Three Great Novels

by Henry Porter

  ‘That was a failure of the system - people not putting it together with other data.’

  ‘Data! How I do hate that word.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Dad - intelligence. They weren’t analysing it properly.’

  ‘The only way to deal with these bastards is to penetrate their organisation and that’s going to take a long time, unless you’re lucky enough to have one of them drop into your lap. None of it’s going to mean much until you’ve got the man on the inside telling you what’s going to happen.’

  She told him about the murder of Youssef Rahe.

  ‘That’s a bad sign,’ he said. ‘It means they know you tried and are now aware of the process which led him to become your man, the recruitment and so on.’

  ‘Yes, he was tortured.’

  ‘But not by the characters who have flown into Europe for their big party. Some other part of their organisation determined that he was working for you and got hold of him.’ He coughed and felt for a pipe that wasn’t in his pocket. He had given up tobacco four months before. ‘In that case I think this is a very dangerous affair. These people have already proved exceptionally adept at carrying on their business while being observed. I’d take the view that there’s very little useful intelligence to be had from watching them. Arrest the whole lot and throw them into jail on whatever charges keep them in there longest - or worse.’

  ‘You mean kill them?’

  ‘Yes, these men have no fear of suicide. They’ve moved to a certain level. You can’t reason with men like that or seduce them from the cause because self-interest in the normal sense has been rejected.’ He paused and raised his eyebrows. ‘And Teckman is apparently out of the picture?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And that bloody little tick Vigo is back - astonishing!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I doubt the Chief is really out of it. Just lying doggo, waiting to make his move.’

  ‘Against his successor?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Spelling is all mouth and no trousers. Complete phoney.’

  She smiled. Her father’s forceful opinions meant that he had never stood a chance of rising in the Service, although the operations he conducted against the KGB along the Iron Curtain for twenty-five years were textbook studies, celebrated for their panache and cunning. He had once summarised it thus: ‘They relied on my judgement to keep myself and others alive in the field, but when I got back to London I was expected to let others think for me. I couldn’t get used to it.’

  ‘What about the operation itself,’ she asked. ‘Any advice for me?’

  ‘You know it all, Isis. Probably more than I do. The first thing you must realise is that these men know they’re in enemy territory. They’re like we were during the war. We couldn’t trust anybody in France and these holy warriors will suspect everyone they come in contact with. They will have had training in anti-surveillance techniques, so don’t fall into any dry cleaning traps. If they’re taking a particular route every day they’ll get used to the sights along that route and will know what is normal. They will also build in a couple of observation spots along the way so they’ll be able to tell when they’re being followed. Apply all the same rules if cars are involved, only more strictly.’

  She nodded. She knew most of it but there was no stopping him now.

  ‘What you need to do is to learn the place thoroughly before you start the watch. There wasn’t a street I didn’t know in Stockholm or Vienna during the Fifties. I could have been a tour guide in Istanbul. This is very important: you can’t just go to a foreign town and blend into the scenery without knowing the place like the back of your hand. Take care with your clothes, too. Study what the women wear locally. There’re always slight variations of fashion between towns on the continent. A particular shop may be popular and you will need to get one or two items from there. If you need cover, a job to help you get close to your target, choose this very, very carefully. It’s important to keep your flexibility, so don’t rush into his local café and get yourself work as a waitress on the grounds that he visits the place twice a week. You won’t learn anything that way and you’ll tie yourself up. Other opportunities will present themselves.’

  He stopped and examined her with fierce compassion. ‘Isis, you know these men aren’t playing things the way we used to. If we were spotted it often didn’t matter. It was part of the game of cat and mouse. But these men are utterly ruthless - they butcher air stewardesses without the slightest qualm; they think nothing of killing thousands of people one fine morning. They’re different from what we had to face - much, much more dangerous. But remember, you’re different too. You’re one of the few people who know the full extent of the operation against them. If you fall into their hands, they may work out that you have a lot to tell them and that is not an enviable position to be in.’ He put up his hand to stop her interrupting. ‘Of course I know there will be others with you, but from what I gather your people are nothing like as good at field craft as we were. Not interested in the detail, no preparation. You’ll have to watch your colleagues as closely as you do your own behaviour. I don’t want some berk from Vauxhall Cross on the phone telling me you’ve been killed, do you hear? You’ve got to use your own judgement.’

  He slapped his hand against his thigh and then rubbed his knee. ‘It’s not much fun, this business of getting old. I’ve lost the feeling in my legs sitting here. I’m going to have to move.’

  She helped him up. They stood on the Cup and Ring Rock and he looked at her, his rigid grey hair standing up in the wind, his eyes misted by limitless affection. ‘You know I can’t help seeing your mother in you. It’s twenty-four years since she died, but there hasn’t been a day I didn’t think about her. And now I see you so close to the age she was when she died, well… I fear for you, Isis.’ He stopped and looked apologetically down at her. ‘It’s an old fellow’s panic, I know. But I think I’ve reason enough to be worried.’

