‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh!’
He looked down into the tear-stained face of Fatma İkmen. Since the death of her son Bekir, he had hardly spoken to her. He had, after all, been present when the boy had been shot by the local Jandarmes. Süleyman felt his face flush hot. ‘Ah.’
‘Inspector Süleyman,’ she said.
‘Fatma Hanım.’
She attempted a smile and then said, ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He looked down at the large bag of shopping she held in her hands. Even with most of her family now gone, Fatma İkmen still shopped for many. Süleyman put his hand out towards her and said, ‘Would you like me to help you to—’
‘No!’ She drew back from him quickly as if scalded. He retreated from her with an understanding smile.
‘Of course I—’
‘And Dr Halman, is she well?’ Fatma said quickly, nervously changing the subject.
‘Yes, my wife is very well. Very kind of you to ask.’
The man who ran the cigarette kiosk and who knew Süleyman as a regular customer gave up waiting for his attention and served a woman with long red hair.
‘Little Yusuf must continue to bring you joy,’ Fatma said, referring to Süleyman’s young son.
‘Yes.’ But as he said it, Süleyman’s face darkened. He did not want to get into any kind of conversation about children with Fatma İkmen, particularly not sons, particularly not when Çetin İkmen could possibly be lying dead in Hakkâri mortuary. ‘Fatma Hanım, I need to get cigarettes and then return to work.’
‘Oh, of course. Of course!’ She hefted her bag and Süleyman watched her walk away. She looked so dejected, her shoulders hunched, her head down; on impulse he ran over to her.
‘Fatma!’ They had been such good friends in the past. She had been like an indulgent older sister to him.
‘Oh, Mehmet!’ she cried. ‘Do you think it might be Çetin? On the television? In that jeep in Hakkâri? With those soldiers? Do you . . .’ She let her shopping bag drop to the ground, put her head in her hands and howled.
Without any thought for how she might take it or what passers-by might think, he put his arms round her and said, ‘Oh Fatma, I don’t know. If I did I would tell you. But I honestly do not.’
She raised her wet face from her hands and said, ‘Do you know one of the last things that I said to Çetin before he left?’
‘I . . .’
‘An evil, terrible thing for a wife to say to any husband!’ She lowered her voice. ‘I told him I didn’t care what happened to him when he went away. I told him he was nothing to me. Oh, Mehmet, I wished him dead! For what he did to Bekir I wished him . . .’ She broke down completely, sobbing her heart out with the misery of it.
‘But you didn’t really mean it, did you?’ Süleyman said as he rocked her gently from side to side underneath one of the blossoming magnolia trees. ‘You were just hurt. He knew that. He knows that,’ he corrected himself.
‘What time is it?’
Derek Harrison switched his small torch on and pointed it at his watch. ‘Nearly half past two.’
Ali Reza Hajizadeh sighed. The waiting didn’t breed fear in him, rather it made him impatient. But that was hardly surprising given his philosophy. Once the explosives in the jacket he was going to wear had detonated, he was going straight to Paradise. No more struggling to make who and what he was understood by people who in no way could understand. No more occasional disappointed calls from his parents. This would show them! What he was going to do would make London and the whole country sit up and take notice. And it would bring such joy to the life of Ayatollah Nourazar. That saintly man his fellow Iranians had discarded for being an ‘extremist’ would be listened to after this. There was nothing, the old man had told him, so good at getting people’s attention as a grand and violent action.
‘Keen to get to heaven, are you?’ Derek Harrison asked out of the darkness.
Ali Reza looked over to the darker patch of shadow that was Derek and said, ‘What would you know about it?’
‘Nothing.’ He cleared his throat. It’s just that I can hear you shuffling about being all impatient, that’s all.’
A tube train on its way ultimately out to Essex thundered past and briefly illuminated their faces. Ali Reza tried to see if the train was full but it was going too fast for him to make out anything other than a blur. Not that it mattered much anyway. Two thirty was not a particularly busy time for the tube. Ayatollah Nourazar would text him to let him know when exactly to detonate his device, but it was going to be sometime during the rush hour, that was for certain. Harrison had been instructed to help him get into the jacket at four thirty. Then it would be real.
