The Haha Man

  ‘Saul, take a look at this.’ Fossey held the passport up for Karim to read, but instead Karim took it and pressed the gun into his hand.

  ‘Oh, so you are not really Ahmed Hammuda at all, but Sheikh Zayed bin Rashid al Sharqi. I’m sorry, Your Excellency. It was just that we were confused. Someone of your position surely wouldn’t need to resort to sex with a cheap whore in a hotel room.’

  The man glared at him.

  ‘There was this too.’ Fossey, uncomfortable with a gun in his hand, passed the wallet to Karim.

  Hammuda had pulled the sheets up to his neck. ‘I prefer to travel less conspicuously.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, will you please explain who you were seeking.’

  Karim looked up from the wallet. ‘Basically we came to kill you. But it gives us a thrill to go through your things first.’

  ‘Perk of the job,’ Fossey said.

  ‘Comes with the territory,’ Karim added. He took a small photo out of the wallet. ‘Now this is interesting.’ The picture showed a young girl.

  ‘It’s my daughter.’

  ‘Cute,’ Karim said. ‘Well, at least she’ll still have her mother to look after her.’

  Hammuda narrowed his eyes. ‘You aren’t Australian, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Karim asked. ‘I’m an Aussie, mate.’ He went to the desk by the window and picked up a box of matches. He lit one and set fire to the photograph, holding it by a corner until it was nearly consumed then letting it flutter into the ashtray. ‘See that, Moishe, I just flamed his daughter.’

  ‘You’re Israelis, aren’t you?’ Hammuda hissed. ‘Mossad.’

  Karim switched on the desk lamp and emptied the contents of the wallet onto the table. ‘He’s a clever man, the Sheikh. You have to give him that.’ He held up a driver’s licence. ‘Oh dear, I think you’re playing games with us. This says you’re just plain old Abdulla Qassem.’ He tossed the wallet in the bin. ‘Let me have the gun, Moishe. A pillow over his head and there will be hardly any noise at all. Especially if we turn the TV on.’ He took the gun from Fossey and backed away far enough to switch on the TV.

  ‘You won’t get away with anything in this country,’ Hammuda said.

  ‘Wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.’ Karim smiled condescendingly. After a few seconds some gentle wallpaper music began playing. ‘Check for bags. You have a bag, don’t you? No, forget it, why ask you. Moishe, try the wardrobe.’

  Fossey, glad to get the gun out of his hand, opened the wardrobe and found a small cabin bag similar to one he owned. ‘He travels light for a Sheikh,’ Fossey said, struggling to match Karim’s light-hearted banter. He unzipped the top of the bag, tipped it over and rummaged through, but found only cigarettes, toiletries and spare clothes. He tried the side pockets, then, guessing it was the same as his own bag, slipped his hand down behind the pullout handle. It was a place he had always found useful for papers or photographs he didn’t want damaged in transit. His fingers touched something; he reached further and retrieved a rather battered Saudi passport.

  ‘Bingo,’ he said quietly and held it up for Karim to see. As he did he noticed the television screen had a teletext message along the bottom.

  ‘Seems there’s a message for a Mr Hammuda.’ He handed the passport to Karim. ‘I must say, I’m getting confused. He had this one stuffed down the back of his bag and it belongs to someone called Hassan al-Mahdi.’

  ‘Really?’ Karim waved the gun. ‘Have you been less than straight with us, Hammuda?’

  The man remained sullenly silent, still clutching the bed clothes.

  Fossey picked up the remote and keyed through the TV options until he came to messages. He pressed the accept button and the message came up on the screen.

  Please ring Marzuk urgently 9291 5062

  Fossey read it out for Karim, who laughed and moved the desk chair so he could sit at the end of the bed. ‘Well, we could give him a call, couldn’t we?’

  ‘We certainly could,’ Fossey agreed.

  Hammuda looked smugly unconcerned.

  ‘Or we could go around to Arthur Street and kill them,’ Karim said mildly.

