik desperately wanted to but he couldn’t give Saleem the pleasure of refusing him.

  ‘Take it,’ Saleem said, holding the piece of paper out to him.

  Rajik took it and began to read. His brow furrowed as he quickly reached the end of the short sentence. His eyes darted to Saleem in instant fear. Saleem removed a pistol from inside his jacket and fired a single bullet into Rajik’s head. Rajik dropped forward onto his desk, hitting it like an engine block.

  Saleem turned the pistol on Araf and fired a bullet into his brain too. The young Arab slumped to the floor.

  Mahmoud leapt back with his hands up, expecting to be next. But Saleem put the gun back inside his jacket and picked up the piece of paper. ‘Get your gear and be ready to leave right away,’ he said to Mahmoud.

  Mahmoud realised he was going to live and lowered his hands.

  ‘Go!’ Saleem ordered.

  Mahmoud headed for the door, keeping as wide a berth from Saleem as he could. ‘Why’d you kill them?’ he asked.

  ‘Al Baghdadi ordered me to snuff anyone who knew too much.’

  ‘I don’t know anything except I’m going to Turkey as you,’ Mahmoud assured him.

  ‘Which is why you’re still alive. Get going!’

  Mahmoud hurried away. Saleem made his way back up through the building towards his room. He didn’t like being called a nobody. But the pig had a point. Why indeed had he been chosen? He knew how he’d come to the attention of the high command. During the retreat from Mosul, he’d been ordered to execute a dozen Iraqi policemen who’d been incarcerated since the taking of the city. Instead of just lining them up and shooting each in the back of the head in the usual manner, Saleem decided to make sport out of his assignment and save ammunition at the same time. He ordered his men to find half a dozen kitchen knives and threw them in front of the officers. Their hands and feet were untied. The men were in a sorry state, malnourished, injured and weak from regular beatings. Saleem told the officers that they were to fight each other to the death and the sole survivor would be set free.

  The policemen refused at first but Saleem was confident it would take only one of them to start. And that is precisely how it began. The largest officer as it happened, who clearly fancied his chances, suddenly lunged for one of the knives. Before he could reach it another officer barged him aside to get it for himself. The others instantly realised that solidarity was not going to work and that survival was up to the individual and they threw themselves at the blades that were fewer in number than the hands that grabbed at them.

  The fight was frenetic and brutal with officers slashing at the nearest body. Those fighting over a single knife were stabbed by others. Bodies were stuck randomly, punctures bleeding profusely, screams and moans as those mortally wounded capitulated. Within minutes only four officers remained. They circled, lunging at each other randomly, hoping to make a significant cut. One of them stepped back too far from the epicentre of the battle and a fighter shot him in the leg. As he yelled and staggered in pain a colleague took advantage and shoved his blade through his eye. Another dropped to his knees, unable to stand any longer having lost too much blood, and was quickly despatched by a stab in the neck. The two remaining policemen were in a sorry state, both covered in oozing wounds. It was obvious neither was going to s
urvive for long. Not that Saleem intended to keep his word anyway. The officers wrestled each other to the ground, thrusting and slashing. Neither could defend, both sticking the blades into any piece of flesh relentlessly. A carotid artery was eventually slashed and blood spurted. The recipient of that fatal cut knew he was finished. He released his knife and lay back, exhausted. The force of the spurting blood gradually reduced to a trickle. The victor watched his colleague die and then collapsed beside him. Within seconds he breathed his own last breath.

  Saleem stood over the bodies, fascinated. Brothers and friends had turned on each other like wild animals. The spectacle had been watched by two men who were not in Saleem’s command. Saleem knew one to be a senior member. He was to discover the other was a member of Al-Baghdadi’s inner circle who was looking for something and seemed to find it in Saleem.

