Jake could recall now with clarity the day of the final rehearsal. The final RV with Abu Omar, in a specially kitted-out truck. Abu Omar seeming keyed up but confident. He handed over the rucksack to the technician in latex gloves, who did his tests while Jake exchanged a few last-minute words of encouragement with the boy.
‘All good?’ he’d asked.
‘Yeah, man,’ Abu Omar had replied, for once looking into his eyes. ‘No one’s gonna do nothing crazy, are they?’
‘Like what?’ Jake took the trouble to smile.
‘Like fucking nail me by accident.’ Abu Omar smiled too.
‘No. This is just a rehearsal, remember.’
The technician handed the rucksack to Jake. ‘Heavy,’ said Jake.
‘Books,’ said the technician. ‘All clear.’
‘Take care,’ said Jake to Abu Omar. ‘No silly moves. Just as we agreed. I’ll be with you every step of the way.’
‘Except you bloody won’t,’ said Abu Omar, laughing.
‘Well, in spirit maybe. Today’s easy. Next week it gets difficult.’
‘You will look after me, won’t you?’
Jake looked up at him, wanted to reassure him in some way. Instead, he said, ‘Course.’
‘Right. Better be off.’
Abu Omar opened the rear door of the truck.
10
The Americans left immediately. Of course they did. Magicked on to the late flight that day to DC and no one had even thought to stop them. On what grounds, given their diplomatic passports? someone would have asked. The last thing we need on top of everything else is a bloody incident, it would have been pointed out. Quite so, someone – probably Stuart – would have said. But the discussion never took place because no one thought of it. Otherwise preoccupied. Within half an hour of the explosion Jake had tried to raise Frank and Jimmy on their mobile phones, just to share the horror of it, but the accounts had been closed down.
He’d been placed on immediate suspension, without prejudice, and told to go home. It was put out internally that he’d taken a few weeks off with no mention of a return date. George had rung him and asked him to report to a police station where he was interviewed under caution. A different SIO had been appointed to look into the circumstances of the incident. George was waiting outside in a car.
‘Bet your bottom dollar there’ll be a public inquiry this time. I’ve spoken to Stuart and he’s pooh-poohed the notion. “Of course not, George; what are you thinking?” But he would say that, wouldn’t he? It’s been coming for years. Every bloody thing gets publicly inquired into, these days. The brass will try to prevent it but the shit’s got to land somewhere. Government hates us, and someone’s got to take the hit. It sure as hell won’t be the police. No one likes us, we don’t care. I should cocoa. Brace yourself. It’ll get nasty. And it’ll happen quickly.’ A week later the inquiry was announced.
The next Tuesday Jake was called down to London. One of the legal advisers spoke to him with Stuart.
‘This inquiry will be headed by a former High Court judge and will be judicial in nature. That means it may have the power to compel witnesses to appear, evidence will be given under oath, and the laws of contempt of court and perjury will apply. You’ll be given appropriate protection of identity.’
‘I’ll be called?’ said Jake.
The legal adviser looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘Well of course you will. You’ll be obliged to answer each question truthfully. There are certain areas where a national security exemption will apply. Things like meeting places, techniques, names of sources and so forth. We’re working through those items with the counsel for the inquiry. Don’t worry about them. You won’t be asked. And if you are, the counsel for the inquiry will intervene. It’ll be fine.’
‘The Americans,’ said Stuart.
‘Yes?’ said Jake.
‘We’ve discussed this at length with the government and together we’ve reached the conclusion that the Americans’ involvement isn’t relevant to the proceedings. Therefore, the inquiry will be unaware of our dealings with them. Is that clear?’
‘But the Americans served up Abu Omar and the whole deal. Are you suggesting we should be economical with the truth?’
Stuart sighed. ‘Earth to Jake. Join us back in the real world. This is about striking the right balance between justice being seen to be done and –’
‘The reality? What if I’m asked about them?’
‘You won’t be.’
‘Because if I am, I won’t tell lies.’
‘Of course not. But the subject won’t come up. Trust me. Nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ said the legal adviser.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid that as the legal representative of the Service I’m unable to represent your interests at the same time.’
‘I’m an employee.’
‘This is just a nicety, Jake,’ said Stuart. ‘One of those bloody legal things.’
‘The issue is,’ said the legal adviser, ‘that one could imagine circumstances where our interests could be different. For example, if the Service chose to assert that you’d failed to obey the rules of your appointment or meet minimum professional standards …’
‘See what I mean?’ said Stuart with a wry smile. ‘Never going to happen, but this is what the legal beagles tell us.’
‘… or, for instance, you were to claim you were under some kind of undue pressure from the Service, or it hadn’t looked after your personal welfare sufficiently. You see, it’s possible our interests could diverge. To that end, we suggest that you engage independent legal advice for yourself. We’ll give you a list of expert counsel in this area who have the right clearances.’
Christmas shopping. Samir was an absolute sucker for Christmas. Had been: Mr Masoud still hadn’t adjusted his language. Always overdid it, spent money he didn’t have, loved the lights and the trees. Decorated the house to within an inch of its life. Aisha loved it too. It was only Mr Masoud who gibbed. The waste. The commercialism. The godlessness, too. His wife tut-tutted at his sourness. ‘You grumpy old man,’ she said.
