Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘Sh—she had to.’ Angrily, Hassan lifted his head, and looked straight at Max. The stammer for a minute disappeared. ‘She loved me, you see. She left to save me.’

  ‘Funny sort of love?’

  ‘You don’t understand. She told me she had to leave. She wanted to, but couldn’t take me with her. Dad would come after us. He threatened to harm us both if she tried to take me.’

  Hassan stopped, and looked Max full in the face. ‘You know what her last words to me were? “I love you.”’

  ‘Loved you?’ Max knew he had to be cruel. ‘Loved you? You never saw her again, did you? She never got in touch again, did she? And you? What happened to you? That father of yours. Beat you up regularly, didn’t he?’

  Hassan was crying now. ‘He knew no better. He was b—bitter, confused. Lost in a hostile land. All he had left was his faith.’

  ‘How did you get away?’ Max asked more gently.

  ‘My local Iman. Discovered I was really good at maths. Encouraged me to study. My dad could not refuse the Iman. So I got out to university.’

  ‘And it was there you became a member of Hisb ut-Tahir, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No. I never joined them. I went to a few meetings, that’s all.’

  ‘You were a member, weren’t you? They told you it was a religious duty to defend your fellow Muslims by attacking those countries killing Muslims. Didn’t they?’

  ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘Come on. We’ve got photographs of you with them. We know what they say. We know what they preach. Just admit it all. It’ll be easier for you.’

  ‘I’ve t—told you the t—truth.’

  ‘The truth? You went to the mosque in Finchley Road, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It was my local mosque.’

  ‘Tell me about the Iman?’

  ‘He’s famous. He doesn’t hide his views. He tells us what is happening to our b—brothers round the world.’

  ‘Doesn’t just tell you, does he? He says it’s your religious duty to fight back. Kill or harm anyone whom he sees as an enemy of Islam. Kafirs, unbelievers, were legitimate targets. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘He sometimes went too far. But he also collected money to help the refugees in Chechnya and P—Palestine. He helped our b—brothers when they arrived in London with nowhere to stay, with no money.’

  ‘You mean extremists, don’t you? Were you one of those pledging allegiance to Al-Qaeda?’

  ‘I never heard of that. Sounds like one of those stories in the Sun.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Shagufta Hanif? Were you ever instructed on how to make ricin?’

  ‘No. No. Why all these questions about ricin? I was never very involved in the mosque. Went there for p—prayers, that’s all.’

  ‘You went to Northern Pakistan in the summer of 2000?’

  ‘Yes. I went with my father. His b—brother was dying.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘About three months.’

  ‘Three months? A long time, isn’t it?’

  ‘I hadn’t been b—back to Pakistan since I was a child. My last visit was with my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She wanted to meet my dad’s family.’

  ‘Okay. Back to this visit in 2000. You crossed over into Afghanistan, didn’t you?’

  ‘No. I’ve told the others hundreds of times. I didn’t leave Pakistan. I was with family the whole time.’

  ‘How about a madrasah? Attend one of them?’

  ‘I’ve told you, yes. My dad wanted me to renew my faith. After a difficult period, I too wanted that.’

  ‘Difficult period?’

  ‘With my dad and all. I hated him for what he did to my mother. She loved me, you see.’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap again. Loved you, my arse! She just got off with another bloke. Better in bed probably.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.’ Hassan started sobbing again.

  ‘Come on, pull yourself together. An extremist madrasah, yes?’

  ‘No. It helped me and my dad come together. We sort of made up. He died soon after we got back to the UK.’

  ‘So you’ve got no one? Easy bait for extremists then.’

  ‘No. I’ve told you. I did not get involved in anything at that mosque. Nor was I involved with any extremists.’

  ‘Yet the London Iman gave you a recommendation for your course?’

  ‘Yes. We were asked to have a recommendation from our mosque.’

  ‘But you hardly knew him, you claim?’

