by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
Ashe very quickly realised the CIA was up a gum tree regarding al-Qasr. Not only had they physically lost him, but on weighing up the expense of all those years in California, they had to accept they had not got a great deal out of him, perhaps because never having grasped fully what he was capable of, they never had a straight deal in the first place.
It was soon clear that the British and Americans had been coming at the al-Qasr problem from opposite directions. In view of this, it made sense to complement each other’s work, if possible. Ashe produced his expurgated copies of files on both al-Qasrs, father and son, while Beck produced the late Leanne Gresham’s expurgated file on al-Qasr’s work at RIBOTech. As Ashe began to grasp the dimensions of al-Qasr’s role in advanced weapons research, the conversation hotted up considerably.
Kellner was fascinated by the idea of a link between the Kartal Lodge bombing and the Tower attack, but couldn’t help feeling it was a red herring as far as capturing al-Qasr was concerned. However, when Ashe finally let Kellner in on intel regarding al-Qasr’s connection with Syrian terrorist Hafiz Razak, his eyes lit up. He and Beck could now see perfectly how al-Qasr had eluded their grip. Taken together with their own file on Razak, they could confirm Mati Fless’s warnings about al-Qasr’s links with Ansar al-Sunna. Even more significantly, they could now confirm the so-called ‘doctor’ messages they had been receiving through SIGINT on al-Qasr.
The bombshell for Beck and Kellner was when Ashe explained about Princess Laila’s desire to find her brother, the Yezidi doctor, and his companion, the Baba Sheykh, who for some reason were in danger, probably hiding in Germany. That set the bells a-ringing. Now al-Qasr’s appearance in Berlin just might add up. The CTC could get onto Germany’s secret service with some real meat.
Two bottles of Virginian Merlot later, Kellner was beginning to wonder how he was going to deal with Ashe. He would dearly have loved to sign him up on a full-time basis. That was not going to happen. He decided to put it directly.
‘Dr Ashe. What do you want from us?’
‘Apart from another glass of your excellent wine, I should like to come along as something like an observer on field operations in Europe connected with al-Qasr, Laila’s brother and the sheykh. I would assist you all I could, subject to my superior’s approval.’
‘An “observer” you say?’
‘Means I’ll pay my own fare.’
Kellner laughed and turned to Beck. ‘D’you think we can handle a deal like that, Beck?’
‘I’d say, sir, that it’s probably an offer we should not refuse. Dr Ashe clearly comes with the confidence of involved persons who could be of great use to us. This doctor guy, for one. Ashe can use familiarity with his sister as bait. I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.’
‘Just a minute, Sherman. I don’t like the sound of that word “bait”. I couldn’t cooperate with Laila’s brother being led into an “extraordinary rendition” scenario. I want his safety guaranteed.’
‘I said I’d like to speak to the doctor, Toby, not torture him.’
‘So long as that’s understood.’
Kellner saw the need for a little mollification. ‘OK, guys. I think we all understand one another. Subject to conversation with our mutual friend in Baghdad, Dr Ashe, I think we can join hands in amity on this one.’
‘So mote it be, Lee!’
‘So mote it be, Toby! Welcome to the United States!’
Kellner, Ashe and Beck shook hands.
Kellner turned to Beck. ‘And now, Sherman, I hope you don’t mind if I accept Dr Ashe’s very kind offer of dinner at his place – to toast the Queen you understand.’
78
Sinàn tapped his fingers on the sunlit windowsill. From his third-floor vantage point he watched mothers lifting toddlers out of pushchairs to enjoy the late-summer morning’s play in the August Lütgens Park.
One of Hamburg’s smarter districts, Altona lay a few kilometres west of St Pauli. The Chemnitzstrasse apartment was a vast improvement on the discomforts of the past six months. The Baba Sheykh, whose health had improved, was enjoying a cup of strong coffee while watching Mr Bean on daytime television. He laughed repeatedly.
‘Just like you see in Bashiqa! Only here you don’t need a satellite dish.’
‘Maybe we need a Yezidi channel, Baba.’
‘But would the children want to watch it? They’d rather watch Bean than listen to me. I don’t blame them. How can the old stories compete with this?’
