The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  “Hey, man, take it easy,” Tallis said, slurring his words, taking several steps backwards and away from his assailant. Unfortunately, he hadn’t factored in that there were two of them. While trying to perfect his drunken dialogue, another shadowy figure started roughing him up, the guy who grabbed him asking the questions along the lines of who are you, and what are you doing here? Against every instinct, Tallis played dumb and defensive, grunting and groaning, fencing the blows, taking a strike to his jaw, his eye, biding his time, watching, listening. This was no mugging. Neither was it an ordinary assault. They weren’t determined enough. Hearts weren’t in it. Just knock-about stuff. And they were British.

  “You’re police,” one of the guys said accusingly.

  “No …”

  “Don’t argue.”

  “Whatever you say,” Tallis said. If that’s what they wanted to believe, he’d make it easy for them.

  “Keep off our patch,” the man snarled, giving Tallis a final warning shove in the chest.

  “Got it?” the other one said.

  No point in argument, Tallis thought, dusting himself down, walking away.

  In movies the hero took a beating that would kill most men, returned to wipe out the bad guys, and gets the girl. In real life, Tallis thought, feeling stiff and bruised after a relatively low-level bit of bother, he’d be lucky to get his own breakfast. It was one of those self-service operations: a teeny-weeny thimble of juice, a bowl of something that looked as though it had been swept out of a budgie’s cage and some very strange-looking bits of cooked pig. The mushrooms were slimy, tomatoes raw, eggs overdone. The coffee, however, was excellent.

  Tallis helped himself and sat down. Navigating his way through Manchester city centre in the early hours of the morning and trying to dodge the police—Excuse me, sir, been in a fight, have we?—had given him plenty of time to mull over the latest twist in events. Asim’s intelligence, he had to admit, had been spot on, certainly explained the security service’s interest. Even undercover police officers didn’t operate like that, he thought, though he guessed SO15, or Counter Terrorism Command as it was known following a merger between Special Branch and the Anti-Terrorism Branch might be another possibility. Failing that, the highly secretive Serious and Organised Crime Agency. Thing was, whoever they were, they’d marked his card. It meant he stood no chance—too many other agencies involved. And that was what truly bothered him. Cavall had stated categorically that none of the people on the list posed a terrorist threat, so why was Hussain being watched?

  Once he’d finished his breakfast, Tallis decided to contact Cavall, explain his position and ask for clarification. He fully expected to be going home that morning.

  Midway between lifting a piece of bacon and posting it into his mouth, he was brought up short by the sight of Asim walking into the dining room with a nimble stride, nodding and smiling at the other diners. After helping himself to coffee, he drew up a seat at Tallis’s table. He sat down, full of apologies.

  “This time I’ll supply you with more cohesive information.”

  “Cohesive?” Tallis said. “This mean I don’t get my lights punched out?”

  Asim frowned. “It was an unfortunate misunderstanding, I agree.”

  Misunderstanding? Tallis thought. How much did Asim actually know? “Doesn’t matter,” Tallis said. “If last night’s warning was an appetiser, I’m not planning on sampling the main course.”

  “The men you stumbled into last night have little or no interest in Hussain.”

  “How do you know?”

  Asim flashed an enigmatic smile. “Their interest is in a man called Kahn.”

  “Kahn?”

  “He runs a military surplus store in Manchester.”

  Tallis thought about the foreign man with the silver hair. “Last time I checked, running a shop wasn’t a criminal offence.”

  “It’s a front. Kahn’s a gunrunner. The place you visited last night is his arms factory. He has suspected links to known terrorists abroad. That’s why he was being watched.”

  “And Hussain’s under Kahn’s protection?” God, this was getting murky.

  “Not any more. Kahn was picked up last night.”

  Christ, Tallis thought. The guys must have been from counter-terrorism. No wonder they were pissed off with him. “And Hussain?” he said sharply.

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “So, apart from putting me in the firing line, my trip was a wild-goose chase.”

  “For which I apologise again.”

  Tallis pushed his plate away. “What makes you think I’d trust you this time?”

