More Than You Can Say

by Paul Torday

  There wasn’t an easy answer to that question. The Richard Gaunt of two weeks ago now seemed like someone from another age. Then I had been indifferent to anyone and everyone, living a life without meaning or purpose. I had been walking to Oxford for a bet when I was kidnapped, hadn’t I? That alone was a fairly stupid thing to do.

  Nick Davies was right. I didn’t think deeply: thinking deeply led me to places I didn’t want to go to. And now, everything had changed.

  ‘Why was that?’ repeated Nick. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ve got much of an answer anyway. You helped them get what they wanted: Nadine was recreated as Adeena Gaunt, given the right to stay in this country, and was one step away from full UK citizenship, thanks to you. But Aseeb wasn’t really interested in you at first. He wanted to create a new identity for the girl, and you would have been discarded as soon as you had done what was asked of you. When you left, that should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t.’

  Basil put his head around the door.

  ‘The minister’s on the phone. He wants you to join a conference call shortly. What do I say?’

  ‘Say what you like,’ Nick snapped. ‘Tell him that if I spend my entire time reporting to him and joining pointless conference calls, I’ll never get anything done. He wants me to keep the president of Afghanistan alive while he’s in London, I suppose? Then why doesn’t he let me get on with it? Tell him ‘‘Yes’’, Bas, but have a car ready and get a dial-in number so we can join in on the call on a mobile.’

  Nick turned back to me.

  ‘Nadine is a sleeper, Richard. She’s a terrorist, with a more or less legitimate UK identity, waiting to be pointed at an opportunity. So why did she come back to you when you left? Suddenly their long-term plan had become a short-term plan. They must have seen something. Or you told them something. What was it? Try and think, for once. It could be really, really important.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘You said something,’ persisted Nick. ‘Or else they saw something when they went to your flat. Or something else happened that rang a few bells. They sent Nadine after you. What was it that changed their minds?’

  I wasn’t on Nick’s wavelength at all. He was talking about someone called Nadine, and all I could think about was Adeena: a girl who had run away from her captors in search of help, who had come to me because I was the only person in the United Kingdom whose address she knew. Now I had promised to look after her, no matter what. But who had she been calling on the phone?

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ I suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Nick. ‘Cherchez la femme. We’ll ask the lady herself. Call her to tell her that you’re on your way home.’ He held out the handset towards me so that I could punch in my number. After a moment the line connected, and I could hear the phone ringing. No one answered.

  ‘She won’t pick up,’ I said.

  Nick frowned. Then he stood up and went to the door of his office and shouted:

  ‘Right. Basil! Car.’

  Basil was bending over a desk, talking into a phone. He raised his head.

  ‘Car’s downstairs, Nick.’

  ‘I want your guarantee that she won’t be arrested,’ I told Nick.

  ‘No deals. No guarantees,’ he said. ‘We’re way beyond that. You know that. Let’s go.’

  Feeling sick, I followed Nick through the office and downstairs. There was a black Audi A6 parked outside, with a driver at the wheel. Nick gestured to me to get into the back, then walked around the car to sit on the other side. A moment later Basil came flying down the stairs and jumped into the front passenger seat. As the car took off, Nick leaned forward and gave my address to the driver, then asked Basil:

  ‘What time’s that conference call?’

  ‘It’s been put back half an hour, Nick. The minister’s in with the prime minister, reporting to him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Nick. He checked his watch and stared out of the window.

  ‘I don’t want Adeena to be locked up, or sent back to Afghanistan,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not in a position to ask for anything. Don’t even bother trying.’

  The driver drove fast, but well, and we arrived at my flat in a surprisingly short time. I got out, wondering whether Adeena was watching. I looked up but did not see her face at the window. I ran up the steps to the entrance to the flat, with Nick and Basil close behind me. The door was still locked. I found my key and opened it, my hands trembling slightly. I stepped through the small hallway into the kitchen. It was empty. I called out.

  ‘Adeena!’

