by Carlos Luxul
Bulent sat quietly, nodding his head. After a while he said, ‘I know. That was me, in Germany – their good little Turk. I didn’t exist really.’
‘It’s just money, isn’t it,’ Jawad said. ‘It’s the only thing they care about and the only thing that holds them together. Society, family? Every doorway has a homeless person, every bit of skin is covered in tattoos. There were two security guards at Moritz, just struggling immigrants from Liberia doing the only kind of shitty job they could get. Anyway, one of them, a nice guy, he didn’t know Sharjah but he’d heard of Dubai, where the footballers go, and where we have “women and drink and every kind of pleasure”. And to him, that’s civilisation, and “everything” is presumably everything money can buy. Just some poor African, but he’s soaked up the Western ideal, and he’s right. Look how Dubai’s been bent into a shape they can approve of. What have we done? Why did we do it? Why do we need their approval?’
Jawad looked across but it seemed that Bulent was not inclined to break the silence. He felt he understood why – that his experiences would have resonated with him. ‘So I’m off Nobu for a while,’ he added, raising an eyebrow. ‘Could murder a lamb kebab though.’
‘Kebabs it is,’ Bulent said, his expression brightening as he clapped his hands together. ‘And fuck those wankers.’
‘Yeah, we’re going to.’
~
But before a kebab supper, Bulent had to get on with some work. After discharging in Balikpapan, the Ocean Dove had ballasted to Singapore and loaded a cargo of accommodation buildings – a workers’ camp for an LNG project in Mozambique.
The ship was arriving that evening and he needed to keep it employed. Profit at the end of the year was of academic interest. The paramount reality now was for cash flow, until the ship returned to Pakistan for fitting out.
From Mozambique it was going to ballast up the coast to Mombasa, Kenya, where he’d already fixed some steel reinforcing bars, another low-paying cargo. There were mitigating reasons for fixing the steel out of Mombasa. Firstly, the cargo was destined for Umm Qasr, Iraq, which would bring the ship back to the Arabian Gulf, close to home, close to local sources of cargo, where his contacts and marketing were stronger. Secondly, Mombasa was an ideal base for a crew change. Communications were good, flights and hotels plentiful and cheap, the prices driven down in an irony that was not lost on him by fears of terrorism that had driven the tourist dollar away.
There was another task before leaving the office. Opening his email and pulling the keyboard across, he began typing.
‘Dear Mr Khan,
I have received very worrying reports from the Capt. of the Ocean Dove. The recent work you carried out at the yard is proving to be totally below standard. Attached are the relevant photos. As you can see, welds have broken and cracked and steel plate is lifting and buckling. So far, the work you have done to other ships in OceanBird’s fleet has been entirely satisfactory. I have no explanation for these problems. I can only suggest it is down to substandard materials and workmanship. This is costing me serious money! I expect you to put this deficient workmanship right at your entire expense and at a time when it is convenient for me to schedule the ship into Bar Mhar. I sincerely hope we can settle this matter quickly and that your yard can continue to be the yard of choice for the OceanBird fleet.
Best regards
Fourteen
Dan left the office and turned his collar up. The recent cold front had brought a biting east wind in its wake. He wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to bend to it, as had been recommended, but he made a conscious effort not to confront it. He checked his watch and walked faster, trying to build some heat. It was six thirty and his rendezvous in the pub was in fifteen minutes.
He’d suggested they should meet at the same place as before, but it hadn’t gone down well. Pity, he thought, the Guinness was good. Now he had to find the Coach and Horses in a mews behind Vincent Square, Westminster, which he assumed would have a cellar full of Merlot.
‘Hezbollah?’ Dan said, setting his Guinness down on the bar.
‘She changed her name, married him, and it was all a long time ago.’
‘But still?’
