Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  ‘Yes, yes. We wanted to know if Hazari had worshipped at the mosque,’ she said impatiently, stomping one foot on the ground to stop the numbness. She could smell the coffee. ‘Would you happen to know if he did?’

  Another smile lit up the man’s kindly eyes. ‘Madam, I must tell you that I sometimes saw him at Jumu’ah prayers on a Friday. But then he stopped coming. I have heard that he went to a smaller mosque that I believe catered for his new interests.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where … ?’

  The Pakistani’s head nodded in delight, his red-stained teeth on full display. ‘Oh yes, madam. I most certainly do.’

  28

  Pozdravleniya, Papa! Congratulations. As our American friends would say, “You done good.”’

  Leonid Bolshakov chuckled. ‘Ha ha. Spasibo, Borya. God bless America! I don’t think the US will come to see this as a good thing. But, of course, Mr Connor will be good for Mother Russia. You could say that he owes us!’

  The younger Bolshakov heard his father’s familiar deep-throated laugh rumbling down the phone again. He pictured him: a big bear of man, now in his seventies, with ruddy cheeks, a shock of white hair and a thick white beard. People often thought his dad looked like a department store Santa Claus. But he wasn’t fooled; he knew underneath that benign exterior beat the heart of a ruthless man who had survived countless Soviet purges by scheming and stamping on anyone who got in his way. Nowadays his special SVR foreign intelligence section’s operatives might operate mainly in the ‘white collar’ world but they, Borya was clear, still dealt in wet work when necessary.

  ‘One day you’ll have to tell me how you did it,’ he said.

  ‘But then I’d have to kill you!’ His father laughed again. ‘But Borya, the truth is, I’m old school and don’t understand all that cyber shit. ‘I tell you, these young hackers are amazing. They actually broke into and screwed with nearly forty US state voting systems. How do they say it in America? Fucking awesome!’ Again the laugh.

  ‘Incredible, Papa. Technology is a wonderful thing.’

  ‘Da, my old friend General Valery Gerasimov calls it “new-generation warfare”. He’s right. It’s much easier now to disrupt the enemy than during the Cold War. We need only internet and keyboards, not tanks and missiles. Borya, tell me, how is your wife? How is crazy Vava?’

  ‘You should know better than me. You talk to her more than I do.’

  ‘Well, she did an amazing job in New York and Washington. But now American spy agencies are on to our bank people. Two weeks ago, two of our operatives in Vnesheconombank offices in Washington were arrested for espionage. An outrage! So now I think it’s time Vava came back.’

  ‘What, back to Moscow?’ Bolshy was surprised. He had figured his wife would be based permanently in the US where she lived her life on her own terms.

  ‘Da. Home.’

  ‘Well, she won’t like that, Papa. Not one bit. She loves New York. Isn’t there some way – ?’

  ‘Nyet. She’ll do as she is told. I don’t want her arrested. Besides, I have other plans for her here.’

  ‘Okay, do whatever you have to. As long as I don’t have to spend more time with her and that gypsy shit.’

  ‘Hee hee, I know. Last time I saw her, that crazy woman wanted to read my fucking hand! But, Borya, we need to talk about the main reason for me calling: Have you nailed down our tovarisch Banquo yet? I am under a lot of pressure here.’

  ‘It’s complicated. We’re still working on it.’

  ‘Kakógo chërta! What the fuck? Our intelligence suggests new UN action on sanctions against us may be imminent. Son, let me be clear, if more sanctions come, our country will face ruin.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Rodchenko tells me national economy is on the edge of the abyss – one more push and it will fall over. Soon we’ll have to devalue the rouble and default on foreign loans. If this happen, it is all over for us. Mother Russia will become the world’s whore with everyone lining up to fuck her.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Papa, Vava told me it was bad but this –’

  ‘Is catastrophic,’ Leonid interrupted. ‘Worse maybe than the dark days of the German invasion in 1941. They killed millions of us, starved us and raped our women. But at least we could fight those bastards with our hands; this economic war is different – it’s intangible, we can’t get our hands around it to throttle it like we did to German soldiers at Stalingrad.’

