One question stayed in Herrick’s mind on the ride back to the hotel, and when she was sitting on the balcony of her room with a packet of crisps from the minibar she said it out loud. Why would the CIA and SHISK go to such lengths to question Khan about a planned terrorist attack, then kill him without getting an answer? Even if Khan had talked in the few hours between her leaving the headquarters and seeing him taken off, that would be no reason to kill him. Surely it would be the moment for the Americans to produce him to the world’s media as evidence of another thwarted terrorist plot, a triumph of vigilance and interception to be shared with their Albanian friends. There was only one solution. Khan had not been killed.
She phoned Harland’s room and then his mobile. There was no answer on either. She waited for half an hour, drinking a little of the whisky opened by Gibbons the night before, not really enjoying it, and gazing across the garden. Then she went to the bathroom and washed the smell of burnt rubber from her hair under the shower. This took only a few minutes and when she came out she saw that a note had been slipped under the door. ‘Rooms and phones bugged. See you at Embassy soonest.’
She dried her hair, changed and was downstairs in less than five minutes. Bashkin was still out in the car park. ‘What is this, a twenty-four-hour watch?’ she asked him.
He looked at her a little ruefully. ‘Mease Errique leave soon? Tomorrow Bashkin drive you to airport.’
‘You know my plans before I do,’ she said, climbing into the Mercedes. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you thought of what we saw up in the hills?’
‘Bashkin see nothing. Bashkin asleeping.’
‘Right,’ she said, ‘Bashkin asleeping. But not tired enough to go home after he’s dropped me at the hotel. Who do you work for?’
‘For you Mease Errique.’
‘And for Mr Marenglen also, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘Drive me to the British Embassy, please.’
Harland was waiting for her just inside the Embassy gates with one of the Hereford-trained guards, who introduced himself as Steve Tyrrel.
‘Where the fuck did you get to?’ she said to Harland. ‘I thought you were following me. Where were you?’
‘We’ll talk inside.’ He gestured to a door where another armed man stood. ‘We’ve got Loz here, but I haven’t told him anything and I think we should keep it that way until we know what’s going on. There’s more to him than you could imagine.’
They found Sammi Loz seated nonchalantly in an outer office with a cup of tea and a copy of the day’s International Herald Tribune, looking for all the world as though he was about to go out in Manhattan on a warm summer’s evening. ‘Reunions later,’ said Harland roughly as Loz got up and made an elaborate fuss over Herrick.
As soon as the metal door of the communications room thudded behind them, Herrick gave Harland a brief account of what she had seen on the mountains. When she reached the end she said, ‘This wasn’t for real. I know that. Gibbons dropped the stuff about the Valleys of Fire like a pile of plates after he had spoken on the phone – obviously to Milo Franc. They wanted me to go up there and watch someone being thrown into the fire.’ She stopped and looked around. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any food, have you?’ Harland phoned Tyrrel and asked him to scratch something together.
‘Where’d you get to?’ she asked when he put the phone down.
Harland gave her an odd, crooked smile. Now that his back was on the mend the strain had left his face. ‘I went with Steve Tyrrel. I didn’t tell you because I think the Americans are listening to our mobiles. So I had to pretend that I was following you up there. Steve had a hunch they were taking Khan out of the country and he was exactly right. Khan was driven to the airport and put on a private jet. The plane is being tracked by GCHQ and our people on Cyprus. I have no word yet as to where it’s headed but the Chief will be on as soon as he knows.’
‘So that’s more or less that,’ said Herrick. ‘We’ve lost our man and I can go home.’
‘Better hear what the Chief says,’ he said with another smile.
Khan had known nothing after being rolled into the back of the car because a needle was plunged into his buttock. When he began to recover consciousness on the plane, all he was aware of was a raging thirst. He had been given no water during the previous day and whatever drug they’d used to knock him out had heightened the need for liquid. This blocked out his fear at finding himself on a plane, still hooded and bound, but now also with his mouth taped over and his ankles tied together. After a little while he started to explore his surroundings by moving his legs. He touched what he assumed was the seat in front of him and then angled them into the aisle and started to kick out, making as much noise as he could behind the tape. Someone stirred in front of him and he heard Lance Gibbons’ voice, then the big CIA man, Franc. He kicked some more and became aware of them consulting each other. ‘Look,’ said Gibbons. ‘Langley says he might have a capsule in his teeth.’
