Tahira was nobody’s fool, but she’d trusted the MI5 woman from London as soon as she’d met her. Not that she believed she was called Jane Forrester, but that didn’t matter – Tahira wasn’t surprised that she didn’t use her real name in her line of work. But she’d seemed very straight and she’d spoken kindly about Amir, not blaming him as though he was some kind of criminal – though it did seem from what she’d said that he had got himself into something dreadful. Jane had seemed anxious about Tahira too, particularly when she’d told her she was meeting Malik again this morning. Jane had made her promise to ring as soon as he’d gone, and tell her what had happened.
Tahira didn’t know Malik very well, but it was hard to believe that someone like him, who’d lived all his life just a few streets away and who’d been to the same school as her, would want to kill people, though Jane had said he did. In his way he was quite attractive, and when you talked to him he could be interesting and even funny sometimes – in a different world they might have had a real friendship. But he had shown another side too, when he’d started lecturing her about the Islamic duty to fight the West and defend Islam. Why should defending Islam mean hurting people? She didn’t get it. It was men like Malik who’d led her brother astray. She was sure it was him and the others at the New Springfield Mosque who’d arranged Amir’s trip to Pakistan and put him in the hands of other extremists, so that he’d ended up in prison in Paris. She’d never forgive Malik for that, and that was why she’d agreed to tell the MI5 woman everything that he said.
Tahira was hurrying now; she didn’t want to be late at the café and start the conversation on the wrong foot. There was something rigid about Malik that made her sure he’d be angry if she wasn’t on time. In that way he reminded her of her father. Were all Pakistani men tyrants? She sometimes wondered. Englishmen seemed more relaxed, not that she could speak from personal experience – she’d never got to know any. Her father, her mother, and the whole culture she had grown up in had made sure of that. So far she had managed to avoid the arranged marriage her parents wanted for her. Her father had been prepared to wait, but only because she was useful to him, being so good at running the shop. But he wouldn’t wait for ever, and it was certain that if she showed any interest in an Englishman she’d end up married to some dire cousin from Sadiquabad. Then she’d be like Chunna: bullied and tied to the house.
She crossed over the side street, noticing a couple of builders sitting eating sandwiches in a van. She wondered why anyone would work on a Saturday if they didn’t have to. Maybe they worked at something else during the week. Not that they were working now, just sitting eating and reading the paper.
‘You’re looking very lovely today, Tahira.’ The voice came from behind her; she was still a hundred yards away from the café. Tahira was used to casual comments on the street – wolf whistles from men on building sites, muttered compliments from shy teenage boys when she passed them – but this sounded different. He knew her name.
She turned around and saw a short man who looked familiar, beaming at her. She looked more closely.
‘Malik?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already,’ said the man with a laugh. It was Malik, she saw now, but he had shaved off his beard and he was wearing trousers and a jacket. He even had a pullover on. He’s going to be hot, thought Tahira; the forecast was for a day of sunshine and it was already warming up.
Malik came closer and shook her hand, holding it for a moment. He seemed less formal than usual, much friendlier. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her towards the café.
It was crowded with Muslim men in white shirts and skullcaps. Tahira was one of the few women there. Two men at a corner table got up to leave as they came in, so Malik and Tahira sat down there, Malik facing the door. He poured out the mint tea they had ordered, talking all the time – asking Tahira about her job in her father’s shop, telling her about his little nephew’s football team and his brother’s hopeless efforts to set up a kebab stall. He was doing his best to be charming; she might have warmed to him if she hadn’t kept in the forefront of her mind everything else she knew about him.
He stopped talking just long enough to drink his tea, then asked, ‘Are you still going to the concert?’
‘Of course. Though my cousin’s cancelled on me.’ She looked down at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go soon if I’m going to get a good place.’
She was finishing her tea when Malik said, ‘You know, I have been thinking about this group you like. Perhaps I was a bit too down on them. After all, if we live here in the West, then we have to live with the West. There is no point pretending we are in Pakistan, is there?’
Tahira nodded, but she was puzzled. Why was Malik sounding so reasonable? Where was the firebrand of their last meeting? He went on, ‘I can’t say these Chick Peas are much to my taste – bit of a girls’ band with all their fancy clothes and hair-dos and stuff. And they’re Indian as well. But I have to admit,’ and he gave a sheepish smile, ‘that their songs are quite catchy. I heard one on the radio this morning and I’ve been humming it ever since. What’s it called?’
‘“Biryani for Two”,’ said Tahira. ‘But you ought to get their CD. Some of their other songs are better.’
‘Really? Well, perhaps I should hear them live. I’m not doing anything special today – I could come with you to the concert, especially since your cousin’s let you down. If you don’t mind, that is?’
‘Of course not,’ said Tahira, but her mind was racing. It didn’t make sense – Malik had been completely contemptuous last time, when she’d said she was going to hear the all-girl band. Why had he changed now? And why had he shaved off his beard? She didn’t like to ask him, but it was a very odd thing to do for someone as religious as he professed to be. She didn’t trust this new Malik – something was going on. She needed to tell Jane right away.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ she said, getting up to go to the lavatory.
