By now Peter had found cruise control and was driving with both feet planted squarely on the floor. “They originally targeted you through Hassan. I’m suggesting Amina took her chance when it presented itself.”
“At the house? But they had no way of knowing I was going to fetch up there.”
“They invited you.”
I shook my head, pleased to score a point. “They invited Tom Etherington. That’s a situation I was in control of. Remember, it was my decision to make the original visit. They weren’t even around then. Are you claiming the estate agent is part of the conspiracy as well?”
Peter’s right toe stroked the accelerator to sweep past a dawdler in the middle lane, then came back to the floor mat. “We’ve already checked the estate agent. No problems there. But the fact is that Prince Albert Road is in the middle of an Asian community. Agreed your face is not as well-known as, say, a local TV weather-man,” (subtle put-down) “But your photo had recently been in the paper in connection with the family, and no doubt that’s just how you looked on that first visit. It takes no stretch to imagine you were spotted going in or out, by a neighbour, perhaps.” The furious expression of the woman next door popped out of a folder in my memory, but I didn’t offer it to Peter as corroborating evidence. “From that moment on you were offering yourself for the hook, and on the second visit you took it – or to be more precise your partner did. The rest is them playing the line. It was very convenient for us, wasn’t it, that Amina was booked onto the Lahore flight in her own name? So much easier to ensure that we caught up with her at precisely the right time.”
“Or simply that they had absolutely no idea Amina was in touch with us, or that we were looking for her,” I countered. “Liam told me these local cells aren’t particularly sophisticated.”
“Sophisticated enough to import drugs for sale, however, and a man to do it for them.”
“But not wise enough to protect him, or well enough organised to supply him or anybody else with a fake passport.” I was enjoying our version of head tennis. “Besides, who has given us the best possible information about the folk involved in this cell? Amina, right?”
“None of which information is worth a bean if she proves to be an unreliable witness.” Peter counted on his fingers to make the point. “Every one of these people – Ali, Aziz, even Fatima Bhat – can portray themselves as innocent dupes, fitted up by Amina and her partner. Assuming she still has a partner. What evidence do we have that Hassan Malik is still alive? Only the testimony of Amina Begum Khan. Suppose this character Rasoul is another invention. Suppose we have been persuaded that the chief protagonist of this plot is a man who actually died accidentally more than three months ago. At the very least we end up with egg on our faces. Worst case, we fail to prevent a major act of terrorism and end up with no suspects on whom we can pin a charge more serious than wasting police time. Amina could retract her evidence anyway, once it’s over. If everything goes according to their plan, they won’t even have to kill themselves for a result. Which could be quite a double whammy.”
Amazingly, the atmosphere is good tonight. Despite the presence of police and Home Office types in the ops room, not to mention bomb disposal and armed response teams waiting for the word in strategic parts of the city, the on-air banter is relaxed and friendly. Does the condemned man appreciate his last meal? I’m pleasing myself, I’m relating to my audience; they are being quirky and funny, without that undertow of misery we get some nights. Sam has a smile on her face – that’s always a good sign, and tonight especially, when she has such a huge responsibility on her shoulders. The only worry I’ve got in the back of my mind is how obvious the change of tone might be when (if) we have to switch to the dummy tape. The agents were great, and we tried our best to produce what would pass as a typical unstructured phone-in – a rich variety of topics and we even had a few laughs along the way – but in real time, will it play as a seamless continuation of what went before? I mustn’t let this thought distract me too much. Does it matter, anyway, once the shit hits the fan?
I’m chatting to Fletch from Spinney Vale about his idea for organising an online gurning contest when Sam pops a message on the screen: Oliver on line 2. ‘Oliver Dunn?’ I mouth to her through the glass and she nods. Unusual. This will make it possibly the third time that Ollie has asked for a speaking part in all his hours of listening, and the previous two were fairly inglorious. It bothers me slightly. Ollie might be disadvantaged in some ways, but he is alert to every nuance in the show, and I’m concerned he might have noticed some discrepancy he wants to point out that will make it apparent we’re not acting in the normal manner. Worse, he might be picking up on some point of reference from our recent time together, and accidentally blurt out something compromising, something that reveals to the plotters we know things they don’t think we know. For safety’s sake I shouldn’t take the call. On the other hand, I can’t give him the bum’s rush again – especially after all he did to help rescue my stolen mobile.