‘He would’ve used it by now,’ growled Franc.
Khan had no idea what they were talking about and heaved his torso forward so he was almost out of the seat and in the aisle.
‘Hey, hey, hold still there, buddy,’ shouted Gibbons.
The hood was removed and Gibbons’ face peered into his. Khan stared back, eyes popping and cheeks blown out.
Gibbons examined him in the dim light of the cabin, then pulled back the tape so it hung from the corner of his mouth. When he heard what Khan wanted he grunted and fetched a clear plastic beaker of water which he lifted to his lips. He replenished it twice from a bottle before Khan’s thirst was slaked and he was able to croak thank you.
‘Now I’m gonna put this tape back. There’s no use you getting excited. We got a lot of flying time ahead of us and unless you want us to give you another one of those shots you’ll take a nap.’
Khan saw that he was considering whether to replace the hood so shook his head vigorously. Gibbons hesitated, then folded the cloth and placed it on the headrest in front of him. Before returning to sprawl in his own seat he jabbed his finger in front of Khan’s face and said, ‘Now, sleep, buster.’
Khan wasn’t reassured by the water. These tiny acts of kindness meant nothing and indeed they often seemed to foreshadow some new, unpleasant turn in his story. In all the thousands of miles he had travelled he realised he had met almost no one he could trust, except perhaps in the case of Mr Skender – the consumptive interpreter who had accepted his money and the postcard with a look of solemn obligation. He was sure that Skender had posted the message and that it had arrived in New York. Moreover he understood that the pretty young English diplomat was letting him know she had met Sammi when she mentioned The Poet. It wasn’t just chance she used that name because he caught the look in her eye as she said it. And yet she couldn’t have any idea what it meant. Loz must have told her to drop it into the conversation, knowing he would recognise it while she would remain utterly ignorant of its meaning. That was smart of Loz.
But just as there seemed to be hope it was snatched from him. He was almost certainly on his way to Camp X-Ray, which he knew would be impregnable to all Loz’s money and cunning. He had heard enough about the place while travelling through Iran to know that no one left unless the Americans wanted it. What hope did a veteran of the jihad in Bosnia and Afghanistan have of persuading the interrogators that he was simply a soldier? He wriggled a little to ease the pain in his ribs where The Doctor had hit him. The discomfort reminded him that at least the Americans did not practise torture. They may have been prepared to leave the room while The Doctor suffocated him and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. But that wasn’t the same as doing it themselves. He could at least survive at Camp X-Ray and soon they would understand that he was cooperating with them and represented no threat whatsoever. Yes, he would make them understand that.
Although the drug made his mind sluggish and he was desperate for sleep, he kept on returning to the young woman. He had forgotten what a Western woman could be like and she brought back memories of his time in London. This woman was poised, intelligent and brave. It had taken courage to shout out in his defence when they tried to stop him talking.
He managed to doze for half an hour or so but then woke to a new kind of light in the cabin. He looked to his left and saw dawn rising through the window, an orange light below the wing tip, graded through azure to a deep mauve in the stratosphere. He watched it for a while before realising with a sudden, sharp dread that the sun rising on the port side of the aeroplane could only mean one thing – they weren’t headed west for the Caribbean and Camp X-Ray, but due south.
Harland and Herrick sent a long encrypted email to Vauxhall Cross about Khan being taken out of the country while the CIA and SHISK had set up a diversion in the mountains, then sat back to consume a meal of bananas, Marmite sandwiches, digestive biscuits and coffee, rustled up by Steve Tyrrel from the Embassy kitchen. Herrick found she couldn’t eat enough.
At 3.00 a.m. the Chief came on the phone. The British listening station in Cyprus had picked up the unscheduled flight an hour before and noted that, having executed a wide circle over the Mediterranean, the jet turned east into Greek air space and then followed the commercial air corridor down the coast of the Mediterranean, skirting Turkey’s southern flank, Lebanon and Palestine.
‘They’re going to Egypt,’ said Herrick, leaning into the conference phone.
‘It looks like that,’ said the Chief.
‘It fits with today’s line of questioning,’ she said. ‘The only thing they wanted to demonstrate in front of me was that Khan was Jasur Faisal – the man whose papers he was carrying. Faisal is wanted all over the Middle East, and in Egypt for the murder of a newspaper editor.’
