by Merle Nygate
Eli pumped the agent’s hand, trying to convey warmth by squeezing his palm, knowing that even now a hug would not be welcome.
‘It’s so good to see you... like this,’ Eli said. ‘Not now, but one day, Derek, I don’t know when, but one day... Until then, good luck, Derek. You’re a good man.’
‘So are you.’
Red Cap dived through the double doors leaving Eli with the sense of unreality. Wondering if he had imagined what had happened. Eli straightened up. It was hopeful. In spite of everything, in spite of all the dirt that Eli churned up in the wake of his career, sometimes there was hope; sometimes life moved forward in a positive way. If Derek could move on after being on a certain trajectory to disaster then anything was possible.
While Eli waited for Petra he studied the map of the site to make sure that he had found the best observation point. There, he would demonstrate to Trainer that he’d told her the truth. That Sweetbait, far from blowing herself up, or being shot by a sniper, was going to be gently and courteously led away. And within days, admittedly unpleasant days for her, Sweetbait would be released as part of a back-door arrangement with a grateful British government. After that, she would be on her way to a new life in the US, Canada – or New Zealand if she preferred.
The door swung open and Petra burst out of the Techno Zone among a group of teens who were clutching bits of paper they had picked up at the stands.
‘Let’s get away from here,’ she said to Eli. ‘All right, Benny? I am so close to calling the police, MI5 and every media outlet I can think of. Whatever you’ve got to say had better be good.’
‘It’s better than good,’ Eli said. ‘Now we are going to the Aviation Club where we will be able to see what happens. The girl is going to be arrested but think of it as an unpleasant interlude before things improve for her.’
‘How sure are you?’
‘One hundred per cent. Listen, we’ve told MI6 what’s going to happen, they’re professionals. I promise you, they will stop her before anything happens.’
‘It’s sickening; she has no idea who you are and then she’s going to be arrested. That’s unacceptable. Why in God’s name does Sahar have to suffer?’
They were walking along the concourse in the direction of the Aviation Club. It was perched on a rise in the ground and leading up to it the path narrowed and the gradient increased.
Eli stopped and looked Petra full in the face. ‘Sahar has to suffer because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like many people all over the world; Syrian refugees, disabled women in Boko Haram, even, if you like, Jews in 1940s Europe. And do not forget, she was prepared to kill innocent people along with herself.’
‘She’s a brainwashed idiot.’
‘So be it, but we just took advantage of the brainwashing, we didn’t invent it. Her people did that as well as feeding the international anti-Semitism monster with lies about Holocaust denial and global Jewish conspiracies. That’s part of Hamas strategy. This is ours. And Petra, you will be pleased to know, that the girl’s suffering is coming to an end. Since this is all being done under the radar, after a brief interrogation here, we will ask to interview her back home. Then she will be relocated somewhere of her choice. She may even believe that it is Allah’s will that she survived. And she and her family will never know that we, the “Zionist monkeys”, had anything to do with the changes in her life – the positive changes. As for her brother, hopefully he’ll feel that his trust in you led to her being saved and that’s also a positive outcome.’
‘You’re never going to try to recruit him?’
‘Who knows? It’ll be a wasted opportunity if we don’t. Meanwhile, the only people who are aware that we are behind all these positive changes to this family’s future are those whose life depends on their silence. You might even consider that your part in this has actually been to improve her and her brother’s life; to make a positive difference. And how many times can we truly say that?’
By this time, they were at the top of the slight hill outside the Aviation Club. The small green in front of the private club was packed with tables and chairs. The clink of glasses mingled with chatter as wine was quaffed and the Club members and their ladies were entertained.
‘We can’t go in there,’ Petra said.
‘I know. But we can see from the path.’ He handed her his binoculars. ‘Focus on the concourse; she should be coming from the left to the right. Then she will turn towards the Techno Zone; that’s when we’ll get the best view because she will be stopped... right over there.’ Eli put his hand on Petra’s shoulders to point her in the right direction. ‘Now you can see down there; about a hundred metres to the left of the control tower; two guys. My guess is that they’re the ones waiting for her. And possibly the group on the other side to the left. See that woman in the green dress? So you can see the route is well covered.’
‘Oh God – there she is,’ Petra said.
65
The Aviation Club, RAF Fairborough – Two Minutes Later
She looked so small from the top of the hill. So alone.
Petra watched the girl, imagining what was going through her head, hoping that the prayers that she was no doubt saying to herself would in some way quell the terror. Maybe the interrogation that would follow her arrest would be a relief after the fear of her own death. What could possibly make her think that dying by her own hand would change anything? What desperation had taken her to that point?
Step after step the girl moved forward and Petra was only dimly aware of Benny by her side. He had his phone out and seemed to be talking on it but she guessed it was just cover for the microphone.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘very good news,’ in a bland voice. ‘They should be appearing any second now.’
Petra went back to the binoculars, watching Sahar walk towards her destiny. She indulged the thought that once resettled and with decent enough English, she’d find a community where she was valued for herself; not as daughter, wife, mother or martyr. Through the binoculars Petra thought she saw Sahar’s lips moving. But whatever she was feeling, the girl’s pace was steady. She had such courage – or was it belief?
