by Nick Oldham
He was on his third JD on ice within an hour.
‘Henry?’ Kate said apprehensively.
He looked sideways at her through his good eye. He could tell she was actually asking how he was feeling. He patted her arm. ‘I’m OK,’ he lied easily, picking up the JD from the coffee table and taking a sip. ‘Honestly,’ he assured her. He snaked his arm around her slim shoulders and pulled her close.
‘Bed yet?’ she asked.
His eyes flickered to the mantelpiece clock. Just gone midnight. ‘Nah, couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. You go if you want.’
‘I’ll stay up with you, love.’
Henry gave her a peck on the cheek, then finished his drink with one big swig. He held out his empty glass. ‘Smidgen more?’ he pleaded.
She gave him a mock-withering look and took the glass. Before going into the kitchen, she paused directly in front of him. ‘You can talk to me, you know?’
He nodded, aware he would never do so completely. It wasn’t in his nature. She raised her eyes and shook her head, accepting that to be the case, then went out. He leaned back into the big comfortable settee and closed his eyes. He was drained, yet his mind kept revolving, constantly reviewing the day and not enjoying the experience at all, not one second of it. The late arrival back into Preston. The realization that two cops had gone missing. The desperate fight in the hallway with Ali. Karl Donaldson arriving on the scene. The dead bodies. ‘Little Guantanamo Bay’, as he had named Donaldson’s industrial unit. Sabera’s parents. Najma and Iqbal and the race to uncover the plot to kill Rice. Suddenly his mind jumped ahead to his retirement day and he began loosely calculating how many working days he had left …
Kate reappeared and handed him the refreshed JD, which tinkled with ice.
‘Just a little one,’ she said, edging past him. She was about to sit down when the front doorbell rang. She shot him a puzzled look. ‘Who can that be?’
He shrugged noncommittally, not in the least surprised there was someone at his door at 12.10 a.m. Not today, anyway.
‘I’ll go.’ He placed the JD on the coffee table and Kate helped him creak to his feet.
FB and another man Henry did not immediately recognize stood there in the chill morning. The three men eyed each other, then FB banged his palms together and said, ‘Are you inviting us in? We need to talk.’
Henry stood aside to allow his late-night visitors into the living room. Kate hovered there nervously, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, looking suspiciously at the two interlopers, even though she knew FB.
‘Kate,’ FB said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine thanks,’ she said stiffly.
Henry shuffled in behind them, slightly creased by a pain across his back which had come from nowhere.
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by FB. ‘Like I said, Henry, we need to talk.’ He eyed Kate, hoping she took the hint.
‘We can go into the conservatory,’ Henry suggested.
‘No, no, you stay in here. It’ll be cold in there and I was about to go to bed anyway,’ Kate said. ‘But can I get you a drink first?’
FB had noticed the whisky glass. Hopefully, he said, ‘A little tot of something like that will do nicely.’
‘OK — and yourself?’ she asked the other visitor.
‘That would be lovely,’ he said.
Kate retreated to the kitchen and poured out two generous measures, with ice, of Sainsbury’s own brand cheapo whisky which she and Henry referred to as ‘firewater’. There was no way FB was getting any of the decent stuff. She came in and found the men seated, Henry in the centre of the settee, the other two in the armchairs either side. The TV was off. She handed them their drinks and said goodnight, catching Henry’s eye with a concerned expression as she went out.
FB sipped his whisky and winced slightly, waiting for Kate’s footsteps to reach the top of the stairs before opening his mouth.
‘Henry, this is …’ he began to introduce the man he had brought along.
‘We’ve met,’ Henry said, having now placed him. ‘Martin Beckham, Home Office?’
The man nodded. Henry had met him briefly on the morning he had been called into FB’s office following the dawn raid on the house in Accrington. Beckham had been the one at the conference table Henry had stereotyped as a pinstriped commuter. He had remained pretty silent throughout the debrief; yet Henry had also surmised that Beckham was probably the one running the show.
