The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  All attempts to talk to newsagents, café owners, taxi drivers, people selling Halal food were deflected and crushed. Tallis shouldn’t have been surprised. Witnesses who testified were as rare as witch’s blood. Reprisals were real.

  Crossing the divide from Moss Side to the edge of the city centre, Tallis found himself off a roundabout in a street of mostly boarded-up shops, the sole survivors an old-fashioned barber’s with the red and white striped insignia outside, a boutique selling saris and a military surplus store, glorifying the paraphernalia of combat. A downtrodden-looking bloke confronted him with the usual plea for small change, his accent pure Birmingham. Why did homeless people go to other cities to be homeless in, Tallis thought, chucking him fifty pence in a vague symbol of solidarity, though suspecting that it would contribute to his next fix.

  Tallis entered the surplus store, looked around, checking it out, noting the clientele, mostly little men posturing as big men. The goods were laid out on two floors. Downstairs flak jackets, boots, Bergen rucksacks and camouflage trousers; upstairs air pistols, devices to catch rats and squirrels, shotguns in display cabinets and a terrifying array of ceremonial swords. Millets meets Territorial Army, Tallis thought. Near the back of the till a lethal-looking crossbow hung in sinister splendour. An urbane-looking man with short silver-grey hair and a moustache, more accountant than gun dealer, approached Tallis. Tallis wished he could show his warrant card, not that it ever proved a barrier to lies. He smiled, flashed the photograph of Hussain.

  “You police?” The man’s eyes were dark and deep set. There was a trace of a foreign accent, not one Tallis could easily identify.

  “No.”

  The man shook his head, handed back the photograph. “We have many customers.”

  “But you’d remember this guy. He’s big, six-three,-four. Passionate about guns.”

  The man smiled. “You’d be surprised the number of people fitting that description.”

  “So you haven’t seen him?”

  “No.” Those dark eyes said something else, Tallis thought.

  “Tell you what you could help me with.” Tallis smiled. The man smiled back, glad of the change of subject, it seemed. “I’m new to Manchester. Where’s the rough part of town so I can avoid it?”

  “Which way did you come?”

  “From Moss Side.”

  “Doesn’t get much rougher,” he said. “It’s a shame. The older generation are largely upstanding and God-fearing. It’s their children who pose the problem. They have no respect for anyone or anything. We had a couple of stabbings here a few days ago.”

  “This street?”

  “Uh-huh, one fatal.”

  “That usual?”

  “What’s usual? People who live in nice areas get knifed outside their own homes these days.”

  Tallis thanked the man for his time and went downstairs. Walking out, he overheard some old fat bloke dressed from top to toe in camouflage gear extolling the virtues of semi-automatics for ‘taking out’. Sliding a pie out of an oven looked the closest the man ever got to taking out, Tallis thought. He just didn’t get the fascination with killing people. When you’d done it for real, it was hard to comprehend anyone wanting even a vicarious slice of the action.

  Like Plymouth and Coventry, Manchester had suffered its fair share of bombing during the Second World War. Fortunately, many of its oldest buildings remained untouched. Tallis was struck by the successful blend of old and modern architecture. In common with Birmingham, Manchester provided a shoppers’ dream location, and there was more. The hotels were bigger, the sense of glamour stronger, yet no matter how many architectural facelifts, he was aware of a stronger undertow of criminality. He could almost touch it.

  Feeling hungry, he found a bar in Bridgewater Street. Split into two rooms, classy upstairs, basic downstairs, he ordered a pint and a steak sandwich and took his drink to a quiet corner. Still quite early, most punters tended to drift outside and sit by the canal and soak up the sun.

  For the first time since he’d become embroiled in Cavall’s plans, he felt lonely. In a strange city, with no leads, he wondered whether this time his luck had run out, whether he’d fail, and whether he really cared. He imagined Cavall’s reaction, the curl of her full lip, the expression of disdain on her face then, with a sick twist in his stomach, he remembered the precariousness of his situation. One of the last to see Djorovic alive, the first to find the girl dead, he couldn’t afford to fail. Dared not fail. If he did, Cavall had enough on him to throw him to the lions.

