Rafi’s wrist had swelled up to nearly three times its normal size and had turned a deep shade of purple. He couldn’t see the bruises on his back, but they ached like hell.
‘I can’t do much about your back, but I can strap your wrist,’ the sergeant turned to the two interrogators. ‘Can I give him a couple of painkillers, or are they off the menu?’
‘Don’t see why not. Don’t want him accusing us of treating him badly,’ replied Mike sarcastically.
The sergeant carefully lifted Rafi’s arm up. ‘Looks painful; let’s get it washed and strapped.’ He opened his first aid box, pulled out a couple of sterilised cleaning cloths and wiped Rafi’s forearm, wrist and hand.
‘Hold still; this may be a little uncomfortable.’ An understatement if ever there was one. The sergeant quickly and efficiently strapped his wrist from the base of his thumb to his elbow, then helped Rafi put on a clean shirt.
The sergeant rummaged again in his box and took out a plastic bottle of a yellow-looking liquid. He opened it, poured some of the contents on to a piece of cotton wool and wiped Rafi’s swollen hand. ‘Nothing to do with the treatment. I thought it might cover up the smell; it’s the best I can do on the deodorant front,’ he said grinning at the two interrogators. ‘If that’s all gentlemen, I’ll go now.’
As soon as the door closed, Mike recommenced the inquisition. ‘Tell us where you have put the USB memory stick… And what’s in the files. If you don’t, we’ll give you to the Americans.’
Though the threat was probably hollow, the idea of what they might do scared Rafi. He remained silent for a moment. ‘I suppose a phone call is out of the question?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Bloody well right!’ said Mike.
‘What was on the files? Tell us! Then you get a phone call,’ added Andy.
At last he had something to go on. Up to then he’d been hitting a brick wall. ‘I’ve a proposal,’ Rafi said quietly.
‘Yes, what is it?’ questioned Mike.
‘I’d like to speak to someone, but I’ll need your help.’
‘No way!’ interjected Mike.
‘Please hear me out,’ pleaded Rafi.
‘Make it quick,’ replied Andy.
‘Find me a detective who’s an expert in corporate or economic fraud. The City of London police force has a specialist team. I know they’ll be livid with me as a prime suspect, but if you can get one of them to interrogate me, they’ll understand what I have to say.’
There was silence; it was definitely not what the two MI5 officers had expected to hear.
‘One of our specialists should be able to understand,’ said Andy, who looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon.
‘Should be, isn’t enough. I need to speak with someone who really knows their stuff. The people at City Police are experts and won’t suffer fools gladly. If I’m seen to be wasting their time, they’ll no doubt tell you,’ countered Rafi.
‘Your suggestion is not viable. They are not MI5, nor antiterrorism, so they are outside the group of people we work with,’ said Mike.
‘Even though they’ve got a vested interest in the Bishopsgate bombing?’ insisted Rafi.
‘Oh hell, you’re a little shit, aren’t you? We’ve got enough to bang you up for decades. Your bargaining position is crap and yet you’re asking to be interrogated by a plod from the City of London.’ Mike looked far from pleased.
‘Bloody nutmegs, if you ask me,’ cut in Andy.
Mike frowned. ‘Yes, I agree. I think he is simply trying to give us the run-around.’
‘We’ll ask the boss, but I reckon the answer will be a categorical no,’ said Andy.
They left the room, leaving Rafi to wait anxiously. A couple of minutes later they reappeared.
‘We’ve a proposal. You tell us the information and we then pass the tapes to City of London police.’
‘Are you sure there’s time?’ Rafi asked. ‘All I’m asking is to meet a detective from the City police; you can record the conversation and hear everything we talk about.’
‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ mumbled Andy under his breath.
‘Time for you to go back to your cell,’ ordered Mike.
Rafi was ushered to his cell by another guard, who had obviously been to the same training school as his ugly colleague.
Rafi waited nervously in his cell. He rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say. He waited and waited. Finally they came for him – the walk down the corridor felt like the longest of his life.