Malik stood up too. ‘I’ll pay the bill,’ he said, ‘then we can walk to the park together.’
Tahira found the women’s room at the back of the café, and locked the door firmly behind her. She turned on the tap in the washbasin to cover the sound of her voice, in case anyone was listening outside, then she hit the predial number for Jane.
There was no signal.
She went out to find Malik waiting for her by the door. ‘Ready?’ he said with a smile.
‘You go on. I just need to phone my father. I’ll catch you up,’ she said, reaching into her bag for her phone.
‘Your father’s a bit of a tyrant, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said Malik. He was holding her elbow now. ‘Ring him later?’
‘But I promised—’ she said, and felt his fingers tighten their grip on her arm.
‘You can ring him when we get to the park. Come on, let’s go. Don’t forget, I’ve got to buy a ticket.’
As Malik and Tahira left the café, tension was rising in the Ops room. There had been some initial confusion in the A4 teams as to whether the man who’d joined Tahira was Malik or someone else, as he looked so different from normal. There’d been a discussion about why he was looking so Westernised; they’d come to the conclusion that he must suspect surveillance, so Lamb had warned the teams to hang back, as their target might be alert to them.
‘Looks like he’s going to escort her to the concert,’ said Lamb to Liz as the reports came in that the two targets were still together and walking towards the park.
Liz didn’t reply at first. A thought came to her and she asked Fontana, ‘Is the concert sold out or are they selling tickets at the gate?’
‘It wasn’t sold out yesterday,’ replied Fontana. ‘The organisers asked permission to erect ticket booths and there was concern in the crowd-control unit that there might be trouble if a lot of people were scrambling for tickets. But they let them go ahead in the end. What are you . . .’
Liz broke in
, ‘I think that’s where Malik’s going. He’s going to the concert.’
‘What? A good Muslim boy like him? I wouldn’t have thought he’d be seen dead at a pop concert. Especially when it’s an Indian group.’
‘Dead may be the right word. He’s going because they’re Indian, and Westernised, and vulgar and decadent – just like the rest of us, in Malik’s view. And there will be thousands of people there listening to this girl band. I think the band’s his target – but anyone else will be a bonus for Malik.’
‘God, I think you’re right.’ And Fontana seized a radio from one of the spare console desks and started barking out a series of orders – mobilising the armed teams and passing the description of Malik and Tahira to the police control room to send to the officer in charge on the ground.
‘I’m going to the park,’ he told Liz.
‘I’m coming with you. I know Tahira, I can help look for her.’ As they left the Ops room she said to Fontana, ‘Tell the men on the ground that they have to get her away from Malik.’ She was afraid that whatever the extremist was planning to do, he was intending to take Tahira with him.
Chapter 59
‘Are you OK, Malik?’
‘I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just the way you’re walking – all stiff. You look as if you’ve hurt your back or something.’ Malik usually strolled along, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, but today he was almost marching, his back very straight and his head up. He looks like a soldier on parade, Tahira thought.
‘I went to the gym yesterday for the first time in ages. I think I overdid it a bit. But I’m fine. Who wouldn’t be, walking with a beautiful girl to a decadent pop concert?’ he added with a laugh.
Tahira was struck by how light-hearted he seemed. Maybe the Jane woman from London had got it wrong about him. She hoped so.
On the Stratford Road the traffic was gridlocked. Cars sat motionless in two long lines, completely blocked by the swarm of mainly Asian young people who, bunched up at the entrance to the park, were spilling over on to the road. They made a colourful crowd on the sunny morning, many of the girls in very short skirts that barely covered their pants, tottering along in high-heeled sandals; the men, fewer in number, were wearing bright shirts and jeans, some of them pushing buggies or carrying small children on their shoulders. Tahira thought Malik looked very out of place in his jacket and pullover, but if he’d never been to a pop concert before, perhaps he didn’t know what people wore.
As they were carried along by the crush of people towards the entrance gates, she grabbed Malik’s hand. It would be easy to get separated in this crowd. Closer to the gates, stewards in orange jackets were trying to divide the crowd into those who had tickets and those who needed to buy them. Two booths had been erected, one on each side of the gate, and tapes marked where the queues were supposed to form. But the lines were already longer than the tapes and there was a lot of confusion about where each queue ended and who was in front of whom.
As they stood waiting, Tahira watched the uniformed policemen who had joined the stewards at the gate. It struck her that they seemed more concerned with scanning the concert-goers than with helping the stewards sort out the chaotic crowd. There was a man in a parka with a camcorder. She thought he must be from local TV because he was filming them all as they approached the gates.
‘Come on,’ said Malik. ‘I’m not waiting here any longer. The concert’ll be starting soon.’
‘How are you going to get in without a ticket?’
