Rip Tide

by Stella Rimington

  ‘Ah-ha,’ said Fane approvingly.

  Liz felt as if she’d been awarded a gold star by the headmaster. ‘Frankly, he’s pretty green. I think his defiance is a big act and underneath he’s scared stiff. Though if he’s scared of us, I think he’s even more scared of whoever got to him in the first place.’

  ‘Well, he’s got that right. We might keep him in prison but we’re not going to kill him.’

  ‘He claimed the French Navy chaps roughed him up.’

  ‘They probably did,’ said Fane dismissively. ‘The Marine Nationale can be a little over-zealous. But if he didn’t get his instructions in Pakistan, where did he get them? Here?’

  ‘Possibly. Or in some other country he went to after Pakistan. That’s why I rang you when I got back; I thought you might be able to help.’

  The trace of a smile touched Fane’s lips. Liz knew he was pleased. He liked nothing better than to be asked for help, particularly by her. At heart he was an old-fashioned chauvinist, instinctively assuming superiority over all women. There were still a few of that breed left in Liz’s own service. She thought particularly of Michael Binding, most recently her boss in Northern Ireland. He could not take any advice from a woman, but expected only to issue orders and receive slavish agreement; if that wasn’t forthcoming, he got angry and shouted.

  But Geoffrey Fane was a much more complex character. Fane positively enjoyed disputes, though he was always sure he was right. He liked to watch Liz getting angry when he did something to annoy her. She knew that and therefore tried always to keep her temper. But it was difficult to do when she found him out, as had often happened, in some outrageous piece of double-dealing or concealment. He would show enough grace to apologise, though she always felt that even then he was secretly enjoying his own cleverness.

  Fane leaned back in his chair and crossed one flannelled leg over the other. ‘Do you know anything about the ship the pirates tried to hijack?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Liz immediately felt cross with herself, since she hadn’t pursued that angle of the investigation at all. She made a mental note to ask Peggy to look into it. ‘I know the ship is called the Aristides.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fane approvingly. Again, she felt as if she were being patted on the head. ‘It was leased by a charity called UCSO. Quite coincidentally, I had a call from the charity’s director, a chap named Blakey. Used to be one of us – Head of Station in Hong Kong for a good while. He’s based here in London, though UCSO also have an office in Athens.’

  Liz’s antennae were vibrating now. ‘Did he say anything about the hijack attempt?’

  ‘He mentioned it,’ said Fane airily. Something in the tone of his voice struck her as suspicious. She knew he was holding something back. Then he said, ‘Tell you what: let me have another word with him. It could be that the hijack attempt and the fact the ship was an UCSO one are connected. If they are, we’ll need to liaise closely.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘You’ll enjoy that, Elizabeth. We work well together.’

  Chapter 13

  There was no need for introductions. Liz could recognise a Special Branch officer in the dark. DI Fontana clearly felt the same about MI5 officers; he strode up to her as she walked towards the end of the platform at Birmingham New Street station and greeted her with a handshake. ‘Liz Carlyle,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He was tall, lean, athletic-looking – and disconcertingly blond, thought Liz, given his Italian surname. They walked towards his car, which was parked on a double yellow line outside the station.

  ‘You sound as if you’ve lived here all your life.’

  ‘I’m third-generation Brummie. My grandfather came over from Italy in the thirties; he couldn’t be doing with Mussolini. He made his living selling ice cream from a van – a real Eyetie,’ the DI said with a grin. ‘Then he married an English woman.’ He raked a hand through his blond hair. ‘That’s how I got this.’

  ‘Tell me about the Khans.’

  ‘I started as a beat policeman, and for a few years I was stationed in Sparkhill. That’s when I got to know them. I used to stop in at one of their shops sometimes – you know, for a chat and a quick cup of tea. Shopkeepers like to keep in touch with the local bobby and they always seem to know what’s going on in their neighbourhood. It’s a two-way process. Not that I’d say I know them well . . . not nowadays anyway.’

  ‘Do they have other children?’

