The Horse at the Gates (50 page)

Saeed’s eyes widened. He shot out of his chair, sending it bouncing off the wall behind him. The camel train wobbled above his head. ‘Wait! Where’s Bryce?’

‘Gone.’

Saeed could feel his heart pounding inside his chest. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Gone. Escaped,’ Parry blurted down the line. ‘I’ve checked with security. An unidentified male used Sully’s card to access the main gate some days ago. It must’ve been Bryce. He’s gone.’

Saeed stared at the phone in his hand.

‘Listen!’ Parry hissed, ‘whoever you are, I need help here! I didn’t sign up for this! I’ve done what you asked, now I want–’

Saeed stabbed at the Nokia and dropped it back into his pocket. Bryce gone? How was that remotely possible? He was permanently drugged to the eyeballs, locked in a secure wing, monitored by two professionals. How did he overpower Sully? Where was he now? What was he planning? So many unanswered questions. And so much failure – not his, but that of others. Like Parry.

He stood there for several moments, fighting the panic, the rising anger that swirled inside him, threatening to choke him. He ground his teeth and bunched his fists, filled with a sudden urge to break something, to smash it into a thousand pieces. He reached for the phone on his desk, picking up the receiver and hammering the base unit until it cracked open, spilling its electronic guts across the polished surface. A shard of plastic stabbed him beneath the nail and Saeed roared with fury. He tugged at the phone once, twice, until the cable snapped and the shattered device came free in his hands. Without thinking he hurled it across the room with a scream of rage. It sailed through the air and hit the glass lip of the model, the battered instrument tumbling end over end, cutting a path of destruction through the miniature streets of the new Whitehall.

‘No!’ Saeed wailed, and bolted across the room. He cringed, a hand held over his mouth, surveying the damage to the model’s intricate and painstaking construction with abject horror. Behind him the outer office door burst open and his staff rushed in, their faces bewildered, anxious. Saeed ignored them all.

He leaned over the ruined model and saw the crumpled buildings, the shattered streets, the magnificent mosque, now destroyed. He reached out with a finger and gently touched its crushed dome, the delicate minarets severed and scattered into several pieces across the tiny but perfectly manicured lawns of St. James’ Park. Then he heard the whirr of the wheelchair, the squeak of the rubber wheels as Ella Jackson came to a stop beside him. Saeed, his face in his hands, turned to look at her.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, the smile creeping across her face, the fire once again dancing behind her eyes. ‘What a terrible shame.’

Danny sat at the table, a tobacco-stained finger tracing its scarred surface, wondering for the thousandth time how he’d ended up in his present position. He’d run all the scenarios over in his mind, all the theories and possible outcomes, and arrived at one inescapable conclusion – he was fucked. His only option now was to make a run for it, but the chances of escape, like his future, looked bleak. His wrists were secured with a pair of rigid handcuffs, the windowless interview room was locked and two Dutch policemen stood outside, occasionally peering at him through the small spy hole. Even if he managed to get out of this room, he was still locked within the interrogation wing of a high security prison in Holland, so escape wasn’t exactly a practical option.

He brought his hands up to his mouth and sucked deeply on the self-rolled cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a long, thin plume. He watched it billow up toward the ceiling in a blue cloud, before being sucked violently out of the room by the extractor in the ceiling. It hummed quietly overhead, its once-white plastic housing now stained brown, its gentle rattle the only sound on the dead, insulated air.

He took another drag then coughed violently, the unfiltered rollup catching at the back of his throat, the nicotine slowly regaining its poisonous hold on his lungs. He’d started smoking again the day he was captured, because he knew he’d pick up the habit again in prison. There was nothing else to do when you’re banged up. Watch TV, read, eat, sleep, smoke – that was about the strength of it. He’d be an old man by the time he was fit for release, so fuck it, he might as well start now.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror that made up most of the opposite wall. He looked like a tramp. His hair was a greasy mess, the beard even worse. As soon as they let him have a razor that would come off, he promised himself. Even the healthy outdoor glow he’d developed back in Hertfordshire was gone, replaced by the pasty pallor he’d been accustomed to for most of his adult life. The old Danny was back, the one from the Longhill estate, not the mug who thought life might just turn out alright. That bloke was long gone.

He wondered who was behind that mirror. There had to be someone there because the two coppers who were interviewing him turned around every so often, as if getting the nod from someone behind it. Then one would leave the room and the other would continue to question him, then after a while the other bloke would come back and – fuck it, it didn’t matter. He’d told them a hundred times about the drink with Sully, about the truck in Kings Cross, but he wasn’t sure if they believed him. It was hard to read these Counter Terrorist types, but Danny thought he’d managed to persuade them that some of his story was true. Occasionally, they would look at each other, then disappear outside for a chat. At one stage he thought he’d heard them arguing in the corridor. Or was that a dream? He wasn’t sure, because they’d questioned him day and night for four days and he’d got little sleep. Start recording, stop recording, tell us about this Danny, tell us about that Danny, in your own words, Danny – it was never ending. Still, at least they were English. For Danny, there was no more depressing scenario than being banged up in a foreign jail, but European law trumped English law, so here he was. The good news was that Human Rights legislation meant he wouldn’t have to serve his sentence here. He hoped he’d end up somewhere close to London, so dad could visit.