As Rafi entered the now familiar room, his heart sank. There were just Andy and Mike waiting for him. His request had fallen on deaf ears. There was no one from the City of London police to interrogate him. He felt thoroughly dejected.
Mike started the conversation. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Let us recap why you’re under arrest. We’ve got CCTV footage of your meeting with the Bishopsgate bomber; one of the?20 notes you took from the cashpoint was found in the dead bomber’s wallet; you’ve hidden a USB memory stick with crucial data on it and you’ve consistently refused to cooperate.’
‘What on earth is your defence?’ added Andy.
Rafi’s brain was close to calling it a day. He hesitated. A phrase a former hostage had once used in a TV interview came to mind: It’s the belief in there being a future, that pulls you through the ordeal. Goddamn it, he thought; even if the City Police weren’t there, he still had to give it a try.
‘Could I have a whiteboard or a flip chart?’
‘No, you bloody well can’t!’ snapped Mike.
‘It would speed things up and make things clearer,’ Rafi countered weakly.
‘The answer’s still no,’ added Andy.
‘How about some paper and a pen?’
Andy pushed his pad and a pen over to Rafi, who picked up the biro in his left hand and transferred it across to his swollen right hand, wincing as he started writing on the sheet of paper… The pain wasn’t too bad if he supported his swollen wrist with his left hand. On the the sheet he wrote:?20 note; CCTVfootage; Packed to leave; Callum’s car crash; Prima Terra /Jameel; and USB Memory Stick.
His handwriting was awful, but it was legible. Rafi smiled; he had a framework from which to operate. All he had to do now was to ignore the pain and get his exhausted brain to remember everything he had to say and to put it across clearly.
His throat was dry and his voice scratchy. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee, white with sugar and no salt, please?’
Andy nodded and, as if by magic, a cup of hot coffee was brought into the room a few moments later.
It gave Rafi the boost he needed. ‘You have me here as your prime suspect. Let me explain why I’m innocent.’
‘This better be good,’ Mike interjected under his breath.
‘I am an innocent bystander, but at the same time I believe I am linked to those involved.’ He looked at the two interrogators. He had got their attention. ‘The CCTV footage showed me taking?500 in?20 notes from the cashpoint, one of which ended up in the dead terrorist’s pocket. How did this happen…? Your records will confirm that, after withdrawing the money, I went straight to The Bishop of Norwich where my firm was holding a celebratory lunch. Jameel Furud asked if I could sub him?360 towards the restaurant tip. The total tip was?500. If you check with the restaurant, you will find that the denominations of the notes that they received were fifteen of my brand new?20s and four?50s.’ Rafi knew this was just a calculated guess, but was prepared to bet he was right. Jameel was a big tipper and liked round numbers. ‘In the process, he pocketed three of my?20 notes, and it was one of these notes you found on the dead body.’
Mike and Andy looked at him unenthusiastically.
Rafi wondered whether he was talking sense. He had a splitting headache. ‘Let’s turn to the CCTV footage. My office in South Place isn’t that near to Bishopsgate. I reckon that there must be thousands of CCTV cameras in the Square Mile. Let’s assume that there are 4,000 cameras – that’s som
ething like 100,000 hours of recordings. Finding the bit showing me handing the money over to the bomber would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack and yet it was found in a matter of hours. I’d make an educated guess that it was found thanks to an anonymous tip-off and not by tracing the movements of the bomber. Where did the tip-off come from? It was the person who arranged for me to bump into the bomber; the person who had asked me to go to the cashpoint before going to the restaurant to get cash for the tip. The same person who knew that there was only one set of cashpoints between my office and the restaurant. The person who set me up is Jameel Furud, and he has conveniently left the country.’
Andy and Mike looked straight at Rafi. Their blank faces gave nothing away.
‘I would now like to explain the items at the bottom of the sheet of paper.’ Rafi dropped his head for a few seconds, partly for effect and partly because he felt like death warmed up. His body was crying out for some rest.
