‘Nearly. Do us a favour hun - say “Tommy Robinson” when we get to Paris.’
‘Tommy Robinson when we get to Paris.’
‘No dipstick, I meant remind me to call him when we get there.’
‘Oh. OK. Sing me a song hun.’
‘Hmm. OK. Here’s one.’
She snuggled onto my chest. Oh brilliant, now I couldn’t move.
‘What’s the song Riz babes?’
I looked down at her and murmured
‘Brazil, when hearts were entertaining June
We stood beneath an amber moon
And softly murmured “someday soon”
We kissed and clung together,
Then, tomorrow was another day
The morning found me miles away
With still a million things to say;
Now, when twilight dims the sky above
Recalling thrills of our love…’
She was asleep again, and that smile was still on her face.
Had I done a good thing? I supposed I had. I’d got her back. But the pair of us seemed to attract trouble.
I left the compartment and made my way forward to the bar. It was a chintzy little affair, a semicircular bar lit from below, with saucers of peanuts and I had no idea what. I felt like I’d accidentally walked into a Fifties science-fiction film. “Riz Sabir in Forbidden Planet.” I decided I was too tired to care. I collapsed onto a barstool. To my left a giant moving-map display was tracking the plane’s course.
The bartender came over, stood before me and raised an eyebrow. I looked at him.‘I know. What d’you recommend boss?’
‘To sleep?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Are you Muslim, Sir? If you are, we do some mean mocktails.’
I had to laugh, so I did. ‘Mocktails. Good one. I am Muslim, but I’m one of those Muslims that has had a bad week at the office. OK. Fix me a gin and tonic and don’t skimp on the gin.’
He nodded approval and got busy.
A middle-aged man in a sharp grey suit plonked himself down onto the barstool next to me. The suit was good, and well-cut, but he looked like a soldier in civvies. He gave me a thousand-yard-stare and then smiled. And then he spoke in a voice that sounded like gravel being poured onto a road.
‘Riz Sabir ? Enchanté. Je m’apelle Tchéky, Capitaine dans la Direction de la Protection et de la Sécurité de la Défense. DPSD for short, part of our Military Intelligence. We shall be working together when we reach Paris.’
Work never switched off. I bet the Colonel had set this up. I toasted him with my freshly-arrived G and T. ‘Salaams, Tchéky. Turkish name, innit?’
He nodded and chinked his own glass of spirits against my glass.
‘D’accord. Salams and Hosgeldin.’
We laughed together. I liked this guy already.
‘Parlez-vouz Francais, Riz ?’
‘Er… non. My other half does, but she’s zonked out at the moment.’
‘Zonked?’
‘Chinstrapped. Out cold.’
He just looked at me.
‘Asleep, mate.’
‘Ah. Eh bien, the boys will drink, non?’
‘Plan. Right. Tell me about what we’ll be getting up to in Paris and I’ll tell you what my other half found out.’
We talked into the dawn.
25
1st October
Another morning and another motorcade. Our three-ship convoy of black Renault vans roared down the E19 from Charles De Gaulle International into Paris, with no subtlety whatsoever. Our vehicles had more guards and more firepower onboard than The Expendables. They were in plainclothes but were all wearing balaclavas, orange armbands with “GIGN” on them, and carrying G36 assault rifles, in a typical French display of “this is what we do, deal with it”.
On the drop-down seats in front of me our new mate Tchéky was showing Bang-Bang some photos from a file. They were talking in French and she was looking at blowup photos. Every now and then they’d take a good look at a photo and either dismiss it or talk to him and he’d file it. She was very, very pale. Tchéky had caught my eye some time back on the road and gripped my arm. He knew. ‘Where we go, I know the hotel manager. He is proud to serve the Fifth Republic. Nothing will be a problem. Comprenez?’
I comprenezed.
I sat back in my seat and tried to take in Paris. I only really knew the city from films like Ronin and The Bourne Identity. God I felt like such a chav. I tried to look for something I might recognise, like the Eiffel Tower. Ah. Up ahead was something I’d seen in films. The Arc de Triomphe. We went round the massive roundabout the wrong way and the traffic scattered like chickens.
Tchéky tapped my knee. ‘Regardez. Avenue Des Champs Elysées. Nearly there.’
