‘Why would they do that?’ Karim tried to picture what Javed was saying, but it didn’t make sense. ‘Maybe the reports are wrong.’
‘I suspect not.’
‘There is still money in our account?’
Javed laughed. ‘More than you’ll need. You father insisted that I continue to use a portion of it for buying carpets, and Allah has smiled on us and turned those carpets into gold.’
Karim picked up the mouthpiece and drew deeply on it. The smoke was sweet and cool with a taste surprisingly like apricot. ‘Your shisha is superb. It is a long time since I have had a smoke and never have I tasted such sweet flavours.’
Javed’s face showed he was pleased with the compliment. He fished down beside his seat and produced a small jar. ‘El-Basha apricot-flavoured tobacco from the Nakhla tobacco factory in Egypt. I have a friend who imports it.’
‘I suspect, Uncle, that you have a friend for everything.’
‘Most things.’ Javed laughed. ‘If you stay around long enough you will see that Peshawar is that kind of town.’
Karim drew on the hookah again then carefully laid the mouthpiece down. ‘And have you still a friend who can get me to Australia?’
They turned left at the Mahabat Khan Mosque and immediately left again into a narrow alley crammed with shops selling tribal jewellery. The people here were almost all Afghans and several of the traders greeted Javed respectfully as he walked past. In the middle of the alley they entered a nondescript shop whose only merchandise appeared to be buttons and rings. Seated on the ground, several small boys were engaged in cleaning some jewellery under the watchful eye of an older man. He acknowledged Javed and Karim with a slight nod before returning to his studying of the Quran.
At the back of the shop a rickety staircase wound its way up past rows of tiny rooms, all of which had their doors open as if eager to gulp in any passing air. Inside each of the rooms there appeared to be entire families hard at work on menial tasks. This was the backbone of the market. Here buttons were made, cloth cut, leather belts polished and any useful item recycled. Eyes followed their progress but nobody spoke to them. Javed led the way up a third flight to a substantial-looking door. He knocked quietly and stepped back onto the landing. The door opened a fraction and a face peered at them.
‘Ah, Javed! Salaam!’
The man stepped out onto the landing and gripped Javed’s hand. To Karim’s surprise he was a Punjabi, dressed not in a shalwar qamiz but western trousers and a neatly starched collarless shirt. Around his neck was a heavy gold chain and his fingers were resplendent with rings in gold and silver. The man’s only concession to his location was his bare feet.
‘Salaam. You are well?’ Javed held the man’s hand between his own.
‘Yes. And will remain so, Insh’allah’.
‘Insh’allah, Javed echoed. ‘And business is good?’
‘In this den of cut-throats and robbers? Surrounded by Afghan bandits?’ The man’s eyes sparkled with good humour as he laughed and wiped his neat black moustache. ‘It’s fine. And you? You are still selling those overpriced moth-eaten rags you call carpets?’
Javed shrugged. ‘I struggle from day to day …’
‘That good? May it remain so, Insh’allah.’
‘Insh’allah.’
‘And this is the nephew you told me about?’
The man turned to Karim and took his hand, holding it firmly. Karim nodded.
‘Asalaam aleikum. I am called Karim.’
The man’s eyes burned into him, as though daring him to flinch and look away. Karim held the gaze. Though his uncle had told him this was not the same man who had helped his father, still he was Javed’s friend.
‘Good! I am Zulfi. Please, let us go inside.’
He released Karim’s hand and, after glancing down the stairwell, ushered them inside. To Karim’s amazement the room was lined with copper-coloured metallic insulation paper. There was no window in the walls and the only ventilation appeared to be a small open skylight at one end, and even this was covered with a fine wire mesh. It was not the insulation, though, that surprised him most, but the array of technology. Three computers lined one wall, while along the other were a bank of phones, a fax and two printers.
Zulfi seemed amused at Karim’s reaction. ‘Welcome to Zulfi dot com.’
‘It is —’ Karim began.
‘Yes, isn’t it. Not what you expected, I’m sure. Sorry about the colour. But I don’t like people snooping around and the copper foil shields the entire room. You know what a Faraday cage is?’
Karim shook his head.
‘It’s a space that is shielded from external radio or electrical intrusion.’
‘And this whole room is such a cage?’
‘Exactly. Simply put the foil up like wallpaper. The mu-copper costs a fortune and I have to import it from people I don’t particularly like supporting.’ Zulfi watched Karim’s face for a sign he understood the reference.
‘America?’
‘No. Israel. The Israelis make the best shielding equipment in the world; really expensive, but it helps to keep the dust out as well. The place gets as hot as hell, of course, and I have trouble keeping the hard drives from overheating. Then there is the telephone system. It is an insult to call it a system. It is an accident, a mistake. It was built by idiots and is maintained by monkeys. You know how much I paid to get a good line for my modems? A fortune. It was robbery. How was I supposed to email anyone when the line drops out every few minutes? So I had to go with a satellite and for that you have to sell your soul. In the end I installed my own server … You understand computers?’
‘Yes, but not such modern ones. I used them for several years in England where I did my degree —’
‘You speak English?’
‘Yes. Fluently.’