At the cross roads to the intersection, Sahar stopped and Petra watched her stop. Even as her heart pounded, she smiled; typical Sahar; she was looking at the map before she made the turn. Always careful; always precise; always keen to be correct. As Petra watched, Sahar tucked the map in her pocket and with clear resolve she turned left towards the Techno Zone.
Petra took the binoculars away from her eyes and saw Benny staring; his face was contorted as he watched Sahar.
‘I don’t know,’ Petra heard Benny say into his phone. ‘I don’t fucking know where they are. Get over there now.’
Ignoring her, Benny ran towards the concourse. She saw him shift fast; dodge around slower groups of people and shove others out of his way. A woman stumbled, lost her balance and had to be helped to her feet. Another man yelled after Benny, angry at being pushed – but he was gone.
Petra switched her gaze to the concourse. Rapt, she followed Sahar’s course; watched her move steadily, saw the resolution and the certainty as she approached the Techno Zone.
No one had stepped out of the crowd to stop her.
66
Techno Zone, RAF Fairborough – Ten Seconds Later
Black.
Before I walk through the door, I close my eyes. I know what I’ve got to do and I want to be in the dark and rest. Just for a moment. No longer. I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me. It’s now time and I crave one second of peace before the end.
Although I know it’s not the end and I’m going to Jennah it’s the end of this time and this place. I swallow and as I open the door the clamour of the noise fills my mind. People shout over thudding machinery and children squeal with excitement. Although I try, Allah knows how hard I try, I lose my place in the final prayer. He, who is almighty and merciful, he will forgive me.
Ahead of me I
try to see the way I need to go through the mass of people; this place, for a mad second it reminds me of the old covered souk where I used to go early to buy the Jibnah Biladi cheese my mother likes. The same atmosphere; everyone standing; everyone crying for attention.
So many people are around me. They jostle; I see someone ahead fifty metres away. She smiles.
Oh Allah, no, no, be merciful, please, not more tests. I beg of you. Let me do what I must do for your glory. Let me go into your arms with only the blood of strangers on me.
I turn, I go back the way I came towards the door, I go behind a stand and hide; trying to avoid her; trying to avoid Aneeta.
I succeed, she’s gone. Slowly I make a circuit of the zone, go past the stands with their machines and people, children and their teachers until I reach the stand with the man and the desk. This is the place Abu Marwan has told me to be; the centre of the pavilion. I’m standing in front of the man at the desk. He smiles.
My fingers rest on the keypad of the phone, ready to tap the sequence. That’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder; an arm; a scent.
‘Sahar, my friend, I look for you. I need you –’ Aneeta grips my arm.
‘Go, this no good, go,’ I cannot speak.
‘Why?’
The man at the desk stands up, he smiles, he has bad teeth but he looks kind.
‘Good afternoon ladies,’ he says. ‘Let me tell you everything about GCHQ. My name is Derek and I’m a project manager in cryptography. Allow me to explain what we do –’
There is a noise at the end of the tent, by the door. A crash, someone is shouting. I turn. I see Abu Marwan running towards me; he pushes people out of the way.
I know.
He is there to tell me what I must do; he is there to tell me not to hesitate, not to falter.
I tap the keys on the phone.
Black.
67
The Aviation Club, RAF Fairborough – Three Seconds Later
There was a crash from the Techno Zone, immediately followed by screams. Behind Petra, on the green, clinking glasses and tinkling lunch chatter paused. People nudged each other and gaped at people streaming out of the Techno Zone crying. A boy with a bloody arm was being half carried by a woman. Petra froze. She could hear the terror in the cries that carried up the hill. A siren went off. But the commentary on the fly past went on and on until it stopped mid-sentence.
‘What happened? What the hell’s going on?’ A man with white hair and moustache said to no one in particular. ‘Was that an explosion?’
‘Petra... Petra... listen,’ he was by her side. Rafi. He was standing right next to her.
‘Where’s Benny?’ Petra croaked. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. ‘He ran down the... Rafi, what –’
‘Come here a minute,’ he guided her around the corner away from the gawping crowd and opened his arms and held her to him, hugging her. In shock, she stood there for a second; she allowed his warmth to soothe her.
She put her hands on his chest and pushed at him. ‘Get away from me; this is you. Your doing.’
Rafi took a step back; his expression was neutral. ‘Sometimes things work out in different ways,’ he said with quiet certainty.
‘What’s that’s supposed to mean?’
‘Petra, we don’t have time to discuss this. I need your work phone and I’m also taking the tracker phone. I presume it’s in your bag. You can’t be caught with it on you. We’re going to have to take care of Wasim, now. Where is he?’
‘I’m not telling you,’ she was crying; tears and snot were making it hard to speak.
‘Do you want his arrest on your conscience as well as what’s just happened here? Listen, we’re the boy’s only hope of getting out of here before anyone realises that he’s connected. Do it, Petra. It’s best for everyone. You can’t help the girl now. Where is he?’
‘He’s safe, in a flat near...’
