Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (31 page)

‘Howson?’ asked Peggy politely, looking at her list. ‘Does she live here too?’

‘Oh, no. She’s my daily and she does for David Blakey too. A nice woman, if a little prone to gossip,’ said Mrs Goodhart with a small sniff. Then, perhaps realising the hypocrisy of this, added briskly, ‘Is that all, because I must be going now?’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t made you late.’ But Peggy wasn’t sorry at all. She’d learned rather more than she’d expected.

Chapter 46

No one had briefed Dave Armstrong on how boring life was on board a container ship. In fact, no one had briefed him on much about this operation, which saw him posing as medical assistant to the ship’s doctor on board the
Aristides
. A ship of this size would not normally have carried a medical assistant, but none of the officers had queried his presence. The Captain was fully in the picture and the ship’s doctor, an old Scotsman called Macintyre, had been told only that he must treat Dave, alias Tony Symes, as he would a genuine medical assistant. Dr Macintyre had been around far too long to be surprised by anything and was finding Tony Symes’ presence quite agreeable, as it allowed him to spend more time playing bridge with the other officers.

Dave had been whisked out to Athens by the RAF at a week’s notice, with just enough time for him to brush up on the First Aid course he’d taken years before. Having been closely involved with the Birmingham end of things, the extraction of Boatman and the recruitment of Tahira, he knew the operation’s background, but was far from certain what he was expected to achieve by being on board the ship. ‘Get to know the crew,’ Liz had said, ‘particularly the Pakistanis. Find out if any of them are British and learn as much as you can about where they’re going and why.’

Well, that was easier said than done. The four Pakistani crewmen had formed a tight group and spoke hardly at all to the other seamen, let alone the officers. But what concerned Dave most of all was what he was supposed to do if, as everyone seemed to be expecting, the ship was hijacked. He just hoped that Geoffrey Fane had thoroughly sorted out the back-up with the Americans and the French, and that he wasn’t going to find himself the target of ‘friendly fire’.

He had not been much reassured when he’d stopped briefly in Athens and had dinner with Bruno Mackay at a small restaurant near the embassy. Though he’d never met him before, he had heard about Mackay from Liz and was not expecting to discover a soulmate. Mackay turned out to be just as Liz had described him – the perfect suntan, the elegantly cut hair, the smart suit and the shirt cuffs with gold cufflinks on display. Mackay did a competent job, briefing Dave on the Athens end of the operation. Dave was not surprised that he made only passing reference to the murder of his agent Maria Galanos; in spite of his self-confident front, Bruno Mackay must be very embarrassed by that. They went on to discuss the leasing, loading and despatching of the UCSO aid ships by the shipping company. Mackay had obtained a copy of the crew list, which revealed a mixed bag of Filipinos, a Cypriot, Koreans and four Pakistanis. ‘These are your targets,’ said Bruno, unnecessarily, pointing to the Pakistani names.

‘Does anyone at UCSO know I’ll be on board?’

‘Absolutely not. Even their head man in London hasn’t any idea we’re putting someone on the
Aristides
. And we didn’t want this chap Berger to know either, since it looks like the leaks have been coming out of his office.’

For communications, Technical Ted had handed over a laptop containing gizmos which he’d assured Dave would be completely invisible to anyone looking at his machine except the most sophisticated technician. They would enable encrypted messages to be sent directly to and from Thames House. Bruno’s office in the Athens Embassy was to act as fallback communications in case the system failed.

All that sorted out, Bruno ordered another bottle of wine and said, to Dave’s surprise, ‘You’ve worked a lot with Liz Carlyle – tell me about her.’ And for the rest of the dinner Dave had ducked his probing questions about Liz as best he could, saying nothing revealing, and unsuccessfully trying to change the subject. By the end of the evening, he was left with the distinct impression that Bruno’s interest in Liz was not on his own account; he was trying to find out whether she was involved with his boss, Geoffrey Fane.

