by Ols Schaber
She took another drag.
‘Now you need to go and find him.’ He took out two mobile phones from his coat pocket. I’ve got some burners for you. You can give him this one and this one is yours.’
She put each one in a different pocket.
‘Go and catch that Robin.’ He turned and strolled off.
She watched his swaying walk. She didn’t want to bother him with the finer details on how to actually find Rebwar.
Geraldine spent a few days looking, but Rebwar had gone into hiding. His hybrid taxi had been found in a car park in town and she had heard some of the details about how he had evaded the police. O’Neil had been furious and shouted at everyone and everybody. She had tried to do a few subtle background checks on O’Neil but each time had been called in for something. As the Squirrel had asked, she had dropped off the ‘burner’ in Rebwar’s letterbox and was sure that someone was going to deliver the phone to him. To make it easier to contact her, she had pulled a sickie.
On her way to the corner shop, the burner phone rang and she picked up. ‘Hello?’ She looked around to see if he was about. ‘Rebs, so… We need to meet. Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Meet me at Brent Cross at the Costa cafe tomorrow. One pm.’ He dropped the call. She smiled, and dialled the Squirrel’s number. His plan wasn’t going ahead.
Thirty-Eight
Rebwar had planned the encounter carefully, studying the layout of the mall with all its exits and hiding places. Back in Iran he had conducted similar operations to meet his informers. In this case he was on the receiving end, a new experience for him. He had to think like a criminal to keep a couple of steps ahead. He’d spent a couple of hours working the layout of Brent Cross Shopping Centre, going in the shops to see if there were any other routes to shake a tail. They were expanding and there was a huge construction site around it. It was a perfect place to lose yourself and anyone else. He had stolen an access card from a careless contractor who had been washing his face in the bathroom and had left the fob next to the sink.
He was counting on the contractor not reporting it until the end of the day, hoping it would turn up. Geraldine was also going to have some eyes watching her. It was risky, but he had to show his face and that he was on their side. Rebwar was going to throw doubt and confusion on the premise that he was guilty. That was his hope, and he knew he was going to be running out of there with either the police or Plan B after him – or both, but at least he could tell the Police or whoever was chasing him about the killer. Risky, desperate and probably stupid, but he was in a corner.
The Costa cafe was on the ground floor in an open space surrounded by shops. It was out in the open; they could see him and he could see them. An elevator behind the tills led to the first floor. He was sitting at a table making sure no one was too close to him. They weren’t going to jump him here, and if they were he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Geraldine appeared in her green combat jacket and jeans. She smiled and came over to the table. She was alone.
‘Hey, Rebs, nice to see you. Fancy another one?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He tapped his cigarette box.
She looked down at the note he had written: Are you being followed? She nodded and looked over to a phone shop above her. A man wearing a red fleece jacket was on the phone by the shop window and another one by the elevator was also on a phone. She turned and went to order the coffees.
‘Oh, and…’ She turned back and he flicked two fingers at her. ‘Two sugars.’ She laughed.
She came back with a cappuccino and an espresso, turned the wooden seat around and sat on it. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘I think we’re getting close.’
‘Have you heard of Richard O’Neil?’
Rebwar pushed his warrant card over the table.
‘Ah, that’ll be a yes, then. Well, he thinks it’s you.’ She smiled and looked up.
Rebwar could see a face peering over the railings above them. ‘Lawrence Gibson, the site manager, lied to you. He was dishonourably discharged from the army and was a surgeon in Afghanistan. So not an engineer.’ He stared into Geraldine’s brown eyes. ‘Is she OK? Hourieh, is she OK? Can I see her?’
‘O’Neil’s holding her for further questioning. They want you to come in.’
He shook his head. ‘But she’s holding up?’
Geraldine nodded. ‘Tough cookie, your wife. Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her.’
He watched some children chasing each other as their mother tried to control them. Then he finished his espresso and turned back to Geraldine. ‘If he touches her I’ll…’ He squeezed his cigarette pack into a ball. It still had a few cigarettes in there. ‘I have a plan to catch the killer. I have a number where you can order organs off the black market…’
Geraldine perked up and seemed all ears.