Before she had time to protest he reached into her bag, into the section where she kept her phones, and pocketed them. Rafi went on, ‘Prepare – you’re going to be questioned and there isn’t anything you need to say; you’re completely clean, you worked at the school, it was a summer gig, that’s it.’
‘Except I’m going to tell anybody who asks that it’s on you,’ Petra said.
‘That won’t make any difference to what’s just happened. Think about it for a minute. The girl did what she wanted to do for something she believed in. And you did what you wanted to do for something you believed in. Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘No. It isn’t.’
Again, Rafi shrugged. ‘If you want my advice, don’t make your life more complicated than it already is. If you make a big thing out of it then you will be the one that suffers. That’s how the world works.’
‘And what about you? What have you done?’
‘I did what was right,’ Rafi said. ‘I did what needed to be done.’
68
RAF Fairborough, Exhibitors’ Caravan Site – 10 Minutes Later
The caravan looked like the backroom of a butcher’s. Blood was pouring from Eli’s forehead into his eyes which was hampering the phone conversation he was trying to have with Yuval. Worse, he was half deaf from the aftershock of the blast compounded by the activity around him. In the end Eli handed the phone to Rafi while Niorah did an emergency clean of the wound and stuck closure strips over it. The rest of the crew packed up and cleaned up, spraying cleaner, wiping down, then putting the disposable wipes in plastic bags and the plastic bags in picnic baskets. Given the circumstances the squad was as calm as possible; they’d all been under fire before and they’d all rehearsed exit operations many times.
Rafi was now speaking and Eli half heard and half read his lips. ‘First priority is Wasim. You, me and Segev will drive. Everybody else goes straight to the airport. There’s a cargo plane waiting for us.’
Rafi checked the contents of his black rucksack before helping Eli up to his feet, out of the caravan and into the car.
Getting away from the airfield was surreal; the traffic marshals were trying to get people away from the airfield as quickly as possible in case there was another bomb, and police, ambulances and fire engines were pushing in the other direction. It helped. Neighbouring farms had opened up their gates to facilitate the evacuation and the car bumped across uneven fields, through cow pats and long grass before reaching the main road and the steady crawl to the motorway. Once they picked up speed Eli was barely aware of Segev’s driving; sitting in the back seat he was only aware of blurred scenery flashing past and his ringing ears. This was no time to think; like everybody on the squad, Eli had to act and his first challenge was to hear what Rafi was saying.
‘Here, this is flavinoid candy. It might help the tinnitus,’ Rafi had turned and was thrusting a wrapped bar at him. Eli chewed what tasted like citric cardboard and swallowed it down with water.
‘I’m okay,’ Eli said.
‘We’ve got the boy’s location from Trainer’s phone. Even if we considered her reliable, she’ll be among the first people to be interviewed so she needs to be available. That just leaves you as the only person who knows Wasim. We’ve got to get to him before Five does and we’re going to get him out of here one way or another.’
‘Meaning?’ Eli said.
‘Meaning, this is your chance to show us all how much of a spy runner you really are.’
‘What about what happened back there. Where the fuck was MI5?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rafi looked away. ‘Really. What I do know is that if Wasim gets picked up the situation will be even worse than it already is, so what are you going to do, Eli? Make a big thing about it now when we’re in the middle of all this shit or are you going to be on the team? Simple choice, man.’
It took ninety minutes to get to Tilton and the flat where Wasim’s commemorative coin was sending out its steady homing signal. With Segev’s driving they’d have been there earlier but had to spend an extra fifteen minutes in the t
oilet cubicle of a service station where Eli submitted to Rafi cleaning and stitching his wound on his forehead. Sitting on the toilet, Rafi standing over him, Eli held the unrolled sterilised medi-pack on his lap while Rafi cleaned, probed, then sewed. For a big-handed man, he was surprisingly deft.
‘You’re very lucky,’ Rafi said puffing antibiotic powder on to his work. ‘It’s clean and neat. More than you deserve.’
When they came out of the cubicle together they kept their heads down but they still got a look from a man at the urinals. Rafi kept his arm around Eli to try to hide the blood that had dripped down his tee shirt. Casual homosexual sex might be ignored; an obvious wound would be harder. Back in the car Eli changed into the clean tee shirt that Segev had just bought and by the time they’d located the ground-floor flat where Wasim’s tracker was signalling Eli was about as ready as he ever would be. He’d show Rafi what sort of spy runner he was.
The peripheral location was clean – a conversion in a Victorian terrace at the end of a quiet street near a park. No stray cars with occupants, no white vans with dark windows, no workman digging up cables. At 3.30pm on a Friday afternoon in suburbia the only sign of life on the street was a pensioner picking up dead leaves and a woman walking an old white dog that shuffled along at the same pace as its owner.
Segev pulled up 50 metres away from the house and the two men got out of the car, Rafi with his hand in his rucksack ready to locate the appropriate tool for the job.
At the shabby front door Rafi smiled. ‘About time we had some luck; we won’t even need to break a window.’
He withdrew a 5x5 centimetre key pad with a small screen and two plastic-coated wires coming out of the base. Sliding the wires in the gap between door and door frame, he keyed in the details from the reading, pressed enter and there was a click as the latch slipped back.