He typed in an alphanumeric code based on chapters from the Medinan surahs of the Qur’an, a mnemonic he had committed to memory when he was first recruited into Omar Khadir’s action cell. To anyone else, the numbers would have been meaningless, but to an operative of Al Sayf, they were a beacon, a way to reach out to the brethren.
A data window on the screen of the PC told him the connection had been made, and Amarah heard a click from the headset. He raised it to his mouth, but now the moment was upon him, he wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I am here,’ he began. ‘Jadeed Amarah, by His grace and favour, peace be upon Him. I have escaped from the Americans and I am ready to return to the war . . . I . . .’ He trailed off, losing momentum. Was someone listening at this moment? Or was he shouting into the wind, his words being recorded by some distant machine for recovery by a man who would never come? ‘I did not abandon my oath,’ he said, suddenly angry. ‘Did you abandon me?’
The line clicked again and an indicator on the data window blinked from green to red. He had been disconnected.
Amarah tossed the handset across the room with an angry snarl, the sudden rush of fury coming from out of nowhere. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to hear on the other end of the line – Khadir’s sonorous voice, his commander welcoming him back into the fold? – but it wasn’t silence. He felt alone, and hollow inside as he struggled to process the churn of his emotions. Slowly, his directionless anger began to solidify into something else. Determination.
If he was on his own . . . then so be it. He would not seek out new orders and wait to be told what to do. Jadeed Amarah would take things into his own hands.
The folding door opened with a rattle and he looked up to see the Britisher standing there, his face drawn and suspicious. ‘What are you up to in here? You’d better not be trying to give us the slip. Not if you want your bloody payday.’
Amarah got up, straightening as he did so. ‘No. We have an agreement. I will honour it, as long as your masters do the same.’
The other man folded his arms. ‘All right, then. So now it’s your game. How do we get to Sood? And just so you know, there’s a clock on this now.’
He smiled thinly, his mind already racing with the possibilities of how he could turn this situation to his greater advantage. ‘It is simple. We will walk in through his front door.’
*
‘I told you what would happen if you wasted time,’ Ramaas’s words boomed through the echoing space of the workshop.
The bomb-maker flinched at the sound of his voice and dropped the soldering iron he was holding. Sood turned to him, trying to recover his composure as Ramaas approached, with Guhaad at his side. ‘I am doing no such thing!’ insisted the old man, and his face fell in sorrow. ‘What more do you want from me? I am not as young as I was, and your thugs barely let me sleep . . .’
He ignored Sood’s complaints and his gaze raked over the results of the old man’s work. ‘We’ve been here too long,’ said Ramaas, almost to himself. ‘We need to finish and move on.’ He glanced at Guhaad, his face darkening. ‘Too long away from home. People will start to question my absence.’
Guhaad read the words like a command, and he pulled his gun, aiming it at Sood, letting the barrel drop toward the old man’s knees. ‘Does he need his legs to do his labour?’
Sood’s lined face stiffened in defiance. ‘I am not afraid of you!’
Ramaas moved to the open case on the workbench, running his hand over its metallic innards. ‘This is fine work. Even I cannot tell the difference.’ He glanced over at the vials of radioactive chemicals that had been brought to them by the idiot Kawal’s so-called ‘contacts’. Sood’s grandson had proven useful for that, if little else. With the fluid inserted into the dummy weapons, anyone running a check of the inner components with a radiation detector would get an alarmingly plausible reading back from the case. Enough to cloud the waters, Ramaas told himself.
He was considering ending the agreement with the bomb-maker when the grandson dashed into the garage. ‘Yo, we got a problem.’ Kawal panted and waved his hand, the thick gold bracelets around his wrist jangling together.
‘Explain yourself,’ demanded Ramaas.
‘Someone is here. For him.’ Kawal pointed at his grandfather. ‘Wants to see the old prick. Says he won’t leave until he does.’ He described a gaunt Saudi who had come to the mansion’s gate out of nowhere and demanded entry. He had two companions with him, an African woman in a hijab and a white man, probably a European.
‘And you knew nothing of this?’ Ramaas eyed the younger man. ‘You told me you knew this city, and all the comings and goings! I do not like surprises.’