Our convoy turned right on a boulevard and pulled in onto a parking area. We’d arrived. The CP teams dismounted and checked the area, weapons ready. Tchéky walked us through double doors into… a big, plush hotel.
‘Four Seasons George Cinq. Best hotel in Paris.’ He waved at the reception. ‘Stevie! Viens, nous sommes arrives!’
A man came out from behind the main reception. He was in a pin-sharp charcoal suit and he gripped Tchéky’s arm and shook his hand. ‘Tchéky. And these are our English guests?’
‘Oui. Les foux Musulmans Anglais, Riz et Holly, qui viennent d’Afghanistan.’
Stevie came over and shook our hands. ‘I am Stevie. I am the hotel manager. Tchéky and I… we go back. At your service.’
I dropped my bag and I let the tension flood out of me. Bang-Bang leant on my shoulder. We should be OK. ‘Hello Stevie.’
Stevie smiled and two busboys made to pick up our bags. I gave them a look and a slow shake of the head and they stopped in their tracks. Stevie spoke to them.
We picked up our bags.
‘Please follow me. I’ll show you to your suite myself.’
Bang-Bang nudged me. ‘Suite?’
I shrugged. ‘Let’s go with le flow.’
Tchéky nodded at us. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He disappeared and his CP team formed up on him and they piled into the black vans and roared away. I suddenly realised that me and Bang-Bang were in Pashtun clothing, she still had that massive nosering and ear-chain in, and every guest in the lobby was looking at us. Welcome to Paris.
Stevie took us to the seventh floor, stalked down the corridor and swiped his card on a door.
‘The Empire Suite. Overlooking the Tour Eiffel and the Charles Garnier Opera House. I’ll leave you to it. Just dial down to reception for anything you need and tell them I said so.’
Stevie left. We looked around. This was like some mad Stanley Kubrick set. A bust of Napoleon glowered blankly at me. Below some ruched curtains was a classic writing desk. All the furniture seemed to be classic 18th Century. The double bed was very Hans Christian Andersen. I sat on it and thought about the Princess and the Pea.
Bang-Bang had opened the balcony windows. She was looking at the skyline and then did a little twirl out in the open. ‘We’re in Paris!’
She then promptly puked into a plant pot. She straightened up and wiped her mouth. ‘Babe. I’m going to bed for a bit.’
I tucked her in and kissed her. ‘You stay here and safe my doll. I’ve got some shopping to do.’
I went back down to the lobby with the four 500-Euro notes I’d retrieved from my old leather belt and got some unremarkable clothes from the hotel shops. Sweater, t-shirt, combats, a pair of black Nike Air Maxes. I made my way back upstairs and shaved, showered, changed and finally I felt less like the main thing for Parisians to stare at.
I went back downstairs to the lobby and logged onto Facebook with my BlackBerry. In my messages was Teacher’s list of essentials for going cold turkey. I got some paper and a pen from the concierge and wrote it out. As I transcribed I cast a discreet eye round the lobby. Tchéky would have people in here. I started to play the I-Spy game. OK… an Arabian gentleman and his wives drinking coffee… possible. An
old couple, looking to be Americans… dunno. Too conspicuous. A young couple who seemed to be arguing quietly and furiously about something. I laughed to myself. An African-looking member of staff tidying some tables. Probably. I looked to see if I could see the usual skintone-coloured moulded earpieces or the holster-carried body radios that would denote a covert watch team. Nothing yet. I looked right. There was a young man in a leather jacket trying to chat up the female staff on the reception and not getting very far. Yep. Pinged.
Ten minutes later I had a shopping list and I left the hotel lobby and hit the boulevard on a mission. The Paris scent of baking bread and scooter exhaust hit me. I looked left and right. I had absolutely no idea where to look. Maybe they had Tescos here. And maybe I could learn French on-the-go, who knew?
The female half of the young couple was standing next to me and giving me a wry look.
‘Shopping, Monsieur Sabir? I’m Marianne. Also DPSD. Come on, we’ll go together.’
My shoulders sagged. These guys were slick.
‘Hello Marianne. Your other half, he’s also…?’
‘He is. He’ll be watching out for your petite amie.’
‘That’s good. He armed?’
‘We both are, don’t you worry about that. Come on. I’ll show you the sights.’