Henry sat back nursing his JD, waited.
FB coughed nervously and took another sip of his drink. ‘Firewater, this,’ he commented, holding up the glass and inspecting the pale, straw-coloured liquid. ‘First of all, both the Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State have been apprised of the situation and the events that took place today; they send you their heartfelt thanks for the job you did.’
‘Do I get a commendation?’
FB ignored the flippancy. ‘And from me, too. Well done, H, you did an excellent job. Bet you never thought you’d end up confronting a terrorist when you got out of bed this morning.’
‘And from me,’ Beckham said. ‘Very well done.’
‘OK, thanks … and?’ he enquired suspiciously. ‘It’s just that I can’t even begin to imagine you’ve come knocking on my door at this time of day to congratulate me … maybe it was something to do with the fact I was quickly surrounded by spooks and hustled off the job and told I wasn’t needed, keep gob shut and go and take some gardening leave … call me a cynic.’ His temper had started to flare.
FB acceded the points with a gracious tilt of the head. ‘Whatever … but we do mean what we said. You did a fantastic job today, it’s just that there’s some teeny-weeny details’ — he held his thumb and forefinger together to illustrate the point — ‘that we need to make clear to you.’
‘Just tell me,’ Henry said, his mouth turning down at the corners with distaste.
Beckham leaned forwards, elbows on knees, glass gripped between his palms. ‘Through no fault of yours, two officers who believed they were investigating a domestic murder, and then you yourself, stumbled into an Islamic terrorist plot. Those two officers paid with their lives and you almost paid with yours, and would have done if not for the intervention of a sharp-witted American agent who saved your life.’
‘Granted,’ Henry said.
‘Since we last saw you, as you can imagine there have been numerous meetings in order to decide the correct way ahead for all concerned, and this is how it will all play out.’
‘Why do I feel suddenly even more uncomfortable?’
Beckham went on, ‘As regards Mansur Rashid, he will be circulated as wanted for the murder of your two colleagues, and on suspicion of murdering his wife and that private investigator, Daley-’
FB cut in there. ‘We found Daley’s computer and mobile phone in the house in Balaclava Street and a firearm which is currently being examined, but could well be the one Daley was killed with. We’ve also started raiding his business premises and found credit-card cloning machines in them, so it looks like he’s been defrauding his customers to gather funds for AQ. Also in one of his garages there is evidence of combustion, which could be where he killed his wife. Forensics will tell in due course. You uncovered a very bad man, Henry.’
Henry sat there, glum, feeling it was all being taken away from him, despite the accolades.
‘We are not going to make any public reference to his involvement in the plot to kill the Secretary of State, however,’ Beckham said. Henry didn’t even bother to ask why, because he would not be told. It was just because it was the way they wanted to run it. The Home Office man continued, ‘And neither will any reference be made to Akbar. Incidentally, there is a treasure trove of “stuff”, shall we say, in the house in Balaclava Street which is very, very useful to the security services.’
‘I’m so happy,’ Henry said.
‘Wind your neck in, Henry,’ FB growled.
Henry gave a pissed
-off shrug. ‘Does it mean that Akbar escapes justice? I mean, he must’ve had a hand in killing Angela and Graeme, surely?’
‘You’re probably right, Henry: he won’t be brought to justice in the way you’re thinking … but somewhere along the line, justice will be done, if you know what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure I want to know … anyway, at least Fazul Ali is in custody. If nothing else, he can be linked to their murders, can’t he?’
The two visitors exchanged a strange glance Henry was unable to interpret.
‘Actually, he’s off the radar now,’ Beckham said.
‘You mean he’s now an informant? So the torture worked?’
‘If you like,’ Beckham said, obviously unwilling to expand.
‘Anyway, the arrest of Hussein at Ewood Park will simply be put down to good policing and will be a stand-alone thing. He will be described as a lone chancer with some vague AQ connections, but that’s all.’ Beckham finished, ‘So that’s how it stands.’