‘I’m going to spring a honey trap. You can track his phone and find him.’
He could see she wanted to agree but, as she probably had a wire, she couldn’t say very much. She looked around as if she wanted to get some advice from someone. He passed the number to her and she took it. ‘So you want me to get dolled up? Put on some high heels and bra?’
For a moment he tried to imagine.
‘Or are you going to cross dress? For a honey trap, you need a woman. It’s the honey,’ she said.
‘A money trap, then. We will get to him through his greed.’
The man by the phone shop turned back to the window. Rebwar knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to snatch him.
‘And?’ She nodded to him as if to agree with his plan.
‘I think you need to keep a close watch on this Lawrence Gibson. I’m off to the toilet, all this coffee makes me want to a take a piss.’ He gave her a broad smile.
‘Don’t miss.’
Rebwar stood up, turned around and walked towards a clothing store. One of the men walked after him. Inside the store, Rebwar walked over to one of the mannequins and removed the rucksack it was holding. He had put it there before meeting with Geraldine. It was easier than stealing clothes, which had electronic tags. He kept moving towards the back and opened the rucksack. In there was a fur-lined denim jacket, hi-vis vest and hard hat. Rebwar put them on and headed for the exit. He grabbed some socks from a display and headed towards the man who had followed him in. Bumped into him.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said the man.
Rebwar carried on walking into the mall. Rushing down the elevator was O’Neil with his cast, heading for the shop he’d just walked out of. The store’s security alarm went off; the man who was following Rebwar had triggered it. The man looked confused and brought out a pair of leather gloves from his jacket. O’Neil ran over to his officer. Rebwar couldn’t help himself and tripped him with his leg as he passed. O’Neil lost his balance and hit the stone floor, his cast cracking on it. He slid into the shop’s window with a thud and everybody turned to see what was happening. Rebwar took the escalator up to the first floor. Geraldine had left.
More undercover officers revealed themselves by going over to help O’Neil. The one by the top of the elevator spotted Rebwar, who pushed him away as he tried to grab him. He turned right by John Lewis and ran towards the multistorey car park. The officer went after him. Rebwar produced the stolen access card from his jacket pocket and swiped it on a reader to a work site entrance. The door buzzed and he pushed it. He was in the building site, a maze of mud, concrete, wood and heavy machinery.
Rebwar ran over some bouncing wooden planks while the officer was managing to get his foot into the door. Rebwar carried on running along a pathway bordered by a wooden fence. Scaffolding and cranes filled the sky, noisy machinery filled the echoing concrete. The officer tried to shout over to him but was drowned out by grinding metal saws. Rebwar knew he couldn’t outrun him, so he hid behind a wooden frame holding poured concrete.
The man ran by, Rebwar pushed him towards a half-built wall. He tripped over and landed in the mud. Rebwar
punched him and knocked him out. He went quickly through the officer’s pockets, taking anything that might be useful: radio, warrant card, wallet, phone and his sports jacket. He slipped the radio headpiece into his ear. Officers were calling for each other. A series of confusing messages, some unresponsive calls for ‘Derrick’ until they realised that he was down.
Rebwar made his way calmly through the chaotic building site, no one challenged him. In his hard hat and hi-vis jacket he looked like any other contractor. The skeletal structure was nearly finished. He walked through the atrium. He tried hard not to stare up, as it was a gigantic bare concrete space, layers of floors with a web of metal holding the setting carcass, a modern cathedral to consumption. You would get lost on a good day with clearly marked signs. This was a maze: no lifts or shops to orientate yourself. He was lost.
A siren went off. It was loud and cut through the already loud noises. People stopped their work and looked around. Rebwar knew they had found the officer. He hadn’t been paying attention to the radio, they had stopped transmitting to his stolen walkie talkie. He saw three men heading for what looked like an exit. A dark concrete tunnel that led somewhere. He took his chance and followed. After a few turns he lost them and was faced by a closed door. He swiped his card on the reader. Red light flashed back. They had deactivated his key and probably knew he was trying to get out.