  The smugness drained away and, for the first time since he had recovered from the initial shock of their intrusion, the man looked genuinely frightened. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  Karim pointed to the phone. ‘I think we should get someone in here to keep an eye on things. You and I will go and deal with his boys.’

  Fossey nodded and rang through to the room.

  When Ray and Michael turned up to take over guard duty, Karim walked over to Hassan and smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I nearly left without answering your question. You wanted to know who we are. Well, we’re from the place your lovely virus comes from — we’re Hazara.’

  He spat on the man and walked out of the room.

  As they went down in the lift Fossey turned to him. ‘Where the hell did you learn to be so cruel? Or is it an Afghan thing?’

  ‘No, Fossey, I learned it from watching cats with mice.’ Karim grinned. ‘Now, are you ready for the next stage?’

  ‘Sure.’ Fossey hoped it was true.

  ‘Well, the only gun is in the room upstairs and I have no idea what these other people are armed with. It could be decidedly hairy.’

  ‘Did you show Michael how to use the pistol?’

  Karim looked at him as though he was stupid. ‘What for? David didn’t think to buy any ammunition. It isn’t loaded.’

  ‘Christ! Did you tell him that?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Karim laughed. ‘That would spoil his fun.’

  The rain had cleared away, a breeze had sprung up and the temperature felt as though it was plummeting.

  ‘God is good,’ Karim said, as he hung up.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Amir was waiting opposite the house when one of the men came out and started towards the shops on Crown Street. As he came alongside their car, they grabbed him.’ Karim spread his hands. ‘Al-hamdullilah! Praise be to Allah!’

  Praise be to good luck too, Fossey thought, but kept this sacrilege to himself. The street was still glistening from the rain and, though there was a fair bit of traffic, there didn’t seem to be a taxi in sight.

  ‘I have said we will meet them on the corner of Arthur Street and Crown Street,’ Karim said as they waited. ‘You know where this is?’

  ‘Crown Street? Sure. Anyway, the taxi driver has to find it, not us.’

  Karim touched Fossey’s shoulder in a gesture of comradeship. ‘Just one to go.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we get the minister.’

  Amir and his friends were not hard to spot from the taxi. They were standing around a late seventies’ Ford Escort, smoking and talking quietly.

  ‘Well done, brother.’ Karim embraced a gaunt individual, then released him and turned to Fossey. ‘This is my friend Amir. Amir, Fossey.’

  ‘Asalaam aleikum’, Fossey said.

  ‘Hello.’ Amir beamed and took Fossey’s hands between his then touched his heart.

  ‘So you have caught one of the cubs.’ Karim peered into the back seat. The boy looked no more than twenty-three or -four. He also looked terrified.

  ‘The other one is still inside.’ Amir pointed to a house further down the street. ‘Everyone volunteered to go and get him, but I told them, no, wait until Mr Karim comes and then we shall see what is the plan.’

  ‘We have very little time if any plan is to work.’ Karim considered briefly, then he took Fossey’s arm and steered him down the road to where they had a better view of the house. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should just walk in.’

  Karim looked surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s expecting his friend back. He hears a knock, he opens the door. Simple.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Is there an alternative?’

  ‘Not really.’

  They returned to where Amir was waiting patiently. He
had, Fossey thought, an air about him of a man much used to waiting.

  ‘We will go in directly,’ Karim said. ‘You and me, Amir. I think he would be frightened by your face,’ he added to Fossey.

  ‘There is a small lane at the back,’ Amir said. ‘I suggest Mr Fossey is going there.’

  Fossey nodded. ‘Give me a couple of minutes to get in position.’

  Only one street light was working in the entire block, so Fossey walked quickly past the house to where Arthur crossed Reilly Street. He turned left and found the narrow lane. While some attempts had been made to tidy up the frontages of the terrace houses, the rear lane was a mess. No matter how carefully he trod, he stood on rubbish of some sort. Broken glass scrunched under his feet and then, to his disgust, his foot sank into a pothole filled with effluent. The smell was putrid. He swore quietly.

