by Pete Barber
“How is your family, Adiba?” Nazar asked.
Nazar had seemed to understand her discomfort with the opulent surroundings. He had addressed himself to Abdul for most of the day. Only now, when she had freely spoken to him, did he respond with the most polite question one Arab could ask another.
“They are well, thank you for your interest, Nazar.” The quaint formality of her reply made Abdul’s heart race. She was perfect.
“I have a picture. Would you like to see them?”
Nazar smiled. “I would be honored.”
Adiba lifted her purse and produced a worn photograph; she moved to sit next to Nazar and pointed out her family.
“This was taken recently, but I’m sorry the quality is not—”
“Please, name them for me.” Nazar studied the small, creased picture.
“Father and mother, of course; these two are my brothers, Dani and Fadil, and this is my younger sister, Lana.”
“One day, she will be a beauty like you. How old is Lana?”
Adiba blushed. “Lana just turned sixteen.”
“She looks much younger. You know, I was also raised in East Jerusalem. I walked two miles to school each day. What school does Lana attend?”
Listening to their conversation, Abdul felt excluded. Adiba smiled at the photo and became animated, excited by the interest Nazar showed in her younger sister. Abdul sensed the deep love connecting her with the photo of her family, the representation of the five most precious things in her life. Ridiculous, he knew, but he felt jealous.
“Lana,” Nazar said. It brought Abdul back from his daydreaming. “A beautiful name and a beautiful family. Thank you for sharing them.”
Nazar stood and took a few paces away from his guests. “Now, we must be serious for a few moments. I confess to having had a wonderful, self-indulgent day showing off to you young people, and time has gotten away from us. It is almost 10:00 p.m. I suggest you stay the night and return in the morning to Eilat.” Adiba began to protest, but Nazar put up his hand.
“My dear, you, more than Abdul, should know that traveling by road after dark is an unnecessary risk to take. The border crossing is a far more suspicious affair at night.”
He softened his tone. “I know you didn’t come prepared to stay, but I assure you that I have a guest suite especially tailored to the needs of a woman. I am certain you will find everything you require for a comfortable night.”
To Abdul’s surprise, Adiba didn’t resist the idea; perhaps she did appreciate the dangers of night driving. For himself, he never wanted to leave this wonderful place and their fascinating host.
Nazar guided them to their suites on the second floor and bid them goodnight.
Thirty minutes later, Nazar sat alone at the desk in his bedroom. A black silk robe draped loosely around his naked body. He stared at two fifty-inch, wall-mounted monitors. Each screen split into eight windows, one for each of the cameras in the rooms. A small touch-screen control-panel sat in front of him. In the top left window of one screen, Abdul sat naked and cross-legged on his bed, meditating.
Impressive, he tends to both body and mind.
On the second screen, Adiba explored her room, opening every closet and drawer to investigate the contents. She selected nightclothes from the dresser and carried them to the bathroom. Nazar touched the controls, and her bathroom filled the screen. She sat on the commode. The solid sound of her urine stream played from his speakers.
He enlarged Abdul’s screen, placing the couple side-by-side. Still and calm, Abdul’s lean body sported a modest six-pack. His olive skin looked smooth, but his musculature was that of a grown man, not a boy. This disappointed Nazar; at the hotel, Abdul had appeared less mature. Still, the boy was easily manipulated. Martin was correct. A positive image in the London press when he made his announcement about the ethanol refinery would be invaluable. Abdul would repay this investment of time and become a good asset for the future.
Nazar turned his attention to the girl. Adiba stripped off her day clothes and folded them carefully across the back of the bathroom chair. As she soaped up in the shower, he zoomed the lens, filling the screen with her face. Water droplets hung on her eyelashes. Without makeup, she seemed almost childlike. Her body, shaped with the curves most men desire, held no attraction for him. But her smooth, innocent face produced a ripple of arousal.
