Safe from Harm

by RJ Bailey

  I nodded. ‘Just don’t interrupt.’

  ‘Quiet as the grave.’

  It took close to an hour, give or take, and while I drank coffee with a splash of whisky and Jack did another beer, I went through everything from the day when I first heard of Asparov and Sharif. It was difficult to remain dispassionate, but I think I did well enough weaving the threads together, even if I did feel like punching a wall. Jess? Why involve Jess in this scheme? I pulled out the mobile and dialled, desperate to speak to her. Voicemail. I remembered she was most likely at the movies or in the concrete shell of a noodle place. I left a message that probably sounded like I’d gone slightly insane. I tried Nina. Same thing. Shit. Mobile phones are fabulous, clever inventions. When they do what they are meant to do. Which is everything except phone calls, it seems.

  ‘Do you still have that phone they gave you?’ Jordan asked when I had finished.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because chances are it has been recording every email, text and phone call.’

  ‘Jesus. I can’t keep up with this.’

  Jordan gave a knowing smile. ‘Nobody over twenty-five can. Two more years, I’ll be struggling. You have another phone?’

  I handed over the Nokia and Asparov’s phone, the one that Elliott had given me. Jordan plugged it into his computer and spent five minutes peering at the screen.

  ‘The Nokia is an antique, nothing to worry about. This one is just a regular phone with some fancy Bluetooth stuff on it. I’ve disabled the remote switching – nobody can hijack it or trace it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a shaky breath. ‘OK, let’s talk about the elephant in the room,’ I said when he handed the phone back. ‘They have photographs of . . . stuff they want to load into Sharif’s computer. Pictures of Nuzha with her dad. And her dad with me. All manipulated. But why?’

  I considered my own question for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps—’ began Jack.

  ‘Shut up,’ I snapped. ‘Sorry. Almost there. I think.’

  He managed to keep quiet for the best part of a minute. ‘Who is this Swincoe really? If he’s not a spook?’

  ‘Freddie is on that. Took her a while to remember his surname. Coates. Simon Coates.’

  ‘Working for?’

  I could only shrug at that. ‘There was nothing on any search engine we could find.’

  ‘It’s pretty vile,’ said Jack. ‘What they have done.’

  I didn’t need reminding.

  ‘And consider this. With a clear head. Could any of them be real? Not the ones with you in, obviously. The others.’

  I forced myself to think back. There were images of me, apparently delivering Nuzha and Jess to Mr Sharif. Images of me watching while . . .

  ‘No. Fuck, no.’ I hoped that wasn’t optimism speaking, just logic and instinct.

  ‘So, deep breath, here you go. You have already posed the question. It is the only one that matters right now: why? Why the fuck take photos of you and this little girl—’

  ‘Nuzha. And Jess.’ I felt a fury rising and managed to park it. It would be useful, perhaps, later. But such anger really does cloud your vision. And I needed 20/20 right now.

  ‘And create these kind of images from them?’ The distaste in his voice was riper than sloppy Camembert. I knew how he felt.

  However, fearing that my base nature will one day shine through, they have a proviso that I can be removed if I ever bring disgrace on the family.

  ‘Jesus,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a coup,’ I said. ‘An attempt to stain Sharif’s character so deeply he’ll lose his company.’

  ‘With fake photos?’

  ‘But some people will always think there’s no smoke without fire.’

  ‘But your daughter? And you? Why?’

  I found it difficult to speak for a second, to voice what I was thinking. I waited until some saliva came back into my parched mouth, and tried not to shout. ‘A white girl. Muslim men abusing white girls. It’s a brilliant way to get it splashed all over the Mail and the Express. All Swincoe has to do is tip off child protection. They find those images. Nuzha is taken into care. Sharif arrested . . . hysteria in the press. Newsnight. Question Time. Radio Four. It wouldn’t wait until there was a trial. He’d never come back from it. Not over there in Pakistan. It’s all about honour and disgrace and shame.’ I clicked my fingers. ‘That’s why . . . Oh, Jesus.’