  ‘Come on, Dad. I may look like Mum but inside I’m all you - hard and practical.’

  ‘You’re going to have to be very hard and very practical,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘Don’t lose your concentration for a moment.’

  They took the longer route back to Hopelaw House, stopping along the way for her father to pluck things from the hedgerows and scrape pieces of moss from the trees. ‘I mean to go on to some studies of lichen,’ he said, ‘and the moths that pretend to be lichen. They’re getting rarer and that’s because their camouflage is only good for one set of circumstances. The lichen disappears with all this pollution and the moth is left sticking out like a sore thumb. So, end of moth. It’s a point to remember. Your cover should be adaptable.’

  ‘Dad! I’ve been trained.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ he said as though to scold.

  They tramped back to Hopelaw House and her father disappeared into his study where the bits and pieces he had collected on the walk were interred in cotton wool. Then he emerged clutching a felt envelope.

  ‘Found this the other day,’ he said. ‘Thought you ought to have it. Mislaid it for years.’

  She undid the package and found inside a photograph frame and a small black and white picture of herself and her mother, bent double with laughter in the sunlight of an afternoon long ago.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Khan was beaten casually and inexpertly as a natural part of detention. Perversely the treatment gave him hope. As he sat, shackled to a chair in the first-floor interview room, hearing the sound of children playing in a sunny courtyard below, he reasoned that if the police had thought him important, they’d have made sure that they could hand him over to higher authorities without a cut lip, swollen eye and bruised ribs.

  The police captain, a man named Nemim, had departed. Khan sat respectfully and passively, hoping to look cowed. The hot afternoon passed slowly. A lone policeman sat in a chair tilted against the wall. An old 303 rifle lay in his lap. Khan thought that he might be able to overpower him, if
he could persuade them to remove his manacles - perhaps for prayer - and climb down from the window into the courtyard. But where to after that? He didn’t have the strength to run. He had caught sight of his reflection in the police van’s mirror on the way in and hardly recognised the haggard face staring back. He looked condemned, just like the two poor Pakistanis on the road. It would be better to sit this out; get some food in him, sleep, make a plan.

  This discussion with himself ended when Captain Nemim came back with a sheaf of papers and an open notebook. A look of animated curiosity had entered his expression. Khan realised that Nemim now saw him as an opportunity, a gift to an officer who could speak English and harboured ambitions way above his present tenure as the chief in a mountain station.

  ‘So, Mister Khan, or is it Mister Jasur? What do we call you?’

  ‘Khan - Mister Khan.’

  ‘Then why you are carrying these documentations belonging to Mister Jasur?’

  ‘Mister Jasur died when we were chased by Macedonian security forces. I took his possessions so I could tell his family when I reached safety.’

  ‘Ah yes, the terrorist party executed by the Macedonians. You were with them?’

  ‘Yes, and so was Jasur. But we were not terrorists. You have to believe me. He was a Palestinian. A refugee. He died of a heart attack while we were escaping.’

  ‘Of course we Albanians are used to these stories about terrorists. To the Macedonians and Greeks we are all terrorists and we do not believe what they tell us. But the Macedonian army say there were eight terrorists on the road.’

  ‘That’s right. We were just looking for work. We wanted to go to Greece. Those men with me were all innocent. None of them was carrying a weapon.’

  ‘But, Mister Khan, you are not understanding what I am saying to you. Maybe you do this on purpose - not understanding me?’

  ‘No, no. I am trying to understand what you want.’

  ‘They say there were seven terrorists and one other who escaped after he was cutting the Macedonian with knife.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. That was me. I stabbed him and took his gun.’

  ‘Look at these photographs. Mister Khan.’ Captain Nemim flourished a newspaper and showed him a photograph of a mortuary in Skopje. Seven bodies were lined up and at their feet lay an assortment of automatic weapons, pistols and grenade launchers. Khan recognised the men - the Kurdish trio, the Pakistanis and the rest of them, laid out like trophies with their killers standing behind them.

  ‘They weren’t carrying these weapons,’ he said.

  ‘We know that,’ said Nemim. ‘This weapons used by the Macedonian security forces. But you make not to understand me again. I am not stupid man, Mister Khan. You see? Which is the Palestinian gentleman please?’

  Khan peered at the picture. ‘He’s not here. They must have left him on the hill. Maybe they didn’t find him.’

  ‘But you say seven men were killed. There are seven bodies here but where is Mister Jasur?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Khan, adding up the members of the party again.

  ‘Maybe he was ghost. Maybe this Jasur has flown away.’ Nemim seemed pleased with his sarcasm and looked to the junior officer who had come into the room, as if to say this is how it is done; you are watching a master at work, a man who is going far.