  ‘Lots. Amir must have six or seven brothers and sisters. I could never keep track of them all, though I do remember him as a little boy. He’s the youngest – unless his mum’s had any more since then, but she’s getting a bit long in the tooth now. She doted on Amir. Mr Khan was very strict with all the kids; too strict, I’d say.’

  Not a good combination, thought Liz. It would have made the boy keen to cut his mother’s apron strings as well as want to rebel against his father.

  Fontana went on, ‘When I first knew them the family had two corner shops; now they must own a dozen. One of them’s a small supermarket.’

  ‘So Mr Khan’s done well.’

  ‘The whole family has,’ Fontana said. ‘It’s a team effort. The kids are put to work in the shops pretty much when they start school. God knows how many child labour laws their father’s broken. Still, he’s a classic Asian success story. It’s a pity it hasn’t rubbed off on the next generation.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘With Amir?’ said Fontana, glancing over at her as he stopped at traffic lights. They’d reached the Stratford Road, an urban High Street with residential streets running off it like spokes.

  The lights changed. Fontana pointed ahead towards a park on their right: acres of grass ringed by tall weeping birches, only now fully leafing. ‘That’s Springfield Park,’ he said, and Liz wondered why he wasn’t answering her question. ‘In a way, it’s a symbol of what’s happened to parts of the Asian community here. One of the Royals is supposed to come at the end of the summer to dedicate a new playground. Yet the older generation – Mr Khan, for example – never set foot in the place. They’re too busy running and expanding their businesses, completely focused on financial success.

  ‘They want success for their kids too, but they want them to become professionals. They drive them hard to do well at school; they’ve got to be top of the class, go to uni, become doctors or lawyers. But at home the likes of Mr Khan still cling to the more traditional Pakistani way of life: his wife stays in the house; he arranges marriages for his daughters; socially they only mix within the Pakistani community. It’s not surprising that some of the next generation rebel. They meet people at school who have a very different way of life, and they want some of it too. So they conform at home, but when they get the chance they’ll be hanging out in the park, smoking and drinking, and going to watch American films.’

  ‘So how does someone like Amir end up in Somalia?’

  Fontana had clearly thought about this before. He said, ‘I think they go through a sort of identity crisis. All this Western culture is only skin-deep with them; a lot of these kids don’t feel they can ever truly be English, and once they realise that, they feel alienated both from their parents and from this country and Western culture as a whole. Most of them don’t share the same work ethic as their parents; without that, they’re very vulnerable to the concept of a cause. Enter the extremist imams.’

  They turned off the Stratford Road, on to a residential avenue that led gently uphill. ‘This used to be all Irish a century ago,’ said Fontana. ‘Then after the war immigrants from the Caribbean lived here. But for the last thirty years it’s been Asian. Lots of small businesses – people like the Khans, just trying to get ahead.’

  He turned the car again, and they drove up a street of small Victorian terraced houses with little front gardens behind low walls. The street looked to be in good order – the houses freshly painted, the windows clean, dustbins neatly lined up in the front gardens – but when Fontana pulled over t
o park outside a house in the middle of the terrace, Liz was surprised.

  He saw her expression and laughed. ‘Don’t be fooled. Mr Khan could buy half this street, but it’s not his style. He’d never want to leave this neighbourhood – most of his extended family live within a quarter of a mile of here, and all his friends. You’ll never find him in a mock-Tudor villa out in the suburbs.’

  Fontana’s knock on the half-glazed front door was answered by a small fierce-looking man, who seemed to be in his sixties. His hair was white, and his black, sharply trimmed moustache was speckled with grey. His self-important demeanour made it clear that he was the lord of this particular manor.

  ‘Hello, Mr Khan, very nice to see you again. This is Miss Forrester from the Home Office. I told you she’d be coming along.’

  Khan nodded curtly, and led them into the front room. The heavy gold curtains were pulled back, but the windows facing the street were covered by dense lace nets. A small woman was sitting, slightly hunched, on a maroon sofa. ‘My wife,’ said Khan, waving a hand towards her. She nodded but did not get up. Mrs Khan was wearing a brown salwar kameez and a woollen cardigan; her head was almost covered by an embroidered shawl.