  ‘No, of course I knew him. He was a p—powerful p—preacher. I didn’t agree with everything he said. He showed us some videos on what was happening in Chechnya. It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘And then he encouraged you to go and fight, carry out jihad.’

  ‘No. Yes. He said we should support our b—brothers, that was the duty of all true Muslims. I heard that some did volunteer to go to Chechnya. But I just wanted to get on with my life.’

  ‘Nice and quiet like?’

  ‘You know all about my anti-war work. I’ve told you everything. Yes, I demonstrated, I handed out p—pamphlets. I collected money. Yes, I was angry. But how often do I have to repeat that was all?’

  ‘Come on. Just tell us what you were planning to do here in Spain. What was the target? You can then wash, rest. You’ll feel better just admitting what you were planning.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘It’s quite a set-up you have at this Ibn Rush’d Centre, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Javeed has put a lot of work into it.’

  ‘You look up to Javeed, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been good to me.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a P—Palestine Solidarity Meeting. He had started this charity, HosPal, to collect money and medicines for a hospital in Gaza. I got involved in that . . . and then he offered me a work experience p—placement in his London office . . . and that led to the job with the Centre.’

  ‘And you’re the computer whizz-kid for it all?’

  ‘Well, I’m in charge of the computers. I also do the accounts and things like that.’

  ‘There seems very little on the hard disks?’

  ‘Why should there be a lot of stuff?’

  ‘Well, websites, emails to your Islamic brothers for example?’

  ‘We keep in touch with what goes on. But I use the Guardian and BBC sites a lot.’

  There was a knock on the door. An officer entered.

  ‘Urgent message for Sub-Inspector Romero.’

  Max turned to Hassan. ‘Okay, I’ll be back. Just think. Tell us the truth. Tell us what you were planning to do here. In the end it will be better for you. You wouldn’t want to end up in Guantanamo, would you? You might even be sent to Bagram, might be somebody there who recognizes you. You know what happens to you there, don’t you?’

  Max left the room. It was bad news. Rizwan Ahmet had died in the hospital. Linda, General Ponte and Bonila would be even more worried, even more determined to get results. Max had had enough. He had got nothing. But he now felt there might be something. Their stories just didn’t convince. There was something odd about the group. He returned to Hassan.

  ‘Okay. That’s it for now. I’ll be back. We’ll be back. Remember – I’m the nice one. Easier for you just to tell me the truth, just confess to it all – Leila’s death, what you were planning. If not, the others may be less kind. Remember Bagram. Oh. And your mother can’t help you. She never has, has she?’

  Max left the room. It is surprisingly easy to be cruel, he thought. But was there something? Yes, there probably was.

  Chapter 15

  Tonight there’ll be blood

  To warm my cheeks.

  Frederico García Lorca, Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding)

  in a version by Ted Hughes

  Max reported to Linda first thing the next morning. She had recovered her poise after a good
night’s sleep. However she still looked worried.

  ‘Max, I’m sorry about Rizwan Ahmet. There will be a full inquiry, of course.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Of course – you weren’t there when it happened. I came in after the elite squad. Apparently they rushed in, saw Rizwan Ahmet reach down for something on the floor. One of the squad thought he was going for a gun, and opened fire. The officer couldn’t take risks. I know we did everything by the book. So I’m not expecting any negative consequences.’

  ‘But a man’s dead.’

  ‘I know. The war on terrorism is not pretty. Shit happens, and it’s our job to deal with it. So, what did you find out?’

  ‘It’s all here.’

  Linda skimmed the report.

  ‘That’s interesting what you say about Javeed Dharwish. That’s the first crack in his self-control. He hadn’t lost his cool once with us. Well done. We’ll have to push him hard and see if we can get any more. Okay – the consensus is that Hassan Khan is the weak link. We’ll concentrate on him. That stuff on their business plans is very useful. I hadn’t thought of that. I agree it doesn’t add up. I’m glad you’ve seen the light. There’s something heavy going on. My money’s on a terrorist attack. But where, Max, where? Malaga Airport? Here in Granada, the Alhambra? The Rota base would be a real spectacular – but that’s too well guarded. It would have to be a soft target? We don’t have much time. I had the PM’s special adviser on national security on the phone to congratulate me. He’s really piling on the pressure – wants a result before the election.’

