‘Most of you know that there’s a primary school along the road from Pie Crust and it gets very parked up from fifteen hundred. Then when the Mums leave, the commuters start coming back into the area. So we need to get all cars in place considerably before then. That includes comms and photographers. Comms will be tested as soon as teams are in situ. After receiving the all clear by bleep, Liz Carlyle and K will each go, but separately, to Pie Crust. K to enter at sixteen hundred; Liz at sixteen thirty.
‘Two foot teams with drivers in cars will be in Boatman’s street from seventeen hundred to carry out anti-surveillance. Foot teams will follow Boatman when he leaves his house at seventeen-thirty. Can you confirm, K, that Boatman knows what to do?’
Kanaan nodded. Lincoln went on: ‘Boatman will walk with anti-surveillance cover, by the route he’s been given –’ he cocked an eye at Shah, who nodded again ‘– to Pie Crust, where he’ll knock and enter at about eighteen hundred hours. We’ll give a heads up to you in Pie Crust when he’s a couple of minutes away. If any surveillance is detected, he’ll be approached by an officer standing outside the primary school and asked the time. He will then abort the meeting. All OK with you, K?’
‘Yes. He has his instructions.’
‘While the meeting takes place any untoward activity in the surrounding streets will be assessed in the Control Room by Dave Armstrong, who will decide on any further action. OK Dave?’ A nod from Dave Armstrong.
‘When the meeting is over, Liz or K will ring to alert Control who will check round and confirm all clear. Anti-surveillance will follow him home. All A4 please stay behind now to get your positions. Any questions from anybody?’
A few hands shot up and some details were thrashed out, then Liz, Dave and Kanaan Shah left the auditorium.
‘That’s pretty thorough,’ Liz said to Dave. ‘I see Birmingham is now hostile territory.’
‘Hostile enough,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t give a lot for Boatman’s chances if his pals at the New Springfield Mosque knew he was talking to MI5.’
At 4.30 that afternoon Liz rang the doorbell at Pie Crust; it was opened straight away by Kanaan, who must have been standing behind the door waiting for her.
Liz had been in many safe houses in her career. This one was larger than normal – a detached house unlike most of them, particularly those in London, which were usually flats of various kinds. But in every other way it was familiar. Off the square hall was a sitting room containing two well-used sofas covered in a familiar flowery fabric which Liz had seen before. It made its appearance in many MI5 safe houses and was known to the agent runners who used these places as ‘Ministry of Works chintz’. A couple of chairs with wooden arms, dating from the eighties, and a coffee table of light veneer, marked by white rings where hot mugs had rested, completed the furnishing of the sitting room. Poking her head round the door of the dining room next door, Liz found it similarly spartan. Safe houses were one of civilisation’s dead ends. Strictly utilitarian, they were kept stocked with essentials for making coffee and tea, but there was never any food in their kitchen fridges, which contained nothing but milk.
Liz had once had to live in a safe house for almost a week in order to keep up a cover story. They had been some of the gloomiest, most uncomfortable days of her life.
On the dining-room table, K had put a small pile of photographs; there was also a new notebook in the sitting room, and a bottle of mineral water and three glasses stood on the coffee table. ‘Boatman will only take water,’ he said, seeing Liz looking at his preparations. ‘He doesn’t drink tea or coffee.’
Liz spent some time looking through the photographs in the dining room before going to join Kanaan in the sitting room. He was sitting on one of the flowery sofas, scanning the Guardian. She sat down opposite him on the other sofa and they made desultory conversation. But as the time for the meeting drew nearer, they fell silent. Even after years doing this sort of work, Liz still felt a tension in her stomach, a quickened beating of the heart, as she waited for the phone to ring. Kanaan must be much more nervous, she thought, though to do him credit he didn’t show any sign of it.
The phone rang, breaking the silence; one ring and then nothing. Kanaan went to the front door and looked through the peephole; then, just as Boatman walked up the path, he opened the door and closed it again as soon as the young man was inside.
