False Friends (37 page)

Bangladeshi origin but born in the UK. They were both students there up until three years ago. For a while they were ful -blown fundamentalists wearing skul caps and dishdashas to lectures and growing their beards long, then they went off the radar. We know they visited Pakistan last year for six months, and as you can see from the CCTV photographs they are now clean-shaven and wearing western clothing, which is as big a red flag as you’l ever get. They’ve obviously been told to alter their appearance to blend in.’

She pointed at one of the two remaining photographs. ‘This one wasn’t on our watch list but we got a match from the Police National Computer.

His father and elder brother set fire to his younger sister five years ago. Third-degree burns over most of her body and she’l never walk again. The father and brother were sent down for ten years. He was also charged but the CPS didn’t think there was a good enough case to make against him.’

‘Honour kil ing?’

‘Not much honour in it, but yes, they wanted her dead because she was going out with a Sikh boy. She was seventeen. She survived only because a neighbour saw what was going on and dial ed 999. Although when the ambulance arrived the entire family turned on the paramedics and said that it was Al ah’s wil that she died. Anyway, this guy is from Bradford and had no legitimate reason to be at St Pancras that we know of; plus, he was in Pakistan last year, supposedly to attend a wedding but we’ve checked flight manifests and he was out of the country for three months.’

‘Must have been one hel of a wedding.’

Button ran a finger along the last photograph. ‘This one’s a little unusual in that he’s Egyptian and not Pakistani. Riffat Pasha. At least that was the name he used when he claimed political asylum a few years back. He popped back up on the radar when he started posting on a Fundamentalist website, one of those “kil al infidels and we’l go to Heaven” rant sites. He’s working in a hotel in Mayfair as a kitchen porter.’

‘Why hasn’t he been deported?’

‘Because there’s a whole industry geared up to keeping him here. He’s had a child with a Portuguese woman so if we did try to throw him out of the country his human rights would kick in. Besides, he hasn’t actual y done anything yet, other than post inflammatory statements.’

‘Are you thinking his hotel could be the target?’

‘It would make sense. We’re getting someone to take a look at their staff list to see if anyone else there is on our watch list.’ She sat down again.

‘Once we’ve identified al the members of the cel we can put them under surveil ance.’

‘What about nipping it in the bud and pul ing them in now? The rehearsal has to be evidence of conspiracy, hasn’t it?’

‘We’ve gone in too soon before and it always ends in tears,’ said Button. ‘The cases col apse and the suspects get public sympathy and compensation. We need to catch them in the act, or at least with weapons or explosives.’

‘I wish I had your confidence,’ said Shepherd.

‘Spider, we’l have them under constant surveil ance and as soon as it looks like they’re ready to go we’l move in. We’l have al the phone taps we need and we’l be monitoring emails; we’re also looking to get trackers fixed to the vehicles. We’ve identified four vans dropping off Asians with backpacks, the one Chaudhry and Malik were in and three others. We’re running checks on the vans now, but they were al sold within the last two weeks so we’re not holding out much hope that we’l be able to trace the new owners. However, we’l put an al -points alert out on them so fingers crossed we’l spot the vans somewhere.’

‘Unless they trash the vans and get new ones for the operation.’

‘There’s no need for them to do that,’ said Button. ‘So far as they’re concerned the rehearsal went perfectly. I understand your concerns, but we need to let this run a while longer.’

‘You’re the boss, Charlie,’ said Shepherd.

‘Don’t worry, I know where the buck stops,’ she said.

‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about.’

‘I’m al ears.’

‘Kettering just phoned to say that he wants to hook me up with a German guy.’

Button’s eyes widened. ‘That’s bril iant, Spider.’

‘Is it, though? He says he wants to link me up with him in London tomorrow and that we could be talking about a big arms sale. But my Spidey sense is tingling.’

‘What’s the problem?’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t feel right. It came out of the blue and now it’s rush, rush, rush. And the timing is off. It would make more sense for them to wait until we’ve delivered the first order.’

‘What does Fenby say?’

‘His phone’s off,’ said Shepherd. ‘Went straight through to voicemail. I left a message for him to cal me.’