  Max bit his tongue. What did an election have to do with whether someone was guilty or not?

  ‘I’ve called a review and planning meeting in an hour’s time. Take a break Max, and have a coffee. You’ve done well. It won’t go unnoticed.’

  Max went up to the canteen. He looked at the papers. They’d all run the story on the front page. The pro-government press led with the ricin and the ETA connection. The opposition papers were speculating why no evidence had been produced. The opinion polls showed the election would be close, but with the PP still just in the lead.

  After coffee Max went into his office to check his mail and emails. There was a testy email from Davila. Max was late with his input to the Service Plan Performance Indicators, and could he give it top priority. Great. A man was dead. The media were gorging on the terrorist plot, but the wheels of bureaucracy ground on regardless. Max filled in the Performance Indicator form and emailed it to Davila. He was tempted to add a sarcastic comment, but decided it was best to refrain. Davila took all these forms very seriously.

  Where do we go from here? he thought as he walked down the stairs to the review meeting. There’s not much more we can do except go over the questions again and again. I doubt if Hassan and Javeed will react so emotionally the next time.

  He entered the meeting room. Linda, as always, sat at the head of the table, laptop ready. There were no signs of tiredness now. She summarized the evidence, praised Max for finding a few vulnerable points among the suspects, and emphasized the importance of what they were doing. The PM personally wanted to be kept informed of any developments.

  ‘So what we have to do is keep pounding away at the weak link. We keep questioning all the others, but we concentrate on Hassan Khan. We have to toughen up our act with him. I’ve consulted the senior officers here, and they have agreed we should call in this Argentinian on your force, a . . .’ Linda consulted her notes. ‘Sí. Inspector Ernesto Navarro . . . I’m told he had experience of tough questioning and getting information when he was in Argentina.’

  Max exploded. ‘Tough questioning? Torture, you mean. Human rights groups in Argentina are trying to get him extradited back to Argentina to stand trial over the disappearance of a couple of school kids.’

  ‘There’s no proof,’ interrupted Davila. ‘It was a difficult period for the police with Communist guerrillas and all. Navarro says the accusations are false, and the Human rights groups in Argentina are Communist fronts.’

  ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Sub-Inspector Romero, I’ve told you before to keep your politics out of the police force. Navarro has experience of getting information out of suspects. And that is what we need now.’

  ‘I will not sit by and allow any physical abuse of the suspects,’ interjected Max angrily.

  Linda, her voice steady and calm, came in. ‘Who said anything about physical abuse? This is democratic Spain, and not Argentina under the military. We will abide by our rules. But we need someone who can scare Hassan Khan into confessing what was planned. Max – you now agree something was being planned, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m uneasy about them,’ muttered Max. ‘There could be something there. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Which is why we need Navarro to help us find out. I’ve asked him to organize the questioning routine. Inspector Sánchez and I have to return to Madrid for some top-level consultations. Comisario Bonila has agreed we let Inspector Navarro take charge of interrogations.’

  She turned to Max. ‘Inspector Jefe Davila has had a request from Teniente González for you to help him with his inquiries in Diva. You are needed there.’

  ‘Sí, Max,’ came in Davila. ‘There may something with this English hippy, and you, speaking English, are needed. That’s an order. Report back to me in two days’ time. Is that understood?’

  How convenient, thought Max. They want me out of the way. He gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Linda took over again. ‘Good. We all know where we stand. Inspector Sánchez and I will be back in two days. Good luck to you all. Remember if we get results I’m sure the PM can help with extra resources. And who knows – there might be some promotions.’

  With that she stood up, saluted, and left.