We walked down the boulevard past one of those classic birdcage luggage trolleys and some staff fussing round a new arrival. I studied my new chaperone. Marianne was neither tall or short, pretty or ugly, blonde or brunette. Her clothes were a la mode but not too flashy, in line with every other female on the street. You could sit next to her on a train for an hour and not know she was there. And that was what made her dangerous.
I showed Marianne the shopping list and she raised her eyebrows. ‘OK, so we need a supermarket and a chemists. She’s got it bad then yes?’
‘Yes. You’ve been told our story I take it?’
‘The whole detail has. Tchéky talked us through it two days ago when we got the word you’d got out. That was some good work. You must love her very much to fly to Afghanistan and fall into a prison to get her out.’
‘I do, very much. Our families engaged us to be married years ago. Mirpuri tradition. It’s the done thing. I’m from a Salafi background, and we used to hate that stuff, all that marrying cousins shit, but Bang-Bang is Bang-Bang, and I’m me, and… what can I say. Actually that reminds me, Marianne, she was always ticking at me for not getting her a ring yet and making it formal. I’ll put that on the to-do list.’
She nodded and then we walked in silence for a while. Around us the dog-walkers of Paris seemed to be out in force. We passed a Bar Tabac and Marianne bought a copy of Le Monde and a pack of cigarettes.
She lit one and offered me another. I smiled a no.
‘So, you were in al-Qaeda, Riz?’
I felt a tension in the air. I couldn’t lie.
‘Yes, Marianne, I was. And now I’m in KTS.’
‘Ah. KTS is British Ministry of Defence?’
‘Kinda. Bit muddled. A bit like your Service d’Action Civique.’ I was referring to the Gaullist party’s old militia wing.
She laughed. ‘OK. I see. And your petite copine, she’s…’
‘Blackeyes. J’amaat Al-hur al-Ayn. They’re a bit like your Supermarket Crazies.’
‘I see again. Wow, Supermarket Crazies… that name takes me back. OK look, here’s a famous sight for you-’
She pointed at a building across the boulevard. ‘That’s the Club Crazy Horse.’
‘Oh, don’t tell Bang-Bang, Marianne, we’ll never be able to get her out of the place!’
‘Yes. Burlesque, I take it.’
‘Indeed. Your English is better than mine, Marianne. Study in England?’
‘I did, at the SOAS, MA in Islamic Societies and Cultures.’OK now she had my attention. I wondered whether Tchéky had put her onto my guard duty with this in mind. Probably.
Marianne consulted the shopping list again. ‘NyQuil also known as Night Nurse, bottled water, vitamin C capsules, Niacin, bananas, Heinz tomato soup, milk of magnesia… peanut butter, sliced bread, Ibuprofen, Valerian Root, mouthwash, Pepto-Bismol, Gatorade… what is Gatorade?’
‘It’s an electrolyte powder or drink. Bit like Lucozade, remember that?’
‘Ah! Yes. I do. From the SU Café. Hey Riz, you know the Service has doctors… we can send for one to bring opiates, methadone…’
I shook my head. ‘No, absolutely not. That’ll just make it worse.’
She shrugged. ‘OK, this won’t be easy, but we can do this. Follow me. We’re going shopping.’
Several hours later we’d got pretty much everything on the list, plus a few other items for something I was planning. I left Marianne behind in the lobby with her argumentative “husband” and took the lift to the seventh floor with two bags of essentials. I struggled my way in using the swipe card. And dropped the bags to the carpet.
We had a guest. Colonel David Mahoney, British Army Intelligence Corps, SIW (Retd.) was standing on the balcony glaring out over Paris like the evil shade of Wellington.
I looked to the big double bed, which was now a battlefield of complimentary towels and screwed up pieces of tissue paper. Bang-Bang waved weakly at me from under the duvet and mumbled ‘I tried to make him a cup of tea but we haven’t got any PG Tips. Or proper milk.’
I looked at the small of my bosses’ back. ‘Well I hope he made you one doll.’
‘He did. I threw it up. French just don’t have the ingredients.’
The Colonel turned. ‘Riz, my boy!’
And he stalked over and gathered me in a crushing bear-hug. Then put me down and regarded me for a second.
Finally he spoke. ‘Afghanistan…is a shithole. Well done. Bloody good effort.’