  “You look troubled, my friend.”

  Tallis looked up. The man standing before him was dark-skinned with sharp, intelligent-looking eyes. He might have been Indian, Pakistani or from the Middle East. Tallis suddenly realised how easy it was for a white man to confuse one race with another. An image of Rinelle Van Sleigh flashed through his mind.

  Smartly dressed in pale denim jeans, the man wore a casual lemon check shirt, open neck, short sleeves. His build lean, he was probably no more than five-ten in height. He held a glass of what looked like whisky in his hand, which struck Tallis as out of place. No devout Muslim, then.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Tallis shrugged. “Free country,” he muttered. He really didn’t feel like being someone’s mate. He took out the newspaper he’d bought earlier in the day, making a show of unfolding and reading it. The man pulled up a chair. He sat close enough for Tallis to notice his aftershave. Part of him felt queasy. It reminded him of Demarku.

  Tallis’s sandwich arrived. He took a hungry bite, and looked around the bar, saw that it was steadily filling up with drinkers.

  “Understand you’ve been asking questions.”

  Tallis didn’t flinch, kept on chewing. Intelligence must be exceptionally good in these parts. If the guy had come to warn him off, however, he could go to hell. There was more at stake than the mission.

  “I may be able to help.” The voice was perfectly modulated, like he’d done a stint at Eton, Tallis thought, thinking of his rather humbler roots. He held his silence, avoiding eye contact, thinking this was a set-up. The man smiled, extended his hand. “My name is Asim.”

  Tallis eyed him warily, took another bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “And why would you want to help me, Asim?”

  “Not help exactly.” Asim smiled. “Trade.”

  “For money?”

  Asim nodded, eyes bright with fire.

  “Strange line of business to be in.”

  “Popular,” Asim corrected him. “Trading people is one of the oldest professions.”

  “Like prostitution.” Tallis twitched a smile. “You make it sound almost noble.”

  Asim laughed. “Trade, not traffic.”

  “What makes you think you can find my man?”

  “Nobody can hide for ever.”

  “Bin Laden seems to be making a pretty good stab at it.”

  Asim smiled engagingly. “It’s a question of knowing the terrain and who to talk to. You’ve been talking to the wrong people.”

  Tallis gave him a sideways look. There was something about the guy he liked. He didn’t seem dodgy, even if he was. He had a presence—confident, authoritative, trustworthy. And what, Tallis thought, do I have to lose? He extended a hand. Asim took it in his warm and steady grip. “Craig Jones,” Tallis said.

  “Get you a drink?” Asim said.

  He was tempted to ask for another pint, but decided it was better to keep his wits about him. “A Coke’s fine.”

  Tallis’s mind tumbled with questions. Who’d put out the word? How had Asim found him? Was he really a guardian angel or devil in disguise? He’d heard somewhere of a company with an A-list celebrity membership who guaranteed to attain the unattainable—tickets for World Cup Finals when there were none to be had, dinner in an exclusive restaurant with a six-month waiting list. Were they in the people game, too? Was Asim part of their team?

  “So Craig, can we do business?” Asim flashed
a winning smile, returning to the table with Tallis’s drink.

  “That depends on whether you can find him.” Tallis pulled out the photograph. “Mohammed Hussain. Sometimes known as Mo Ali or Mo Rahman or Saj Rahman.”

  Asim’s face darkened. “This man is protected.”

  “By whom?”

  Asim’s black eyes glanced away. From the grind of his jaw, he seemed to be weighing something up in his own mind. For some reason Tallis noticed that he’d barely touched his drink. “When people are sent to prison, they become vulnerable to causes,” Asim said. “Prisons, like universities, are recruiting grounds for extremists of all denominations.”

  “You saying that Hussain is involved in terrorism?” Christ, whose toes was he going to be treading on? Tallis thought. And Cavall had assured him that all four illegals had no terrorist links.

  “He moves in interesting circles, which is the reason I will try to help you. I believe in peace, and people like Hussain give the rest of us a bad name.”

  “You Pakistani?”

