The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  Magenta House research had revealed that the building was owned by Forest Property Services, which also owned the building occupied by the al-Sharif Students Hostel, as well as RJN Travel on Hogarth Road. Forest Property Services itself was owned by Marchand, a French investment firm based in Paris. Petra had not been surprised to learn that Marc Serra was on the board; the address had come from his private files in Paris.

  There was a small, dark passage to the right of the door that led to an abandoned garden at the rear. Apart from the basement, the building was entirely residential, although not in quite the fashion its architect would have envisaged. Housing records from the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea showed that each floor had been subdivided into two or three separate flats. The occupancy rate for the building varied. At the moment, for whatever reason, residents were few and far between.

  Petra reached the other end of the passage, which opened on to the garden. The weeds had grown so tall in their ceaseless struggle for air and light that they had successfully concealed the wall at the far end. She retreated and stopped at the door halfway along the passage. She tried the handle. It was locked but loose; the surrounding wood was rotten. She took a step back and unleashed a sharp kick. Wood splintered as the lock fractured. Using her shoulder, she forced the door open. She winced at the smell that assaulted her nostrils. It was rank, as though something had died and disintegrated inside the airless space. She waited for several seconds, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She was in a store-room; woodworm-infested chairs piled in one corner, a bicycle bereft of a wheel and chain in another, empty cardboard boxes that had once contained Hitachi TVs filling much of the remaining space. The door out of the store-room led into a short corridor that connected the two principal rooms of the Anglo-Egyptian Cargo Company.

  The room at the front was an office; a pair of desks, half a dozen plastic chairs, two ancient computers, calendars on the wall and three notice-boards containing messages that were mostly in Arabic. There was a small bathroom to one side of the room and a cupboard-sized kitchen to the other. Petra spent half an hour sifting through office documents but found nothing revealing and so turned her attention to the room at the back. Most of the merchandise that passed through the company’s hands never came close to Earls Court. It sat in warehouses at airports and docks, before being transferred by sea or by air to other warehouses at other airports and docks. She knew that Ismail Qadiq used the company for transporting his T-shirts from Cairo to London. But there were smaller consignments too and some of them had been stored in the second room, which had once been a sitting room. By the far wall, there was an old sofa. Two armchairs had been placed on top of it to create more floor-space.

  Some of the boxes were open and some were sealed, but most bore labels detailing the contents and their transportation details. It was a strange collection of goods: one hundred cartons of Winfield cigarettes; a small package containing twenty cheap Casio wristwatches; a case of Greek olive oil; two boxes of blank Scotch three-hour VHS tapes; a box full of cashmere jerseys; five crates of Coca-Cola; twenty pairs of Nike running shoes; two cases containing bottles of cleaning fluid for contact-lenses; three black bin-bags crammed full of Levi 501s; four hundred Bic lighters; a case of Glenlivet; a bulk purchase of Duracell batteries; fifteen Gucci handbags; two thousand Mates condoms; one Bang & Olufsen TV.

  ‘Import export,’ Petra murmured to herself in a tone that was stranded between contempt and admiration.

  Above the distant background murmur of the traffic, she heard a cough. Followed by metal on metal; a key searching for a lock. The door at the front, she realized. She headed for the corridor but it was too late. Someone—actually more than someone—had already entered. She would never make it to the store-room in time. She turned round. The window into the garden was barred and locked.

  Think! What do you do now? What were you taught? What is it that is supposed to be instinctive but which you seem to have forgotten?

  Different voices were talking in Arabic. They were getting closer, leaving the room in front and moving into the corridor. She tried to count them. Two, certainly, probably three. She retreated behind the sofa and fell into a crouch in the corner, behind the Bang & Olufsen packing case, before curling into a ball on her side. She tugged some moth-eaten curtain her way and pinned it to the back of the case with her knee. It would give her a little extra cover, she hoped. She pressed her left cheek to the carpet, which had once been a mass of purple and burgundy swirls but which age had reduced to a collage of dark stains. It reeked of accumulated filth, of abandonment, of the years themselves. Petra prayed the dust she was inhaling wouldn’t make her sneeze.

