by P J Brooke
But, as he was nearing the end of the emails, Max at last found a clue. Leila returned to the person she was keen on.
‘He’s tall, dark and handsome. How conventional can I get? But married with children. Typical!’
Can’t be Hassan then, thought Max.
Shona’s reply was sensible, warning Leila to steer clear of married men with children. ‘All they want is a bit on the side.’
And then Shona was leaving. Bother.
‘Off to Nepal tomorrow. I’ll email when I hit civilization. Take care, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
Leila’s final email to Shona: ‘Have a great trip. See you when I get back. Be good, if that’s possible. I think I’m really in love this time. Tell you all about it when you get back. Love Leila.’
Blast. Absolutely nothing. No mention of Hassan or the guys up the hill. Hassan couldn’t be the dreamboat with wife and kids. What was it that Guevarra had said: there was gossip about Leila and a married man in the community. That’s the only real clue so far. Better phone Guevarra to ensure she really did chase up that gossip. He took a sip of wine, and paused.
Okay. He needed to contact just about everyone Leila sent emails to, and check with Shona Monroe when she got back.
The more he got to know Leila, the more he liked her. He looked at the row of tapes. He needed some fresh air before tackling them.
Back in the flat Max switched on the tape recorder, and played the first of Paula’s tapes. He laughed aloud. Paula was . . . well, so Paula. Paula interviewed Leila as much as the other way round. Leila told Paula all about her family. Her mother had committed suicide when the cancer became too much to bear. Her father was seeing another woman at the time, and he thought it might have been that which pushed her mum over the edge. But it wasn’t. Her mother had even left a note, telling Ahmed to remarry soon. He didn’t, became grief-stricken, and rediscovered his Muslim faith. He later decided to help set up a Muslim community in Spain. Leila was a bit vague on her own faith.
‘Paula, I suppose it is partly out of sympathy with my father. But it wasn’t just that. Mum’s death sort of pushed me to ask what really matters in life; who am I, that sort of thing. I had never felt Scottish, and even less Christian. Becoming a Muslim was part of discovering myself. Can’t say I’m there yet.’
‘Leila, I’m eighty-three. I’m not sure you ever get there.’
Tape 2 was all about Paula’s meeting Lorca. Invariably Paula did a bit of matchmaking. Blast Paula’s keen eyes: how did she know he was keen on Leila? Tape 3 dealt with Diva on the eve of Civil War. Tapes 4 and 5 were the family. Max was shocked at how close she’d been to getting raped by the soldiers who came looking for her brother. She had never talked about it. He couldn’t bring up the subject now: she’d be embarrassed. The tapes confirmed what he had suspected: that grandpa had been a strong Franco supporter. Mi abuelo! Max had such happy memories of grandpa teaching him how to ride a bike . . . and going with Juan to catch fish in the river. Leila had given Paula the website address of ‘The Spanish Civil War Disappeared’, and other websites on the period.
So that’s why Paula insisted on getting a computer, thought Max. He smiled: Paula had never given up learning, she was always trying out something new. He hoped he would be like her if he ever reached her age. But there was nothing in the tapes relevant to Leila’s death. Although Leila had promised to investigate the circumstances surrounding Antonio’s disappearance, there was nothing on what she had found – if she had found anything. Maybe Paula knew more?
The tape of Leila’s interview with Ricardo, the librarian, was interesting. Diva had really been on the front line of the Civil War. And yes, it had been González’ grandfather who had shot Manuel Paz, El Gato. So it wasn’t all bullshit. Amazing. El Gato had returned from France after the Civil War to establish a guerrilla resistance in the hills around Diva. The guerrillas were convinced that Britain and the USA would help them to overthrow Franco. Max knew this part of the history.
Leila: So what happened then?
Ricardo: Apparently the Americans were quite keen. But the British had persuaded them that this would destabilize Spain, and might bring back the Communists.
Leila: Gosh. I never knew this. So what finally happened?