Button toyed with a smal gold stud earring as she looked at him thoughtful y. ‘You realise it would move the investigation up a notch,’ she said. ‘If we could link Kettering and Thompson to terrorist groups in Europe.’

‘I know, I know. I wish I could be more enthusiastic. But . . .’ He raised his hands and then let them fal back on to the table. ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’

Button stopped playing with her earring and nodded slowly. ‘Then we go with your instincts,’ she said.

‘I just don’t want to screw it up because of a hunch.’

‘What about Sam? Have you spoken to him?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘He’s not going to be able to advise me, and if I do go sticking my head into the lion’s den I don’t want the Brummie cops watching my back.’

‘So you’re thinking of meeting them? Even though you have doubts?’

Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘If I don’t Kettering’s going to know there’s something wrong, isn’t he? I might be able to play for time, but if I refuse to meet the German then there’s every chance he’l pul out of our deal, which means everything goes tits up.’ He sat back and sighed. ‘I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s a rock and a hard place.’

‘We can minimise the risks,’ said Button.

‘I’l have to talk to Razor. Kettering wants him there too.’

‘But he can’t tel Sam. You realise that, don’t you?’

Shepherd smiled rueful y. ‘I hope you can see the irony of that,’ he said. ‘You tel Sam Hargrove to keep Razor in the dark, and now you want Razor to lie to Sam.’

‘Point taken,’ said Button. ‘What would you rather do? Is it better to tel Sam and have him lie to the Birmingham cops, or keep him in the dark?’

‘If it al goes wrong he’s going to find out anyway.’

‘So you want me to fil him in? I’m happy enough to do that. Though it might wel mean that MI5 takes over the entire operation.’

‘To be honest, it looks like we’re heading that way whatever happens,’ said Shepherd. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, Razor and I go to the meeting. Five provides the back-up. You fil Sam in.’

‘Where and when are you going to see them?’

Shepherd shrugged ‘He’s going to let me know first thing tomorrow.’

‘And what do you want in the way of support?’ asked Button.

‘Armed back-up, close but not obtrusive. And I’l go to see Amar and fix myself up with a GPS tracker and audio.’

‘Whatever you need,’ said Button.

‘Guns is what we’l need, Charlie.’

‘You want to be armed?’

‘It’l fit in with our legends. We’re underground arms dealers. No reason we couldn’t be carrying.’

Button grimaced. ‘I don’t see that we can authorise Razor to carry a weapon.’

‘But it’s not a problem for me, right?’

‘It’s a lot of paperwork, but I’l make it happen,’ said Button. ‘But, please, try not to shoot anyone.’

‘I’l do my best,’ said Shepherd.

Abu al Khayr tapped on the steering wheel as he looked up and down the street. It was early evening, the pavements were crowded and there was a steady stream of people pouring out of the tube station. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ he asked.

Khalid was sitting in the passenger seat, toying with a subha, a string of Muslim prayer beads. There were one hundred wooden beads on the string, one as big as a pea and the rest about a third of the size. Some of the beads were made of a wood that was as black as polished coal, and others were a dark brown, close to the colour of Khalid’s own skin. The smal beads were there so that he could keep track of the ninety-nine times that he repeated the name of Al ah whenever he prayed. He wasn’t praying as he sat in the van; he fingered the beads merely from habit. The beads had been a gift from his father on the day that he had turned eighteen, and he had carried them every day since. ‘He’l come,’ said Khalid.

‘He thinks we’re going to eat. He never turns down free food.’

‘And you think he’s a traitor?’

Khalid continued to let the beads slip through his fingers one at a time. ‘I’m not sure. But traitor or not, we have to do what we have to do.’

Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘You are right, brother. We can’t afford any weak links, not at this stage.’

Khalid looked at the digital clock in the dashboard. It was seven o’clock.

‘There he is,’ said Abu al Khayr. He nodded at the entrance to the tube.