  Nick and Basil pushed past me and looked in the sitting room, the bathroom, my bedroom and the box room. Then Nick came back into the kitchen. Basil was already on his mobile, talking to someone.

  ‘So what’s the story, Richard?’ asked Nick. ‘Where is she? Is she having her hair done? Or has she gone to be with Aseeb? What’s your best guess, Richard?’

  I stared at him. Then I sat down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands.

  ‘Come on, Richard,’ said Nick. ‘Let’s not fuck about. Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? Where is she?’

  Twenty

  ‘Sir, the conference call is open. We can join in now.’

  Basil waved the mobile phone in Nick’s direction.

  ‘Put the bloody thing on speaker and let’s hope the battery doesn’t run flat halfway through,’ said Nick. For a moment the two of them had forgotten about me. I heard some static and then a voice: ‘You are joining a secure conference call. Please identify yourselves.’

  Nick and Basil gave their names and a pass code. There were some clicks, and then a booming voice came across the line. I recognised the clipped tones of the minister David Longtown. He was fond of making television and radio appearances and one heard his voice with great regularity, whether one wanted to or not.

  ‘David Longtown here. Commander Verdon is in the room with me. Stand by. Is Cheltenham on the line?’

  Another voice said yes, GCHQ at Cheltenham was standing by.

  ‘It’s two o’clock,’ said David Longtown. ‘I’ll just run through the main points of the timetable. The president is touching down at Heathrow about now. He’ll be picked up by car. That’s the Foreign Office, plus standard police escort. He goes to Buckingham Palace for an audience with Her Majesty at three. Three forty-five he leaves the Palace and they drive down the Mall to St James’s Gate, turn into Lancaster House. Four to four thirty he has a reception at Lancaster House. After that the convoy goes down the Mall, turns right into Horse Guards, along George Street and then to Number Ten. That’s where I’ll meet the president, along with the prime minister. OK so far?’

  Everyone said yes.

  ‘Commander Verdon, can you introduce yourself?’

  A new voice announced itself. The minister said, ‘Commander Verdon is from Counter Terrorism Command and he is Gold Commander for this operation. In any emergency, he is in charge. Everyone got that?’

  Various noises of assent sounded over the speaker. The minister continued: ‘This line will stay open until the president and his escort arrive in Downing Street. Any problems, anything at all that doesn’t seem right, call it in on this number. Anything new on threat status, Cheltenham?’

  ‘The usual increase in activity in Internet chat rooms,’ said a voice. ‘Threats to blow up the president, cut off his head and so on. Some mobile chatter. Nothing specific. We’ll keep listening.’

  ‘Do that,’ said the minister. At that moment Nick realised I was still in the room. He turned and mouthed, ‘Get out.’ As I left the kitchen I heard Nick say, ‘Minister, Nick Davies speaking. We may have a situation here.’

  Bas closed the kitchen door, cutting off the sound of Nick’s voice. I stood in the sitting room. An awareness was growing within me: not all at once in a flash of revelation, but creeping up on me like a poison injected in my veins. I’d been had; I’d been played like a fish. Adeena’s appe
arance outside my flat, calculated to arouse my sympathy, had been the hook. Her apparent abduction in the supermarket had set the hook within me. I felt compelled to go after her and release her, as they knew I would. And how easy they had made it for me! Two hardened members of al-Qaeda had let me walk all over them at the house in Oxfordshire. It was obvious to me now that the whole episode had been a set-up. I had done exactly what they wanted me to do – with the possible exception of shooting Kevin in the leg. I had brought Adeena back with me and … Adeena had brought a bag with her.

  I went into the box room and looked for Adeena’s bag. It was still there. I opened it. It was empty. I went into the bedroom. The clothes she had been wearing at breakfast had been thrown on a chair. I could see no sign of the burka, either in the wardrobe or anywhere else. A feeling of panic was rising in me. I opened my sock drawer and dug out the Sig Sauer once more and checked the clip. There were still seven rounds left. I stuck the pistol in the belt of my trousers. Then I went back to the kitchen and opened the door. The conference call was still going on but I ignored it. Nick and Bas rose from the chairs the moment I came in but I ignored them too. I went straight to the pile of post that lay on one of the worktops. As I leafed through it Bas took me by the arm.

