'I saw him. The flight was called and he went to the gate. Only one flight was boarding. The flight was the Dutch airline, and was for Amsterdam. I do not lie, brother, and I know my nephew's walk.'
'It is impossible.'
'It is what I saw.'
Doubt crept now into the mind of Omar Hussein. Eleven days before he had been told by his son, Ibrahim, of a journey to Sana'a, the principal city of Yemen, to visit cousins from the family of Omar's beloved and missed wife. Now, his brother who had a sharp mind that was not dulled with age, as his own was, declared with certainty that the boy had lied to his father and sisters and had travelled to Riyadh, then caught an aeroplane to Europe.
'I shall telephone him,' Omar Hussein said, attempting a decisive response.
In the living room of that prosperous home were the fruits of his labours: a wide-screen television with cinema-standard speakers, video and DTD attachments, electric fans that purred softly to shift the day's heat, and a state-of-the-art cordless phone. He picked it up from its cradle, punched into its gargantuan memory, waited and listened, then asked. An answer, in Sana'a, was given him. His lips pursed. 'They have not seen him. They have not been told to expect him.'
'I can only tell you what I saw, brother.'
Again, Omar Hussein delved into the memory of his telephone, and rang his son's personal mobile. He was told that its owner was unavailable and was requested to leave a recorded message. The days of the last week had flown past with stock checks at the shop and with representatives calling on him to sell new models. A father realized now how long it had been since he had spoken to a son, and how there had been no phone calls. He led his brother up the wide stairs of the villa.
He found the door to his son's bedroom locked, put his shoulder to it and could not break it open. He felt tears of frustration welling. But his brother was stronger, fitter, and crashed his weight into the door. It swung open, and his brother half fell through it. Omar came past him, steadied him, and looked round the room.
It was so tidy. The room was that of a twenty-one-year-old boy and normally shoes, clothes, books for studying and magazines littered the floor. Everything had been left so neat. He saw the two photographs on the wall, the glass of the frames gleaming, of his elder sons, both dead. The loss of them was a misery of which he rarely spoke but always felt. There was a vase of flowers on a table under the photographs, but the water had been sucked out in the room's heat and the blooms had withered. His son's mobile phone was on the bedside table, switched off. Now Omar Hussein believed what his brother, who had the eyesight of a hunting Lariner falcon, had told him–and he understood. The weight of it crushed him.
'What should I do?'
'To protect him, and to safeguard your daughters and yourself, there is only one choice open to you.'
'1b,11 me.'
'It is just possible that he can be intercepted and stopped…I think more of you and of your daughters. Times, Omar, have changed. They are no longer martyrs, they are terrorists. When his name is released and when the television shows what he has done, you will be hounded by the police, by every agency. You will be seen -. because you reported nothing and because you are from Asir Province, which they say is a 'hotbed' of terrorism–as an accomplice to an atrocity. The families of those who flew into the Towers, and most of them were from Asir, are now disgraced, ruined. You may endure it, you probably can, but do you wish that on your daughters? I think you know what you should do.'
Omar Hussein, his head hung, said, 'If I did nothing my wife, if she were able, would curse me.'
An hour after his brother had left the villa, and in response to Omar Hussein's telephone call to the Ministry of the Interior police, whose compound was around the walls of the Ottoman fort in Jizan, an unmarked Chevrolet car drove up to his front door.
Two men of the mabaheth sipped coffee with a frightened father and took notes of what he said concerning a missing son who was far away and lost.
'A nice little runner, Miss.'
She walked a fourth or fifth time round the Ford Fiesta. She had left the yard at its wheel and they had done a short circuit round the side-roads off the main route to the motorway, and Avril Harris had not found fault. It was her finances that caused her to hesitate at this last hurdle. She was twenty-five years old, a nurse in A and E at Luton's main hospital where she earned a pittance for the responsibilities heaped on her, and her last car–with a hundred and fifty-one thousand on the clock–had died on her. No young woman in her right mind would come off night duty and rely on finding a taxi or getting a late bus across the town. The town at night was a battlefield of violence, and she did not need the local paper to tell her so: in A and E, on night duty, she fielded the victims. She had seen, from different dealers, four other cars but this Fiesta–seventy thousand miles done–priced at nine hundred pounds seemed the best value. It shone, the seats were clean, and she did not have her father there to check the tyres and pose better questions. She asked for a discount and saw the pain on the dealer's face as he offered it for eight fifty, 'final price–a give-away'. She rooted in her handbag for that amount in cash, and a half-full tank was thrown in. She signed the papers, got in and turned the ignition.
At the lights blocking the Dunstable Road, at the hospital turn-off, she had to pull up, and her new joy echoed with the report of the Fiesta's backfire. For a moment she was dazed by the intensity of the noise. Then there was an impatient hoot behind her because the lights had changed, and Avril Harris drove on, swung to the right and headed for A and E's staff parking area.
The team was in place and it waited, like a hunting pack for prey at a waterhole, for the business of court eighteen to be finished for the day.
With the collusion of Nathaniel Wilson, criminal solicitor, who had slipped away in the lunch adjournment with a description of the clothing worn by a single juror–as requested before the day's proceedings were under way–the prey was identified.
