Guy Fawkes Day

by K J Griffin

  Despite the good life he now enjoyed, Cohen was still full of recent memories as stark and bleak as the touch of autumn on the manicured nature of the Parks. This was where they had first met he and Marie, all those years ago, innocent first-time lovers in the romance of misted November quads, summer punts and Pimm’s.

  In their final year, Marie turned political, ultra-green and he had quickly followed. Then the years in London, the protests, the activists’ camps, until that the policeman’s truncheon struck her skull when they were trying to break out of a police kettle on an anti-capitalism demo.

  Without Marie, there was nothing to go on for. Either in the movement or in life in general. He quit the movement and drifted. With Marie to live for, a cashless life had been cool, often literally, but always fun. After her death, languishing in the misery and squalor just gave him too much time to wallow in his grief. He decided to try for a job. At first he got a few interviews, but by the middle of the next winter, they froze up like the taps in his squat. In the meantime, the fat girls with pink hair at the dole office were telling him to do some temping. Temping? If only he could! If only there had been one less volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and someone at Oxford had taught him skills he could use in the twenty-first century capitalist marketplace.

  As winter wheeled into spring, confusion turned to abject depression. He couldn’t bear to keep in touch with anyone, either his former friends from the movement or his successful old college friends; job failure cordoned him off into a private world of bitterness and squalor. In the winter darkness, Cohen started to lose the will to keep trying. For what could he do? Emigrate, all the traffic was coming the other way. Drugs? He didn’t have enough cash to fund a habit. Suicide? It sounded best and cheapest. On long walks around grey North London suburbia, he studied bridge overhangs—too messy, calculated canal depths—too cold, forged Diazepam prescriptions—too obvious. If he wanted to join Marie, he would have to think of something exceptionally gruesome.

  Education! The path to salvation suddenly came to him one afternoon as he was watching an old black-and-white of Dumas’s Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, while getting pissed on plastic cartons of Sainsbury’s cheapest and most amalgamated vin de table. In a rare bout of inebriate concentration, Cohen instantly bonded with Edmond Dantès’ struggle to escape the misery of his dark prison cell. That was it! With an iron self-discipline born out of utter desperation, Dantès had chiselled night and day to escape his misery, conquering the darkness of his cell and the darkness in his mind with the enlightenment of knowledge.

  Cohen took a long pull of wine and vowed to copy Dumas' character. With or without a government grant, he would raid the public libraries and the YouTube self-help tutorials and work every hour of every day to acquire such formidable knowledge that one day the scum who no longer even bothered to glance at his CVs would be forced to employ an unrecognized genius. What would he study? By chance, the next programme on his unlicensed TV had been an open university course on computer programming. And that was where it had all begun, on a cold February afternoon, five years ago in a Tottenham squat.

  If they had known of his background, Dave Cohen often thought, his colleagues at the Nuffield might have been more forgiving of the secretive, debonair young man they watched logging on at his terminal. Most instinctively avoided the chic whiz kid with the hottest reputation and largest grant in the IT research world, who listened to loud opera music all day and smelt of expensive aftershave. But in a way, Cohen was glad they did so. It would have been inconceivable to the hero of that old black-and-white film to forgive those who had wronged him once he had found his island full of treasure. And there was Marie’s death too with its unpaid bill of revenge.

  Then Mr Hasan had turned up one day at his Jericho flat and had explained about Omar. It had not taken Hasan long to persuade him to meet Omar, nor had it taken Omar any longer to win him over to the cause, to convince him to get involved in something which would have made Marie truly proud. If only she could have lived long enough to join herself in Omar’s project.

  Turning up the volume of Puccini’s La Bohème, Cohen keyed in the last elaborate log in password. This would give the other three researchers working on his project access to all his files and codes. To prevent them doing so, he had added a final password, without which not only his own machine, but all the computers in the Nuffield and the university mainframes would also crash.

  Cohen smiled to the Puccini. He had less than twenty seconds to type in the password: NOVEMBER 1

  Having done so, he clicked on e-mail. He had some good news to forward to another Oxford address.

  London, District Line Eastbound: 10:00 a.m.

