On this occasion, after the unsuccessful hijacking and a delay of half a day, the Aristides continued on down the east coast of Africa to Kenya, where it offloaded its cargo in Mombasa. Its crew were then granted shore leave of two days, but 6 of them did not return when the ship was due to sail. Occasionally crewmen jump ship during a voyage, usually when the ship stops at a port offering temptations – Marseilles and Beirut most famously. Mombasa is not known for its onshore attractions. But despite the Captain’s delaying departure by 12 hours, none of the missing men reboarded, and Captain Steffer finally sailed without them.
The missing 6 were the Pakistani contingent. Steffer told me he had already formed suspicions about them because they spoke to each other in English rather than in Urdu. Greek liaison has sent copies of their employment papers and photocopies of their passports. There are many obvious irregularities: one passport gave the date of birth for a very young-looking man as 1960.
It is unlikely that any of the 6 Pakistani crewmen were who they claimed to be. It is highly probable that assumed identities backed up by forged or stolen documents were used to establish the credentials that allowed them to be employed on board the Aristides.
The questions that remain are who these people really were/are, why they enlisted on the Aristides, why they disappeared and where they are now.
PK
Chapter 35
Peggy was sitting at her desk, just beginning to think about what she and Tim would have for supper. Around her, a few colleagues were packing up for the day. The phone on her desk rang; she picked up the receiver. As she listened, the blood drained from her face. She ended the call, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and walked quickly out of the office.
Liz was putting papers in her security cupboard for the night when Peggy appeared in the doorway. Liz knew immediately from her expression that neither of them would be going home soon. She sat down heavily at the desk and waved Peggy to a chair.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s from the internet café at the mosque. You know we’ve managed to work out from Boatman’s identifications that it’s being used by several of Bakri’s followers? They’re in touch with all sorts of radical Islamic groups, in London and Pakistan. Up to now it’s been general extremist chatter. But I’ve just heard that they’re talking about “silencing” someone.’
‘Oh, God. Who do they want to silence?’ said Liz, putting her head in her hands.
‘No names. But it’s someone at the New Springfield Mosque. That’s got to be Boatman.’
‘Yes, you’re right. He’s blown. At least, we’ve got to assume he is. We’re going to have to pull him out right away. Where’s Kanaan?’
‘He’s on holiday . . . back in the morning. He was going to see Boatman tomorrow evening.’
‘We can’t wait. I’ll get hold of Dave Armstrong – we need to move on this right away. You’d better brief Lamb Lincoln – tell him it’s urgent, top priority. We’ll need total A4 coverage. If there’s any problem, let me know and I’ll ring DG.’
Chapter 36
Salim had tried to see Malik again, but the other man had proved elusive. He had not been at prayers at the New Springfield Mosque and he hadn’t attended the latest session of the imam’s study group.
As Salim had left Friday prayers, he’d spotted Malik in front of the mosque, talking to a Yemeni man who had arrived only the month before. Salim had decided to wait on the front steps until Malik was free. But there had been a distraction – some white boys had passed by and shouted obscenities at the robed worshippers, and by the time they’d been driven off by a group of angry Muslims, Malik had disappeared.
Today, Salim left work slightly late, delayed by a lingering customer in his uncle’s hardware shop – an Asian man, young and bearded, who’d walked slowly up and down all the aisles. When Salim had asked if he wanted help, the man had brusquely said no. Then, a minute later, he’d left empty-handed.
Out on the High Street, seeing the bus approach, Salim ran to the stop. The effort made him pant and he realised how tired he was; he worked long hours for his uncle – 6.30 to 7 on weekdays; 8 to 6 on Saturdays; only on Sundays did they close a little early. As a single man he hadn’t minded; now he was married he found himself watching the clock, eager to get home to Jamila, his bride.
He smiled to himself at the thought of her. Four months ago he had not even seen her face; now its beauty lingered with him like a perfume. She was a good wife as well as a beautiful one; she had learned quickly how to run the household, even though she had only been in England for a few months. She was very bright – not much formal education, but full of a curiosity that Salim found exhilarating. The likes of Abdi Bakri would not approve, but Salim thought she should go to college.
Malik had been right about Jamila’s beauty, but he was wrong about many other things – so badly wrong that Salim had no compunction about spying on him, and on the others at the mosque who thought the same way. To Salim, violence was not only futile, it was also wrong – and utterly alien to the true spirit of Islam. He’d been taught this as a little boy, by his parents and by his grandmother, whose brother had been one of Pakistan’s most distinguished clerics, revered for his interpretations of the Koran. So how dare these others claim that Allah condoned what they wanted to do? Islam, in Salim’s view, would only conquer the world through its beauty and its truth, not through force.
The bus was crowded and he went upstairs, where he managed to find an empty seat halfway down the bus. He sat next to an older white woman with a nose the colour of beetroot; when he smiled at her she shuddered and looked out of the window. Ignoring her, Salim was soon lost in his own thoughts.
