by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
Was the plan to arrest him on the plane, or wait till he got off? Had they not considered the possibility that he might have a bomb on the plane? If they approached him, he might set it off. What were they thinking?
The jumbo had become a prison. After an hour gazing out of the window at the clouds below, al-Qasr slipped to the bathroom to tidy up his beard. He had a terrifying thought: what if one of the Jews behind him tried to strike up conversation in Yiddish or Hebrew? Then he’d be sunk. He hurried back to his seat, gobbled down his in-flight meal, then pretended to go to sleep. Before long, al-Qasr was unconscious.
While al-Qasr slept, Agent Rice tried to figure out a way of finding which one of the Jews was the suspect. The flight manifest gave no obvious clues.
He couldn’t simply go up to them and ask them who was a stranger. His orders had been straightforward: the suspect should be identified on board, if possible, but the suspect should not know he’d been targeted. Rice’s best idea so far had been to brief the stewardess and ask her to tell him if anyone stood out. Long experience on transatlantic flights should have given her an intuitive edge – if she had any intuition to begin with. It was not as common a gift as many people assumed.
Before she did her inspection, Rice had asked her to first transmit the names of the group back to a number at Langley. By the time she was able to check on the men, half of them were asleep, hats over their eyes; she promised she’d return after a few hours. Meanwhile, Rice observed the group as best he could.
After two hours, the CIA had traced every name on the conference list and attempted to telephone friends, family and colleagues to check they were all expected to participate. The stewardess handed a note to Rice. ‘Everyone kosher’ read the message. Very funny, thought Rice. He was beginning to worry about his promotion prospects. She then whispered in his ear. ‘That is, as far as they could tell. They couldn’t get substantial traces on everyone.’
‘Please underline the names with no absolute confirmation.’
The stewardess took the manifest and went back to the cockpit.
The jumbo was flying over the British Isles when al-Qasr awoke. He checked about him. The plane was relatively quiet. The seat next to him was still empty. Behind him, several members of the Talmudic party were still sleeping. The rest were reading copies of the Torah and various paperback versions of midrashim Bible commentaries. Al-Qasr wished he’d had the presence of mind to bring some Hebrew literature. It was an oversight: a bad one. He inadvertently caught the eye of the tired stewardess. He’d not meant to. The girl came towards him. At that moment, the agent turned round to see where she was going.
‘Is everything all right, Mr…?’
‘Huh?’
‘Is everything all right? You’re Mr…?’
‘Weintraub. Mr Weintraub. Everything’s fine, Miss. Really.’
‘Sorry, sir, I thought you were trying to attract my attention.’
‘No, no. I’ve just been asleep.’
‘What are you doing in Berlin, Mr Weintraub?’
‘Conference. On the Talmud. Scholarship.’
‘That’s fascinating. I always wanted to be a scholar.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yeah. But I wanted to get out of my folks’ place and travel. Didn’t like the homework, I guess.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, you have yourself a nice time.’
The stewardess looked over at the man sitting behind al-Qasr. ‘Look after your friend here, sir. He’s obviously very intelligent.’
‘Oh, he’s not my friend.’
‘Really? Oh, excuse me, sir. I thought—’
Al-Qasr butted in. ‘He means we don’t know each other very well. But we have much in common, don’t we?’
The man behind nodded in a serious fashion, and pointed to his Holy Book.
‘Well, maybe you guys can become friends at the conference.’
Al-Qasr’s eyes closed. That was all he needed: an invitation to talk.
The stewardess went back to the front of the plane. Several men behind al-Qasr started to look at him, curious to know who the extra man among them was.
Al-Qasr smiled weakly, excused himself and made his way quickly to the bathroom and locked the door. He reckoned there were maybe ninety minutes left before they landed.
The stewardess went straight back to Agent Rice. She squatted down out of sight in front of him. ‘I don’t know for definite, but there’s something curious about the Hasidic gentleman who’s currently in the bathroom on the right at the back of the compartment.’
‘OK, good work. Did you catch his name?’
‘Mr Weintraub.’