“Thanks, Fletch, I genuinely think that’s a great idea and a lot of fun. So, if anybody wants to have a go at becoming the world’s first-ever online gurning champion, get in touch with us and we’ll pass on the details. Now here’s a great friend of the programme on line 2, it’s Oliver Dunn. Ollie, how you doing, mate?”
The question stumps him for a couple of seconds and he hesitates, snuffling, wondering whether to answer or get straight into what he’s doubtless been rehearsing. Eventually he says, “Hi Marc, this is Oliver Dunn speaking, very well thank you, how are you?”
“I’m absolutely fine. This is a rare treat, having you on-air. I should explain to listeners that Oliver here knows more about this show than anybody else in the world, certainly including Sam and me put together. Isn’t that right?” I wait, expecting an answer, but nothing comes. “So, what brings you on tonight?”
“Hi Marc,” Ollie starts again, then checks. “It’s for my mam,” he says, after a pause.
“Uh-huh?” I’m trying to prompt him as subtly as I can.
“In hospital.”
“Oh, right.” I get it at last. “When did she go in, Marc?”
“Tonight. Just tonight.” Ollie suddenly sounds lost. “She’s having her operation tomorrow, Marc. Her op.” (An expression he’ll have picked up from the nurses.)
“Of course, yes. Well, I’m sure it will go really well. Is she is in the Western General?”
“It’s the same stop but one past yours, Marc.” (Thanks, Ollie. You could have picked a better time to announce that to the world.) “I just wondered if you’d say hello.” At first I think he’s inviting me to pop into the hospital on my way home, but the message Sam has just put up on screen keeps me right. It says, She’s called Vera.
“Oh, right, I’ll be pleased to. She’s called Vera, isn’t she, your mam?”
“Vera Dunn. Mrs Vera Dunn.”
“Well, Vera. I hope you’ve settled in well, and the nurses are looking after you properly.” (Does Patientline even carry our station?) “If you come across a porter called Norman, tell him hi from me. And Vera, the best of luck for your operation tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Marc.”
“Don’t mention it, all part of the service.”
“And Marc?”
“Yes, Ollie.” (Please don’t ask me to drop by for a cup-of-tea-or-a-cup-of-coffee-we-have-both.)
“Just to say it’s really nice that you and Sam are back together...” he swallows noisily, “On the programme. It’s not been the same without you.”
Sam’s eyes meet mine through the glass. “Thanks, Oliver,” I say. Heart-rending. I mean it.
For Peter it was the two mobile phones – one hidden, one found – that convinced him of Amina’s complicity in the plot. “Let’s track the journey of your partner’s phone,” he said. “Obviously Amina was fortunate to get it – Sam’s impulsive decision to hand it over couldn’t have been anticipated – but having been given that gift she made the best p
ossible use of it to achieve their aims. Note that it was switched off except on the two very brief occasions she used it – once to call you, once to send you the text message – and both times in situations where they knew it would be difficult to track down the location. Both calls were calculated to give us the opportunity to find her at the place and time of her choosing.”
He was about to continue, but I couldn’t hold back my objections. “Naturally she switched it off when she wasn’t using it,” I said. “How about if somebody, Sam’s sister, say, had tried to call her? That’s Amina’s lifeline gone. I almost did it by accident myself.” I was reluctant to admit that stupidity to Peter, but it helped support my case. “She only used the phone on the two occasions when she was able to snatch the chance. We know she was being held well away from the city – that’s why there weren’t enough cell towers, not because she chose the spot to keep her location secret. By the way, if they were so keen to make sure we found them, don’t you think she would have given us a bit more information?”