‘Everyone’s got a past.’ Salim Hak shrugged. ‘So our friend Khan married a Palestinian and at one time she was mixed up with the local scene. So what, the folly of youth? Look at our politicians – half of them were card-carrying commies – and some of us were caught dealing dope when we were thirteen.’
‘Ouch,’ Dan said.
‘Mere details,’ Hak commiserated.
‘And the Indians found this – but we’ve no record?’
‘Our paper trail’s dead,’ Hak said. ‘Azmi picked it up from them and they got it from Shin Bet. There was a bit of a share out – he told them about your specialist knowledge and suspicions, and now, inevitably, the fuckers want to do something about it.’
Dan considered it for a moment, realising that if Shin Bet, the Israeli internal security agency, had provided the information, it was probably accurate. ‘And you can’t let that happen?’
Hak frowned. ‘What, India running wild in Pakistan? Azmi won’t have it.’
‘So you’ll set it up? And then share the intel with them?’
‘Guess we’ll have to,’ Hak said resignedly, running a hand through his hair.
Dan finished the last couple of inches of his pint and turned to order another round. The pub was quiet, with only an elderly landlord sitting on a stool at the back of the bar. The scattered customers were equally quiet and of equally advanced years, but they seemed at home and comfortable on the faded green-and-peach banquettes, minding their own business, rheumy eyes staring off somewhere into the middle distance, careworn faces unflatteringly lit in the glow from reproduction carriage lamps. Strange choice of Hak’s, Dan thought, completely at odds with the first place they had met.
The wait for the landlord’s attention was welcome. It gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. His case was vulnerable and would quite probably be shelved if JC got her way. LaSalle was setting up a raid on OceanBird and now Hak and Azmi were seemingly obliged to do the same in Bar Mhar. And he was effectively being relegated to bystander on a case without merit that senior people were concerning themselves with for reasons they implied were little more than procedural.
‘And you don’t trust the Indians?’ Dan said, handing across a large Merlot.
The corner of Hak’s mouth curled up with distaste, though not at the wine. ‘I don’t trust anyone. Except you, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Dan agreed. ‘So when’s all this going to happen?’
‘Leave it with me.’ Hak shrugged. ‘I’ve got a guy, he’s perfect for it.’
‘And another thing,’ Dan said. ‘You know they’re likely to take the file from me without a handover to your side … JC’s already told me she wants it closed. It’s not exactly domestic security, so I guess it stands to reason?’
Hak conceded the point with a gesture. ‘And have you closed it?’
‘No. I’ve got a meeting with her. We’ll see …’
Hak raised an eyebrow and took a large swig of wine. ‘Good luck with that,’ he said. ‘Then we should be glad we’ve opened our own file.’
So, Dan thought, his pulse quickening as the implications fell into place. Hak, with Azmi’s albeit reluctant blessing, would set up a raid on Bar Mhar. He remembered Azmi’s dark warnings of stirring up a hornet’s nest on his patch – something he couldn’t abide. Coupled with LaSalle’s OceanBird initiative, both ends would be covered now. It was real progress, yet Hak didn’t seem to know about the Sharjah raid and something was holding Dan back from broaching the subject. His reticence was tinged with something that felt like regret, but as he chewed it over, it wasn’t taking much to brush any guilt away. Whatever Hak was doing, there was a sense of agenda about it. LaSalle’s position was clear and now something was telling him that Hak, and perhaps Azmi, were working their own channels too – a
nd working him.
‘What’s all that?’ Hak said, breaking the silence and nodding at Dan’s upturned hand on the bar. For the past minute he’d been absently picking at a scab across his palm. ‘Been scrapping again?’
Dan smiled. ‘This? No,’ he said, self-consciously looking down and dropping his arm to his side. ‘The ice the other morning … Stupid van came off the road. I got out the way but some woman wasn’t so lucky. Went to see her in hospital – broken hip, compound fracture of the thigh. Nice woman, solicitor.’
‘Nasty business. At least she’s well placed to handle the compensation claim.’ Hak added blackly.