He turned at the sound of raised voices again, muffled behind the acoustically insulated door, like men shouting with socks in their mouths. He sniggered at the mental image, stubbing his cigarette out in the cheap metal ashtray. The table was well-worn, its plastic surface scored by years of graffiti. Danny couldn’t read any of it, the confusing swirls of Arabic and God knows what else meaning nothing to him. He briefly considered adding his own name, using the metal edge of the cuffs, but decided against it. Someone lurked behind the mirror, watching him, studying him, probably recording his every movement. He stared at his reflection a moment longer then looked away, his eyes roaming the soundproofed walls. He studied the posters again, some of which were in English. One showed the Euro flag, the ring of stars flying above the Pyramids in Egypt;
Working to build a better Europe
it announced. Another showed a smiling Dutch policeman kneeling in front of a young boy as he recorded his details.
For Your Security
.

Once again, Danny’s eyes came to rest on the poster to his right. It was a black and white still photo of the Luton mosque, taken right after the explosion. The building was in ruins, smoke and flames belching from inside its shattered walls. In the foreground, a young Muslim boy, about six or seven years old, his clothes burnt off, his skin peeling, screamed silently at the lens:
Hate crime – Suspect it? Report it!
Danny thought they put that one up just for him.

He turned away as the door swung open and the two Brit cops filed back into the room. In the corridor behind them he caught a glimpse of a group of people, robed judges, suited lawyer-types and a couple of bearded religious dudes, all deep in discussion. Then the heavy door closed and the officers sat themselves down in two plastic chairs across the table. They placed their files and folders in front of them, but they didn’t start flicking through them as they usually did. Danny thought that was unusual. They were always referring to notes or statements. Nor did they activate the Audio Visual recording systems. In fact, they both sat there, staring down at their folders, silent.

‘This is a first,’ grinned Danny, looking at each man in turn. ‘What, no questions?’ Then he stopped smiling. He studied their faces again, thought he saw disappointment in the eyes, the slope of defeat in the shoulders. Something was up. A ray of hope suddenly burnt through Danny’s lingering cloud of fatalism. New information, that must be it. Someone had come forward, a fresh witness maybe, someone who knew the truth about Luton. He leaned forward on the table, his hand slapping the surface triumphantly. ‘You’ve got something, new evidence, yeah? Proves I’m telling the truth? That’s it, isn’t it?’

The senior officer, Harris, glanced up. He was older than Danny, mid-fifties, his thinning, dark hair combed back off his high forehead, his cheeks sunken, his scrawny neck disappearing inside an open-necked pale blue shirt.
You look worse than me,
Danny decided.

‘Your father was released this morning from Wandsworth Prison. No charges will be brought.’

‘Really?’ Harris nodded and Danny felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘That’s great news, Mr Harris. Like I said, he never had anything to do with this.’

Harris paused a moment, then went on. ‘There’s been a development, Danny.’ He glanced at his younger colleague, who caught the look and sighed heavily. Danny’s eyes flicked from one man to the other.

‘What development?’ The clouds began shifting, gathering once more to snuff out the light.

‘It’s a serious one. Concerning your case.’ Harris folded his hands together and squirmed in his chair, the red plastic creaking beneath his backside. ‘Look, I’ve been doing this job a long time, almost thirty years in fact. After a while you get a feel for people, Danny. It becomes easy to spot a liar–’

‘I’m not lying!’ Danny blurted.

Harris held up his hands. ‘Take it easy, mate. Let me finish.’ Danny slumped back into his seat, his white forensic one-piece overall rustling against his skin. Harris continued slowly, deliberately. ‘I believe you, Danny. So does DS Stubbs here. But what we’re faced with, what the prosecutors are in a feeding frenzy over, is the sheer weight of evidence. Let’s go over it again.’ He held up his hand, tapping each of his spindly fingers in turn. ‘The truck bomb was delivered to the Luton mosque by you, you’ve admitted that.’

‘For the millionth time, I didn’t know it was a bomb.’

Harris tapped another finger. ‘Architectural drawings of the mosque were found in your father’s apartment.’

‘Planted.’

‘You used to work for the Government Mail Service, from where a vehicle was procured and used to detonate the Downing Street bomb.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘You had experience with ordnance during your army career–’

Danny jerked out of his chair. ‘I was a bloody driver!’ he raged. ‘I told you a thousand times, I’ve been set up! I’m innocent!’

DS Stubbs shoved a folder across the table and swept it open. The photo was in black and white, the body slumped on the ground, the floorboards soaked with blood. ‘You killed this enforcement officer in Battersea with an unregistered firearm. When arrested you had an ID card with false details in your possession, plus access to a clean vehicle. Yet you expect us to believe that you spent your whole time on the run in a railway siding in Neasden? You want to talk bullshit, Danny? There’s a bucketload, right there.’

Danny slumped back into his chair, defeated. ‘I told you,’ he mumbled, ‘Sully got me the gun, and the ID. He organised the car, too.’

‘What else did he do?’ snapped Stubbs. ‘Come round and wipe your arse? Read you a bedtime story? Why did you need a gun if you’re not a murderer?’

‘For protection, Sully said. I wasn’t gonna argue with him, was I?’

Harris shook his head. ‘There’s another problem, right there. This Sully person, we can’t seem to find him. No surname, no known address, no record of a man matching his description being released from Winchester Prison. And when you met him in the King’s Head, when he came to visit you in your little hideout, he managed to avoid every CCTV camera in the area. Man’s like a ghost. Almost like he never existed.’ Harris moved his folders to one side and leaned forward on the table. ‘Look, we know you’re not a murderer, Danny, but the fact is you’re heavily involved in a major terrorist atrocity and you’re not telling us everything. You’ve had help along the way, serious help from serious people.’