Peter, watching the road, couldn’t suppress a smile. “Little enough to establish credibility, sufficient to test our intelligence without confounding it. We’re pretty good at this, they know that. So are they, but they make mistakes. Didn’t Amina say Fatima was outside the toilet when she called you?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Don’t you think she would have heard Amina’s voice, through the thickness of a door? After all, you could hear hers at the other end of the phone.”
“Well... Only because she was calling out to Amina, hurrying her up...” But Peter had the bit between his teeth now.
“And then we come across Amina’s phone, which turns out to have been in use throughout the time of her supposed abduction, and who has she been talking to? Fatima Bhat. Meanwhile she abandons Sam’s phone –her lifeline, you called it – when they supposedly took her away from her child, even though she’d surely be desperate to call you again as her last chance for rescue.”
“She didn’t abandon Sam’s phone. She had the nous to hide it in Tarik’s cot so at least there was some chance the police would be able to track his whereabouts.”
Peter inclined his head. “Or that is what she wanted us to think. Suppose, instead, that the phone is sitting right now in the middle of an empty, booby-trapped room, waiting for us to come crashing in to rescue the little boy. Ka-boom. Nobody hurt but the law enforcers and whichever unlucky sods are in the vicinity to count as collateral damage. Significant, isn’t it, that the engineers have picked up the signal right in the middle of the city. Why bring the baby back into town at this juncture?”
I sat quiet for a minute, my eyes on hills that seemed pushed back to let the motorway through, thinking things over. Peter’s arguments were beginning to sound persuasive, or at least planting doubts in my head. Could she have talked to me without Fatima overhearing? Who packed her bag? What was her own phone doing there? What about these calls from Fatima’s mobile? Was the baby brought back into town, and if so why? So many questions – too many possible answers. By then I was finding it nigh on impossible to separate what I knew to be true and what I accepted as true because Amina had told me so.
I turned my head to observe Peter, eyes forward, ears alert to my next objection. He looked so fucking smug. “Do you have any idea how fucking smug you look?” I said. His mouth twitched slightly at the corner, hurt or amused, I couldn’t tell which.
“So let me ask you this,” I said. “If it was all part of their plan for us to catch up with the two women at the airport, how come Amina left such incriminating evidence in her suitcase?”
“I guess, because she didn’t expect us to treat her like a criminal, going through her things.”
“Bollocks.” Peter’s ‘I guess’ betrayed his uncertainty and restored my self-confidence. “Simple truth is,” I said, “The person who put that phone there was expecting it to go all the way to Lahore, because they had no reason to suspect the women would be stopped. Whoever picked it up when they cleared Amina’s house – maybe bin Ali or somebody else in the cell – thought it was a bright idea to use it for contact with Fatima in case they had their own mobile records checked out later, when the police started rounding up known activists after the big event. And what would be a nice easy way to get rid of the phone once it has served its purpose? Put it in the bag that’s going to Pakistan. Bye-bye.”
Peter didn’t respond. I had him on the run.“Tell you what, as well,” I carried on. “If you’re so damn smart how come you didn’t check for a cell phone registered in Amina’s name long before you took it out of her bag at the airport?”
Peter addressed himself in the mirror, smiling as he said, “Oh, but we did. That’s why I’ve been rather more reserved in my trust for Amina than you have, Marc. Her call history over the last month does not entirely support her depiction of herself as the isolated and imprisoned wife. Maybe it even casts doubts on the lady’s fidelity to her husband.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s interesting. For several days before Hassan famously popped up on your radio show we have found records of calls between Amina and Hassan’s friend, Ahmed Aziz. This is the man she told us she hated for taking her husband away from her. At the very least these calls suggests that Amina is an active part of the conspiracy. It could, of course, be even more significant. Suppose the lady protests too much, that instead of despising her husband’s friend she has the opposite feeling for this man. Didn’t Amina herself describe him as attractive and successful? What if the reason Hassan was chosen to be the martyr in this plot was not only that it advances the cause but very conveniently removes an obstacle between two lovers?”