  I was on my feet. ‘They might not need those images. I’ve handed them the best weapon yet.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Back to the mosque.’

  I was halfway out of the hangar before I turned. ‘Jack. One last favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t got a gun lying around, have you?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I was ten minutes down the road when I figured out I was being followed. I glanced at the sat nav on the Cayman’s dashboard and deviated, taking a sharp left onto a country lane. If I wasn’t trying to shake them, I would have carried straight on for the A40. There wasn’t a whole lot down Marker’s Way. Nevertheless, those headlights swung after me. I hadn’t clocked a tail up on the way to Jack’s, but that didn’t mean much. The storm raging in my brain meant my capabilities were blunted. Now I had to forget what I had seen on that hard drive and address the current situation.

  I punched in the Sharifs’ number. It was Ali who picked up. ‘Ali, it’s me. I am going to give you some instructions, I want you to take them seriously. I wouldn’t do this unless there was a credible Red Level threat.’

  ‘A threat? Who to?’

  ‘All of you. You have to get your Principal and family off the radar and lay low.’

  The Cayman drifted, coming out of the bend a little ragged. I corrected with a snatch at the wheel and it responded beautifully. I looked at the map again. The lane was going into a series of sinuous curves. I peered at the lights glaring in my mirror, wondered what the guy behind was driving. Could I push him into a mistake?

  ‘Get them out of there, somewhere safe. They’ll be coming for Nuzha and Mr Sharif.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘The police. He’s being set up. Mr Sharif.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘On my daughter’s life.’ That seemed to convince him. ‘And Ali, get everyone’s phone and computers professionally scanned for hidden files. Just in case. You got somewhere you can go for now?’ Of course he had. As if someone like the Sharifs only had one home.

  ‘Yes.’

  He probably wouldn’t blurt out anything anyway, but just in case I reminded him. ‘Don’t tell me where. If the police come for me, I want to be able to say hand on heart, I don’t know where you are.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s just business, Ali. Someone wants the business.’

  I heard a growling noise down the line. It was more beast than man.

  ‘Put Mrs Sharif on, can you?’

  It was a few moments before she picked up the handset. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Sharif, it’s me. Ali is going to ask you to do something, no questions asked. I’d be grateful if you could do exactly what he says. Now, answer me this. Does he know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your husband. Does he know who is in Bounds Green? Don’t ask me how or why I know, just tell me.’

  ‘That he is alive, yes. That I visit? That he is in this country? No.’

  ‘Can you call him? Your son?’

  A pause.

  ‘It’s an emergency. Life and death.’

  ‘Then, yes, of course.’

  ‘Tell him to wait there, indoors, until I get there. Which flat is it?’

  ‘Three. Is Asma in danger?’

  It wasn’t the time to mince words. I was hoping a little profanity rather than politeness might hammer home the point. ‘You all are. Someone, maybe your family, maybe Mr Sharif’s family, are out to fuck you all. Do what Ali says. Now. Without questi
on. There is a shit-storm heading your way.’

  I must have sounded convincing. ‘Very well.’

  ‘And Mrs Sharif?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What did you just say your son’s name was?’

  ‘She’s called Asma.’

  I tried Freddie, to see if she could get over to Asma’s any faster than I could, but the number was engaged. I hoped she wasn’t busy fucking Flipper. And she was meant to have sent me some image files over of Matt. I felt a flash of irritation at that, but let it go. Matt could wait. So could calling Nina. Jess was safe there. Only I knew where she was. Right now I had a pair of headlights in the rear-view mirror I had to lose. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated.

  I was way off course now. The voice guidance was telling me to make a U-turn, I think. He was telling me in Russian, so I ignored it. I used the paddles to drop a gear and pressed the pedal. I felt a pressure in my back as the Porsche accelerated into the bend. A jab on the brakes. Correct. Back on the gas. On another occasion I might have laughed out loud at how she barely twitched. Bugger the back-endy 911, give me a Cayman GTS any time, even if it does look like a hairdresser’s car.