  Three weeks later, Saleem was summoned and briefed on an operation. He was to drive into the desert, to a precise GPS location, and call a number on a satellite phone. A man would answer. A Russian. The man would give Saleem a piece of information. Saleem was not to take notes. Just listen and remember. He was to tell no-one the contents of the conversations, not even Baghdadi’s officer who was giving him the orders at that moment. There would be several of these meetings at the exact same location. It was during the last of those conversations that the jets attacked. But Saleem had received enough information to know what the task consisted of and exactly how those thousands of Londoners were to die.

  Saleem returned to his room and closed the door. He sat at his desk, removed the map of London from the drawer and spread it out. His journey was to begin. Afghanistan was clearly a part of his route to the UK. The powers that be saw great potential in the plan. They would put their best efforts into ensuring it was a success. And why not? It had the potential to eclipse the Twin Towers, in numbers of dead and theatrical splendour.

  Chapter 10

  Bethan pushed her way in through the main doors of Scotland Yard pulling a wheelie bag. As she crossed the busy lobby, a woman’s voice called out her name. She headed towards a matronly lady behind the reception counter who smiled sweetly as she approached.

  ‘Hello, Bethan,’ she beamed. ‘How was your leave?’

  ‘Short,’ Bethan replied, feigning sadness.

  ‘Bliss. Aren’t they all?’ The receptionist directed her gaze towards a far corner of the room. ‘Got a chap here to see DCI Dillon. Perhaps you can take him up. He’s been cleared and has his pass.’

  Bethan looked at various people the other side of the room, unsure which one she meant.

  ‘The one in the budget khaki jacket looking out of the window,’ the receptionist explained. ‘He’s got a rash.’ She pointed to her own throat. ‘He could also benefit from an exfoliation treatment.’

  ‘I’ll take him up.’

  ‘Bliss,’ the receptionist said as Bethan headed away.

  Bethan approached Gunnymede’s back. His clothes were outdoor casual, inexpensive indeed with sharp creases where they’d been shop folded.

  ‘You’re here to see DCI Dillon?’ Bethan said.

  Gunnymede snapped out of a daydream as he faced her. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  His shirt was open at the top revealing the rash which Bethan did her best not to look at more than two or three times.

  ‘I’ll show you to his office,’ she said.

  Gunnymede picked up his holdall and followed her to a security door which she accessed with an ID card and they carried on to some elevators. They were joined inside by several people and the elevator ascended. Gunnymede followed her onto the third floor and into a large room bustling with personnel, most of them in police uniform.

  She pointed to several offices with opaque glass walls at the far end. ‘DCI Dillon’s office is the one on the right.’

  Gunnymede gave her a nod and headed away. She watched him go, certain he wasn’t a police officer. She checked her cell phone and listened to her messages as she went to her desk and sorted through her in-tray.

  The elevator doors opened and a man in retro civilian clothes with long hair and several days facial growth stepped into the room. Serpico came to mind to those who didn’t know him. Something less flattering came to those who did.

  He saw Bethan and made his way towards her. ‘Bet, honey bunch!’ he said loudly, long before he reached her.

  Bethan groaned inwardly and forced a smile as he arrived. ‘Jedson, honey bunch,’ she echoed with feigned delight.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said with over-the-top enthusiasm. ‘Great result. You are the most amazing profile analyst in the entire force. They’re gonna be calling you Trencher of the Yard.’

  ‘All I did was his profile.’

  ‘Without which they’d never have followed him to his last victim. Brilliant work.’

  ‘A bit over the top but I’ll take it.’

  ‘How was your week off?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, examining a file.

  ‘I called you.’ He sat on the edge of her desk, uncomfortably close to her, his legs wide apart.

  She inched away from his crotch. ‘I missed it.’

  ‘I left a message.’

  ‘That was my work phone.’

  ‘I don’t have your private number.’

  ‘Which is where it gets its name from,’ she said, scribbling a note and sticking it to a file.

  ‘I was going to take you out to celebrate.’

  ‘My loss, then.’

  She looked up as DCI Dillon stepped out of his office and, seeing she’d caught his eye, signalled her to come over.

  ‘First day back, pile of work to do, must rush. Excuse me,’ she said, getting up.