‘Yes,’ said the Chief quietly. ‘It means of course that the Albanians wouldn’t want to be answerable for the degree of torture they’re planning. This has happened before, in 1998.’ There was a long pause during which Harland and Herrick wondered if the line had dropped. ‘It complicates things a great deal.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, what we shall want you to do for the moment is to have that serious talk with Loz, using the information I sent you earlier. See how he responds. I’ll get back to you. Oh, by the way, we’re going to change encryption on the next call.’ He told Harland to enter a six-digit code into the computer through which the phone was routed, then hung up.
As Harland worked at the keyboard, Herrick asked, ‘What did Loz say to you that made you and the Chief so interested?’
‘He told me that Khan knows the identities of two terrorist leaders who were already talking about al-Qaeda activity in the mid-nineties. He and Khan talked to at least one of them when they last saw each other in ninety-seven.’
‘But surely Loz is just trying to get us to spring his friend?’ she said. ‘He’s bound to exaggerate the importance of Khan’s information.’
‘It’s a tip that the Chief ’s not prepared to ignore. He has very good reasons to think Loz is telling the truth, but I don’t know what they are.’
‘But what’s the point?’ she asked. ‘If Khan is in Cairo, we can forget it. The only thing the Egyptians are concerned with is what target he’s planning to attack, who his contacts are, and where he was trained. They’ll be asking the questions the Americans want answers to, but with a cattle prod. When he denies being involved in a specific plot they’ll torture him to a point where he has to dream up some cock and bull story. Meanwhile they’ll miss the really valuable information.’
‘One of the minor problems with torture,’ said Harland grimly. He picked up the phone and told Tyrrel to bring Loz in.
Loz’s buoyant expression collapsed when they told him that Khan had been taken to Cairo. ‘This is very, very bad news,’ he said, shaking his head and working his hands.
‘Well, we’re still evaluating what this means,’ said Harland, steering him to a chair away from the computers. ‘But it doesn’t look good, I grant you that.’ He paused and rubbed his chin, as though wondering how to proceed, then he focused on Loz. ‘Isis had an encounter with one of the nastier scumbags of our time tonight, a man called Marenglen who is head of the local secret service here. It’s a curious name which I understand is made from the first three letters of Marx, Engels and Lenin – a name forged in desperate communist times when people needed to ingratiate themselves with the regime.’ He stopped again. ‘Interestingly, it’s the same kind of formation as TriBeCa in New York, the Triangle Below Canal. But I probably can’t tell you anything about TriBeCa, Doctor.’ He let that hang in the stuffy atmosphere of the Communications room and looked down at Loz intently. Herrick wondered where the hell this was leading.
‘This Marenglen,’ continued Harland, ‘was picked up when he came to the LSE in London on a scholarship in 1987, and he was trained by former colleagues who of course had no idea that communism was about to collapse in Albania. He was a good spot because he was exceptionally clever, and useful to us after Enver Hoxha’s death, but Marenglen turned out to be a rotten apple, as bad a man as you could ever meet. There is literally no crime in Albania that Marenglen does not in some way supervise from the safety of his position. Coming in contact with this man is like handling a test tube of bubonic plague. I do not exaggerate.’ Loz looked mystified. ‘We are here because of you, Dr Loz, and because of your friend. Isis took a big risk this evening to see if she could help Khan and that’s when she came across Marenglen. It could have ended very badly for her but she took that risk because of you and your friend. But you know something? We don’t really have any idea about either you or Khan. So, I want you to help us. Tell us everything about you.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Loz, eagerly leaning forward, hands clasped around his knee. ‘But what more do you want?’
‘You should understand your position,’ said Harland. ‘You’re in Albania illegally. You travelled here on a forged passport and have none of the correct visa requirements. Remember, this was Khan’s only crime in Albania, and yet he was held and beaten up. If they find that his main contact is also here, they are very likely to do exactly the same to you. Who knows, you may even end up in the same Egyptian jail.’
‘But your responsibility is to help me.’ A fleeting, rather professional smile crossed his face. ‘That’s what the Secretary-General instructed you to do.’
Harland shook his head. ‘Believe me, Doctor, what happens to you is entirely my choice now.’
‘So what do you want me to tell you?’
‘Ninety-seven. What were you doing in 1997?’
‘I was in New York, studying osteopathy. You know that!’ he smiled at Herrick as though Harland was now being quite impossible.
‘And the real estate business? How did that fit into your life?’