  Normally Darren Chapman hated the tube journey from his Fulham home to the Docklands offices; this morning he was glad of the time to think. He had worked till the early hours of the morning, piecing together stories that were streaming into the newsroom about the volatile Asian stock markets. In all the furore, there had been little time to check out Al-Ajnabi, and the few calls he had been able to make had led nowhere.

  But Chapman was not upset; on the contrary, he enjoyed the challenge, and his pride was flattered that such a rich and important man had chosen to set him a trail of riddles to follow. Even better, Sophie had suddenly changed her mood. She had called him at the newsroom the night before to apologize for her frostiness; she would see him at the Folly Bridge mansion for Al-Ajnabi’s dinner soirée on Wednesday evening.

  Victoria. The train filled up. Chapman avoided the fidgety eyes around him by staring at the journey planner just above his gaze. Absent-mindedly, he began to read the names: Plaistow, West Ham, Upton Park, East Ham—Easterby! The connection jogged his mind. Suddenly, the link between Easterby, British Defence Systems and Ramliyya hit him hard. Christ, how could he have missed something so obvious? Ramliyya was one of BDS’s biggest clients. He had tried unsuccessfully three times yesterday to contact Easterby by phone, focusing, as he had been doing, on the chairman’s army days, but the association between BDS and Ramliyya had completely passed him by. There could be no doubt about it now—he knew that Al-Ajnabi had something on Easterby’s past, something the special envoy wanted him to check out for himself. The question was, what?

  Flushed with the first taste of success, Chapman re-evaluated the other leads he had followed yesterday while Circle Line passengers squashed him ever further down the carriage. Enquiring after O’Shea, he had also called the Home Office and the Guardian’s Irish office. But there hadn’t been much to find out. O’Shea was very nearly at the end of his sentence but still serving his lifer in Long Kesh for the murder of Private Mitchell. At least that seemed to prove one thing: O’Shea counted for nothing in Al-Ajnabi’s games.

  Max Clayton was the last name he had investigated. The old NCO from the army information office had been helpful at first on the phone. Yes, they had a file on Second Lieutenant Max Clayton, or Captain Clayton, to use the officer’s proper rank on leaving the army. Clayton was an Oxford Mathematics graduate—the coincidence had aroused Chapman’s curiosity. Clayton served nine months in Northern Ireland, the rest of his time in Cyprus. He completed his three-year commission in May 19…. and….

  The jolly NCO’s voice on the other end of the line stopped at that point. Chapman asked for clarification.

  ‘Fraid I don’t have anything more I can tell you after that, sir.’ The voice became more wary. ‘Information’s restricted access only. That’s it as far as Captain Clayton goes, I’m afraid.’

  At Monument Chapman got off and started walking towards Bank. As he scuttled along the windswept, underground passageways, he thought about Clayton again. Restricted access? Why would Captain Clayton’s record be restricted access? Only a couple of answers sprang to mind: Either Clayton had done something sensitive, something that was still covered by the Official Secrets Act, or the then Captain Clayton now belonged to a more secretive organization: SAS? MI5? MI6?

  By
his journey’s end, Chapman was feeling a lot happier. At least he could show Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi that he had done his homework. And presumably, there would be more clues at supper on Wednesday, as a reward for his diligence.

  Chapter 18: Grovesnor Hotel, Victoria Station, London: 7:00 p.m.

  The bar of the Grovesnor Hotel was filling with noisy business types, smoothing over the day’s exertions before the train journey home. Clayton arrived early, partly because he thought he ought to buy the drinks, partly to keep an eye open for a pretty Spanish waitress he had noted on a previous visit. Removing his jacket, he sequestered the two corner bar stools and ordered a large Scotch and soda, keeping one ear open for a cough or a nervous giggle, while he slumped his elbows on the counter with the determination of a heavy drinker whose eyes did not intend to get any further than the row of bottles in front, or the back of the bar stewardess’s skirt.

  But Knox surprised him. Without the usual noises, the MI5 man slapped an envelope on the counter next to Clayton’s glass.

  ‘Lean pickings for you, I’m afraid, Max.’

