The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  Mick had poured out the coffees and laid the biscuits out on a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘Mick, I’m no car mechanic but...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could be nothing, probably is nothing but I think your rear left tyre looks a little flat...’

  ‘Shouldn’t be. I check them before every outing; religious like, it’s what I learnt to do when I did my HGV course. It takes five minutes and can save a lot of grief.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Petra said.

  ‘But it’s a good idea to check,’ he hauled himself up and using the handle to steady himself, climbed down from the bus. Petra followed Mick round to the back of the bus where he was leaning over the tyre.

  ‘That’s funny’ he said. ‘You’re right, it does look a bit flat.’

  ‘We can’t have a flat tyre on the way back to the school. Deanna will go nuts. She says it’s just the sort of thing that upsets the parents and it’ll be my fault.’

  ‘And mine.’ With one hand Mick squeezed his jowls together. ‘You stay here and wait for the kids. I’ll go to a KwikFit and get it sorted. It’ll be faster than calling out a garage.’

  ‘What about the bags? You can’t take the bags, Mick, not if you’re going to a garage. Or at least you can’t take the bag that belongs to my over-anxious student. She’ll be hysterical if she comes back and it’s not here.’

  ‘You’re right. You’d better keep it with you.’

  Petra had barely alighted from the minibus when it was moving off. Striding back to the toilets Petra grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and locked herself into the cubicle. There, she lay the paper towels on the floor to make a mat and tipped the contents of the bag on to it. Out tumbled a notebook; two pens; a roll of sweets; lip balm; a purse.

  As she looked at the objects on the grey paper towels, one of Alon’s phrases came to mind; vinyl tradecraft he called it. Chalk; paper; invisible ink and public phone boxes.

  Petra did the search as he’d taught her on a tray in her sitting room. He’d smoke as he sat watching her, eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the timer to see how quickly and efficiently she could find what was hidden, and then make assumptions about what she was examining.

  First she examined the pens to see if they were what they seemed to be or whether they had any other function. She twisted and twiddled, held the pen up to the skylight looking for scratches and tapped the barrel. Nothing. After that she unwrapped the sweets, carefully unpeeling the paper at the top. Crouched in the toilet cubicle, her hands started to get sweaty and she glanced at her watch. She needed to get a spurt on; they would be back in fifteen minutes.

  There was nothing in the sweet packet. By the time she’d ripped the tube of mints apart there was no way she could get them back again so she had no choice but to bin them in the sanitary towel container and hope for the best.

  The lip balm was what it appeared to be, as was the purse that only contained UK money. There was no photo, no credit card and nothing personal in it all. If ever there was proof of guilty intent, it was the identity-free purse. Next, Petra leafed through the red workbook; she saw pages of Arabic, beautiful script that she couldn’t read. She also saw pages of verbs in columns with presumably the Arabic translation. There was nothing there. Deflated, Petra slid back on her heels against the wall of the cubicle. The whole hassle of getting rid of Mick had been for nothing.

  Petra lifted the empty rucksack up and shook it; she pressed it on the outside; down the seams; she felt inside; eyes closed; her finger tips examined each section of the lining as she’d been taught. The lining was true at the bottom; at the front; at the side... but... not at the back. The edge was slightly raised; it had some texture. With care, as if she was peeling back a grape skin, Petra lifted a corner of the lining and stuck her finger inside. She felt paper. A sheet of folded paper.

  As she eased out the sheet, Petra was aware of her heart hammering. It was a good feeling: she’d been right.

  But when she unfolded the sheet of paper her exhilaration ceased; on the paper was a hand-drawn diagram; or maybe it was a map. The drawing was annotated in what looked like Arabic and it was certainly Sahar’s handwriting. That was as much as Petra could work out. Again, she looked at her watch; laying the paper out flat, Petra photographed it with her phone. Then quickly and efficiently, Petra repacked the bag, slid the paper into its hiding place and exited the toilets and the boathouse at a trot.