Adiba had spurned the more racy outfits on offer in the guest wardrobe and dressed in a modest full-length cotton nightgown that hung formlessly from her shoulders. Nazar approved. When she lay down to sleep, she left the light on low. He filled the screen with her face. Without the distraction of her woman’s body, it was possible for him to imagine her as she once had been—how her younger sister Lana would be now—innocent, frail, and unspoiled. He narrowed his eyes and pictured Lana’s childlike face in place of Adiba’s. He imagined Lana’s thin body beneath the cotton nightgown. Her breasts would be puffy and indistinct, just beginning to form, her pubic hairs soft, sparse wisps. His hand moved inside his dressing gown, and he stole her innocence for his pleasure.
The next morning, Mufeed served fresh fruits and hot croissants on the terrace. He handed Abdul a note and a business card: “Dear friends, I apologize for leaving in haste. Please linger over breakfast. This number will connect you with my secretary, Keisha. If I can ever be of assistance, you can contact me through her.”
After the chauffeur returned them to Eilat, they checked out of The Dan, and Adiba drove them to Ben Gurion Airport in the rickety old Datsun.
Adiba insisted on parking and walking into the terminal with him. He could hardly believe the chaos that greeted them when they entered the departure area. Line after line, thousands of people snaked around the concourse. He looked to her for an explanation. Surely a bomb must have gone off before they arrived.
“It is normal,” she said.
His mouth dropped open, and she laughed.
“You have much to learn about the Middle East.”
She stayed with him for two hours while he pushed his carry-on along the ground toward the security checkpoints. When only a dozen people remained in front of them, she touched his arm.
“I should leave. It will confuse them if they observe me waiting with you and not traveling.” On tiptoe, she kissed him full on the mouth, then dropped back to the balls of her feet and brushed a lipstick smear from his bottom lip with her thumb. Her eyes were dark pools. Abdul was sure his cheeks were scarlet. She laughed and moved to turn away, but he caught her shoulders, bent, and kissed her with force before wrapping her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She folded into him, held him tightly, and whispered in his ear. “Please e-mail when you are safely home?”
“I will,” he said.
She bounced away into the crowd, but turned to blow him a kiss before she finally disappeared.
Chapter 12
Three days after the attack on the tube train, Detective Chief Inspector Quinnborne perched on the edge of a cluttered table in Scott Shearer’s office at the Times of London. Scott paced in front of his big window and Abdul and Rafiq sat at Scott’s desk. They listened to Abdul’s recording of his meeting with Ghazi.
“Can you describe him?” Quinn asked.
“The light was in my eyes, so I only got a glimpse. He had a scar on his face.” Abdul indicated with his finger where the cut ran. “He was a couple of inches taller than me, I’m five-eleven. And strong; he crushed my hand when we shook.”
“Was anything else said other than what we’ve heard?”
“No, I set up the equipment before he entered the room. That’s the whole recording. The meeting was briefer than I expected.”
Quinn glanced at Scott, who spoke to his staff. “Good work, Abdul. You also, Rafiq, I know you were guiding him all the way. Now, if you two will excuse us, I need a few minutes alone with the Chief Inspector.” Rafiq headed for the door. Abdul retrieved his digital recorder from the table.
“I’d like a c
opy,” Quinn said, handing Abdul a business card.
Abdul looked at his boss, who nodded. “No problem,” Abdul said.
Quinn had known Scott Shearer for over thirty years. He trusted the newspaper man and considered him a friend. Quinn hopped off the desk and thumped a fist into his palm. “You should have called me. You shouldn’t have let that kid go by himself.”
“I get dozens of these things each year. If I called you every time, I’d never get you out of my office. I couldn’t be sure it was a live one ’till we’d checked. Anyway, the kid did well, and I phoned you the minute I heard about the Oxford Circus attack. So what are we looking at?”
Quinn walked to the window. “You’ve put me in a tough spot. This is sensitive information.”
“It’s the same people who did the train, then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Quinn glared at Scott. “You can’t use this. If you shine a light on these bastards, they’ll be bigger than Elvis overnight.”
“What makes you so sure it’s Allah’s Revenge?”
Quinn’s jaws moved back and forth, grinding teeth. If he lied, Scott would know, and he needed access to Abdul. “Off the record?”