  Each beat of her frenzied heart made her dizzy. An image came to her. She remembered the rain, the mist, the conversation in the peat hag. Keep your breathing under control and your panic will be suppressed. She wondered where the man who had given her that advice was now. And then she focused on her lungs and heart. Gradually, her pulse began to slow.

  She saw three—then four—pairs of feet through the sofa’s legs. They all belonged to men. The conversation was loud and excitable. They began to move some of the goods around the room. Petra heard the tear of masking tape, the cough of cardboard lids being parted. Gradually, one voice assumed dominance. The other three spoke rarely. The feet remained still, apart from the occasional shuffle. A lecture, perhaps? There were other sounds which meant nothing to her, related to actions above her field of vision. Somebody was doing something with their hands.

  She fought the panic, slowly recalling how Boyd had taught her to stay still and silent for hours, if necessary, no matter how close the threat. She focused her mind on each part of her body, pictured that part relaxing into a state of total inertia, provoking a slow-down throughout the system.

  The men stayed for an hour and a half. Petra never moved, ignoring the pins-and-needles and one painful bout of cramp in her right calf. When they were gone, she waited a further ten minutes before emerging from her fetid hiding place. She massaged her calf and examined the merchandise in the room. Nothing appeared to have been removed or added but then she hadn’t had the time to examine everything in detail.

  * * *

  It is the afternoon and Frank has brought me to the National Gallery, which is a new experience for me. I don’t know anything about art and, apart from one relatively recent visit to the Tate Gallery, I have never been to a proper art museum before, so I’m surprised at how moved I am as, hand in hand, we drift past the works of Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael and Velazquez. I like the coolness and quiet of the galleries themselves. They’re calming. I gaze at the paintings and at the people looking at the paintings. Experts and amateurs alike, those in study and those in love. Like us, perhaps.

  But then, in a single dagger moment, everything changes.

  Of course, I don’t recognize him at first. He’s wearing a tatty tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His trousers are corduroy, his shirt a pale blue button-down. His hair was a little longer back then and his glasses have changed from circular to oval, but the frames remain matt black. Until now, I have only ever seen him in a suit. What confuses me, though, are not the subtle changes in his appearance but the context in which I am seeing him.

  Philip. Three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, as I recall. He used to be a regular. He was one of the bearable ones. He even used to give me small gifts from time to time. Cheap bottles of scent, or a pair of sunglasses, but nothing that cost more than his customary half-hour. He told me he worked in advertising. And he told me that he was unmarried which now looks like a lie because there is a woman standing next to him. They are talking and she’s wearing a wedding ring. She’s holding the hand of a young girl. An older boy—he might be eleven or twelve—is standing on Philip’s right and looks bored out of his mind.

  Philip. I wonder what his real name is. I wonder if he really works in advertising or whether he made up all those office-politics stories he used
to tell me while he was getting dressed.

  He feels me watching him and turns his head. Our eyes meet and his pupils dilate. I can’t see this change occur but I can feel it. He hasn’t recognized me yet but he knows he’s seen me somewhere before. I could just look away and the moment would pass but I don’t. I’ve earned this moment.

  And then he gets it. I see his body tense to rigidity. The colour drains from his face. His wife is still talking to him about the picture in front of them but he doesn’t hear a word. He can’t stop staring at me. He knows that I truly see him and that now he is the naked, vulnerable one. I imagine the inside of his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. He attempts a half-hearted smile, a peace offering of some sort, which, naturally, I reject. I continue to glare and I gently steer Frank in the direction of this unsuspecting family.

  The man formerly known as Philip urges his wife and children towards the next gallery, turning his back on me. But I don’t mind because I know that he can feel my gaze drilling into him, right between the shoulder blades. Frank is all that prevents me from introducing myself to the wife.

