A Dying Breed, page 24
What was he missing? His gaze fell on the laptop and alongside it, a tidy pile of discs, the wedding tapes that Ali had reluctantly shared. He’d watched the tapes; he’d seen the car and the mysterious Mr Roydon, he had copies of all that. That wasn’t it. What else?
He looked at the discs again.
‘Some time after the blast.’ It was William speaking, but the voice he heard in his head belonged to Karim. ‘He was killed by a shot to the head, some time after the blast.’ He heaved his heavy frame up from the bed and powered up his computer. He sat down in the chair, naked but for his boxer shorts, and found the relevant disc. Then he fast-forwarded through the endless wedding ceremony and incomprehensible speeches to the moment the bomb went off. A few dozen people were dancing around Baba’s large dining room with big smiles on their faces, then there was a loud bang and the sound of glass shattering. Ali seemed almost to have dropped the camera but he had left it running, filming the floor and the wall. There was a moment of shocked silence, then the sound of Baba shouting something, issuing an order. Then Ali was following his cousin out of the house and into the garden, still holding the running camera but capturing nothing useful. A blur of grey and green as Ali followed Baba through the garden and out into the street.
On first viewing, William had found nothing useful in this section. Now he watched it again; he watched it several times before it occurred to him not to watch but to listen. He turned the volume up as high as it would go. The film was a blur – feet and garden and gravel – but the audio was clear. As Ali moved through the garden there was a bang. It was obvious now, but William had somehow missed it previously; filtered it out, assuming it to be something to do with the explosion. Perhaps masonry falling, or a piece of timber cracking. Now he became interested. It sounded like a gunshot. He transferred the section on to his laptop as a sound file and phoned Sergeant Chaundy.
‘Let’s have another listen.’ Chaundy held the headphones hard over his ears with both hands, closed his eyes, and concentrated while Carver played the sound file again. Urgent steps, water, and then a single gunshot. ‘Play it again. Bit louder.’ Carver turned the volume up as high as the laptop would allow. Chaundy closed his eyes again, listened and nodded before removing the headphones.
William looked at him anxiously. ‘What does that sound like to you?’
The sergeant sighed. ‘I hear a man or a heavy woman walking on gravel or shingle.’
‘Yes. It’s a man, or men.’
‘Then I hear water, moving water. A stream?’
‘A fountain.’
‘Right you are, a fountain. Distressed people somewhere close, they’re screaming.’
‘A bomb’s gone off.’
‘Okay. Then the gunshot.’ Chaundy looked at Carver, wondering what exactly the old hack wanted from him.
‘Definitely a gunshot?’ William asked, holding the sergeant’s gaze.
‘No question. It’s a little distance off, though, twenty yards maybe.’
William looked at the soldier, a ballistics expert and a thoroughly decent man. ‘All I want to know, Sergeant, is whether you can tell from that audio file what sort of gun that is?’
Chaundy leaned towards Carver. ‘I thought you was going to ask me something tricky. That’s a P226. A Sig Sauer. I’d know it anywhere. Fired my own often enough.’
‘You’re sure?’
Chaundy frowned. ‘Of course I’m sure. You know how new mums say they can pick out their own baby’s cry from a hundred other screaming babies? Well I’m like that with guns. No two the same.’
William smiled. He’d always liked Chaundy. ‘Sergeant,’ he asked, as if a thought had just come to him, ‘who carries Sigs?’
Chaundy didn’t hesitate. ‘We do,’ he said. ‘British Army, it’s replacing the old Browning. Been rolled out in Afghanistan first, so a load of us carry those.’
‘Who else?’
‘Out here? No one.’
‘Private security people?’
‘Nah. Or they shouldn’t do, anyway.’
William rolled his shoulders and pulled himself up straighter. ‘Sergeant, I’d like to be absolutely sure. I trust your ear, completely, but is there a more scientific way to check that shot’s a—what did you say?—Sig Sour?’
‘A Sig Sauer. German. Or Swiss-German, rather. I’ll tell you what,’ he offered, ‘you bring your little recording machine up to the firing range right now and we’ll shoot a few guns. Pound to a penny the bang on that tape is the same bang as the Sig. You can record the shots and take a look at the sound waves. That might prove something? Although I’ll tell you right now, technology won’t trump the trusty Chaundy ear. You’ll see!’