He paused. ‘To reinforce my allegation that Callum was murdered, please consider the following. He’d arranged to borrow a Porsche and drive it to Amsterdam via the German Autobahns. He was really excited about this and wouldn’t have given up the opportunity of driving it lightly. So why was he found in a rented Mercedes, driving east towards Belgium and not west to Germany? My answer is: his assassins put him there and set fire to the car to cover up any evidence.’
Mike and Andy looked at Rafi as if he was as mad as a box of frogs.
‘There is more to this than meets the eye,’ continued Rafi. ‘You’ve quizzed me about impending attacks on police stations, railway stations, airports and other public places. You’ve got this wrong. Jameel is part of a team plotting something far larger. I believe they wanted me out of the way as they thought I’d stumbled onto something that could expose what they were planning.’
Rafi raised his aching head and looked at the interrogators. ‘The data on the USB memory stick holds the key to this conspiracy. That’s why I want an interview with someone from the City of London police. They’re uniquely placed to understand the data and to put them into the context of the workings and intricacies of the financial markets. I implore you to let me be interrogated by one of them. What have you got to lose?’
‘So where is the memory stick?’ asked Andy.
‘Safe,’ Rafi replied.
‘Do continue,’ said Andy.
‘Why was I packed to leave? And why was I not going abroad? Quite simply, I feared for my life and wanted to go somewhere safe to mull things over. I booked ten days’ at a hotel in Cornwall. If I had been involved with the terrorists, surely I’d have gone to a safe haven overseas?’
Rafi looked at his two interrogators. He reckoned he had at best a 50:50 chance as to whether they believed anything he’d said. They remained silent, their faces unfathomable. He sensed he’d lost. He wasn’t going to get out of jail – ever.
Just then the door opened. A smartly dressed police officer stood in the doorway. He paused momentarily to take in the scene in front of him, before striding in, head held up high. He introduced himself as Commissioner Giles Meynell of the City of London police and sat down next to the two interrogators, opposite Rafi.
Rafi was gobsmacked. Oh hell, why did the commissioner have to arrive late? He’d have to do the whole presentation again and realised he physically couldn’t – he was just too tired.
The commissioner studied the prisoner. ‘Mr Khan, I’ve listened to what you’ve had to say. It’s too early to determine whether there’s any truth to your story.’ His voice was calm yet forceful, packed with authority, no doubt gleaned over many years of high ranking service.
Rafi’s hopes rose and then fell.
‘However, even if there’s an outside chance that your theory has substance, I’m duty-bound to investigate.’
Rafi could have leant across and hugged him. He felt he had been given a new lease of life.
The commissioner looked at Rafi gravely. ‘You are no doubt aware that the Bishopsgate bombing has robbed my force of four excellent police officers. A further two are still in intensive care. My first instinct would be to leave you with these professionals and let them break you. However, my police training and experience tell me that I need more information. I have one question.’ He carefully studied Rafi. ‘Where exactly is the USB memory stick?’
‘Could I use your notebook, please?’ replied Rafi.
The commissioner unbuttoned his outside breast pocket and passed a small notebook, open at a blank page, across to Rafi. A biro was attached to the side.
‘Thank you.’ Rafi carefully removed the biro and put it in his swollen right hand. He rolled his shoulders over, sitting hunched over the pad so that the CCTV cameras couldn’t see it, and with a feat of great willpower, started writing. He looked down at his scrawl, closed the pad and handed it back.
The commissioner opened it and glanced at the page as if keeping his cards close to his chest whilst playing bridge, and replaced it into his pocket.
Their eyes met. ‘I’d be happy to explain the contents of the memory stick to your analyst,’ said Rafi.
The scribbling in the commissioner’s notebook had caused a significant amount of consternation amongst the two MI5 officers. Andy and Mike both started to protest.
‘Sir,’ said Andy, ‘May we please see what Mr Khan wrote? As you know it falls under our jurisdiction.’
The commissioner drew himself up to his full height and studied the two MI5 men carefully. ‘All in due course, gentlemen. I am conducting a murder enquiry and it is my duty to determine the validity of what Mr Kahn has written. I can assure you that the information is in safe hands. We shall discuss whatever we find as soon as it is appropriate.’