Liz heard them in the hall exchanging greetings. ‘Salaam alaikum,’ Boatman said to Kanaan.
‘Wa Alaikum as-Salaam,’ Kanaan replied. ‘I have brought someone to meet you like I told you,’ he said, as they walked into the sitting room. ‘This is Jane. I work with her. She can be trusted.’
Boatman peered at Liz, then nodded. She smiled and nodded in reply. The young Asian was wearing a white embroidered skullcap and the traditional white shalwar kameez; his feet were in sandals. His face was young but his expression very serious. He looked, Liz thought, as though he had considered the follies most young men opt for and rejected them. If the weight of the world was not yet on his shoulders, his expression seemed to say, it was only a matter of time. Liz was used to agents being scared, even sometimes cracking jokes to allay their nerves. But Boatman seemed entirely composed and serious – almost forbiddingly so. There was a rather chilly air of religious probity about him.
Kanaan said brightly, ‘How is married life treating you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ Boatman answered gravely, like a potentate accepting a subject’s best wishes.
‘How long have you been married?’ Liz asked, though she knew from her briefing that his wedding was four months ago.
‘Not long,’ he said, then his voice brightened. ‘But I find I like my wife more and more each day. She is very kind, and more intelligent than I expected.’
Liz was startled, then realised that it would have been an arranged marriage. It was not a practice she approved of, but at least Boatman seemed pleased to have discovered unexpected virtues in his bride.
‘How are things at the mosque?’ asked Kanaan, getting down to business.
Boatman shrugged. ‘They have stopped pressing me to go to Pakistan – they accept that with a new bride, I don’t wish to go away. Especially . . .’ he said, and Liz understood at once – especially since he might then never see his wife again.
Boatman went on, ‘The others are going. We still meet together once a week, but there are meetings to which I am not invited.’
‘At the mosque?’ asked Liz.
‘Yes, but elsewhere also. Malik says they have been to London.’
‘Did he say where?’ asked Kanaan.
‘Only that it was in North London. They went for a briefing about what they should expect when they arrive in Pakistan.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Liz.
‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t feel I could press him.’
‘No, that’s quite right. Let him tell you what he wants to. You mustn’t push him too hard for information.’
‘He did say something about the meeting though. He said they were addressed at one point by a Westerner. Not an Asian.’
Kanaan interjected, sounding excited. ‘Wasn’t Malik surprised?’
Boatmen put a hand on his chin contemplatively, stroking his wispy beard. ‘I didn’t get the feeling he disapproved. I think if anything he was proud that a convert to Islam was helping him and the others.’
‘Did he describe this Westerner?’ asked Liz.
Boatman shook his head. ‘No. But I am seeing Malik tomorrow.’
‘Ask him then,’ said Kanaan.
‘Steady on,’ said Liz a little sharply. ‘Go carefully.’ She looked at Boatman, but was dismayed to see that all his attention was focused on Kanaan. He clearly saw the male figure as naturally in charge, and looked to his handler to tell him what he should do. It wasn’t surprising, and Kanaan was his controller, but she was alarmed that her youthful colleague’s enthusiasm was getting the better of his judgement. She said to Boatman firmly, ‘Fi
nd out what you can, but don’t press Malik too hard. If he wants to talk, encourage him. But I don’t want you to give out any signal that you’re any more than casually curious – particularly about this Westerner.’
She couldn’t tell if Boatman was listening to her, as he was still looking at Kanaan, but short of grabbing him by the ears and shouting, there wasn’t much more she could say. And the last thing she wanted to do was to undermine Kanaan in front of his agent.
Kanaan stood up. ‘I’ve got some photographs for you to look at, Salim. They’re in the other room. I’ll just get them.’
In the brief time they were alone together Boatman did not look at Liz. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly, without asking her if she would like one too.
Kanaan came back and put the pile of photographs on the coffee table. ‘Would you have a look through these to see if you recognise anyone?’
