Then We Die ic-5

by James Craig

  ‘And anything that could compromise our integrity’ — she gave him an arch look — ‘such as, for example, informing on behalf of the police, could prove to be very damaging to us.’

  Carlyle said nothing. He had little time for people who used words like ‘informing’ or ‘informer’ so readily. In his view, that kind of language was just an excuse adopted when they wanted to look the other way. Being honest with the police was just like being honest full stop. Surely that was a good thing for normal people to aspire to. No one should ever consider themselves above the law.

  ‘We have to be very. . proper in the way that we conduct ourselves.’

  ‘Nothing you say to me will go any further,’ he replied, taking care over the words. ‘This is not any kind of interview. I simply wondered if I might have the benefit of your professional opinion.’

  Arbillot placed her hands in her lap. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Helen has explained the general situation that I’m dealing with here.’

  ‘She outlined the general situation, yes,’ Arbillot said. ‘You seem to have got yourself caught up in a very dangerous set of events, Inspector. Helen is very worried. She is really quite angry about it.’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘Our big concern is that there will be more killings. What I was hoping is that you might be able to give me some insights into the, er. .’ he wondered how he should put it ‘. . the Arab side of the problem.’

  Arbillot leaned forward in her chair and suddenly her eyes were very much alive. ‘I have spent the last six months in Gaza, trying to provide basic medical care — the type of things people here would have taken for granted even fifty years ago, never mind now — while being constantly bombed and shot at by the Israelis.’

  Folding his arms, Carlyle sat back in his chair with a carefully neutral expression on his face. He didn’t come here for a political lecture, but was prepared to put up with one for a while.

  ‘Working for Helen,’ Arbillot went on, ‘you have to be doctor, diplomat and accountant, all in one. She is a tough boss.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ Carlyle smiled.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t pass any judgements. I am not in any way political, but I understand what motivates these people.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Carlyle kept his voice even, though he was beginning to run out of patience with this lady, ‘I’m not so much interested in anyone’s motivation. What I am trying to find out is why these Hamas guys were in London and whether some of them are still here. I do not want to see any more officers of the law getting killed.’

  Arbillot nodded. ‘Or innocent members of the public, for that matter.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Which is why Helen was able to persuade me to meet with you.’

  ‘Helen?’ Carlyle asked, surprised. Down the years, on the handful of occasions that he’d asked for her help, his ultra-liberal wife was always adamant that she would never try to convince anyone to talk to her copper husband.

  ‘She said you were a very fair man, especially for a policeman.’

  Suddenly embarrassed, Carlyle lowered his gaze to his knees.

  ‘And she said you genuinely wanted to stop more bloodshed.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then go and speak to a man called Fadi Kashkesh.’

  Carlyle pulled a pen out of his pocket and cadged a slip of paper from a passing waitress. ‘How do you spell that name?’

  Arbillot had to repeat it three times before he got it right.

  ‘What’s Mr Kashkesh’s story?’ he asked, looking up.

  ‘A familiar one,’ Arbillot sighed. ‘Intelligent young man with nothing to do and no prospects, moving steadily downwards on a path to destruction. First they throw stones, then they are given guns and sent out to fight the IDF, who make short work of them.’

  ‘The IDF?’

  ‘The Israeli Defence Force — part of the army. Fadi would have been dead by now, but he got lucky. I took a bullet out of his abdomen four years ago, and we got him out alive.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The staff at Avalon paid for him to come over to London. He’s found it a bit of a struggle here, but things are now getting better. He’s studying politics and working as an administration assistant for a road-haulage business.’

  ‘As an illegal?’ Carlyle enquired, already wondering what leverage he might be able to exercise over the guy. ‘He must have a pretty precarious existence.’

  ‘No,’ Arbillot stated. ‘He’s here legally.’

  ‘How so?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Did he get asylum?’

  ‘No.’ Arbillot smiled sadly. ‘I married him.’

  Blimey, Carlyle thought. That’s a bit above and beyond the call of duty.

  ‘We’re separated now,’ she continued, ‘which I suppose is not really that surprising, given all the difficulties we faced.’

  ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘I can see how it would have been. . tricky.’

  She shot Carlyle a defiant look. ‘But you never know — I still see Fadi when I am in London. And there is no plan for us to divorce.’

  ‘Where will I find him, then?’ Carlyle asked, keen to move the conversation on to less personal matters.

  ‘You don’t,’ Arbillot said. ‘I will speak to him and he will get in touch with you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle wasn’t happy with that arrangement, but knew that he couldn’t really force the issue.

  ‘Fadi says that he has no contact with anyone from the old days, but you know what men,’ she corrected herself, ‘what boys are like.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘There is quite a big Palestinian community here, and others are passing through London all the time. He will be able to help you find the right people. Or, at least, point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And in return,’ she said, a nervousness in her voice now as she got round to naming her price, ‘you will make sure that he doesn’t become the next victim of the Israelis here, in London.’

  ‘I will do what I can,’ Carlyle said. He sucked the last drops of coffee from his demitasse and stood up. ‘Thank you for your help with this.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be thanking me,’ Arbillot replied. ‘You should thank your wife. She is the one who got me to understand why we should talk. She is a good woman and a good colleague; a great asset to us and a great asset to you.’