Carver liked the idea. ‘Thank you, Sergeant, that’d be great.’
Chaundy led the reporter to a large gun-locker and took a small silver key from his pocket. ‘Where’s your little brown friend, by the way?’ he asked, distractedly, as he removed a selection of weapons from the locker. ‘He gave me a rather nice bottle of French brandy a while back. All you ever give me is grief.’
25 Meeting Mr Roydon
DATELINE: Kabul International Airport, Afghanistan, July 7th
Waiting in the customs queue at Kabul airport, Mariscal became aware of a flurry of activity at the front of the line. Two men, dressed in what Rob took to be the uniform of the Afghan police, were asking a thickset man in a crumpled business suit to remove his sunglasses.
‘Why? I’ve just flown two freaking days to get here, and I’m tired. If I wanna wear my sunglasses, I’ll wear my sunglasses.’
One of the policemen looked down at a document he held in his hand. ‘You are American?’
‘Yeah, I’m American.’
The policeman nodded and moved on down the line, his eyes flitting between what Rob now recognised to be an A5-sized photograph and various nervous-looking passengers.
At that moment, the younger of the two officers caught Rob’s eye. He looked him over carefully before nudging his colleague and tipping his head in Rob’s direction. The older man looked hard at Rob and then back at the photograph. He strode over and addressed Mariscal in careful English. ‘Excuse me, sir, is it possible that we might talk?’ The phrase sounded recently learnt and rather over-rehearsed.
‘Okay. Do you want to talk here?’
‘No sir. In private.’
‘Okay.’
It sounded to Rob as though he and the policeman were taking turns reading from a foreign language phrasebook. Neither of them was doing particularly well.
As the pair escorted Rob past the slow-moving queue, he saw an antique conveyor belt jolt into life and the first few bags from his flight appear from a hole in the wall.
The policeman saw him looking. ‘Do not have worry. Your bag will come to you.’
They were walking more quickly now, crossing the baggage hall and heading in the direction of an unmarked set of double doors.
‘Am I being arrested already? I’ve only just arrived.’
The policeman turned and looked at Rob, surprised. ‘Arrested? No sir. You are VIP arrival.’
Rob was ushered through the doors and then marched down an uncarpeted corridor before arriving at a door marked Longe.
‘This is the lounge?’ Rob asked.
‘Yes sir,’ said the officer. They waited while the younger policeman fumbled with half a dozen different keys attached to a chain on his belt. The older man was still holding the photograph and Rob saw it was an enlarged black and white print of his BBC security pass, an unflattering mug shot. Finally the key was found and the door opened. The inside of the room was empty save for a rectangular wooden table with black plastic bucket chairs on either side. In the centre of the table sat a bottle of mineral water with a faded label and next to that, two dusty-looking glasses. The policeman gestured in the direction of the nearest chair. ‘Please. Your friend will come soon.’ Mariscal did as he was told and as soon as he’d sat down, his escorts turned and left, closing the door firmly behind them. Rob heard a brief debate take place between the two and then the sound of the key turning. ‘I’d hate to be an unimportant person,’ he muttered.
Mariscal rested his chin in both hands and stared at the bottle of mineral water. The seal appeared unbroken but the water was obviously undrinkable. Cloudy, with small water bugs dancing up and down the sides. He wondered how many interrogations this particular bottle had witnessed. He decided, if offered a drink, to go for tea.
After fifteen minutes the key turned again and the door snapped open. A smartly dressed westerner in his late thirties filled the doorway.
‘Hello, Robert. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’ The man was business-like. His accent obviously London, north London, Rob thought, and quite strong but dialled down for the moment. ‘So the Afghan coppers found you all right? Got you through customs nice and quick.’ He took a confident step forward and offered a large tanned hand for Rob to shake.
‘They did, yeah. I’m not used to the VIP treatment.’
‘Well, better get used to it. You’ve got an important job to do.’
‘I missed your name,’ Rob said, and the man smiled fleetingly.