Zulfi beamed and switched to English. ‘Fantastic! Great! I also speak the finest English my parents could afford. I like English. To be or not to be? You like Shakespeare? I studied The Merchant of Venice. My teacher said I should have been an actor. I think he was saying that so my parents would pay him a bonus. English is also good for getting in touch with the world and you can say things those around here don’t understand.’
The man was speaking so rapidly that Karim, who had always considered his own English to be excellent, had trouble following him. He was about to ask where Zulfi had learned it, but the man was off again.
Javed had seated himself in front of one of the computers and was examining the website on the monitor. It showed a scantily clad western woman in a swimsuit. Zulfi glanced at Javed and then back to Karim.
‘My friend Javed says he’s truly your uncle. Is the old fox lying to me?’
‘No. He’s my father’s brother.’
‘Good. Then we shall have a good time. We are going to have an adventure together. Yes? I hear you want to go to Australia. Your father went there — is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then I will tell you all about the man who will help you.’
Karim was confused. ‘I thought you were the man who could help me.’
Zulfi grinned broadly. ‘I can and I will. But there is another man. A very important man. He is the one who will open the door marked Australia.’
‘And you can put me in touch with him?’
Zulfi shook his head slowly. ‘We must not rush these things. I have sent an email and in time he will reply, Insh’allah.’
‘Insh’allah … and what should I do?’
‘Wait, my friend, wait.’
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 15 November 2001 12:39:11 + 1000
From: “Zulfi” *[email protected]* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]
Subject: Re: Contacts
To: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
I have an urgent package to send. I have checked the package, it is genuine. He urgently must leave and go to Australia. He has no passport.
This one
must be guaranteed safe arrival.
Warmest
Zulfi
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 16 November 2001 01:12:41 — 0700 (PDT)
From: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Subject: Re: Re: Contacts
To: “Zulfi” *[email protected]*
Please have six (6) passport photographs taken. I will arrange papers. Send full details. Require A$5000 in advance to establish usual credentials.
Cheers
The Haha Man
The bottle of scotch had been sitting on the sideboard for over a week and the miracle was that it was still half full. Fossey wasn’t sure why he was drinking less; maybe he just didn’t have time. He hesitated, considering pouring himself a small one but decided against it and went through to the kitchen. The note made him smile.
There’s pot luck
in the crock pot
for my crack pot
(save me some).
L. xx
I’m a very lucky man, he told himself as he hunted around for the pot mitt. Not every husband can spend his day conspiring to break the law and come home to a cooked meal.
He took a plate out of the cupboard, then removed the lid of the pot and prodded a fork in between the potatoes and carrots. It looked like … was rabbit. Well, that deserved something and he knew exactly where he would find it. He opened the cupboard, and there — the cork pushed back in the top — was a bottle of not what he had been expecting. An Evans & Tate 1999 Margaret River Shiraz. He held it up to the light and saw that Layla had used a single glassful. Fair enough, he thought; if she hadn’t opened it to cook with he wouldn’t have the pleasure of drinking it. So much for cellaring.
His hand reached for a glass but before he could pour himself a drink there was a knocking at the door. Instinctively he looked at his watch. Seven-thirty. Damn. He placed the bottle and the glass on the bench and went to the front of the house. Because of the warmth of the evening and the build-up of heat in the house, Fossey had left the door onto the front verandah open and simply latched the screen door. On the other side of the flyscreen were two men in suits. One about his own height, the other considerably shorter. Clean-cut. Polished shoes, thick soles. Was that a metaphor or a pun?
‘Yes?’ He didn’t unlatch the screen door.
‘Good evening, Mr Dutetre.’ The shorter of the two men nodded pointedly at the door; his voice was deep and friendly. He probably sang bass. Fossey would have put money on it being insurance …
‘Evening.’
‘We’re from the department. We wondered if you would mind having a quick chat.’
‘From the department? Didn’t anyone tell you I quit?’
Shorty glanced knowingly at his taller companion then back to Fossey. ‘We really don’t think we should be discussing this out here.’
The tall man nodded sagely, as though he had just been on the receiving end of great wisdom.
‘I wasn’t aware we were having a discussion,’ Fossey said. The smell of rabbit wafted down the hall seductively.
‘It’s about Mr Gilbert,’ Shorty said.
Fossey suddenly wished they had been insurers. ‘You’d better come in.’ He unlatched the door and held it open.
The men stepped into the house and waited while he locked the screen. He led them down the hall to the dining room. ‘I hope this won’t take long, I only just got home and haven’t eaten yet.’ He decided against sitting and leaned against a corner of the dining table.
The tall man ignored the couch, pulled out a straight-backed dining chair, seated himself and took out a notebook. Evidently they were specialists. One wrote, the other talked. The short man hitched his trousers slightly, perched on the edge of the couch and ran a finger and thumb carefully down his creases. Satisfied that everything was neat and his colleague’s pen was ready he looked at Fossey with dead-fish eyes.
‘I’m Smith, and my colleague is as well.’ The tone was dead-pan, as though this news was somehow significant but not to be dwelled upon.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ Fossey said. ‘So, what is this about?’