The ship had already reached the Red Sea and Dave had as yet made very little headway in getting to know the Pakistani crewmen. In the Mediterranean, two small storms had blown up and the
Aristides,
with no stabilisers, had been tossed about like a yo-yo. All the Pakistani crew members had been seasick for almost two days and Dave himself had had to retire to bed at one point. Even when they were well, the four men did not mingle with the other crew, and at meals occupied a table of their own. When he’d encountered them on deck and had tried to make conversation – about cricket, or the floods in Pakistan that had been on the news – they had just nodded and moved away.

But then one of them, a crewman called Fazal, had gashed his hand lashing down some containers on the deck. Dave had noticed Fazal at the beginning of the voyage, and had thought that he looked much younger and more vulnerable than the other Pakistanis. And, interestingly, when he had first come into the surgery to have his hand treated after the accident, he had answered Dr Macintyre’s questions about it in fluent English, with a definite trace of a Birmingham accent.

Now Fazal was due to come in and have his dressing changed, and Dave was hoping that he could use the opportunity to get him talking. When he suggested that Dr Macintyre might like to go and play cards, leaving Dave in sole charge for the hour the surgery was open, the Scotsman had understood at once, and made himself scarce.

Fazal turned up on time and sat down while Dave changed his dressing. ‘Tell me how it feels now,’ said Dave, assuming a medical manner. ‘Has it stopped hurting?’

‘Yeah, it’s all right.’

‘I hope you’re not putting any pressure on it.’

‘No. I’m on light duties.’

‘You don’t sound like a Pakistani.’ Dave looked up from his bandaging and smiled. ‘That sounds like a Brummie accent to me. My mum came from Birmingham; grew up near Springfield Park.’

Fazal’s eyes widened. ‘That’s where I come from.’

‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘It was all Irish back then.’

‘Not any more,’ said Fazal, with a hint of a grin.

‘What brings you here then? We’re a long way from home.’

Fazal hesitated, then said, ‘I wanted to see the world. My mum had family in Pakistan; one of them put me on to this.’

Dave pointed through the porthole, where the sandy shoreline of Saudi was still visible. ‘Didn’t you want to go there? To Saudi, I mean. Mecca and all that.’

Fazal thought about this. ‘Some day,’ he said at last. ‘But they’re not true followers of the faith. The ruling family’s corrupt.’

Dave shrugged. ‘Can’t be worse than Africa. Wait till you see Mombasa. We’ll have to bribe the harbour master before we can put the gangplank down.’ He finished off the dressing and laughed. ‘Not many followers of the true faith there, I think.’

Fazal shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ He was about to ask Fazal if he would be meeting any of these ‘true believers’ when he saw the boy’s face freeze. Someone was standing in the doorway of the consulting room and when Dave looked round he saw it was another of the Pakistani group – an older man called Perjev, who seemed to be in charge of the others. He barked something in Urdu and Fazal looked briefly at Dave, then got up and quickly left.

It was disappointing, but at least he’d made contact with the boy and confirmed not only that he was from Birmingham, but also that he came from the Sparkhill area. At last he had something to report. And Fazal seemed vulnerable – that could be useful if things got heavy.

At the end of the hour, Dave locked up the surgery and went back to his cabin. He checked the slightly primitive security measures he set every time he left his room: a single strand of hair balanced across the handle of the top drawer in his desk; and the items in his shaving kit, seemingly a random jumble of toothpaste, razors and shaving cream, which were in fact carefully arranged.

The hair was missing, and he found it only when he got down on his hands and knees and inspected the linoleum floor. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – the draft when he opened the door could easily have blown it off. The contents of the drawer seemed fine; his laptop was where he’d left it, apparently untouched. He went across to the washbasin to look at his shaving bag. Everything was there, he saw to his relief, but then he realised something was wrong. The tube of toothpaste was the wrong way round.

Someone had been in his room.

