Heartbreaker: Love, secrets and terror

by Nick Louth

  ‘My God!’ said Rifat. He couldn’t imagine how she had overpowered Tofi. He had been assured that the driver was reliable, devout, and strong. It just didn’t seem possible. ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve rung the police,’ he said. ‘Stay safe. Over and out.’

  ‘Don’t go, Rifat please!’ Cantara sobbed.

  The Saudi turned off the radio and slammed it down. He fished through his laptop back and found his Blackberry. In the directory he scrolled through until he found a number simply labelled ‘Heartbreak’. The number beneath was of the SIM card within Cantara’s abdomen. The cursor blinked over it. All he had to do was to press the button, and let it dial. That would be his insurance against her escape. The moment she got into range of any cell tower, he would be rid of this stupid girl. For some weeks now he had been realising that controlling her, to get her to follow the mission he had in mind, required more cunning than he or anyone could manage. Bram had been right to point it out. The fiasco with Wyrecliffe proved it.

  He looked at the button, and the number of the phone underneath. Then he exhaled and put the phone down. She was going to die, but to let all the effort go to waste on some roadside in Sinai would be stupid. The intricate bomb, the surgery, the many whose skills had contributed. Wasted. Besides, the body would be found. It would be identified as Muysaneh Abbas from the passport. And then eventually the Egyptian police would contact Scotland Yard, and find that the real Muysaneh Abbas was already dead. Long dead. It would take them time to do this, but it could still get in the way of Operation Scorpion.

  Still, he was left with a problem. Tofi was out of touch, and Cantara was on the run. This had to be closed down really fast. Rifat picked up the walkie-talkie and switched the channel. Now was time to call Omar. The most frightening man he had ever met, the man who enjoyed beheading unbelievers, was now leading Al Qaeda’s Sinai cell. If Cantara wasn’t being taken to him as planned, then he would have to come and fetch her. Unlike that idiot Tofi, there would be no mistakes this time. Omar would see to that.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cantara wished Rifat had said he would come himself. Chris would have come. She recalled now, wistfully, how Chris had come to her when she tried to kill herself. Now here she was, in a desert in a foreign land. And she really needed help. If only her own phone worked. She resumed jogging to keep her spirits up. Her watch showed it was after nine, and there was no traffic. Not a single vehicle. The lights in the distance didn’t seem to come any closer. She’d seen no sign of Tofi for more than a half hour. The road was flat now, snaking along the floor of some canyon. Above her a wide glittering carpet of stars throbbed with light. She kept the torch off so she could watch them as she alternately ran and walked, careful not to get out of breath or strain her heart.

  In the distant there was a faint light, moving far ahead. Soon she could hear an engine, its roar echoing off the canyon walls. She switched the torch on and waved it up and down. The headlamps grew large and bright, the noise louder. It was a large dusty pick-up truck and it stopped right by her. Dozens of Islamic slogans had been written in the dust that caked its sides. Four robed men, heavily bearded and armed with AK47s leapt over the side. She greeted them in Arabic, and began to explain her predicament.

  They said nothing, but looked at her suspiciously. The driver barked something at her. He had an immense hooked nose, and intense dark eyes that seemed to look right into her. His large black beard was streaked with henna.

  ‘You are Cantara al-Mansoor?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Rifat sent us. You are safe now.’ He barked at the man sitting next to him, who scurried off the passenger seat, took Cantara’s bag, and climbed up with it into the back with the others. The driver patted the seat, and urged Cantara to sit next to him. Feeling slightly nervous, she did so. She could now see he had a crude artificial leg, mostly wooden with something like a leather hoof.

  ‘I am Omar.’ He thumped his barrel of a chest. ‘So you were kidnapped, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Can you take me to the police?’

  He laughed. ‘First we seek God’s work.’ He pushed the truck into gear, and set off forward. Soon, they saw Tofi, wandering down the road, waving his arms in the headlamps.

  ‘That’s him!’ yelled Cantara. ‘He tried to kidnap me.’

  ‘Then he must be punished,’ Omar said.

  Tofi was jumping up and down, waving. Omar changed down a gear. Tofi stood aside, expecting the truck to stop. It didn’t. Instead Omar hit the accelerator and yelled. ‘Allahu Akhbar!’