‘We were hoping you would feel free to tell us.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘A friendly chat is what we had in mind. A preliminary discussion if you like,’ the short Smith said.
Fossey wondered if he was naturally oblique or if it was part of their training.
‘Preliminary to what?’ It all sounded vaguely threatening.
‘Depends on you really, sir.’
So it was ‘sir’ now. That felt even more threatening. Fossey decided he didn’t like these men, and the sooner he let them have their say the sooner he would be rid of them.
‘So?’
‘So what, Mr Dutetre?’
‘What did you want to know?’
The two men exchanged glances that suggested they were used to being given the run-around by far more experienced men than Fossey.
‘You and Ray Gilbert go back a long way, do you?’ The tone had dropped abruptly down to ‘casual’.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘No … what?’
‘No, we don’t go back a long way.’
Shorty sighed wearily. ‘Let me rephrase that. How long have you known Mr Gilbert?’
‘I wouldn’t say I know him at all.’
‘Really, Mr Dutetre.’ He held his hand up in mock supplication. ‘When did you meet him?’
Fossey glanced over at the taller man and wondered what he was finding to write so intensely. ‘Some time ago.’
‘Any particular date come to mind?’
‘None.’
‘Had a good chat did you? I bet he had interesting things to tell you …?’
‘No.’ Fossey watched as the scribe dutifully scribbled away in his notepad.
‘No? No what?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
Smith paused and rubbed vigorously at the back of his neck as though trying to rid himself of some pain. ‘Mr Dutetre. Tell me, in words of one syllable, what your meeting was about.’
‘It wasn’t a meeting.’
‘No?’
Though he knew he had every reason to be concerned that this pair had turned up, unaccountably he was feeling buoyant, energised. They were so obviously on a fishing expedition that instead of feeling intimidated he was becoming annoyed. Fossey felt like a wily old brown in a stream being confronted by two inexperienced anglers flailing the water with a bad choice of fly. He decided to break the surface.
‘He came up and introduced himself after a press conference.’
‘We know.’
‘He wanted me to investigate his dismissal.’
‘Naturally.’ The man sat forward and smiled encouragingly. ‘And of course you were happy to oblige.’
‘No.’
‘But you changed your mind …’
‘No.’
‘Then why did you requisition his file?’
‘Covering the minister’s back.’
There was a pause as the man sucked at his teeth and made a good show of understanding Fossey’s position. Then he changed tactics.
‘You are aware that was a serious security breach?’
Fossey shrugged. ‘So hang me.’
This elicited another pause and a slow, sad, shaking of the head.
‘What did he ring you for?’
‘What?’ That caught him off guard. They must have had serious concerns about Ray to have kept such tabs on him. Christ! He hoped that their meeting in Milton had been —
‘Sir, we know he rang you.’ Smith waited but Fossey remained silent. ‘Did he mention Plym at all?’
‘Plym? Not that I recall.’
‘So he did ring you.’ There was a hint of triumph in the voice and a quick smile to his colleague.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I told him I couldn’t help him and hung up.’
‘Nothing.’
The man looked at him coldly. ‘Mr Dutetre, in confidence I can let you know that Ray Gilbert was harbouring some very un-Australian notions.’
‘It used to be a free country …’
‘Which is what we are trying to maintain.’ He looked at Fossey for a response, but as none was forthcoming he grinned conspiratorially. ‘Tell me, just between us, you don’t think much of the minister, do you? Cold bloke. Bit rabid at times?’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Fossey said very gently. ‘I think I’ve had enough of this silliness.’
There was a long silence as Smith rolled his eyes and exchanged more knowing looks with the scribe. Then he picked an imaginary piece of dust off his trousers and said quietly, ‘It really would be wise to cooperate.’
‘It would help if I knew what I was cooperating with,’ Fossey snapped. ‘Exactly which department did you say you were from?’
‘I didn’t specify.’
‘ASIO.’ Fossey didn’t even bother framing it as a question. He had run into Australian Security Intelligence Organisation officers before: they all had this cultivated air that swung between self-importance and ennui. It was an odd mix — like a discombobulated tightrope-walker.
‘Whatever.’ The man shrugged and took a deep breath. ‘Now, getting back to Mr Gilbert.’
‘What on earth is your interest in him?’ Fossey was angry now. He hadn’t intended to let it show, having always imagined he would deal with a situation like this with cool equanimity, yet here he was fulminating like a bloody string of firecrackers. ‘I met him. I thought the guy was a fucking nutcase. End of story. Nothing more. Finito la bloody musica. Okay?’
Shorty’s look was one of patience. An ‘I’m here for the long haul’ look. A ‘got that out of your system, now?’ look. But it was the wrong look for Fossey. Idiots or drunks in a bar might get away with it, but being patronised in your own home …
‘Time to go,’ Fossey said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘You think that’s a wise attitude —’
‘I don’t give a shit.’ The tone was spot on. The scribe was on his feet, a look of consternation flitting across his face. Fossey wasn’t sure if it was concern for himself or Fossey, but he was past caring. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind …’ He gestured to the door.
The Haha Man Page 10