Ricardo: Well, with the Cold War hotting up, Eisenhower eventually cut a deal with Franco in 1956, and got the huge American base at Rota as a reward. And after that . . . well, there was no international pressure on Spain to move towards democracy.
What’s new, thought Max. So much for bringing democracy to the poor, benighted world.
Alfredo, the librarian in Granada, likewise offered nothing that might throw any light on Leila’s death. In his second interview, Leila asked lots of questions about Lorca’s death. The librarian felt that this had been thoroughly covered, by British, French and American historians, as well as Spanish, and had given her a reading list.
Alfredo: There’s been a lot of speculation. There was a view that Lorca had been murdered by a homosexual lover, another, that he was killed by the Reds because he was about to come out in support of Franco.
Leila: But recent research has shown this was just black propaganda.
Alfredo: Absolutely. Lorca almost certainly was arrested by a group of members of Acción Popular, out to make a name for themselves. He was then shot on the orders of Comandante Valdés on 18th or 19th August 1936. It was one of the hottest days in an unusually hot August.
Leila: Yeah, that’s Ian Gibson. Great book, don’t you think?
Alfredo: Interesting, but it has its weaknesses. My reading is that Lorca was actually well hidden and protected in the house of the Rosales family. Somebody must have betrayed Lorca’s hiding place to political fanatics of Acción Popular. There’s still a mystery to solve. You know, there just might be more in the Guardia Civil archives. They weren’t open at the time Gibson was carrying out his research.
Leila: Betrayal? That’s interesting. I’ve been working on that hypothesis.
Alfredo: If you do find anything, come and see me. It would be quite a coup.
Max grinned: cunning bastard. That’s a nifty chat-up line.
But he was still puzzled. There was the family connection through Paula to Lorca, but why did Leila have such an interest in Lorca’s death? It wasn’t part of her thesis topic. Maybe Leila wanted to make a name for herself . . . discover something new about Lorca. Maybe she was just fascinated by the thought of conspiracy or cover-up. Who knows?
Max looked at his watch.
‘Díos, it’s late. Must stop now.’
Chapter 13
Muerto se quedo en la calle
Con un puñal en el pecho.
No lo conocía nadie.
They left him dead in the street
With a dagger in his breast.
No one knew him.
Frederico García Lorca, Surpresa (Surprise)
God, time flies. It had taken Max almost two days to go through the first box of Leila’s materials. But no leads except the ‘married man with children’. He still had to start the poems and stories. There was the thesis itself, and then another three notebooks. Did she ever throw anything away?
Max opened one of the notebooks: philosophical musings, notes, observations and descriptions. Max suddenly remembered his tutor, on a creative writing course, advising them to carry a notebook to jot down anything which struck them. ‘Even the most seemingly trivial thing could be transformed into good material,’ he had said. These were Leila’s observations for a novel. Max sighed; he remembered only too well how all his great thoughts, his dreams of the great Anglo-Spanish novel, had come to naught. He had a couple of chapters in a drawer somewhere. Maybe Leila would have had better luck.
At lunchtime Max walked down to La Taberna, and sat at his usual sherry barrel. He was lucky: didn’t have to share it with anyone. He fetched the papers. ‘Government Warns ETA Has Acquired Missiles from Al-Qaeda.’ Hmm. Maybe. ‘Pressure Mounts on Pale
stinians to Make a Deal.’ That’s for sure.
Max finished his tapas and beer, walked out into the stifling heat of Plaza Nueva, strolled down to the back of the cathedral in search of shade, and then to his office. At least the air conditioning was working. No urgent messages. He was about to leave for the strategy meeting when his phone rang.
‘Hola. Ah. Hola Don Gabriel. Sí, I understand. Sí. Sí.I will phone Teniente González right away, and then phone you back. No, I will do what I can.’
Max dialled the Diva police station and got through to González.
‘How’s it going, Max?’
‘Bien, gracias, bien. Don Gabriel Martín Facarros, the lawyer, called me. The hospital in Motril are wanting to release Hassan Khan. However, they insist he needs rest. Don Gabriel thinks going up and down the mountain from Capa to Diva every day would be bad for him.’