‘Not really – the driver fucked off.’
‘I see …’ Hak took a mouthful of Merlot, his eyes darkening and remaining on Dan. ‘Did you get a look at him?’
Dan shook his head. ‘Happened too quick, behind me. Reported it though. The uniforms are dealing with it and Perkowski’s taking a look – do you know him?’
‘Know of him. We’ve got the same at our place,’ Hak said, referring to MI6’s internal security, which was also handled by ex-Special Branch operatives.
‘The Danish report I sent you – does it throw any light?’ Dan said, shifting the subject.
Hak weighed it for a moment. ‘Interesting. But not really.’
‘Okay,’ Dan said. ‘And the raid, who else will know about it?’
A sharp look from eyes the colour of Guinness provided the answer.
Fifteen
Dan arrived early for the meeting, signed in and went straight up to 4F, one of the cubicles on the fourth floor. A single light lifted the gloom in the narrow room. Outside it was grey and overcast and a light drizzle speckled the window at the end. Heavy-duty carpet tiles lined the floor below grey partition-board walls. A faint murmur of voices was coming through them from a neighbouring room. In the middle of the floor was a grey melamine table, empty, surrounded by a chair on each of its sides. He checked his watch. It was 1.50. Then he looked at the table and chairs, gauging which seat held precedence, opting for the one under the window facing the door. He sat down with his back to the door and opened his file, setting it out in front of him on the table.
At precisely two o’clock the door opened. Clymer took in the room at a glance and walked around Dan, standing over the table, leaning in, her hands spread flat on the surface.
‘So, my three o’clock has been called forward to two thirty.’
Okay, have it your own way, Dan thought. ‘No problem,’ he said.
Clymer smiled. ‘I’m glad you scheduled this meeting one to one. Gives us a chance to … chat.’
‘That would be nice.’ Dan smiled back. ‘Perhaps we’ll have time at the end.’
Clymer blinked first. ‘So.’
‘You’ve read my updated report?’
‘Well,’ Clymer said, a forced half smile of apology on her face. ‘I only had time to speed read it.’
‘And from speed reading it, what action do you recommend?’
She brought her hands together under her nose, her head tilting to one side. ‘It changes nothing. Close the file.’
‘Just like that. No threat, under any circumstances?’
‘You haven’t made the case.’
‘I said as much. I made it clear there’s no proof, but that’s not the point. I see potential for threat. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘And I don’t,’ Clymer said, pressing her hands down firmly on the table. ‘Close the file. Do something productive. There are so many challenges.’
‘And what about LaSalle, doesn’t he expect something from me?’
Clymer stiffened. ‘He’s not your concern, and …’
‘But wasn’t it you who chased me up about getting in touch with Hak?’
‘You need to address yourself to this team.’
Dan turned away, knowing that looking at her would only increase his frustration and push him closer to saying something he would regret. He wanted self-control to argue it through. He’d told himself there were two things to be avoided: a slanging match and a battle of wills.
‘Okay, I understand, but what I don’t understand is why you don’t want to back me,’ he said, his voice moderated.
‘It’s not that I don’t—’
‘But it is,’ Dan cut in. ‘You’re not even passing it on, just closing it, dead.’
‘There’s nothing solid to pass on.’
‘I know it’s not solid. I’ve shown it isn’t solid. So can’t we just leave that alone?’
‘Fine,’ Clymer said.
‘But this is the thing. This is what gets me. I’m supposed to be an expert. My opinion is meant to count. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I understand the file might not be for us, but I don’t understand why you think it’s not something for MI6. My judgement says there’s a potential threat, that none of this adds up.’
‘And mine doesn’t.’
‘And yours is based on?’
Clymer’s face pinched. ‘So, let’s try to look at this objectively. I’ll give you my reasons.’
Dan sat back, opening his hands, inviting her, nodding in agreement, allowing her the option to interpret his gesture as apology if she wished.