  ‘What will it be, Graham?’ Clayton asked, opening the envelope and attracting the bar stewardess’s attention. Knox ordered a beer and treated himself to his first cough.

  ‘These two arrived at the house at eight thirty-five, this morning,’ he spluttered, pointing at the first photo Clayton was studying. A young man and woman were captured waiting outside some black iron gates, speaking into an intercom in the wall. From their deportment, Clayton guessed that they were not a couple. The next shot showed them walking towards a mansion under the surveillance of a security guard.

  ‘They left again just after four. Probably work inside; that would be my guess. We’re running ID checks on the photos. Nothing yet, I’m afraid.’ Cough.

  ‘They weren’t followed?’

  Another cough, hoarser and more indignant. ‘I told you, Max. A two-man team is as much as I can afford without clearance. Now if you can get me the go ahead…’

  ‘OK, Graham. What else is there? Any photos of the Special Envoy?’

  ‘No luck there, either, I’m afraid. Apart from the couple you’ve just seen, and several catering vans, there’s only one other face in the gallery.’

  Clayton pulled the last picture to the top.

  ‘Fancy a bit of that, eh, Max?’ Silly giggle.

  Clayton certainly did, but he was dammed if his enthusiasm was going to allow Knox another stifled chortle. He stared intently at the face in the pictures. Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous!

  ‘Obviously, we’re checking on the girl, Max. Nothing yet. She left just after the other two arrived and returned to the house at nine-twenty in the evening.’

  Clayton drained his glass.

  ‘Have the girl tailed, will you Graham? And it doesn’t matter if there’s no one to watch the house while you do it.’

  Knox looked rankled.

  ‘Look, Max, twenty-four hours, forty-eight tops, I can manage. But anything beyond that…’ Acerbic cough. ‘I’ll have to go official.’

  Knox was right. Clayton knew there was no way he could ask for more, so he forced himself into a twisted half-smile and drained his glass.

  ‘Twenty-four hours will do fine, Graham. If there’s nothing to work on by then, I’ll stop pestering you. Now, drink up. Same again?’

  ****

  Folly Bridge, Oxford: 10:00 p.m.

  Sophie was working at her desk when her mobile rang.

  ‘Oh, hello Omar,’ she muttered grumpily. She had been trying to keep him from her mind.

  ‘Good evening, Sophie, and sorry to bother you at this hour. I wanted to tell you that there are some papers for you to sign. Can you arrange to see Hasan tomorrow? He will tell you what you must do. I’m sure it will not take long.’

  ‘Oh. Yes…I suppose so.’ She was hesitant. Yet again, she felt she was walking blindly into some sort of trap, but the more she thought about reneging on the deal, the more she felt drawn by some ineffable and arcane power. It was no longer just the lure of fabulous wealth that was propelling her at breakneck speak into the very heart of Omar’s lair. She had been consumed by the mystery of everything about him, and the thought of returning to the safety of her former mundane little world was no longer a possibility.

  As if he could read her thoughts from the other end of the phone, he pressed his advantage home.

  ‘And while we are making arrangements, how about fixing a date for our first ‘duty night’, as you so eloquently put it! How about after the dinner party tomorrow evening? After that I may be away for a while on business. Would this coming Wednesday night be convenient for you?’

  The immensity of what she was about to agree to reduced her assent to the merest murmur.

  ‘Good,’ he continued as if they had just settled on a date for a business lunch, ‘Hasan will call you in the morning and we will meet again on Wednesday.’

  She couldn’t remember afterwards if she had even said goodbye, for no sooner had Omar had rung off than one huge complication dug its accipitral talons into her conscience: Marcus would be at the party on Wednesday too.

  Chapter 19: Ramliyya: October 21, late morning

  The airbase and airport lay to the north of the city of Madinat Al-Aasima. The motorway connecting them to the three-lane outer ring road was fringed on either side by a double line of small palms that were bending southeastwards under a full wind blowing in from the Red Sea. It was time for the midday prayer, and mosques that Goss couldn’t even see in the dust-smudged distance shouted the summons to prayer in through the open passenger seat window of the Toyota Land Cruiser pick-up.

