by Chris Simms
‘Say that again.’
‘Dad’s been invited to take part in some kind of debate in the conference centre.’
‘Wasim is there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit. Can’t you ring him?’
‘I’ve been trying. He’s probably turned it off. He usually does.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You have to find Hidden Shadow and get confirmation it really is Ranjit. It’s the only way to make Wallace take this seriously.’
‘OK, I’m leaving now.’
The line went dead and she took a huge juddering breath in. What if Jim missed them? He wouldn’t miss them, would he? Two young guys carrying potholing gear. He won’t miss them. Nervously, she looked at the military-type books lining the shelves once again before focusing back on the mouth of the alleyway. ‘Where did you serve, Bob?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘All over,’ he replied from the kitchen. ‘Much of it unofficial. Covert stuff. All ancient history now, though.’
She couldn’t help making a comparison to Jim in her head. Both ex-soldiers, both had served abroad – though the contrast between their states of mind was stark. ‘Did you,’ she said hesitantly, ‘ever have to do stuff you’ve come to regret?’
There was a long silence. She watched the deserted street, assuming that he’d chosen to avoid the question.
‘Yes.’
He was so close, she jumped. ‘My God.’ She reached a hand up to the base of her throat. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
Slowly, he lowered himself into the seat beside her, a cup of tea in one hand. Watching him, she wondered if the stiffness in his posture was his military bearing or simply old age.
‘Of course, over the years, I’ve come to realize that much of what they told us simply wasn’t true.’
Her gaze wavered briefly between him and the street below. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The people we were fighting. Why we were there.’ A wistful note had entered his voice. ‘The Great Game. We were just pieces deployed in it.’
‘Great Game?’ Iona asked, stealing a proper look at his face. He was turned towards the window, a distant look in his eyes.
‘A phrase used to describe the jostling for control of Afghanistan during the eighteen hundreds. The British and Russian empires. Nowadays, more players have joined in – America, China, NATO countries like France. There’s also Pakistan and Turkey. And the area of play is also much larger. Central Asia and all around.’
‘Including Iraq?’
‘The entire region. Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Afghanistan. Libya most recently. Anywhere with oil supplies, tanker routes, pipelines and ports. Territories of strategic importance.’ He continued to speak at his reflection. ‘I don’t oppose what goes on, but I do feel for the people of those countries we squabble over.’
Iona shifted in her seat. This wasn’t the kind of thing she’d expected to hear coming from an ex-member of the SAS.
‘We did some terrible things,’ he stated quietly. ‘And against people who were completely innocent.’
She swallowed, unable to keep Jim’s words about what had happened in Iraq from echoing in her head. Deciding to remain quiet, she concentrated on the view outside. Movement in the alleyway. A figure started to emerge from the shadowy space between the concrete panels. Iona craned her head: it was a woman, pushing a buggy with a shopping bag hooked over each handle.
They both sank back slightly.
Cooper took a sip of his tea. ‘I was sent to Malaya in the late fifties,’ he announced matter-of-factly. ‘Are you familiar with it?’
‘No,’ Iona replied, feeling slightly apprehensive about what was to come.
‘I was flown there to help in the counter-insurgency. Going out into the jungle to deal with the communist terrorists – or CTs, as we called them. It was brutal stuff.’
Iona nodded. ‘I bet.’
‘You need to understand, Iona, at that time British companies effectively owned many nations, including their considerable natural resources. In Malaya, it was rubber plantations. I didn’t really realize this at the time, but the real reason we were sent there was to protect those commercial interests. But who were we protecting them from?’
She gave a small shake of her head. ‘CTs? Terrorists.’
