by Henry Porter
‘Yes, you are, and a very good one. But you are also a property tycoon. You’ve made many millions of dollars for your partners and for yourself. A rough estimate puts your wealth at fifty million dollars - enough, as someone observed in London, to finance one hell of a terrorist operation. Enough money to buy as many sets of fake identity as you could need. That’s why you found it so easy to leave the States and bribe your way through the Balkans.’
Loz sank into the chair. ‘I had to leave the US, as you are very well aware. I spent what was necessary.’
‘Yes, but what other back doctor has your sort of contacts - members of Bosnian crime fraternities outside Chicago, gun runners, people smugglers in Southern Bosnia and Montenegro? We’ve only just begun to research you, but it’s already clear that you are seriously “connected”. Your pose as a society figure in Manhattan is a carefully constructed cover.’
Loz shook his head. ‘I really am an osteopath. That’s what I do! It fulfils me in a way I cannot describe. Why else would I run free clinics every week in three New York hospitals? Yes, it is true I have made a lot of money, but I can arrange for you to talk to my lawyers and they will tell you that I have donated much of my fortune to charity. In other circumstances I would not mention this, but you should know that I have made grants and donations of nearly twenty million dollars in the last three years. This can all be confirmed in New York, by my lawyers, my accountant. Even the charities will tell you.’
‘But you still have a tidy sum in the bank.’
Loz uncrossed his legs and threw his hands out hopelessly. ‘Of course, but the money was gained honourably on the rising market of the late nineties. Would it be any different if I had invested in new technology and sold at the right moment? What’s the problem with real estate?’
‘The difference to us is that you were investing on behalf of a Middle Eastern terrorist organisation. Where the profits from those deals went is certainly interesting, and you will face questions on this when you return to the United States. That is a legitimate concern of the FBI and I will make sure Special Agent Ollins is fully briefed with the information we have. No one can protect you from that. But for the moment I want to know what occurred when you met Khan in London in 1997.’ He raised a hand. ‘Before you answer, be clear that I have the authority to turn you over to Marenglen if I’m not satisfied with what you say.’
He nodded. ‘Look, there isn’t a problem about this. Karim phoned me in New York and said he wanted my advice. He was like that. He relied on me, trusted my judgement.’
‘And you agreed to go to London?’
‘Yes, I flew the next day and we spent a couple of days together, seeing old haunts, talking about Bosnia. Eventually he got round to the subject of Afghanistan. He told me he had decided to join The Poet in Pakistan. As I explained this was our name for a man he had met in Bosnia whose real name we did not know. Anyway, Karim was offered a role in Afghanistan training fighters. That can mean a lot of things. Karim understood it to mean that he would be continuing the war against the oppressors of Islam on Afghanistan’s northern borders, the republics of the former Soviet Union. But he was torn between Western and Muslim values and wanted the moral view of what he was going to do. He felt I would understand because I had suffered the same agonies of guilt in Bosnia. I told him that he should stay in London and return to medicine. But he was caught up with the idea of himself as this great adventurer, even though he knew the horrors of war and had seen the very worst things in Bosnia. We had an argument - a terrible argument - because I could not believe he was going to make this mistake. I was appalled, disappointed. I accused him of being addicted to killing and failing to face his responsibilities as a human being, a doctor and a good Muslim. For his part he said I was a coward and running away from my duties as a Muslim. We made it up the following day, which was when I gave him those postcards and some money.’
‘How many postcards?’
‘Oh, a handful. I can’t remember.’
‘And how much money?’ asked Harland.
‘I don’t recall exactly - fifteen thousand dollars, something like that.’
‘Did you hear from him again, apart from the postcards?’
‘No.’
Herrick looked at Harland then asked, ‘If you haven’t changed your address in the last six or seven years, presumably your phone number hasn’t changed either?’
‘No, it’s the same.’
‘So why didn’t he call you instead of sending these postcards? There was very little guarantee of them getting through to you. Why didn’t he just pick up the phone and ask you to wire him some money?’
‘I have wondered about that,’ said Loz. ‘Maybe he was worried about the calls being monitored.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But it still doesn’t really make sense, unless of course he had to send those cards because of the coded messages in them.’
Harland stood up and let his right arm slide down his thigh.
‘You shouldn’t do that yet,’ said Loz gently. ‘In a week’s time you can begin the exercises I showed you, but not yet.’
‘Isis makes a good point,’ said Harland, removing his hand and straightening.
‘I agree,’ said Loz, ‘but I can’t answer her question.’
‘You must have some idea of The Poet’s identity,’ she said. ‘There can’t have been many Bosnian commanders that Khan was friendly with.’
‘I believe he was originally a scholar… but I only inferred that from what Khan said.’
‘Where was he from?’ asked Herrick.
‘The East, maybe Pakistan or Iran, but I do not know.’
‘And you think this is the man that Khan can tell us about? What reason do you have for believing he’s still alive?’