  He twitched the steering wheel sharp right and Tofi disappeared with a crack beneath the front of the pick-up. A dull bump-bump followed. Cantara hid her face in her hands. When she looked up she noticed a fine spray of blood on the windscreen and a large gory mark on the pick-up’s bull bars.

  ‘Ah, Sinai roads are very dangerous. Many road accidents,’ Omar laughed. He slammed on the brakes, braced his giant arm on the seat behind Cantara’s shoulders and looked behind as he reversed. Another bump-bump. ‘Oh dear, dear, what dangerous roads,’ he said and opened the window to look below. He drove forward again, and this time the bump was softer. Cantara wailed gently into her hands. This man, whoever he was, made her blood run cold.

  ‘No more kidnapping from him. God’s justice is righteous,’ Omar said, smacking his ham-sized fist down on the dashboard. ‘And God’s justice is speedy.’ Omar leaned across her to the glove compartment and carefully drew out a book, sealed in a cracked plastic dust cover. It was a Koran, old, much handled but now carefully protected. He closed his eyes and kissed it tenderly as if it was a newborn baby. ‘Kiss the holy book for our righteous deeds. Praise God’s word,’ he said, passing it to her.

  Cantara looked up at Omar, and his fierce unwavering gaze. Her hands were trembling as she lifted the book to her mouth. A thread of Omar’s spittle lay on the plastic. She had no choice. She pressed it against her mouth, suppressing a shudder.

  Satisfied, Omar gently put the book away, then threw the truck into a three-point turn, and headed back the way they had come, veering just enough to run once again over the corpse. ‘Be brave. This is Sharia justice. This is the law of the Caliphate.’

  Cantara involuntarily pulled her hijab tighter, and pushed back any stray wisps of hair.

  ‘Now, we take you to safety,’ Omar said.

  ‘Police station?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, God’s police, to enforce the law.’ He hit the accelerator and the truck roared off into the darkness. After thirty minutes they turned off on a sideroad. In the headlights she could see a series of Bedouin tents, rectangular green canvas flapping in the breeze, and a corral of thorn branches behind which goats could be heard bleating. The truck was parked behind the tents, and while Cantara got out, the fighters in the back busied themselves covering the truck with canvas. Another used a broom to sweep away the tyre tracks which led to it.

  ‘When is Rifat coming?’ Cantara asked.

  ‘Soon. Maybe tomorrow,’ Omah said. Torch in hand, he then took a firm grip on Cantara’s upper arm and led her down a dark path into a defile behind the camp. She was far too scared to complain. This was worse than Tofi. Far worse. In a few minutes they came to a cave, lit by hurricane lamps. Two more fighters were there, and rose to greet Omar. Cantara was led into the cave, to an area at the back where a mud brick room had been built, complete with rough wooden door.

  ‘This is your hotel,’ Omar laughed. He pushed her in, and closed the door. Outside she could hear them rifling her bag. They expressed some pleasure over the cigarettes, and the tools. Finally, the door opened and she was passed her clothing and toiletries, a candle and some matches. She lit the candle and explored her cell. It was just large enough for her to lie full length in each direction, and just high enough by the door to stand up. It was at least dry. There was a rush mat, and on it a thin mattress and some blankets. Two fighters sat outside, talking and laughing.

  Cantara waited a few minutes then aske
d timidly. ‘Could I have some food please? I’m hungry.’

  It was an hour later when a stale pitta with some chunks of greasy lamb on it was passed through to her. She ate every mouthful. After feeling sorry for herself for a few minutes, she wiped away her tears and started to assemble resolute thoughts, marshalling the only army available to her: I can handle this, inshallah. I grew up in the camps in Lebanon. I’ve been bombed, for days on end. I’ve seen death, and lived in a place of death. I’ve gone for days without much to eat. This cell is worse than the worst place I have lived, but not by much. Just a few hours ago I disarmed a strong man. I outwitted and defeated him, without having to kill him. If I die tonight or in the next days or weeks, I can still be proud of not having killed when I could have killed. Inside me, is a hidden strength. Hidden, because I am a woman and these crude men will always underestimate women. That is their weakness.