  For half an hour, I follow in his wake. I fill every half-glance he steals and my only regret is that I cannot see the turmoil inside his head.

  Later, as Frank and I leave the museum, he turns to me and asks if I’ve enjoyed the National Gallery. And I tell him that I had no idea it could be so rewarding.

  * * *

  Following her e-mail to Serra, Petra made two trips to Paris over the following week, the first of which was a day-trip. Serra greeted her at his apartment with lusty intent but she denied him testily, claiming she only had a couple of hours to spare. Serra had quipped that two hours was surely enough, even for a tigress like her, to which Petra had replied, ‘Perhaps we should keep our relationship on a purely professional basis until after this operation is completed.’

  He took the rejection badly which pleased her. It was a beautiful, frosty day and they took advantage of it by walking along the banks of the Seine and around the Île de la Cité. Serra wore a cashmere overcoat over a Pierre Cardin suit, Petra wore a three-quarter-length leather coat over a sweatshirt with a fading print of Iggy Pop and the words LUST FOR LIFE on the front.

  Serra said, ‘Khalil is unhappy about your financial demands. He realizes that you know that he will pay you, but half a million dollars is too much for a sleeper, no matter what they do.’

  ‘I thought Kamal Ibrahim Karim had more than one hundred million dollars.’

  ‘He does. But for an investment of five hundred thousand, he expects a better return.’

  ‘Well you haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do yet.’ Petra yawned. ‘Besides, I don’t really care whether he likes it or not. Being mercenary means I don’t have to care. It’s half a million or it’s nothing.’

  Serra put his arm around her shoulder and Petra flinched, a reaction she quickly tried to compensate for by moving closer to him and putting her own arm around his waist.

  They walked past a group of ambling tourists in silence. Then Petra said, ‘I know you’re keeping secrets but can I ask you something anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m curious. Why Malta?’

  ‘Khalil sees it as an Islamic issue.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘At the heart of Islam is the concept of the City of War and the City of Faith.’

  Petra shook her head. ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Any place where Islam rules supreme is Dar al-Imam, the City of Faith. Anywhere else is Dar al-Harb, the City of War. Islam is a constant struggle between the two. There can never be peace between the City of Faith and the City of War. One must prevail and it is the duty of every Muslim to ensure that it is the City of Faith. At least, this is Khalil’s view of Islam. Malta’s position in the middle of the Mediterranean, halfway between Africa and Europe, halfway between East and West, is more than a mere coincidence of geography. As well as being a practical crossroads, it is also deeply symbolic. We tend to view it within the loose group of Westernized countries, but Muslims consider Malta to be within the realm of Islam, which means it belongs to the City of Faith. However, despite that, ninety-eight percent of Malta’s population is Roman Catholic.’

  The significance of the location became clearer. ‘So Khalil intends to make a statement?’

  ‘He intends to do more than that. There are practical reasons for bringing the aircraft down in Malta. His people move among the Maltese freely which makes it safe for him to be there. But there is also the question of the statement. To complete a successful operation in a country that is regarded as Westernized and Roman Catholic would serve to underline the deeply-felt, historical claim that Islam has on the island. The island itself is not hugely significant, but its position is.’

  Her second trip to Paris occurred five days later. She arrived in the late afternoon and took a taxi to the rue de Rivoli. Serra greeted her with caution, unsure of which Petra to expect. She played the harlot. Later, in the evening, he took her to a small restaurant in Le Marais. It was the kind of place she would have loved to have visited with Frank, huddled over a table, fingers entwined, faces illuminated by candlelight, eyes ablaze with signals, stomachs aglow, warmed by food, wine and anticipation. Faking it stung. Petra ate fish stew laced with wine and garlic. Serra chose thinly-sliced strips of lamb steak that were so rare the rosy flesh at their centre was cool.

  They leaned close to one another, as lovers do, and spoke not of the future or of the heart, but of Khalil and the hideous schemes in his head.