‘Firstly, there is clear evidence, accepted by all the other experts, that your ship was nowhere near the other one. Fact. Secondly, the potassium nitrate exploded.’
‘Ammonium nitrate.’
‘Ammonium nitrate. Secondly,’
‘Thirdly.’
Clymer’s face pinched again. ‘Thirdly. Who’s behind this? No one’s this organised, this well-resourced. All the evidence points to disintegration within the terrorist organisations. They’re left with nothing but random attacks. Look at it, Amsterdam, Toulouse, Ohio, the Istanbul football stadium, the Madrid concert, and all the others. Fourthly, if terrorists want guns, there are plenty available in collapsed regimes – Syria, Libya, Yemen and so on.’ She paused. ‘So, lastly, this satellite analysis – I mean, involving our American friends. You’re losing your focus, your effectiveness. I’m building a team here, a good team. It’s what I do. And I need you to think hard about how you can be part of it going forward. Are we clear on this?’
Sure, Dan thought. It’s perfectly clear. It’s clear you’re unwilling to think beyond narrow limits, actively subscribing to the pushing of a status quo, a feel-good that the war on terror is being won, the feel-good your pundit and politician friends have a deep need to believe when they reassure the public. You want me to be part of this cosy group-think, inside the collective, so when you’re wrong, everyone’s wrong together. It’s what you call teamwork and leadership.
He was tired of arguing, tired of the pointlessness of it. Why argue with someone who didn’t want to know, with someone against whom you couldn’t win anyway? He’d made his argument in his report, both for and against his own hypothesis. He’d covered the comparisons with ordinary field artillery, which as Clymer had said was lying around waiting to be picked up like windfalls in an orchard. What annoyed him most was the assumption the battle against terrorism was more or less won, amounting to little more now than the mopping up of individual cells and lone wolves. The political wing of the service was pushing the scenario. Their promotions depended on it. If they could convince their masters they had completed the current job, there was only one sensible option: promote them to somewhere new where they could work their magic again – an advisory role at the Home Office or the UN, or managing some sort of institute for some sort of strategic study. The private sector were suckers for war heroes, too, especially when use of intelligence could be demonstrated.
Dan knew he was picking his ground unwisely, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘I don’t buy it, this idea we’re winning,’ he said. ‘I don’t know for sure that Al Qaeda, Daesh or ISIL or whatever we call it is on the bones of its arse. No one knows that.’
Clymer sighed. ‘And you know better after, what is it, nine months? I take advice from people who’ve ded
icated their lives to this service. Ten, twenty, thirty years of knowledge. I listen to them and so should you,’ she said, colour flooding to her cheeks.
But I do listen and I can see your exasperation rising. I listen to you spinning it to suit those you want to please. You know what they want to hear, that their tax billions are amounting to more than ‘we can’t be sure’. They want to hear we’re winning and they want it presented with positivity, which you do convincingly.
‘Okay,’ Dan said. ‘I’m putting it in writing, official request to open a case, with full assets.’
‘And I will reject it officially, in writing.’ She leant in closer. ‘So, I think we need to schedule a meeting with HR. Perhaps we’ll all benefit from a re-evaluation of our situations going forward.’
~
When Dan got back to the office, Vikram was at his desk. His back was to him, his eyes on the screen. Dan said nothing as he settled down in his seat. A moment later Vikram’s chair turned.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘How did it go?’
‘I fucked it up.’
‘You sure?’
‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see how I fucked it up.’
He would have been content to brood, but Vikram coaxed it out of him. By the end Dan was glad of reliving it because Vikram didn’t see it quite so badly, but he too was perplexed by the re-evaluation with HR.
Dan nodded at Richard Nuttall’s empty chair.
‘You don’t know?’ Vikram said.
‘No.’
‘He’s resigned. It’s in your inbox.’
‘Bingo,’ Dan said, opening his email.
