3 Great Thrillers
Page 30
‘RAF?’
Ashe nodded.
‘Great. I gotta say that stuff on al-Qasr just blew our minds.’
Ashe gestured to Beck to keep the volume down. ‘Expecting a party, Sherman?’
‘I got men at every exit. Snipers on the roofs.’
‘Snipers? Grenzschutzgruppe 9 in on this?’
‘German security’s holding back. Our people have strict instructions, Toby.’
‘I bloody hope so.’
Ashe was struck by the apparent recklessness of Beck’s operation. The area was full of civilians; children were playing all over the streets. One stray bullet…
‘They ain’t shootin’, Toby. We need their eyes. This Baba Sheykh guy – always accompanied by the doctor, right?’
‘Sinàn.’
‘Right. Sinàn. Knows a lot about this al-Qasr fuck.’
Ashe could sense the bitterness in Beck’s eyes. ‘This isn’t personal is it, Beck?’
Beck bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Yes and no. This guy’s cold, man. Psycho.’
‘Pity you didn’t know that before you set him up in California.’
‘I had nuthin’ to do with that. Al-Qasr’s bad. Bad seed. Bad every-fucking-thing.’
‘Maybe a little black and white there, Sherman.’
‘Guy’s a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Certainly that. As for whether the doctor’s always with the sheykh, I can’t vouch for every move. Why are you so sure we’re going to see them?’
‘We suspect a set-up. The doctor’s been called to treat a woman at the Kurdish Centre near here. As the doctor protects the sheykh, we expect the pair of them.’
‘Why the set-up?’
‘Al-Qasr’s sidekick. Nervous guy. Cemal Goksel. Been seen with a stranger. Might be al-Qasr.’
‘Might be?’
‘In disguise. Sitting in these here seats.’
‘Did you get a picture of al-Qasr?’
‘Not enough for a positive ID. He’s so fucking devious, man.’
‘Shame. Don’t you think we’re taking a risk, sitting here?’
‘Al-Qasr doesn’t know either of us.’
‘He’s probably better connected than you think.’
82
Two minutes later, Ashe and Beck were sitting in Beck’s Ford close to the Kurdish Community Centre in Silbersackstrasse.
‘How the hell did you track the sheykh down?’
‘Guess we owe you there, Toby. Your information on Sinàn matched up with our checks on his background. Then the messages he’s been sending the Agency about al-Qasr and the Yezidis. Clearly this sheykh guy ties in somewhere with al-Qasr’s interest in Yezidi genetics. That guy’s in danger. We also pulled favours from Yezidis in the Kurdistan National Assembly. They did what they could to track down the sheykh.’
‘Who handled the negotiation, Sherman?’
Beck was reluctant to reveal sources.
‘Wouldn’t have been a certain Vincent Zappa, would it?’
‘Well…’
‘Please give him my best wishes. How did you pin all this down to Hamburg?’
‘Hamburg police picked up an illegal taxi driver. He’d been racing round like a crazy guy. Turned out he’d carried two Yezidis from Giessen to Hamburg. Then we located a Berlin taxi driver who’d carried what he thought was a Turkish businessman to Hamburg. The timing matched al-Qasr’s arrival in Berlin. This gave us a match with an invisible guy who never boarded al-Qasr’s plane.’
‘Impressive work, Sherman.’
‘We got a lotta help. Since 9/11, Hamburg’s been a German intelligence hot spot. We got good relations. They got an agent in the Kurdish community here. That led us to St Pauli. That’s how we heard about the—’ Beck stopped in his tracks.
‘What is it?’
‘See that guy?’
‘Goksel?’
Beck nodded. ‘You got a piece?’
‘Will I need one?’
‘Keep your head down, Toby. Could get unfriendly.’
Ashe felt hemmed in. ‘We staying in the car?’
‘Got a better idea? Watch Goksel,’ Beck whispered. ‘Guy on the corner. Briefcase.’
‘Doctor?’
Beck’s eyes followed the man approaching Silbersackstrasse from Hein-Köllisch-Platz. Ashe registered the man’s fine, olive features: educated Yezidi; must be Sinàn. Where was the Baba Sheykh?
The man approached Goksel. The Kurd pointed to the Centre’s side entrance. More discussion. The man looked cautiously behind, then followed Goksel into the alleyway at the side of the Kurdish Centre.
