know somebody, just by reading what they’ve written, or what someone else has said about them? It’s all prejudice, isn’t it? I know there are people out there who think the world of Harold Mowbray. And I know there are people out there who think I’m more or less a complete arsehole.’ Kell smiled. ‘Seriously, boss.’ Mowbray was looking around for his glass. ‘This Alexander Minasian. Maybe he’s not as bad as we all think. Maybe we’re reading him wrong. Maybe one day you’ll get face to face with him and discover you have more in common with him than you ever imagined.’
Egypt Air flight MS777 from Cairo International Airport had touched down at London Heathrow a few minutes behind schedule at 15.44 on a cloudless English afternoon in May.
Shahid Khan had spent most of the journey trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He had been in a state of profound anxiety and could feel the judgment and suspicion of his fellow passengers weighing down on him like a rope coiled around his neck and shoulders. He had been travelling for five days. He had hated Dubai and wondered why Jalal had insisted that he go there from Istanbul. There were other countries, other cities, which did not require a visa for UK citizens. Shahid had looked them up online. Why subject him to Dubai? To strengthen him? To remove any doubts about his future actions? Shahid did not need such help. He did not understand Jalal’s reasons. He was at peace with the path that had been chosen for him. It was the will of Allah. Shahid looked forward to the day of his martyrdom as he looked forward to the defeat of Assad’s dogs, to the destruction and the humiliation of the American empire. This was his dream and the dream of the brothers and sisters he had left behind in the Caliphate. Many of them would not live to see this dream fulfilled. Shahid himself would not live to see it. But he would help to bring it about. This was a glorious and a pure thing.
The passengers disembarked into the terminal building. Shahid went with them, following the signs to Passport Control. In fourteen months of fighting in Syria he had not suffered with any illness, but in Cairo he had eaten food from a vendor in the street and suffered terrible sickness and cramps in his hotel room. Perhaps this was why he was in such an agitated state. He had lost weight and was still feeling sick. He had only been able to drink water on the aeroplane and to eat a few dried biscuits. And now he had to make it through the passport queue, past the Customs officers and the plain-clothes detectives – the most difficult moment of his journey. Shahid knew the obstacles in front of him. Jalal had spoken about them in detail and had told him how to behave.
Join any queue, he had said. Not the shortest one. Check the messages on your mobile phone, read a book or a newspaper. Take your jacket off if you are sweating. Do not evade eye contact and do not try to trick them. You are just another passenger. You are just another face. In the eyes of the British authorities, you are of no importance.
Shahid felt inside his jacket for the passport. He touched it. Also the mobile phone, provided to him by Jalal, and the wallet. Shahid had been given over one thousand pounds in cash. Jalal had promised that his contact at Heathrow – a man named Farouq who had fought jihad – would give him a thousand more. Shahid took out the wallet. It had a London Oyster card inside it, also till receipts, a book of stamps, even the membership card from a gym. How had Jalal organized all of this? He was so thorough and clever in his thinking. His planning and his foresight were gifts from God.
Shahid looked at the men and the women walking all around him. There were many men like him in casual clothes wearing denim jeans and grey or black jackets. Jalal had been right. It was important to look like the others, to blend in.
They came to the passport queue. Shahid waited at the end of a long, snaking line. People were complaining about the delay. Shahid wished that the queue had been shorter. It was agony to wait. He stared at his phone and shuffled forward as the queue moved, but he could not think about anything else except facing the guards. He was able to look at the Facebook page that Jalal had created and to see that a number of the friend requests he had made to strangers on the site had been accepted. This was surely good. It would make the page more believable if he was questioned in the airport. Jalal had filled the phone with numbers and contacts, but they were not people Shahid knew. He had been told never to try to communicate with any of his brothers and sisters in the Caliphate. Likewise, he was forbidden to contact any member of his family in England. Shahid had to understand this. He had to understand that his family had been told by the British government that Azhar Ahmed Iqbal had been killed while fighting for ISIS near Mosul. His father believed that his son was dead.
The queue took thirty minutes. At last, Shahid was facing the row of officials. A space came up at one of the desks in front of him and he walked up to it. He looked up and saw that the guard was Muslim. Her head was covered by a black hijab. He smiled at her. The woman did not smile back. Shahid felt that she could see right through his heart to the secret that lay inside him.
He placed the passport on the counter. The woman took it and opened it while studying his face. There were two men on the far side of the desk, watching the room. Shahid knew that they were plain-clothes officials and was sure that they were suspicious of him.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said. ‘Where have you come from today?’
‘From Cairo,’ Shahid replied. He had not spoken for more than four hours and his voice was dry and cracked.
The woman placed the passport inside a machine that emitted a cold blue light. There was a red rash on her wrists and the back of her hands. She looked at a computer screen that was partly obscured behind the counter. Shahid felt sure that she was going to question him. He felt sure that the computer would tell her that the passport was a fake. ISIS had been duped by their contact in Tirana. He would be arrested by the two men in plain clothes and sent for trial. They would imprison him.
The guard looked up. She placed the passport on the counter and smiled. Shahid took it back.
‘Thank you, Mr Khan,’ she said. ‘Welcome home.’
Kell could not sleep.
Mowbray had left just before one, heading back to the Metropole with a quip about sharing an adjoining room with Rafal and Stephanie.
‘That headboard starts to bump, I’m calling the concierge,’ he said, shaking Kell’s hand and heading off into the night.
Kell had lain awake for an hour in the semi-darkness of his rented, featureless bedroom, wondering what Minasian would be doing in Paris. Business or pleasure? A relationship-mending break with Svetlana? A stolen weekend with a new lover? Without Amelia’s help, there would be no way of finding him in Paris. Even with the assistance of SIS, the chances of Minasian leaving a trail for Kell and his ilk to follow were minimal. The emails were his only solid lead. Riedle remained the key.
Just after two thirty he went into the kitchen and swallowed two aspirin with an inch of Talisker. He longed for a cigarette. It was perhaps a sign of the softening of Kell’s operational temperament that he was concerned about Riedle’s wellbeing. He imagined the moment when he would have to tell the German the truth about ‘Dmitri’. To break his heart still further by revealing that the man with whom he had fallen in love and shared three of the most exciting and turbulent years of his life was, in fact, a Russian intelligence officer. Riedle would have to come to terms not only with the loss of Dmitri, but also with the realization that he had been lied to and manipulated, again and again – not least by Kell himself. And to what end? To satisfy