‘Having issues?’
Rebwar turned around. A broad-faced man was in front of him, caked with white plaster, a big shoulder bag laden with his tools.
‘Yeah, not working.’
‘It’s a lock-down, mate. They do this when there’s an accident. Bloody annoying. Third one this week. Got myself a key.’ He took it out of his pocket and opened the door. In front of them was a wall of red buses and people queuing.
Rebwar smiled with relief. ‘Life saver, mate. Thanks, I’m late.’ He slipped in between the buses and changed out of his hi-vis jacket and dumped it into a bin. He got onto the first bus that was driving off, not really looking where it was going. He found a seat on the top deck. He had a little time to think what his next move was going to be. He had to go back to Bijan. He was now the key to the money trap.
Thirty-Nine
Rebwar was in Bijan’s study, sitting on one of the antique leather sofas, while the green glass desk light shone softly on the mahogany desk. Bijan hadn’t changed any of the access codes. Maybe this was deliberate so that Rebwar could come back. He wasn’t too sure how Bijan would read his unannounced visit, since his last one had ended with no real conclusion. Now Rebwar wanted something from Bijan. It wasn’t long before the shuffling slippers made their way into the study.
‘Sarbaz, I have a door bell, mifahmi.’1
Out of respect, Rebwar stood to attention. ‘Sartip, I used the code. I have a favour to ask. I am on the run.’
‘Sarbaz, let us not rush. Coffee?’ Cane in hand, Bijan sat on a well-stuffed easy chair.
Rebwar nodded as Bijan reached for the phone on a small table next to him and ordered.
‘Now, tell me what mess you’ve got yourself into. And how’s the lovely Hourieh? Oh, do I need to help her?’
For a moment Rebwar’s pride wanted to say no, but he was worried for his family. For all he knew they were on a flight back to Teheran. ‘She’s been arrested, I think. And my boy is worried and I can’t contact them.’
‘Like old times. It’s gotten ugly. Who are these people that are after you? Police? Savak?’
‘Some kind of secret section. The ones that wanted me to snoop on you.’
‘Ah, yes. I have asked around about them. Only found rumours that they are called Plan B and that is about it. They have some nationalistic agenda. Do you think your killer is part of the group?’
‘Could be. There is a policeman called Chief Inspector O’Neil who is after me. I don’t think he’s part of it. I have a plan.’
Bijan looked up to the ceiling and stood up. ‘Plan? I have found an old plan.’ He shuffled towards his desk. ‘Here, it was in an old army trunk.’ He unfolded an old yellowing sheet of paper and waved Rebwar over. ‘It’s Karbala 5.’
Rebwar got up. He was going to have to find some patience. He had to let the old man have his moment. ‘I was in that unit.’ He pointed at a symbol on the map.
‘See, I would have never done that,’ Bijan said. ‘It was suicidal. The Iraqis knew of our trenches and we had intelligence that they had reinforced their artillery.’
‘Sartip, I have the killer’s number.’
‘And you see this lake? How did the Madar jendeh2 think we could cross it without being seen? But we got them the following day!’
‘Sartip, I need to pretend that you need an organ.’
The door opened and a tall, thin, bald man walked in. His cheekbones were wider than his forehead and his dark eyes sunken with an age of serving Bijan. The glittering pots chimed on the silver tray; his hands tried to keep them as steady as he could. Rebwar spotted some delicacies, his bad tooth long gone and his appetite back. They looked exquisite. He could already taste them. It felt like one of those lazy Sundays smoking a shisha in a Teheran cafe, talking about the last football match.
‘Famous sweets from Cafe Naderi, just in. Take, take. Or is your tooth still rotten?’
Rebwar didn’t answer or wait for the tea to be poured. He took one of the square ones, a Masghati. He let the flavours explode in his mouth and found comfort.
‘Your old partner has been released from prison.’
Rebwar swallowed and tensed at the thought of his former partner, who was the reason for him to escape Iran. ‘Captain Firoud Sefid?’
‘He’s asking to get back into the force. You were right to leave, even if the old regime is changing. Too much drugs and dirty money. He has asked about you.’