  ‘Are you saying these economic sanctions could succeed where Hitler failed?’

  ‘Yes. And now there is this talk of new “restrictive measures” by the EU trading bloc and calls for the West to arm Ukraine. Meanwhile, some European countries sit on the fence. They wait to see how the US and UK go. It is the number one imperative for us that you fix this.’

  ‘I spoke to our asset just two days ago. I read the riot act. He says he’ll be crucified if he suddenly changes policy. Then he’ll be no good to us.’

  ‘Did you not tell him that … that khuyesos! … I will crucify him if he does not?’

  Borya was pissed off. His father did nothing but criticise him. Had done all his frigging life. ‘Why don’t you come here and tell him that yourself?’

  ‘You know very well that I can’t do that. I am on the UN banned list. Part of the sanctions. I cannot travel to UK.’

  Borya explained patiently that he had given Banquo a solid timetable and that he would enforce it. But they had to be careful not to completely alienate him because he would be such a very valuable long-term asset. ‘You yourself said he is the biggest fish we’ve ever had. We cannot afford to let him off the hook. I told you, he needs the backing of UK Today if he’s to do a U-turn on sanctions.’

  ‘Pfff. We don’t need this newspaper bullshit. Just force him to do it, or else.’

  ‘Look, Papa. It’s different here than in Russia. Politicians are scared of the media. If they say jump, they ask, “how high?”’

  ‘Unbelievable! If happen here, we shut down newspaper and send the fucking stupid journalists to gulags.’

  Why is it, the younger Bolshakov thought, that my father is the only man on the planet who can intimidate me? Here I am, forty-five years old, a billionaire with yáytsa, balls the size of melons, and yet I still feel like a little kid when I talk to my old man. He sighed. Bolshy knew it was the price he paid for the strings his father had pulled that had allowed him to make his billions.

  ‘Maybe we should try that, Papochka!’ But you can also help. My newspaper will commission an opinion poll about British public’s attitudes to sanctions. If your cyber people help us, we can create an overwhelming result in favour of scrapping them.’

  ‘Borya, my boy, you really believe that this will be enough? This “fake news”?’

  ‘Yes. But if not, we can use other methods. Banquo has a daughter at university … Perhaps we introduce her to meth, eh?’

  ‘Now you’re talking! And what about this editor – I hear he’s not playing ball?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll get rid of him. I am beginning to dislike him anyway. He’s costing me money.’

  ‘Send him to the gulags!’ His father’s rumbling laugh came again.

  Bolshy paused, cleared his throat. When he spoke, there was a hint of real menace in his voice. ‘No, Papochka. I’ll have the motherfucker killed … just like that bitch reporter who was causing us problems.’

  ‘That’s my boy!’

  29

  THE PHONE GPS said it was about a mile and five minutes to Constantinople Street. It took them closer to fifteen.

  ‘Quicker to walk,’ grumbled Juggs. ‘Bloody Boxing Day sales.’

  Shiv grunted. Her mind was on what they might find at their destination. The nice old Pakistani man had told them that Hazari’s new masjid was in a street slightly north of Brick Lane.

  ‘What’s the difference between a mosque and a masjid?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Juggs. ‘Size maybe?’

>   When they finally arrived at the right street, they had to drive up and down for several minutes before they saw what they assumed was the place of worship underneath a railway viaduct. It was a small, soot-covered brick building with an arched doorway in an advanced state of decay. The only thing that gave it away was some Arabic lettering on a scruffy sign above the shuttered entrance. Extravagant graffiti covered every inch of the grey metal.

  They parked and went to have a look. Shiv banged her gloved fist on the shutters but there was no answer. Juggs went to look around the back.

  Noisy construction work seemed to stretch the whole length of the other side of the street. Looked like flats, upscale, from what Shiv could see through the scaffolding and tarpaulins. It was in sharp contrast to the squalid low-rise buildings where she was standing. Here, overturned bins oozed rotting garbage. Parked cars were covered in dust and debris from the building work. Overnight rain had caused the grime to cake over windscreens and bonnets. Someone had used a finger to write on one: ‘I wish my wife was this dirty!’