Chapter 47

They were putting up a stage at the bottom end of Springfield Park. From the bench where Tahira sat, she could see scaffolding and two workmen fitting stairs at one end of the platform. Beside a van, parked on the grass, an electrician was sorting out a spaghetti-like tangle of wires.

Tahira was waiting for Malik. He’d rung her on her mobile the day after their first conversation in the café, and she had agreed to meet him here. Other ears were listening when he rang – Liz’s colleagues were tracing all calls going to and from Malik’s mobile phone.

He had suggested they meet in the park, specifying this particular bench on the hill, where large chestnut trees offered shade and privacy. Tahira sensed he was torn between a wish to see her, and an unwillingness to be seen talking to an unmarried young woman who was known more for her forthright character than for her Islamic piety.

Turning round, she spotted him coming through a rear entrance to the park. He was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, and carried a mobile phone in his hand. As he sat down beside her on the bench he looked round anxiously, though there was no one within a hundred yards of them.

‘Hello, Malik, it is nice to see you again.’

‘Likewise. You look lovely today.’

‘Do you see what’s going on down there?’ asked Tahira brightly, pointing to the stage at the bottom of the hill. ‘There’s going to be a pop concert here on Saturday.’

‘I know.’ Malik sounded unimpressed.

‘I’ve got tickets. My cousin and I are going.’

‘What do you want to do that for?’

‘It’s the Chick Peas. I love their music.’ Which was true. The all-girl Asian group had recently become famous with their single ‘Biryani for Two
’.
Their lead singer, Banditti Kahab, had been on
Celebrity Big Brother,
wearing lots of make-up and an ever-skimpier succession of miniskirts. Tahira knew the girls were vulgar, but their songs were catchy, and in any case she admired them for their gutsiness. She liked the way they defied the conventions they’d grown up with and still managed to remain as much Asian as English.

Malik groaned. ‘Oh, Tahira, you’ve got so much to learn. The way you talk, you sound as though you’ve been brainwashed.’

‘Brainwashed. Who by?’

‘The so-called culture of the West, what else? Can’t you see? The girls in that band stand for the very worst things in this country – sexy clothes, flashy jewellery, lots of make-up. Flaunting their bodies. All the things they have been seduced into thinking are glamorous. And what has seduced them? The TV and the tabloids and adverts – especially the ads. You see them everywhere. For short skirts and bare skin and all the things our own religion condemns.’

‘They’re just a girl band, Malik.’

‘That makes it even worse – their only aim is to be famous. They’ve sold out in the worst possible way.’

He sounded angry now, and Tahira didn’t argue. Liz had told her to play him along, whatever she really felt about the things he said. He went on, ‘When will we ever learn? The way ahead is not through aping the West. We should be getting the West to accept our standards, not the other way around.’

‘But is that possible?’ asked Tahira hesitantly.

‘It may take time,’ Malik conceded. ‘But it will happen some day. You watch. I have seen for myself Westerners who have embraced Islam.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He gave a patronising laugh. ‘One of them was even a woman. A blue-eyed devil,’ he added, laughing at the cliché.

‘Where did you meet her?’ she asked.

Malik hesitated. ‘It had to do with the mission I told you about. I hope you have kept that secret.’

‘Of course.’ She paused then ventured, ‘I’m sorry you’re going away.’ She hoped the words didn’t sound as ridiculous to him as they did to her, but she was gambling on his ego being big enough for him to accept them without question.

To her surprise, he said, ‘I’m not going to Pakistan after all.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No. Plans have changed.’

‘But what about the others?’

‘They’ve already gone.’

‘Gone without you?’ She was surprised but didn’t dare ask why he had stayed behind. So she just said, ‘Well, that’s nice for me.’

But Malik looked uncomfortable. She wondered why – if he was keen on her, he ought to be glad he wasn’t going away. She looked at him. ‘What’s the matter, Malik? Are you upset that you aren’t going?’