3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  The convoy headed south through scenes of carnage. A suicide bomber had hit the police headquarters: there were roadblocks at the end of every street.

  Passing slowly through lines of blast-proof concrete and hedgerows of razor wire, overlooked by snipers and lookout towers, the convoy rolled into the busy barracks.

  As the Snatch drew to a halt in the parade ground, beneath the flagpole and its Stars and Stripes snapping against the clear blue sky, a pair of familiar faces strode out of the whitewashed admin office to greet the two Englishmen and their exhausted American source handler.

  The men’s welcome of Vincent Zappa was perfunctory. Zappa wrote them off as a couple of jerks and made his way to the canteen for a much needed beer.

  ‘Bagot and Colquitt, I presume.’

  ‘Dr Ashe. Back from his adventure.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  62

  Bagot took the lead. ‘Tony and I are most anxious you cease wasting department funds and join us in our vehicle for the short trip to Mosul aerodrome. Tony, get Dr Ashe’s bags please.’

  Richmond joined the men. ‘Friends of yours, Toby?’

  ‘They’re from an escort agency called SIS.’

  ‘Afternoon, chaps.’

  ‘Major Richmond, isn’t it?’

  Richmond gripped Colquitt’s hand like a vice; Colquitt winced. ‘Now listen, you’re to give Dr Ashe the very best treatment. He is a British hero. Get that? H. E. R. O.’

  ‘I can spell.’

  Richmond turned to Ashe. He blinked with a moist twinkle of fellow feeling. ‘Cheer up, old friend. Things have a habit of—’

  ‘Going pear-shaped?’

  ‘Keep the faith.’

  Colquitt butted in. ‘Come on, Ashe. No time for niceties.’

  ‘What about Vinny?’

  ‘Never mind him. Zappa’s in enough trouble as it is.’

  Ashe was manoeuvred into the back of a Humvee troop carrier. It pulled out of the barracks and headed for the old aerodrome in the south of the city. Ashe stared at the metal floor, then looked up and faced Colquitt and Bagot. ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘Seems your interference with Turkish national security operations is not only an embarrassment to Her Majesty’s Government, but was occasioned by no operational necessity we can possibly fathom.’

  Colquitt chipped in. ‘Heads will have to roll.’

  The group got down from the Humvee and made their way to the control tower. There was a brief delay: an SAS detachment from Anbar Province was expected to arrive any minute for well-earned leave.

  Colquitt and Bagot strode off to make calls and complete paperwork. Ashe squatted down and slumped back against a Coca Cola machine. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I hear you’re leaving us, Tobbi. So I come here with Major Richmond and bring Rozeh to you.’

  Behind Richmond stood Laila in smart jeans and a clean tee-shirt, her magnificent hair gathered up with a silver comb. Her eyes gazed at him through large, expensive glasses.

  ‘One short flight to a British forces airport and Rozeh can claim asylum. Then you write to the ambassador and organise everything. This is her chance, Tobbi.’

  Laila turned to the shy girl standing behind her. ‘Here, Rozeh, this is Tobbi Ashe. He is a very good man from England. He makes sure you get your education.’

  Rozeh nervously approached Ashe, who stood up. She extended her hand. He shook it. She slowly raised her sad eyes from the ground and met his own.

  Ashe turned to his friend. ‘What do you think?’

  Richmond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not up to me. But since you want my opinion…’

  Ashe read his face. It was a no-no. Anyhow, Ashe not only knew it was hopeless trying to appeal to the system, he also doubted the wisdom of the exercise in the first place. He hadn’t promised Laila anything. She had presumed too much in all the excitement and heightened atmosphere of Lalish. ‘It would’ve been better if the major here had stowed Rozeh aboard the plane.’

  Colquitt came into the waiting area. ‘What’s all this then? Farewell party? Hard to believe you’ve made so many friends, Ashe.’

  Ashe decided to push Bagot and Colquitt as far as he could, regardless.

  ‘I want to take this girl back with me.’

  ‘Really?’

  Colquitt dashed off to find Bagot.