  ‘But the soldier I injured with the knife knew there were two of us who escaped. He would have reported this to his senior officer. There were nine people in our group.’

  ‘No, this is what they say. The Macedonians like to boast about this murders so there is no reason for them to lie. They say seven men were killed and one escaped. That is you. There is no other man.’

  ‘But they saw the other man…’

  Nemim shook his head. ‘There was no other man.’

  There followed a hurried exchange with the junior officer during which Nemim’s eyes never strayed from Khan’s. Then the junior left and Nemim folded his hands on the table with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘You know we weren’t terrorists,’ said Khan. ‘You said yourself that these weapons belong to the Macedonians. So why are you holding me here?’

  ‘It is necessary for us to know who you are. I have spoken to Mr Vajgelis.’ He nodded several times to signal that this was the first of many trump cards. ‘Mr Vajgelis says you are fighter. He saw you attack the security forces with a machine gun and then you were wounding his men with your head and arm like this.’ He threw his elbow backwards and did a head butting action. ‘He say you are professional Mujahadin. And you tell him you are Mujahadin. You are saying this to Mr Vajgelis. That is why he gives you to Mr Berisha and Mr Berisha gives you to me. They are good men.’

  Khan’s shoulders sagged, as much out of fatigue as frustration. ‘Good men?’ he said. ‘What are they taking to the coast - peanuts and Coca Cola? These are good men in your country, Captain Nemim? No, they are drug smugglers. If these are good Albanians, I pity your country.’

  Nemim leaned forward and hit him hard with the back of his hand on both sides of his face. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing here in our country?’

  A rotten taste spread in Khan’s mouth, which at first he imagined was some physical manifestation of his fear, but then he realised that the blow on the left side of his face must have burst an abscess. It was months since he’d cleaned his teeth properly and he had been aware of a swelling on his gum. In Afghanistan he had periodically developed these infections, lancing them himself and treating them by washing his mouth out frequently with salt water. He supposed the bacteria had never cleared properly and in time built up to form another abscess. But this gush of decay in his mouth was something else entirely and he was disgusted - by this taste and also, now he came to think about it, the stench that rose from every part of his body and seemed to fill the room.

  ‘I will tell you about myself, Captain, but I must wash. I need to do this, sir. You can hit me as much as you like, but I will talk better if I am allowed to do this. For our religion I should wash before I pray this evening.’

  The Captain considered this for a few seconds then gave some instructions to a policeman standing outside the door. Khan was taken to a tiny chipped basin at the back of the building under which was a large container of water. He took the block of soap and for ten minutes washed all over his body. He cleaned his mouth once again and then dried himself with part of his shirt.

  He sat down now opposite Nemim determined to bring some reason to the interview. ‘I told Vajgelis I was a Mujahadin fighter because I wanted him to accept me,’ he began. ‘I wanted to escape and I needed his help so I shouted out the first thing that came into my head. The reason I hurt his men was because three of them tried to assault me. You know what I mean. Any honourable man would have done the same.’

  ‘Before this, where you come from?’

  ‘Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran.’

  ‘With all these men?’

  ‘No, we came together in Turkey. Then we went by truck to Bulgaria, but were cheated many times. Our money was stolen by men who promised to take us to Greece by boat. There was no boat.’

  ‘You say you are Karim Khan - not Jasur…’ he checked the notes and the identity card he had in front of him. ‘Not Jasur al-Jahez. Or Jasur Faisal or Jasur Bahaji. The man with many names. You are not him.’

  ‘No, I am Karim Khan.’

  ‘How can I believe this?’

  ‘Because it is the truth. Look at the picture of him. He is younger than I am and he is different. Look at him. Jasur has curly hair. I have straight hair.’ He touched his damp head.

  Nemim shrugged, then moved on to examine the photograph in Khan’s passport. ‘Why you are not black like Pakistani man? You are like an Arab man, I think. You are Palestinian terrorist, no? You are Mister Jasur?’ He held one or two of the passport’s pages to the bulb above them, which had attracted a swirl of small black flies. His brow furrowed. Then he brought it down on the table and began to scrape at the pa
ge that included Khan’s details and photograph.

  ‘This passport is changed - here.’ He held it out to reveal the spot where the expiry date had been altered. ‘And here the paper. Where is the paper? Why no paper here?’

  The page had been razored out by the man in Quetta who’d suggested that an entry stamp for Afghanistan at the tail end of 1996 was enough to put him in jail. The same man had changed the date, quite expertly, Khan had thought, but he had to admit that the passport was barely tested. He had crossed from Pakistan to Iran along the Siahan range without being stopped by a border patrol, and the man on the Turkish border with Iran had not looked beyond the twenty dollar note folded in the front.

  Nemim flipped through the passport again and came to a page containing a British visa.

  ‘So you go to London City in nineteen ninety-one?’