Sinàn tapped his fingers on the windowsill again. ‘I have to go out this afternoon.’
The sheykh looked up, anxiously.
‘A message from the Kurdish centre in St Pauli. A sick woman. New arrival from Iraq. She has problems.’ Sinàn pointed to his stomach.
‘Why don’t they use their regular doctor?’
‘Immigration irregularities. They said, so long as I’m here, maybe I could help. Better than doing nothing. I’m getting tired of doing nothing.’
‘You could get into trouble.’
Sinàn laughed. ‘Trouble?’ He shook his head, smiled, and laughed to himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he was not in some kind of trouble.
‘Let me come with you, Sinàn.’
Sinàn looked into the Baba Sheykh’s imploring eyes, then back to the park.
Everything seemed so normal.
A white Mercedes van trundled up the cobbled Antonistrasse from the docks, coming to a halt outside al-Qasr’s apartment block. From an upstairs window, al-Qasr counted the new arrivals. Two men got out of the front, and two more emerged from the rear of the van, all wearing clean blue overalls.
Al-Qasr’s apartment bell rang. Donning thick-rimmed spectacles, he hurried down two flights of cool, stone steps to the dark vestibule. An elderly resident, owner of a gruff terrier, poked his head out of his ground-floor flat.
‘Guten Tag!’
Al-Qasr shuddered, then turned to pacify the nosy neighbour. ‘They’ve come to do my kitchen and bathroom. Best grab them while you can, eh?’
The old man nodded. The dog barked. Al-Qasr unlatched the door and two clean-shaven Iranian heads peered inside, watched closely by the old man.
‘Okse?’
The old man let the terrier run towards the group at the door. It sniffed at the men’s heels. The old man babbled anxiously. ‘You can’t leave the van here. Tell them, Herr Okse! Tell them they can’t leave the van on the street! It’s against the law!’
Al-Qasr nodded. ‘I’ll tell them.’ He turned back to the tall driver. ‘There’s an underground car park on Lincolnstrasse. It’s off the Reeperbahn.’ Al-Qasr pointed. ‘Round the corner. Up there. Can you see? But it’s pedestrianised. You’ll have to drive back down to the docks and round the long way. Got a map?’
‘I find it.’
The old man persisted in being a nuisance. ‘Lincolnstrasse! Herr Okse. Tell them! Car park!’
‘They’re just parking the van.’
The old man nodded again. Bugged, al-Qasr wondered when he’d have to fix him.
‘What about tools, Herr Okse? They must have tools.’
‘Yes, yes. Tools. Good point. Hey! Better leave your tools here!’
‘What?’
‘Your tools. No point carrying them all the way from the car park.’
The old man noticed the pause and saw heads shaking behind the dimpled glass. Generally suspicious of people who looked like Muslims, he moved out from his doorway and approached the entrance. He pulled open the door to take a better look at the four men. ‘Don’t look like plumbers, Herr Okse.’
‘Students. Pocket money. For the extras, you know.’
‘Extras? On the Reeperbahn?’
‘Yeah. Holidays and luxuries. I got them cheap through the university.’
‘University!’ The old man shook his head. ‘So now you need a degree to be a plumber! What’s happening to Germany? Here! Let me help you with your tools!’
‘No, no. It’s all right.’
‘No trouble. I know what it is to work.’
‘Please! Please let me deal with this, sir.’
The old man looked hurt. The Iranians shuffled around on the step.
‘Please yourself!’ The old man sloped back to his door, muttering, and returned to his daytime TV.
The vestibule echoed as the old man slammed his wooden door shut, leaving fresh dog-shit on the cold floor. Barking could still be heard from inside. One of the Iranians looked at al-Qasr and motioned his finger across his neck.
79
The four men shuffled awkwardly around al-Qasr’s sitting-room coffee table. Al-Qasr checked their names off a list on his laptop: Abu Ja’far Suyuti, Muhammad ibn Abu Talib, Ahmad al-Din bin Ali, and Hashim Bukhari. Suyuti was the tallest and clearly the leader of the group.
‘OK to smoke?’
