The sheikh nodded at Mohammed to indicate that he could put the volume down.
“So they haven’t caught them yet.” Mohammed said.
“And they never will,” said the sheikh.
Mohammed looked at the sheikh and wondered if he actually knew something or was just speculating. He was just deciding to leave the issue unresolved when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver. “Yes, yes … Good … We are on our way.”
Mohammed put down the phone, stood behind his desk and looked at the sheikh.
“Gentleman let’s be on our way. The container has been put on a truck and is on the way to our warehouse.”
As they walked in the open air the major asked: “Should customs clear it before or after it’s left your warehouse?”
“Normally it would go through customs and straight into the city and away to the delivery address. But since I have a bonded warehouse within the docks area I can store it there once it’s out of the container part of the port. Zuhair has already dealt with that side of it. I have a man at customs. It’s all taken care of. Of course I did have to pay him a facilitation fee which …”
The major interrupted him: “… which will come out of your very generous payment from the sheikh.”
“Just what I was going to say,” Mohammed said unconvincingly.
“Which warehouse is it?”
Mohammed pointed to a huge brick building with peeling white paint, a corrugated iron roof and two vast sliding doors. The windows – too grimy to see through - were covered in heavy wire mesh. And then, as they looked at the structure, two men in brown uniforms slid open the doors and a truck drove in.
“There you are. That’s your container,” said Mohammed. But the major was on his phone so Mohammed went to the sheikh and showed him instead. The sheikh could make out Ravi standing by the doors and smiled. The boy looked like he was on guard, alert as ever, his head moving all the time making sure that they had not been spotted by customs and that nothing untoward was happening. Ravi saw them approaching waved, and ran towards them.
“He’s here. He’s here,” he said as he came close to the sheikh. “The white paint was there. Just as we said.”
The sheikh tousled his hair while the colonel smiling said: “Well done Ravi. You’ve done a god job.”
They were at the sliding doors now and paused as their eyes adjusted to the dark light inside. Although there was enough room for as many as 20 trucks, there were no others inside and Jaz’s container stood roughly parked in the middle of the vast space. The major, putting his phone back in his pocket, looked around to see how many workers were there.
“Mohammed could you ask the driver and Zuhair to leave.”
Anxious to secure his fee, and increasingly hopeful that he had done so, Mohammed sprang into action.
“Zuhair! Back to the office. And take the driver too. I’ll call when he can collect his truck.”
Having slow reactions at the best of times, it took Zuhair a moment to take in what Mohammed was saying, but having done so he touched the driver on the elbow and the two men walked towards the exit. As they left the building Zuhair started to close one of the doors.
“It’s alright. Leave it,” said the major. “We need the light.”
Zuhair raised his hand to indicate that he had heard and within a second was out of view.
With the room now clear Mohammed climbed up the steps at the back of the truck and broke the plastic tag. The metal pin that held the door was stiff and there was a piercing noise as he worked it loose. Then suddenly it gave and as he lifted the pin out of its slot he moved back so that he could open the door as he did so.
There was silence as the sheikh, the major, the colonel and Ravi stepped forward. And then, as the door swung back, there Jaz was, thin and weak, wearing trousers but no shirt and with the keffiyeh draped round his neck. He was high above them and they all leant back to watch him. For a moment it was as if they were waiting for him to speak but he said nothing and the silence held until Ravi rushed towards the truck and clambered in embracing Jaz. “You made it.”
Jaz’s face remained set, betraying no emotion as he first sat on the lip of the open container and then, gingerly, started to walk down the steps. The colonel rushed forward to help him down.
“Jasir my boy! Good to see you. Very good to see you.” He grasped both of Jaz’s elbows and looked him in the eye. “Are you alright?”
“I’m tired uncle. Very tired.”
Ravi moved close and held Jaz’s hands and then looked towards the doors as he heard an engine revving close by, outside the warehouse. The others hadn’t noticed it and Ravi, curious, moved the door to take a look. The sheikh who had been talking with the major at the side of the warehouse now moved towards Jaz raising his voice so that he would be heard. Jaz, still talking to his uncle, looked in the sheikh’s direction and held his gaze.