  ‘Max, I suggest you leave straight away,’ said Davila. ‘Teniente González is expecting you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Max looked at Martín, who nodded. Max saluted, and left the office. He went straight to the Bar Alonzo, ordered a coffee, and waited for Martín to come. Twenty minutes later Martín entered, and came over to Max.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Max. ‘Navarro is bad news. What’s planned?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Martín. ‘I’m out of the loop. I’m being hauled back to Madrid tomorrow. It’s all highly political. That bastard, Miguel Allende, the PM’s personal National Security adviser, is behind this. He’s a real poison dwarf. But Miguel and Linda go back years. They need something positive from all this. A little bird told me the Socialists have opened a line with ETA to discuss a ceasefire if the Socialists win. So the PP need to show the Socialists are weak on terrorism. The stakes are really high. Be careful, Max. I’ll tell you if I find out anything. I really must go now. We mustn’t be seen together.’

  ‘What are they planning to do with Hassan?’

  ‘I don’t know. They can’t be too crude – it could backfire on them. I’ve warned Bonila that a scandal would blow up in their faces. But it sure as hell won’t be a friendly conversation with coffee and cakes. I’m worried about that kid: too much pressure and he might crack totally. And that won’t do anyone any good. Let me know if you hear anything. I’ll see some of my political contacts back in Madrid. Right. Have to go. Take care.’

  Max finished his coffee, a worried frown creasing his forehead. He took out his mobile and made a quick call. He had to see Jorge. Max walked back to the police car park, got into his car, and drove along the Sacromonte road to the Abadía. Jorge was waiting for him, outside the huge, ancient door.

  ‘Let’s go into the garden,’ he said. ‘It’s quiet and peaceful there. Sounds like you need both. I know it’s early, but I’ve got that bottle of Cartojal straight from Malaga I promised.’

  ‘Thanks. I could do with a small glass.’

  They sat by the fountain, its water spouting out of the mouth of San Miguel. Max sipped his wine slowly and appreciatively. The gent
le splashing of the fountain, and the wine, calmed him down. He turned to Jorge and told him the whole story, beginning with the death of Leila.

  ‘I’m really worried. One man is already dead. And what will happen to Hassan Khan I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a nasty business,’ commented Jorge. ‘The terrorist threat is real, and we’ve brought it home to Spain. It makes no sense. The Brits are determined to play Robin to the USA’s Batman, but you’d have thought we would know better. But here we are – part of the invasion – so we’ve made our country a target. You said you have doubts about the innocence of these men?’

  ‘No evidence. Just a feeling that something isn’t right. I didn’t think so at first. But now I’ve interviewed them all, there’s something really fishy.’

  ‘That’s a worry. But torture won’t help anyone find the truth.’

  ‘Absolutely. So what can I do?

  ‘You have to go to Diva. I’ll call the Association for Muslim Rights and the human rights groups in Granada. With the Anti-Terrorism Law there’s not much we can do. But a few questions, leaked to the press of course, will do no harm. I’ll make sure nothing can get back to you. Best you left now. Thanks for coming to me. Keep me informed.’

  Max got up, embraced Jorge and left. At least he had done something. And he felt the better for having done so. He drove straight to the police station in Diva. González was in his office.

  ‘Come in, Max. Thank you for coming over immediately.’ González gave a wolfish smile as he spoke.

  The fat bastard’s in the know, thought Max. He’s in the loop.

  ‘No problem, sir. What can I do to help?’

  ‘We interviewed this hippy guy, Jim Cavendish. Says he met Leila at the bar El Gato, and then they went to Felipe’s bar for a gig, and then saw the sun rise at El Fugón. Very romantic. He says he didn’t fuck her, but believe that if you like. He claims at about two in the afternoon he drove her back to Diva and dropped her off at the church. Says she must have left her mobile in his van then.’

  ‘That squares with everything we know,’ said Max. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘No real problem. But he’s a lying bastard. We found a stack of hashish in his van, and more in his shack. So there could be a drug connection. We’d like you to interview him to see if you can get any more.’