As the train disappeared down the track and Ali Reza’s world slipped into darkness once again, he wondered how he would feel once he was truly a soldier. Because that was what he was doing – going into battle. Taking the fight to those who, by their advocacy of the state of Israel, their past colonial crimes and their rejection of religion in any form, were bringing this holy wrath down upon themselves. Just thinking about it made Ali Reza smile.
Chapter 24
* * *
Subaru Imprezas were not Wesley Simpson’s favourite type of getaway car. Back in the day he’d driven all sorts: big black Mercs, nippy sports cars, bog standard saloons. His favourite, for speed as well as looks and general street cred, had to be the Mitsubishi Evo. He’d only driven one once and that was for one of the south London gangs. They’d done this post office down in Norwood and he’d driven the three of them plus the ten grand from the hit down to Brighton. Not until much later had he discovered that one of the guys had been packing a pistol. When he and all the rest of them were finally caught, Wes had gone down for three years. It had been after that that he’d decided to make the career change from driving people to jobs to driving dodgy gear to people. With dodgy gear, people only got hurt indirectly, and if the coppers found you with it you could always plead ignorance about what it was. Dodgy gear was someone else’s problem.
Now as he made his way out of his flat and over to the Impreza, he was back in the old routine. He was going to pick up some blokes from a car park in Stratford, take them where they wanted to go and then wait for them to come back – with his engine running. He didn’t know who they were, what they were doing or where he would ultimately have to take them. But Ahmet Ülker had promised him a lot of money to do this and so for better or worse that was what he was going to do. When it was all done and dusted, he could bugger off somewhere hot for a while, somewhere far away from London and the Old Bill. But before that he had to do the job.
Wes pressed the remote control to unlock the car and climbed inside. Just like the old days, he felt a combination of excitement and nausea. There was no two ways about it, driving was a drug and Wes was an addict. Whatever was going down with these blokes Ahmet Ülker was involved with, Wes wasn’t interested. Provided there was no violence, and Ahmet had assured him that there wouldn’t be, he was cool. But half a million quid in cash said otherwise. It was more money than a lot of hitmen got. It was way too much for a getaway driver. Wes was no fool, but as he put the key into the ignition and pulled away from the kerb, he closed his mind to questions that had sticky answers.
Wesley Simpson was halfway down the road when the innocuous Ford Fiesta that had been parked outside his house all night drove off after him.
At four o’clock, after consulting his superiors, Superintendent Williams moved his temporary headquarters from Fenchurch Street Station to Cooper’s Row, the road that leads down from Crutched Friars to Tower Hill tube. An office above a small wine bar was quickly cleared and taken over and at just after four Inspector Riley arrived to join Williams’ team.
‘I’m expecting the acting commissioner to order the closure of Tower Hill any minute,’ Williams said to Riley. ‘It’s a Friday, people will be leaving their offices early. The second rush ho
ur of the day is about to begin. We can’t take risks.’
‘Still no sight of Harrison and Hajizadeh?’ Riley asked.
‘They haven’t been seen since Inspector İkmen saw them leave the Hackney Wick factory with Ülker last night,’ Williams said. ‘But we know the hit is going to be today. After all, Ülker and company didn’t know they were being overheard last night. They didn’t say what they said for our benefit.’
Ayşe Kudu left İkmen by the window and came over to her superiors. ‘But Harrison and Hajizadeh aren’t in the station, are they?’
Williams sighed. ‘No.’
‘And sir, I assume that trains will still run through Tower Hill.’
‘Yes, they will.’
İkmen, who had been listening, said, ‘But they are definitely going to target a tube station. Not a train or a tunnel. I heard them. I think that to get a station is essential for Harrison’s sense of revenge.’