‘Because he was very smart. Khan was in awe of him. He said he was the most civilised and dangerous man he had ever met. Those were the words he used - civilised and dangerous. ’
Herrick took out a piece of paper and wrote ‘Phone Dolph’, then on a second line, ‘Beirut’. She had suddenly had an idea.
‘But all this is guesswork,’ said Harland contemptuously. ‘I need a lot more.’
‘We really need to know everything that you know,’ said Isis, leaning forward and looking into Loz’s eyes. ‘Trust us for Christ’s sake. We’ve certainly earned that.’
Loz breathed in deeply, seemingly to savour the air. ‘Eighteen months ago I was phoned by a man in New York. He was a foreigner, but well-spoken and educated. He said something like, “I expect you have heard of me. I am The Poet.” I knew he must have been given my number by Khan, so I listened and he told me straight away that he wanted thirty thousand dollars. He said there was no question of my not giving it to him - he made it sound as if I owed him. In the background of what he was saying there was a threat and I understood that he would harm me if didn’t give him what he wanted. So I got the money together the next day, put it in a bag and began to walk to the agreed meeting place in Union Square. He specified that I should walk, even though it was winter and there was a lot of snow on the ground. On the way, a homeless beggar came up to me asking for money. He wouldn’t leave me alone and followed me down the street, then he grabbed hold of my arm and handed me a card which said, “The Poet thanks you for your donation.” He reached out and took the bag from my hand.’
‘You gave thirty thousand dollars to a New York beggar?’ said Harland incredulously.
‘Yes. When I got back to the building there was the same message on my answerphone. “The Poet thanks you for your donation.” ’
‘You were had,’ said Harland.
‘I don’t think so. Two days later I received an Arabic inscription in a frame. You remarked on it when I was treating you. If you remember, it says, “A man who is noble does not pretend to be noble, any more than a man who is eloquent feigns eloquence. When a man exaggerates his qualities, it is because of something lacking in himself. The bully gives himself airs because he is consci
ous of his weakness.” Also in the package was this …’ he opened his jacket, then handed Herrick a small black and white photograph wrapped in cellophane. It was of Karim Khan dressed in tribal costume and sporting a boldly patterned turban. ‘This was proof that he was in touch with Khan and had seen him recently. I suppose it was also proof of his own identity.’
‘Why didn’t you show me this before?’
‘Because you’re of a sceptical disposition, Mr Harland. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re too nervous to believe.’
‘I would have believed a bloody picture,’ said Harland, holding it away from him.
‘You need glasses,’ said Loz.
Harland took no notice and put the photograph in his wallet. ‘I’ll keep this for the moment.’
‘What did this man look like? ’ asked Herrick.
‘A homeless person,’ he smiled. ‘I’m being serious. He was covered in coats and wore a long beard. I couldn’t see his face beneath it all and anyway he was a few inches shorter than I am. Maybe only five foot five or six.’
‘So you’re telling us you may have seen The Poet?’
‘I have no doubt about that.’
‘When was this?’
‘The winter of 2000, just after the millennium celebrations. ’
Harland walked to the door and opened it. ‘Right, that will be all for the moment. We will talk later.’
When Loz had left he looked at Herrick and said, ‘Well?’
‘We either believe all of it or none of it. Either way, there’s nothing we can do about Khan.’
Harland frowned. ‘Does this overlap with anything you’ve been doing for RAPTOR?’
‘No, but I would like to make a call on this phone if you wouldn’t mind. I have a friend who may still be up.’
She got through to Dolph, whose brisk hello rang out on the conference speaker.
‘Why’re you up so late?’ she asked.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘But what are you doing?’
‘Turns out that the Americans are keen poker players. We’ve got two full tables on the go, playing for a monkey - that’s five hundred nicker in your language, Isis.’
‘Don’t you sleep?’
‘No one knows whether it’s day or night down here. We’re like beagles in a smoking lab, or labs in a smoking beagle. Whichever way you like it.’
‘Are you drunk, Dolph?’
‘No, merely rat-arsed.’
She was aware of Harland’s disapproving gaze. ‘Dolph, I need your help, so pull yourself together.’
‘I love it when you’re strict.’
‘I want to know about Bosnia - the siege of Sarajevo.’
‘Okay.’
‘We’re interested in a commander of Muslim soldiers. We have no name apart from The Poet, but this was not commonly used.’
‘Well that narrows it down,’ said Dolph, laughing.
‘Come on Dolph. I haven’t got time…’
‘Well, there was Abu Abdel Aziz or Barbaros - the guy with the two-foot beard.’
‘No, someone less obvious. Perhaps a scholar of some sort, but a good fighter.’
‘So we’re looking for a member of the Mujahideen Brigade that was disbanded after Dayton?’
‘Maybe. We’re right at the beginning with this one, so we’re interested in anything.’
‘I’ll talk to some of the hacks who were there during the siege. They may have come across him. Any idea where this character came from?’