  Asim shook his head. “Egyptian. Not that many can tell the difference. To most, we’re all the same—would-be suicide bombers and murderers.”

  Tallis felt something murky stir inside. He was as guilty as the next man for harbouring prejudice. Asim seemed to read his mind. He flashed a benevolent smile. “Think of me as your protector, Craig.”

  “My protector?”

  “It’s what my name means.”

  He’d need more than a name to protect him. “Think you can find him?”

  Asim smiled again. “I will make enquiries,” he said courteously.

  “And the money?”

  “No hurry,” Asim stood up. “Let’s see where things lead.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “At Mavericks, tomorrow night at ten.”

  Asim never asked once what he was going to do with Hussain when he found him. Maybe he didn’t care.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TALLIS spent the rest of the afternoon and the following day people-watching. He spotted a couple of footballers, the odd soap star and several famous but irritatingly unidentifiable faces among the crowd. Hussain’s wasn’t one of them.

  Impressed by the scale of redevelopment in the city, Tallis felt churlish not to admire the swanky hotels and clubs, the massive shopping centres and malls, museums and art galleries, the sheer volume of human traffic, yet by the end of the second day he was glad to escape the madness and settle in Piccadilly square, an oasis of lawn and flowers and peace. Sitting on the grass, soaking up the sun, he remembered a fabulous afternoon spent sprawled out in Montpellier Gardens. He and Belle had sneaked off to Cheltenham where a mate of his had lent them his flat for the night. It had been an incredibly hot day. They’d had some lunch on the promenade in a lovely Italian restaurant and, after trawling around the shops for a bit, they’d parked themselves on the green, his head resting in Belle’s lap. Out of the blue, her mood, which had been euphoric, suddenly changed.

  “Paul?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You know we can’t go on like this.”

  “Like what?” He looked up at her. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he felt such a sudden chill of fear that he didn’t want to put words to it.

  “Sneaking off, illicit phone calls, lying. One of us, sooner or later, is going to be found out.”

  “Not if we’re careful.”

  “It’s not just that.” She sounded unsteady.

  She was asking where they were going. She was asking about futures. He’d asked himself the very same questions over and over. So far, he’d failed to come up with answers. “We could come clean, I suppose.” The thought was terrifying.

  She shook her head. “I know what you think of your father, but it wouldn’t be right. Your dad’s a very sick man.”

  Not right, he thought bitterly. Trouble with the whole damned situation there was so much that wasn’t right. Whenever he thought of his father, he thought of his brother and vice versa. His, and theirs, was a constant story of betrayal and revenge. Belle was spot on. To reveal their secret affair could only court tragedy. “So what are you saying?” He rolled over onto his knees, put his hands on her shoulders. He felt sick.

  “Nothing,” she said, biting her lip. The tears in her eyes mirrored his own.

  Then he put his arms around her, held her close and kissed her.

  Tallis blinked and experienced the oddest sensation. Glancing around him, he got up, walked away, down one street, into another, nice and easy, no quickening of pace, no hesitation. He went through entrances and emerged through emergency fire exits, surreptitiously checking to see if he was being followed. Either, he concluded, he was imagining it, or his tail was extremely gifted in the art of surveillance.

  With several hours to go until his meeting with Asim, Tallis returned to the hotel and went for a run, showered and changed then ate a plain dinner in the dining room. Shortly after nine-thirty, he made his way to a club in Canal Street, affectionately known as Anal Street, according to some blurb he’d read. It was the centre of Manchester’s gay community. The bar was a crush of people and colour. He had to queue for several minutes to order a drink, giving him ample chance to ponder the choice of unusual location. Was Asim gay? Was he suspicious of Tallis’s sexuality? Christ knows why, he thought, nobody else seemed to be in doubt.