‘Sir!’ A detective constable who had been on the phone called over to Williams.
‘Yes?’
‘The CCTV footage we’ve been able to get hold of has come up negative,’ the young man said. ‘Harrison and Hajizadeh are not on any of the media we’ve managed to look at so far.’
‘Sir,’ Ayşe said, ‘maybe they’re coming into the City from one of the tube line terminus points. From Harrow on the Bakerloo line, for instance.’
‘That is a possibility,’ Williams said.
‘In which case,’ she continued, ‘if they’re already on their way, closing Tower Hill as they approach it will alert them to the possibility that we’re on to them. Under those circumstances, they could do anything.’
‘The impression I got from the Iranian,’ İkmen said, ‘was of a man who will not be easily diverted from his mission. He has chosen martyrdom and that is it.’
The superintendent’s phone rang and he walked away from the group to answer it.
DI Roman threw his hands up in the air and said, ‘And anyway we don’t know it’s going to be Tower Hill, do we? We’re basing all of this on some entry in a diary of a refugee in İstanbul.’
‘Who we know was being groomed to come here and commit a suicide bombing,’ Riley cut in sharply. ‘That much has been established by Inspector İkmen’s colleagues in İstanbul. We know that. The reference to Mark Lane found in his diary was written against this date and it is the only real indication about where the attack might take place that we have.’
‘Why don’t we bring Ülker in?’
Riley put a hand on Roman’s shoulder. ‘Frank,’ he said, ‘I can understand your impatience—’
‘Can you?’ Frank Roman twitched away from him. ‘That obbo out at Hackney Wick has been going on for weeks. On the few occasions Ülker’s men let his workers out for some air and a piss, those of us looking on can hardly stand it. They’re working people to death in there! And look at what they did to Inspector İkmen! I want it closed down. We all want it closed down!’
‘I know you’re sick of waiting, Frank—’
‘OK, I’ve just received instructions from Gold Commander to shut Tower Hill.’ Williams came back to his colleagues. ‘The acting commissioner is fully aware of what the implications of doing this might be but he feels he doesn’t have a choice.’
Everyone looked anxiously either down at the floor or out of the window.
‘I’m now going to call the mayor to inform him and I’d like you, Inspector Riley, to lead a team to go and close the station.’
‘Sir.’
‘Uniform officers are on their way over from Fenchurch Street now.’ He looked at Ayşe and Roman. ‘I’d like you to accompany Inspector Riley.’
‘Right.’
‘The official reason we are using to close the station is that a suspicious package has been found on one of the platforms,’ Williams said. ‘Let’s get to it.’ He picked up his phone again and called Haluk Üner, mayor of London, on his direct line.
‘Ah, Superintendent . . .’
He looked up. ‘Inspector İkmen?’
‘Sir, would it be acceptable if I accompany Inspector Riley to the station? I am anxious to see this through.’
Williams listened as the phone began to ring and said, ‘Yes, Inspector, go ahead. But please follow all instructions you are given. We are very grateful to you and your superiors and I would hate to end our relationship with further damage to your person.’ Then he turned away and said into the phone, ‘Mr Üner, yes . . .’
İkmen followed Ayşe Kudu and the others out of the office and down the stairs.
‘Süleyman!’
Unusually, the commissioner’s door was open. Either by chance or design he saw Süleyman pass by and called him into his office.
‘Sir?’
‘Close the door and sit down,’ Ardıç said, motioning Süleyman in with his cigar. Süleyman did as he was asked.
‘I’m happy to be able to let your know that the civilian killed in an attack on a military vehicle in Hakkâri was no one connected to this station.’ Ardıç cleared his throat. ‘I know that speculation has been rife about that person possibly being our own Inspector İkmen, but I can assure you that it is not. I would be grateful if you could convey this information to Mrs İkmen. You know her better than I do and I am sure she is aware of the news story in question.’
