Two bugles – one from each side but in almost perfect unison - started playing the last post as the Indian and Pakistani flags were raised. Even this was a contest as each bugler hung on to the notes, trying to outlast the other. The crowd gave a cheer as the last cadence faded in the air and, after a cursory handshake between officers from each side, the gates were opened. Drained of its energy, the crowd at last fell silent.
Back on the platform everyone was still waiting. Elderly toothless men, frail grandmothers, screaming babies, excited boys and demur, veiled girls waited, without complaint, as the guards searched the train and, on an apparently random basis, some of the luggage. Must be hoping for bribes to let people back on board, Jaz thought. He looked for gaps where he could see the platform but apart from a few square inches here and there all of it was covered with people and possessions. Some of the women started handing out food from glass jars. As they settled in for what they fully expected to be a long wait, most of the passengers sat or in some cases even lay on their parcels and boxes. It was a war of attrition and the passengers seemed confident that if they were patient enough the border officials would blink first.
Insulated from the standoff, Jaz found himself slipping in and out of sleep. He rehearsed the timetable ahead of him. He and the major had run through it day-by-day, even hour-by-hour. In just over a week he would be floating home to Pakistan. “Be flexible.” He remembered the sheikh’s last-minute words of advice. “If things go wrong adjust, adapt. And above all else come back home alive. You can always fight another day. Honour can wait. Even for generations.”
He scarcely noticed as the train eased its way from no man’s land and accelerated towards Delhi. The difficult part of his journey was just beginning and Jaz Khan was relaxed.
*****
Monty took the plastic lid off the polystyrene cup and sipped the burning hot tea. He was alone in his spartan office. His desk was bare except for a computer, two phones and, today, thick reams of paper with perforated edges. No coffee mugs, no photographs, no stapler and no in-tray.
Around him there was a metal bin, a steel cabinet painted British racing green, a safe in which he could lock his documents, a chair for visitors and, looking quite out of place, a curved wooden hat stand. He had thought about having it removed but kept it as a tribute to the time, not so very long ago, when he would have been expected to arrive for work in a bowler. Unlike most of his colleagues Monty was not bothered if he had a view of the river and had consequently been allocated a room at the back of Thames House overlooked by a block of flats. He had requested the installation of some Venetian blinds to prevent anyone looking in. He always kept them closed and relied on the harsh tube-lighting overhead.
He looked at the pile of paper that listed thousands of names and tried to put himself in the mind of a young Pakistani man trying to slip back into Britain. The lists had everyone booked to fly in from Karachi, Lahore and Islamabad. The computer search had revealed nothing and his visual double check was no better. Some Ys. No Yasirs.
False passport? Late booking? Different starting point? Delayed departure? Early departure?
He picked up his phone and called Shami.
“I need more from e-borders. Dubai and Abu Dhabi please. As soon as you can.”
*****
Jaz had woken with a jolt when he arrived in Delhi in the afternoon. What he saw surprised him. It was not that it was so different from Chamak: the surprise was that it was almost exactly the same. Apart from the signs in the Hindi script and the number of young couples holding hands, he might have been back in Pakistan. Most people dressed the same and had the same mannerisms. They even spoke the same. Throughout his childhood Jaz had been taught that India was the enemy, the threat, a source of danger and hostility. But on the train, riding on the buses and walking through the streets, he was amongst people like him.
And yet Jaz was nervous. It was because of the travel agent. As the major had instructed, he found one in the tourist area near the Red Fort. “The worse it looks,” the major had said, “the more desperate they will be for a sale. And the more desperate they are for a sale, the fewer questions they will ask.”
Jaz had selected the grottiest he could find. The plump, balding travel agent sat behind a white plastic desk that tilted from left to right. And it all went according to plan until the man asked for his passport. He hadn’t expected that.
“A Britisher,” the man said, looking at the document and apparently satisfied. “Very good.” And then: “Accommodation?”
Jaz froze unsure what to say.
“Hotel? Where are you staying?”
“Delhi” Jaz managed, but too quietly for the man to hear.
“Where?”
“Delhi.” Louder this time.
“But which hotel?”
Silence.
“Hotel Delhi?” the man suggested.
Jaz grasped the straw offered to him. “Yes, Hotel Delhi.”
“Where?”
Again silence. Jaz kicked himself for not having prepared better. The first obstacle and he was stumbling.
“Near here,” he tried, pointing at the street outside. But if it was near the agent would expect to know it. Jaz adjusted. “Well. Quite near.”
The agent looked down at a form wondering what to write.
“OK. So, Hotel Delhi, Delhi?”
“Fine,” Jaz said. “I’ll pay for the ticket in cash.”
After that, even though his flight did not leave until after midnight, he headed straight for the airport. And to avoid the risk of conversation with a taxi driver, he took a bus.