  Richmond looked apologetically at Laila. ‘I feared this might happen, Your Highness. These two goons, Colquitt and Bagot, are actually here to escort Ashe out of the country.’

  ‘Tobbi’s a prisoner?’

  ‘Not exactly a free agent.’

  ‘Is this true, Tobbi?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘I speak to them.’

  Bagot came huffing and puffing through the door.

  ‘So, now you wish to compound your folly with a spot of illegal immigration.’

  ‘It’s important, Giles. This young girl, Rozeh. Her parents have been…’ He looked at Rozeh. ‘How’s her English, Laila?’

  ‘Very good.’

  Ashe whispered into Bagot’s ear. ‘Murdered by terrorists in Mosul.’

  ‘Dear oh dear. That’s very sad. Do you have any more victims of the insurgency waiting to take the plane? We could fill it several times over with deserving cases. You really have left this a little on the late side.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Laila took Bagot’s arm.

  Bagot looked to Richmond. ‘Who is this woman?’

  Richmond cleared his throat. ‘You’re addressing Princess Laila of the Yezidi people.’

  ‘This is outside of your professional remit, isn’t it? Our orders are quite definite. Nothing here about illegal immigrants.’ Bagot pointed to his departure authorisation papers.

  ‘I’ll take responsibility.’

  Bagot laughed. ‘You, Dr Ashe! You. I’m not sure responsibility and you travel in the same plane.’

  ‘Now look here!’ Richmond was getting annoyed. ‘We’re not asking you to do anything. Just turn a blind eye. This won’t be the first time we’ve managed to save some very deserving cases! For goodness’ sake, Bagot. Come off your high horse and do something worthwhile with your bloody life!’

  ‘Listen, Major. You may think I’m deficient in humanity. But this sort of thing’s got to stop. Last month we had some reporter from ITN bringing another deserving case with him back to Britain. And did he keep quiet about it? The thing got on the news. The prime minister’s under a great deal of flak from the media about asylum seekers. He’s promised a clampdown and a review. He’s got to be very careful.’

  ‘Look, Bagot, for Christ’s sake, let Tony Blair look after his own interests – I’m sure he doesn’t need your help.’

  ‘You forget, Toby, that Tony and I serve the government of the day.’

  Laila took his arms again, imploring him with tears. ‘Please, sir. Let Tobbi take Rozeh on the plane. I’ve told her she’s going to a great country where they care about real people. That is why you are in Iraq, is it not?’

  Bagot looked to Colquitt. ‘Is that why we’re here, Tony?’

  ‘Difficult to say, sir. Official policy was to rid the country of a dictator.’

  ‘We deliver policy, Princess Laila, not invent it. I’m sorry. You’ll have to try somewhere else. If Dr Ashe insists on letting this girl on the plane, we shall have to arrest him. Tony, get the bags. I think I see our jeep.’

  Ashe exploded. ‘You fucking bastard, Bagot! You little shit! Deliver policy, my arse! You just love the fucking power of it all!’

  ‘And I love you too, Toby. You can calm down on the plane. Tony, the bags!’

  Ashe looked helplessly at the princess and Rozeh and shook his head.

  ‘Look, when I get back, I’ll contact the ambassador. That is a promise. You can take it up with him while I try to bend his ear.’

  ‘I’ll second that, Your Highness. Don’t give up hope.’

  ‘I never give up hope, Major.’ She looked at Ashe. ‘T
here is something else you can do. I know you have the resources.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Please, Tobbi, please find my brother Sinàn.’

  ‘Your brother? Look, Laila, I’m not Father Christmas!’

  ‘I know your heart, Tobbi.’

  ‘My heart?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘All right. Where do you think he might be?’

  ‘He is in Europe. With the Baba Sheykh.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Baba Sheykh. We need them, Tobbi.’

  ‘Ashe!’ Colquitt bellowed from the door. ‘Get a bloody move on!’

  63

  The flight from Las Vegas to New York had been hell.