  The pavement was black. Really black, with the accumulated layers of filth that comes from dogs and spilled food and acid rain and dried vomit. The stench was the stench of decades of decay and desolation. There was a dark, oppressive feel to the place … positively Dickensian, Shiv thought. Bill Sykes and his dog Bullseye could come around the corner any time.

  ‘Looks like gentrification only made it as far as the sunny side of the street,’ she said to Juggs when he returned.

  ‘No sign of life back there either. Doesn’t look as if there’s been anyone around for a while. Windows mostly boarded up, those that aren’t are caked in dirt. Can’t see in. There’s a door, no shutters, if you want me to … ?’

  Juggs was a big guy, ex-military. He could probably kick it down. ‘We’re not going to break into a holy place, for fuck’s sake. We could get hit by a bolt of lightning.’

  ‘Okay, smartarse, what are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll try the neighbours.’ As she walked ten yards to the next archway where a small, cheap sign indicated a mini-cab business, a pigeon flew out from under the gloomy viaduct, squawking. Startled, Shiv ducked and nearly slipped on the icy pavement before Juggs grabbed her arm. A couple of cars were parked outside the taxi firm, one a bronze Ford sedan, the other a rusting Renault with sheepskin covers on the front seats. Both were dirty, both about two decades old and neither looked roadworthy. A removable ‘Mahmoud’s Minicabs’ decal was stuck on the rear door of each vehicle.

  At first, she thought the place was also empty but then realised it was just that the glass on the upper half of the door was boarded up, giving it a vacant look. The grubby walls on either side were crusted over by faded, ragged bills advertising ancient pub gigs and massage services. She pulled the door handle and walked in as a bell tinkled. Quaint. After the cold air outside, the small cramped office was hot and stuffy. It was as if she had just entered the botanical gardens at Kew. A stuffy, soupy stench assaulted her nostrils: damp clothes, dead rodents and something intangible that probably emanated from the lacerated leatherette seats on which two bored looking characters – one a black man, the other a bearded Asian – were lounging. Drivers, Shiv assumed.

  She smiled at the Asian woman who sat behind the battered Formica counter. About mid-forties, pretty face despite severe maroon-framed specs, wearing a black quilted jacket despite the heat. Behind her there was a wall covered in ancient floral wallpaper with a wooden door at the side leading into the back. I wonder what goes on behind there? Shiv thought.

  The cab woman had a scarf on her head and a phone in her ear. Shiv waited until she had finished and then introduced herself. Juggs had squeezed in behind her, making the space seem even smaller. He was sporting his customary brace of cameras round his neck, like a gunslinger toting twin forty-fives.

  ‘I was wondering if you could tell me when the masjid next door might open?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I not know.’ Slight accent.

  ‘Is there someone I could call … A caretaker perhaps?’

  One of the drivers said something sharply in a language Shiv didn’t recognise. The woman looked as if she’d been slapped in the face. Shiv repeated the question but the woman looked at the bearded driver helplessly and then shrugged at the reporter.

  ‘Look, I just want to –’ Before she could finish, the Asian man had jumped up and grabbed her shoulder, shouting something incomprehensible. Then a hand came out of nowhere and grabbed the man’s throat in a death grip.

  ‘No, mate, pull your head in,’ Juggs said.

  Shiv looked again at the woman, who seemed shocked by the sudden violence. But she remained mute. Sighing, Shiv thanked her for her time and pushed Juggs on to the street before he did something they’d both regret.

  ‘Bummer. What now?’ he said. The bell tinkled and the other driver emerged. He stood on the dirty pavement on the far side of the entrance and lit a cigarette. He was a tall, handsome man with a shaved head and fine features.

  ‘Cold, innit,’ he said, looking over.

  Shiv’s antenna rose. She knew this guy had something. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s someone from next door we could contact, do you?’

  ‘I ’eard you ask that inside. I might know somebody. You a reporter, right?’ When Shiv nodded, he continued: ‘You lot pay for info, dontcha?’