Beck licked his lips. ‘I smell al-Qasr.’
‘I smell a rat, Sherman.’
‘Yeah. A rat.’
‘It’s a trap.’ Ashe was out of the car in a split second, pulling away from Beck’s restraining arm. ‘Cover me.’
‘Shit, Ashe!’
He ran into the alley. In the darkness stood the Yezidi.
‘Doctor?’
The man turned to see Ashe’s silhouette against the dull light.
‘Laila wants you.’
The man said a few hurried words to Goksel and walked towards the figure in the light. Ashe whispered, ‘Sinàn?’
The man nodded slowly. ‘And you?’
‘British intelligence. You know a man called al-Qasr?’
Sinàn shuddered.
‘Your man in there works for al-Qasr.’
Sinàn went pale. He turned to Goksel, still waiting by the side door. ‘Go in. Tell the woman I’m coming. Be kind to her.’
Goksel protested.
‘Go in, or forget it!’
Goksel shuffled his feet, then, reluctantly, pushed the Centre’s side door. The thick odour of over-spiced cooking swept into the alleyway.
‘Where’s the Baba Sheykh?’
Sinàn said nothing.
‘I know you’re protecting him. Al-Qasr’s in Hamburg. This is a set-up.’
‘Set-up? That’s why he’s… not here.’
‘You left him alone?’
The truth dawned.
‘Please get in the car. You direct us. Take us to him, Sinàn, please!’
‘Us?’
‘Before it’s too late.’
‘Why should I believe…?’
‘Don’t believe. Work it out for yourself.’
‘Where is Laila?’
‘Cairo. At least… she was last week.’
Sinàn’s eyes brightened. Ashe grabbed his arm and pulled him towards Beck’s car.
‘Ashe, you asshole!’ bellowed Beck. ‘You’ve fucked up the whole scene!’
Ashe prodded the doctor gently into the back seat, then got in himself.
Goksel appeared at the Centre’s front door, a picture of malice and confusion as he helplessly watched the Ford reverse and screech out of the side street into Hein-Köllisch-Platz.
Desperate, Goksel looked to a man in blue overalls loitering across the street. The Iranian trailed the car, his pace increasing into a jog. Where were his friends?
Inside the Ford, Sinàn pointed to the Iranian in the rear-view mirror. Seizing his radio, Beck alerted the men on the roofs to the man hurrying after their car.
‘Do we apprehend suspect, sir?’
Beck bit his lip.
Ashe interjected. ‘Apprehend! You need a lead.’
‘Who’s running this operation, Dr Ashe?’
‘Right now, I’d say Sami al-Qasr.’ Ashe ignored Beck’s anger. ‘Look, Sherman, just follow doctor’s orders. Where the Baba Sheykh is, al-Qasr will be close.’
Beck grunted and reversed the car over the cobbles of Hein-Köllisch-Platz. He then headed back into the one-way system on Silbersackstrasse, just as the Iranian was cornered by two plain-clothes agents. They bundled him into a Nissan 4x4.
‘You better be right, Ashe!’
83
Followed closely by Ashe, Sinàn raced up to the Altona apartment. Beck inspected the smashed lock. In agony of frustration, Si
nàn poked under every visible item of furniture. Ashe pulled a suitcase out from behind the TV. He rattled it. ‘Sounds interesting.’
Sinàn froze. ‘Too late. The Baba Sheykh is gone.’ He took the suitcase from Ashe and clutched it to his heart. ‘Nothing could have separated the Baba Sheykh from this.’
‘Al-Qasr did. What is it? Senjaq?’
Sinàn was surprised.
‘I was at Lalish, Sinàn.’
‘Then you are thrice blessed.’ Sinàn studied Ashe’s face. ‘Who do you really work for, Mr Ashe?’
Beck frowned. ‘Goddammit, Ashe! You’re supposed to be an observer!’
‘As every student of popular quantum theory knows, observers can exert a major influence on what is observed. Anyhow, we’ve lost al-Qasr, and we’ve lost the Baba Sheykh. I’ve observed that much.’
Sinàn put his head in his hands. ‘My fault! It was all my fault. He begged me to take him. I left him.’