‘I didn’t say my name, Rob, did I? Not yet. But, seeing as you ask, it’s Roydon. Like the place.’ Mariscal knew of no such place but he let it go. He looked at the man. He was tall, six feet three or maybe four, and broad. Everything about him seemed large, even the features gathered closely together in the middle of his wide face. His unusual looks created the impression of a friendly man, jovial even. Until you took a good look at his eyes. Rob held Roydon’s gaze and tried to figure out why the man’s eyes chilled him. They were, he realised, completely devoid of emotion; they were blank.
Roydon walked once round the room, taking everything in, before dragging a chair from under the table and sitting down, one long leg folded inelegantly across the other. He nodded at the bottle on the table.
‘I don’t like the look of that, not one bit. We’ll get a proper drink later, after we’ve had a chat. What’s your preference: Scotch or Irish?’
‘What?’
‘Whisky. What d’you prefer? Scotch or Irish?’
‘Jameson’s, I guess,’ Rob said.
‘Right. Good call, Jameson’s it will be. Not now but later. Scout’s honour.’
Roydon was wearing a suit, a Prince of Wales check with a blue satin lining. It looked bespoke to Rob’s inexpert eye, but tailored in an unusual way. In Mariscal’s experience, most men vain and moneyed enough to have a suit made to measure did so to ensure it flattered. Roydon’s suit did the opposite. It seemed designed to disguise his size, baggily shrouding his obvious strength. Something about the man reminded Rob of pre-fight pressers with boxers or post-match interviews with suited footballers in wide ties.
‘I like your suit.’ Rob attempted a smile.
Roydon cast a glance downwards, though he knew exactly what he was wearing. ‘Thank you. It’s hand-made Prince of Wales, but I’m sure you knew that. I like good clothes. I admire quality.’ He nodded at Rob’s creased black shirt. ‘That, for instance. That is a nice shirt. Though it looks like it’s had a long day.’
‘It was a present from the wife.’
‘Which designer?’
‘No idea,’ Rob replied, honestly.
‘No idea? Really? Why don’t you have a look? I’d like to know.’ He smiled and stared hard at Mariscal. ‘Go on.’
Rob stared back. He saw a slight twitch in Roydon’s muscular neck and looking down at the man’s hands he noticed the corner of a blue tattoo, just visible beneath the cuff at his wrist. Rob realised he felt intimidated. He unfastened three buttons at the neck of his shirt, and dragged the collar round so he could squint at the label. ‘Alexander McQueen,’ he offered quietly.
‘Very nice. Your wife has good taste, Robert. In clothes, at least.’
Roydon stood and made another slow circuit of the room, talking as he walked. ‘What a terrible business that was.’
Rob was lost. ‘What?’
‘Alexander McQueen. Don’t you remember? His mum died and he went all to pieces, lots of drugs, lots of drama. Topped himself in the end.’
‘Oh yeah. I remember. Sad,’ Rob said without conviction. Why were they discussing the world of fashion? Celebrity suicide? It was ridiculous, surreal. He wanted to get away from Roydon, away from this oppressive room.
Roydon stopped and looked at Rob again. His eyes, still, utterly blank. ‘Sad? Perhaps. But he was weak. Artistic people tend to be weak, I’ve noticed that.’ He sat down again and pulled the chair as close to the table as his bulky body would allow. ‘We could chat all day, couldn’t we? Natter away. But we should get down to business. So, how much do you know?’
‘Well, not much. Graham told me—’
Roydon jumped in. ‘Graham. Who’s Graham?’
‘My contact in London. Your colleague, I assume. My—my—’
‘Handler?’ Roydon suggested, then nodded, as if Rob’s assumption was reasonable but not necessarily accurate. ‘Carry on. Graham told you what?’
‘He said that my job would be to keep an eye on William – William Carver, my reporter.’
Roydon nodded again, slowly. ‘And?’
‘He said that the last story William filed from here, a report on the murder of some local politician – Jabar – he said it had caused problems. Problems for British interests. I’ve no idea why. The story wasn’t a big deal as far as anyone in London was concerned.’