  ‘Depends,’ Shiv said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how useful it is.’

  ‘Let me guess … you’re looking for that ’azari geezer, right? The one what done that posh bird.’

  ‘Yes, do you know him?’ Shiv couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice.

  ‘I think I might ’ave taken him ’ome one time.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Okay, I know. His face was on the telly earlier. So what’s it worth?’

  ‘If you have an address, quite a lot.’

  The man looked around and licked his lips. ‘Like ’ow much? Ten grand?’

  Shiv laughed. Shook her head.

  ‘Five then?’

  A minute later they had settled on two and a half thousand pounds. Watching them haggle, Juggs smiled inside. He knew an address for the terrorist was worth loads more than that to the newspaper.

  30

  ‘SO, WHAT happened to your idea of a bottle of wine and a cheesy film?’ Annie asked when I went to apologise.

  ‘Sorry, love. Seems all I’m doing these days is saying sorry. Look, I’ll make it up to you once the heat dies down on this Izzy thing. I’ll take a few days off. We’ll go somewhere for a long weekend. Maybe go see your parents. How about that?’

  ‘Whatever. We don’t have to go anywhere – it would be just nice to see you. It feels like we’ve hardly had a chance to talk properly since I arrived.’

  ‘Sorr– um, I know. I feel the same. And to be honest I’ve got a lot I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘For example?’

  I told her about Bolshy wanting me to start campaigning for a change in British policy on EU sanctions against Russia. ‘Would that be such a bad thing?’

  ‘It’d be a disaster. Make us look like right idiots. My staff would be appalled. A lot of people would call me a Russian puppet. Private Eye, for example, would have a field day. I can see the headline now: Why UKT Editor is a Moscow Mule.’

  ‘Well, you can be a bit of an ass!’

  ‘This is not funny. If I don’t do what he wants, he might well sack me.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Jonno. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Perhaps because I sort of led him to believe I’d go along with it.’

  ‘Why, if you feel so strongly about maintaining sanctions?’

  It was the only way I could him get him to agree to a paper on Christmas Day. And the print guys took him to the cleaners on penalty rates. Anyway, I just said I’d think about it. I didn’t sign anything in blood.’

  ‘But he believes you’ll give him w
hat he wants?’

  I nodded. ‘It was the heat of the moment. I desperately wanted to get a paper out and I guess I indicated I’d look at the idea positively.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Jonno. You’re right, this isn’t funny. He’ll be furious if you now refuse. But what makes him think that UK Today could change the PM’s mind on sanctions anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. He seemed pretty confident. The usual bullshit about how much influence the paper has, yada yada. But, come to think of it, there is something else.’

  ‘What?’ said Annie, her brows wrinkling.

  I told her about the lunch at Downing Street, how Bolshy had said he’d just come from a meeting with the PM and looked pretty smug. ‘He said something about him and the PM now being on the same page. It was weird – not what he said but the way he said it. Then, when we were sitting down to lunch, Marvell came in looking like someone had just told him his favourite Labrador had been run over. And, the next day, when I asked Bolshy whether he’d raised the sanctions issue with the PM before the lunch, he told me to mind my own business.’

  ‘You think Bolshy had threatened him or something?’ Annie asked.

  I let my mind revisit the scene. ‘I can’t put my finger on it. But I reckon that my Russian boss must have some sort of hold on Marvell. Carlos Macrae once hinted as much before Martha managed to shut him up.’

  Annie scoffed. ‘But that sounds a bit far-fetched – John Le Carré eat your heart out! I mean, what could Bolshakov possibly have on a British Prime Minister?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. But I’ll certainly look into it.’

  ‘You do that, my love. But in the meantime, can you look into a bit of that fooling around thing you mentioned before? Once you’ve had a shower, that is.’

  31

  WHEN I GOT back to the office, the early evening editorial conference was underway. The atmosphere in the room was electric as Shiv described the team’s search for details of Ghulam Hazari in Tower Hamlets.

  ‘We started looking for the place where he had originally worshipped. Not as easy as it sounds, was it, Juggs?’