He had been trying to see Malik for days because he wanted to find out more – about the strange Westerner in London and about where Malik would be going after Pakistan. And he wanted to find out about the young man in the photograph he’d been shown – the man called Amir Khan. He could tell that K had been particularly interested in him. The face had certainly been familiar, though Salim hadn’t known he was called Amir Khan. But he did know the young man wasn’t around any more; he was one of those who had just disappeared from the mosque. If he could find out where he’d gone, K and the lady he’d brought up from London with him, his boss, would be pleased.
But Salim hadn’t been able to talk to Malik, so he’d decided to approach the one person who would surely know the answer to his questions – Abdi Bakri himself. When the meeting of the study group had broken up the previous day, and before prayers started in the large assembly room of the mosque, Salim had lingered in the small classroom with its cracked plastic chairs and cheap Formica-topped table, until only he and the imam were left in the room.
Bakri was tall and very dark, towering in his long white robes; his big sepia-coloured eyes were staring out from behind simple gold-rimmed spectacles. Salim had heard he was Sudanese, but he had never spoken to the imam alone before, and felt nervous in the presence of this daunting figure. He hoped the cleric would put his nervousness down to his being alone with him, rather than to anything else.
‘Yes?’ Abdi Bakri’s voice was mild.
‘Forgive me, but I was wondering if you had ever had a student called Amir Khan,’ Salim replied, stuttering slightly.
Abdi Bakri’s eyes studied him carefully. Then he said, ‘The name is not unfamiliar.’
Salim nodded and tried to smile. ‘I was hoping to make contact with him. It turns out he is a cousin of mine.’
Abdi Bakri did not return the smile. ‘We are all brothers here, as I have taught you.’
‘Of course,’ said Salim hastily. ‘But I thought . . . it would be polite to say hello.’
The imam shook his head. ‘I do not know where he is now. He left the city some time ago.’ He paused then said pointedly, ‘I would suggest you make no further enquiries.’
Salim felt the strange sepia eyes scrutinising him, and sweat beaded his upper lip. He thanked the imam and le
ft the mosque in a hurry, not waiting for prayers. He was sure now that the imam knew where Amir Khan had gone; sure also that he was not going to pass the information on. But at least Salim could tell K when they met the following evening that, yes, Khan had definitely been a student at the mosque.
His thoughts drifted then to K and the woman he’d brought with him last time they’d met, his boss. Salim had been surprised by the level of security they’d insisted on for meetings and had wondered if it was all done to impress him. But the more he got into his work for K, the more he saw the point of it. For the first time he was beginning to feel anxious, scared even. It wasn’t just because of Abdi Bakri’s frostiness and the way his pale brown eyes seemed to bore into Salim, looking for his secrets. In the study group the others had never been particularly friendly or welcoming, but the previous day they hadn’t spoken to him at all, just turned their backs on him with barely concealed hostility. Yes, he felt scared, and suddenly he thought of Jamila; he didn’t want to put her into any danger. He decided he must tell K about all this and look for reassurance. He sat up slightly taller in his seat. He didn’t want to stop his work for K and his lady boss. It was worth the danger if it kept innocent people from being killed.
Salim’s stop was approaching, and he got up from his seat and edged towards the stairs. The whole bus was packed. People were even standing on the upper deck and on the stairs themselves. He worked his way slowly down, muttering repeated apologies as he trod on toes and elbowed other passengers. At last he reached the steel-ridged platform at the bottom where he found himself wedged between a fat black woman with shopping bags to either side of her, and a businessman in a suit and tie, who was holding a briefcase in one hand while his other gripped the pole on the platform. Salim slid his hand on to the pole awkwardly, just above the man’s, and steadied himself as the bus bumped along.
Then they slowed down, and he turned to the back edge of the platform, ready to get off. But there was still a hundred yards to go, and the bus suddenly accelerated, lurching forward so that Salim had to struggle to keep his balance. He was being pressed from behind by the small crowd of people standing around him on the platform. He gripped the pole more tightly, but the pressure didn’t ease, and when he tried to turn, he found his shoulders were wedged tightly against the fat woman and the businessman. Swivelling his head, he caught a glimpse of a man behind him: an Asian, bearded, young as Salim himself, and familiar. Was he from the mosque? Or was he the man Salim had just seen in his uncle’s shop? He tried to get a better look, but the pressure on his back was growing more intense and he simply couldn’t move.
He turned to the fat woman to ask her to move over, but stopped when a sharp shove in the small of his back made him arch backwards. Then he felt an excruciating stinging sensation in the hand that was gripping the pole. Automatically he let go, and at the same moment felt one of his feet slide on the steel platform. To his astonishment, he realised that he was being swept off the back of the bus.
He hit the street half-standing, landing on one foot as if he had jumped off the bus. But his leg crumpled underneath him and he fell heavily to one side, his elbow cracking against the kerb. And then his head hit the hard asphalt surface of the road.
A dim recollection of an egg being cracked ran through his mind as pain seared through both temples. The breath was knocked out of him as he rolled over the street. He was dimly aware of lights coming towards him. It’s a van, he thought vaguely, and managed to lift up one arm, half in protest, half in self-defence, just before he blacked out.