  Liz and Fontana sat down in the pair of armchairs that faced the sofa. Mr Khan remained standing, and said to Fontana, ‘Now, officer, what is all this about?’

  Liz replied, ‘I’ve come to see you about your son.’

  ‘Which son?’ asked Khan sharply.

  ‘Amir,’ said Liz. ‘I want to talk to you about Amir.’

  Mrs Khan lifted up her head and looked at Liz, her face a mask of concern. ‘Is Amir . . . ?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Liz soothingly. ‘I’ve seen him myself. He’s in good health.’

  Mr Khan was now sitting on the sofa beside his wife. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking pointedly at Fontana. This is a man constantly on the brink of losing his temper, thought Liz. And he’s not used to being questioned by a woman.

  She continued, ‘I am afraid that he is being held by the French authorities in a prison in Paris. He may be extradited to the UK – or possibly not. That’s still up in the air.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘He was part of an attempt to hijack a cargo ship off the Horn of Africa. We believe he had been living in Somalia.’

  For the first time Mr Khan seemed at a loss for words. He sank back against the sofa cushions and exhaled noisily. Liz said, ‘When I talked to him, he said that he’d ended up there by accident, that he’d been press-ganged into helping a crew of pirates. He’s being held in France because the French Navy arrested him – they stopped the pirates from seizing the ship.’

  Mr Khan latched on to his son’s explanation greedily. ‘He’s a good boy. I would believe him if I were you.’

  ‘We’re not sure what to think, Mr Khan. The first thing we’d like to establish is how your son got to Somalia.’

  Mr Khan was silent. Liz noticed he didn’t look at his wife.

  ‘When did you last hear from Amir, Mr Khan?’ Fontana interjected gently.

  He said stiffly, ‘Amir went to Pakistan last year. He was working for a relation of my wife’s. The last letter we had from him was in . . .’ He paused, and for the first time looked over at his wife, as if asking for confirmation. He’s lying, Liz suddenly sensed.

  The door to the sitting room opened then and a young woman appeared. She looked to be about twenty or so and was strikingly beautiful, with thick black hair that flowed over the shoulders of the rose-pink embroidered kameez she wore over wide white trousers.

  Mr Khan looked up angrily. ‘Tahira, why aren’t you at the shop?’

  ‘You know we close early on Tuesdays, Papa,’ she said. ‘Besides, when Mama said the police were coming, I wanted to hear if there was news of Amir.’ Seeing her mother’s expression, she hesitated. ‘Is he . . . ?’

  ‘He’s alive and well,’ Liz said firmly. She wanted to keep Mr Khan from dismissing his daughter, who seemed more likely to speak her mind than his submissive wife.

  The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Where is he? Is he coming home?’

  ‘Tahira, go to your room—’ Mr Khan started to command her, but Liz interrupted. ‘He’s in France.’ She explained again about Amir’s arrest in the Indian Ocean, adding, ‘We’re trying to understand how he got from Pakistan to Somalia. To be honest, what your brother’s told us doesn’t make sense. We don’t know how he got to Africa.’

  ‘I thought he was in Athens,’ said Tahira.

  ‘Athens?’ Fontana and Liz said simultaneously.

  Tahira looked at her father, who seemed to have given up any attempt to send her away. He shrugged, stony-faced. Tahira said, ‘Father, didn’t you tell them?’

  ‘Tel them what?’ Fontana asked firmly.

  Liz almost felt sorry for the girl, who seemed bewildered. Tahira looked at Liz and, finding sympathy in her expression, said, ‘He sent us a postcard from Athens. Said he was working there.’ She looked again at her father, but his face remained blank. It was as if he had wiped his hands of any responsibility for his son, having made the obligatory attempt to protect him. Doubtless, if sufficiently provoked, he would wipe his hands of Tahira too.

  ‘Did he say where he was going next?’ Liz pressed her.