Loz’s gaze hardened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We know all about that. We know that while you were studying, you were also investing large sums in Manhattan developments. I have a figure of sixty million dollars, but London believes the amount transferred to you through twenty accounts may be two or three times that figure. All of it was placed at your disposal to buy real estate in Manhattan – mostly in Chelsea and TriBeCa. TriBeCa was the big killing of your operation, wasn’t it? You made a profit of 15.7 million dollars on one deal in the Triangle Below Canal. There were many others.’ He stopped and examined his notes. ‘You know how we began to trace them? We started by looking up the name of a company that let your premises in the Empire State building – and still does – the Twelver Real Estate Corporation. That name rang a few bells in London. Anyone who knows anything about Islam knows that the Shi’a sect is called in Arabic Ithna Ashariya – the Twelvers. The movement of money from the Shi’ite banks in Lebanon to New York had been noted between 1996 and 1999 and so had the name of the Twelver Real Estate Corp. What they didn’t know was who was controlling the investments. A week ago, they began to dig again and found your signature on documents held by the City Authority in New York. Who were you investing the money for, Dr Loz?’
‘Some former associates of my father.’
‘And these people were connected with the Hizbollah organisation?’
‘No. But I cannot say definitely, of course.’
‘But you agree that the utmost was done to disguise the origin of this money before you invested it and, given your father’s Shi’ite background, it is likely that it came from Hizbollah?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘But more interesting is that you deceived almost everyone about the extent of your wealth and your real occupation.’
‘But I am an osteopath.’
‘Yes, you are, and a very good one. But you are also a property tycoon. You’ve made many millions of dollars for your partners and for yourself. A rough estimate puts your wealth at fifty million dollars – enough, as someone observed in London, to finance one hell of a terrorist operation. Enough money to buy as many sets of fake identity as you could need. That’s why you found it so easy to leave the States and bribe your way through the Balkans.’
Loz sank into the chair. ‘I had to leave the US, as you are very well aware. I spent what was necessary.’
‘Yes, but what other back doctor has your sort of contacts – members of Bosnian crime fraternities outside Chicago, gun runners, people smugglers in Southern Bosnia and Montenegro? We’ve only just begun to research you, but it’s already clear that you are seriously “connected”. Your pose as a society figure in Manhattan is a carefully constructed cover.’
Loz shook his head. ‘I really am an osteopath. That’s what I do! It fulfils me in a way I cannot describe. Why else would I run free clinics every week in three New York hospitals? Yes, it is true I have made a lot of money, but I can arrange for you to talk to my lawyers and they will tell you that I have donated much of my fortune to charity. In other circumstances I would not mention this, but you should know that I have made grants and donations of nearly twenty million dollars in the last three years. This can all be confirmed in New York, by my lawyers, my accountant. Even the charities will tell you.’
‘But you still have a tidy sum in the bank.’
Loz uncrossed his legs and threw his hands out hopelessly. ‘Of course, but the money was gained honourably on the rising market of the late nineties. Would it be any different if I had invested in new technology and sold at the right moment? What’s the problem with real estate?’
‘The difference to us is that you were investing on behalf of a Middle Eastern terrorist organisation. Where the profits from those deals went is certainly interesting, and you will face questions on this when you return to the United States. That is a legitimate concern of the FBI and I will make sure Special Agent Ollins is fully briefed with the information we have. No one can protect you from that. But for the moment I want to know what occurred when you met Khan in London in 1997.’ He raised a hand. ‘Before you answer, be clear that I have the authority to turn you over to Marenglen if I’m not satisfied with what you say.’
He nodded. ‘Look, there isn’t a problem about this. Karim phoned me in New York and said he wanted my advice. He was like that. He relied on me, trusted my judgement.’
‘And you agreed to go to London?’
‘Yes, I flew the next day and we spent a couple of days together, seeing old haunts, talking about Bosnia. Eventually he got round to the subject of Afghanistan. He told me he had decided to join The Poet in Pakistan. As I explained this was our name for a man he had met in Bosnia whose real name we did not know. Anyway, Karim was offered a role in Afghanistan training fighters. That can mean a lot of things. Karim understood it to mean that he would be continuing the war against the oppressors of Islam on Afghanistan’s northern borders, the republics of the former Soviet Union. But he was torn between Western and Muslim values and wanted the moral view of what he was going to do. He felt I would understand because I had suffered the same agonies of guilt in Bosnia. I told him that he should stay in London and return to medicine. But he was caught up with the idea of himself as this great adventurer, even though he knew the horrors of war and had seen the very worst things in Bosnia. We had an argument – a terrible argument – because I could not believe he was going to make this mistake. I was appalled, disappointed. I accused him of being addicted to killing and failing to face his responsibilities as a human being, a doctor and a good Muslim. For his part he said I was a coward and running away from my duties as a Muslim. We made it up the following day, which was when I gave him those postcards and some money.’