‘But who were the CTs, these people we were sent to eliminate?’ There was a tremor in his voice. ‘Sorry.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It took me a great many years to admit that many of the people I helped to kill were not terrorists. They were just plantation workers who had joined the trade union movement. Yes, they were communists. I think I’d have joined too if I was being exploited as ruthlessly as they were.’ He sighed. ‘But our government couldn’t let that country’s inhabitants wrest control of such a lucrative industry from us. Do you know how many air strikes we carried out during the so-called emergency? Four-and-a-half thousand. Tens upon tens of thousands of pounds of bombs were dropped to protect, it was claimed, a civilian population from dangerous fanatics.’ He looked at her. ‘We always seem to be invading other countries to protect their people from dangerous fanatics, don’t we?’
She wasn’t sure what to say. It was, she thought, more like the kind of rhetoric her father used when talking about Britain’s foreign policy in the Middle East.
‘I don’t envy you,’ he added.
She turned to examine his profile. The sadness had vanished from his voice.
‘Our battles were fought thousands of miles away. Mostly against minor, poorly organized resistance. But you? It looks like you have a real problem. And it’s not in some other country. It’s right here.’ He nodded at the window.
Iona turned to the view outside. There was a figure at the end of the alleyway.
FORTY
‘Professor Khan?’ The young woman’s face held an earnest, slightly anxious, expression.
‘Yes,’ Wasim replied.
She smiled with relief. ‘Oh, good. Sorry to keep you – and sorry about meeting in such hectic surroundings.’
He looked at the throng of people queuing to get into the security check between the Midland Hotel and neighbouring office block. ‘It’s certainly far busier than I expected.’
Nodding in agreement, she looked about. ‘Word has spread like wildfire. Everyone wants to be in the main hall, now.’
Unsure what she meant, Wasim looked at the mass of delegates edging their way forward. Men in suits, women in jackets and skirts. Some had briefcases like his, others were clutching files or folders. They could have been rush-hour commuters at any train station – except that rather than being silent, most were engaged in lively conversations.
Beyond, he could see the people out on the main road shouting their various causes. He looked again at the mass of leaflets that had been pressed into his hand as he’d passed them. Kids Count charity. Oxfam. Campaign for a Referendum. Remploy. Sure Start.
On entering the security-check building, most people were shoving the pieces of paper into clear bin bags that had been hung at each side of the doors. Wasim lifted the flap of his briefcase and slid his safely inside.
‘I have your pass,’ the young lady announced. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to stand in at such short notice.’ She produced one of the plastic cards and red lanyards everyone else had round their necks. ‘Here you are.’
He examined it. Next to a panel containing his details was his passport photo and, below that, a barcode. ‘Thanks. Sorry, you didn’t mention your . . .’
‘Oh, gosh! Sorry! It’s Fiona Wallis. I work as a researcher for the Labour Party. If you follow me, we can hopefully get round some of the waiting.’ She led him up the gently sloping ramp into the building. ‘Excuse me, please!’ She beckoned him to the end of a row of monitors.
Sitting beside each one was a man in a uniform not unlike that of a customs officer.
‘I just need to cut in here.’ Fiona held up some kind of identity to the line of waiting people. Several lo
oked round eagerly to see who was being whisked to the front.
Wasim gave an apologetic smile as their excited looks changed to ones of disappointment.
Fiona held up her own delegate’s pass and the security officer swiped it with a hand-held reader. Wasim then offered his for inspection and the officer did the same, scrutinizing the monitor for a second before waving his hand. ‘In you go, sir.’
A pair of archway metal detectors was next, each with a large X-ray machine beside it. More security officers were on the other side.
‘Just like an airport,’ Wasim commented, glad that he wasn’t wearing a belt with his dun-green corduroys. After putting his briefcase in a grey tray, he removed his tweed jacket, folding it on top. Then, checking his phone was turned off, he placed it on his jacket along with his keys and loose change. ‘No need to take off my shoes?’
Fiona shook her head, stepping through the archway with her low heels still on. Wasim followed her and they turned round to wait for his personal possessions to appear on the scanner’s conveyor belt.
‘It’s a pain, I know,’ Fiona stated.
‘A sign of the times, sadly,’ Wasim responded.
‘True. But, considering this morning’s announcement, you can see why.’