  The Pakistani driver was slow.

  ‘Can’t you move this fucking thing any faster?’ Goss shouted at him in frustration across the cabin; the driver scowled and muttered something in Urdu.

  They hit the police check before the airport road joined the ring road. A couple of skinny policemen stood by an American-style patrol vehicle, the blue light flashing menacingly on the roof. Goss watched the Pakistani for signs of stress, but the thin, bearded face just stared ahead, resolute and impassive. The two cars in front were waved on. Their turn.

  The young policeman stuck his gaunt face inside the driver’s open window. Heart racing, Goss tried to look bored and trained his eyes on the policeman’s Ingram M10 submachine gun, wondering how quickly he could wrestle it free if the need arose.

  ‘Ween waraqa? Where you ID?’

  Nice and cool, like, Phil. Goss lent over towards the driver and pulled his BDS ID card and a pack of cigarettes from the sweat-stained front pocket of his shirt. Nonchalantly putting a cigarette in his mouth, he passed the ID card over. The policeman snatched it, then walked over to consult his two colleagues standing by the patrol car. Cupping his hand against the hot breeze, Goss lit up and spat out the window. Behind him to the right, the bare rocky hills that flanked the coastal plain shimmered in the heat.

  The policeman returned, this time on Goss’s side of the car. Goss kept his eyes fixed on the hills, ignoring the policeman till the ID card was thrust under his nose.

  ‘OK, you go,’ the policeman waved him on irascibly.

  They were off again. The next puff of smoke tasted sweet in Goss’s mouth. He exhaled deeply and tossed the butt onto the road. Piece of piss this really, like!

  On the ring road the traffic became thicker and faster, the pick-up more anonymous. Never faster than 80 km/h, they skirted the fringe of downtown Madinat Al-Aasima, the windows of its oil-boom office buildings glistening a dull orange in the smog-filtered sunlight. At the southern edge of the city, the Pakistani took an exit on the right. They were in the industrial area. The roads here were crushed by the weight of trailers on heat-softened tarmac; warehouses stretched out amorphously, interspersed with the ramshackle houses of immigrant workers. In the distance, a refinery cast wind-tossed swathes of black smoke across a hazy sky.

  A couple of turns took them into a backstreet maze of more warehouses,
tenements and rubble-strewn vacant plots. The driver slowed to a crawl, following the wall of a derelict warehouse. There were no gates. Under the cover of the open sided steel roof, the Pakistani cut the engine and got out. Goss did likewise.

  ‘Wait. Man come,’ the Pakistani shouted dismissively to Goss, and he began to walk off away from the warehouse.

  Goss wasn’t bothered. It was better on his own, like. He lit a cigarette and looked around the deserted forecourt. Despite the Pakistani’s agonizing driving, it was still ten minutes ahead of the time he had agreed with the Ramli, Bandar, whom Scotty had introduced him to the day before yesterday back at the compound. No sweat. He began to pace to and fro, appreciative of the shade and the stiff breeze blowing across his flushed cheeks.

  He heard the low murmur of the car engine and the hoarser rattle of a diesel engine following close behind. A white Chevrolet sidled into the yard, followed by an Isuzu truck. The truck drove straight on past Goss before swinging around one hundred and eighty degrees, where it pulled up at right angles to the back of the Land Cruiser. Two Filipinos sat stony-faced in the cabin, waiting for orders from their boss.

  Goss looked over at the Chevrolet parked at the edge of the shade, facing the entrance. The radio was playing Arab pop, the engine was still running. Bandar got out a second later, dressed in white thobe and sandals. He paused outside the car, peering into the wing mirror to arrange the red and white checked ghutra on his head. The long robes flapping in the wind accentuated the skeletal thinness of an emaciated frame.

  ‘You come good time, my friend,’ Bandar shouted, walking towards Goss across the forecourt. ‘All thing you have no problem?’

  ‘It’s all here in the back of the pick up,’ Goss replied, pointing out the hefty cargo that was causing the Toyota’s leaf springs to sag behind him. ‘What about you, Bandar? Have you got the money, like?’