As Bingham cut the connection, Yokely came back into the room. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the interruption.’ She nodded at the Saudi in the next room. ‘All you’ve got at the moment is a link between him and the bomber. Nothing concrete.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Yokely. ‘But this isn’t about making a case against him. That’s for later, if we ever decide to put him on trial. Here’s the clincher, Charlie. When we busted him in the Savoy early this morning, we found a first-class ticket to Dubai for a midday flight. Today. Which means that whatever he’s got planned is almost certainly under way. The clock, as they say, is very much ticking.’ He put a Bluetooth headset into his ear and handed a matching one to Button. ‘Okay, let’s get started.’
Shepherd looked at the picture on the screen of his mobile phone. It was a white male, brown hair and brown eyes, but he wasn’t the man who’d walked into the Uddin brothers’ office. He sent a text message to David Bingham. NO. He sipped his coffee and waited for the next photograph. So far he’d rejected three. There couldn’t be too many more because most of the men on the whiteboard had black hair and Shepherd was sure about the dimple in the man’s chin.
He was sitting in a coffee shop overlooking the row where the bureau de change was. He had a seat by the window and a copy of the Evening Standard in front of him. There was no doubt in his mind that the man he’d seen was one of the faces on Button’s whiteboard. Shepherd was annoyed to have to deal with Button’s number two, whom he’d never met. Al-Qaeda terrorists, Button had said. Men and women who moved under the radar of the intelligence services. Now Shepherd had found one, and she had switched off her phone. Hargrove would never have acted so unprofessionally.
Shepherd tensed as he saw the man walk out of the doorway at the side of the bureau de change. He phoned Sharpe as he walked out of the coffee shop, leaving behind his newspaper.
‘Razor, he’s on the move. Heading north on the Edgware Road.’
‘Got that. What do you want me to do?’
‘Stay put,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s heading against the traffic but he might jump into a cab.’
‘No sign of our back-up?’
‘Bingham says it’s on its way,’ said Shepherd.
‘Promises, promises,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd kept on his side of the road, matching his pace to that of his quarry. He kept the phone pressed to his ear. ‘Still heading west.’
‘I should leave the car, Spider,’ said Sharpe. ‘One on one always comes to grief, you know that.’
‘Let’s make sure he’s not heading for a vehicle or a cab,’ said Shepherd.
‘At least I should start driving your way,’ said Sharpe.
‘Okay, but steer clear of the Edgware Road. It’s backed up to Marble Arch and if you get stuck there you’ll be screwed.’
The phone clicked in Shepherd’s ear. ‘I’ve got a text message, I’ll call you back,’ he said. He cut the connection and called up the message. Another picture from Bingham. He texted back NO.
Shepherd called Button’s number and was put straight through to her voicemail. He left a brief message saying that the man was on the move and that he was following. Then he redialled Sharpe. ‘Where are you, Razor?’
‘Praed Street. I’ll hang a right and cut back down Sussex Gardens. Where’s your man?’
‘Still heading along Edgware Road. Shit.’
‘What?’
‘The Tube. There’s two stations, Circle and Bakerloo. If he goes down one I won’t be able to use the mobile.’
‘There’s nowhere to park here. I’m stuck with the car.’
‘I know.’
Shepherd hurried across the road and quickened his pace. The man was striding purposefully ahead. He looked at his watch as he walked so Shepherd decided he had a deadline, wherever he was going.
‘Razor, listen. If I go underground and lose the signal, keep your phone clear and I’ll call again as soon as we surface. Call Button and tell her what’s happening. Put the rest of the surveillance team on standby. He’s crossing under the Marylebone flyover now. That rules out the Circle Line station. He’s still walking against the traffic so it’s either the Bakerloo Line or he’ll stay on foot.’
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t just bust him now?’
‘For what? Buying a passport? If he’s a terrorist, Button will want to know where he’s going and who he meets. SO13 will want to know exactly what he’s up to.’ SO13: the Anti-terrorist Branch.