  ‘He said he was working until he had saved enough money to come home.’ Realising suddenly this must have been the last thing Amir had in mind, his sister faltered and stopped talking, on the verge of tears.

  Mr Khan suddenly erupted. ‘Tahira, that’s enough! Go to your room.’

  Shaking her head, she said, ‘I knew Amir should not have changed mosques.’

  ‘Tahira . . .’ her father said warningly.

  Liz held up a hand to silence him. ‘Which mosque did he attend?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘The New Springfield,’ Tahira managed to say, and then broke down, sobbing. Her mother stood up and put her arms round her. Mr Khan sat mute on the sofa with his arms crossed. It was obvious to Liz that she wasn’t going to get anything more out of the family on this visit.

  Outside, Fontana sighed. ‘I should have warned you about Mr Khan.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m just glad Tahira showed up.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ The DI seemed younger now, not quite so confident.

  ‘Stay in touch with the Khans and keep your ear to the ground. If you hear anything about Amir, let me know. I’ll keep you posted with any news of what the French do with him so you can keep the Khans informed.

  ‘If you can find out who Amir’s friends are, that would be helpful. But stay clear of the New Springfield Mosque. We’ve got a source there and we don’t want to queer his pitch.’

  ‘OK. It’s not far from here, you know. In fact, it’s just two streets away,’ Fontana added. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Liz. ‘I think everything that’s happened to Amir is going to turn out to have links back to that place.’

  The mosque stood on the intersection of a residential street and a wider thoroughfare of shops. It was a large, squat, two-storey building of red brick that must have been built in the thirties. It had a row of small-paned windows along its façade and, above an ugly flight of concrete steps, an entrance comprising two sets of double swing doors.

  As they passed the building the doors suddenly burst open and a stream of Asian men emerged, obviously having just finished prayers. A few wore T-shirts and jeans, but most of them were in robes or white shirts and cotton trousers and with embroidered skullcaps on their heads. Several stopped to smoke and chat on the front steps.

  Liz and Fontana walked on, and at the next corner the policeman looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an appointment back in the centre of town. I’ll drop you at New Street on the way.’

  ‘Birmingham International station is closer, isn’t it? I can take a taxi there.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ He pointed in the direction of where he had parked, a couple of streets away.
‘Let’s go back to the car and I’ll drop you on the Stratford Road.’

  But Liz wanted to get the feel of the neighbourhood. ‘I’ll walk down – the fresh air will do me good.’

  ‘You sure?’ When she nodded, Fontana said, ‘If you have any problem finding a taxi, there’s a minicab office on the corner.’

  ‘Great. Thanks for all your help. I may need to come and see the Khans again. And if I do,’ she added with a grin, ‘I’ll want you to come with me.’

  Fontana laughed. ‘Old Khan hasn’t much time for women. Not those in authority anyway.’

  ‘It’s Tahira I’d really like to talk to. If you can, find out how I could meet her alone. I don’t get the feeling Mr Khan knows much about the company his son was keeping before he left – but I bet she does.’

  Chapter 14

  Liz turned left at the corner and started to walk down the gently sloping street towards the Stratford Road. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned and saw two young Asian men about thirty feet away, walking fast so as to catch up with her. They were both bearded, and neatly dressed in pressed jeans and T-shirts. One of them, the taller of the pair, was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. He grinned at her, and Liz smiled back then continued walking.

  ‘Are you Fontana’s girlfriend?’ one of them called out.

  Liz stopped and turned around to face the two men. The taller one was grinning again; his sidekick, short but stocky, wasn’t smiling at all – his expression was grim and tight-lipped.

  ‘Or are you a cop too?’ the tall one in the cap said. They were only a few feet away now, and both stood still, watching Liz.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked sharply. She gave a quick look round, but the street was empty.

  ‘What do you want is more like it. What are you and the cop doing checking out the mosque?’

  ‘What I’m doing is none of your business.’ Liz turned on her heel and started walking again. Ahead she could see the traffic on the Stratford Road, but it was several hundred yards away. There was still no one else on the street, and no passing cars.