‘Please. Sit down. I’ll bring the tea.’ Al-Qasr served tea in crimson glasses.
‘Good tea!’ offered Suyuti.
‘British.’
‘Great.’
Al-Qasr laughed. ‘Tell me, how did you get here?’
Suyuti turned to Muhammad ibn Abu Talib, the youngest of the group. ‘You tell him. You’re the talker.’
Muhammad’s eyes had a tired, glazed air. Just twenty-one, he had seen his share of fighting. ‘We’re all Arabs from the Iranian side of the northern border. We were about to leave Chechnya for northern Iraq. So we were looking forward to seeing our families again. Then we got the order to join an Iranian-Russian educational exchange. They said we looked like students. One day we’re killing Russians, the next we’re taking lessons from them! We were in St Petersburg a bit, then we got the order to head for Estonia. We had internal passes and stuff. I speak Russian.’
‘Weren’t you missed in St Petersburg?’
‘Summer holidays!’
The other three men laughed. ‘Travel broadens the mind!’ Suyuti chipped in. ‘We got a ship from the Baltic to Hamburg. No problems.’
‘Customs?’
Suyuti shrugged his shoulders. ‘When do we start?’
Al-Qasr sat back in his armchair. ‘Today. Soon you will meet my friend. Cemal Goksel. Trust him.’
‘A Kurd!’
‘He’s a Kurd. So am I – for the moment. You’d better like Kurds round here, Hashim! They’re everywhere.’
The other three laughed. Suyuti chided Hashim. ‘You’re smallminded, Hashim. Most Kurds are believers.’
‘Shia!’ snorted Hashim.
‘Not all of them.’
‘Kurds kill our brothers in Ansar al-Sunna.’
‘And Kurds let us into Iraq to get revenge.’
Al-Qasr was dismayed to hear the old hatreds and rivalries. It had been a long time since he’d shared tea with fellow Arabs. ‘Come on, brothers! I thought we were united in our cause! Allah is one. The Arabs are one.’
The men looked unconvinced. ‘So, what do we do?’
‘Goksel has made contact with a Kurdish doctor. He is coming to the Kurdish Centre close to here at six.’
‘Then we take him!’
‘Hold on, Muhammad! Not so fast. He’s not the one we want. One of you will follow him home, with Goksel.’
‘What do the rest of us do?’
‘You, Ahmad? You can fix up my kitchen.’
80
‘Mmm… That’s nice. I think I like that one better.’
Ashe gently ran the black leather glove down the curve of Melissa’s pale back.
‘Yeah, that’s definitely better.’
He smiled as his fingers clipped under the elastic of Melissa’s black knickers.
‘Don’t stop.’ Melissa lifted her face out of the sofa cushion and looked directly at Ashe. Her eyes widened. Ashe averted his gaze and took in the tidy flat Melissa was sharing with a friend in Paultons Square, London SW3.
‘So you’re a Chelsea girl now.’
‘What does that mean? Think I’m a party tart? Smack addict?’
‘It means I like your new hair, and I like the way you look at me.’
Melissa smiled. ‘Amazing the effect a dab of black hair dye has on a man.’
Ashe laughed. It was true. Melissa had never looked so desirable. She turned onto her side, her hip luxuriating in the soft cushion.
‘You know there’s something really intense about your breasts.’
‘Intense?’ Melissa’s bright eyes narrowed.
‘Yeah. Try this.’
‘Oh Christ!’
‘Thought so.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘Where?’
Ashe kissed her passionately on the lips, running his hand down her warm body. What a fantastic wife Melissa would make, Ashe thought to himself. There was something voluptuous, even Italian, about this Cheshire rose. Large family… passionate nights… big fights… fierce loyalty… full-blooded – quite a future. They could move to the sun together, bask by the sea – were it not for the world.
‘I was thinking about the Iraq situation, Melissa. Have you realised how close it’s getting to the Bible?’
Melissa shook her head. ‘Oh God, Toby! Is now the time?’ She pulled his head towards her large eyes and full lips. Ashe resisted.
‘No, no. Just wait a second. I put this down to you. You’ve turned me on.’
‘And this is the result? A lecture?’