Scott nodded.
“They left a note on the train.” Quinn grabbed his coat from the rack near the door. “Look, give me the afternoon. I’ll get back with you when I can, by tonight at the latest.”
An hour after his meeting with Scott, Quinn played Abdul’s recording in his boss’s office at New Scotland Yard.
“Did you play this for Frank?” Superintendent James Porter spat out the words.
“Not yet.”
“Oxford Circus is his case, Quinn.”
“Frank worked for me for ten years. Sir, in my opinion, he isn’t capable.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” The superintendent glared at Quinn. “Take it to Frank. If he asks for your help, then I’ll assign you to the case. But you’ll report to him. Understood?”
Quinn snatched up the recorder, turned on his heel and slammed the door on his way out. He stormed down three flights of stairs to Frank’s office and burst in. Frank jumped and slid his feet off the desk. His eyes looked heavy.
“Did I wake you?” Quinn’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“Piss off. Don’t you know to knock before you barge into someone’s office?”
Quinn slapped the recorder on the desk and filled Frank in on Abdul’s trip. They played the interview twice.
Quinn sat in a chair and Frank stood over him, shaking a fat finger in his face. “Listen Quinn, I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about your cozy relationship with Scott Shearer. He can’t print this.”
Frank was enjoying the moment a little too much, but Quinn wanted to stay on the case, so he gritted his teeth and sucked it up. “The name’s going to come out. These things always do. Allah’s Revenge, whoever or whatever it is, has chosen young Abdul Ahmed. Close the door on Shearer, and we’ll lose access to Abdul. Better the devil you know.”
“Yeah, what about this Abdul character; he’s an Arab, right?”
Quinn glared at his ex-partner. “Scott trusts him.”
“And you say his family threw him a party in Jerusalem a couple of nights before he made the recording.”
“So what?”
“Maybe Ghazi was there. Maybe he brought a keg. I think we should bring Abdul in.”
“Shearer will go public if you push his boy around.”
Frank’s cell phone buzzed. He picked up and listened for a few seconds. “Shit!” The color drained from his face. “E-mail it to me.” He moved back to his desk and tapped the keyboard to wake his computer. Quinn followed.
Frank opened an e-mail and clicked a link. A grainy video popped up. It showed the inside of a railway car. The passengers were acting crazy, pulling at their mouths and grabbing their throats as if someone had sucked out all the air. The screen was momentarily filled with a close-up of a young woman’s face, red, distorted, terrified. Quinn thought she might be the same girl he’d seen when they visited Mike Mitchell. The camera view shifted higher; along the length of the car, passengers jerked and writhed. There was no sound other than the rattle of the train.
“No screaming?” Frank said.
Quinn didn’t answer. Hardly surprising—considering what was growing inside their lungs. Then, like a macabre game of stop-the-music, the passengers collapsed: on the floor, across seat backs, on top of one another. The video ended on a still picture; identical to the scene Quinn had witnessed when he’d first entered the train carriage three days earlier. The footage ran for less than two minutes.
“Who sourced the tape?” Quinn asked.
“It’s on the Al Jazeera website under the heading “Allah’s Revenge,” Frank replied. “They showed it on TV an hour ago. It’s gone viral.”
Chapter 13
At the Times of London headquarters, less than ninety minutes after the Al Jazeera tape went live, Scott Shearer flipped his cell phone shut to end a call and stabbed the intercom button on his desk. “Amy, get Abdul on the line, stat. Then get in here.”
Twenty seconds later, his phone rang.
“You wanted me, Mr. Shearer?” Abdul said.
“Listen carefully. Copy your Allah’s Revenge files to a thumb drive. As fast as you can. Then call me back.” Scott hung up. Abdul would be wondering what was going on, but that copy might save him a lot of trouble.
Scott paced in front of his office window. Six floors below, police cars skidded to a stop fifty yards either side of the building’s entrance, blocking the street from both directions. A black van rounded them on the sidewalk and pulled up in front of the building.
