Hot Blood Page 11

‘Do you even know what a submachine-gun is?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘It’s a gun that can fire bursts of bullets,’ said Fazal.

  ‘Right, and they’re bloody dangerous,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘So what? You sell them with health warnings, do you?’ asked Ali. ‘We have the money and we want to buy. If you can’t supply us, we can go elsewhere.’

  ‘What make?’ asked Shepherd.

  Fazal shrugged. ‘Uzi, maybe.’

  ‘How about MP5s, the guns the SAS use?’

  ‘You can get one?’

  ‘We can get you anything, for a price,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you’d be better off telling me what you want them for.’

  Fazal and Ali looked at each other and Fazal began to speak in Urdu, but Sharpe held up his hand. ‘Use English,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got problems with a gang,’ said Fazal. ‘A big gang. We want guns that show we mean business.’

  Shepherd stopped walking. They were close to the wire fence that separated the memorial from the rest of the park. ‘Are you planning to fire them?’

  Fazal frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We generally offer a deal. You buy the guns from us, but if you don’t fire them we’ll buy them back. It’s like renting.’

  ‘Why would anyone rent a gun?’ asked Fazal.

  Sharpe sighed theatrically. ‘Say a guy wants to knock over a bank. He wants a shooter but he doesn’t fire it, just uses it to get the money. Once he’s got the cash, he doesn’t need the gun any more so he sells it back to us. But if he fires it the gun can be traced so it’s no use to us. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fazal. ‘I get it.’

  ‘So, will you be wanting to sell the guns back after you’ve finished with them?’ asked Shepherd.

  Ali and Fazal exchanged another look. ‘Maybe,’ said Fazal. ‘But we have to pay the full amount up front, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Depends on how many you want. And how many rounds.’

  ‘Five guns.’

  ‘Okay. Look, if you want something with a high rate of fire, maybe you should think about the Ingram MAC-10. It’s like an Uzi but smaller. The magazine holds thirty rounds and it’ll fire them all in less than a second.’

  ‘How much?’ said Fazal.

  ‘Two thousand pounds each,’ said Shepherd. The going rate on the street was five hundred less but he wanted to see if the men knew how much the weapons were worth.

  ‘So, ten grand for the five?’ asked Fazal.

  ‘Studied maths at university, did you?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘Ten grand, that’s right,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And what about the bullets?’

  ‘We call them rounds,’ said Sharpe.

  Fazal glared at Sharpe. ‘Have you got a problem with me?’ he said.

  Sharpe glared back. ‘I don’t like dealing with amateurs. If they get caught, they tend to sing to the cops.’

  ‘We won’t be talking to the police,’ said Fazal. ‘You can count on that.’

  ‘Let’s keep to the matter in hand,’ said Shepherd. ‘Five Ingrams is ten grand. I can sell you a hundred rounds for five hundred quid.’ That was way over the going rate, too, but the men just shrugged.

  ‘We’d need six hundred,’ said Fazal.

  ‘Six hundred rounds?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ asked Fazal.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Shepherd, ‘but it’s a lot.’

  ‘You can get them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’d expect a discount,’ said Ali.

  ‘Six hundred rounds? I could let you have them for two and a half grand.’

  ‘Two,’ said Ali. ‘Ten for the guns, two for the ammo. Twelve thousand pounds in all.’

  Shepherd nodded slowly. The two men clearly had no idea of the true value of the weapons they were buying.

  ‘The magazines,’ said Fazal. ‘How many magazines would we get?’

  ‘One for each weapon,’ said Shepherd, ‘plus a spare. That’s standard.’

  ‘We need more.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Thirty bullets in each, right?’

  ‘Yes. But, as Lomas said, we call them rounds.’

  ‘So we need twenty.’

  ‘Twenty magazines? You want all the rounds loaded into magazines?’

  ‘Yeah, we want twenty magazines. How much?’

  ‘Another five hundred.’

  ‘So twelve and a half grand for the five guns, twenty magazines and six hundred rounds?’ said Ali.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fazal.