‘He told you quite a lot, didn’t he, old “Graham”? Stole some of my thunder. I might have to have a word with Graham, next time I’m in London. Well, I guess I’ll tell you the rest. Fill in the gaps, is that all right with you, Rob?’ The question didn’t require an answer. ‘So. Let’s see, your man Carver is sniffing around a story that he doesn’t really understand and that certainly doesn’t concern him. Fazil Jabar was a nasty piece of work. Corrupt, strong Taliban connections, all sorts, not a nice bloke, in short. His “murder”, as you put it, was no bad thing. In fact it was a good thing.’
‘Meaning what? We had this guy knocked off?’
Roydon banged his hand down hard on the table. The bottle of mineral water and Mariscal jumped together. ‘No! No, Robert. That’s not what I said. Is it? Not at all. Did you hear me say that?’
Rob waited. Watched the bottled water settle and let his pumping heart slow. ‘No.’
‘No. Look, if we’re going to get along, you and me, you have to listen to what I say, right? No reading between the lines. No jumping to conclusions. That won’t help anyone. Will it?’
Rob shook his head.
‘All you need to know is Fazil Jabar got killed. That was no bad thing but the circumstances got messy. Carver reached the scene before the place had been cleaned up and he found some things. Stole some things, I should say. There were loose ends and Carver picked up on a couple of them.’ Roydon waited until he was sure that Rob was taking all this in. ‘Our problem is that Carver is like a dog with a bloody bone and there’s a chance, a small chance but a chance, that his investigation might fuck up a very big contract that’s about to be awarded. What do you know about the telecommunications business?’
Rob shook his head. ‘Almost nothing.’
‘No problem. Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know much.’
‘But, from what you’re saying, it sounds like this whole thing is about money.’
Roydon sighed. ‘Everything is about money, Rob.’ His wide face broke into an amused grin. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’
Mariscal ignored the jibe and tried to focus on the story. ‘So William’s figured out what? That Jabar’s death was connected with this deal?’
‘I don’t know exactly what Carver’s figured out. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? But I don’t want him digging any deeper into Jabar and, most important of all, I don’t want him putting anything – nothing at all – on air. You put a muzzle on William Carver.’ Roydon was on his feet again. He seemed incapable of staying seated or still for more than a minute. ‘You people are so naive, you know that, don’t you? Did you really think we’d spend billions of pounds, lose hundreds of good men trying to drag this shitty country out of the Stone Age and then just walk away? Out of pocket and nothing to show for it?’
Rob listened, light-headed. What sort of strange story did Carver have a hold on here? The hack in Mariscal wanted to know more and goading Roydon seemed the best way to get him to talk. Curiosity trumped fear.
‘Shouldn’t you, the Army, the Embassy, whoever you are, be concentrating on winning the war rather than going around touting for business? It’s a little undignified, don’t you think?’
Roydon grinned. ‘You do both, or neither. Take a look at the history books, Rob. The best time to invest is when there’s still blood on the streets, it’s obvious. Everyone understands that. Just ask the Chinese.’
‘And the British Ambassador? He knows all about this—activity?’
Roydon put a finger to his collar; the first nervous gesture Rob had seen him make. ‘He’s evangelical about it in fact. So don’t start thinking that you’re being dragged into some black ops shit, or whatever else your over-active imagination is conjuring up. We’re working for UK plc out here, that’s all. If a few more Taliban get killed in the process, that’s all good. They’re the enemy, after all, and we’re at war.’
Roydon sat back down and leant in towards Mariscal, his voice quieter now, calmer. ‘The Afghan communications minister will make a call on who gets the telecoms contract next week. All I’m asking is that you keep Carver quiet for that long. After that, he can do what he likes. He can stand stark bollock naked on the BBC roof and shout the story to the world, for all I care. That’s all we’re asking for, Rob, one week. Do you understand?’
‘Okay, I get it, one week. And what about the kidnapping? What about Patrick and the translator, where does that fit in with all this?’
Roydon looked at his hands. ‘I don’t know what we’re dealing with there. Some of my lot think it’s a coincidence but I don’t like coincidences so I’m assuming there’s a connection. Either way, you don’t need to worry ’bout that, we’re dealing with it, reaching out to the kidnappers and so on.’ He tugged his left sleeve up from over his wrist. Rob saw an inch more of the blue tattoo and an expensive-looking watch. ‘I’d better make a move, you need to start cosying up to Carver.’ He stood to leave.