Ahead of him the man hurried across the road. The traffic-lights were red but the green man was flashing. Shepherd cursed under his breath. It was a busy intersection with the traffic gearing up to drive onto the A40. If he got caught on the wrong side of the lights he’d be stuck for several minutes.
He ran across the road just as the traffic started to move. A van driver banged on his horn and the man Shepherd was following turned. Shepherd stopped running and turned sharp right, head down, the mobile phone pressed to his ear.
‘What happened?’ asked Sharpe.
‘Just making a twat of myself,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m having to pull back.’
Shepherd headed back to the Edgware Road, more cautiously this time. There was no sign of his quarry and he hurried down the road towards the Tube station, slowed and looked into it. The man was taking a ticket from the machine.
Shepherd ducked back. ‘He’s on the Tube,’ he whispered into the phone. ‘I’m going after him.’
‘Any guess if he’ll go north or south?’
‘Hell, Razor, toss a coin. Or stay put. I’ll phone you as soon as I’m above ground again. Call Button and tell her where I am.’
Shepherd cut the connection and slipped the mobile into his coat. He dug out a handful of change and walked into the station. The man he was following had passed through the ticket barrier and was heading for the lift. Shepherd selected a day ticket that would cover all six zones of the Tube system, then fed the coins into the machine.
As the machine spat out his ticket he heard the lift doors rattle shut. There were emergency stairs to the left of the lift, and a notice warning that there were 125 steps to the platforms. Shepherd had no choice – by the time the next lift arrived his quarry might be on a train. He ran down the spiral staircase, three at a time, covered by CCTV cameras every thirty feet or so. He wondered if anyone was watching and what they thought about the crazy guy running hell for leather down the stairs.
Heading down didn’t require too much physical effort but he had to concentrate: one wrong step would send him tumbling. He tried to keep track of the number of stairs as he hurtled down. Sixty. Eighty. A hundred. He wondered how quickly the lift would descend – it had probably been designed for reliability and passenger numbers rather than speed. A hundred and twenty-five.
Ahead of him a sign indicated the direction of the two platforms. To the left, Harrow and Wealdstone. The North. To the right, Elephant and Castle. The South. Shepherd stood still and listened. He heard a rumble to his right and walked in that direction. He reached the platform as the train roared into the station. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a ginger-haired man with square-rimmed spectacles, then the carriages whizzed by. Fewer than a dozen passengers were waiting to board and Shepherd quickly scanned their faces. The man wasn’t there. The train stopped and three middle-aged women got off with five young children in tow. Shepherd waited until the train doors had closed, then walked away. That left the northbound platform. He took out his mobile even though there was no signal so far underground. He tapped out a message to Sharpe, NORTH, then put the phone back into his coat. It would keep trying to send the message until there was a clear signal.
He waited where he was until he heard the rumble of a train on the northbound track, then moved on to the platform. A breeze from the tunnel to his right heralded the imminent arrival of the train and a few seconds later it appeared, brakes screeching as it slowed to a halt. She
pherd’s quarry was at the far end of the platform, at the rear of the train. Shepherd walked slowly down the platform, hands deep in his pockets, and boarded the second carriage from the end. He sat close to the door that linked the two carriages so that he had a good view of the man, then ignored him as the door shut. There was no need to keep him under observation; all Shepherd wanted to know was at which station the man left the train.
At Paddington, Shepherd glanced across as the doors opened but the man was still seated, arms folded. The doors opened and passengers poured off, then more piled on, mainly businessmen with briefcases. Shepherd tensed in case the man made a last-minute dash as the doors closed, but they slammed shut and the train moved off.
An overweight woman in a dark raincoat was standing in the other carriage with her back to the connecting door, obscuring his view. It was a nuisance but not a major problem: while the train was moving, there was nowhere for the man to go.
The next stop was Warwick Avenue. The man stayed where he was, arms still folded, chin on his chest, almost as if he was asleep.
Maida Vale. The woman in the dark raincoat got off so Shepherd had a clearer view of his quarry.