Chapter 37
It was 5 in the morning when the phone rang but Liz wasn’t asleep. She’d done no more than doze all night. She’d got back to her flat at midnight feeling intensely frustrated. Dave Armstrong hadn’t been able to raise Boatman on his mobile; he’d finally rung the landline at his house and got his wife, who turned out not to have heard from her husband either and was worried sick. As was Liz.
Now it was Dave again, and Liz heard the urgency in his voice. ‘Liz, it’s me. I’ve located Boatman. He’s had an accident.’
‘How bad?’
‘Bad, but not terminal. The hospital thought he’d fractured his skull but the X-ray’s come back negative. He’s got a broken arm and jaw and another hairline fracture, but he’s conscious again, and the doctor says he’ll recover fully in time.’
‘What happened?’
‘He fell off the back of a bus. Literally.’
‘Fell?’
‘The hospital’s choice of words.There were plenty of witnesses – the bus was packed. Apparently, he’d come down the stairs at the back and was standing on the platform, waiting for his stop. Somehow he lost his footing – he was lucky not to get run over.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday evening on his way home from work. He’s been in hospital ever since. Luckily there was a policeman nearby in the street when it happened, and he must have had some doubts about how Boatman came to fall off the bus. He made some inquiries, word got back to DI Fontana, and he rang me. That was an hour ago.’
‘Is Boatman safe there?’
‘Fontana’s had him moved to a private room on the pretext that he needs quiet, and he’s put a Special Branch officer in plain clothes, who’s pretending to be a relative, inside with him. I don’t think we’ve any worries on that score. It’s when he gets out that I’ll be concerned.’
‘Me too.’ Liz was fully awake now. ‘Listen, I’m going to drive up. I’ll come straight to the hospital. Can you meet me there in two hours or so?’
‘That’s where I am now. I’ll wait here unless something else crops up.’
‘What about his wife? We can’t leave her out there. She may not be safe.’
‘Fontana’s gone to pick her up. He’s told her to pack a few things in a suitcase but he’s leaving the detailed explanations to us. He’s told her not to tell anyone else what’s happened for the time being.’
‘Good. Let’s hope that holds the situation for now. Any media interest?’
‘Not so far. The hospital press office has been told to play it low-key – just a straightforward accident.’
‘OK, Dave. Thanks. I’ll talk to Mrs Boatman when I get there but it looks like a full-scale exfiltration job. I’ll get Peggy to alert the team to expect a hospital case and a shell-shocked wife. That’ll give them something to think about!’
The ward was in a small two-storey wing, tucked away behind the enormous main block of the hospital. From reception Liz could see Dave standing by the nurse’s station, and he came down the corridor to greet her, saying, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Well, Boatman’s parents have been and gone. They’ve just been told that he had an accident. They thought I was a plain-clothes policeman waiting to take a statement, in case the van driver who almost ran him over was going to be charged with dangerous driving. His wife’s with him now; Fontana brought her here. She’s very upset, but seems a sensible sort of girl and she’s not panicking. Fontana told her there was a security issue, to explain why we’re looking after her husband, and that someone was coming up from London to explain things further. That’s you.’
‘OK. I’ll talk to her in a moment. What else?’
‘His brother wanted to see him.’
There was something odd in Dave’s tone. Liz stared at him. ‘So?’
‘The problem with that is he doesn’t have a brother.’
‘Christ. Who was he?’
‘Don’t know. One of the nurses thought the guy was acting oddly. When she asked him a few questions, he got spooked. By the time she called me he’d run off. Sorry, Liz.’
She waved Dave’s apology aside. ‘It just means we’re going to have to move a little sooner than I thought. I’d better see his wife now. Can you round up whoever’s in charge of the ward while I do? I’ll see them after her.’
What a stunning woman, thought Liz, as Boatman’s wife joined
her in the ward’s small interview room. Jamila was tall, with fine regular features and big eyes, sad and tear-stained at present. Her raven hair was long and straight, held back by a large comb. Liz was surprised to see she was wearing white jeans and a silk shirt, which came down over her hips. She wasn’t at all the demure, traditional spouse Liz had been expecting.
Liz introduced herself as Jane Forrester from the Security Service and they sat down side by side on a hard sofa.
‘The doctors say your husband will be fine. They expect him to make a complete recovery.’
Jamila nodded and Liz said tentatively, ‘I need to talk to you about what happens next.’
The younger woman’s eyes widened involuntarily as Liz continued, ‘The policeman who brought you here explained there was a security issue, didn’t he?’
Jamila nodded, almost mechanically, and it was clear that she was in shock still, hardly able to take in the revelations of the last few hours. ‘He said Salim had been helping the . . . authorities.’ She looked uncertainly at Liz, then her face creased into the hint of a smile. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Liz said simply. ‘Your husband has been helping us to find out what some very dangerous people may be doing.’
‘He didn’t fall off that bus, did he?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. We think there are people who want to harm him. It’s possible that they caused his accident tonight.’
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