‘So?’
‘Don Gabriel asked if Hassan Khan could be allowed a week’s recuperation before he starts officially signing in.’
‘Cheeky bastard. This is a murder investigation, not a bloody holiday camp.’
‘Teniente, given the circumstances . . . You could always go up there to check on him.’
‘Okay then . . . but if this goes wrong, it’s your problem! I’ll ask Judge Falcón to agree.’
‘I’ll emphasize that you agree reluctantly, and that the lawyer should note the police willingness to cooperate.’
‘Anything from the stuff you took back with you?’
‘Not much. There’s a slight suggestion that she was interested in a married man with children, but she doesn’t name the guy.’
‘I’ll get Guevarra on to this.’
‘Any joy with the hippy in the van?’
‘Ah, yes. Picked him up. He’s in the cells. Leila’s mobile was in his van. I’ve asked León to look at it.’
‘Do you want me to come over to help interview him?’
‘No. That’s okay. He speaks good Spanish.’
Max quickly phoned the lawyer to confirm the agreement, then left his office to go to the strategy meeting.
‘Sub-Inspector Romero, I’ve just had you paged,’ said the desk Officer, Bardon, as he passed reception. ‘There seems to have been some sort of breakthrough.’
‘Breakthrough?’
Max pushed through the heavy doors of the conference room. Linda was seated at the head of the table. Davila, Bonila, López and others were there.
‘Max, we’ve struck gold. Just had a fax from London about the Ibn Rush’d guys. I can read it out to you. Madrid translated it quickly.’ Linda cleared her throat, and read at a deliberately slow pace.
‘Heading – Hassan Khan. Passport number: 451455904. National Insurance number: YA 501977F. Occupation: student at the University of Brunel, studying Computer Sciences and Electronics. Marital status: single. Mother: Elizabeth Wilding. Father: Omar Khan. Parents separated. Lived with father after separation. Last known address: 169, Finchley Road West, Finchley, London.’
Linda paused, took a sip of water, and then continued.
‘This is the good stuff. “In relation to the above. The Anti-Terrorist Group has had the above on their list as a potential terrorist suspect for some time. The above is thought to be a member of, or at least to have close connections with, Hisb ut-Tahr which although not a terrorist organization as such is suspected as acting as a forum for ideological indoctrination, and as a potential recruiter for terrorist organizations.
‘“The above has taken part in frequent demonstrations against both the war in Afghanistan and the war in Iraq, and has handed out leaflets justifying armed resistance. He is a known supporter of Palestinian independence, and has had contact with Hamas, an extremist Palestinian group. He has demonstrated against the government of Pakistan. He has attended the Finchley Road Mosque, again thought to be terrorist recruiting ground.
‘“He is known to have visited northern Pakistan, ostensibly to see relatives. The last known visit was July and August 2000. We have requested information from the government of Pakistan regarding the above.
‘“Although there is no definite evidence linking the above to terrorist support or action, we are of the opinion that the above has the potential to either support or become involved in possible terrorist actions. He moves within circles of known supporters of terrorism. We suggest close surveillance. Please keep us informed of actions and movements of the above, and of any further information you may require.”
‘There you are,’ said Linda triumphantly. ‘There you have it. The terrorist connection we have been looking for.’
She looked round the table. ‘And there is more. Heading – Javeed Dharwish. The usual stuff from his passport. Other details. This is what matters.’
She paused again, and sipped at her water.
‘“Occupation: business training consultant. Education: degree in Business Studies, University College, London. Master in Business Training, University of Colorado, USA. PhD, London School of Economics.
‘“Marital status: Widower. Wife killed in Chatila massacre, on 18th September 1982. No known children. Known to have lived for a while with Fatima Khalid, a Palestinian militant thought to be a member of the Hamas organization. She returned to Palestine three years ago. No definite record of her whereabouts since.