‘I’ve been watching them and they’re not checking very carefully.’ He took her arm and pushed her towards the dense crowd going through the gates, walking closely behind her. He was right – there was such a crush that the ticket checkers had more or less given up. They were reduced to looking cursorily at tickets when people held them out, but they weren’t able to stop anyone who didn’t. A sudden surge from the crowd pushed Tahira through the bottleneck of the entrance, Malik hanging on tight to her arm. As they came into the park the pressure eased and the crowd spread out, like water pushed through a narrow channel suddenly finding room to flow.
Tahira took a deep breath and realised that Malik had let go of her. She looked around for him, panicking slightly when she couldn’t see him. Then his now-familiar face materialised behind her, and she saw with amazement that he’d put on an orange baseball cap, which had a big blue P emblazoned on the front.
Tahira laughed at him. ‘Where on earth did you get that from?’
He grinned. ‘I went to Tesco earlier this week for my mum. They were selling them there and I thought I could use it today. Isn’t this what you’re meant to wear at a pop concert?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re a clown.’ But as she said it something was occurring to her. If he’d bought the cap in Tesco earlier in the week, he must have meant to come to the concert all along. Why had he pretended to her that he’d only had the idea this morning?
She had no time to think this through, jostled into following the crowd of people moving in the direction of the stage, but Malik steered her towards the side where ropes strung loosely between stakes marked the boundaries of the audience area. She pulled the other way. She wanted to get up to the front, near the stage, and join the girls there who were jumping up and down and clapping in time to the warm-up band. But Malik tugged her back and pointed to a huge screen showing the performers on-stage. She realised that she’d get a better view from here, and it would be more comfortable than being squashed in the crowd and probably seeing very little.
The warm-up band finished playing and the crowd clapped and shrieked as they went off the stage. Then a tall Asian man came on with a microphone in his hand. It was Amrit Sandhu, presenter of the local TV station’s music channel. The crowd roared as he waved to them, then gradually the noise died down.
‘Namaste, everyone,’ he shouted.
‘Namaste,’ the crowd roared back.
‘Salaam,’ he shouted.
‘Salaam,’ they roared back.
And finally ‘Hello,’ and back from the crowd ‘Hello.’
‘Are you enjoying yourselves?’
‘Yes,’ the crowd shouted back.
‘Well, now you’re in for the treat of the afternoon. They’re here, straight from their successful European tour, already booked for a US tour and waiting to perform, just for you. Put your hands together. It’s . . . the Chick Peas!’
A huge answering roar came from the crowd.
Tahira was watching the big screen beside her as the group’s band began to play a heavy bass line accompanied by loud insistent drums. Suddenly from the wings the lead singer, Banditti Kahab, marched on to the stage wearing a white leather miniskirt, stamping her tall, shiny, high-heeled boots in time to the beat. She had huge silver hoop earrings in her ears, silver bangles on her arms, and her hair was brushed out in a lustrous black mane.
The two other Chick Peas now came on to the stage, one in wide-bottomed silk trousers displaying a bare midriff, the other in skintight crops and what looked like a bra made of sequins.
They stood side by side at the front of the stage, waving and smiling at the audience. Then suddenly the band started to play the intro to their hit single and the girls began to sing. Banditti waved to the crowd to join in and the resulting noise was deafening.
Tahira sang too, and glanced over at Malik to see if he was joining in. But he wasn’t singing; he was looking at her. She smiled but he didn’t smile back. She felt uneasy again. What was the matter? As the song ended and the applause died down a bit, she said, ‘That was great, wasn’t it?’
He didn’t reply. A guitar was being tuned before the next song and over Malik’s shoulder, on the screen, Tahira could see Banditti moving around the stage, waiting till the band was ready. Malik said, ‘Listen, I have to go now.’
‘What do you mean, go?’ She couldn’t believe it.
He nodded. She said, ‘So you aren’t enjoying it.’
/> ‘No, no. It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I just have to leave.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why have you got to leave?’
He gave a thin smile. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just trust me.’
‘But where are you going? You’ll never be able to get out in this crush. When will I see you again?’
He looked at her and said, ‘I can’t predict that. But I am sure we will meet again. Maybe not in this world, but certainly in the next one.’
As he said these words, Tahira went cold from head to toe. She stared at him open-mouthed. There was a dreamy look on his face now, as if he was already somewhere else.
She didn’t want to think about that. Instead she said, ‘Why are you talking like this? Why can’t you stay here with me? You wanted to come,’ she added accusingly.
But he wasn’t listening. Malik seemed to be drifting away from her, right before her eyes. She was helpless to call him back.
He said slowly, ‘You are very special, Tahira. Please always remember that I said that. Goodbye.’ And he reached out his hand and touched her lightly on the cheek, then turned and walked away. She watched, mystified, as he headed towards the gates.
Then Malik suddenly changed direction, angling sideways into the back of the crowd. She lost sight of him for a moment, then saw the orange baseball cap bobbing among the excited teenage girls. What was he doing?
And then she realised he was heading for the stage, and suddenly she knew. It had all been a sham. He hadn’t changed his mind about the Chick Peas, or the West, or the evil he seemed to see in everything Tahira enjoyed. He had tricked her, pretending to have changed; he’d used her as cover to get into the concert. He was going to do something terrible.
Rip Tide Page 28