Now it was the passport control that worried him. What would they ask? Where had he stayed? For how long? They might see he had an Indian entry stamp showing he had come from Pakistan. So what questions would that raise? He would just have to say he had wanted to see the border closing ceremony. As he walked into the airport and scanned the screens for the flight to London he tried to piece together a story. But every time he thought of some answers he came up with another question that he couldn’t respond to without contradicting himself. He knew he was preparing far too late. They had worked out the UK days in meticulous detail, so why not India? He resisted the temptation to blame it on the major. He should have thought it through himself.
“Travelling alone?”
Almost on autopilot he had reached the BA check-in desk. The woman was smiling, her hands on her keyboard.
“Yes.”
“You’re early. But that’s fine. Bags?”
The major had told him to check something in even if he didn’t need to. Only hand luggage on a long-haul flight was another red flag. “And for God’s sake eat on the plane even if you don’t feel like it,” the major had added. “As the hostesses know all too well, when you have swallowed a bag of drugs, the less that goes in, the longer it takes to come out.” Jaz tried to put the story out of his mind. To focus on his own problems.
“One to check in.” As he had packed a rucksack inside the bag it looked bulky enough.
Keep it simple, he thought to himself. In Delhi on holiday. Delhi Hotel. There must be one. Near the Red Fort. They couldn’t check that could they? I’m going back home. End of story.
Boarding pass in hand he approached passport control. He could see the camera that would take his picture and upload the image onto the immigration officer’s desktop. And from there to where? Jaz wondered. But there was no way round it.
“Passport.”
Jaz had chosen the oldest looking immigration officer he could see. The most jaded, he hoped. Or the most particular, he feared. The man wore metal-framed glasses and, Jaz noticed, had a patch of worn skin on his forehead: an emblem of zealotry, caused by years of prayer. Good, thought Jaz, an Indian Muslim.
“British?”
“Yes.”
“Reason for visit?”
“Tourism.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
The officer took o
ff his glasses, raised his eyes from his paperwork and looked Jaz in the face. As he contemplated his options, he scanned Jaz’s passport and aimed the camera at Jaz with the robotic effortlessness of a man who had done it thousands of times before.
Jaz could feel the sweat building up in the pores of his forehead. He tried to remember something the colonel had said about situations like this. Avoid shallow breath. Don’t let them see your mouth is dry. He had a bottle of water in his pocket and was tempted to take a swig but, thinking the officer was bound to notice, resisted the temptation.
The officer hadn’t noticed the Indian entry stamp showing Jaz had been in the country not even for a full day. But still he wasn’t ready to let him go.
“Pakistani or Indian?” The name, Jasir Khan, told the officer he was dealing with a Muslim but he couldn’t work out Jaz’s origins.
“British.”
Silence. And then: “Have a good flight.”
Six hours later Jaz was airborne, secretly clenching his fists in victory. Stage one accomplished. Six days to go. One man. Six days. £5,900. Up against the combined might of the British state, its men and money. He replayed in his mind every step he would need to take. The shopping trips and the bike rides, the bombs he would have to make and the detonators too.
As he looked at the clouds he tried to weigh up his chances. First the good news: apart from the money pick-up, he was entirely on his own. He preferred it that way. He alone was responsible for his own fate. The only person he would have trusted was dead anyway. Who else could he rely on? He had a plan and it would take just under a week to execute it. He was taking the initiative; the British would be reacting, on the defensive. He’d be lightning quick; they would be lumbering and slow. And anyway how much could go wrong in a week?
But there were plenty of negatives. The technology, the sheer weight of resources the British police could deploy, the army too maybe. Then there were the questions the major had been unable to resolve: the fences they had been unable to see from the images Ravi found for them online and the security systems that he might not even know about. And his own strength. Was he strong enough? Tough enough? Sharp enough?
But then he had right on his side, there was no doubt of that. Mahmud should be avenged. He’d done nothing wrong. Not to mention all the other innocent Pakistanis killed by the West. Did that count for anything? Nothing? Drinking a tepid cup of tea Jaz found himself drowsily wondering about God and what help he might provide. Then he muttered to himself to get real. To look after himself.
There was a sense of pride too. That the sheikh had trusted him and that the major, with all his connections and experience, had taken the time to train him. They were relying on him. They seemed to admire him. Even like him. He wanted to be back with them. And that felt good. He slipped into sleep as he moved towards the place he used to call home.
*****
Razia heard the gates rattle as Natasha drove in and, as ever, rushed downstairs with Rosie, just stirring, in her arms.
“Was she asleep?”
“I thought you would want to see her.”
“I do. I do. How has she been?”
“Fine, madam. Fine.”
Natasha hugged Rosie tightly to her face covering her with kisses. Not bothering to close the car door, she walked towards the house and went straight to her bedroom. Putting Rosie on the bed beside her she lay on her side staring into her baby’s eyes and tickling under her arms until Rosie gurgled with delight.
“So how’s my beautiful daughter?”