Kilburn Park. The train slowed. The doors rattled open. Shepherd looked at his watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. The man had stood up and was peering at the signs on the wall of the station as if confused as to where he was. Shepherd stood up, and as he did so the man hurried off the train. Shepherd followed – narrowly missing being caught in the closing doors.
He followed the man up the escalator to the surface, keeping close enough to him to see which way he went on leaving the station. The man passed through the ticket barrier, Shepherd behind him.
The Saudi folded his arms and stared at the woman. She stared back with unblinking brown eyes. She looked like a secretary in her dark blue two-piece suit. A woman trying to be a man, he thought contemptuously. ‘You have no right to keep me here,’ he said quietly. He had no need to raise his voice: he had the law on his side, and he knew his rights to the letter.
‘You’re absolutely correct,’ she said brightly.
The Saudi said nothing. He turned his head slowly and stared at his reflection in the large mirror to his right. There would be a man on the other side, he knew. The woman’s boss. Watching to see how he reacted to being questioned by a female. They were assuming that because he was an Arab he would be uncomfortable facing a woman in a position of authority, but they were wrong. She had a Bluetooth headset on her right ear and the Saudi was certain that her boss was relaying instructions to her. She was a robot, nothing more, a machine carrying out her master’s instructions.
The only furniture in the room was the metal table and the two chairs they were sitting on. The floor was tiled and the walls were concrete, painted pale green. To his left there were four plasma screens, all blank. Above them a large white-faced clock ticked off the seconds. Two small speakers were set into the ceiling.
‘I don’t have to say anything,’ he said.
The woman wore no wedding ring but she had the look of one who had been married. Her hands were together on the table, nails glistening with colourless varnish. Her lipstick seemed to have been freshly applied and her hair brushed. A typical woman, thought the Saudi. She needed to look her best, even for an interrogation.
‘I want a lawyer,’ he said, more firmly this time.
‘I’m sure you do,’ she said. She glanced at the clock and checked the time against her wristwatch. A Rolex, the Saudi noted, but a cheap one. Steel. The Saudi had half a dozen Rolexes, all gold, and four were studded with diamonds, but he rarely wore them. ‘I’m so glad it’s got a second hand,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said, frowning.
The woman nodded at the clock. ‘I always feel that unless a timepiece has a second hand, it’s not really performing its function. I do hate those digital models, don’t you? You have no real sense of time passing.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ hissed the Saudi. ‘Have you brought me here to talk about clocks?’ A brief smile flickered across her face and the Saudi realised that she regarded his flash of temper as a victory. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘At least I have the right to know the identity of my interrogator.’
‘Actually, Mr Ahmed, you have no rights at all. Not in here.’
‘I am a British citizen. I travel on a British passport. I am entitled to all the rights and privileges of a British citizen, and I am covered by the European Convention on Human Rights.’
‘Let me tell you what we know,’ said the woman. ‘And then I will tell you what we want to know.’
‘Anta majnuun,’ said the Saudi contemptuously.
‘No, I am not crazy, Mr Ahmed.’
‘I demand to see your superior,’ said the Saudi.
‘I am in charge of this investigation.’
‘But you won’t even tell me your name.’
‘You do not need to know my name.’
The Saudi scowled. ‘Man ta’taqid annaka tukhaatib?’
‘I know exactly who I am talking to, Mr Ahmed. Now, if you would just remain quiet while I run through what we already know, I’d be most grateful. Your name is Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed although the name on your UK passport is just Abdal Ahmed.’
Her accent, when she said his name, was perfect, the Saudi noticed. She was refusing to speak to him in Arabic but he had no doubt that she was fluent.
‘Abdal Jabbaar – Servant of the Compeller. A religious name,’ she said. ‘You father is Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed. For many years he was a facilitator for the Saudi Royal Family, and became very rich as a result. Now he is semi-retired, although he still acts as a consultant when required.’
‘My father is a well-respected businessman,’ said the Saudi, but the woman held up a hand to silence him.
‘Please let me finish, Mr Ahmed. We need to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. Your father was granted British citizenship thirteen years ago, as were you, your mother and your siblings. You were educated at Eton, and the London School of Economics. A first-class degree. Well done.’