‘I will dispose of them,’ offered Guhaad. He was getting bored with tormenting the hostage staff and becoming increasingly quick to offer violent solutions to every circumstance.
Ramaas was considering letting his war dog do just that when Kawal took a breath and started talking again, staring at his grandfather. ‘This guy, you know what he says to me? He says, Tell the Baker the man who murdered him is here. What the fuck does that mean, huh?’
All the colour drained from Jalsa Sood’s face. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, no.’
Ramaas knew what it meant. Aboard the cargo ship that had brought them to Dubai, he made Neven Kurjak tell him absolutely everything that was known about Sood, up to and including the stories of the bomb-maker’s faked death. But until now, the details of exactly how that had happened were a mystery. ‘This is the assassin?’ He loomed over the old man, daring him to lie about it. ‘Who is he? Why is he here? Did you summon him?’
‘No, I swear it!’ Sood shook his head frantically. ‘He . . . His name is Jadeed Amarah. The last I heard of him, he was arrested by the Americans . . . He was part of a plot to attack their president in Washington!’
Ramaas rubbed a hand over his chin. He had seen the news reports. ‘The Americans said it was Al Sayf.’ The warlord recalled the Al Shabaab militants in Puntland cursing the names of their distant brethren for failing in a glorious mission. Ramaas thought otherwise; from what he knew of Al Sayf, they were to be respected for their daring in striking at the heart of such a powerful enemy. ‘This man Amarah is one of them?’
Sood gave a nod. ‘We . . . had an agreement.’
‘Why is he here?’ Ramaas repeated. ‘I will see if you lie to me.’
‘I told you, I don’t know!’ Sood retorted. ‘I worked with Amarah’s cell in the past. I helped them with some designs a few years ago, and that’s all! If he is here, he wants something from me.’
Ramaas glanced at Guhaad, weighing the options. He had no desire to make a new enemy, not now when he had so many other things to take care of. Killing this unexpected visitor would be the expedient option, but it could have consequences that would jeopardise the warlord’s plans. Drawing the attention of Al Sayf had too much potential to interfere with God’s wishes. At length, he gave Guhaad a shake of the head and looked back at Sood. ‘You will go and talk to this man. You will make him go away.’
‘I will,’ Sood promised, and he almost bowed as he rushed off.
‘Make yourself useful.’ Ramaas turned on Kawal. ‘Watch him.’
‘Hey, man, I got this.’ Kawal’s face split in an eager grin, and he strode after the old man.
Guhaad made a negative noise, deep in his throat. ‘The old fool is lying. He must have sent a message out, called for help from this man Amarah!’
‘Perhaps,’ allowed Ramaas, and with that he made a choice. He slammed shut the lid on the open suitcase. ‘It is time to leave. Tell Bidar and Macanay to find vehicles. We have what we need to move forward with our mission.’
A feral smile split Guhaad’s face, like a knife emerging from a sheath. ‘We can’t leave any witnesses.’
Ramaas nodded again. ‘Do it quietly.’
*
The receiving room in the mansion was bigger than the apartment that Lucy Keyes had grown up in, and
it was furnished as though there had been a closing-down sale on shiny pink marble and gold paint.
Swamped in the shapeless black folds of an ankle-length abayat dress, Lucy walked with small steps the requisite number of paces behind the men as they entered. Amarah found himself a couch to sit on, and Marc hesitated, glancing back at her even though she didn’t meet his eyes. She kept her hands folded and her head bowed, and he got the message. Lucy couldn’t break character with her ‘Lula’ cover, not now they were right on top of the target. The Brit walked around the room, looking up at the high ceiling.
Lucy scoped out the space from the corner of her eye, watchful without being obvious about it. The hexagonal room had shadowed depths that were too dark to peer into, with arched openings that led away down shady corridors and windows barred by ornate wooden shutters. The way they had come in led to a covered path and back to the main gate, another door directly opposite to the mansion’s interior. A couple of security cameras inside plastic domes over the lintels covered all angles of the chamber. She could smell orange blossom, and while the room was cooler than the blazing heat outside, there was still a heaviness in the air. The breath of a dry desert wind made the wooden blinds mutter and creak. Lucy tasted it on her lips, like dust.