‘Yeah.’ I sat on the bed and ruffled Bang-Bang’s hair. Her nose was running and she was deathly pale. I held her shoulder. She was shivering but she smiled at me and winked.
I plugged my BlackBerry into charge on our new two-pin adapter before I forgot. Now that the Boss was here, anything could happen and probably would.
A knock came to the door. I opened it a fraction. Tchéky was standing there with a bunch of flowers.
‘Tchéky, you shouldn’t have.’
‘I didn’t. It’s for cette jolie coquine.’
We convened over the printouts and a new sheaf of satellite photos that Tchéky had brought. Bang-Bang shuffled over with a whole load of tissue paper and the duvet round her shoulders. She looked the flowers, smiled, then at us. ‘Guys, just pretend I have a really bad dose of flu, OK? You’re not going to catch smack… right, what we got?’
Tchéky spoke first. ‘So you should know. DPSD has carried out surveys in order to assess the impact of the far-right in the barracks. We found… a proportion. Ten per cent vote for Front National. We have a problem in the forces with this… extremisme.’
OK. We nodded. Tchéky and the Colonel then spread their respective printouts over the table like demented card dealers and looked at us. Tchéky spoke again. ‘Holly. We were fortunate enough to have a Helios satellite over the facility every day, the whole time you were there. Please look and tell me what you see.’
Bang-Bang picked up a magnifying glass that the Colonel had packed, and studied blowup after blowup. She was muttering to herself in Urdu and scratching her arms. Tchéky was staring quizzically at the tattoos on her arm and hand. He raised an eyebrow at me. I rolled my eyes in reply.
Finally she tapped four and laid them out.
‘Look. This one. Men around the container, doors open. Photo two. Container closed. Photo three. Green army truck backing up to load it. Photo four. Container gone. Four days, it’s loaded and gone. Tchéky Abu Jaan, I’m sure your people can get measurements of that truck and work out what make it is?’
‘Ahead of you, mademoiselle. Our IMINT people tell me it their databases say it is a Dutch army Volvo truck from on base, probably a model FL12.’
The Colon
el then spread a new sheaf of transcripts and graph analysis charts across the table. ‘Immediately prior to the move of the container, NATO tracked a spike in chatter on right-wing extremist sites. The consensus is they’ve brought that container to Paris and are planning a hit on a major event.’
The Colonel and Tchéky glanced at each other.
‘And the NATO summit on countering right-wing extremism takes place in 48 hours time. In Paris.’
Tchéky then spread the photos he’d had before in the van. Mugshots of a dozen or so men. ‘These are the NATO guys we have as personnes d’intérêt… Holly you saw three, no?’
Bang-Bang nodded. ‘I did.’
Tchéky looked at all of us. ‘We think these guys are all in Paris right now. We have everyone out looking for them. Some are demobiliser, the rest, AWOL. Something is going to happen.’
I had to ask. ‘What about the truck? I’m guessing it was resprayed and replated?’
Tchéky gave me an apologetic raise of his eyebrows. ‘I will never lie to you, Riz. We lost it. I can only hope we pick it up here, and if you have any ideas…’
We all looked at each other and shrugged. That shrug was becoming contagious.
Now it was the Colonel’s turn. ‘Riz. Have your people reported in?’
‘They have. Fuzz is making sure Duckie is OK inside the Infidels, I’m planning on getting hold of Tommy Robinson and -’
Bang-Bang raised her hand. ‘Hang on. Duckie is WHERE?’
I got out my BlackBerry and showed her the BBC video of Duckie holding the megaphone. Bang-Bang’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Holy John Q Christ on a tricycle.’ She made her unsteady way back to the bed and gulped down some painkillers.
26
2nd October
Dawn broke over the balcony. I was tapping away on the laptop. Things were happening all over and here we were. I was itching to get us back to the UK, but Bang-Bang was at her lowest ebb. The NyQuil was working and she was slumped over the bed, a remote control still in her hand. Her arm was twitching. I went and sat with her but she was out of it. Last night had not been good and I’d held her and talked her through it, helping in fruitless attempts to find anything good on the TV channels, holding her when her whole body was rattling. Around us the bottles of water, the medicine cartons, the tissue boxes were empty.
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 26