‘“The following information is from the government of Israel: Javeed Dharwish was a known militant of Al Fatah. He is believed to have been involved in a number of attacks against Israeli property and personnel. He was an important organizer within the Chatila refugee camp where he helped organize young militants. He escaped from Chatila, and ended up in London. He worked for a number of years in a variety of jobs: waiter, construction worker and hospital porter. He studied at night classes and extra-mural classes before being admitted to University College, London. Active in student groups supporting armed struggle for Palestinian independence. He obtained a Master’s degree in the USA, and then a PhD from the London School of Economics. Since then he seems to have dropped out of political extremism, and has been running a business consultancy firm. Obtained European Union money to help set up business training courses in the West Bank. Some students on the courses were known Al Fatah and Hamas militants.
‘“We have nothing to connect him to terrorists at present. But we suspect he has retained his political sympathies for Palestinian independence. He has donated to the so-called Palestinian Charity, HosPal, which was declared illegal by the government of Israel as a front for Hamas. He is probably one of a number of Palestinian businessmen outside the Territories who channel money to militant Palestinian groups.”
‘There, becoming more and more obvious,’ said Linda. ‘The British have been efficient. Nothing back yet from the French, Germans and Belgians. The Spanish, I’m sure, will be the last to respond.’
She took a sip of water. ‘Gentlemen, we should move fast on this one. I don’t think we can afford to wait for information requested from other countries. We should pick them up without delay.’
‘On what charge?’ asked Max.
‘On what charge? Planning acts of terrorism, of course. We need to take that training place of theirs in the hills apart.’
‘But should we not wait for more evidence?’ persisted Max.
Surprisingly Davila came in to support him. ‘Yes. I think we need clearer evidence. The Centre is legitimate – went through all the correct procedures. Hassan Khan seems to have kept some odd company. But he’s very young. And perhaps a bit stupid. Javeed Dharwish has been a . . . um . . . legitimate businessman for many years We don’t want to get it wrong, and make a laughing stock of ourselves. If we mess this one up, we could even have questions in the European Parliament.’
Linda turned to Bonila. ‘Comisario, what do you think? After all, we have just agreed how well Granada is cooperating in the anti-terrorist fight.’
‘Sí. And we will continue to cooperate of course. But I wonder whether we should not be just a little bit cautious.
Maybe we can take another angle. Sub-Inspector Romero, Davila told me that one of the group, this Hassan Khan, is also a suspect on a murder charge. Maybe there is something there we can use.’
Max came in. ‘He’s just been released on grounds of insufficient evidence. He was also injured whilst trying a so-called escape from the Diva police.’
‘Dios,’ shouted Linda. ‘Do we know where he is now?’
‘Sí. He’s recovering in the Ibn Rush’d Centre. But he has to report regularly to the police.’
‘Are you stupid or just bloody naive? He could have killed the girl because she knew too much.’
Max was speechless. He could hardly say that the attempted escape was trumped up. After all, his official report had backed up González’ story. Linda glared at Martín.
‘Inspector Sánchez?’
Martín paused. ‘Well, the Centre could be a front. But there’s been nothing on him for years, and he’s now a successful British businessman. We can put aside the Israeli comment. They would say that, wouldn’t they?’ He took out a large handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face.
‘How about the Palestinian girlfriend?’ asked Linda.
‘Could mean something, could mean nothing.’
‘And the boy, Hassan Khan?’
‘I’d ignore the anti-war activities. But I agree – the mosque connection is worrying, and I don’t like the company he keeps.’
‘Your conclusion?’
‘I still think we should wait. See what we get on the others, keep them all under surveillance. If we’re wrong, it could backfire.’
Martín took out his handkerchief, wiped his face again and turned to Max.
‘Max, you’ve been up there. What do you think?’
‘I agree, sir. It could be a perfect cover. But everything is in order. And they’ve got EU money, so either they’re clean, or very, very smart.’
‘And the girl?’
‘You want my honest assessment? I reckon the evidence against Hassan Khan’s weak, but Teniente González in Diva disagrees.’