For the next few minutes Boatman leafed through the pictures. They were mainly of young Asian men in a variety of Western and traditional clothes, with a few older men and even fewer young women. He took the task seriously, examining each photograph with care, only to shake his head. In the middle of the pile he paused and looked hard at a photograph of a young man in traditional costume. ‘I have seen this man before. I don’t know his name but he used to go to the mosque. I have not seen him for a long time, though, and he certainly doesn’t go to the mosque now.’
He pushed the photograph across the table and Liz picked it up. No, he certainly doesn’t, she thought. It was a picture of Amir Khan, at present in the Santé prison. ‘Can you remember when you last saw him?’ she asked.
Boatman screwed up his eyes in thought. ‘It must be well over a year ago. I have been going to this mosque for just over two years now and I saw him only at the beginning.’
‘Do you know anything about his friends?’
‘No. I never knew him. I don’t even know his name. I just recognise his face.’
He went on looking through the photographs. Then, as he neared the bottom of the stack, he suddenly did a double take. ‘That is Malik.’
He pushed the photo across the table, and Liz reached out and turned it around. It had been taken from across a street and showed a young man coming out of a newsagent’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and was short and stocky, with a stolid slab-like face.
Boatman pursed his lips, and for the first time seemed agitated. ‘He is not a bad fellow, I believe, not deep in his heart. I would say he is simply misguided. He has never advocated violence to me.’
‘Oh, really?’ asked Liz mildly, and if there was scepticism in her voice, Boatman didn’t seem to notice. But she remembered the stubby hand which had gripped her wrist so hard, twisting her arm behind her back. It had belonged to the man pictured in the photograph. So one of her attackers had been Malik.
Chapter 26
In another Birmingham suburb Peggy Kinsolving parked her car outside a very different kind of house. A black wrought-iron gate opened on to a neat front garden; a York stone path led through low shrubs to a solid oak front door with two stained glass panels.
Arts and Crafts, Peggy said to herself. She and her boyfriend Tim had recently been on an evening course on English domestic architecture, and she was glad some of it had stuck.
A pretty middle-aged woman answered the door. She smiled at Peggy and said, ‘You must be Miss Donovan, come to see my husband. I’m Felicity Luckhurst.’
Mrs Luckhurst led Peggy into a square entrance hall with a colourful tiled floor. Peggy was interested to see the shoulder-high oak panelling on the walls of the hall. It was just as it should be, she thought. She followed Mrs Luckhurst through a modern, spick-and-span kitchen and into a conservatory, from which she could see a freshly mown lawn, neatly edged beds of shrubs, pots of flowers and a little pond with a fountain. At the bottom of the garden there seemed to be a greenhouse under construction.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Donovan,’ said a loud masculine voice, and Peggy turned to see a tall, upright, middle-aged man with friendly eyes. He was dressed casually – fawn trousers, an open-necked shirt and pullover. ‘I’ve just been tidying myself up a bit. I’ve been working on that greenhouse all morning.’
‘Yes,’ said Felicity Luckhurst. ‘I’ve told him he’s got to finish it before he goes back to work.’
‘When will that be?’ asked Peggy.
‘I’m not sure yet. In a month, I hope, but I’ve got to get the medic to sign me off. Lot of nonsense.’
‘Now, now,’ said his wife. ‘Miss Donovan doesn’t want to hear you grousing. Go and sit down and I’ll bring you some tea.’
They sat down in the wicker chairs in the conservatory and talked about the garden and the design of the house until Mrs Luckhurst brought the tea tray and left them to it.
‘So,’ Luckhurst said, ‘tell me what I can do to help the Home Office.’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘I’ve come to follow up your conversation with DI Fontana. You gave him some information about where you were held in Somalia.’ Peggy was trying not to lead him in any particular direction.
Luckhurst nodded. ‘I take it you know broadly what happened to us?’
‘I think so – your ship was seized, and you and your crew were held captive until a ransom was paid. DI Fontana said you had something to tell us about the camp.’