  An hour and a half later, Tallis was considering none of these things. He was thinking set-up and wind-up. Downing his third soft drink, he returned to the hotel, severely pissed off and, giving in to temptation, took full advantage of the mini-bar in his room while rewinding the conversation and events of the previous day. Asim had positively identified Hussain. No doubt about it. Knew who he was and for whom he worked. Terrorist connections had been implied rather than asserted. Either way, Asim was playing with fire. Maybe he’d made one too many enquiries. Maybe he was lying somewhere with a bullet in his head. Or, Tallis thought, maybe Asim was the problem. The whole coincidence of Asim stumbling into him, the way he’d engineered the meeting. Christ, Tallis had done the very same himself on the few occasions he’d worked undercover. And the friend line was pure textbook. Asim gave the impression of working alone, of touting for business, of doing him a favour, of helping world peace. Which was it? Tallis wondered sleepily. Next thing he knew it was morning, his neck stiff as hell from spending the entire night asleep in a chair.

  Stubborn by nature, Tallis went back to the club that night and the following night. Still no Asim. Dividing the A-Z methodically into sections, he spent the intervening daylight hours pounding the pavements, hanging out in dark bars, visiting a couple of shops that purported to legitimately sell shotguns, air guns, knives and swords, tuning his ear for any criminal undercurrent. During his reconnaissance, he overheard deals in Russian and Jamaican patois, both conversations conducted openly in city-centre pubs. Same old: heroin. There wasn’t even a sniff of information on Hussain. And of Asim there was no sign. Furious, not simply for having his time wasted but for having such dangerously poor judgement, Tallis resigned himself to continuing his search alone.

  Unable to sleep again, he decided to watch some late-night television and caught a depressing investigative programme on the rise of a shadowy far-right group that prided itself on stirring up extreme racial hatred. The name of the group was Fortress 35, a reference to the number of shire counties it deemed as being under its protection. Its leader was unknown, membership white and aged anything between eighteen and fifty, the only information gleaned from victims, in other words the lucky ones who’d got away. There was enough evidence to suggest that the group had been responsible for a number of murders, which had originally been passed off by the police as black-on-black killings when they’d been nothing of the sort. Based on witness statements, the group worked with slick and ruthless precision, targeting all who didn’t conform to the organisation’s brand of Englishness, which meant almost everyone, including the Welsh, Irish and S
cottish. There was a lot of nationalistic ideology dressed up in the guise of defence of the realm, sovereign nation, unity, all the usual buzzwords, and a real, almost medieval belief in the spread of disease by foreigners coming into the country, citing the re-emergence of tuberculosis in the United Kingdom as evidence of an invasion. Although the group’s beliefs were, in Tallis’s opinion, frankly nutty, they were clearly a dangerous outfit that needed to be stopped. As soon as the programme finished, he went to bed, switched off the light and fell asleep. Just after two-thirty, the hotel phone started to ring. He picked up, instantly awake. It was Asim.

  “How did you …?”

  “I have an address. Hussain will be there.”

  “When?”

  “Within the hour.”

  Tallis glanced at his watch. He hoped the location was near.

  Tallis felt the night settle on him. He was standing in a modern Perspex bus shelter on the opposite side of a detached house in an unassuming street on the east of the city. Apart from the odd dog barking, the place was as quiet as thought.

  He let out an involuntary shiver. In spite of it being high summer, the air temperature at that time in the morning was chill. Eyes straining, he missed not having a set of night-vision goggles on him. Although there was street lighting, it wasn’t enough to illuminate the stake-out.

  Unfurling his body and changing position, he wondered whether Hussain was actually inside, whether he was due at the address, or whether he was about to leave. Shit, he thought, if Hussain emerged, he’d have no choice but to bag him there and then, the call to Cavall and her thugs made afterwards. He winced at giving thought to the impossible. In his mind, he hadn’t said immigration officers but thugs. And what did that make Cavall?

  A sudden noise captured his attention. He turned, looked, stepped out into the road. Next thing he was grabbed from behind, a hand in leather clamped over his mouth and nose, threatening to cut off his air supply. Whoever it was felt strong and unassailable. Hussain, Tallis thought, realising that Asim had laid the perfect trap. Thinking quickly, he let his body go limp, legs relax, acting the homeless drunk. It didn’t work. Dragged backwards, he was manhandled onto a stretch of wasteland. Then he was let go and pushed away.