Worse still, Samir had taken Aisha out of school for the day, so that they could buy something nice for Mummy and see the displays in Hamleys and the lights along Regent Street. Samir had told the school that Aisha was unwell. Samir’s wife had asked Mr Masoud to take on the job of phoning the school a few days after the attack to tell them what had actually happened. It was just one of the several horrible tasks that death necessitates.
Mr Masoud was occasionally asked, usually by white people, whether he had ever been back to Pakistan. Back. He was always polite in his response. No, never, he’d say. Only rarely, and with careful tentativeness for fear of being regarded as a pedant, would he say: I couldn’t go back, I’ve never been there in the first place.
His parents had come to England in the mid-sixties, a year or so before he was born. So he had not even been conceived on the subcontinent, he liked to joke privately with his wife. They’d built a life in the city, with the corner shop in a predominantly working-class white part of town that during the seventies and eighties became something of an Asian enclave, its Edwardian terraces neglected physically and exploited financially by unscrupulous white landlords. Now it was inhabited largely by young professionals who, Mr Masoud observed with approval, were far more at ease with each other and themselves than his generation, and had little regard for matters of colour or creed. The business had had to adapt to the times and Mr Masoud had made a success of it, now owning two more shops in close proximity. Each had been converted into a bright, clean little supermarket, open from early morning to late at night, selling frozen ready meals, cigarettes, fresh veg, toothpaste, newspapers and magazines, whisky and wine. He was proud of their modern, slick appearance, and the range of products they sold. This was no longer a Paki shop enterprise.
His parents had gone back, in the early eighties, when he was in his petulan
t adolescence. He refused to go with them. He was the hothead then, more interested in rock music than his roots. He regretted it now but would find it difficult today to travel to Balochistan. He had no connection there, other than the tenuous threads of family, most of whom he’d never met. And those he had, had come here, to England. What would it mean to visit, other than an exercise in superiority and selfish gratification that he and his had dragged themselves out of such primitive and unpromising circumstances? Or, alternatively, the provoking of awkward questions about his decadent, godless life in the West (questions that were persistent enough as it was)? How could he view the lives of his cousins in their terms?
His wife had been to Pakistan several times, all before they were married in 1986. It wasn’t an arranged marriage but their parents had been acquainted. She’d been a good catch: attractive, university education, family of good standing. So must he have been, he allowed: a resourceful young businessman on the up. She’d given up her career ambitions to marry, only much later becoming the office manager at the local GP surgery.
Several times before Samir was born she’d suggested they visit relatives in Pakistan. No, he’d always insisted, too busy. To be fair, to visit her family near Islamabad would have been an easier prospect than his in Quetta.
So. The Americans. Involved in everything. Why did our powers that be always stand so close to them, as if in a perpetual schoolyard infatuation? The inquiry would resume on Monday and they would find out more. That is, if the government didn’t somehow try to stifle this over the weekend. The Chair had promised real independence, but they would see.
They filed out quietly with the other families.
Mr Masoud fastened the buttons of his overcoat as they came out of the gloom of the building into the gloom outside. It didn’t look promising but it wasn’t quite raining yet. He linked arms with his wife as they walked down the steps of the City Hall, turning right down Napier Street towards the multistorey car park. They walked quickly; there was some kind of disturbance outside the hall, a demonstration of some kind held back beyond metal barriers by police in high-vis jackets. There was shouting and waving of fists and enraged expressions. They hurried as the noise became louder.
Drinking water from a plastic bottle, Jake sat in the room that had been set aside.
‘Weekend off?’ said Chris, one of the drivers.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Jake with a rueful grin. ‘We going, then?’
‘Take your time.’
‘It’s all right. I need to get moving. Onwards and upwards.’ He picked up the suit carrier in which he had carefully packed his clothes and they made their way down into the sub-basement, with Phil, the other driver, going ahead and giving the all-clear along the route. Phil took the wheel of the minibus while Chris sat in the passenger seat. Jake climbed into the back, behind the darkened glass.
‘Bit of a demo on,’ said Phil. ‘Britain First thugs, apparently. We’ll go round the other way.’ He navigated the minibus smoothly around the pillars and up the ramp. The security guard operated the switch to open the garage door, which rattled sedately to allow a view of the street and then the grey sky. Phil nudged forward and the door wound down slowly, with a steely finality. He eased out on to the street, looked each way and was about to turn right towards the inner ring road when he said, ‘Uh-oh.’
To the left Jake could see five young men running down the side street. They were in pursuit of someone who at first was behind a lamp post and not visible. Then he saw them: two smartly dressed figures with linked arms making their way awkwardly towards the minibus, turning in fear at their pursuers.
‘Bollocks,’ said Chris. ‘Last thing we need. Better back up.’
Phil drove quickly on to the street and then engaged reverse gear. The gearbox shrieked as Phil sped backwards, one hand on the wheel, head turned to see where they were going.
‘That’ll do,’ said Chris, and they braked abruptly to a halt.
‘You stay in the van,’ said Jake to Phil.