‘Weintraub, you say? You’ve underlined his name – one of four unconfirmed. Can you get that name back to the number I gave you? Ask them to check again.’
‘OK.’
Rice’s promotion prospects went up again. His plan was working.
Al-Qasr felt the noose tightening. They were on to him. The guy at the front – he knew. And who else? If they didn’t take him on the plane, it was because they did not want to. But would they take him in Berlin? Al-Qasr half-convinced himself they would. Once they could get him away from the other passengers. There’d be a welcoming committee at Berlin all right.
Damn! If only he could get onto his laptop and tune in to Agency e-traffic. But computer use had been expressly prohibited on this flight. He was still free, at least – whatever that meant. Or rather, he was alive. That’s what mattered. That was as much freedom as most people ever got – himself included. If he could shake them at Tegel… It was a big if. So what! Genetics had taught him that ‘if’ meant everything. ‘If’ was change, and change… was hope.
Al-Qasr cursed his luck. Had everything gone to plan, he’d have been a different man by now – not a Jew skulking in a shit-house. Maybe there was still time. It all depended on one fact of nature – as true for Jews as it was for Christians, Muslims, pagans, Buddhists, Hindus, Zoroastrians, or atheists like him.
‘Ten minutes to landing. Return to your seats.’
Al-Qasr pulled his trousers up and vacated the WC. The stewardess tried to look disinterested.
As he fell heavily into his seat, Al-Qasr felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You OK? You been away a long time. Luckily there’s more than one men’s room on this plane or we’d all be in the shit!’
Al-Qasr turned to the scholar and made the gesture of putting his fingers down his throat. The man behind thrust a sick-bag between the headrests.
Al-Qasr certainly looked pale enough to be airsick. What wouldn’t he do for a comforting female arm around him? The sick-bag was a godsend. He buried his face in it.
The man behind patted him on the back. ‘You hang with us when we get to the airport.’
Making a passable imitation of retching, al-Qasr nodded and put his thumb up. Maybe his luck had changed.
After what seemed an eternity with his mouth stuck in the bag, al-Qasr jerked forwards, crushing his hat into the folded table in front of him as the tyres gripped European tarmac. He sat up, leant backwards, and closed his eyes, dreaming of the days when he could have smoked his worries away.
Soon the passengers up front began filing off the plane, while the others congregated in the aisles as anxious travellers stalled over assembling their bags and cases.
Al-Qasr waited for the group behind him to move in front. Then he eased his way to his feet, reached for his blue canvas holdall in the overhead compartment and nudged his way up to the rear of the party. His new friend asked him if he felt any better; al-Qasr shook his head.
Step by leaden step, the passengers shuffled their way forwards. Al-Qasr felt the weight of the stewardess’s eyes upon him. Where the hell was the agent? Maybe he hadn’t been an agent after all! Maybe it was just paranoia and lack of sleep. Of course not. The agent was waiting for him, off the plane – waiting with his colleagues. It would be quick. Was it a trap? Maybe he could cut and run now.
No. Run
ning would be pointless. He must hold his nerve. What would his father have done? Pointless to think about it. His father would never have been so stupid as to land himself in this mess. That’s it: deal with it. Just fucking deal with it.
Have faith. Faith? Faith in what? Faith in the plan! Faith in science. Faith in Sami al-Qasr. Destiny. No point having faith in destiny. Destiny was destiny. You couldn’t change it. Al-Qasr shrugged his shoulders. Accept. Submit.
Then he heard the stewardess. She called someone. ‘Sir! Mr Rice!’
So that was the bastard’s name. Rice.
Rice sprang out of the seat he’d been curled in; al-Qasr looked away.
‘Message for you, sir. Urgent.’
Rice made his way to the cockpit.
Shit! This was it.
66
Al-Qasr stepped out of the jumbo onto the comforting rubber floor of the internal ramp. The air felt cool and fresh. No welcoming party. No guns. No shit. So what was Rice doing? Arranging something for immigration?