  ‘When do you need them by?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ said Fazal.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to fix a time and place,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll tell you where and when. The time and location are non-negotiable.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Fazal.

  ‘Make sure your mobile is on. If I call and you don’t answer, the deal’s off. One more thing.’ Shepherd turned and gestured at Hassan. ‘Tell your mate over there to come here.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Fazal.

  ‘Your mate with the camera. The one that’s been snapping away at us for the past five minutes. Tell him to come here now or I’ll roll up that copy of the Guardian and force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting out the crossword clues for the next two days.’

  Fazal stared at him for a few seconds, then waved Hassan over to him. The man pretended not to understand and looked away, but then Ali called over to him in Urdu.

  ‘English,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Come here!’ shouted Ali.

  Hassan walked towards them, swinging the camera back and forth, eyes darting nervously between Shepherd and Ali. He went to stand beside Ali. Shepherd held out his hand for the camera. Hassan put it behind his back, like a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘Don’t screw around, sonny,’ said Shepherd. ‘Give me the camera.’

  Hassan held it out reluctantly and Shepherd snatched it. It was a digital Nikon. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked Ali.

  ‘We don’t know you,’ said Ali.

  ‘So how does having our picture help?’

  ‘We thought it would give us some security,’ said Ali, ‘if anything went wrong.’

  ‘If anything goes wrong, I will personally shoot you both,’ said Shepherd, ‘and those idiots playing with the Frisbee. I’ll put you all on crutches, whether or not you’ve got photographs of me.’ He flicked open the slot that contained the memory chip. Hassan protested as he pulled it out: ‘Hey! That’s a gigabyte!’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Shepherd. He tossed the camera into the water. ‘And that’s an underwater camera.’

  Hassan yelped and jumped into the water memorial.

  ‘That camera cost two thousand pounds!’ said Ali. ‘His father lent him the money.’

  Hassan was groping around in the water, moaning.

  ‘Well, he should be more careful about where he points it,’ said Shepherd.

  He and Sharpe walked away, hands in their pockets. ‘Did you make out the agent?’ asked Sharpe, as they reached the entrance to the park.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I figured it can’t be the brothers, right? No way would a guy want to put his own brother away. I’d put my money on Fazal. The tall dark silent one.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Five Ingrams is one hell of a lot of firepower,’ said Sharpe, ‘and they want all the rounds in magazines, which suggests they’re going to keep blazing away. Can you imagine what five guys with Ingrams could do in a shopping mall?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, frowning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘Just my bloody house. Estate agents, solicitors, removal men. It’s a bloody nightmare.
I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

  ‘Fancy a pint?’

  ‘I’ll take a rain check, Razor. I want to get home.’

  Kamil picked up his queen, smiled apologetically at Mitchell and put it down next to Mitchell’s king. ‘Checkmate,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You play well,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘My father taught me, when I was a boy,’ said Kamil.

  ‘He taught you well.’ Mitchell put the last piece of lamb into his mouth, then Kamil took the paper plate and stood up. ‘Can I borrow the chess set?’ asked Mitchell. ‘I want to practise some openings.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to give you a better game next time.’

  Kamil looked as if he was going to refuse, but then handed it to Mitchell. ‘We shall play again tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Mitchell, then went to stand against the wall. Kamil knocked on the door. It opened and he slipped out.

  Mitchell waited until the door had been bolted and the sound of footsteps had faded, then knelt in front of the plug. The chess pieces were circular, each about the size of a penny, metal discs covered with plastic, black or white and embossed with a symbol denoting the piece they represented. He took a black pawn and pushed the side into the top screw in the socket. He wiggled the disc until he felt it bite, then pressed hard and twisted anti-clockwise. The screw moved a quarter of a turn and Mitchell grinned. It was going to work. He pulled out the disc and examined it. The plastic was indented, where it had been forced into the screw head, but not ripped. He smoothed it between his finger and thumb, then put it back on the board and picked up another. He used that to turn the screw another quarter turn. This time it moved easily.