‘In the head. Thoughts. Inspirations.’
‘Screw that, Toby. Let’s see how well you think now.’
Melissa rolled off the sofa onto the thick carpet and began playing with the fly on Ashe’s black jeans.
‘Yeah, I mean if you change the characters around a bit. You’ve virtually got the Christmas story.’
‘You’ve got a gorgeous cock.’
‘The Roman eagle marching up and down Palestine – that’s the US army, taking the census. Getting control of the bureaucracy. Herod is, if you like, the Iraqi government – currently in waiting. The government favoured by Rome (the US) but hated by a lot of the population – the Zealots, so to speak. Herod was an Idumaean Arab. An outsider from mainstream society, just like the Kurds. Rumour has it the first Iraqi prime minister next year might be a… a Kurd.’
Ashe was having some trouble keeping to his train of thought. Melissa looked up at him. ‘Like that?’
Another side to Melissa; he liked it.
‘Mmm… Yeah, like I was saying. You’ve got the eagle bringing what it considers civilisation – the Pax Romana – to a troubled part of the empire. God, Melissa! Now, it’s called freedom and democracy. Pax Americana. Point being that the Romans were utterly convinced they were doing the Right Thing. Couldn’t understand the suicidal determination of the Zealots. Anyhow. Then you’ve got the massacre of the innocents in the Christmas story. A lot of children are dying in this thing. You’ve got people expecting the end of the world.’
Melissa reached her hand up under Ashe’s shirt and tickled his chest.
‘Melissa!’
‘Still thinking?’
‘Then there’s… there’s… a… Well, the only thing you need now is the totally unseen element. Totally unseen. Unexpected. A sort of Joseph and Mary dodging the violence. Two little people carrying destiny in their… Maybe taking refuge in Egypt. Interesting place.’
‘Yes, Toby. So when are you taking me?’
‘Why’ve you stopped?’
Melissa slipped off her knickers and wrapped her legs around Ashe. She took him in her arms and kissed him. ‘So, Toby, you reckon the Second Coming is imminent do you?’
Ashe cracked up. ‘All right, you win.’
‘At last!’
Ashe’s mobile rang. He reached behind the sofa to his jacket.
‘No! Don’t answer it!’
‘I’m expecting something.’
‘So am I, Toby Ashe!’
Melissa jumped off Ashe and tried to get to the phone first. Both their hands seized the mobile as it continued to bleep. Ashe pushed Melissa away.
‘Right, you b
astard! You take your bloody call. I’m going out. Make sure you’re gone when I come back!’
Melissa gathered her clothes and stormed into her bedroom, slamming the door. Ashe could hear her sobbing. He clicked on the phone. ‘Here we go again…’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No, no, not you. Who is it?’
‘Beck.’
‘Ah, yes. Kellner said I’d be hearing from you.’
‘Can you get over to Hamburg, Dr Ashe?’
‘Now?’
‘If you wanna find your man. Pull some strings – and be here by 1800 hours, OK?’
Ashe looked at his watch. ‘That’s…’
‘Call me. The minute you got an ETA, I’ll give you a location. Adios, friend.’
81
Ashe slammed the taxi door, pulled his jacket lapels up round his earlobes and cast a cautious eye around the chilly Hein-Köllisch-Platz. It was one of those sudden autumn afternoons that felt more like February: empty and disorientating. His watch said 17.37.
Gazing around the little square, Ashe spotted a grey Ford Mondeo parked opposite the Babylon bar. He approached it and looked casually into the driving seat. Empty. A tap on the shoulder.
‘Don’t look now, Dr Ashe.’
It was Beck.
‘Just walk to your left in the direction of the café – not the Babylon, the Teufel Café.’
Ashe soon found himself in the warm, orange-coloured confines of the ‘Devil’s Café’. A few students and a couple of solemn salesmen occupied comfortable sofas by the toilets. The harder window seats were all empty. Ashe moved to the window. Beck ordered coffee from the tired-looking ex-punk behind the counter.
‘Sherman Beck at your service, Doctor—’
‘Toby.’
‘Toby. How d’ya get here so fast?’
‘Strings.’