  Above the unmistakable low growl of my boxer engine I could hear another noise, that of a bigger, heavier engine behind. I couldn’t quite make out what it was – there were no street lamps – but it was a saloon-y type car, but with some poke. A Jag or an Audi maybe. I was sure I had the legs of him, but all he had to do was stay close.

  I banged the wheel in frustration. I had given them Asma. I had told Swincoe I thought Mrs Sharif was visiting a mosque, when she was secretly meeting her transgender son. There was no doubt they were related – they looked almost identical. They had told the family he had died in a climbing accident rather than reveal the truth, that the one son Sharif had had turned out to be ‘special’. That was enough to bring disgrace on the family. Enough for him to lose his company. They didn’t need those images on the computer drive now.

  The lights behind flashed me a quick semaphore, asking me to pull over. Yeah, right.

  I was coming up to an A-road that would take me onto a dual carriageway. I ran my fingers over the buttons on the fascia and found the traction control. I turned it off. I instantly felt the Cayman start to dance a little more, as if the tempo of the music had changed. Now I needed both hands on the wheel as I negotiated the turns, correcting with a series of tiny jerks. It felt like the original car’s wicked sister.

  As we came out onto the A-road I prayed this sleepy part of Bucks was mostly watching Saturday-night TV. I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the Eickhorn knife and jammed it between seat and console. I then placed one hand on top of the wheel, one on the bottom. It allows a big ‘bite’ – maximum turn – in one swift movement.

  As I came onto the main road I accelerated into it, stomped the brake, spun the wheel and hoped the fact that the engine is at the rear in a Cayman would do most of the work. Freed from the computer nannying, the back broke away and I heard the tyres squeal as they scrubbed on the asphalt. My head jerked and banged the side window as I came round, but I had done enough to be facing the pursuer. Back on the throttle, right into him, favouring the left side.

  Hidden gas cartridges triggered the front air bags as the front end of the Jag bent and splintered with a sickening noise. The one from the steering wheel exploded over me. I stabbed it with the knife even as it tried to swallow my face – you relax into the impact, not brace yourself – and it collapsed like overblown gum. I poked at the passenger-side bag and it too deflated with a sigh of disappointment.

  Steam from the other car’s radiator clouded the night air between us. I hoped mine hadn’t gone too. In the Cayman it is offset on the right-hand side. Even if it had gone, most of my important mechanicals were at the rear, so they were probably OK. Time to find out. I cut away the remnants of the airbag, selected reverse and pulled back none too gently. Debris flew up, body panels screeched, but I felt myself come free.

  Warning lights flashed at me, telling me the airbag had been deployed. Thanks for that, as if I hadn’t noticed. I spun the wheel and floored it. The Cayman tramped a little, then the back tyres gripped, the power went to the road and I was away. I put traction control back on. I wiggled the wheel back and forth, checking no steering rods had been bent. Another warning light came on. I ignored it. I still had two headlamps, but one of them appeared to be scanning the sky for enemy aircraft. I’d pull over soon and try and make the front more presentable, or at least less nickable by any traffic cop. Cosmetics weren’t really my worry. She just had to get me back to London and then one day soon I’d be calling Mr Asparov to explain that he had a gap in his rotating car cassette.

  One glance in the mirror as the road swept to the left, towards the soft glow in the sky that marked the capital, and what was left of my tail was lost to the night. Was the other driver OK? Like I gave a fuck.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  When, a million years ago, I had been doing a security check on Martyn, Gemma’s transvestite advisor, I had discovered that the whole gender issue subject was incredibly complex. Martyn was a straightforward – if one could use that phrase – transvestite. He liked wearing women’s clothes, hair, make-up and shoes. What he didn’t want was a male partner. He was happily heterosexual in most ways. But beyond that, things got a little confusing for me. There were those who felt like they had been imprisoned in a body moulded to the wrong sex. They took more extreme steps than Martyn – growth hormones to produce breasts, for example – but initially I could never quite figure out if they wanted sex with a man. Then I was given a definitive answer: ‘It varies.’ And that was what I learned by dipping a toe in those murky waters. It varies, in every combination you can possibly think of.

