Death by Design (17 page)

İkmen shrugged. ‘I don’t know about any of that . . .’

‘Yes, but you are a Muslim.’

‘That is what it says on my identity card, yes,’ İkmen said with a shrug.

Ayşe changed the subject. Now was not the time to be discussing what each of them did or did not believe. ‘The counterfeiters are under threat here,’ she said. ‘What we fear is that those gangsters who fund terrorists or are in some way connected with them are now calling in favours because of the crackdown. If bombs start going off in London and people think it is because of Mr Üner’s initiative, they will withdraw their support for him and the gangs will grow even more powerful. When Mr Üner started this campaign, he was really putting his neck on the line – and ours, of course.’

Ayatollah Hadi Nourazar was deeply offended that Ahmet Ülker had denied him and his men proper accommodation. In İstanbul he had given them the use of a very nice apartment. Here in London they all had to sleep in one of his nasty factories. The noise was appalling and the smell of the people who worked for Ülker not much better. But then physical comfort was not really what Nourazar craved. What he really wanted was respect, something the Turk Ülker did not seem over-keen to give him. But then Ahmet Ülker, like most Turks, was a Sunni Muslim and so he wasn’t at all impressed by a Shi’a cleric – not that Hadi Nourazar was a real cleric. He used the title ayatollah because that was what he had been – once. Not now. The Islamic Republic of Iran didn’t want people whose beliefs and practices echoed those of the Afghan Taliban, and Ayatollah Nourazar gave the impression of being a Shi’ite Talib in all but name. He was of the opinion, for example, that women should be denied shoes; they walked far too noisily when shod, something that could disturb men at their devotions. And although the Islamic Republic did not exactly publicise the fact that Nourazar was no longer a significant person or even wanted in Iran, he had been denied entry back into his own country for over five years. And so he and his disciples, who he called collectively the Brothers of the Light, agitated in Palestine, Egypt, Afghanistan and Syria. He and some followers had ended up in İstanbul while travelling from Syria to Egypt. A two-day stopover in the city on the Bosphorus had turned into a week, during which Nourazar had met Ahmet Ülker. The new mayor of London had just started his campaign against the counterfeiters and Ülker had been worried. It was a concern he shared with Hadi Nourazar. The ayatollah had told his new friend that Mr Haluk Üner was nothing to worry about; some well-placed explosive devices would fix the problem.

But Ahmet Ülker had been sceptical and worried. He wanted the mayor of London off his back with regard to his businesses but he didn’t really want to harm or endanger anyone else. The ayatollah was of the opinion that assisting a suicide bomber to kill infidels would attract blessings from heaven as well as resolve Mr Ülker’s business difficulties. None of his own people could be spared for such work but he could recruit people who would take on that role. And so Mr Ülker had let him recruit the Afghan boy Tariq. Unfortunately that had not worked out and a new suicide bomber had had to be recruited in England. This had not been hard but as far as Hadi Nourazar was concerned it was not entirely satisfactory. A young Iranian known to Ahmet Ülker had been approached with a theoretical scenario and had apparently been most enthusiastic about the idea. He came from one of those old Isfahan families who had benefited from the rule of the Shah. Radicalised at university in England apparently, this young man could not be faulted for his zeal. But Nourazar distrusted Ali Reza Hajizadeh’s blood. He and his family had been amongst the elite. People like them had drunk alcohol and worn jewels and not even really been loyal to the Shah, much less the subsequent republic – just like Hadi Nourazar and his family. Now Ali Reza wanted to take jihad to the people of London and Ahmet Ülker was happy for him to do so. But then Ülker himself was not a believer. He drank, he had a big ostentatious house, a loose western wife. The ayatollah for different reasons didn’t trust him either. But Ülker was just a means to an end, and Hadi Nourazar felt that the end justified the use of such people. After all, if he, Hadi Nourazar, brought enough death to enough infidels, then the world, not just the Iranian government, would have to respect him. And then of course there was the money. That, more than anything, made Hadi smile. That, as nothing else about him, was real.