“Amy!” When he turned she was already in his office.
“Go to the third floor. Take the stairs. Collect a thumb drive from Abdul and put it somewhere safe.”
She was running before he finished talking.
His desk phone rang.
“Ok, I’ve done the copy, Mr. Shearer. Is something wrong?”
“Amy is on her way to you. She’s coming down the stairs. Meet her. Give her the thumb drive, then come back to the phone and I’ll explain.” He heard the phone being laid on the desk.
Hurry Amy. Hurry.
Thirty seconds later, a breathless Abdul came back on the line. “Okay, she has the files. What’s going on, Mr. Shearer?”
Before he could answer, Scott heard shouting through Abdul’s phone.
“Abdul Ahmed! Where’s Abdul Ahmed?”
“I’m Abdul. What—”
By the time Scott reached the third floor, Abdul was bent over his desk, his cheek pressed hard against the surface, head facing the window. Two large policemen in dark-blue flak-jackets with SWAT emblazoned across their chest and back held him while a third secured his hands with an orange plastic tie.
“Is this your desk?”
“Yes. Let me up. What’s this about? Stop pressing my head. You’re hurting me.” Abdul pushed up and managed to turn to face the office before the policeman slammed him back down.
Scott shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is private property.”
One of the paper’s photojournalists took rapid-fire pictures.
Scott recognized Quinn’s old partner, Frank Browning, holding his hand up to shield his face from the camera. He served Scott with a search warrant. Scott didn’t look at it. The photographer kept snapping; he was joined by a second, with a video recorder.
“Is this your computer?” Frank asked. Abdul looked to his boss. Scott nodded.
“Yes, that’s my computer. Now let me up!” Frank signaled, and one of the two officers removed his hand from Abdul’s head. The other pulled Abdul upright, maintaining a fierce grip on his shirt back. Abdul’s face was blotched red from pressing into the desk. He faced Frank Browning.
“Abdul Ahmed, under the powers vested in me under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, I
am placing you under arrest. Under the terms of the warrant I served on Mr. Scott Shearer, the contents of your desk and your computer will be confiscated and may be used as evidence.”
Scott shouted, “Abdul! Abdul!” Abdul looked over at his boss, eyes confused, head trembling. Scott spoke slowly, sounding out his words. “I’ve called Legal. They’re on their way. We’re videotaping the arrest. I want you to understand that this newspaper will back you every inch of the way.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” Abdul said.
“I know. What I’m telling you is everyone . . .” Scott swept his arm around the open-plan office. Abdul’s colleagues stood in the aisles outside their work pods. They stood on chairs or desks and craned over the partitions. “. . . is with you. You are not alone in this, and I’ll do my damndest to get you freed quickly. But for now, these . . . gentlemen . . .” His emphasis left no one in doubt that he considered the policemen nothing of the sort. “These gentlemen, unfortunately, are within their rights to arrest you. Abdul, you have nothing to hide and nothing to fear.”
“Enough of this; come on!” Frank said.
While Scott had been talking, the contents of Abdul’s desk and drawers were crammed into a black trash bag. His computer tower had been unplugged and covered with a similar bag. Both bags were emblazoned with the word Evidence. The policeman holding Abdul’s shirt pushed him toward the hallway.
Abdul’s face was drained of color. His eyes blank, stunned.
Scott positioned himself in front of Abdul and walked ahead of him, giving him something to follow, something to focus on. His colleagues lined the short corridor between Abdul’s desk and the office door. They executed a cynical, slow handclap for the police and shouted encouragements to Abdul.
“Go get ’em, Abdul.”
“Chin up, mate.”
Scott reached the hallway. SWAT team members guarded the elevator and the stairwell.
“Stairs!” Frank barked.
The guard opened the door, and Scott led the way. The photographers followed, still shooting. Scott talked to Abdul all the way downstairs and through the lobby. He was still talking as Abdul was pressed into a police car. He talked of support, of friends and family, of trust and belief in the system. He talked in an even, calm voice. The voice of experience, the voice that said everything would be okay.