‘I know she is, sir,’ Süleyman said. As he spoke he let out a small sigh of relief. When Ardıç had called him in he had experienced a moment of terrible panic. The prospect of İkmen’s death was almost too awful to contemplate.
‘With regard to İkmen,’ the commissioner continued, ‘it would seem that his sojourn elsewhere is not to be as protracted as we thought. I have not yet been informed when he will return to us, but I understand we will not have too long to wait.’
‘That’s excellent,’ Süleyman said. ‘Sir, I—’
‘Ask me no questions about where he is and what he’s doing,’ Ardıç said and then added brusquely, ‘Now get back to your duties and close my door behind you when you leave.’
Summarily dismissed, Süleyman stood up and left, carefully closing the door behind him.
Alone in his office, Ardıç leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. According to his opposite number in London, events there appeared to be entering some sort of final stage. Apparently with İkmen’s help they had discovered that the terrorist attack on the British capital was going to take place in a metro, or what they called a tube station. They were closing the station they felt was the most likely target. Ardıç wondered what part İkmen was playing in that operation. Apparently he had been wounded in the course of his undercover work for the Metropolitan Police. But he had as yet refused any treatment for his wounds. That was typical. It was difficult enough to get İkmen to have a routine medical. To say he had a phobia about hospital treatment was probably understating the case. Ardıç just hoped that İkmen, in his enthusiasm for his exciting foreign posting, didn’t get himself killed.
The vest was heavy and unwieldy. Unlike suicide vests worn in populous areas it didn’t need to be concealed underneath clothing and so could be as large as was required. Usually weighing a maximum of 20kg, this one weighed in at 30 and was packed with large cylinders of top quality Composition 4 plastic explosive. Around the explosive was another, outer vest which contained the nails, metal bolts and plates that would constitute the shrapnel element of the bomb.
Derek Simpson hefted it out of the large sports bag he had used to transport it and looked it over by the light of his torch. Once on Hajizadeh’s body, he’d have to check that all of the wiring was correct and then fit the detonator. It was he who had the skill and knowledge in this area, not the Iranian. All he had to do, as far as Derek was concerned, was die.
‘Come here,’ he said when he saw that Hajizadeh had taken his T-shirt off.
The Iranian walked over and, with a smile, slipped his arms into the vest.
‘You’ll have to keep very still while I check the wiri
ng,’ Harrison said.
Ali Reza felt various tuggings on the vest as he stood looking out into the darkness. It was very heavy and cut into the tops of his shoulders deeply. But he was proud to wear it and was relieved that at last the time had come to kit up and get ready for his mission.
‘You don’t touch the detonator until you’re absolutely in position,’ Harrison said to him. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes. I’m not stupid.’
‘I know,’ Harrison said. ‘I just don’t want you running away with yourself before you get the text. I know what you lot are like. I’ve been around you long enough.’
Ali Reza put his hand into the pocket of his trousers and said, ‘You lot? What do you mean you lot?’
‘Jihadi types,’ Harrison said. ‘You’re so keen to get to the other side you often forget the details you have to go through to get there.’ He looked into the Iranian’s eyes and said, ‘I’ll be honest with you, Ali, I don’t like the fact that Ahmet has taken to working with you lot lately. All this religion stuff, it don’t sit well with me. Don’t sit with Ahmet either, much as you might like to think it does. He drinks, does all sorts of things Muslims ain’t supposed to do. He ain’t doing this for God.’
‘I know what Ahmet is,’ Ali Reza said. ‘He’s a means to an end.’
‘Well, for myself, I can’t say I’ll miss you, but I am grateful that you’re taking revenge for me,’ Harrison said.
‘It’s a strange sort of revenge, blowing up something inanimate. After all, Derek, it wasn’t the tube itself that hurt you, was it?’
‘My life ended down here,’ Harrison replied. ‘Moorgate weren’t no one’s fault. What else but an inanimate object can I take it out on? Anyway, you’re not perfect, whatever you might think.’
‘Shagging the boss’s wife?’
Death by Design Page 19