‘But-’ Henry started to protest.
‘No buts, Henry. This is rather like one of those newspaper competitions where the editor’s word is final and no correspondence will be entered into,’ FB said.
‘Don’t tell me — we’re at war.’
FB smiled triumphantly. ‘By Jove, I think he’s got it.’
‘So are Rashid and Akbar out there together?’
‘It’s an assumption we can make,’ Beckham said, ‘but it’ll be interesting to see how long Rashid will be there, because, even though he is obviously a low-level financier of terrorism, he’s blown and may not be of much use to Akbar any more … we shall see.’
‘And no doubt if he does turn up, I won’t get a shout because it’s the spooks who’ll want him for what he knows and then they’ll do a deal, and two good people will not get justice. Nor will Eddie Daley or Sabera Rashid, I suspect.’ Henry reached for his JD and swigged it down. ‘I need another.’ He went into the kitchen and poured himself a large one.
When he returned, FB and Beckham had gone, their empty glasses the only evidence they had even been there.
Henry sat down and took a drink.
It was going to be a long night.
Twenty
Six months later
He had the look of a hunted man, even though he was the hunter. He now sported a full, unkempt beard and his eyes stared out like a beast from the jungle, for ever watching and checking. He was truly exhausted and was beginning to doubt whether he could maintain the pace, despite his innate fitness and personal determination.
Maybe it was time to give up, hand the mantle over to someone new.
Except that he wouldn’t. It would be tantamount to admitting defeat and he would see this thing through to the bitter end, whatever the toll on himself. After all, he had pleaded — begged — for this chance and been given it and, mentally drained and exhausted as he was, it would reach its conclusion.
He rubbed his tired eyes and replaced his sunglasses, watching the hordes of people swarming by in the intense morning sunlight already baking the streets.
Hell, this place was busy. He didn’t think he had seen anywhere more so; even New York paled by comparison.
Karl Donaldson, dressed in loafers, chinos and a Real Madrid soccer shirt, sat outside the Cafe Zurich at the top of the first part of La Rambla, possibly the best-known thoroughfare in Barcelona. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down over his hawk-like eyes and slouched down in the metal-framed chair, wondering if today would be the one.
La Rambla stretches one mile from the Placa Catalunya, where Donaldson was sitting, down to the Rambla de Santa Monica, and is a massive tourist attraction with its souvenir shops and stalls, human statues, fortune-tellers, card sharps, puppeteers, dancers and musicians. It draws thousands of visitors each day, who pulsate up and down in a swell of humanity.
Ordinarily, Donaldson would have loved this. He had been to Barcelona a couple of times with his wife, Karen, and fallen in love with its vibrancy, its food, its wine, history and people. But this was no romantic break … he scowled at the thought of his wife; not at her — he loved her deeply — but because he had neglected her so much over the last six months — had not even spent two consecutive nights with her in the last three — and she was becoming edgy and worried about him and their marriage. He had made and broken several promises to her recently and their whole relationship was straining at the seams.
He resolved that if nothing came of today, he would take a week off, sweep her off her feet and get back into her good books … until he set off again doing something he could not even tell her about — hunting down the dangerous, elusive, Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar.
After Donaldson and everyone else had missed him in Blackburn, a special multi-agency team had been quickly assembled, dedicated to tracking down Akbar. Donaldson had almost got down on his knees to get a place on it, then had become totally obsessed with Akbar, who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to avoiding the clutches of Donaldson’s team.
Akbar’s will-o’-the-wisp trail had led Donaldson and the small team to the Middle East, Africa and across all of Europe and finally, it was hoped, here to Barcelona. It was known that he had been fund-raising on behalf of AQ and the intelligence suggested he was supposed to be meeting a man in Barcelona who took a cut from the African street traders who pitched illegally on the waterfront, selling wares such as fake designer sunglasses, watches and clothing, then passed a generous percentage of that on to Al-Qaeda.