And then suddenly the atmosphere of welcome was shattered.
It began with Ravi who ran back towards the truck screaming. He was followed by two men on a motorbike that burst into the warehouse, its engine screaming. Both wore balaclavas and loose cotton shirts that were pressed tight against their bodies as they accelerated towards the sheikh who, for an instant, caught the eye of the man on the back of the bike. He was cradling a Kalashnikov against his chest and now moved it into a firing position. The sheikh stepped back to avoid being hit by the bike itself when suddenly the driver pressed hard on the brakes and jerked the bike to the left. The squealing rubber tyres, added to the din of the engine as they slid and skidded on the concrete floor leaving a long curved black mark behind them.
The sheikh, trying to move backwards, tripped and was falling as the major rushed towards him to soften his fall. The two men were now on their sides on their floor watching the bike approach the truck. Ravi who had run to the other side of the warehouse was standing with his back and his outstretched arms pressed tightly against the wall. Only Ravi could see Mohammed who had moved around the truck and was taking cover behind the engine block.
The colonel barely reacted. He stood holding Jaz still by the elbows as his jaw dropped and open-mouthed he watched the oncoming bike. Jaz confused by the noise after so many days’ isolation turned his head to look at the gunman but could not take his eyes off the sight of the Sheikh sprawled on the ground behind the bike.
The driver of the bike now leant forward, lowering his upper body against the handle bars as he prepared to sweep past the back of the container. Behind him the gunman was standing tall on the bike’s footrests. And then the shooting began. The gunman sprayed bullets in front of him and to his right as the bike roared past the open container.
The colonel held Jaz tight as if he was trying to shield him from the attack. The bullets ripped open the back of his shirt and as the cotton turned red, his bulky frame fell to the ground. The bike had now gone past the back of the truck and the gunman swivelled back as he aimed at Jaz firing into his chest and neck. The bullets seemed to lift his reduced frame from the ground before he crashed against the back the truck. The bike completed its turn and reaching the door of warehouse roared out onto the quaysides, the noise of the engine diminishing as they made good their escape.
The sheikh looked at Jaz and the colonel to see if there was any sign of a movement. But he already knew that could not be the case. He stood and walked, grim-faced towards them leaving the major on the ground. The sheikh looked down on the two bodies and although he did not touch them he walked all around them, examining the corpses from every possible angle. Jaz lay slumped against the back of the truck; the colonel, his bare belly protruding from his ripped shirt, was at his feet. Then he turned back.
“Major, what just happened?”
“I couldn’t say.” He got up and walked towards the sheikh looking him in the eye. His footsteps echoed in the empty warehouse and then, more deliberately, he added: “I cannot say.”
“And the colonel too?”
The major look
ed at the ground and shrugged his shoulders. “He drinks. He talks. Maybe that had something to do with it.”
The sheikh looked at the major impassively as if deciding how to calibrate his response. But it was the major who spoke. “There are some forces in this country,” he said, “which you cannot fight. You said that. Not even the president you said.”
“Your organisation?”
The major ignored his interjection. “You have won a great victory. Actually no. Jaz has won a great victory for you. A famous victory. He came home a hero. That’s not given to many. You should honour his memory.”
“And if I wanted to avenge his death?”
“Then you must. But,” he said slowly and with care, “would attacking them really help the Chamaki people?”
As the two men stood each trying to read each other’s intentions in the silence, Ravi, who had not moved from the wall, let out a sob as he slid down the floor. The Sheikh went across the room to comfort him.
He lifted Ravi up, smoothed down his clothes and then crouched down so that he could look him straight in the face: “You’re too old for tears Ravi. You are not a boy any more.” Ravi trying to control himself nodded, biting his lip and looking past the sheikh’s shoulder. “Yes sir,” he mumbled. “But why?”
The sheikh turned round to look at the major.
But the major had gone.
The sheikh put his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache and slowly rubbed the skin. Then he put his hand on Ravi’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.”
TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller Page 39