‘Well, not so much about the camp itself, but rather what one of the people guarding us said to me.’ Luckhurst told Peggy about the young boy, Taban, who had brought them their supper each evening. On the last occasion that he’d seen him, he explained, Taban seemed really nervous. ‘Quite different from his usual self. I’d managed to establish quite a rapport with him – thought it might come in useful somehow. We talked in a kind of pidgin English. That evening he said – well, he didn’t exactly say this but it’s what I think he meant – that an Englishman had come to the camp. Not English like me, but like Taban; I think he was trying to say he was dark-skinned. He wasn’t a hostage, according to Taban; this “Englishman” had come to the camp with a bunch of Arabs.’
‘Arabs?’ asked Peggy. ‘Not Somalis?’
‘No, that’s why it stuck in my mind – that and the fact that he was a dark Englishman, whatever that means.’
Peggy had a very clear sense of what it meant. ‘Did he say what these Arabs were doing there?’
Luckhurst shook his head. ‘No, and I never saw them myself. You see, we never got a look at the whole camp. They brought us there in the dark, and we were kept in a pen. We were let out each day for exercise, in a kind of dusty open courtyard, but all I could see were dunes on one side, and a wall on the other.’
‘You said “dunes” – were you right by the sea?’
‘I assume so. Though to tell you the truth, I don’t know exactly where we were.’
Peggy reached down for the case holding her laptop. ‘Why don’t we try and find out?’
Five minutes later Peggy sat at the dining-room table, with an attentive Captain Luckhurst by her side. Thanks to Mrs Luckhurst’s attachment to online shopping, the household had fast Broadband access, and on the screen of Peggy’s laptop a picture of the United Kingdom suddenly appeared, viewed from hundreds of miles above.
‘Google Earth,’ said Luckhurst knowingly. ‘My son was showing it to me the other day.’
‘Something like that,’ said Peggy cryptically. In fact, they were looking at Ministry of Defence satellite photographs – unlike Google Earth, these pictures were constantly updated, so that instead of patches of cloud obscuring a given location on the day the Google satellite was at work, these were all razor-sharp.
‘You said your ship was boarded almost dead east of Mogadishu.’
‘That’s right. We were about thirty miles offshore.’
‘Did you have a sense of where you went next?’
‘Not really. It was south of Mogadishu – though I couldn’t see the city. Frankly I was too busy following the pirates’ order
s to check the final co-ordinates.’
Meaning he’d had a gun to his head, thought Peggy, admiring Luckhurst’s understatement.
He pressed a finger to his lips, thinking hard. At last he said, ‘In the old days we’d have had a log – it would probably still be there in the pilot house. But nowadays it’s all electronic. That means HQ have a constant fix on the ship’s whereabouts.’ He looked at Peggy. ‘Let me go and make a call.’
When he returned he held a piece of paper. ‘Hope this means something to you.’
And when Peggy looked at the sequence of numbers it did. Opening a small box in one corner of the screen, she entered the precise latitude and longitude co-ordinates he had given her. Seconds later, the screen cleared and they were staring at a topographical view of ocean, with a superimposed X in the middle of the laptop’s display.
‘What’s that?’ asked Luckhurst.
‘The place where you were last anchored.’ She clicked a sequence of keys and suddenly the focus pulled back, exposing the nearby coastline. ‘Now, you were anchored only a mile or so offshore. Do you think you went straight in?’
Luckhurst replied without hesitation, ‘No. It took maybe twenty minutes before we got to the beach. Admittedly the boats they took us in were pretty small, but they had reasonable outboards on them. We must have gone south, or else I would have seen Mogadishu. It’s quite a large city.’
Peggy zeroed in on the coastline, starting on the southern fringes of the capital city, which was laid out in visible rectangles, then moving slowly south, past the long strip of the international airport and further down the coast. Here the white tops of breakers could be made out, the flat sand of the beach, and dunes pockmarked by the few trees hardy enough to grow there. There seemed to be little or no signs of habitation, and no obvious dwellings; where the city ended, the desert took over.
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