  Fossey stopped, realising that he was completely in the dark and hadn’t a clue which was the back of the house. Then, without warning, there was a loud noise — a door slam and a scrabbling sound as someone scrambled over a fence. He saw a man drop down into the lane only three metres to his right. The figure started to run towards Crown Street.

  ‘Fossey!’ Karim screamed in the dark behind him.

  There was no time to reply. Fossey, heedless of the rubbish beneath his feet, sprinted after the fleeing figure — if the man made it to the end of the lane it would be almost impossible to stop him without creating a public incident.

  With only ten or twelve metres to go the man was moving fast. Fossey launched himself in a flying rugby tackle. To his amazement he connected with his target, catching him round the legs.

  With a loud cry of desperation the man flailed at the air and crashed to the ground. Fossey heard a sickening thump then felt a shudder ripple through his quarry’s body. There was a sound like air escaping from a rupture … then the man was almost still. Small twitches and shivers were all Fossey could feel.

  ‘Karim!’ he called, suddenly panicked that he might have committed manslaughter. But then he made the mistake of relaxing his hold. His captive reacted immediately with a vicious kick and a bellow of anger. Caught by surprise, Fossey nearly lost his grip. ‘Quick! Give me a hand!’ he shouted.

  Again there was kicking and yelling, but this time Fossey was prepared and held on — until, with a clatter of footsteps along the laneway, Karim and Amir came running.

  Amir leapt on the struggling figure, grabbed his head and bashed it hard down into the ground. When all movement stopped he took a roll of gaffer tape from his pocket and passed it to Karim, who quickly wrapped a strip around the lolling head and over the mouth.

  ‘Well done, Foss. I haven’t seen a better tackle at Cardiff Arms Park!’ Karim got to his feet, catching his breath.

  Fossey groaned, still on the ground and aware now of pain in one elbow and along his right side. Gravel rash.

  Karim bent over him. ‘Can you get up?’

  ‘Is he …’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere, at least not until we say.’

  It was after midnight when they finally had everything in place. Amir had sent a car to collect Ray, Michael and their ungrateful guest. Meanwhile, as Fossey and Karim were securing both the young men, Fossey had found a set of keys.

  ‘You think …?’ He held them up for Karim to see.

  ‘I’d bet on it.’ Karim was looking worn out. He took the keys and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘I think we just solved the problem of gaining access.’

  Fossey followed him through to the small kitchenette where Amir was sitting with tea and a cigarette and going through the papers they had found in the house.

  ‘The warehouse,’ Karim said, showing him the keys.

  ‘And we have documents.’ Amir held up a sheaf of papers. ‘The young one is called Basim, the older one Marzuq. They have a commercial air-freshening business.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘Air-fresheners?’ Karim turned to Fossey. ‘Are you thinking what I am thinking?’

  ‘Air-fresheners as a delivery system for the virus?’ The notion was simple, elegant and horrible. An air-freshener was such a small device. So commonplace. They could be anywhere.

  ‘If it is true, then shouldn’t we inform the authorities?’ Fossey began.

  ‘I think we should kill them now and save ourselves a lot of trouble,’ Amir said. But Karim was shaking his head.

  ‘No. Just let’s make sure we get to tomorrow without losing anyone or alerting the police.’

  ‘I think we can do that,’ Fossey said. ‘What happens after that is more problematic.’

  But there was no more they could do until morning. Michael returned to the hotel and one of Amir’s men drove Fossey and Ray back to Karim’s house.

  Once Karim was convinced that Hassan al-Mahdi and the two young men were secure, and that Amir’s men understood they were not to be released or moved for any reason, he went to the lounge room, found himself some cushions and drifted towards sleep. He had a difficult choice to make about the three captives but it would have to wait until morning. He only needed one of them and, as he had agreed to meet Michael and the others at the warehouse around ten, that left him plenty of time to arrive at a decision.

  Most of the morning and all the afternoon would be free to assist Michael and David setting things up the way they wanted.

  ‘You know this is madness.’

  ‘What is?’ Ray paused on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  ‘The whole thing.’ Fossey shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you think we can pull it off?’

