‘Yes, it may have been made for a person, for a voyage, or a city even. I would need to see any other writing or symbols that were near it.’
David leaned back. ‘No need to trouble yourself any more,’ he said.
‘I hate to interrupt,’ said Isabel. ‘But I was wondering if you’d made any progress on our friend, David?’ Her tone was taut. She clearly wanted to move the conversation on.
Sir David shook his head. ‘It would be a lot easier if you had evidence, my dear.’ He obviously wasn’t enjoying being the bearer of bad news.
An awkward silence followed.
On the wall at the far end of the bar, straight in front of me, a jumbo LCD television was showing a satellite news channel. A familiar face came on the screen. At first, I thought I was mistaken. I looked away. Then I looked back. I felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. For the second time in 48 hours I saw someone I knew on the TV news.
It was Kaiser, the American. We’d last seen him as we’d entered the police station in Istanbul together.
I stood, mumbled an excuse, and mesmerised, crossed over to the TV, hoping the sound would be on.
As I got closer, I saw that there was a text caption running along the bottom of the screen. It read: American archaeologist discovers long-lost manuscript.
I felt as if the ground was falling away. What the hell was Kaiser up to? Then, as I came closer to the TV, I could hear his voice.
‘… we discovered it in the Golden Horn. It’s from the time of Mohammad. If it’s what we think it is, it’s the only document from the period that mentions him by name, and explains what the emperor at that time decided to do about him.’
Behind him, a blurry image of the cover of the book we’d found appeared.
Kaiser smiled like a fox who had found his way into a hen house.
The sneaky bastard!
The news presenter asked, ‘Where is this book now, Mr Kaiser?’
‘It’s under lock and key, for security reasons.’ His expression darkened. ‘Of course, it still needs to be properly translated.’
In a corner of the screen there was a medieval woodcut depiction of a double-headed eagle. I felt someone at my elbow.
‘Not much chance of keeping a lid on this now,’ said Isabel.
‘What have you translated so far?’ asked the interviewer, in an excited tone.
‘All I can say,’ said Kaiser, ‘is that we will be publishing what we know at the earliest opportunity.’
I could hear Isabel letting her breath out.
‘Well, viewers, that’s all we have time for right now,’ said the presenter. ‘But stay tuned for more after this.’
The TV news moved on to a story about the demonstration being planned for central London that afternoon. Apparently 250,000 people were expected now.
I was about to turn away when I heard the presenter say, ‘The group organising the demonstration this afternoon, after Friday prayers, is called the ECP, the English Caliphate Party.’
I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
For weeks after Irene had been butchered, I’d searched for this elusive ECP group. They’d been holding a march in London against the war in Afghanistan on the day Irene’s bus had been bombed in Kabul. It was obviously a coincidence, but I wanted to meet them. I think my mind had been warped by grief. An anti-terrorist officer, who’d visited me soon after, had warned me off even talking to them.
But I’d spent weeks reading notices in every Islamic bookshop and mosque I could find in London, and on every English language Islamic website, hoping to uncover where the ECP met. After scouring and scouring, without finding even a single mention of their name, I’d abandoned my search. That was when I decided to go to Afghanistan.
But why had they reappeared now?
I walked back to our table. Isabel was already sitting down.
‘You look in the horrors,’ said David.
I stared at him, memories of that time searching for the ECP swirling through my mind, all the grim places I’d visited, the sickening despair I’d felt. How I’d imagined it could never end.
‘The people organising the demo,’ I said, slowly. Something caught in my throat. David looked puzzled. I coughed. ‘At St Paul’s. They’re the guys who held a demo in London the day my wife was murdered.’
I sat.
‘How odd.’ David’s half-smile was sympathetic, but clearly well practised.
I’d felt people’s pity hundreds of times in the past few years. And I hated it.
Why were the ECP back?
David was staring at me.
‘There’s a lot of these groups,’ said Isabel. Her tone was placating. ‘They demand the right to demonstrate, but they don’t want to allow free speech for their critics.’