  Only when Petra was sitting by the side of the river with her feet tucked under her did her heart rate slow. Inhaling deeply and slowly, Petra willed herself into a place of calm thought. She focused on the murky green water, a plastic bottle trapped in some weeds on the bank and a dragonfly dying moment by moment.

  Petra heard the punts approaching before she saw them: Aneeta’s laugh; some splashing; the hollow sound of the oar against the punt and shouts of warning. But it was all good-natured; they weren’t shouts of fear and terror or pain. Turning towards the boathouse, Petra saw that Mick had completed the round trip and the minibus was in position to pick up the students.

  Petra stood up to greet the arriving punts, but before they arrived she pulled out her phone and texted Rafi.

  Call me. 1 hour.

  52

  The Ironworkers Pub, Cowley, Oxfordshire – The Next Day

  ‘It’s a map,’ Petra said. ‘It can’t be anything else. It’s a map that she’s drawn because it’s in her writing. It’s a map of somewhere she’s going to go. And there’s a clandestine element to it because she hid it.’

  She was sitting in a pub on the outskirts of Oxford with Benny and Rafi. It was off the student and tourist beat, closer to the old manufacturing side of Oxford where cars and light industry were the other side of the city’s prosperity. Long gone, the area was ripe for regeneration.

  At 3pm in the afternoon the pub was between-times; in the dismal zone between the pensioner lunchers who’d consumed sad salads and the after-work drinkers yet to come. Their only witness was a solitary drunk woman perched on a bar stool, fist around a glass of whisky.

  Rafi said, ‘We’ve forwarded the images to headquarters and our analysts are already on it.’

  ‘So, you have absolutely no idea what it is?’ Petra said.

  Rafi shook his head.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I think needs to be done. Since she’s here in the UK, we bypass your analysts in Tel Aviv and call the police.’ Petra said. ‘I can do that; you don’t have to be involved. And then let them deal with it and also deal with her.’

  ‘No, no,’ Benny said. ‘That won’t work. That won’t work at all. We will do it but we have to go through official channels.’

  ‘Why?’

  Petra watched Benny with the detachment of a scientist. This was his chance to explain why he had met Sahar in Bath; his opportunity to get her to trust them again and she wondered in the most dispassionate manner if he would.

  ‘Because that’s how it’s done, Petra. There are diplomatic issues here that I can’t explain at the moment, but that’s how it’s done.’

  She said nothing, deliberately waiting for him to fill the silence. He did. ‘And, the other element to consider is that if we inform the authorities then we can’t keep you out of it.’

  ‘Out of what? I’m working the gig under my own name. I am within my rights as a British citizen; no, I am impelled as a British citizen to phone the police and say I am concerned about a student.’

  Rafi’s brow creased into lines of sincerity. ‘Petra, you have to trust us; we are on top of this. We will make sure that the people who need to know do know, at the right time. You have my word on that.’

  Petra was laying out red carpet for them; all they had to do was walk up it and she’d be applauding them. She gave the men one final opportunity to do the right thing; it was more than they deserved but she was being generous. ‘So what about that guy in Bath I saw her meeting? Did you get any further with that?’

&n
bsp; Benny said, ‘Rafi, why don’t you see if there’s a decent bottle of wine in this establishment.’

  Rafi got up from the table and ambled towards the bar where a dull-looking blonde with a tattoo dancing down her right arm was drying glasses. When she saw Rafi approach she tucked away her cloth and leaned across the burnished bar.

  ‘You’ve done a terrific job, Petra,’ Benny said. ‘When you followed the girl in Bath, that gave us valuable information. You are right, she is involved in something but if you raise the alarm at a low level, then we won’t get to the people who are behind her. Such as her brother.’

  ‘Her brother, you say?’

  ‘Yes, him. And that’s the objective we want to achieve. That’s the objective that will make a difference and save lives. So, hard though it is, what we want you to do is... nothing. Carry on, observe her, and finish the job here. That’s all you have to do. You have one more cultural excursion to do, then there’s the graduation party and that’s it.’