Amarah was watching her. He’d been doing that more and more since they arrived in Dubai. Every time his attention wasn’t on something else, his gaze drifted back in her direction. She adjusted the thick glasses balanced on her nose and deliberately let her face go slack, breathing through her open mouth and maintaining a vacant look.
If Amarah made the connection between ‘Lula’ and the woman who had helped the US Secret Service bring him down, this operation would be blown. Lucy ran through the options in her mind. All of them ended in her putting Jadeed Amarah down for good. If it came to it, that wasn’t something she would have a problem with.
Two men entered from the other door, both of them of Indian extraction. She recognised Jalsa Sood immediately from the photos of him as a younger man. Despite the weathering of his face and his silver-white hair, it was undoubtedly him. He seemed off balance to her, but then that was to be expected. Being confronted out of the blue by the man who had helped convince the world you were dead would do that for anyone.
Sood’s companion had a variation on the face Lucy had seen in the surveillance photos of the bomb-maker from the 1980s, and that told her that he was family. But beyond that he was nothing like the old man. Jalsa was dressed conservatively in an expensive but understated thawb, while the younger man was wearing an over-styled designer tracksuit and enough gold to sink him.
Sood greeted Amarah in halting Arabic, then switched to English as he took in Marc and Lucy. ‘This is . . . very unexpected,’ he began, forcing a smile as he bowed to them. ‘Welcome to my home. I am Vishal Daan, you have already met my grandson, Kawal.’
‘Hey.’ Kawal barely glanced at Marc, but he gave Lucy the kind of lingering appraisal that made her immediately want to take a shower. She simulated a demure smile that only encouraged him.
For his part, Amarah was looking over the old man in a similarly predatory manner, but for different reasons. After their greeting, he dropped back onto the couch and gave a languid nod. ‘Let’s dispense with the lies. They both know who you really are, Jalsa.’
‘Ah.’ His face fell, but then Sood recovered and he sat down on another couch. He picked up a brass bell from a low table and shook it, sending a trilling ring echoing away from them. ‘The maid will bring us tea,’ he explained.
‘Hospitable as always,’ Amarah replied, then he looked up at Marc. ‘Here he is. The Baker. Alive and well, as promised.’
The younger man turned from eyeing Lucy to glare at Amarah. ‘Yo, did you bring some shit to our door, man?’ He tensed, squaring off for violence. She had seen the exact same body language a thousand times on the New York street corners where she had spent her teens. ‘What the fuck do you want here, huh?’
‘Kawal!’ Sood shouted him into silence, his cheeks darkening. ‘Forgive my grandson, he is ungracious . . .’ The old man took a breath and his next words hardened. ‘But he makes a fair point. Who are these people?’
‘You’re famous, Jalsa. They wanted to meet you.’
Sood stiffened, and his eyes darted around the room. He was afraid, that was clear, but Lucy got the sense that there was something else to it. She glanced at Marc and a silent communication passed between them. He’s hiding something.
‘Sir, the organisation I work for would like to employ you as a consultant.’ Marc opened with the approach that Rubicon’s behavioural-modelling team had said would be the best option. ‘This would be on a purely technical level, of course. You would be well compensated.’
‘No. No.’ Sood gave a weak shake of the head and looked away, briefly showing his age in a flash of vulnerability. ‘Where is that maid? I need something to drink . . .’
He seemed frail and tired. For a moment, Lucy could almost imagine that she wasn’t looking at a man who had built hundreds of bombs that had claimed thousands of innocent lives. Almost.
Kawal glared at Marc. ‘How much money you talkin’ about? Would have to be a lot, or else you can get the fuck out.’
‘No!’ Sood got to his feet. ‘I am not interested! I want you to leave!’
Amarah gave a shrug and stood up. ‘Well. I told you I’d bring you to him. I never said he would like it.’ He sniffed the air. ‘You will still pay me.’
‘Pay you, bitch?’ Kawal was getting up a head of stream now, and he stalked across the room toward the terrorist. ‘Man, get lost before you get hurt! You know who we are with now?’
Sood spoke over his grandson. ‘You are silent for so long, Jadeed, and then you come to me, to my home, in the middle of the day? You bring strangers to my door?’