Rafi moved his gaze from Mike, a character as hard as nails, to the commissioner, who gave a totally different impression: middle-aged, smartly dressed and with a thatch of neatly combed white hair. His blue eyes didn’t have Mike’s ruthlessness; nevertheless Rafi hoped that he never crossed him.
‘Mr Khan. Provided you have not sent me on a wild goose chase, you can expect to see one of my team here later today. They will pick your brains, in particular on the contents of the USB stick. And be in no doubt, if they believe you’re telling lies or half-truths, Andy and Mike will be more than welcome to do whatever they like to you and then throw away the key. While those who helped the Bishopsgate bomber are at large I shall leave no stone unturned,’ with that, the commissioner stood up and left.
The faces of the two MI5 interrogators were as black as thunder. They turned to look at one another and spoke in hushed tones.
Rafi was escorted to his cell, a little less roughly this time. He sat down on the edge of the bed, mentally and physically exhausted, and waited. Time passed slowly. A couple of hours later he had started to worry that the commissioner had changed his mind.
The cell door swung open.
‘Someone’s ’ere to see you,’ said the guard.
Rafi was bundled into the interview room. ‘Sit! They’ll be ’ere shortly.’
There was a knock at the door. Rafi looked up and saw the slightly nervous face of a female police inspector. She rapidly regained her composure and closed the door behind her.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Kate Adams of the City of London police.’
She sat down, as if waiting for someone or something.
Rafi looked carefully at the policewoman opposite him. Her wavy hair was tied back severely. It was a warm rusty brown colour. She had pale skin which was covered with splashes of freckles and her eyes were a deep hazel brown.
Kate meanwhile had been trying to size up the dark, grubby-looking man hunched in front of her. His straight black hair was greasy and bedraggled. He looked in a bad shape.
Their thoughts were interrupted by the guard. ‘Someone else ’ere to see you.’
A tall serious man, with strong angular features, walked into the interview room.
‘Mr
Khan, I’m Chief Superintendent David Pryke, Detective Inspector Adams’s boss.’
He sat next to DI Adams and nodded for her to start.
‘I’ve looked at the Excel files on the memory stick. The analysis is detailed… And it may lead to a dead end. But it seems to us that the only explanation of why anyone would want you out of the way is if you were on to something,’ observed DI Adams.
CS Pryke, beckoned for one of those watching from behind the one-way glass to join him.
Andy and Mike appeared at the door.
‘I have a message from the commissioner. Could you ring his mobile? Here’s his number,’ said CS Pryke.
Andy took the piece of paper and they left.
CS Pryke said in a quiet voice, ‘We’re moving you to MI5 headquarters, where we will be interviewing you, to see if you really can help us unravel this terrorist plot.’
Rafi could not believe what he’d heard. He suddenly felt light-headed.
Minutes later, Andy and Mike returned; they were unhappy.
‘I have made the call,’ said Andy. ‘And darn it, if I didn’t find myself talking directly to the head of MI5.’
‘Can you repeat what he had to say?’ asked CS Pryke.
‘We are to let you have Mr Khan and are to arrange for a van and a driver to be waiting in the rear car park.’
‘You lucky little sod,’ scowled Mike.
‘Suppose you will want a blanket to cover Mr Khan’s head?’ said Andy as he left the room with Mike.
Moments later, Andy returned with the blanket. Rafi meanwhile had been handcuffed, and with the blanket over his head he was escorted by CS Pryke and Kate to the rear car park.
The chief superintendent turned to Kate. ‘Sorry, I could not talk inside as we were being recorded… Time isn’t on our side. Transporting Mr Khan in a police car or van will attract too much attention. So Mr Khan, you’ll be doing a switch with my driver. He’ll be the one making the journey to MI5 headquarters. And you will be travelling to our police station, handcuffed in the boot of my car. Any complaints?’
Rafi shook his head, by now dumbfounded by the rapid change of events.
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