Khalid smiled when he saw the three men crossing the road towards the van. The man in the middle was Tariq Jamot, a regular at the Dynevor Road mosque. He worked for a tyre and exhaust centre and his fondness for fast food meant that he was a good fifty pounds overweight and had earned the nickname Fat Boy. The men either side of him were tal er and leaner. Al were second-generation Pakistanis, though only Jamot was London-born; his companions had grown up in Leeds. Fat Boy trusted the men he was with; there was no question of that. They often prayed together and they had attended the extra lessons that the mul ah held in the mosque late into the night after last prayers. That was where they had been selected for further training and offered the chance to go to Pakistan. Al had accepted the offer and al had returned committed to jihad and prepared to give their lives for the faith. Except that when the cal had come, Fat Boy had been found wanting. The two men with Fat Boy had both arrived at St Pancras, ready and wil ing to do whatever had been asked of them. Fat Boy had received the cal but had stayed at home, claiming that he was unwel .

Khalid waved through the open window and the three men waved back.

‘Lamb to the slaughter,’ murmured Abu al Khayr.

‘Hush, brother,’ said Khalid, stil fingering the beads. ‘And smile.’

Abu al Khayr smiled and revved the engine as the three men got into the van through the side door and took their seats, Fat Boy stil in the middle.

‘I have booked a table at a restaurant owned by a friend of mine,’ said Khalid, twisting round in his seat. ‘He makes the best chapli kebabs in London.’

‘My favourite,’ said Fat Boy, rubbing his hands together.

Khalid smiled. He knew that.

The five men chatted and joked as Abu al Khayr drove to the restaurant in Seven Sisters, a couple of miles north of Stoke Newington. The traffic was heavy but even so they pul ed up in an al ey at the rear of the restaurant after just fifteen minutes.

The three men in the back climbed out and Khalid joined them. ‘I’l find somewhere to park,’ said Abu al Khayr, and he drove off.

‘Right, brothers, in we go,’ said Khalid.

He pushed open a wooden door that led into a smal yard where there were a couple of mopeds with boxes on the back label ed with the restaurant’s name and phone number. There was a wooden shed to the right, packed with cases of canned food and cleaning equipment. Khalid walked to the back of the building and knocked on the door there. A lock clicked and the door was opened by a cook in a stained white apron. He nodded at Khalid and the four men trooped inside. They were in a kitchen lined with stainless-steel work surfaces, two grease-covered ranges covered by dirty extractor hoods and three old refrigerators. One of the fridges shuddered as its compressor went off. Hanging from hooks were metal spatulas, spoons and knives.

‘Are they shut?’ asked Fat Boy. ‘Why’s no one cooking?’

‘They opened special y for us,’ said Khalid. He gestured with his chin and the cook locked the back door.

A pair of double doors swung open and two men appeared, dark-skinned and with matching heavy moustaches. One of them was carrying a wooden chair and the other was holding a carrier bag. The one with the chair set it down, then he hugged Khalid and kissed him on both cheeks.

The second man fol owed suit.

‘Which one is it?’ asked the man who had brought in the chair.

Khalid turned and pointed at Fat Boy. ‘Him.’

Fat Boy stiffened, but before he could move his two companions each grabbed an arm. He struggled so they held him tightly. ‘What?’ said Fat Boy. ‘What do you want? What’s happening?’

Khalid looked at him coldly. ‘It’s time to pay the price for your cowardice,’ he said.

Fat Boy opened his mouth to scream but the cook stepped forward and shoved a cloth into his mouth, then tied it roughly at the back of his neck.

Fat Boy tried to push himself backwards but his shoes couldn’t get any traction on the tiled floor.

Khalid set the chair down in the middle of the kitchen and motioned for the two men to get Fat Boy to sit. Fat Boy struggled but he was out of condition and the men holding him were fitter and stronger. His instructors in Pakistan had told him that he needed to lose weight and exercise more and for a few weeks he’d fol owed their advice but as soon as he’d returned to London he’d fal en back into his bad habits. It was a question of discipline, Khalid knew. To carry out jihad one had to be focused, committed and driven. A jihad fighter needed to be physical y and mental y fit, and Fat Boy was neither. With hindsight it had been a mistake to send him to Pakistan, but it was felt that his technical expertise would be useful.

And that much was true. He had taken natural y to bomb-making and at one point his instructors had considered sending him to Iraq to help with the struggle against the occupying powers.

The man with the carrier bag knelt down by Fat Boy’s side. He took out a rol of duct tape and used it to bind Fat Boy’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Once the legs were securely bound he used the tape to fasten Fat Boy’s wrists together.