As Natasha stared into Rosie’s face she could see a slight downward curl from at either end of her lip. Hungry. Already. Lifting Rosie up again Natasha headed downstairs.
“Razia!”
Razia’s face, complete with headscarf, appeared through the kitchen door.
“Do you think you could feed her?”
“No problem madam.”
As she walked upstairs listening to Razia chattering away to Rosie and turning her mind to Dera Chamak she found some Mozart on her iPod and played it through her speakers. She then lit a candle under a bowl of lavender oil; the flame’s reflection flickered on a highly ornate brass plate framing gold and red needlework tapestry.
Razia was at the door with Rosie settled once more.
“Come in. She can sleep here as I work.”
“Madam!” said Razia giggling at the idea, “I will put her to bed.”
“Just hold on.”
Natasha went to her bedroom, took out the clothes from one of her drawers and removed it from the chest. She lined the drawer with a blanket and held it in front of her as she made her way back to the study.
“She can sleep here. Right by me.”
“Madam! Are you sure?”
“Sure. Could you dim the lighting?”
As Razia did so, Natasha put Rosie in the drawer stroking her forehead.
“Could I have some green tea?”
“Yes madam.”
After 15 minutes Rosie settled and Natasha switched on her laptop and began work. First she wrote a message to her MI6 colleagues in Islamabad, copied to the Defence Attaché, requesting a trawl of the lists of Pakistani army colonels, serving and retired, with the first name Azam. “Behaving as a colonel should,” the transcript had said. She looked at her messages and saw the reaction to her telegram. She was copied in to a snowstorm of memos to and from the police Counter Terrorism Command, the Border Agency, MI5, the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre and, in some cases, even the home secretary and the Cabinet Office.
Then, as was her habit, she started with Google. It had never produced much but, to Natasha, it just made sense. It was logical. Start with the biggest database of all and then narrow it down. She put in Yasir. Did you mean “Jasir”? her computer asked. Under Yasir there were 7 million entries. Facebook. LinkedIn. Myspace. Twitter. Friendster, whatever that was. And that was just on the first page.
London would have to cross-check the social network sites. She made a note, and using a fob with an algorithm that changed the password every 60 seconds, logged on the Thames House server. She didn’t have remote access to the security files, but there were plenty of databases she could ask to be searched and, in her experience, they very rarely failed to deliver something.
Razia was at the door now carrying a tray.
“Green tea, madam.” She always spoke softly, partly, thought Natasha, through deference but more so because she was shy.
“Thanks,” Natasha said, pointing to a table by her chair. She watched her maid’s movements as she crossed the room.
Natasha thought back to her first days in Peshawar when, much as Keane, no doubt, would have expected, she had effectively been trapped in the house. She had been rescued by the redoubtable Reverend Cecil Paul, vicar of All Saints’ Church, Peshawar. He visited her, as he made it his business to visit all new British residents of the city, urging them to attend All Saints’. The British built the church, he liked to say, and the British would always be welcome.
Why not? Natasha thought. Not for her soul. It was just another circle to penetrate; another community to understand. But the real benefit from the reverend’s pastoral visit came when Rosie started crying upstairs and Rehmat, the servant she had inherited from her predecessor, decided the best thing was to lift the child out of its cot and bring her for Natasha to comfort.
The vicar watched the scene aghast.
“Your child?” he asked as he watched Rehmat hand the baby to her.
Natasha rocked Rosie in her arms: “Yes.”
“And your husband ...” He waited for her to complete the sentence, but she just kept on rocking the baby.
“... is working elsewhere,” the vicar suggested.
Natasha gave a slight nod.
Even though Rehmat had left the room and didn’t speak much English the vicar spoke in a whisper. “But madam it is most unsuitable for a man like that to be looking after your child. Or to be alone in the house with you.”
“A girl is coming here,” he had said to Natasha. “Her name is Razia. She has been brought up at the orphanage but she is nearly 18 now so she needs to start work.”
Natasha had looked at him, uncertain what to say. “I see. Well what can I say? Thank you.”
“She has no relatives to help her find a job. She helps clean the church and is highly dependable. She has excellent English.” And then, the clinching argument: “It is more fitting.”
She would never have allowed an English vicar to bully her about like that. But then again she wasn’t in England. She even let the Reverend Cecil Paul tell Rehmat that he would from now be working outside the house looking after the car and gardens.
Razia was bending over, pouring the tea now. A gold cross attached to a chain normally hidden beneath her clothes had slipped out and swung beneath her chin.
Natasha knew the answer but still asked: “How old are you Razia?”
“Eighteen, madam.”
“And do you plan to marry?”
Razia let out a nervous giggle and looked at the ground.
Natasha softly: “Well do you?”
“I don’t know madam,” she was wringing her hands now “No, I will stay with you.”
“But one day I will go back the UK.”
“No madam. But it’s difficult for me to find ... I have no relatives,” she said.
TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller Page 16