‘Do you know anything about who’s organising the demonstration this afternoon?’ I asked David.
‘It’s all above board, or so I’m told. Apparently, whoever’s organising it, has no record of any terrorist connections. There must have been no incidents at their last demonstration either. That would have been important.’ He put his hand out towards me.
‘What the hell was that other thing on the news?’ he said. ‘Was that something about your manuscript?’ He pointed in the direction of the TV.
I nodded. Then I told him who Kaiser was, what he’d said.
‘We’ll have to get someone to talk to him, and quickly.’ David’s face was red, almost purple.
I put my hands on the table. ‘He better stop spreading lies,’ I said.
‘The world’s going mad,’ said David. ‘And this is certainly not going to help.’ He waved towards the TV, then settled back in his seat.
‘I have to go,’ said Gulsum. ‘All this excitement is too much for me.’ She stood, shivered theatrically, her shoulders hunching up, then bent down and kissed David on both cheeks. She did the same for Isabel and me. As we kissed, she whispered, ‘Be careful, won’t you?’
Isabel must have heard her because she replied curtly, ‘He’s well able to look after himself.’
Gulsum simply hummed in reply. A second later she was gone.
‘What did you make of what she said about that symbol?’ said David, turning to me, ‘all that stuff about mystical board games and astrological charts?’
‘I can’t argue with her,’ I said.
‘You didn’t show her the text below the symbol,’ said Isabel.
‘No. It was in Latin,’ said David quickly.
‘I’m sure you’ve translated it by now,’ said Isabel. ‘I think I remember most of it. Fame ad mortem was in there somewhere, famine and death, cheery stuff.’
David looked at her for a few seconds. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. We haven’t figured out what it means yet.’ He glanced towards the stairs, the way Gulsum had gone. ‘I didn’t want to tell Gulsum about it until I found out what she thought of the symbol on its own. One of our people thought it was an astrological chart too.’
‘What did the Latin translate to?’ I said.
He took his BlackBerry out, tapped it for a few seconds.
‘What new path must you make, if you go from famine to death, yet wish to take each path, and each once only. That’s it, apparently.’ He spoke slowly, reading from his BlackBerry, then looked at me.
‘There’s a bit of debate about whether path should stand for destiny, but that’s all it says.’
‘The Greeks liked a good riddle,’ said Isabel.
David nodded.
That was it. Some ancient riddle wasn’t going to solve anything.
‘What’s going to happen about Peter?’ I said, turning to Isabel.
‘We need evidence,’ she said tiredly.
‘It sounds to me like you’re not going to do anything about him,’ I said.
‘Calm down, Sean. Things like this take time,’ said David.
I’d had enough. We were getting nowhere. David’s attitude to Peter looked to me like the establishmen
t closing ranks, putting things off until they were forgotten about. I should have known.
David glared at me, then continued.
‘I’d have thought that coming from an academic background you’d have learned a little about patience.’
His phone rang.
It played Rule Britannia as he extracted it from his pocket. A one-sided conversation followed. When the call ended his face was even more flushed.
‘That was the Minister,’ he said. His eyes were fixed on Isabel. ‘Apparently, they know all about your friend. He said to thank you for coming forward.’ He gave her a weak smile.
Isabel looked defeated.
‘That’s it?’ I said.
David stared at me. ‘Mr Ryan, we’re monitoring over three thousand terrorist suspects in London alone. That’s not a state secret. We’re up to our eyes in threats this year. You might say there’s a lot hitting the fan right now. I told you, we need evidence, not just hearsay.’
‘I have to go,’ I said.
David looked troubled. ‘What about lunch?’
‘You eat for us,’ I said.
I stood. Isabel got up as well.
David held out his hand, motioned to Isabel to come towards him. As he shook her hand he pulled her down to him and whispered something in her ear. When he was finished she moved away from him. I shook his hand a moment later. He didn’t smile.