  It had been obvious to al-Qasr which of the other seven passengers was riding shotgun. Homeland Security insisted an armed man be present on all internal flights. This one had clearly been on one flight too many, like the Marlboro Man gone to seed. He kept fidgeting in his seat, tucking his nylon shirt beneath his fat stomach, getting up abruptly and walking around like a man caught short in a men’s-room-free zone. What was more, he’d opted to sit across the aisle from al-Qasr. You’d have thought the guy had never seen an Hasidic Jew before.

  Used to spying on others, al-Qasr felt acute distaste at being the object of another’s interest. Whenever he’d looked across the aisle, the supposedly invisible guard had simply winked reassuringly, as if to say, ‘That’s all right son, Jews are safe on this flight.’

  Al-Qasr’s head was dizzy with nerves. He had no reserves of religious faith to draw on and nothing to calm him. Alcohol was restricted on Las Vegas–New York flights, it being reasoned that visitors departing Vegas had already had enough of everything. Why else would they go there?

  At one point, the guard had leant over, slipped and grabbed al-Qasr’s theatrical beard. The guard, sweating, had been profusely apologetic, then uttered the immortal question, ‘Don’t you guys like to get up and pray on these flights? You carry those… what are they called? Prophylactics?’

  ‘Phylacteries?’

  ‘Yeah. You like kiss them in the middle of the aisle. Seen it hundreds of times. You feel the need, sir, you just get right on up there and pray. Ain’t no one’s gonna stop you here, sir.’

  ‘I prayed at the airport.’

  ‘Sure is a good place to pray, sir. That’s right. You’ll be prayin’ again at Kennedy?’

  ‘God willing.’

  The guard squinted. Something didn’t sound quite right about that.

  Now al-Qasr was standing in the departure lounge of New York Kennedy Airport, he would like to have prayed. But prayer had never made any sense to him. He could see it helped people, soothed them. But belief was the precipitate that made the chemistry work, and he had none.

  If he believed in something, he’d be feeling guilty. Guilty for Fiona Normanton, guilty for that old bastard Lowenfeld – and for whoever else had turned up. He was proud of the booby-trapped body. It was mean, sure, but it showed creative flourish. It would give him credibility with his contacts. Soon he would be far from Judaeo-Christian sentimentality and back in a man’s world. A few dead infidels would give him street cred.

  But if he got caught – and, no question, he was aware of the risks – he knew it would be a lifetime in prison, hated by every inmate. He wouldn’t last five minutes. There would be no flush of martyrdom for him.

  He consoled himself with the thought that his sacrifice would be the greater one: greater than the average dumb martyr, tricked by false promises, manipulated by those who kept out of the firing line as long as possible.

  Al-Qasr knew there would be no paradisal feast or maidens waiting for him. His only hope was that, some day, his people would understand what he’d done – maybe even why he’d done it. If they would not honour him, maybe they would remember his father. How could they have forgotten so quickly?

  Standing in the packed lounge, surrounded by bright, stark lights and the strange, constant murmur he associated with being deep underwater, al-Qasr had never felt so alone.

  And yet there was also excitement: a gathering rush of realisation that soon, very soon, his life’s work would bear fruit. He took the thick-lensed glasses off, and squinted to focus on the departure board: Berlin Tegel, Lufthansa Flight 471 – twenty-two minutes to boarding.

  He rubbed his moist fingers and looked up to the stainless-steel balcony above. Who was that man with binoculars? He was nudging his colleague. He was pointing down at al-Qasr. Something about the colleague looked familiar. Al-Qasr couldn’t tell; he looked away. Al-Qasr prayed for a prayer: Hebrew, Arabic, Coptic, English – any damn thing. But nothing came – and they were still looking.

  64

  ‘Call through from Federal Agent Rice at New York Kennedy, sir.’

  Beck took a deep swig of black coffee and picked up the phone in his darkened office at CIA Headquarters. ‘Beck.’

  ‘Sir, got a guy here dressed as a Jewish scholar.’

  ‘Wha’d’ya mean, “got a guy”? You arrested him?’

  ‘Sir, we read the notice you posted: “Suspicious looking Hasidic or Ashkenazi Jew”. Raised quite a few eyebrows. It said “apprehend only on higher authority”. That’s why I’m calling, sir. The plane is sitting on the tarmac waiting for final clearance.’