  Exactly where Asma fitted into the continuum, I had no idea. He – she, she, I reminded myself – was very slight, smaller than her mother, and just as striking looking. But whether it was all superficial exterior work or if she had gone for more substantial re-engineering it had been impossible to tell from the glimpse Freddie and I had had of her.

  I pondered all this as I emerged from the Uber at Bounds Green. The Cayman had given up the ghost on the North Circular and I had left it in a self-storage unit’s car park. It was just as well, it was far too conspicuous now, orange and totally buggered up. I got the driver to drop me at the far end of the road from the mosque and Asma’s flat.

  I tried Freddie again as I walked along the street. This time she picked up.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I texted you. And sent you those photo files.’

  ‘I had to ditch my phone,’ I confessed. ‘Compromised. And the Nokia can’t handle photos. I’ll text you a new number.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Picking up . . .’ I paused mid-stride when I saw the car, then remembered myself and carried on. Don’t look surprised. It was a white Range Rover Evoque that crawled by, a diamond in the rough in this part of the world. I watched it cruise past the mosque and make a left.

  ‘You there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you later and fill you in on everything.’

  ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can you keep your phone with you?’

  ‘Where are you now?’ she asked once more.

  ‘I’m taking Asma, that’s the son . . . er, daughter we saw. I’m taking him, her, to the Russian safe house. I’ll get a cab. I’ll figure out what to do from there. If I need you, I’ll whistle.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And Freddie, do you know where you can get a BB?’ Back in our army days a BB was a bang-bang, a gun. Jack hadn’t been able to help apart from an unwieldy shotgun they used for shooting rabbits.

  I heard her blow out her cheeks. I was clearly asking for the moon. ‘Dunno. I’ll make some calls.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You think you’ll need one?’
/>
  I was level with the flat now, and I pressed the bell. ‘Honestly? I have no idea.’

  The battered silver box on the wall made a buzzing sound. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Asma. I’m a friend of your mother’s. And your father’s.’

  The buzzing stopped.

  ‘Hello? Asma.’

  I heard a sweet car engine purring behind me and I glanced over my shoulder. The Evoque, still prowling.

  I checked for the knife in my jacket, stood back, and kicked the door lock, splintering the jamb. I didn’t have time to argue with some paranoid trannie over an Entryphone.

  I was hit by the rancid smell of multiple-occupancy housing, the aroma of dope mixing with cabbage, curry and damp. Flat three was on the second floor, and I stabbed the blade where the Yale lock met the woodwork, and felt the catch go. My shoulder did the rest.

  ‘Asma, I am here to help.’

  Asma thanked me by stepping out from the kitchen into the hall, raising a Colt .45 and shooting me in the face at point-blank range.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Christ, it hurt. You know how in the movies someone gets shot, they roll behind a crate, light a cigarette and say, ‘It’s just a flesh wound’? There’s no such thing as a flesh wound from a .45 bullet. It burrows into muscle and cartilage, bursts veins, capillaries, arteries, and when it hits bone, the whole shaft becomes crazy paving. Then there is the shock, fast and debilitating. You get shot by a big round like that, you generally just wait for the next one to finish you off, rather than make some quip through the cigarette smoke.

  I know this because I caught a bullet. In Iraq. I still have the scar, just above my right hip. Freddie dragged me to safety, saved my life. So in the second I realised what had happened in that hallway I felt a burst of relief that masked the pain in my cheek. Asma was holding a Colt .45 all right, but one of the .177 gas air pistols made in Germany under licence from Colt. Same size, same shape, same weight, just lacking the original’s firepower. Thankfully.

  I was on her in a second and wrestled it from her grip. I had half a mind to backhand her with it, but she was whimpering already. ‘You could’ve had my eye out,’ I yelled. ‘Now, listen, you are blown. Blown. You understand?’ I gripped her shoulders and shook. ‘I need to get you to safety. Otherwise you’ll be used to hurt your mother and father. She must have told you I was coming.’