  Asim leant forward, eyes twinkling. “There’s an Indian restaurant in Oxford Road.” Popular with the student quarter, Tallis recalled from his travels. “The Spice Emporium. Hussain plans to be there tonight.”

  “To eat tandoori?”

  “To take the money. It’s a very popular haunt.”

  “Will he be armed?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Alone?” Of course, he wouldn’t be.

  “He and another. They work in pairs.”

  “Like Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Tallis said, without smiling. “What time’s kick-off?”

  “Half-past midnight, shortly after the restaurant closes.”

  Tallis fell silent. Armed men, restaurant in a busy quarter populated by youngsters, height of summer. Not good. Not good at all.

  “Need a gun? I can get you a very good one, if you want.”

  From Mr Kahn’s collection, Tallis thought, smiling coldly. “I don’t think so.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SPICE EMPORIUM WAS on the apex of Oxford Road and Grosvenor Street, not far from Manchester University. Although students were officially on vacation, there were still plenty milling about, some working in the numerous bars to help pay their tuition fees.

  Tallis spent the afternoon checking out the location, watching who walked past, how often, volume of customers. He wanted to obtain as much information as possible. Knowledge was power. It might also save his life.

  Watching was relatively easy. The street was busy with punters and shoppers so he didn’t stand out from the crowd and was able to make several trips up and down, identifying the entry points, the absence of CCTV cameras, gauge the general state of the building. By taking an avid interest in the menu outside, he had a good view through the large single window. There were probably forty or so covers at the front, twenty of them currently occupied by lunchtime diners. How many at the back was difficult to tell. Tallis pushed open the door and walked inside, and was immediately hit with the soft aromatic fragrance of coriander and cumin.

  A short narrow corridor led to another door, through which there was a bar and reception area. Eyes adjusting to the change of light, Tallis asked a handsome-looking youth if it were necessary to book a table for that evening.

  “No need, sir, but I will take your reservation if you wish.”

  “Thanks,” Tallis said, eyes flicking to the back of the room, making a mental note of the number of potential covers, the fire exit, the sign for the toilets, the door to the kitchen, another door marked private.

  “For one,” Tallis said, “but I’d like to dine as late as possible.”

  The young man reached for a book, turning the pages to the relevant day. Tallis registered two other waiters serving, wondered if any of them were in on the robbery. It wasn’t so unusual. Often there was an inside man. A glance at the rota pinned up behind the bar suggested that four would be covering the evening.

  “Last orders at eleven,” the young man said.

  “Perfect,” Tallis said with a convincing smile.

  “No problem. We look forward to seeing you this evening, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Tallis said affably. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Kismet, sir.”

  Tallis smiled, nodded and walked out. No evidence of CCTV inside. No sign of guard dogs. Had there been, even if locked in
the private quarters, he’d have started sneezing by now. Unfortunately for Kismet, he’d be seeing him later.

  Tallis glanced at his watch for a second time: ten minutes past midnight. He’d wolfed down chicken choyla, a Nepalese speciality, followed by lamb jalfrazi with a side dish of tarka dal and topped it off with a pudding of coconut and persimmon ice cream. Passing on the lager, he’d drunk mineral water. Catching Kismet’s eye, Tallis ordered coffee.

  Tallis had stationed himself halfway down the dining room with a clear view of the entrance. Most diners were paying their bills and drifting away, leaving five other tables occupied. Combined noise of conversation and cutlery had dipped enough for Tallis to hear the sublime strains of sitar music through the restaurant speakers.

  “Busy night,” Tallis remarked as Kismet returned.

  “And boisterous.” Kismet smiled.

  At least the clientele were well behaved. He’d been in Indian restaurants in Birmingham where the customers were so rude he felt ashamed to be British. “Business always this brisk?”

  “Always,” Kismet said, glancing at the door.

  “Profitable, then.”

  Kismet nodded and, catching the eye of a diner who wished to pay his bill, disappeared.

  Tallis spooned sugar into his coffee-cup, slowly stirred the contents, watching as one table emptied, the other party on the other table engaging in a brief, amicable discussion as to who was going to pick up the tab. That left his and three other occupied tables. All situated towards the back of the restaurant, a party of ten celebrating a birthday, a starry-eyed young couple holding hands and three businessmen who showed no sign of going anywhere soon. Problem, Tallis thought. They’d consumed enough booze to attempt fight instead of flight.