  Yokely walked into the interrogation room carrying a mug of coffee. The Saudi was wearing an orange jumpsuit and his hands and legs were shackled. He was a lot thinner than he had been the last time Yokely had seen him. He had grown a beard, too, but his hair was cut short. There were dark patches under his eyes and a rash of acne across the right side of his neck, which was raw where he’d been scratching it. ‘So how are you, Abdal-Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed?’ asked Yokely, stretching out the syllables.

  The Saudi sneered at him, then pointedly looked away.

  ‘Taking care of you, are we? Plenty of clean underwear, and there’s an arrow on the ceiling of your cell pointing towards Mecca. Food prepared in accordance with your religious beliefs.’ Yokely sat down and adjusted his shirt cuffs. ‘How long have you been here now? Six months? I’ve lost track of time.’

  The Saudi said nothing.

  ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’ asked Yokely, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on to the table. He saw distaste in the Saudi’s eyes. ‘Public-school education, first-class degree from the London School of Economics. Well travelled. And me? What am I? The ugly American. Big, stupid, insensitive.’ He raised his coffee mug. ‘Guilty as charged. In the words of the great philosopher Popeye, I am what I am.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I’d offer you some but I know that any form of stimulant is against your Islamic principles,’ he said. ‘So I won’t be putting temptation your way.’ He took another sip and sighed. ‘The thing is, if you’re so smart, why are you the one in chains wearing an orange jumpsuit, and why am I sitting here drinking coffee with an inch-thick T-bone steak waiting for me outside? One of life’s little mysteries, I guess.’

  He swung his feet off the table and sat with his hands round the mug. ‘When do you think the modern Islamic movement started, Mr Ahmed?’

  The Saudi stared sullenly at the floor. The door behind Yokely opened and a man in starched fatigues walked in. He put a tray on the table, then left without a word. A plate piled high with fried chicken, two steaming freshly baked hunks of cornbread and a bowl of coleslaw lay before them.

  ‘I think it goes back to 1928. The Muslim Brotherhood was formed by Sayyid Qutb. There are those who say he just stole the ideas of Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab, but I think he was very much his own man. Sayyid felt that the only way to stop the decline of Islam was if a small devoted team of what he saw as true Muslims applied themselves to forming as many Islamic governments as possible. I’m paraphrasing, of course.’

  The Saudi was trying not to look at the fried chicken.

  ‘There were those who thought the Muslim Brotherhood was too soft, so one of Sayyid’s proteégeés, Sheikh Taqiuddin al-Nabhani set up the more radical Hizb ut-Tahrir, the Party of Liberation. Nabhani thought that Islam and Western civilisation were mutually exclusive, that the two could not co-exist and that the only way to liberate Muslims would be to overthrow the existing nation states and replace them with a borderless world ruled by a new caliph. Since nine/eleven Hizb ut-Tahrir has been arguing that all Muslims are in a state of war.’ Yokely grinned. ‘Which would make me the enemy, of course.’ He waved at the fried chicken. ‘I’ve got a steak waiting for me outside, so please help yourself.’

  The Saudi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked away.

  ‘Go on, Mr Ahmed. I know the processed rubbish they feed you here must be getting you down. You used to eat in some of the best restaurants in the world, didn’t you? How did you rate The Ivy in London? It’s just about my favourite restaurant anywhere. Their fish and chips – out of this world. A simple dish, traditional British food, but perfectly cooked.’

  The Saudi said nothing.

  ‘The funny thing is, fish and chips isn’t the British national dish any more. Did you know that?’

  The Saudi didn’t speak.