Amarah bristled at his tone. ‘It was necessary.’
‘For you? But not for Al Sayf.’ Sood shook his head again. ‘You are not here with their blessing! You are trading my safety for gold from these foreigners!’
Marc held up a hand. ‘Please, there’s no need for this. We can come to an arrangement –’
But Sood wasn’t listening, and Lucy saw the same rising anger in him that Kawal showed. He jabbed a finger at Amarah. ‘Al Sayf do not exist anymore! The Americans are rooting them out and killing them for what you did in Washington!’
‘That is a lie!’ Amarah spat back. ‘They are . . . regrouping.’ Suddenly, the terrorist appeared uncertain of his own reply. ‘Khadir will return . . .’
‘As he did for you?’ Sood retorted. ‘You were left to rot in a cell! What does that tell you?’
‘It tells me that I am owed,’ growled Amarah, and he looked toward Marc. ‘This man is a mercenary in the employ of the Combine. You know who they are, Jalsa. They are far richer than you!’ He sneered. ‘I have a deal with them. I have made good on it.’
‘You have been lied to, my friend.’ The new voice came from behind Lucy, and she spun, tensing up as part of the shadows detached itself from the gloomy corner of the room and came into the light that spilled through the wooden slats.
The dark and thickset man smiled like a killer, flexing his hands as he strolled toward the group. Abur Ramaas, thought Lucy, as his black and damaged eye swept the room. That can’t be anyone else.
The colour drained from Marc’s face and Ramaas saw it, chuckling to himself. ‘I like listening to your conversation,’ he said. ‘So little truth there. But this least of all.’ He aimed a finger at Marc like it was a gun. ‘This is not a Combine man. He is police.’ Ramaas sounded out the word, long and low, then met the Brit’s gaze. ‘You followed me from Croatia. How did you do that, policeman?’
‘You’re hard to miss,’ said Marc, after a moment.
‘What?’ Amarah’s face creased in a terrible instant of naked fury, and he spat out a string of curses. ‘What did you say?’ Then he wasn’t looking at Marc or Ramaas anymore. He was glaring a
t Lucy. A slow wave of recognition came over him at long last, becoming anger and loathing. He rushed at her, and before she could react, he grabbed at her hijab and her fake glasses, tearing them away. ‘You?!’ he spat at her, dragging a pistol from the folds of his robes and aiming it in her direction. ‘Worthless American whore!’
‘Surprise, motherfucker.’ She dropped the act with a shrug, her defiance rushing back in to fill the void and washing away the timid ‘Lula’ in a blink. ‘And here was me thinking you were too damn stupid to notice.’ She spat out the pads that filled her cheeks and showed him a sneer.
‘What the –?’ Amarah’s gun draw kicked off a cascade of swearing from Kawal and he pulled a weapon of his own from his belt, a shiny gold-plated Sig Sauer that looked more like a toy than a real firearm. He swung the weapon back and forth, unsure whom he should be aiming at. ‘Back off!’ Kawal’s eyes widened in fear.
Amarah took a step aside. He knew if he fired, no matter what his target was, Kawal would light him up.
‘Now it is interesting,’ said Ramaas, amused by the turn of events.
‘Tell the boy to drop his weapon,’ said Amarah.
‘This asshole brought the cops!’ Kawal shouted. ‘We gotta smoke them!’ He gritted his teeth and snarled. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’
Ramaas’s mood shifted like the wind over water, suddenly becoming thunderous. ‘Then do it!’ He pointed at Sood. ‘You want to be a brigand? Show me you possess the will. The old man is useless now. End him, if you have an ounce of strength.’
‘What?’ Kawal’s hand flexed around the grip of his pistol, and Lucy kept very, very still. The younger man was totally out of his depth, and his bravado had given him nowhere to go but down.
‘Shoot him!’ barked Ramaas. ‘But you won’t! Because you are as useless as he is!’
Kawal exploded in a torrent of swearing, suddenly swinging the Sig toward Ramaas. ‘Fuck you! You don’t tell me what to do, you son-of-a-bitch! I don’t answer to you – I can do whatever the goddamn hell I want! You are in my house now, this is Kawal Sood’s house and I don’t ever –’
Exile Page 26