He looked at her. ‘Which announcement was that?’
She seemed taken aback. ‘You weren’t aware? I’m afraid our event is definitely being overshadowed now. I think even Daniel’s closing speech tomorrow might be.’
He lifted his eyebrows.
‘Bill Clinton is due to appear on the main stage.’
Wasim felt his mouth open and close. ‘Pardon?’
‘They kept it quiet until now. I had no idea, either.’
‘You said Bill Clinton? As in the ex-President of the United States?’
‘Yes!’ She was beaming from ear to ear. ‘In the flesh.’
‘That’s . . . that’s some coup, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘When’s—’ He felt a tap on his arm and looked round.
‘Your items, sir?’ A security officer was pointing at the tray blocking the end of the conveyor belt.
‘Sorry, yes.’ He retrieved them, slipping his lifeless phone back in his jacket before turning to face Fiona once more. ‘What time is he appearing?’
‘Eleven o’clock this morning.’
‘With . . . alongside Blair?’
‘And Gordon. They are being joined on stage by Daniel Tevland.’
Two ex-Prime Ministers, an ex-President of America and Labour’s new leader, Wasim thought. Quite a line-up.
‘For Daniel’s leadership, it’s the ultimate . . .’ She wiggled her fingers. ‘There was a word in the press release . . .’
‘Impramatur?’ Wasim guessed.
‘Yes,’ she answered, looking impressed. ‘Impramatur.’
Figures, Wasim thought. Labour’s old rifts healed, everyone happily lining up behind a young, dynamic new leader. And all with the blessing of one of politics’ ultimate showmen.
‘Mr Clinton carries with him the Democrat Party’s – unofficial – endorsement of Daniel,’ Fiona said, continuing to the exit. ‘They’re already talking about him being Britain’s Prime Minister in-waiting.’
As they descended the ramp, Wasim could feel it bounce slightly with each step. No wonder everyone seems to be walking on air, he thought, surveying the plaza area before him. Pristine white marquees had been erected at its edges, trembling bunches of red balloons by the entrances. The ornamental lamp posts dotting the plaza had vertical banners hanging from their upper parts, each one bearing the Labour Party’s emblem. Troughs of red flowers lined the walkways.
Those not making their way up the steps and through the main doors were hurriedly finishing cigarettes or paper cups of coffee. As was his custom, Wasim looked beyond what was directly in front of him. There, in the background, police officers were dotted discreetly along the perimeter fence. He looked up to take in the structure of the Beetham Tower looming behind the curved roof of the conference centre. Just visible at the railings at the top, hardly more than dots against the dull sky, were several heads and shoulders. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was in the sights of a high-powered rifle.
I’m in the inner sanctum, he thought. The atmosphere almost crackled with anticipation.
‘Now, sorry to be ushering you away from the main event,’ Fiona said, setting off at an angle towards a flight of steps leading to the conference centre’s annex. ‘Obviously the news of Mr Clinton’s appearance changes things a bit. The shadow foreign secretary can no longer attend the discussion – but a senior advisor from his team will be in his place. We still have speakers from several think-tanks and representatives from a few NGOs. The Bishop of London has also confirmed he will still be attending.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ Wasim answered. ‘I’m just grateful the issues are being aired.’
She gave him a quick smile. ‘Absolutely.’
Wasim got the impression she’d be racing back to the main hall at the earliest opportunity.
FORTY-ONE
A dying mass of leaves dominated Iona’s vision. Then a brief curve of red, followed by an expanse of white. A black line ran across a silhouette of a bike. The no-cycling sign, she realized, edging the binoculars slightly to the left. Suddenly she was staring into Ranjit Bhujun’s face from what seemed like inches away. She let out a tiny gasp. Before stepping fully out of the alley, he looked up and down the street.
‘It’s him, is it not?’ Cooper said quietly.
Iona lowered the binoculars and felt relief when the sense of proximity to her target vanished. He almost seemed to be sniffing the air, like an animal that sensed danger. Suddenly she was glad Cooper had kept the lights in his flat off. They would be all but invisible from outside.