  ‘Benny, or whatever your name is, I’m a reasonable person. Honourable, trustworthy, the kind of woman who tries to do right even in a dirty job like this. But I have limited patience with insincerity.’

  Petra felt the tension in the pit of her stomach, she raised her finger in warning and went on, ‘Would it surprise you to hear that the girl is planning to be a martyr; and that’s the reason why she’s in the UK. Be very careful how you answer, I’m warning you.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Benny said.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Petra said with gentle reason. ‘Are you surprised to hear that the girl is planning to be a martyr; I believe the correct term is shaheeda?’

  If she’d needed any further confirmation on what she knew to be true, Benny’s determined shrug of dismissal, shaking head and frown was it.

  ‘Shame on you,’ Petra said.

  ‘How about this?’ Rafi was standing over the table holding a tray with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. ‘Marianne says this is the best in the house. Shall we try it?’

  ‘Sit down,’ Benny said without looking up. He kept his grey-eyed gaze on Petra. ‘Did Sahar tell you?’

  Petra chuckled. ‘No, she’s right under your thumb. I made no headway with her; she’ll do whatever you tell her to do and thank you for it. No, she didn’t tell me that she’s hoping to commit suicide for whatever half-baked reason she’s been fed; she didn’t say that this miserable act of self-destruction is the best future she can hope for. And she didn’t tell me that she believes her death will help liberate her people. Her brother did.’

  53

  The Ironworkers Pub, Cowley, Oxfordshire – Continuous

  ‘I said she was smart,’ Rafi said pouring out the foaming champagne into flutes as if Petra had just announced successfully completing a crossword puzzle.

  ‘Sheket,’ Benny said. ‘Shut up. Have you spoken to the girl’s brother? Did you meet him when you brought her to London? This is all much more complicated than you realise, you know. I’m telling you for your own good because there are a lot of other interests that you don’t know about.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, don’t even obliquely threaten me,’ Petra said. ‘You had your chance to come clean when I saw you in Bath and I gave you another chance just now and you blew it. So whatever you say, including your crappy attempts to scare me have about as much currency as a politician’s promise. You want to know if I’ve spoken to the girl’s brother? As a matter of fact I have, at length. What’s more he’s not in Kansas attending lectures and hanging out on the campus – he’s here.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Benny covered his face with his hands.

  ‘Let’s all calm down,’ Rafi said. ‘Let’s hear what Petra has to say. I’m sure she had her reasons for doing what she did and if we’d just shown her a little more respect by giving her the bigger picture this would never have happened.’

  ‘Need to know,’ Benny said.

  ‘Need to share,’ Rafi responded. ‘Petra, let’s start at the beginning – where is Wasim at the moment and how did he get there?’

  Petra was impressed by Rafi’s equanimity. Not that she trusted him an iota but it made it easier to have a dialogue. Briefly she described how she had used a tracking device to locate Wasim and how she found him at Heathrow, eating a burger before he went through security. She’d barely needed the tracking device, he was so much like his sister; the same slight build, wiry hair and worried expression. Petra had slipped Wasim a ready prepared note that used the special name Sahar had for her brother; the note said he was to trust Petra and go with her.

  ‘What’s this special name she has for him?’ Benny said.

  ‘Do you really think I’m going to tell you?’ Petra said.

  ‘It was worth asking.’

  ‘Fuck you. He’s now safe,’ Petra said.

  ‘How do you know that? MI5 could be all over him and he could be picked up at any time,’ Benny said.

  ‘I know he’s safe because I’m good at what I do.’ No more details. She would give them no more information that might help them find Wasim. He was safe. Her neighbour Bob had said he’d do anything for her after she saved his grandson and Petra had taken him up on the offer. Wasim was staying in one of Bob’s empty flats after she told him that one of her students had missed his flight and was nervous about immigration controls. The bastards had absolutely no hope of finding Wasim; the kid was safe.