  ‘These days, the British eat more chicken tikka masala than they do fish and chips. Amazing, when you think about it. Indian food – the Brits eat more of it than anything else. More than roast beef, more than steak and kidney pie, more than fish and chips. More than KFC, McDonald’s, all the fast food that we Americans try to get them to eat. And you know what all those Indian restaurants refuse to serve? Pork. And why’s that? Because most chefs in Indian restaurants are Muslims. You know, if I was an al-Qaeda strategist, I’d be suggesting that their operatives infiltrate the country’s Indian restaurants and organise a mass poisoning. I reckon that over one weekend they could probably kill twenty per cent of the population.’ Yokely grinned. ‘I know, I know, I’m wandering, so let me get to the point. The Muslim suicide-bombers that you sent against the London Tube were members of a splinter group of Hizb ut-Tahrir. Yet they attacked London, one of the most multi-racial cities in the world. Have you wandered around Riyadh lately? How many white faces did you see? How many Orientals? I doubt that you ever went on the Tube, Mr Ahmed, but I did and I can assure you that you’d be hard pushed to find a more mixed sample of humankind than in a London Tube carriage. You’d be lucky to see more than a handful of white faces. So my question, I suppose, is what you thought you’d achieve by blowing up Africans, Asians, Orientals, Muslims and Buddhists? You’re a smart man, can you explain it to me?’

  Yokely smiled at the Saudi, his eyebrows raised.

  The Saudi said nothing.

  ‘I guess not,’ said Yokely. ‘It’ll have to remain one of life’s little mysteries. But it makes no sense to me. New York is just about the world’s most multi-racial city yet that was al-Qaeda’s prime target. The thing is, you and your friends are bound to fail. Long term, everything you do is a waste of time. Do you know why?’

  The Saudi folded his arms and stared at the floor.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s Turkey.’ He smiled and waved at the plate of chicken. ‘And I’m not talking about the sort you roast and serve up with cranberry sauce. You see, Mr Ahmed, the wealthier and more prosperous a country, the less religious it becomes. It’s sad but true. Religious attendance is falling throughout the West. Just about the only exception is Israel and, of course, that’s because you can’t be an Israeli unless you’re Jewish. Your foot-soldiers are poor Muslims with no prospects – homeless Palestinians, Iraqis with no jobs, Armenians with no health care. They’re angry because they’re p
oor, and you and your friends feed on that anger. But what’s going to happen when Turkey joins the European Union? And it will.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ll make sure of it. They’ll become part of Europe, and then what? Their living standards will shoot up – they’ll be buying cars and second homes like there’s no tomorrow, and pretty darn soon they’ll be thinking that perhaps there’s no real need to be down on a prayer mat five times a day, and that the odd bottle of wine with dinner is no bad thing. Then Muslims around the world might start to think that perhaps there’s a better way to live, and that if the seventy-odd million Muslims in Turkey can make better lives for themselves then maybe there isn’t much point in strapping explosives round your waist to blow up innocent civilians. And we’ll be there, the good old US of A, ready to sell them as much Coke and Starbucks, as many CDs and DVDs as they want. You see, you think I’m stupid, Mr Ahmed, but I know my history and I can use that to predict the future. We’ll win this crusade, and you’ll lose. In fact, you’ve lost already, it’s just that you don’t know it.’

  The Saudi snorted softly but said nothing.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you? My colleagues tell me you haven’t said a word since you arrived here.’ He pushed the tray closer to the Saudi. ‘I suppose you know that we’re finding it harder to operate in Guantánamo Bay. The world is watching, and all that nonsense. Anyway, we’ll be moving you out. Sooner rather than later.’

  The Saudi’s eyes darted to Yokely’s face. The American smiled at his reaction. ‘We’ll get your Combatant Status Review Tribunal out of the way first, just to make sure the paperwork’s in order, but then we’ll move you to the Ukraine,’ he said. ‘They’re very keen to help us, the Ukrainians, and they have some skilled technicians over there. Former KGB. Very heavy guys, Mr Ahmed. They make me look like a Boy Scout.’

  ‘This is a violation of my human rights,’ said the Saudi. It was the first thing he’d said since Yokely had walked into the room.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Yokely, ‘but what about the rights of the innocents who died in London? In Sydney? In Madrid? In Bali?’

  ‘You are going to torture me again.’

  ‘We’re going to get you to tell us what you know by whatever means we deem necessary,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s your call, Mr Ahmed. The ball is firmly in your court. If I was you, I’d take a piece of that mouth-wateringly delicious chicken and start talking.’