‘Pakistan or Iran are possibilities.’
‘Have you got a description? His age at the time?’
‘No - we know he is about five foot five or six.’
‘Don’t burden me with detail, Isis,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll call you if I get something. Where’re you going to be?’
‘On my cell phone.’
‘Hey, Isis. You got to hear about Joe Lapping before you go.’
‘Okay.’ Herrick sat back smiling.
‘So Lapping is left in Sarajevo instead of me. The French tumble him in precisely three and a half seconds and start making his life hell. Lapping can’t move without one of the Frogs whispering “Rozbeef spy” in his ears. He gets completely freaked, changes his address and then can’t find his way home and has to put up with some aid worker while the apartment is found. Meanwhile the Frogs have moved every bird with a dodgy past into Lapping’s place and opened it as a brothel.’ Dolph broke off. She could hear him helpless with laughter and thumping something in the background. ‘So when Lapping eventually gets home he’s greeted by some lovely wearing the top of his Marks and Spencer pyjamas smoking a spliff, at which point the Frogs arrange for the place to be raided by the Bosnian vice squad.’ He stopped again. Herrick glanced at Harland, who was smiling. ‘You got to hand it to him,’ continued Dolph, ‘I mean there’s never been anyone like Lapping in our business. He’s classic.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Still in Sarajevo. They’re making new arrangements but there’s no rush coz the suspect’s gone to ground.’ He paused. ‘You know, Lapping could be really good on this. Seriously. He’s a prize researcher, loves nothing better than sifting through dusty files in Serbo-Croat. That’s like a threesome to Lapping. I can easily put him on to it through RAPTOR. Nobody will know.’
‘Good.’
‘And don’t forget your friend in Beirut,’ he said.
‘I won’t.’
The Chief did not phone until 6.30 a.m. local time. The plane carrying Khan had touched down at Cairo and been greeted by members of the local CIA station and the Egyptian intelligence service. As far as the local MI6 people could make out, he had been taken straight to police headquarters. There was some suggestion that he would make an appearance in court that day in connection with the slaying of the newspaper editor, but the Chief thought this unlikely because any lawyer appointed to Khan’s defence would be able to demonstrate that he was not Jasur Faisal, and would move to have him released.
‘Who else was on the plane?’ asked Herrick.
‘Two of the men from the Tirana station and the Syrian gentleman. He turns out to be Dr Ibrahim al Shuqairi, an extremely nasty piece of work. He has a Syrian passport but is from one of the Sunni tribes in Iraq. In any sane world he would be tried as a war criminal.’
‘So, there’s nothing we can do.’
The Chief mumbled, ‘We’ll see about that. Now, tell me, what did you make of Loz’s answers?’
Harland and Herrick looked at each other. ‘I’d say it’s worth looking into the business of the Bosnian commander known as The Poet,’ offered Harland. ‘It appears he was in New York in late 1999. But you know it may be all nonsense. There’s nothing hard.’
The Chief digested this.
‘We’re working on the Bosnian angles,’ said Herrick. ‘Andy Dolph is going to ring some contacts.’
‘Can he be discreet about this? He can’t talk about it at RAPTOR.’
‘There’s no one more reliable,’ said Herrick.
‘Good. Right. Well, Isis, I think you’d better get back here. Harland, I wonder if you could help us to get Loz out. Nothing complicated. A boat ride to Italy. That’s all. I’m putting the arrangements in place now. You’ll get further instructions during the morning.’
Herrick noticed the expression in Harland’s eyes had darkened a little.
‘You do realise I’m not working for you, Chief,’ he said.
‘Of course, of course. Forgive me, Bobby. You know how grateful we are to you, I’m sure. I’m glad you’ve reminded me you’re helping as an irregular. We’re indebted to you. Oh, by the way, I have some movement on that trace we discussed in New York. I think it looks very promising.’
Harland said nothing.
‘Eva - I think she’s alive. Perhaps you would rather discuss it another time. We’re likely to get some more.’
‘Yes,’ said Harland quietly. ‘Yes, thank you. You understand I must consult with the Secretary-General about
my movements. I have to answer to his brief.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ said the Chief emolliently. ‘I just pray that you will be able to see your way to helping us on this one. Do you think there’s any chance of Mr Jaidi letting you do your bit?’
‘What is my bit?’
‘We’ll talk when you’re in Italy. In the meantime, expect to be joined by several friends at the Embassy. They’ll get Loz out. And Bobby, thank you again for all you’re doing. I think you know how important this is.’
Isis watched his effortless manner sedate Harland. It occurred to her that he was susceptible only because there was some part of him that privately felt he still belonged in the Secret Intelligence Service, or at least was animated by the challenge and felt he could still rise to it better than most. In that way he was not unlike Munroe Herrick. She wondered about the woman mentioned by the Chief, and Harland’s curiously subdued reaction. What the hell was that about?
