Authors: Henry Porter

Tags: #Thrillers, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction

Three Great Novels (22 page)

BOOK: Three Great Novels

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‘No, I did everything I could to avoid those people in Quetta. My family told me the ISI were looking for me. I had to be very discreet.’

‘So you managed to find the man who does work for al-Qaeda by yourself?’

‘I didn’t know he worked for them.’

‘Continue,’ said Franc.

He read the postcards and, when he had finished, slammed his hand on the table with frustration. ‘These mean nothing, I tell you. Nothing.’

Unmoved, Franc produced a second set of copies and put one in front of him. In the first postcard sent from Quetta, Khan saw that the capital letters were ringed in red:

Gr
E
etings,
M
y old friend. I am in
P
ak
I
stan and hope ve
R
y soon to be in London. I may ne
E
d a little help from you. I have good news. I am returning to complete my stu
DIES
, as you always said I should.

Karim looked up at him, mystified.

‘Let me remind you about this,’ said Franc. ‘All the letters you made into capitals spell EMPIRE DIES.’ He ran his finger along the message, stopping at each capital letter.

Khan shook his head incredulously. ‘This is stupid. It is like a school kid’s code. You think I wrote this to my friend? Honestly?’

‘But you did. Take a look at the first one you sent from Iran. It’s a little more complicated.’

He placed a grid of letters alongside a phrase from the postcard, which read, ‘I want to hide in Lundun for all time. KariM.’

‘This is the way you concluded your postcard from Iran. It’s certainly an odd phrase, especially when you compare it to the rest of the postcard, which reads pretty naturally and is correctly spelt. So our analysts had a look at it and they came up with this.’ He indicated the grid.

‘What you wrote was a near anagram of a well-known Hadith, a saying of the prophet - ‘Al kufr milatun wahidun’ - meaning unbelief is one nation. It’s a call to arms against the unbelievers.’

Khan stared at the letters. ‘I don’t understand.’

The American took a pencil and ticked off the letters that appeared in the Arabic phrase.

‘But it doesn’t work. There are too many letters in my postcard.’

‘It’s near enough. Why would anyone spell London like that? And again you use capital letters where they don’t belong - the M in Karim is a capital. We’re working on the next two cards but we think this is enough to put you and your friend Dr Loz in jail.’ He paused. ‘Unbelief is one nation. You people! What kind of shit fills your minds?’

‘This is crazy.’

‘All you have to do is tell me where the target information is hidden. I want the date and time of the attack and the names of your associates. What does the Empire State building have to do with all this? Is that your target? We need answers, Khan.’ He was shouting now.

‘There isn’t a plot. I am innocent. I wasn’t used to writing English - writing anything. The capital letters are a mistake and the codes you’ve found are coincidence. They don’t exist.’ He was sweating profusely, his throat parched with fear, and he had to hold his hands under the table to stop them shaking.

‘Yeah, like the other coincidences in your story. Right now, we’re all a little tired of listening to your crap so we’re gonna leave you for a couple of hours with The Doctor. When we come back, we want answers.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At two, Herrick walked from the pool with a bitter taste in her mouth, the result of inhaling Tirana’s polluted air for most of the morning. She walked through the lobby to the elevator bank and pulled out a card which acted as both a lift and room key.

‘May I?’ said a voice at her shoulder. She was aware of a friendly, dark face and a wide smile.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and stepped back. He pressed three, and asked which floor she wanted. ‘That’s okay, my floor’s after yours anyway,’ she lied.

The doors closed.

‘Would it interest you to know that I’m going to Robert Harland’s room?’

‘If I knew who he was, it might,’ she said, looking away.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I understood you were a colleague of Mr Harland’s. He told me to find you in the hotel.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Dr Sammi Loz. I’m afraid circumstances have forced me to go under another name while travelling. I am calling myself Charles Mansour, which I like even less than my own name.’ Another smile.

She studied him in the mirror. He was wearing a linen jacket, dark blue, unstructured trousers and a white, probably silk, shirt, fastened at the neck. He was evidently rich and took care over his clothes. There was also self-assurance, vanity and deliberateness in his movements.

‘Dr Loz, why didn’t Mr Harland find me himself?’ she asked.

The lift came to a stop and the doors opened.

‘Because he is laid up with a bad back after three separate flights and since I am his doctor, I have ordered total rest. He’s getting better gradually and should be on his feet tomorrow. The room’s three twelve. I’ll wait here if you would prefer it.’

‘Thank you. I would.’

She knocked at the door and glanced back to the elevator where Loz stood with his arms folded.

The door opened and a tall, but stooped middle-aged man held out his hand and said hello. ‘I’m sorry I had to get Loz to find you, but I’m pretty immobilised at the moment. Come in.’ Robert Harland returned crookedly to his bed and lay down very slowly. ‘I gather you were at the Embassy, so you know what I’m doing here.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Actually, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, so I can’t expect you to.’

‘The Chief has got me in to see Karim Khan this afternoon. I’m due at the US Embassy at three. Perhaps we should talk after that?’

‘I’d like you to talk to Loz first.’ He frowned, more out of perplexity than pain, she thought. ‘I’d like to know what you think of him. He got here under his own steam, with a fake passport. Teckman believes he knows something, but God knows what, which is why I’m sticking to him. Your brief, I gather, is to help me.’ He stopped and felt the front of his pelvis. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking it may be worth letting Khan understand that you’re with Loz, but in a way the Albanians don’t appreciate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to know what his reaction is, though that’s not what I’ve told Loz. Let’s have a talk with him, shall we?’