  I have the power to do what I need to do.

  Because I do believe, right inside. That I am loved.

  Chris, I need you now. Come to me. Please come to me.

  * * *

  Zainab Pichou emerged from the Underground station five hours before her flight, and took the escalator along with thousands of fellow travellers, ready to be swallowed by the dull, dysfunctional and frenetic city that is Heathrow Airport. She looked for a particular women’s toilet behind Thomas Cook’s currency booth, a place where she had been told to remain for ninety minutes. In front of the mirror, she packed the baseball cap she had travelled in and undid her ponytail, combing out her hair until it resembled Cantara’s. She took off the bulky puffa jacket, switched from high heels to flat shoes, and switched her hand luggage from the pink backpack to Cantara’s grey one, replacing the discarded items in her anonymous wheeled suitcase. She put on the brown-tinted contact lenses, then the spectacles and the blue flowered hijab. Then she made final adjustments to her make-up.

  The disguise complete, she emerged, looking shorter, slimmer and in almost every other way different from the woman who an hour and a half earlier had walked in. After checking in her suitcase, she headed off to security. Her heart pounded as she packed her phone, shoes, belt and backpack in the plastic tray, and watched it slide into the X-ray machine. The operator, an overweight woman in her fifties stared long and hard at the press of bags jammed into the tunnel. Then after a few seconds, the bag emerged.

  One hour later Zainab was sitting on her carefully booked window seat, right next to a wing, enduring in a kind of stunned boredom the last few hours of her life.

  * * *

  Not long now. Wearing bathrobe and slippers, Rifat wandered into the luxury bathroom of his hotel room, and turned off the taps. It was almost time. The bath was full and steaming in the early morning light. A plate of fresh fruit lay by the washbasin, and his second cup of coffee nearby. It was seven o’clock. Just half an hour to wait! Unable to sleep from excitement, he had awoken before six, prayed, and taken a lengthy swim in the hotel’s beautiful pool. He then used some of the exercise equipment in the gym to work up a frenzied sweat. Now he was going to have a long soak. As he lay in the hot, soapy water, his scarred and mottled hands draped over the sides to protect them from the heat, Rifat closed his eyes. He recreated in his mind Wyrecliffe’s flight from Heathrow to Cairo, with Zainab, and his clever bomb aboard. The departures website had shown it left almost on time. Now, they would be roughly over Sicily. That was the last point when it just might just pick up a stray cellphone signal. That’s why he needed to wait, just that little while longer. He didn’t want the plane to explode over the ocean. It needed to come down on Egyptian soil. The EgyptAir jet fragments had to be seen repeatedly on TV, not just disappearing under water. That had been made clear by Yemen. It should be construed as an attack upon Egypt. An attack upon the decadent infidel regime of Hosni Mubarak.

  In an hour or so his celebrations would truly begin. Rifat had been planning a day of indulgence, watching the TV coverage, the speculation about the cause, the growing casualty toll, laughing at the silly theories about mechanical failure and pilot error from self-appointed experts, short on facts. Those facts that, in the hours immediately after the crash, only he would know. It was a brilliant, almost undetectable bomb. And he had made it.

  Emerging from the bath, Rifat picked up his plate and wandered back into the lounge. Drying himself, he sat at the desk with his laptop, watching the folder of Wyrecliffe images that he often stared at to galvanise his hatred. That this man was his own father! What an affront!

  The minutes dragged, the seconds seemed infinite. But now it was time.

  Rifat’s hands trembled as he picked up his mobile phone. He stared curiously at his fingers, which had been so deft and sure when making the bomb, but now hesitated and shook at the moment of triumph. Tremulously, he scrolled through the contacts book. There, near the top was the number labelled Heartbreak. Cantara’s device. He lingered over it, then moved down to the next: Zainabflight. He thought for a moment, looked at the clock, then firmly pressed the button. The pre-saved text would beam from his phone to hers, a trigger for mass murder. Nothing could stop it. That flight was coming down, and soon the world would know.

  * * *

  An hour later, Rifat was watching BBC World Service TV. On his laptop Al Jazeera’s website was open. News of the crash broke more slowly than he expected. He watched as the story trickled in. Bits and pieces, really coming too hesitantly to give him the rush of pleasure he wanted. Still, he knew that Yemen would be watching this too, glorying in his success.