‘How many postcards?’
‘Oh, a handful. I can’t remember.’
‘And how much money?’ asked Harland.
‘I don’t recall exactly – fifteen thousand dollars, something like that.’
‘Did you hear from him again, apart from the postcards?’
‘No.’
Herrick looked at Harland then asked, ‘If you haven’t changed your address in the last six or seven years, presumably your phone number hasn’t changed either?’
‘No, it’s the same.’
‘So why didn’t he call you instead of sending these postcards? There was very little guarantee of them getting through to you. Why didn’t he just pick up the phone and ask you to wire him some money?’
‘I have wondered about that,’ said Loz. ‘Maybe he was worried about the calls being monitored.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But it still doesn’t really make sense, unless of course he had to send those cards because of the coded messages in them.’
Harland stood up and let his right arm slide down his thigh.
‘You shouldn’t do that yet,’ said Loz gently. ‘In a week’s time you can begin the exercises I showed you, but not yet.’
‘Isis makes a good point,’ said Harland, removing his hand and straightening.
‘I agree,’ said Loz, ‘but I can’t answer her question.’
‘You must have some idea of The Poet’s identity,’ she said. ‘There can’t have been many Bosnian commanders that Khan was friendly with.’
‘I believe he was originally a scholar… but I only inferred that from what Khan said.’
‘Where was he from?’ asked Herrick.
‘The East, maybe Pakistan or Iran, but I do not know.’
‘And you think this is the man that Khan can tell us about? What reason do you have for believing he’s still alive?’
‘Because he was very smart. Khan was in awe of him. He said he was the most civilised and dangerous man he had ever met. Those were the words he used – civilised and dangerous. ’
Herrick took out a piece of paper and wrote ‘Phone Dolph’, then on a second line, ‘Beirut’. She had suddenly had an idea.
‘But all this is guesswork,’ said Harland contemptuously. ‘I need a lot more.’
‘We really need to know everything that you know,’ said Isis, leaning forward and looking into Loz’s eyes. ‘Trust us for Christ’s sake. We’ve certainly earned that.’
Loz breathed in deeply, seemingly to savour the air. ‘Eighteen months ago I was phoned by a man in New York. He was a foreigner, but well-spoken and educated. He said something like, “I expect you have heard of me. I am The Poet.” I knew he must have been given my number by Khan, so I listened and he told me straight away that he wanted thirty thousand dollars. He said there was no question of my not giving it to him – he made it sound as if I owed him. In the background of what he was saying there was a threat and I understood that he would harm me if didn’t give him what he wanted. So I got the money together the next day, put it in a bag and began to walk to the agreed meeting place in Union Square. He specified that I should walk, even though it was winter and there was a lot of snow on the ground. On the way, a homeless beggar came up to me asking for money. He wouldn’t leave me alone and followed me down the street, then he grabbed hold of my arm and handed me a card which said, “The Poet thanks you for your donation.” He reached out and took the bag from my hand.’
‘You gave thirty thousand dollars to a New York beggar?’ said Harland incredulously.
‘Yes. When I got back to the building there was the same message on my answerphone. “The Poet thanks you for your donation.” ’
‘You were had,’ said Harland.
‘I don’t think so. Two days later I received an Arabic inscription in a frame. You remarked on it when I was treating you. If you remember, it says, “A man who is noble does not pretend to be noble, any more than a man who is eloquent feigns eloquence. When a man exaggerates his qualities, it is because of something lacking in himself. The bully gives himself airs because he is conscious of his weakness.” Also in the package was this…’ he opened his jacket, then handed Herrick a small black and white photograph wrapped in cellophane. It was of Karim Khan dressed in tribal costume and sporting a boldly patterned turban. ‘This was proof that he was in touch with Khan and had seen him recently. I suppose it was also proof of his own identity.’
‘Why didn’t you show me this before?’
‘Because you’re of a sceptical disposition, Mr Harland. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re too nervous to believe.’