As Beck’s forensic contingent arrived to scour the apartment, Beck made interminable phone calls. Delighted to have bagged at least half the intended brace, Ashe listened to Sinàn’s story.
Beck was in despair. Ashe patted him on the back. ‘Come on, Sherman, I know you’re fearing a rocket from Lee, but, truth is, al-Qasr has foxed us because he’s fucking clever. And being the guilty party – and being clever – always gives the bastards a temporal advantage. Nil desperandum.’
Ashe finally won Beck’s attention. ‘Two questions bug me, Sherman.’
‘Shoot.’
‘One. How did al-Qasr know the Baba Sheykh was here? Two: who arranged this apartment for Sinàn and the holy man?’
‘You better ask Sinàn here.’
‘I have.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Guess.’
Beck rubbed his eyes. He wondered who had turned the lights out in his mind; nothing always felt like nothing.
84
‘Must you use Blu-tack, Toby?’
Ashe had just fixed a blow-up of an old sepia photograph to the plain white wall in front of his desk in his Shrivenham office: a sixty-five-year-old image of a group of Yezidi girls dancing the debka in their velvet caps.
‘Very striking. Still dreaming of the princess you left behind, Toby?’
‘No, Karla. It’s the dance. Round in circles to ecstasy. Rather sums up the investigation so far.’
‘Ever-decreasing circles?’
‘Promising circles.’
‘And ecstasy?’
Ashe looked cheekily at Karla’s crimson velvet miniskirt and matching tights. ‘Hmm…’
‘Flirt.’
‘Have you tracked down Sir Moses?’
‘Nearly, maestro. Expected at his club shortly – the Savile.’
‘Sounds about right. Old-style liberal with a hint of the raffish.’
‘Just like me.’
While Ashe studied the bulky Beerbohm file, he was also thinking about Hamburg and Sherman Beck. Clearly, the CTC’s primary objective was getting al-Qasr back; the Baba Sheykh was incidental to that.
Who was al-Qasr working for? He’d worked for the Americans. He’d worked for Sir Moses Beerbohm. Now it seemed he was wrapped up with Ansar al-Sunna. Over dinner in Alexandria, Lee Kellner had let it slip that there was an Israeli angle to the story: still a jigsaw – or a jig. Ashe looked up at the image of the young Yezidi girls dancing, then back down at Beerbohm’s career summary.
Sir Moses Beerbohm. Born 15 April 1927, Lithuania. Raised and educated in Australia. Left University of Melbourne on overseas scholarship, 1951. PhD in Physics, University of Cambridge, UK. Joined the MRC Laboratory of Molecular Biology, University of Cambridge, 1963. Director of MRC Laboratory, 1985–7. President of the Royal Society, 1997– 2001. Member, Order of Merit. Foreign Associate, US National Academy of Sciences; Foreign Associate, French Academy of Sciences. Honorary Fellow, Trinity College, Cambridge.
In the fifties, Beerbohm began to study viruses. In the seventies he used electron microscopy and structural modelling to study the three-dimensional nature of polio and other viruses. The more Ashe read about Beerbohm’s groundbreaking research into the interactions of proteins and nucleic acids, leading to his discovery of the transcription factors used to regulate the expression of genes, the more Ashe realised what a unique research guinea pig the Baba Sheykh represented to someone like Al-Qasr.
‘Your call to Sir Moses Beerbohm, Toby, on red.’
‘Sir Moses?’
‘Is that the young Dr Ashe who made such an impression over a college lunch? Ran Crayke intimated you might be in touch. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, eh? What can I do for you, my dear fellow?’
‘I wonder, Sir Moses, if you recall referring to Sami al-Qasr in the course of our conversation?’
‘Oh, him: the Thief from Baghdad. I’m sorry if I sound disappointed, but Sami al-Qasr can have that effect on people. Works at RIBOTech, California. Very hush-hush. He was after the family jewels, Ashe. In more ways than one.’
‘Sounds quite something.’
‘Oh yes. He could impress. That talent was obvious from the start.’
‘What was he doing when you met him?’
‘Linking genes to diseases. I presume you already know that one of the common differences between the DNA of one person and another comes in the form of a single nucleotide polymorphism, known as a “snip”.’
‘Sounds familiar, Sir Moses. What exactly do you mean by a “snip”?’