  On a whim he decided to listen to BBC Radio 4 over the web, to see how Wyrecliffe’s old radio programme would handle the news. He clicked through to listen live on the BBC website.

  From the first word, a cold wave swept him. The voice was absolutely distinctive. Wyrecliffe. He was interviewing a BBC reporter in Egypt about the crash. For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. Then he let out a roar of frustration.

  ‘You’re supposed to be on that plane!’ Rifat yelled, as he hurled a glass vase against the wall, shattering it and smashing the fresh cut flowers provided by the Hyatt all over the floor. ‘Why are you not on that plane?’

  Rifat logged into Wyrecliffe’s e-mail account. It was something he hadn’t had time to do for the last two days, because of the rush to organise Cantara’s flight and the journey out here. Sure enough, he eventually found an e-mail from the airline, confirming the last minute cancellation, then another earlier one from Arab Satellite Broadcasting, deferring Wyrecliffe’s job interview. It was from Taseena al Khalifa, the only person in the world whom Rifat hated as much as Wyrecliffe.

  Then a peculiar realisation dawned on Rifat. My mother has unwittingly saved my father’s life. From me. It made him very angry.

  Now he would have an extra job to do. He needed to return to London and hunt down Wyrecliffe. To kill him simply and immediately, even if he had to take risks to do it. This had gone on long enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  London

  December 2010

  Rifat had never enjoyed flying. Ever since his first flight to visit the woman who he’d discovered was his mother, aircraft seemed harbingers of bad news. They made him feel vulnerable. Perhaps it was also a function of their weaknesses, something he had studied in depth. The surprising thinness of their skins, the incendiary fuel load, the triumph of ingenuity over gravity that getting a one hundred and thirty tonne jumbo jet in the air represented. The improbability of survival often left him feeling sick in flight. Especially when it was bumpy.

  Today was worse. Perhaps, just perhaps, the anxiety and sickness was bubbling up from the knowledge that he was going to kill, soon. Perhaps today if he could get access to the Glock again. He was going to murder his father, Chris Wyrecliffe.

  The flight from Sharm had been fine until they started stacking over London’s Heathrow airport. But the gusty winds over the cold monochrome city, leached of light on a December’s afternoon, were unnerving. The seatbelt s
ign was already on. Tray tables were already stowed. The bing-bong signal for cabin crew seating had come and gone, with no sign of landing. Then a big bump, and the plane dropped a few feet. Then another. A low wail escaped his throat and his black leather gloves gripped the arms of his seat as the plane bucked. A middle-aged woman in the aisle seat next to him was working on a crossword and seemed completely unperturbed. She looked over her reading glasses to smile indulgently at him.

  ‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘We’ll be landing very soon. Just make sure you’ve got a coat. It’s due to snow later.’

  The turbulence didn’t cease on arrival. The moment he turned his phone on, he found a text from Bram, which in coded language gave him a phone number and told him to ring it from a new phone. Rifat, who already had three phones with him, bought a new one at the terminal, found the seating area by a vacant gate, and rang the number. Bram answered immediately and breathlessly.

  ‘Rifat, listen carefully, I don’t have much time. Irfan Tiwana was arrested this morning. They’ve raided his house, the Islamic Light bookshop and a madrassah in Blackburn. Operation Scorpion is dead. It’s over. You’d best get out.’

  ‘Bram. I need the Glock. Have you got it?’

  ‘No. You can’t get near the bookshop. It’s crawling with cops.’

  ‘Where else can I get one?’

  ‘Now? Nowhere. My suppliers will have gone to ground. Best give it up, brother.’

  ‘What about the musallah? Have the police been there?’ Rifat looked around him. Two shirt-sleeved policemen with automatic weapons had just wandered past, laughing about something. They barely glanced at him

  ‘No. Not yet,’ Bram replied. ‘They seem to be going for the places he spent most time at. He was careful not to visit us much.’

  ‘What about his phones, Bram?’

  ‘Tiwana’s phones? He was arrested at home, so I guess they must mostly be compromised. I know he deleted call logs every week.’