‘I would have believed a bloody picture,’ said Harland, holding it away from him.
‘You need glasses,’ said Loz.
Harland took no notice and put the photograph in his wallet. ‘I’ll keep this for the moment.’
‘What did this man look like? ’ asked Herrick.
‘A homeless person,’ he smiled. ‘I’m being serious. He was covered in coats and wore a long beard. I couldn’t see his face beneath it all and anyway he was a few inches shorter than I am. Maybe only five foot five or six.’
‘So you’re telling us you may have seen The Poet?’
‘I have no doubt about that.’
‘When was this?’
‘The winter of 2000, just after the millennium celebrations. ’
Harland walked to the door and opened it. ‘Right, that will be all for the moment. We will talk later.’
When Loz had left he looked at Herrick and said, ‘Well?’
‘We either believe all of it or none of it. Either way, there’s nothing we can do about Khan.’
Harland frowned. ‘Does this overlap with anything you’ve been doing for RAPTOR?’
‘No, but I would like to make a call on this phone if you wouldn’t mind. I have a friend who may still be up.’
She got through to Dolph, whose brisk hello rang out on the conference speaker.
‘Why’re you up so late?’ she asked.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘But what are you doing?’
‘Turns out that the Americans are keen poker players. We’ve got two full tables on the go, playing for a monkey – that’s five hundred nicker in your language, Isis.’
‘Don’t you sleep?’
‘No one knows whether it’s day or night down here. We’re like beagles in a smoking lab, or labs in a smoking beagle. Whichever way you like it.’
‘Are you drunk, Dolph?’
‘No, merely rat-arsed.’
She was aware of Harland’s disapproving gaze. ‘Dolph, I need your help, so pull yourself together.’
‘I love it when you’re strict.’
‘I want to know about Bosnia – the siege of Sarajevo.’
‘Okay.’
‘We’re interested in a commander of Muslim soldiers. We have no name apart from The Poet, but this was not commonly used.’
‘Well that narrows it down,’ said Dolph, laughing.
‘Come on Dolph. I haven’t got time…’
‘Well, there was Abu Abdel Aziz or Barbaros – the guy with the two-foot beard.’
‘No, someone less obvious. Perhaps a scholar of some sort, but a good fighter.’
‘So we’re looking for a member of the Mujahideen Brigade that was disbanded after Dayton?’
‘Maybe. We’re right at the beginning with this one, so we’re interested in anything.’
‘I’ll talk to some of the hacks who were there during the siege. They may have come across him. Any idea where this character came from?’
‘Pakistan or Iran are possibilities.’
‘Have you got a description? His age at the time?’
‘No – we know he is about five foot five or six.’
‘Don’t burden me with detail, Isis,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll call you if I get something. Where’re you going to be?’
‘On my cell phone.’
‘Hey, Isis. You got to hear about Joe Lapping before you go.’
‘Okay.’ Herrick sat back smiling.
‘So Lapping is left in Sarajevo instead of me. The French tumble him in precisely three and a half seconds and start making his life hell. Lapping can’t move without one of the Frogs whispering “Rozbeef spy” in his ears. He gets completely freaked, changes his address and then can’t find his way home and has to put up with some aid worker while the apartment is found. Meanwhile the Frogs have moved every bird with a dodgy past into Lapping’s place and opened it as a brothel.’ Dolph broke off. She could hear him helpless with laughter and thumping something in the background. ‘So when Lapping eventually gets home he’s greeted by some lovely wearing the top of his Marks and Spencer pyjamas smoking a spliff, at which point the Frogs arrange for the place to be raided by the Bosnian vice squad.’ He stopped again. Herrick glanced at Harland, who was smiling. ‘You got to hand it to him,’ continued Dolph, ‘I mean there’s never been anyone like Lapping in our business. He’s classic.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Still in Sarajevo. They’re making new arrangements but there’s no rush coz the suspect’s gone to ground.’ He paused. ‘You know, Lapping could be really good on this. Seriously. He’s a prize researcher, loves nothing better than sifting through dusty files in Serbo-Croat. That’s like a threesome to Lapping. I can easily put him on to it through RAPTOR. Nobody will know.’
‘Good.’
‘And don’t forget your friend in Beirut,’ he said.
‘I won’t.’