  ‘It’s gone,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ said Bas, trying to steer me out of the room, but Nick stopped him. He hit the mute button on the phone.

  ‘What’s gone?’

  ‘My invitation,’ I said stupidly.

  ‘Your invitation to what, exactly?’ I could see Nick was trying to keep his temper.

  ‘My invitation to the veteran soldiers’ reception to meet the president of Afghanistan: the reception at Lancaster House. It’s gone. Adeena must have taken it.’

  Nick sat motionless as he took this in. Then he said: ‘Oh, shit,’ and ran his hands over his face and through his hair so that it stood up in spikes. ‘Oh, God. You couldn’t have told us this sooner, could you? That’s the answer. That’s why she was here. She wanted access.’

  He waved at me to sit down, then turned off the mute button to rejoin the conference call.

  ‘We lost you there for a moment, Nick,’ the minister said, ‘please repeat what you were saying?’

  ‘We have new information. We believe that there will be an attempt on the president at the Lancaster House reception. We have a female suspect who has a security pass issued in the name of Gaunt. Commander Verdon, have you got that?’

  There was a chaotic noise on the other end of the line as everyone talked at the same time.

  ‘We’ll advise security at Lancaster House,’ Commander Verdon’s voice drowned out the others, ‘but your suspect may already have got in. We must abort the president’s visit there. I will contact the Foreign Office and ensure the reception is cancelled. The convoy will go straight from the Palace to Number Ten. Minister, I assume you will keep the prime minister’s office informed? Nick, can you give me a physical description of the woman we are looking for?’

  Nick turned to me, the question in his eyes.

  ‘I think she’s wearing a burka,’ I told him, ‘but she looks European. She may have put on a veil as well.’

  Nick looked at me in horror.

  ‘There’s no time to get a photograph circulated. Can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘I’d be able to recognise her whatever she was wearing,’ I said.

  ‘Nick, who is the new voice on the line?’ asked Commander Verdon. Nick turned back to the phone and explained.

  The commander spoke again: ‘Give me your address, and I will send a car immediately to collect Mr Gaunt. We need him to go to Lancaster House to identify the target, if she is still there. Nick, it would be best if you could return to your office and then rejoin this call from a secure line. We have a possible terrorist event in progress.’

  ‘If this is an AQ event then there will almost certainly be more than one incident,’ said Nick. ‘Their signature is multiple attacks.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Commander Verdon. ‘I am raising the threat level from ‘‘Severe’’ to ‘‘Critical’’. I repeat: the threat level is ‘‘Critical’’.’

  The minister spoke. ‘I’m leaving this call now and handing over to the Gold Commander. He is in charge. Call in with any developments, especially you, Nick. This is your department’s responsibility.’

  I saw Nick mouth an obscenity at the mobile.

  ‘And remember,’ the minister continued. ‘We don’t want a repeat of July 2005. We don’t want to shoot another innocent passer-by. Dead civilians do not make good headlines. Any mistakes and the officers responsible will be held fully accountable. That’s you, Commander Verdon; and you too, Nick.’

  The call ended. Nick stood up.

  ‘There you are. That’s how to say ‘‘You’re damned if you do, and you’re damned if you don’t.’’ I’m going back to the office. Bas, you stay here with Mr Gaunt until CO15 pick him up. Richard, if you remember any other details that might have slipped your mind, perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know.’

  He was halfway through the door when I said: ‘There was something in the bag.’

  Nick turned so suddenly he almost fell over.

  ‘What bag?’

  ‘She came back from Oxford with a canvas bag. It was heavy. She told me it contained her personal belongings.’

  ‘Did you look inside it?’ asked Bas.