  ‘Khalil can call volunteers from anywhere,’ Serra told her. ‘The Philippines, Malaysia, Iran, Pakistan. The word goes out and they come to him. His name is a magnet.’

  ‘Where do they go to?’

  ‘It depends on the mission.’

  ‘This team?’

  ‘The first base was in the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon at a camp run by Hizb’allah. Khalil has worked for Hizb’allah from time to time over the last ten years and, in return, gets to use their facilities. Like Malta, Lebanon falls within the realm of Islam and it has long been a desire of the fundamentalists to rid the country of its Christians. This is a view shared by Khalil.’

  ‘Does Kamal Ibrahim Karim ever visit the camps?’

  Serra shook his head. ‘He lives nomadically on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan and never leaves the region. Not any more. But he likes to spread his influence as far as possible.’

  Serra told Petra how each volunteer was screened for security before moving on to the next camp.

  ‘Which was where?’ Petra asked.

  ‘Libya.’

  ‘How did they get there?’

  ‘Libyan military aircraft, a direct flight to Tripoli—it’s a routine procedure—and from the airport, the recruits were transferred by truck to the base in the desert. LV241, a new camp paid for by Kamal Ibrahim Karim. That’s where the real training took place.’

  ‘And what’s it like?’

  ‘To begin with, it’s physical. Fitness and discipline are considered crucial. Then there is ideological and religious conditioning. Later, they are instructed on weaponry and, finally, they receive technical training. There is an old hangar there. Inside, using fragments of retired aircraft—Tupolevs, Boeings, Lockheeds, Ilyushins and so on—they recreated the interior of the aircraft that will be hijacked so that the team could practise in “real space”. Khalil says they’re a good unit now.’

  ‘They’ll need to be. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen them.’

  Petra wasn’t buying that. ‘But you were there, weren’t you? Or is your January tan merely the result of a month on a sun-bed?’

  * * *

  The days between her two trips to Paris had been difficult. She found it easy to lie to Serra, to say to him the things she wanted to say to Frank. That frustrated her and when she was with Frank, it began to show. Never being able to say what was on her mind to the one person she wanted to t
ell became a pressure. How was it, she asked herself, that she could fake so perfectly for Serra and then have such difficulty in telling Frank that she enjoyed being with him, that she liked him more than anyone she had ever known, that he was the first and only man she had ever felt she could trust?

  Now, lying in Serra’s bed, she found she was able to roll over on to one elbow and whisper into his ear, ‘You know, under the right circumstances, Marc, I could fall in love with you.’

  That word. The word she could not force from her throat in Frank’s presence. And yet with Serra, she managed it without thinking. Serra, who was still trying to catch his post-coital breath, looked momentarily startled. Petra chose to qualify her declaration. ‘But unfortunately, these aren’t the right circumstances.’

  * * *

  ‘In two days’ time, I will introduce you to the hijack team.’

  ‘Where? Here?’

  ‘No. In London.’

  ‘London?’

  Her reaction was too quick, too jittery. Serra had noticed it. ‘Is that a problem for you?’

  She tried to sound dismissive. ‘Of course not. London will be fine.’

  ‘Once you’re in London, you stay there until the mission begins.’

  ‘The flight leaves from there?’

  He grinned. ‘Not necessarily. Most of you will be catching connecting flights from other destinations, to reduce the chance of something going wrong. But you start from London.’

  ‘How long will I have to be there?’

  ‘Let us just say that in about a week from now, you will be with Khalil.’

  It was morning. Petra was preparing to leave. They were in the entrance hall when Serra said, ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A present.’ From behind his back he produced a plastic carrier bag containing a box. ‘I’m sorry that it’s not beautifully wrapped.’

  Petra took the box out of the bag. It was a Sony Walkman. Between other people, it might have seemed a normal gift, but not between the two of them. Petra’s surprise made way for some sense of embarrassment, which, in itself, irritated her.