  He eyed her body lasciviously as she moved past him. ‘Bet? I’m completely harmless you know.’

  ‘It’s your least attractive quality,’ she replied as she picked up her phone and headed away.

  As he watched her go an eraser flew through the air and bounced off the side of his head. He quickly turned to see who had thrown it but everyone had their heads down in work mode leaving him no clue as to the culprit.

  Gunnymede was sitting outside Dillon’s office as she entered it and closed the door. Dillon was at his desk absorbed by his screen.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  Dillon looked for who she was referring to. ‘Who? Oh, that’s Devon Gunnymede.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Devon Gunnymede. He’ll be going to Albania with you. He’s your expert advisor, on loan to us from Military intelligence.’

  ‘Military intelligence?’

  ‘Indeed. It’s a mystery.’

  She looked at Gunnymede through a gap in the smoked glass. ‘Why choose such a ridiculous cover name?’

  Dillon hadn’t thought of that. ‘You don’t think it’s his real name?’

  ‘Devon Gunnymede? Please ... Advisor of what? Certainly not couture.’

  ‘I’m sure all will be revealed,’ Dillon said, getting to his feet and opening the door. ‘Would you come in please, Mr Gunnymede?’ Dillon winked at Bethan.

  Gunnymede walked into the office.

  Dillon closed the door behind him. ‘Thank you for coming. I understand it was at very short notice for you.’

  Gunnymede smiled unconvincingly.

  ‘This is Bethan Trencher, our profile analyst. She’ll be going to Albania with you.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Bethan said smiling politely.

  ‘Have you been travelling, Mr Gunnymede?’ Dillon asked. ‘You look ... weathered.’ Dillon regretted the question as soon as he’d asked it. ‘Well. We don’t have a lot of time,’ he quickly went on. ‘You have a plane to catch. Shall we get straight to the job in hand? Albania. What we know, which isn’t a great deal. There was a shooting incident on the border with Macedonia. Serious enough to make world news. A dozen fatalities, all Albanian border police. There were no British victims, however the Sherbimi Informativ Ushtarak,’ he read carefully from a document, ‘Albanian
military intelligence, acronym Shiu, S H I U, has requested our assistance in the investigation. They’ve not given us much detail. All we know is that they have “interesting subjects” they’d like to discuss with us. And those who we must obey have consented to send representatives to provide that assistance, notably the both of you.’

  ‘Do you speak Albanian?’ Bethan asked Gunnymede.

  ‘No,’ Gunnymede replied.

  ‘You’ve been there before?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a specialist in Balkan politics?’ she hoped.

  ‘No. In fact I don’t know anything about the Balkans. I know where Albania is,’ he added. ‘Roughly.’

  Bethan looked at him, in particular his rash, wondering what he was doing there.

  Dillon picked up a file and handed it to Bethan. ‘Your Shiu contact is one Ardian Kostaq. His details are in there as well as the case file. He speaks excellent English.’ Checking his watch. ‘You’d better get going. You can abreast Mr Gunnymede on our protocols while on your journey. Good luck and let me know if you need anything.’

  Dillon sat back down and delved into his computer.

  Bethan opened the door for Gunnymede who left. She paused to say something for Dillon’s ears only. ‘Why am I doing this?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you’re not entrepreneurial enough to be self-employed,’ he replied.

  ‘I meant this task. I’m not a detective.’

  ‘Someone upstairs thinks it needs your particular skills,’ he replied. ‘Success breeds opportunity.’

  She walked out and closed the door. ‘I’ll meet you by the lift,’ she said to Gunnymede and headed to her desk.

  As Gunnymede walked to the elevator Jedson stepped beside him. ‘Hello, mate.’

  Gunnymede looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘You the MI lad?’

  Gunnymede’s prat detector vibrated.

  ‘I’m a UCO, just in case you’re thinking I’m the cleaner,’ Jedson said with a forced chuckle. ‘Under Cover Operator. What happened to your neck?’

  ‘I was recently hung by Islamic terrorists?’ Gunnymede said.