  ‘I did just now. It’s empty.’

  ‘Get down there to Lancaster House,’ said Nick furiously. ‘Find her. Stop her. Do something. Wake up to what’s been going on under your nose.’

  Adeena was an associate of terrorists and was probably a terrorist herself. Deep down, I’d known it all along – I just hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself. I’d been taken in by her beauty; by the air of desolation that surrounded her. I felt sorry for her. I wanted her. And last night she had made quite sure that all I was thinking about was being in bed with her.

  But for me, it had been much more than that: it was fuelled by my own longing to fill the hole in my life that had been there for the last two years since Emma left. I had to accept Adeena had used me. It was no use hating her for deceiving me: the only deception had been the one I’d practised on myself.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Gaunt?’ asked Bas. He was staring at me. I looked down at my hands and saw they were both balled up into fists, my knuckles white.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said, without looking at him.

  ‘The coppers should show up any minute.’

  Adeena. Nadine. She wasn’t called Nadine, I told myself.

  That name was taken away from her when they blew up her father and mother in a camp in southern Afghanistan. Now she was Adeena Haq. No: she was Adeena Gaunt. And she wanted to make us pay for what had been done to her family. The truth was I didn’t know her and I had never known her. I remembered her talking about the war in Afghanistan with a passion that was different to her normal calm. Normal? I’d known her only for two weeks.

  The doorbell rang.

  Bas said, ‘I’ll answer that, if you don’t mind.’

  He went to the door and opened it cautiously, then widened it to admit two very large men in jeans and fleeces. They had to duck their heads as they came in. I was over six foot tall and I didn’t need to do that, but these two men made the room seem very small indeed. There was a little courtship ritual while Bas and the men showed each other their warrant cards, then the older of the two looked at me.

  ‘You’re Gaunt?’

  ‘I’m Richard Gaunt.’

  ‘We’re from Counter Terrorism Command. You can call me Arthur.’ He jerked a thumb at the other man. ‘And you can call him Martha. Let’s get going.’

  ‘Good luck, Mr Gaunt,’ said Bas. I muttered something in reply and followed the two men down into the street and over to their car.

  As we screeched off down Camden High Street, Arthur turned on a radio and picked up a mike from its cradle.
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br />   ‘C5 reporting in to Control. We have the guy who can make the eyeball in the car and we’re on our way. There in twenty. Standing by for instructions.’

  There was a burst of static and a garbled voice said something entirely unintelligible.

  Arthur looked at Martha. ‘These new radios are no better than the last ones. Can’t hear a word.’

  The car took a corner at unnerving speed. Ahead of us was heavy traffic. I heard the siren start up and the cars in front of us pulled over to the side of the road to let us past. I checked my watch: it was 3.20. Adeena might already be through security at Lancaster House. We hadn’t been asked to bring any identification, just the invitation itself. She would be admitted, along with all the other wives. The burka would even help her. Security would be terrified of doing or saying anything that could be construed as politically incorrect. Adeena would be waiting for the arrival of the guest of honour. What would she do when the news got out that he wasn’t coming? My job was to get to her first, make sure she was safe and that she didn’t get shot by Arthur, Martha or anyone else.

  The next thing would be to find out where Aseeb was, and deal with him. Adeena would know. She must know. He must have picked her up outside my flat and taken her as close as he could get to Lancaster House. The car ground to a halt. Ahead of us the traffic was absolutely solid. Horns were sounding and there was the noise of an ambulance in the distance.

  ‘Christ,’ said Arthur to Martha. ‘Try and find a way round this, will you?’

  Martha reversed, causing the driver of the car behind to lean on his horn. Then he did a U-turn in front of an approaching taxi, bumped on to the pavement and shot the wrong way down a one-way street, weaving between the oncoming cars. Luckily we didn’t hit anyone. We turned south again. The traffic was only slightly less solid than before, but with lights flashing and siren going, we were able to make some progress. Arthur tried the radio again.