Derek Harrison had always had problems with sleep or, rather, he’d had problems since 28 February 1975. The Moorgate disaster was what everyone had called it. But ‘disaster’ hardly did it justice. Hell, more like. He’d been going to see his sister Phyllis down at the Barbican. She’d married a posh doctor and had a flat in that dull but expensive complex. Derek had still lived with his mum and dad in Highbury at the time. He’d just been taken on to do the underground driver’s course – his dream job – and so he was on top of the world. He’d quite naturally taken a tube down to Moorgate. He thought he’d walk to the Barbican from there, it was easy enough then. But when the train arrived at Moorgate, it didn’t stop. It ploughed into an overrun tunnel, hit a single hydraulic buffer and then smashed into the brick wall behind. The second and third carriages concertinaed into the first carriage and the driver’s cab. Forty-three people died immediately. But not Derek Harrison in carriage number three. Bleeding and terrified, he was in total darkness; all around him people were moaning and screaming but he himself seemed to be injured in only one foot. He couldn’t move his left leg below the knee at all. He had no idea about the internal injuries he had sustained.

It took the fire brigade four hours to free him. It was 120 degrees Fahrenheit down there by that time and he was boiling hot and ice-cold by turns. A doctor put him out for it because they had to cut off his foot at the scene. Then at Barts Hospital they took out his gall bladder and his spleen. By the time he left Barts, he had one foot and a stack of medication the doctors told him he would have to take for the rest of his life. London Underground was very sorry, both for the accident and for the fact that they could no longer consider him for a driver’s job. Would he consider maybe working in one of their ticket offices?

Derek Harrison, as he so often did, woke up screaming. Mr Yigit, who had never heard the like before, was ordered by his wife to go and see what on earth the matter was.

When he got to the door of Mr Harrison’s room, all Mr Yigit could hear was bitter weeping.

‘What are you doing?’

İkmen whipped round from watching the old man and his group of followers in the corner and found himself face to face with Mustafa.

‘I was cold,’ he said.

‘You’re paid to watch this place,’ Mustafa said. He took hold of İkmen’s arm and pulled him outside the factory.

‘As I said, I was cold,’ İkmen repeated.

‘Well, too bad,’ the bull-necked younger man said. ‘I know you’re getting on in age but Mr Ülker doesn’t pay you to snoop around.’

‘I wasn’t snooping, I was—’

‘Cold, yeah.’ Mustafa lit up a cigarette and then breathed out slowly, observing İkmen closely as he did so. ‘You were looking at the old man talking to the young men in the corner.’

‘He has a turban,’ İkmen said. ‘I thought that maybe he was a Hodja.’

‘I told you, he’s from Iran,’ Mustafa said.

‘The young men were very interested in what he was saying,’ İkmen said.

Mustafa frowned. ‘And what was that?’

‘I don’t know.’ İkmen shrugged. ‘I couldn’t understand.’

‘Mmm.’ Mustafa looked at his watch and realised that he should get back to guarding his own factory. ‘I must go. Don’t go inside again. There’s no delivery tonight and so there’s no need for you to. If you feel cold, rub your hands together or light a cigarette.’ Then he left.

İkmen breathed out slowly in order to calm his nerves. It had been unfortunate that he had been caught inside the building. Thank goodness the ayatollah had been speaking English to his little band of disciples, which as far as Mustafa was concerned meant that İkmen hadn’t understood a word. Some of the disciples seemed to be boys of Pakistani origin who could speak neither Turkish nor Farsi. The Iranian had spoken English very well and, İkmen thought, with a cultured accent.

In the main, what the ayatollah had said to the boys was inconsequential rhetoric but one thing he had said seemed significant: he would be leaving to ‘spread my word of truth yet further’ on Saturday morning. He didn’t say why he was leaving or where he was going but it seemed odd to İkmen that he should choose Saturday to move on. If an attack was planned for Friday then surely that was when the ayatollah would leave – if he was taking part. If he wasn’t taking part, it would make more sense for him to be clear of London before the attack took place. People around Ülker were making arrangements that did not seem to add up.

İkmen sent a text to Terry with this latest piece of information and then went back to doing his job. Not that there was much to do, with no deliveries and apparently no one lurking around the area taking drugs or drinking. There were, however, ominous sounds from inside the factory – people being shouted at and beaten.