‘Wasn’t it in that book of yours… Generous Gene?’
‘You flatter me, Sir Moses. But that was a while back. More philosophy than fact.’
‘All right, let’s put it this way: why is Person A going to get Huntingdon’s Disease but not Person B? Can it be predicted? Seems pretty old hat now in some respects, but in the sixties and seventies it was foundation work. Al-Qasr was good, no mistake. But the little bum seemed to get bored easily. And I always had the impression he was looking over my shoulder. Curious. Always wanted to cut corners. He was, I suppose, as unstable as many young gifted people. That’s why I wouldn’t let him marry my daughter.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Esther. Al-Qasr said it was because she was Jewish and he was an Arab. Race prejudice. And God, don’t I know about that! I told him I was only half Jewish – on my mother’s side. My father was East Prussian. He said, “Oh, it all comes through the mother” – which is racial tradition, not first-class genetics. I mean this Jewish thing was one of the reasons my parents left for Australia in the twenties. I wouldn’t have thrown it at al-Qasr. But he never believed me. I tried to tell him he just wasn’t ready for marriage. But he felt I was trying to keep him down. For heaven’s sake, he was my student! He could hardly be my equal.’
‘Chip on the shoulder?’
‘Or “snip” on the shoulder. Who knows? More of a mountain. As big as his ego – which was big enough, Dr Ashe, believe me. Al-Qasr wanted to be the star. The number one star. Then, when he couldn’t have Esther to himself, he wanted to prove he was bigger than me. And, like a fool, I suppose, I encouraged him. Maybe to compensate for the heartache he seemed to be suffering. Don’t get me wrong. Al-Qasr was not as horrible as he may sound. We all liked him. But you never felt entirely comfortable with his…’
‘Ambition?’
‘Yes, ambition. I mean, he joined us at MRC in 1974, just after the Yom Kippur War, and we all knew he had a thing against Israel.’
‘Did he include you in that, Sir Moses?’
‘Didn’t seem to. He recognised a difference between politics and personal matters. After all, he was happy enough to ask a Jewess to be his bride.’
‘But not happy to be refused. What did he take from you, if not your daughter?’
‘Amusing way of putting it, Dr Ashe. I suppose you could say he ran with the whole ZFP research – you know, the zinc finger protein stuff I was working on. He was close to all the research prior to the big discovery in 1982. He had a hell of an apprenticeship
. I should have been so lucky! Then, the following year, he runs back to Iraq. He’d always told me science was bigger to him than any nation, but, when I think about it, Sami al-Qasr probably meant more to him than science.’
‘He was an egomaniac?’
‘In Iraq, he could be the star.’
85
Beerbohm cleared his throat. ‘I never thought Sami al-Qasr was a nut. He’s not that different to many other ambitious people in the profession. He’s not unreasonable.’
Ashe kept thoughts of the great man’s evident naivety to himself. ‘Tell me about this zinc finger stuff, Sir Moses.’
‘All right, Dr Ashe. But not too long, eh? I’m expecting a friend.’
‘A pencil sketch would be helpful.’
‘A zinc finger protein, Dr Ashe, is pretty much what it sounds like. They look like fingers. They’re projections of protein. They’re held in shape by a zinc atom. You find them in all cells. The… well, we call them “fingertips” are configured to match a particular gene sequence. I suppose we could have called them something else. “Gene monitors”, or something. Amazing things. When you think there are some 30,000 genes in our DNA! But they don’t all work at the same time. If you imagine a kind of “shift” pattern you’d be close to the mark.’
‘Like clocking in and clocking out?’
‘There is a rotation of sorts. ZFPs pick out the genes that need activating, or the ones that need turning off. For example, we don’t all eat at regular times. So in stomach cells, the genes in charge of enzyme production – for digestion – get switched on only when food is on the way.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘Yes, it is. And yet it’s just like everything we experience in the visible world. That’s the great thing about science. The rules that control stars also control our fingernails.’
‘As above, so below. That’s what the alchemists and magicians used to say.’
‘And they’re right, of course. There’s a whole system of natural attractions and correspondences. We can learn about things on Mars by looking at things on Earth. There’s a principle that operates in all systems. Science deals with the systems. The principle may just be philosophy.’