  Flow is what it was. Petra recognised that making contact with Wasim and getting him to safety was one of the few times in her life and career when she’d been entirely in the moment and supremely confident about both her abilities and her understanding. The sensation was neither cognitive nor rational; it was a sense of flow, a sense of glowing confidence and clarity as she’d glided into Terminal 3 at Heathrow.

  Knowing that she’d outsmarted the bastards, Petra was in no doubt that not only would she find Wasim at Heathrow but that she’d be able to use him to save Sahar from both the Office’s dirty operation and the girl’s own naivety.

  Once inside the terminal Petra had made an easy 180-degree sweep of her surroundings; she had the look of someone searching for check-in; drop-off; departure board or travelling companion. Meanwhile, she scoped space, cameras, police – both uniformed and plain clothes – as well as entrances and exit. Her observational senses had tingled while around her people moved in fits and starts, burst towards gates, stumbled over luggage and shifted around her island of calm acuity.

  Petra had been in no hurry; by her feet there was a small black suitcase on four wheels and in her hand she’d held her phone and watched Wasim’s tracker’s approach, its green throbbing pulse signalling the steady advance to its ultimate rendezvous.

  At 250 metres away, the airport bus would be close to the terminal and there was no doubt he was on the bus because Petra had overtaken it on the M40; she’d even glimpsed the boy. In his window seat, he’d been gazing out, looking at the traffic flow, consumed with whatever thoughts he might have about his journey back to Kansas.

  Yes, Wasim was hers as certainly as the sun would set and darkness would follow.

  Positioning herself to the right of the door nearest to the coach drop off, Petra had placed the case by her side and using the long handle slid it around on the four wheels. Satisfied, Petra had taken a seed bar out of her pocket and munched on it with deliberation; she was a passenger waiting to meet a friend. She checked her phone as if looking for a message; she was a passenger waiting to meet a friend. No one would think otherwise.

  One hundred and fifty metres now. He was close. The bus must be pulling up into the parking bay and Wasim would climb down. Petra was ready. If he had luggage there would be a delay of four minutes and the green pulse on her phone would rest.

  One hundred metres. There was obviously no luggage. Petra had felt for the handle on her case rolling it back and forth, testing its range, feeling the hard flooring and the shiver of excitement in her hands.


  Fifty metres. Petra had felt in her pocket for the note she’d prepared; the evidence to give her credence; the proof that she was friend and not foe. Glancing at her phone again, she’d seen the green dot flashing; the boy was drawing closer.

  Twenty metres, he was walking towards the door.

  Just then a family from the Indian subcontinent came through the door. A winsome toddler perched on a suitcase on top of a trolley; behind, a white-haired matriarch was pushed in her wheelchair; two young men hauled oversized suitcases with their wives following on, burdened with carry-on bags and neck cushions and a baby in carrycot. They were crowding the entrance, blocking Petra’s view, they could kill her plan. Yet they wouldn’t; Petra had been certain.

  Ten metres. The family had passed. Wasim came through the door and Petra inhaled deeply with satisfaction. Even without the tracker, she’d have known him for his resemblance to Sahar, he was darker but had the same slight build and air of intensity; the same fine eyes, albeit behind glasses and the same unruly hair.

  He was alone, the space between them was empty; he was hers. Petra took a step forward and seemed, if she’d been observed, to have slipped. The suitcase left her hand and slammed into Wasim’s legs then it careened at an angle and hit the floor where the weakened lock burst open and clothes and shoes and books tumbled out.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Petra blocked his progress.

  Wasim had stumbled and almost lost his balance; stability regained he shifted from leg to leg, unsure for a moment and then he knelt to help Petra stuff jeans and jumpers back into the case.

  ‘Thank you so much, I’m such an idiot,’ Petra said. ‘This is incredibly kind of you, I’m totally embarrassed.’