  Don’t I know it, Carlyle thought as he headed out into the hustle and bustle of the street.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Whose house was it?’

  Sitting on a bench on the first floor of the British Museum, Carlyle gazed at a small group of kids clustered round a table, chatting away happily as they painted their decorative tiles. They were coming to the end of an Islamic tile-painting workshop that had been inspired by the museum’s Middle Eastern ceramics collection. It had been Helen’s idea to get Alice together with Marina Silver for a play date. Even though the museum was literally five minutes’ walk from the Carlyle home in Covent Garden, Alice had seemed none too keen. She clearly objected to the idea of hanging out with a younger girl. Once she was actually there, however, she quickly got into the spirit of things and had then taken good care of Marina, even telling her father to go away when he once tried to lend a hand. Carlyle couldn’t have felt prouder of his daughter if she’d been appointed Prime Minister.

  The tile painting provided a welcome distraction from certain other matters. He had arrived at the museum undecided about what — if anything — to say to Dom about Sam Hooper and the Middle Market Drugs Project. While trying to make up his mind, he had instead filled him in on the situation with Joe’s killers, and their subsequent murder spree.

  The fact that Dom had gone on to ask a very relevant question, one that the inspector should have asked himself, irked Carlyle intensely. Now that this question had been raised, it seemed obvious that he should have given more thought to the very desirable number 17 Peel Street. What was a suspected Hama
s terrorist doing in a multi-million-pound townhouse in one of the smartest areas of the city? Now that he belatedly considered it, the place had looked as pristine and unlived-in as a designer hotel. Apart from the blood and brains splattered about the kitchen, of course. ‘We are looking into it,’ he said blandly, unwilling to admit his own oversight.

  Sitting next to him on the bench, Dom turned and gave Carlyle one of his famous shit-eating grins. ‘Well, look no more, my friend,’ he said. ‘Dominic has the answer.’

  Carlyle was so shocked he almost missed noticing Alice wave at him from across the room. Smiling, he waved back. She held up her tile to show him the result, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

  ‘You’re joking,’ he hissed out of one side of his mouth.

  Dom lifted his gaze to the heavens and lowered it with a more modest smile. ‘No, I’m not. I’ve been there myself a few times.’

  Jesus fucking Christ, Carlyle thought. ‘Not the other night, I hope.’

  ‘No, no, no. The last time was about eight months ago. The place belongs to a guy called Sol Abramyan, although I’d be amazed if that name showed up on any search. The lease will doubtless be registered to some holding company with a PO Box in the Cayman Islands. Twenty-five middle-men later, you might find Sol’s name crop up, just maybe. Even then you’d have to know who you were looking for. More likely, you could have a dozen accountants on it for twenty years and still get nowhere.’

  ‘And who is Sol fucking Abramyan?’ Carlyle asked, taking on the familiar role of the slow plod for Dom’s amusement.

  ‘Sol,’ Dom explained, ‘is an Armenian arms dealer.’ He glanced over at the kids, who were still painting away, and lowered his voice. ‘And an occasional customer of mine. He’s a very quiet, low-key bloke who I don’t suppose will be coming back to London for a while.’

  ‘Is he here now?’

  Dom shook his head. ‘No. Even if he was staying at Peel Street when this shit was going down, he will have vamoosed.’

  ‘Maybe the Israelis have him.’

  ‘Hah!’ Dom laughed. ‘More likely the other way round.’

  ‘No one fucks with Mossad,’ Carlyle said, ‘that’s what they all say.’

  Dom gave him a searching look. ‘So why are you trying then, you fucking muppet?’

  Carlyle looked away, saying nothing.

  ‘How many gunmen were there?’ Dom asked quietly.

  ‘We don’t know. One, maybe two — but not many. All three victims were shot by the same gun.’

  ‘In that case,’ Dom said, ‘I very much doubt that Sol was there. We can assume that he wasn’t the target.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  Dom scratched the back of his neck and stretched out his legs. ‘Well, if he was, and if Mossad are as bloody good as everyone says they are — although all this carnage suggests that they might not be — they wouldn’t have started the shooting without knowing for sure that he was home. They would also have known that it would take at least a dozen of their top guys to take Sol Abramyan down. He always travels with at least two very large Somalian bodyguards, who carry enough weaponry between them to start a small war.’ He grinned like the big kid that he still was at heart. ‘And also to finish it.’

  Carlyle made to open his mouth.

  ‘Before you ask,’ Dom said quickly, ‘I don’t know their names. I only know that they’re Somalian because Solly made a joke one time about their previous career as pirates.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s Solly now, is it?’

  ‘Hey,’ Dom shrugged, ‘I take people as I find them. He was always an okay guy as far as his dealings with me were concerned. Yes, so he sells guns; it’s not exactly social work, but I’m not judgemental.’

  ‘That’s handy,’ said Carlyle sarkily.

  Dominic tutted. ‘Don’t try and wind me up, John. I’m a drugs dealer, so what gives me the right to get up on my high horse? More to the point, who do you think the biggest arms dealer in this country is?’