Rice emerged from the cockpit. He whispered to the stewardess, ‘That’s our man all right.’
Rice had just heard there were two Sol Weintraubs and one of them was dead: cold as stone in a San Francisco apartment. Rice ran off the plane, heading for baggage collection and the final immigration checkpoint. He wasn’t alone. Beck had organised agents and soldiers at passport control and customs. All exits were being watched, and marksmen were in position around the airport. It was just a question of putting a tracer into his luggage and inside the binding of his passport.
Al-Qasr kept tight with the delegation, dazzled by the glare from the bright yellow-and-white signs that streamed around the terminal. The group passed the first men’s room. Nobody stopped to go in. Al-Qasr’s teeth began to grind. What’s wrong with these fuckers? Don’t they use the john?
Rice ran to the end of the long arrivals corridor. He could see the unmistakable posse of black-coated men. Where was the suspect? Was that him at the back? It was him all right. Rice hung back.
Al-Qasr saw the sign to the first security passport check. Security demanded an extra check before baggage collection. Staggering the influx gave the authorities more time; too much rush compromised judgement. The group passed a second men’s room. Shit! He was going to have to show his passport.
‘Hey! We’re a group! I can collect all the passports.’
‘Wait!’ The green-uniformed official was not going to be rushed by the enthusiastic leader of the group. ‘Wait in single file behind the yellow line, sir. You will be called forward one by one.’
Al-Qasr’s blood turned to acid. His body was burning; his head was exploding in hideous slow motion.
‘After you are called forward, present your passports. Don’t speak unless I ask a question. When forward, stand behind the white line. Don’t move until instructed.’
Al-Qasr waited. One scholar after another went forwards. Having to line up before German officials was fostering a dark – even angry – vibe. The hard-nosed official tried to look unconcerned, but he could sense the tension. Say something dumb like ‘I’m only following orders’, and there would be a bloody riot. He took his time. This allowed time for Rice’s colleagues, watching from behind one-way glass, to pick out and photograph the suspect.
The official studied the contours of the faces, asked several to remove their glasses. Al-Qasr could now feel the presence of Rice behind him. Right behind him. Sami felt Rice’s breath on his neck. Rice, suspecting he was too close, edged back.
‘You! Next! Passport please. Name?’
‘Weintraub.’
The controller looked hard at him.
‘Enjoy your stay in Berlin, Herr Weintraub.’
Al-Qasr found himself walking forwards. The rest of the Jewish group had hurried down an escalator to the baggage reclaim area. He followed them. Behind him: Rice. All six-feet-four of him. The college hunk.
Lady Luck smiled again. The baggage transfer was subject to the usual delay. This gave an opportunity for the men from Yuba City to finally take a leak in the men’s room.
Rice watched carefully as the bustling, talkative group hunched into the WC. He followed them. He in turn was followed by another crowd from another plane. The men’s room was packed.
A chance. Al-Qasr made straight for a toilet cubicle, opened his bag, pulled off his overcoat, crushed his hat, ripped off his tie, unclipped the wig, stuffed the specs into the bag, and reached for the theatrical hair-removing lotion. While he slapped it on, he kicked off his shoes with his heels. These too were stuffed in his bag, next to his laptop. The lotion was stinging his face. He could hear the voices of the Jewish group congregating outside, waiting for their friends. Someone shouted round the men’s room door. ‘Baggage is coming through!’
Al-Qasr dipped his hands in the toilet bowl and applied the water to his face. He wiped it off quickly with toilet paper and ran a comb through his hair. He then pulled out a light cotton zip-up jacket, with a fresh passport in its inner pocket, slipped on a pair of sneakers, grabbed the bag, flushed the toilet and walked out of the men’s room, leaving Rice still standing at the urinal.
Al-Qasr congratulated himself as he approached the customs passage. Double-booking as a Turkish businessman visiting family in Berlin was a master-stroke, thanks to Hafiz Razak’s forgery and delivery skills. Al-Qasr’s new name would almost certainly be on the passenger manifest sent through to Berlin, even though Rizgo Keser, a Kurd from Turkey’s Batman Province, had ‘missed’ the flight.