The man, of North African origin, went by the name of Suleiman, was known to the Spanish intelligence service and had been under the surveillance of Donaldson’s team for six days, but Akbar had not shown. It looked increasingly likely that the intel was incorrect — what a surprise — and Donaldson would have to wait again for another snippet which would get him back on Akbar’s scent.
Donaldson felt like a greyhound chasing a rabbit that was always out of his reach and was inexhaustible.
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back into the crack of his backside. He took a sip of his mineral water. The ice had melted and the water was lukewarm … rather like Akbar’s trail.
‘Suleiman’s on the move,’ a tinny voice said and Donaldson resisted the urge to touch the minute earpiece fitted into his left ear, just in case he was being watched. One mistake followers often make, even though it is drummed into them in training, is succumbing to that instinctive desire to press their almost invisible earpieces so they can hear better, especially in a crowd. It’s one of those silly mistakes that can completely wreck an operation and put individuals in unnecessary danger. The voice was from one of his fellow team members who had been sitting on Suleiman’s apartment on the Calle Comtel in the Old City. ‘Heading towards La Rambla,’ said Jo, the only female operative on the team. She was a CIA agent. ‘Looks like he’s going for his usual,’ she said. This meant that Suleiman was going to stroll down La Rambla as he did each morning, constantly checking to see if he was being followed, then take a seat in a pavement cafe near to the Maritime Museum where he drank copious amounts of coffee into which he dunked donuts. From there he would conduct his morning’s business. As yet he hadn’t clocked the team, which probably meant whilst he was going through anti-surveillance motions, he was getting lazy about it. The team was also very good, but not good enough, or big enough, not to get spotted eventually.
Unless Suleiman had actually seen them and was playing a game … always a possibility.
Donaldson settled back. His job was static observation that morning.
He ordered a cafe con leche, thinking about how he and his family had actually drank here in the past … then his mind flicked to Henry Christie and the reaction he’d had to the way Fazul Ali had been treated. Henry would be even more upset to learn that Ali had died whilst being interrogated and had had to be disposed of. It hadn’t happened whilst Donaldson had been talking to him, but as a result of a bad reaction to
some drugs that Dr Chambers was testing out which had given him a heart attack. Donaldson shrugged mentally, not even remotely moved by the thought of Ali’s death, since he was just as bad as Akbar. What bothered him was his own relationship with Henry and how it might be revived — or was it just to be another casualty of this war?
‘Moving down La Rambla,’ Jo piped up, describing Suleiman’s movements.
Perhaps he would try and speak to Henry once this Akbar thing was over … but he would not apologize. No way …
‘Seems to be the same old routine,’ Jo said.
Donaldson closed his eyes briefly — but not for long. His coffee came and he paid the waiter immediately, just in case he had to move quickly. There was nothing more embarrassing for someone on surveillance than being chased by a bill-wielding waiter demanding payment. It drew attention. Thinking back to Henry also made Donaldson speculate about Mansur Rashid, who in some respects was similar to Suleiman: a legit businessman on the face of it, but providing funds for AQ at the same time. Rashid had completely gone off the radar since Blackburn and rumour was that Akbar had seen him as a liability, someone who couldn’t control his temper, who allowed his emotions to get the better of him — firstly by killing his wayward wife and then the private investigator he had been stupid enough to hire who then got in a position from which he could blackmail Rashid. Akbar had no place for people like that and it was believed that Rashid had been murdered somewhere in Pakistan. Whether that was true or not, no one knew, but Rashid had never appeared on the intelligence radar since that fateful day in Blackburn.
‘He’s taking his time today … a lot of a/s activity,’ Jo said, meaning anti-surveillance.
Donaldson sat up. Suleiman was being extra careful today for some reason. The hairs on the back of his muscular neck prickled. No more closing of eyes, no more daydreaming, he told himself.
Jo and Jed were on Suleiman.
Terry and Marcus were somewhere behind them.