As we headed out into the heat of the afternoon Isabel glanced from side to side, then turned left. The sky above was a dark grey haze. There was a lid of cloud on the city. The tightness in my stomach was still there. Our effort to get Peter investigated had turned into a total disaster. And Kaiser was on the TV claiming our manuscript was his.
‘What did he whisper to you?’ I asked as I caught up with Isabel.
‘He said I shouldn’t be involved with you.’
Chapter 51
The boy was only twelve, but his father decided to bring him. His son was going to go to university. He was showing great promise already. And this was going to be the biggest demonstration ever by Muslims in the United Kingdom. This would be the moment when English people sat up and took notice. The time for the shadows and the ghettos was coming to an end.
The house they lived in was only a short ten-minute walk from Tottenham Hale station. It was a walk the boy knew well.
As they entered the station, the boy saw a pile of Evening Standards lying on the grubby grey-tiled floor. His father bent down to pick one up.
The boy saw the headline. It filled the front page.
NEW PLAGUE IN ISTANBUL
The picture underneath was of a bearded man. It looked like a passport photo. The boy read the story looking over his father’s arm.
Two people had died of the plague in Istanbul in the last twenty-four hours. A hundred others were in quarantine. The plague was classified as airborne. It had resisted all the normal treatments, including high-strength antibiotics. The World Health Organisation was sending a team to Istanbul.
The father grunted, put the paper under his arm. They waved their Oyster cards at the turnstile. As they boarded the train, the boy noticed a lot of people had the Evening Standard in their hands.
It was good to be in London, far away from such nightmares.
Chapter 52
‘You’re going to give up,’ I said.
‘We have no evidence, Sean,’ she responded.
‘You are giving up.’
‘Don’t look at it that way.’
She stopped, stood facing me.
‘Sean, it’s over. You’ve done everything you could. Go home. Watch some TV. We’ll organise protection for you. We’ve warned people about Peter. What more do you think we can do?’ She turned and walked on, as if she didn’t give a damn whether I replied or not or even whether I followed her.
I watched her walk away, disappear into the crowd. She didn’t turn her head. Not once.
I wanted to go after her, but I was angry with her. How could she give up?
And then I knew. She was trying to protect me. I ran.
The street was full of people. Was everybody taking long lunches in London these days? Where was she? It was hard to tell the tourists from the office workers.
Then I saw her. I called her name.
She turned, and on seeing me, hurried on. She’d reached the next corner before I caught up with her.
‘What’s your rush?’ I said.
‘Go home, Sean.’
‘You’re not going to get rid of me that easy.’
She was standing with her arms folded in the middle of the pavement, passers-by diverting around us.
‘Don’t you get it?’
‘Get what?’ I said.
She looked pissed. ‘You have to let it go.’ Her hand cut through the air between us.
‘Why?’
She walked under the awning of a barber shop. I followed her. She turned her head, checked that no one was standing behind her before continuing.
‘This is not about you any more, Sean.’
‘It was never about me.’ I said. ‘It’s about Alek. It’s about not giving up. Not walking away. I thought you’d understand that.’
‘I do.’
She folded her arms.
‘No you don’t.’ I pointed at her. People were staring at me.
‘If you think I’m going to slink away, you don’t get it. If you think I’ll let this go, you don’t have a clue. And if you think I’m going to let you take the next steps on your own, you don’t know me at all.’ I paused, took a breath. ‘Don’t force me to do something stupid, Isabel. I mean it.’
She looked me straight in the eyes. ‘I know you do, Sean. That’s the trouble.’ She stepped towards me, put her hand on my arm.
‘But this isn’t your job. It’s mine.’ Her eyes were begging me to listen.
‘It’s mine now too,’ I said. I spoke calmly. ‘You’ll have to shoot me to stop me.’ I pointed two fingers at my forehead.
A girl bumped into me. Seconds ticked by. A bus beeped.