The Chief did not phone until 6.30 a.m. local time. The plane carrying Khan had touched down at Cairo and been greeted by members of the local CIA station and the Egyptian intelligence service. As far as the local MI6 people could make out, he had been taken straight to police headquarters. There was some suggestion that he would make an appearance in court that day in connection with the slaying of the newspaper editor, but the Chief thought this unlikely because any lawyer appointed to Khan’s defence would be able to demonstrate that he was not Jasur Faisal, and would move to have him released.
‘Who else was on the plane?’ asked Herrick.
‘Two of the men from the Tirana station and the Syrian gentleman. He turns out to be Dr Ibrahim al Shuqairi, an extremely nasty piece of work. He has a Syrian passport but is from one of the Sunni tribes in Iraq. In any sane world he would be tried as a war criminal.’
‘So, there’s nothing we can do.’
The Chief mumbled, ‘We’ll see about that. Now, tell me, what did you make of Loz’s answers?’
Harland and Herrick looked at each other. ‘I’d say it’s worth looking into the business of the Bosnian commander known as The Poet,’ offered Harland. ‘It appears he was in New York in late 1999. But you know it may be all nonsense. There’s nothing hard.’
The Chief digested this.
‘We’re working on the Bosnian angles,’ said Herrick. ‘Andy Dolph is going to ring some contacts.’
‘Can he be discreet about this? He can’t talk about it at RAPTOR.’
‘There’s no one more reliable,’ said Herrick.
‘Good. Right. Well, Isis, I think you’d better get back here. Harland, I wonder if you could help us to get Loz out. Nothing complicated. A boat ride to Italy. That’s all. I’m putting the arrangements in place now. You’ll get further instructions during the morning.’
Herrick noticed the expression in Harland’s eyes had darkened a little.
‘You do realise I’m not working for you, Chief,’ he said.
‘Of course, of course. Forgive me, Bobby. You know how grateful we are to you, I’m sure. I’m glad you’ve reminded me you’re helping as an irregular. We’re indebted to you. Oh, by the way, I have some movement on that trace we discussed in New York. I think it looks very promising.’
Harland said nothing.
‘Eva – I think she’s alive. Perhaps you would rather discuss it another time. We’re likely to get some more.’
‘Yes,’ said Harland quietly. ‘Yes, thank you. You understand I must consult with the Secretary-General about my movements. I have to answer to his brief.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ said the Chief emolliently. ‘I just pray that you will be able to see your way to helping us on this one. Do you think there’s any chance of Mr Jaidi letting you do your bit?’
‘What is my bit?’
‘We’ll talk when you’re in Italy. In the meantime, expect to be joined by several friends at the Embassy. They’ll get Loz out. And Bobby, thank you again for all you’re doing. I think you know how important this is.’
Isis watched his effortless manner sedate Harland. It occurred to her that he was susceptible only because there was some part of him that privately felt he still belonged in the Secret Intelligence Service, or at least was animated by the challenge and felt he could still rise to it better than most. In that way he was not unlike Munroe Herrick. She wondered about the woman mentioned by the Chief, and Harland’s curiously subdued reaction. What the hell was that about?
He must do away with himself. That was his only thought as the plane touched down and sped along the runway to a desolate spot on the airbase where some vehicles waited. Gibbons cut the plastic restraints on his ankles and hooded him again. He avoided Khan’s eyes and said nothing. Khan already knew he was to be tortured. During the last twenty minutes of the flight, as the light flooded the cabin, he had strained round to see who was behind him and caught sight of a powerful, fat leg jigging in the aisle. Then he heard the rustling of The Doctor’s bag of nuts.
They hauled him from the seat and steered him towards the door, down the short flight of steps. Several men were shouting in Arabic and tugged at his arms, but Gibbons held on and guided him towards one of the vehicles where he was formally handed over. Beneath the hood Khan saw the shadows of the men and the outlines of the vehicles. The smell of the great city nearby came to his nostrils, a mixture of exhaust, wood smoke and shit. Gibbons said ‘Welcome to Cairo, Mr Faisal.’
Someone spoke to him harshly in Arabic. When he didn’t respond, he was hit in the small of the back with a rifle butt, and sank to his knees. He was picked up and the same phrase was repeated over and over. Gibbons shouted, ‘Look, you fucking goons. His mouth is taped!’ Someone took off the hood and ripped the tape back. He saw faces staring at him, men eager to hurt him. They spoke again, using the name Jasur Faisal, and although he understood better this time, Khan realised that it would be stupid to respond. Arabic was not his language; Faisal was not his name.