‘Did you tell them anything?’
‘No. He’s in a bad place. Jail wasn’t kind to him. But the police will want him back because of that.’ He sipped his coffee, and coughed. ‘You let the police find the killer. It is their job, not yours. Work for me, as my security adviser.’
‘I’m now being framed. If you call this number and ask for a kidney or heart–’
‘And he’ll deliver like Amazon? Has he got a fridge full of spare organs? It sounds like science fiction.’
‘Don’t worry about the details. I will take care of this and, yes, I will work for you if you do this.’ Rebwar had to agree to something, even if it felt like he was selling his soul to the devil.
‘Sarbaz! Have you thought this out?’
It was his only option. ‘They are going to track his phone. He’ll be caught red handed.’ Rebwar went over to the phone and dialled. The phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘I have heard that you can help me with a medical matter.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Rebwar couldn’t quite make out who he was talking to. The voice was slightly distorted.
‘Salomon Brentstein passed it on to me. He sends his regards.’
There was silence for a moment or two and then, ‘Who I am talking to?’
‘I am working for Major-General Bijan Achmoud. He requires a new kidney and he is willing to pay good money.’
‘OK… How much?’
‘Million dollars.’ Rebwar watched Bijan’s face as he picked the number, then he looked down at his coffee and sipped it.
‘You could be anybody. I need time to think about this and conduct some enquiries.’
‘I understand but he is very ill. It is urgent. He doesn’t have much time. Two million?’
Bijan’s head shook and he smiled at Rebwar’s audacity. Rebwar knew he would never give him that kind of money, but he needed Bijan’s name for his money trap.
‘I see,’ came the distorted voice on the phone at last. ‘OK, I will call you back.’
‘No. I will call you back tomorrow. Same time.’ Rebwar hung up.
‘You are a brave man,’ said Bijan. ‘Will that work?’
&nb
sp; ‘He is a greedy man – and he needs it.’
‘Walls have mice; mice have ears.’ Bijan stepped back towards his chair and sat down.
‘That’s what I’m hoping for. And, anyway, you have diplomatic immunity.’
‘Tell me about Karbala?’
The old general was obsessed with the past, which was something Rebwar wanted to avoid talking about. But he had to, to keep Bijan sweet, so he sat down and sipped his tea. His plan was now in motion. He knew that whoever the killer was, he couldn’t resist the idea of two million dollars. It wasn’t going to take him long to find Bijan’s details. He would find a crooked foreign billionaire.
Forty
Geraldine wanted to find out more about O’Neil. She’d heard from Rebwar that he had been at the scene of the crash in Northolt, which was also where the scooter rider dropped off his package. There had been too many coincidences for this to be one of them. She had taken the tube across to West Ruislip, the last station to the west of London on the Central line. She wasn’t going to get much access to RAF Northolt; it was MOD. They weren’t going to let any prying eyes in there. So she went for a next best thing: a local pub.
The Bell Inn was the closest one to the airport, just after the mainline railway bridge on the high street. Hotel and bars were promised on the illuminated light blue sign. The Bell Inn had a little car park and a couple of beer-branded parasols, beneath which a group of smokers huddled to avoid the swirling rain. For a moment she wanted to join them and have a cheeky one, but she was trying to cut down; her nicotine habit annoyed Zara.
Geraldine walked inside. The lights were bright and she had to take a moment for her eyes to adjust. The furniture was cheap and functional; the walls were lined with grey-stained padded benches. The dark red carpet had an intricate oriental pattern and felt like it was trying to mimic a tiled floor. Geraldine scanned the clientele, looking for something specific. She had seen some parked cars with hi-vis jackets draped over the seats. One man had one hanging off the back of his chair and he was wearing a polo shirt with a company logo. He was in a group of five men, all drinking beer. The clientele was predominately middle-aged men with a few token women. Geraldine went up to the bar and ordered a pint of Stella lager. The mixed-race man next to her was waiting for a large order. He had a trimmed beard and an earring. He shouted over to his mates to confirm shots.