‘You’re crazy. And I respect you.’ She bit her bottom lip, shook her head. ‘You know, you’re the first man I’ve said that about in a long time.’
I raised my eyebrows.
She smiled at her admission. ‘Yeah, it’s true. I rang a friend last night. I told her about how you wouldn’t give up under Hagia Sophia. How you wouldn’t leave me.’ Her eyes widened, as if she was thinking about it. ‘That meant a lot to me, Sean. I’ve known a lot of spineless idiots in the past.’ She closed her eyes, shook her head as if throwing off a bad memory.
‘Did I thank you properly for not leaving me?’
I shook my head, wondered what properly meant.
She leaned towards me. And I was sure, for one heart-squeezing moment, that she was going to kiss me. I could almost feel her lips on mine.
But she didn’t. All she did was whisper, ‘Thank you, Sean. I mean it.’
Then she stepped back, before I could reach out for her.
I looked away. I wanted to reach out, hold her, but something held me back. Maybe it was Irene’s ghost. Maybe I wasn’t as ready as I’d thought.
‘I won’t give up,’ I said. ‘No matter what you say. Even if I have to follow you in a cab or run after you in the Underground. I know you’re up to something. This means a lot more to me than just exposing Peter, you know that.’
She groaned. ‘You are so pig-headed, Sean.’ She turned her head away, put her hand to her mouth. A few seconds later she turned to me again.
‘OK,’ she said. Then she pointed a finger at me. ‘You can come with me. I’m going to see Peter. But I’m going to keep it simple with him. I just need to ask him a few questions.’
I breathed out. ‘I have a few too,’ I said.
‘I’ll be asking the questions,’ she said, sharply.
But there was a softness in her eyes, as if she was happy I’d pressed hard to go with her. She wasn’t going to make things easy, but she wanted
me to come along.
And I wanted to go with her.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘Not far.’ There was an urgency to her answer that took me by surprise.
‘We’re going to see him now?’
‘You bet.’
‘There’s something going on you’re not telling me.’
‘This is all you need to know, Sean. I’m going to ask Peter a few questions, face to face, right now.’
‘OK.’
Her hand shot up. A black cab screeched to a halt beside us. The driver was a skinhead with an angel tattoo on his forearm. He had a wide smile.
‘Where to, love?’ he said.
‘St Paul’s,’ said Isabel.
The driver gave me a grin as I squeezed in beside her. There was an Evening Standard on the seat. Isabel picked it up and looked at it. After a few seconds she dropped the paper back down. Outside, ball-bearing-sized drops of rain were falling. In seconds the street was a stream. People were dashing under awnings and into doorways. A flash of lightning reflected into the cab, a momentary neon glow. A crack of thunder echoed. The weather was weird for August, that was for sure.
Isabel was staring out of the window at the traffic.
I picked up the Evening Standard. The front page was about people dying in Istanbul of the plague. What the hell? Had I come and gone out of a city with a killer disease without knowing anything about it?
I shivered, turned the page, then the next. Where was the story about the demonstration this afternoon? I flicked on through the paper. There wasn’t anything about it.
‘Did you see this?’ I said, holding the front page of the paper in front of her.
She glanced at me. ‘It’s a nightmare, Sean. They’re thinking about closing the airports there.’
‘We got out just in time,’ I said.
The taxi pulled over. ‘’Ere you are, love, can’t get you any closer, that demo’s blocking half of bleeding Ludgate Hill. You better get home early too, love. I heard this crowd will get a lot bigger.’
We paid him, got out into the rain. A hundred yards away, up a road lined with five- and six-storey office blocks, curving gently up towards St Paul’s, was an eight-foot high sheet-steel barrier. It was painted yellow. The barrier was just beyond a Pret A Manger sandwich shop. It blocked the road from side to side except for a passageway at its centre. Were they worried about suicide bombers? Was the plan to allow the event, but heavily restrict it?
The Istanbul Puzzle Page 27