Three men on foot and the drivers of two mass-produced, unremarkable cars made up the strength of the team. The target was described as bearded, a little over average height, with longish, brown hair, grey flashes at the temples, wearing a green anorak, designer jeans that were probably imitation, bought off a market stall, and heavyweight leather sandals; he would have a navy blue rucksack carried on one shoulder. A piece of cake, couldn't be missed.
The Nobbler himself, Benny Edwards, was not with them. He would come on to the scene when a dossier of the target's identity had been fashioned, not before. He could rely on these men to fulfil the preparatory work because they were the best in this field. The services they provided, through Benny Edwards, were much sought after. He only employed the best, and his own reputation was supreme over his rivals'. The five men, whether on foot or at a car's wheel, had skills in the arts of surveillance that kept them on a par with any unit that might have been put on to the roads or pavements by the Serious Crime Directorate of the Metropolitan Police; those skills had been refreshed by the recruitment the previous year–a source of considerable pride to the Nobbler–of a detective sergeant from the SCD who had suffered problems with his claims, written down and signed for, on overtime sheets. The prime difference between Benny Edwards's men and the Directorate's was in communications. He used pay-as-you-go mobile phones that were ditched and changed usually after two days' use, three maximum, and they used complex networks of digitally enhanced radios that could not be broken into, but the difference in effectiveness was minimal. Where they were equals–the Nobbler's people and the Directorate's–was in street craft. His men could follow and track; they could put a target in a 'box', a 'trigger man' having initially identified him or her, and not be 'burned'. Never, not once, had men paid by Benny Edwards been spotted while walking or driving as a tail.
When court eighteen finished for the day, when Mr Justice Herbert's clerk had yelled, 'All rise', and the jurors were led back to their room to shrug on their coats, the solicitor would hurry into the Snares
brook corridor and dial a number, let it ring four times, then cut the connection, unanswered.
The team, activated, would follow wherever the target led them.
'So, Mr Curtis, you would have the jury believe that you are the unhappy victim of what would be, in effect, a conspiracy of lies by the prosecution's witnesses. The conspiracy, which you claim has put you before the court, involves sworn–and therefore perjured–evidence from a young woman who is sure she saw you, evidence from the owner and staff working in the jewellery shop, evidence from reputable police officers of which several have commendations on their records for outstanding conduct…and they all lied. I am being blunt, Mr Curtis. That seems to be the defence you are offering to these very grave charges. I see you shrug. I take that as the answer you are providing. They are all lying. You alone are giving the members of the jury the truthful version of events. No more questions.'
Jools saw the theatrical roll of the barrister's shaggy eyebrows, as if the whole thing was a game. But not a bloody game to anyone who had been in that shop and who had faced the open barrel of a pistol and a revolver: Jools didn't think it was a bloody game. His eyes followed Ozzie Curtis's back as the horrible bloody man was taken from the witness stand to the dock–could look at him then because the damned intimidating eyes gazed the other way.
He heard the judge: 'We've had a long and concentrated session, and I don't think we should start with the evidence of Mr Ollie Curtis before the morning. Ten thirty tomorrow.'
The clerk sucked in breath to make herself better heard: 'All rise.' Another day gone.
Actually, quite a good day–one of the best.
A day of good entertainment…not in court but at the lunch break.
A wholesome spat, if he did not feature in it, always entertained Tools Wright. The argument, materializing from nowhere, had been worthy of one of those bickering catfights in the staff common room. The dispute had featured Rob, the foreman, and Peter, the moaner. The first complaint Peter had thrown at Rob had involved the quality of the rice pudding served to them: was it not Rob's function, as jury foreman, to lodge the matter with the catering manager? Rob had said, 'You want a damn nanny? Well, you can find one for yourself. My job, as leader of the jury, is with the case we're hearing, not wet-nursing you and your bloody dietary groans.' Seconds out. No holding. Blows above the belt, please. A good clean fight, gentlemen. The bailiff had rung the bell, end of the round, and called them back. But it had been good spectator sport, and the pleasure of it had lasted Jools Wright through the afternoon as Ozzie Curtis had wriggled and lied and pleaded loss of memory through the prosecution barrister's final and impeccably polite onslaught.
He loved a catfight, claws and teeth, when he was a spectator. Didn't love the ones at home.
Couldn't abide them when he was the receiver and Babs on the attack.
She didn't do teeth, claws and insults. She hit with endless silences, occasional tears, and her ability to move around in a room as if he did not exist and had no place in the house. Perhaps she knew, perhaps she didn't know, of Hannah and the weekends, but it was not spoken of. Nor had their financial state, getting worse, been recently discussed. Tears were in another room. Weeping usually followed his bald statement that he would be going to see 'Mum and Dad' for the weekend because 'they're not getting any younger and it's the right thing to spend what time I can with them before they're gone'. He had no intention of leaving home, couldn't bloody well afford it. He was, he didn't deny it to himself, a low-life, a deceiver, a man who did not deserve trust–and he lived for the days when he was gone early through the front door and on his way to court eighteen, and for the weekends when Hannah shagged him. Could have been worse…
From the locker allocated to him, he took his green anorak and zipped it over his shirt, then slid the navy rucksack on to his shoulder. Because he had enjoyed his day, Jools called cheerfully from the jury-room door, "Bye, everybody. Have a nice evening. See you all tomorrow.'