‘We’re supposed to keep you –’ said Phil.
‘Stay in the driver’s seat,’ insisted Jake as he slid open the side door.
They had already knocked them to the floor by the time Chris and Jake were there, and were kicking them. One of the men, maybe in his late twenties, double-chinned, crew-cut, with lazy, hard eyes, looked up. ‘Aye-aye. What the fuck’s up here? Who are you? International fucking rescue?’
Chris offered no reply but the man was shortly on his back, rolling and bleeding profusely from the centre of his face. Jake grabbed the next man and took his legs from beneath him with a sharp, well-placed kick. He took the man’s right arm and wrested it behind his back, pushing upwards until the man groaned loudly, while pressing his face into the gritty surface of the pavement. The only judgement now was whether to dislocate the man’s shoulder. He decided it wasn’t necessary. It was difficult, however, to suppress the urge to push until he felt the give and heard the crack, to pummel, to let the blood and the adrenaline flow, to feel the exhilaration of letting it all go and taking everything out on this unfortunate individual. The other men – boys, really, these – were already backing away as Chris advanced, half an eye on their prone, out-of-action comrade who was trying to blink back his senses.
The boys began to run, but coming towards them were their own friends, who had just noticed the commotion.
Chris gathered up the elderly couple and ushered them quickly into the back of the minibus. Before releasing his own grip, Jake told his man quietly, ‘Lie there until we’re gone. I can get rougher. Be aware.’ He stood and, while Chris watched for further threats, climbed into the back of the minibus.
Chris jumped into the passenger seat and Phil pulled away smoothly. ‘Left a bit of a mess back there,’ he said. ‘Which first? Cop shop or hospital?’
Jake found himself facing Mr and Mrs Masoud. The husband was shaking uncontrollably and his face was bruised. He brought a crisply ironed handkerchief to his face to wipe away the sweat, the dirt and the tears. At length he raised his eyes to Jake and blinked in shock. Jake nodded. Mrs Masoud said, with surprising calm, to Phil, ‘Neither. We don’t want to cause any trouble.’
11
They sat in the Masouds’ comfortable lounge. The minibus was parked at the rear of the house and Chris was on his mobile phone in the hall explaining, in tones that were quiet but unmistakably those of the supplicant, what had happened.
‘Please. We don’t want the police to be involved,’ Mrs Masoud had repeated when they reached the house.
‘I’ll try to get this straightened out discreetly,’ said Chris.
Mrs Masoud made sweet tea and disappeared upstairs with her husband to change from their creased and dirty clothes.
When they returned, Jake asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘We’ll have to be,’ said Mr Masoud. ‘We have to be at the inquiry when it reconvenes,’ he added almost plaintively.
‘I know,’ said Jake. ‘But these people …’
‘What?’
‘It’s all so unfortunate.’
There was a pause.
‘It was you, then,’ said Mr Masoud quietly.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘The man behind the screen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ He looked genuinely perplexed.
‘For everything.’
‘Ah yes.’ Mr Masoud appraised him for a long while. ‘Why do you do what you do?’
‘I, I …’
‘I don’t mean to be aggressive. I’m curious. It’s a strange profession.’
‘Over time you forget how strange. You think it’s normal. You lose your perspective. It makes sense when you’re inside.’ He looked at his cup. ‘I liked the idea of doing something worthwhile. Something purposeful. I liked the idea of the thrill, I suppose. And the notion of secrets. The real answer is more prosaic. I applied for a lot of things when I came back from travelling after u
niversity. It was the best option at the time. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘We shouldn’t be talking about this. Not with what just happened to you.’
‘No, I’m interested. Has it given you what you were looking for?’
‘No. The excitement is just terror, in small segments, surrounded by a lot of routine. You feel elated when you do something well. Secrets can be depressing, too. You learn things about the world, people you previously respected, that disillusion you. Half the time you’re being lied to and the other half you’re unable to use what you’ve learned. I wanted to do something with meaning …’ He became silent. ‘What about your family? How are you coping?’
‘We’re not,’ said Mrs Masoud firmly. ‘But that’s to be expected.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The inquiry. Is it …?’
‘Helping? Not really.’
‘It’s not what we expected,’ said Mr Masoud. ‘We thought we’d get closer to the truth. We thought we’d find the answer.’
‘Perhaps there is no answer,’ said Mrs Masoud. ‘Perhaps that is the answer.’
‘You must feel anger.’
‘We do,’ she replied. ‘Not as much anger as sorrow, but we do.’
‘Then you must want those responsible for it all identified.’
‘Those responsible blew themselves up along with the others in the railway station. Do you feel responsible?’
‘I do.’
‘It’s right that you should. You people aren’t supposed to let this kind of thing happen, especially when you know all about it.’
‘If we had known all about it …’ Jake pointed out.
Mr Masoud stared at him with an intensity Jake could not divine. He imagined it must be loathing. Mr Masoud said, ‘We’re looking for a resolution. An explanation.’
There isn’t an explanation, Jake thought. However hard you search for it, in an inquiry or elsewhere. There is no solution. ‘I wish I could help.’
A Fatal Game Page 12