  Fossey laughed bitterly. ‘I guess I’m rather more afraid that we can. Either way, if tomorrow succeeds or backfires, we could be put away for an awfully long time.’

  ‘Or be dead,’ Ray added brightly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, I always figure that if we imagine the worst-case scenario, then anything else has got to be an improvement.’

  ‘It’s just …’ But Fossey was too tired to think, let alone put his fears into words.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time for this day, Fossey.’ Ray’s face relaxed and he allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Mind you, I never imagined it would be quite like this.’

  No, Fossey thought, I bet you didn’t. Nobody in possession of all their faculties would have imagined, let alone contemplated, what they were going to do.

  ‘Good night,’ Fossey said.

  ‘Salaam,’ Ray replied.

  It was a strange morning; Layla felt it the moment she woke. She had intended to return to the hotel, but the wine and the food had conspired against that idea. For a while, as she lay looking at the unfamiliar walls and ceiling, she thought it was merely that she had awoken in Chloë’s house and was disoriented. But the longer she lay there, the less she was convinced. This was more a sense of heaviness, of oppression.

  Groping around with her hand, she found her clothes on the floor beside the bed and, still half asleep, struggled into them. Out in the kitchen there was no sign of Chloë, so Layla squeezed herself some orange juice and, sliding the door back, stepped out onto the balcony. She had expected a chill breeze, or at least some early morning dampness in the air, but the strangeness she had experienced inside was now more tangible. A physical presence. The air was humid and cloying. Away on the horizon great cumulo-nimbus were stacked, like tanks being marshalled before an attack.

  The sky began to colour as she watched. Not the turquoises and egg-shell blues she would have expected, but angry burnt orange with the cloud tips deep vermilion, as though the sky was being bruised. The spaces between the clouds brewed purple and in the far distance a dirty green was painted right across the sky. She leaned over the rail and looked out towards the harbour. There, it was clear; all that remained of the night’s light rain was a shifting, indolent veil of mist hanging on the slick streets below. The air smelt of ozone and tasted vaguely metallic, and the electric charge in the atmosphere caused her to shiver.

&nbs
p; Layla went inside to make some coffee. But though she slid the door shut, it didn’t close out the eerie atmosphere or stop the colours seeping in. Infecting everything, she thought, looking at the glow of the tiles and the dappled orange hues glinting off the stainless steel bench.

  ‘Morning.’ Chloë was yawning in the doorway. The freshly dyed spikes in her hair were all over the place. ‘Coffee …?’

  ‘Mmm. I was just about to hunt some out.’

  ‘Cupboard beside the stove. Italian coffee-maker on the sink. Three scoops tamped down.’

  Layla laughed. ‘You’re not awake yet, are you?’

  ‘Uh-uh. On autopilot until I’ve had my caffeine hit.’

  Layla made the coffee and they sat on the balcony and watched the storm clouds.

  ‘I’m going to wear black this evening,’ Chloë said as she took a pinch of tobacco from a packet of Drum and started to roll a cigarette.

  ‘Black?’ Layla pulled her mind back from the cloud-watching.

  ‘I thought it would make me look a little more conservative.’ She licked the cigarette paper and pulled a loose strand of tobacco from her tongue. ‘Help me blend in.’

  Layla looked at the coloured spikes in Chloë’s hair, but suppressed her disbelief. ‘Good idea,’ she said and changed the subject. ‘Did your nurse deliver?’

  Chloë patted her pocket looking for her cigarette lighter. ‘Hang on, I’ll show you.’ She went back into the house and returned with a paper bag containing four small bottles. ‘Midazolam hydrochloride in a syrup form.’

  ‘Amazing. Is it safe?’

  ‘You mean, could it kill him?’ Chloë thought about it for a moment, as if this had never occurred to her. ‘Fiona says that two mil won’t even knock him out, just disorient him. She said his speech will go funny —’

  ‘Funny, how?’

  ‘Slurred, and he’s likely to hallucinate and get double-vision.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Except that it wears off pretty fast, so we might have to give him another dose after about an hour and a half.’