He walked briskly through customs. All the staff had been told to keep a close eye on the Hasidic Jews from the New York flight. Lucky again.
Rice, meanwhile, was still waiting for his suspect to come out of the toilet cubicles. He had not seen which one al-Qasr had gone into, and the men’s room had been packed ever since. His stomach started to churn. Maybe he’d missed him. Fuck it! The bastard had somehow hidden himself among the group. Rice dashed into the baggage hall. Most of the Jews had picked up their luggage and were approaching the customs area. He would have to delay them as a group.
Rice ran to the customs office and gestured they would have to detain the group as a whole, at least until he and his men had got a fix on al-Qasr.
Meanwhile, al-Qasr retrieved his passport from a pleasant immigration officer and headed for the airport exit. As Rizgo Keser, al-Qasr had achieved the impossible: he had flown invisibly across the Atlantic.
Al-Qasr hailed a taxi.
‘Hamburg.’
The elderly taxi driver turned round. ‘Sir, that’s a four-hour drive.’
‘And that’s 200 euros.’ Al-Qasr stuffed the cash into the driver’s hand. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’
The driver didn’t argue: it was his lucky day too.
Al-Qasr smiled to himself. It would be at least eight hours before the taxi returned to Berlin. The security men would have a long wait.
He’d done it.
67
Ashe rolled noisily into the tidy village of Cudbury after a speedy drive through Berkshire’s Lambourn Valley. Karla Lindars stood outside her home, The Old Forge, with a sponge in her hand.
‘Do turn that engine off, Toby! Goodness, what a sound! You’ll frighten the ducks!’
‘Karla!’
‘You may kiss me, darling, but I’m covered in muck.’
Karla’s legs were encased in blue jeans, her slim torso barely covered by a short black woollen top, with black bra straps wrapping her shoulder blades. Her perfume was exquisite and her blue eyes glittered like a sun-kissed fjord. Even in household fatigues, Karla Lindars looked stunning.
She eyed Ashe’s car. ‘Haven’t I seen this somewhere before?’
‘Archdeacon’s funeral. Saab 9-3.’
‘Convertible too. Hmm… Rosso Bologna.’
‘Painted specially.’
‘Nice. Engine?’
‘2.8. V6 Turbo.’
‘I prefer it to the Maserati. Come inside.’
Karla placed a pot of coffee on the conservatory table. Ashe pulled out a letter from his jacket and passed it to her. Her sharp eyes took it in with gathering enthusiasm.
‘Happy now, young man?’
‘Hard to take in, isn’t it? They’ve given me the whole department!’
‘I suppose you won’t talk to me now you’re my boss.’
‘You’re my right arm, Karla. Now I can rid myself of impedimenta.’
‘If you mean Messrs Colquitt and Bagot, Toby, I believe they’ve been transferred.’
‘My God, things move fast! I wonder… You don’t know a man called Crayke, do you?’
‘My dear, nobody knows Crayke.’
Within the hour, Ashe had his foot down and was heading for Cranfield University’s campus at Shrivenham, near Swindon, on the Wiltshire–Oxfordshire border.
Cranfield University introduced academic experts to officers of the armed forces. The Shrivenham campus served as the Royal Military College of Science, a leading world centre for research into disaster management, military vehicles, guns, ammunition systems, explosives, chemistry, communications, missile-control systems, solar energy and robotics.
Toby Ashe was given a small office in the elegant brick lecture-room wing of the establishment. He had already appointed Karla as his personal secretary, on the condition he could stay at her place when in the vicinity. Karla accepted, on condition he provide champagne and flowers on every occasion.
A lecture was in progress in Room 7. Lieutenant Commander Adrian Parsons was giving a talk on defending London from terror cells when Ashe gingerly eased the door open. Ashe caught Parsons’ eagle eye as he tiptoed along the back of the lecture hall to the exit. Parsons nodded slightly at the rather Bohemian-looking figure at the back, without interrupting the flow of his troubling presentation.