  ‘Destination?’

  ‘Berlin. We’ve been trying to contact you for twenty-five minutes, sir.’

  Beck bit his lip. Depressed at Leanne Gresham’s murder, he’d had the phone off the hook, and had his cellphone off for an hour.

  ‘What grounds have you got, Rice? Make it quick.’

  ‘Guard on internal flight from Vegas reckoned suspect’s conversation indicated Islam, not Jewish faith, sir.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  Rice paused, then coughed; it was a long shot. ‘He said: “God willing”.’

  ‘In Arabic?’

  ‘English, sir.’

  As long shots went, this was stretching things. ‘Checked the manifest?’

  ‘Difficult, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Happens there’s a group of Talmudic scholars attending an academic conference in Berlin. Several members have similar names. Could be any one of them. Should we detain them all? Sir, we got less than a minute to put an agent on the plane.’

  ‘Where’d the scholars come from?’

  ‘Just a second, sir… Yuba City. California.’

  ‘Yuba City? That’s damn near Paradise!’

  ‘That’s not what I heard, sir.’

  ‘One clever bastard… OK. Get a man on the plane. Do not apprehend. Repeat—’

  ‘No need to repeat, sir.’

  ‘We gotta know who he’s meeting in Germany. Put a good man on the case.’

  ‘All our men are good, sir.’

  ‘Sure. Call me when the plane leaves – and don’t let it go without our man!’

  Al-Qasr shifted uncomfortably in his double-booked seat. He’d observed the commotion at the far end of the jumbo when the plane had reached the take-off runway. A late passenger? Unlikely to stop a plane at this point on an international flight, even for half a minute. Something was up.

  Behind him, fifteen Talmudic scholars jabbered and joked with excitement and foreboding at the prospect of returning to the German part of Europe. Several had smiled warmly at al-Qasr, taking him for an associate. Al-Qasr had smiled in return.

  This part of al-Qasr’s plan was going perfectly. Having overheard the scholars’ plans during a trip to Yuba City’s public library, he had arranged to surreptitiously blend in with the group at Kennedy Airport. Hafiz had done a great job with the passport – like he always did. Practical problem? Contact Hafiz Razak. Man was a genius.

  Al-Qasr peered over the edge of his Washington Post at the latecomer: a handsome young man in a dark business suit. Did he look just a little too fit for a man of the boardroom? Al-Qasr watched the man’s eyes as he was directed to a seat at the front of the plane. The man carefully clock
ed the lines of passengers. Was he looking for his correct seat? The stewardess was offering him advice.

  The red light went on, passengers fastened their seatbelts and said their prayers – some audibly. Al-Qasr had lost his interest in prayer. He glimpsed the newcomer at the front, casting his eyes around before he sat down. That man had a task – he was too calm by far for a man who, being late, would almost certainly have run through the terminal, held his breath through customs and should by now have been sweating with anxiety or at least sighing with relief.

  The plane taxied into position. Then the engines’ roar, the G-force and the shooting sensation of gravity-defying lift. The landing gear cranked into place, al-Qasr closed his eyes and thanked God he was leaving America, alive. If he wasn’t arrested now, he figured he’d be safe until Germany.

  Half an hour in and the plane was high above the eastern seaboard, heading towards Newfoundland. The passengers were settling down into movie watching, people watching, sleep, magazine reading, and music listening. The latecomer got up. He went to talk to the stewardess, then returned to his seat. What was that all about? Passenger manifest?

  Al-Qasr looked around for the nearest bathroom. Occupied. He glanced down at the in-flight magazine. Small wisps of beard flecked the paper. Gingerly, he fingered his face. It was soaking with sweat.

  The minutely applied beard, designed to look scruffy, was – like his plan – coming unstuck. The latecomer stood up again; he seemed to be counting.

  Al-Qasr looked to the bathroom at the rear. Still occupied.

  65

  Unwilling to get up and walk about, al-Qasr pondered the agent’s dilemma – if, that is, he was an agent. Best take it that he was. And the question for the agent was simple: which one of the Hasidic scholars was the odd man out?