She opened the door to find Loz waiting outside. He came in and Harland explained what he needed.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re looking for some code word or phrase which Karim will recognise.’ He leaned against the desk, placed one hand at his elbow and stroked his nose. ‘You could ask him about The Poet.’

‘Who the hell’s the Poet?’ said Harland rather bad temperedly from the bed.

‘That’s the point,’ replied Loz. ‘Nobody knows. The Poet was a commander in Bosnia, but none of us knew who he was or where he operated from. Karim did. It was The Poet who persuaded him to leave for Afghanistan in 1997. If you mention him, Karim will know you have spoken with me because only I could have told you that.’

‘Fine,’ she said, thinking that this was all pretty daft. ‘I’d better go now.’

A couple of hours later, she drove with Gibbons and a guard from the US Embassy to an anonymous four-storey building with blinded windows. They passed through some blue metal gates into a large car park where there was an unusual sense of order, regimentation even. Several off-road vehicles were lined up and were being hosed down, and the yellowish run-off was being swept into a drain by a young man in army fatigues. Around the high wall surrounding the SHISK headquarters were coils of razor wire, cameras and movement sensors, all of which she assumed were bought by the American money that had poured into Tirana during the mid nineties. About half a dozen armed guards were in the yard. Two at the entrance to the building came to attention, while a third inspected their IDs before leading them to the second floor and along a dark corridor. They were told to wait.

‘The big man in there is Milo Franc,’ said Gibbons out of the corner of his mouth. ‘He’ll do most of the talking, together with the SHISK officers. I guess I don’t have to tell you that it’s best if you keep your yap shut. They don’t like having a woman here.’

Herrick said nothing.

Her first impression when they got into the interrogation room, was of a gang of schoolboys caught tormenting an animal. All but one looked at her with a slight awkwardness. That man, heavy-set with a thick, black goatee, did not look up from a bag of nuts. Khan sat shrunken at the table, bedraggled with sweat and clearly at the end of his tether. As the two SHISK officers turned to look her up and down, his eyes darted to hers with an expression of utter bewilderment. She saw immediately that his right cheek was affected by a tic, and once or twice he put his hand up to swat the movement.

Gibbons pointed to a chair along the wall, next to the three Americans. She glanced at the one who she guessed must be Franc, another man in his thirties with a clean-cut and well-policed parting, and a clerical type who had a sheaf of documents on his lap.

No explanation about her arrival was offered to Khan, but his attention now fixed on her and she realised he was looking for a sign that she could offer him a way out of that room. She removed her gaze to a point between the two Albanians at the table, but felt uncomfortable doing so. ‘Please continue,’ she said.

One of the Albanians leaned forward. He was a slender man, with a russet complexion and a high forehead. He spoke with a somewhat stilted American accent.

‘We have some confusion here. You were carrying two documentations. One related to Karim Khan and the other to Jasur Faisal al-Saggib, known also as Jasur al-Jahez and Amir al-Shawa. You say you saw this man killed in Macedonia two weeks ago. But our American colleagues have asked the Macedonian authorities to look for the body of this man. They searched the area where the incident took place and found no dead body there.’

Khan looked perplexed, as if they had suddenly started talking about architecture or botany. ‘The man died with me. He was not killed - I told you that. He died of a heart attack. Maybe he was suffering from asthma. I don’t know.’

Herrick was surprised by his upper-middle-class English.

‘But they could not find this man,’ returned the interrogator. ‘What is the proof he was with you in these times?’

Khan did not answer, but shook his head hopelessly.

‘What is the proof that these documents are not yours?’

‘The pictures are not of me. Anyone can see that. They belong to a man who doesn’t look like me. He was an Arab.’

The interrogator examined a photocopy.‘This looks like you to me.’ He showed it to his colleague, who nodded vigorously. Herrick glanced at the copy on the CIA officer’s lap. There was no resemblance whatsoever to Khan. However, she took out her notebook and wrote down Faisal’s name and the other aliases.

‘But it is natural that you do not want to look like a member of Hamas. The man Faisal is wanted in Damascus, Cairo and Jerusalem.
Everyone
wants to speak with Mr Jasur Faisal because he is responsible for many explosions and killings. In Syria they want to see Mr Faisal for two murders. In Egypt, Mr Faisal assassinated a politician and a newspaper editor and was sentenced to death by the courts in Cairo. Maybe Jasur Faisal - The Electrician - is sitting here in this room with us. Maybe we have big shot terrorist here, right here in front of us, a real soldier of Islam?’

‘Why are you asking me questions I can’t answer? Proof that I am not Faisal lies in front of you, but when you say you do not believe this, how am I meant to answer you? It’s the same with the postcards. There isn’t a code in the postcards. You have found what you wanted to find and I am to be punished for this.’ After this speech Khan hung his head. The sweat trickled down his cheek and collected in the stubble at his chin.

There was silence. Franc turned to her and gave her a big, fat wink.

‘May I ask the suspect a question?’ Herrick said to the room. Then looking directly at Khan she asked, ‘Who are you?’

BOOK: Three Great Novels

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