The straps of the bag hanging from Ranjit’s hand were tight and the bag itself bulged. ‘Yeah, it’s him,’ Iona whispered. Her heart was pounding once more. This was the confirmation she needed. More than that, it meant her fears that some kind of plot was underway were justified.
He stepped out on to the pavement and started walking along the street.
‘Now you’ll call for that support?’ Cooper asked.
‘No time,’ Iona replied, handing the binoculars to him. ‘I’ll see where he goes then call.’
Cooper looked at her doubtfully as she ran to the front door. ‘Just be careful, for God’s sake!’
She rushed down the stairs and out the doors, jogging round the side of the building before pausing to compose herself. Calmly, she walked out of the car park.
He was on the far side of the road, less than thirty metres ahead and moving with an air of purpose. Her hands felt empty and she wished she’d brought something from Cooper’s flat to carry.
His angle changed, pace slowing as he veered to the kerb, checking for any traffic before starting to cross over. She fixed her eyes on the pavement at a point around five metres in front, just enough to keep him in the upper edge of her vision. She thought he might be looking her over as he reached the same side of the road as her.
Every movement felt forced and rigid, her entire body like that of a self-conscious teenager. A strand of hair had fallen forward across her face. Do I brush it back? Would a normal person look up as they brushed it back? If I don’t brush it back, will that seem suspicious? Is he even looking at me?
He was moving forward again, now less than twenty metres ahead. Too close, she thought. To slow her step, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and brought out a handful of change, giving it a cursory glance over. He was turning right, into a narrower street of terraced houses. Parked cars lined its hundred or so metre length.
I have to follow him, she realized. There’s no other choice.
The other end of the street ended at a T-junction and, on its far side, she could make out a shop. A salon of some sort, a poster of a tanned woman in the window. That’s where I’m going, she said
to herself. I’m just out getting my nails done.
She turned into the side street, eyes flicking to the sign on the low wall. Barrett Avenue. He continued for another forty metres then pushed open a gate and stepped on to the front path. Her excitement turned to horror as he stopped, turned round and stared at her.
She felt like her knees were turning to sludge. The skin of her scalp shrivelled beneath his gaze. He wasn’t moving. She got to within a few metres and knew she’d have to look up at him. When she did, his eyes – dark and hostile – stayed on her. She skirted to the far side of the pavement. Head perfectly still, his eyes kept tracking her. She swept him up and down with a contemptuous look. As if the glance said, I’m way out of your league, you loser.
He blinked and she was past him. The gate clanged shut and she heard his footsteps on the path. Her breath seeped out from her nostrils and she tried not to quicken her pace. The house two doors along had the number thirty-three on it. Behind her, she could hear keys in a lock then a front door as it opened and closed. The next house she went past was numbered thirty-one. She got round the corner and immediately reached for her mobile.
‘Detective Constable Khan, what is it?’
Wallace was sounding more than harassed. There were multiple voices in the background. ‘Sir, I’m in Bury,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I have a positive identification of Vassen Bhujun’s companion. It’s Ranjit, sir. Prime suspect in the murder of Reginald Appleton. He’s here.’
She waited for some kind of exclamation from her senior officer. Nothing.
‘Sir?’
‘They’re where? Approaching from the direction of Piccadilly Gardens?’
Iona started to say something then stopped, realizing he wasn’t even talking to her.
‘Keep them on CCTV, OK? We need to get officers to intercept them. Khan? I’m putting you on hold.’
The line went dead.
What’s he doing? She looked around, uncomfortably aware of how exposed she was. I don’t believe this. Holding her phone to her ear, she crossed the road and stepped into the dimly lit salon. A Chinese-looking woman wearing a face mask was working on the nails of an overweight Indian female. Under the harsh glare of a table spotlight, the pale hands of the salon worker looked like two crabs, scavenging for food between the other woman’s pudgy fingers.