  Why don’t you tell me? Carlyle thought, giving him a blank look.

  ‘Her Majesty’s Government,’ Dom said forcefully. ‘In other words, your employer. So you are in no position either to claim the moral high ground.’

  Here we go, Carlyle thought wearily: the philosopher coke dealer takes to the stage.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not like Sol sells to any UK customers. After all, Britain is his home — well, one of them at least.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘It’s good to know that he has standards. But he wasn’t above conducting a bit of business here, was he?’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘No — but why else would he have some senior Hamas guy sitting in his kitchen?’

  ‘That’s a fair point,’ Dom conceded.

  ‘Can you get me in front of him?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘No.’ Dom shook his head. ‘And even if I could, why in God’s name would you want to do that?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carlyle laughed, ‘he could help the police with their enquiries.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Carlyle persisted. ‘You of all people know that I am pragmatism personified when it comes to dealing with gentlemen criminals.’

  ‘A gentleman criminal?’ Dom put on a hurt face. ‘So that’s what I am?’

  ‘You could vouch for me.’

  ‘John, be serious. Sol is way out of my league. Which means that he is way, way, way out of your league. He once told me that there are almost a hundred warrants out for his arrest in various countries. For all I know, some of those may have been issued by the Met. I don’t think you can go anywhere near him, even if he were to agree to see you — which he won’t.’

  ‘Let me do the worrying about that.’

  ‘Our relationship is a one-off,’ Dom said quietly. ‘You can’t hope to replicate it with other people.’

  Carlyle frowned. ‘You’re not feeling jealous, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Dom looked embarrassed. ‘Look, he’s a customer, I only ever see him once in a blue moon. He always contacts me, never the other way round.’

  The workshop was coming to a close. Chatting away happily, the girls were bringing over their tiles for inspection.

  ‘Just see what you can do,’ Carlyle said, standing up to admire their daughters’ handiwork.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Desperate for a cigarette, Hilary Waxman paced a corridor deep inside the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on King Charles Street, just off Whitehall. The Israeli Ambassador hated this fey Italianate building. Previously the home of the India Office and the Colonial Office, a seventeen-year,?100 million renovation had done little to drag the place into the twenty-first century. The edifice simply had no character and, like the organization it housed, it had no balls.

  It was almost 11 a.m., and Waxman had been summoned to see the Foreign Secretary at ten-thirty in order to ‘share information’ on the spate of killings that had rocked genteel British sensitivities. It was unusual for her to be kept waiting like this. Whatever else you could say about the British, they were usually punctual.

  Waxman checked her watch for the sixth time in two minutes and cursed under her breath. She glared at the young staffer hovering at her elbow. ‘Go and find out what’s going on,’ she hissed.

  As the young woman jogged off down the corridor, the Ambassador now at least felt the minor solace of being alone. With her mobile and her BlackBerry switched off inside her bag, she could enjoy the rare pleasure of being almost incommunicado. After all the shit she had been receiving from Jerusalem over the last few days, that was, Waxman decided, the very least she deserved.

  The prospect of another dressing-down from the British Government did not bother her in the least. It was, in the famous words of some long-forgotten English politician, like being savaged by a dead sheep. Waxman, who was considered a bit of a liberal back home, knew that she had bigger balls than all of them here put together.

  In fac
t, there wasn’t a single British politician that Waxman didn’t feel she could have for breakfast. The Foreign Secretary himself was a particularly ineffectual young man, promoted too far, too fast, by a weak Prime Minister. Waxman herself wouldn’t have given him a job as a junior ADC on her staff.

  After growing up on a kibbutz on the West Bank, then ten years in the army and almost another ten in the snake-pit of Israeli politics, Waxman at first had found London a real shock to the system. Britain was obviously the most complacent country on earth and the British political classes appeared truly spineless. As far as she could see, all they ever did was cheat on their expenses and wail about their ‘broken’ society. Meantime, the place had become a haven for criminals and terrorists. God knows, if they were better able to keep their own house in order, there wouldn’t be any need to send Mossad in to do their dirty work for them.

  On the other hand, Mossad wasn’t exactly covering itself in glory either. Six deaths, three of them ‘collaterals’, i.e. innocent bystanders, was the kind of thing you could get away with in Beirut, but not here. What really annoyed the Ambassador was that she had demanded that the mission be abandoned after the debacle at the Ritz Hotel. Overruled by her military attache, she now had to face the uncomfortable truth that she was stuck in the middle of an increasingly acrimonious dispute between London and Jerusalem, with her only role in this tawdry little drama to take a kicking from both sides.

  Worst of all, while the mission had yet to be completed, the lead Mossad operative had gone missing. Three of the four Hamas targets had been taken out, but they had meanwhile lost a man of their own.

  Losing a man was one thing but, at the very least, you needed a body. Or, at the very, very least, some body parts. Something to take back to his family.

  They had nothing.

  Ryan Goya had executed his orders and taken out his target. Then he had just disappeared off the face of the planet. Jerusalem was going crazy. They were talking about sending in another assassination squad to try and rescue him. But, as Waxman had pointed out, no one knew if Goya — or his corpse — was even still in London.