‘I suppose you got a first, too,’ said the Saudi.
‘A double first, actually,’ said the woman. ‘Cambridge. I was a bit of a bookworm at university. Since then you have been in effective control of your father’s business but, as we both know, it is his partners who do the work. You remain a figurehead. And you travel a lot.’
The Saudi shrugged. She was wasting her time, and his. There was no proof that he had ever done anything wrong. Over the last five years he hadn’t acquired so much as a parking ticket. He was careful and covered his tracks well. They had nothing on him, so all he had to do was wait for his lawyer.
‘You hit all the hotspots, don’t you? The South of France, the Bahamas, Aspen. Spending your father’s money.’
‘I do a lot of entertaining,’ said the Saudi.
‘Oh, we know all about the entertaining, Mr Ahmed. The girls. The boys. The drugs.’
The Saudi leaned forward. ‘Hayyaa natakallam bil-’arabiyya,’ he said.
‘No, Mr Ahmed, we shall stick to English. I have no desire to question you in your own language.’
The Saudi shrugged, but said nothing.
‘It’s not the entertaining that concerns us,’ said the woman. ‘In December 2002 you visited Bali and stayed in a suite at the Oberoi Hotel. While in Bali you met with two members of the Jemaah Islamiah network. You checked out on the seventh of December. Two days later a bomb went off killing two hundred and two people. One of the men you met was involved in the attack on the Australian embassy in Jakarta in September 2004.’
The woman waited for a reaction. The Saudi stared at her stonily. They had nothing. Anything they did have was circumstantial, and in Britain that wasn’t enough. They would have to let him go eventually.
‘In August 2003 you arrived in Madrid. You stayed at the Melia Castilla Hotel. You were there for two weeks, but returned again
in February, this time staying at the Ritz.’ She smiled. ‘I’m a big fan of the Ritz myself.’ The smile vanished. ‘You left Spain on the eighth of March 2004. On the eleventh ten bombs went off on commuter trains killing a hundred and ninety-one and injuring fifteen hundred. Do you sense a pattern, Mr Ahmed? Because we do.’
The Saudi said nothing. He tried to swallow but his mouth had dried.
‘Later that year you were sighted in Sumatra. You weren’t observed in contact with anyone from Jemaah Islamiah, but they have been pretty low-key since the Bali bombing. But we do believe that the network’s main bombmaker, Azahari Husin, was in the area. And Indonesian police, who raided a house in West Java, discovered a list of possible targets, including Western-owned hotels, along with the names of twelve operatives who were willing to become martyrs.’
The Saudi felt sweat trickle down his back. He shivered. He knew there was no evidence against him. They might have suspicions, but suspicions could not be used against him. All he had to do was refuse to answer their questions, and eventually they would have to call his lawyer. ‘Laa uriid an atakallam ma’aka,’ he said, and folded his arms.
‘Whether or not you want to talk to me is immaterial, Mr Ahmed,’ said the woman. ‘We will be here until you tell us what we want to know. Just over a year ago you were in London when four suicide-bombers mounted an attack on the Underground. Two succeeded, one above ground, one below. Forty-seven people died and more than a hundred men, women and children were injured.’
The Saudi stared sullenly at her but said nothing.
‘A few months later you were in Thailand, staying at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. You left just before the tsunami hit in the south. A quarter of a million people dead.’ The woman smiled. ‘Not that we think you were responsible for the tidal wave but we do wonder what you were doing in Thailand. Phuket, of course, has been a possible target ever since the Bali bombing. Lots of wealthy tourists. Sun, sea, sand, sex and all that. A few bright boys of mine think you were putting together an operation that was disrupted by the tsunami. One of life’s awful coincidences.’ She smiled and took a sip from a glass of water. She left a smear of lipstick. He remembered the American girl he’d been with the previous night and how she’d left lipstick on her champagne glass. When the men with guns had burst into his suite he’d thought at first that he was being arrested for using a prostitute. But it had soon become obvious that they weren’t policemen and that they had bigger things on their minds.
Cold Kill Page 32