He noted it as one of those daft afternoons when the sun shone between darkened clouds. It lit the brightness of his shirt and highlighted the gaudiness of his socks, but he had to pull up the anorak's hood to protect his hair from the shower. The socks might get really wet if the rain came down any heavier. He lengthened his stride down the Snaresbrook driveway and hoped he wouldn't be kept waiting at the pedestrian lights across the main road. Then there'd be the charge in the open up the hill to the station.
He knew nothing of counter-surveillance procedures, nor had any reason to wish he had been taught them. He did not look behind him as he went for his train, and would not look beside him and along the platform when he waited for it.
Jools Wright was in ignorance of the world in which he moved, an innocent, and would have been bemused had he been told that the price of innocence could be costly.
Chapter5
Thursday, Day 8
He left his room, checked that the door's lock had fastened, and slipped soft-footed down the corridor. In his recent life, that of the Scorpion, Muhammad Ajaq had slept some nights in the homes of wealthy merchants or professional men, some nights in the compounds of the leaders of minor tribes, some nights in the sheds used by herdsmen under the palms by the banks of the Euphrates river, some nights in the cover of dried-out irrigation ditches, some nights on the sand with a blanket round him and the stars for company. But, he had never slept in a hotel.
Ajaq knew nothing of hotels.
Going down the corridor, he was refreshed by sleep. It was his ability to rest where he could find it, and dreams did not disturb him. He had not used the bed in the room–in compound guest wings, in a shed, a ditch or in the open air he lay on the floor or on a carpet or on fodder or in the dirt. It was his belief that on a floor or on the ground his reactions would be faster: he would wake more quickly if a threat gathered round him. The room was on the first floor of the building, at the back and overlooking a walled yard, and he had kept the window up, and would have gone out through it if danger had come close. From his sleep, he felt strong, alert.
His tread was light, but the boards under the carpet squealed as he went.
He paused at the door, stiffened, as if he had no taste for what he must now do…Then he tapped on the wood panel where paint had flaked off.
'It is your friend. Please, let me inside.'
A footfall came to the door, then stopped. He imagined the boy's fear, but did not know for how many hours he had been in the room without contact. He watched the door's edge, heard the click of the lock and saw the door open, but a chain held it. The room was darkened, no light on. Then the boy was staring back at him. Relief flooded the face. The chain was unhooked.
The bed was rumpled where the boy had lain on it and a copy of the Koran was on the pillow. The leather jacket was discarded on the thin, shoe-worn carpet. Ajaq could smell the fast food, and could make out the stains at the boy's mouth. He went inside and closed the door behind him, threaded his steps over the carpet and round the bed, then drew back the curtains. Light from a street-lamp beyond the yard wall seeped inside.
Ajaq sat on the floor. Its hardness, through the carpet, pinched his buttocks, and he waved for the boy to come and take a place beside him. He pushed aside the little tray in which the food sauces still lay, the paper bag and some clothing. The boy lowered himself, nervously, and their bodies were close.
'You travelled well?'
'I did, my leader, and always there were people who helped me.'
'You remember when we met?'
'I remember.'
'What did I say to you?'
'You asked me who I was and where I was from and what I did–was I strong?'
'And you told me?'
'I hoped to be strong. You said I was chosen. You said that you looked for a man who walked well and that I did.'
'And before you left me, to begin your journey, I said?'
'You told me that I was chosen for a mission of exceptional value, for which I would be ho
noured and respected. Without my dedication and obedience the mission would fail and that would make a great victory for our enemies…I told you of the martyrdom of my brothers, and I said that I would seek to 'equal their dedication and be worthy…'
'You remember it well.'
Ajaq knew that it was necessary to keep those in love with death, the volunteers, in the company of others who shared their certainty so that the will for martyrdom was not permitted to dribble away. With others around him, it was harder for a man to trip away from the boasts he had made, or the promises…But the boy, Ibrahim, had seen eleven others bounce away in the back of two pickups and had now been effectively alone for seven full days, seven nights. Did the strength to continue still exist? He had to know. Perhaps his own life, certainly his freedom, depended on the answer. In Iraq, where he had fought and where a price of many thousands of American dollars rested on his head, others would have decided whether strength had gone. Himself, he cared as little for the individuality of a martyr as for a shell loaded into a breach or a mortar missile into a tube or a bullets' belt into a machine-gun…but here there was no other man to make that decision for him. Ajaq was not in Iraq but in a first-floor room of a cheap, rundown hotel to be found in a network of side-streets close to the Paddington terminus in London. He forced himself, and it was an effort, to play-act sincerity.
'Are you strong, Ibrahim?'
'I promise it.'
He took the hands of the boy, his long, sensitive fingers, and held them locked in his own fists, which were calloused and rough, those of a fighting man.
'You know of the haughtiness of Britons?'
'I do.'
'And you know of the aggression of the Crusaders, who are British?'
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