Peter looked across his shoulder as he formed the question, somehow making it seem more like an accusation, before he faced the road again and continued. “The plan was all going very smoothly. Hassan was down to play the part of the suicide bomber, blowing himself to pieces in the vicinity of whatever target they’d identified - with the added advantage that he had already officially become a non-person. The others involved had already covered their tracks and there was every chance that Amina and Ahmed, with little Tarik, would be able to start up a new life together without the inconvenience of a prison sentence. Until, ironically, Hassan made his impulse call to declare his love for the wife he believed to be true. So abandon Plan A, bring on Plan B, which is a variation of Plan A with extra propaganda value. Then you show up on the doorstep, Marc, and a new Plan C is called for. Meanwhile Hassan probably thinks they’re still working on Plan B.”
“And what is Plan C?” I closed my eyes and sagged slightly in my seat. My head was throbbing, and I wasn’t sure whether it was caused by all these ifs, buts and maybes scuttling through my brain like so many laboratory rats, or by Peter’s offhand slights on Amina’s morality, which somehow diminished me as well as her.
“That we don’t know, but my huge concern is that we are allowing ourselves to be sucked up in it. Hassan may have been the patsy at the start of this operation. My fear is that now it might be you, Marc.”
We drove without speaking for a while. When I opened my eyes again Peter was concentrating on the road, and yet still seemed to have a mental camera trained on me. Did this guy ever have unguarded moments? I wondered if he had someone in his life who could stop him working so hard on his show of effortless superiority. Someone to say, Darling, take a chill pill, relax.
“You married, Peter?” I said, and couldn’t help smiling as I watched him processing the question as if it was a chess move. He chose to counter with a simple pawn.
“Possibly.”
“Only, I was wondering, do you ever borrow your wife’s mobile phone?”
He hesitated, then nodded minimally. Not a yes to my question, I realised, but as an acknowledgement of the motive for it.
“Suppose you didn’t have one of your own,” I continued. “Suppose you couldn’t use your old one because... well, say the phone company had bee
n told you were dead. Only you wanted to speak to your best friend. Maybe you were planning something together. In those circumstances, do you think it’s possible you might borrow your wife’s phone? To contact that friend?”
“It’s possible,” said Peter, evenly. I sat back again and waited for him to develop his next line of argument. We sat in silence for a good while. Eventually it was broken, not by Peter but by me, as I peered out of the passenger window. “I think we might have missed our turn,” I said.
Of course Peter could be right. In which case, as he warned me when my argument prevailed over bringing Amina into the studio, I am acting exactly like the Trojans. My sense is she may prove to be our secret weapon. Now the plate glass separates our two opposing male egos. My domain is in here and on the air waves. Amina is sitting opposite and to the left of my board in the studio guest position where she has been throughout the show, hood down to accommodate headphones fed by the studio output, listening sombrely even through the most light-hearted exchanges. She can’t hear Sam on talkback or see the messages I’m getting on the screen – I’m in control here – and she had to suffer another body search at Peter’s insistence before she stepped through the door.
Otherwise Peter’s domain is out there, specifically coordinating the teams waiting to close in on any action. One of these is already outside the address pinpointed as the current location of Sam’s phone, and has quietly evacuated the surrounding properties - not too difficult a job as it’s almost exclusively a commercial area, deserted at this time of night. The team is primed to move in, using sniffer dogs and robot detectors, as soon as Hassan has contacted me and the game is on.
Which will be when? It’s past eleven-thirty now, and the only caller out of the ordinary has been Oliver. Peter’s theory is they won’t leave it until the small hours because there will be less movement around the city then, easier for them to be spotted. Maybe this is not going to be the night after all, maybe Mr Ali’s trip to Birmingham has put us on a false alert. As I go to another commercial break, suddenly I feel weary – the adrenaline that has helped me lift the show (are you listening, Meg?) is beginning to drain now, leaving me sapped. Sam looks tired too. I’ve just realised that we haven’t had a coffee since we started.
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