Although he knew full well that his wife had gone downstairs and that she was upset, Ahmet Ülker did not leave his bed to follow her. She was drinking gin, smoking and crying in the kitchen not for him or anything he had done but because of her boyfriend Ali Reza. The Iranian was now telling those around him that, from Friday, he was going away for a while. Maxine, besotted with him, was devastated.

Ahmet had known about their affair for months. One didn’t get to run a massive organisation like his without knowing everything about everyone all of the time. He knew, for instance, that his right-hand man, Derek Harrison, was fully aware of the affair between Maxine and Ali Reza Hajizadeh. He could understand why Derek hadn’t passed this on to him – he didn’t want distractions until the job was done. All the same, he needed to be taught a lesson in loyalty – but that could wait. Maxine was going to get the surprise of her life when Ali Reza not only left her but made the national headlines also – that is, if he let her see them. Ahmet pulled a disgusted face. How awful these fanatics were! But dealing with a small organisation like the Brothers of the Light wasn’t like getting into bed with something like al Qaeda. There was no one behind the Brothers. The Iranians had kicked Hadi Nourazar out and what he did was in no way controlled by them. Ahmet could, in theory, dispose of the cleric and his men in any way he chose once they’d fulfilled their purpose. In fact that might be something to ask his new partners about.

Maxine came back into the bedroom with a glass of water and was surprised to see her husband sitting up in bed.

‘Oh . . .’

‘Don’t worry, you didn’t wake me,’ Ahmet said with a smile. ‘Are you OK, my darling?’

Maxine looked down at the floor. ‘Just a bad nightmare,’ she said and slipped back into bed.

Ahmet put an arm round his wife’s shoulders and leant across to kiss her. ‘Let me take that nasty thing away for you,’ he said. And then gently and slowly he made love to her. While he did it, all he could think about was how he was going to enjoy killing her when all of this was over. No one had ever got away with cheating on Ahmet Ülker and no one, especially not some cheap lap dancer, ever would.

Just before he went to sleep he said, ‘How about we take the covers off the swimming pool tomorrow? It’s nice weather now.’

‘Pool needs cleaning,’ a half-asleep Maxine replied.

‘Oh, well then I’d better get the pool man in, hadn’t I?’ her husband replied.

Çetin İkmen had often wondered how it would feel to be a citizen of another country. He was Turkish and proud to be so, but what if his parents had moved somewhere else when he was little? What if they had gone to Germany or England? If that had happened, where would his loyalties lie now? Unwittingly, Ayşe answered the question. They were standing outside the Tower of London and İkmen was looking somewhat askance at the Beefeaters.

‘Why do they wear clothes that surely are from the time of Henry the Eighth?’ he asked. ‘And if they are supposed to be guarding the Tower, why do they only carry pikes?’

‘You’d like to see them carry guns?’ Ayşe asked.

‘No. But if they’re guarding the place, I mean given current realities . . .’

‘The Tower is very well-protected, believe me,’ Ayşe said. ‘As for the Beefeaters and their clothes, well, yes, they are Tudor, and why not? It’s tradition. In İstanbul you have the Mehter, the Ottoman military band. I don’t see them wearing modern clothes. Here we have something that reflects our past.’

‘Our past?’

‘Like it or not, Uncle Çetin, I am both British and Turkish,’ Ayşe said with a smile. ‘As a police officer in this country I have sworn allegiance to the Queen. I am proud of my Turkish heritage but that doesn’t stop me from being a true Brit, or rather a particular type of Brit.’

İkmen frowned.

‘I’m a Mancunian,’ Ayşe said. ‘You talk about wanting to go home to Turkey and your family, I can’t wait to get back to Manchester and my folk. Apart from the odd inter-gang incident, the Met didn’t have too much to do with the Turkish community until Ahmet Ülker started flexing his muscles. At first they thought they’d just shut him down. But when it became apparent that he had other business interests in other places, the decision was taken to keep him under surveillance until such time as he could be taken down properly.’ She pointed to the great yellow and grey castle and said, ‘Do you want to go in?’

‘I would like to,’ İkmen said, ‘but I don’t think there’s enough time. I need to see this Mark Lane and the area around it.’

Ayşe held her arm out to him. ‘OK. Why don’t we just walk beside the river. I can show you the main features – Traitor’s Gate, the White Tower – and you can see where the mayor of London lives too.’