  Seventeen minutes past midnight. The young couple were making moves to leave. Kismet hurried over, keen to take their money and get them out, planting a single rose in the hand of the young woman and opening the door for them in a flurry of goodwill. Eighteen of us, Tallis counted, including the waiters, twenty when Hussain and his henchman arrived. Too many, he thought, for a clean job.

  After rapid discussion, one of the waiters reached for his jacket and left, leaving the other three to clear up. Tallis watched them. One was older than the rest, probably early forties, his waistcoat buttons straining as he whipped off the tablecloths, the other, a hawk-faced man with a slight build and mild manner. Neither looked as though they’d put up a fight and although that was good, Tallis knew it was impossible to tell who became heroes in a crisis.

  Kismet approached the birthday party and asked if they wanted anything else. Only the bill, one man said. Kismet smiled, went to the till, added up the items, printed off the chit and handed it back. All in less than forty-five seconds, Tallis noticed. As Kismet walked past his table, Tallis saw the young man’s eyes flick in his direction. On his return, Tallis asked for a refill. Kismet nodded, an odd smile on his lips. His face was pale and his gaze was somewhere else.

  More commotion as the birthday customers pushed back chairs, gathering up presents, reaching for jackets. Kismet raced to the door, flinging it open, throwing the flowers into the hands of the ladies, thanking all profusely for their custom.

  “We have run out of fresh coffee, sir,” the mild-mannered waiter said to Tallis. “I can put through some more, if you wish.”

  “Why not?” Tallis smiled, catching Kismet’s stony expression.

  Twenty-seven minutes past and counting. One of the businessmen got up and lurched towards the toilets. Tallis fell in behind, watched as the bloke drunkenly bounced off the doorframe, farted loudly and let out a snort of laughter. Once inside, Tallis tapped him on the shoulder and as he lurched round hit him straight on the jaw. “You’ll thank me for it later,” Tallis said, catching the man and dragging him to the nearest cubicle, jamming the door shut after him. Next he returned to the door leading onto the main dining area, opening it a crack and seeing two men striding purposefully down the main aisle, one of them Hussain, his face paunchy either with drugs or booze. He’d beefed up considerably, his extra weight added to his height giving him a formidable appearance. The other man, shorter and wiry in build, brought up the rear. Slipping his cellphone from his pocket, Tallis made the call to Cavall, his eyes never leaving the two men. Discretion was off the menu tonight. If Cavall didn’t like the idea of witnesses, it was too bad.

  Kismet was nowhere to be seen. The older waiter, obliviously washing glasses behind the bar, moved like a sloth towards the front of the restaurant, turned the open sign to closed and bolted the door, effectively denying all means of escape. This left the hawk-faced, mild-mannered waiter in the firing line. As he approached the two men, Hussain roughly ordered him into the room marked private. No weapon, no gun. The waiter appealed to his older colleague for help but was met with blunt and hostile rejection. Confusion engulfed the man’s face followed swiftly by alarm. In the seconds it took Tallis to process what was going down, Kismet shot out of the kitchen, and Tallis saw, to his horror, he was wielding a meat cleaver and waving it frantically at Hussain. Entirely misreading the situation, one of the businessmen stood up and tried to remonstrate with Kismet, the other falling silent and transfixed. Hussain nodded silently at his accomplice who produced a knife.

  The odds should have been in Kismet’s favour but youth, fear and uncertainty was no match for a determined criminal. Stepping forward neatly, he lashed out, slicing at Kismet’s arm. The youth let out a scream and dropped his weapon, blood pouring through the white of his shirt onto the carpet, dyeing the gold red. Like a beautifully crafted piece of choreography, the older waiter appeared, kitchen knife in hand, threatening the two remaining customers, insisting that he’d slit their throats if they didn’t comply. Something about the coldness of his expression suggested that this was no bluff. Kismet gabbled something in Urdu to his former colleague, his expression pleading. The man merely flashed a contemptuous look and, dragging the man still seated to his feet, forced the two terrified customers through the swing doors of the kitchen, emerging minutes later with a wad of keys, tossing them onto a side table. Both waiters, mute with shock, were bundled into the room at the back. Nobody seemed to remember the two missing diners.

  First, there was silence. Tallis tiptoed out and across the floor, ears keen. The air felt electric with violence and fear. Then he heard the low note of urgent voices, punctuated by a shout, a yell, the noise of shattering glass, furniture being overturned, rising to a crescendo and a terrible scream of pain. Picking up the redundant meat cleaver from the floor, he made his way noiselessly to the back of the room. Before he reached it, a door flew open, the treacherous waiter, pouring with blood, trying to claw his way out before being dragged back by Hussain’s accomplice.

  Without breaking stride, Tallis burst in, eyes flicking as he took in the scene. One body down, blood on the floor, Kismet’s beautiful face beaten to mush, the hawk-eyed waiter making a run for it, Hussain’s henchman in pursuit. Hussain, his face cracked with menace, remained silent. Still no gun, just rank, brute fear. Planting himself firmly between the fleeing man and his aggressor, Tallis took a swing with the meat cleaver, catching Hussain’s man full on the elbow, cleaving flesh from bone, almost severing the limb. The man’s face contorted in agony as he collapsed and splayed on the floor, his jacket falling open. Tallis saw and reached for the gun just as Hussain pulled his, pointing it at Kismet’s head. Tallis smiled. No guidelines, no restrictions, shoot to kill. His first shot hit Hussain between the eyes, felling him. The second, close up, dispatched him.

  As Tallis ran to the terrified waiter, he heard a clamour, the sound of doors crashing, voices, clatter of footsteps, strangely familiar. The door to the office burst open. Three firearms officers piled in.

  “Drop your weapon,” the lead firearms officer barked. “You’re under arrest.”

  Tallis did as he was told, arms raised, letting them roughly push him to the floor, frisk and cuff him. Then he heard a voice that made h
is mouth dry. He lifted his head from the carpet. The stance was familiar as was the expression.

  “Hello, Paul,” Dan Tallis said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THEY glared at each other. Histories of confrontation, accusation, lies and argument roared into the forefront of Tallis’s brain. The room was so thick with mutual contempt it felt airless.

  “This is completely out of order,” Tallis fumed. “You’re my brother, for Chrissakes. You’re not allowed to interview me.”

  They’d taken him to the nearest police station, read him his rights, put him in a holding cell for an hour before dragging him back out again. Dan, whom he hadn’t clapped eyes on in over a year, gloated over every minute of it, just as he’d done when they’d been kids and Tallis had been taking a bollocking from their father. He looked well, Tallis thought, hair thick and shiny, eyes bright, and the pale grey jacket he was wearing fitted snugly and expensively across his broad shoulders. Power obviously suited him.

  “So let’s run through this again,” Dan said. “You hit the guy with the meat cleaver, almost severing his arm, and then took his gun and killed his partner. Nice double tap, by the way.”

  Tallis said nothing.

  “The alternative scenario is that you were in on the robbery. Things got heavy and you decided to take the opportunity to eliminate your rivals and take the money for yourself.”

  “Why would I do that?” Tallis said, cold.

  “Because you’re a washed-up nobody and need the loot.”

  Tallis let out a laugh, the quickest way to antagonise his brother. “What do the waiters say?”

  “Haven’t spoken to the witnesses yet.”

  Too traumatised, Tallis thought, staring at Dan. Looking back through the history books, Tallis often considered how brother could fight against brother, father against son. The answer was usually found in the cause. In the case of the Balkans, nationalism led to ordinary decent people betraying their neighbours, often when they’d lived alongside them in harmony for many years. But this thing between him and Dan was not about a cause or a difference of religious belief or creed, not even about him taking his brother’s wife. The seeds of hostility had been sown a long time before. When exactly, he couldn’t put a finger on. “I’m allowed a phone call.” One to Cavall, that’s all he wanted. She wouldn’t be able to spring him from this one, more likely to abandon him, but she might know a decent lawyer.