A Dying Breed, page 30
Captain Remora took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from Karim’s face. William took the briefest possible look. While cleaning his face, Remora had closed Karim’s eyes but his broken mouth remained slightly open.
Some of the many dead faces William had seen over the years had appeared peaceful. But not Karim. Karim looked young and scared. Carver turned away. When he tried to speak his voice broke but he continued, determined to finish his sentence. ‘That is—that is Karim Mumtaz. He is—he was, my translator.’
William walked across the reception and back upstairs to his bedroom. He would give the envelope to the military police soon enough, but he wanted to look at it first. He closed his door and sat on the bed, turning the letter in his hand before carefully opening it. Inside, on white copier paper, there were a few lines of English written in careful capital letters.
WILLIAM. I HAVE TOLD THEM ALL I KNOW ABOUT THE KILLING OF FAZIL JABAR BUT THEY WANT MORE AND SO THEY WANT TO MEET YOU. IF YOU REFUSE OR LEAVE THE COUNTRY THEY SAY THEY WILL KILL ME THE SAME WAY THEY KILLED KARIM. THEY WILL CONTACT YOU SOON. PLEASE HELP THEM. I DO NOT WANT TO DIE.
William read it several times before transcribing the words into his notebook. Opening his bedroom door, he saw Mariscal coming up the hall. ‘I was bringing this back.’ He handed Rob the letter.
‘Can you give it to Remora? Tell him I only touched the edges of the envelope and paper.’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks. And Rob, when you see the Ambassador, can you ask if I could talk to him too, some time soon?’
‘What else can I do?’
‘Nothing. I need to lie down, just for a while. Then I need to try and find Karim’s family.’
Carver closed his bedroom door. He stowed his laptop under his pillow and took a bottle of sleeping pills from a drawer in the bedside table. He made a brief tally of the drugs he already had in his system: two anti-depressants, two painkillers, a fair amount of alcohol. That was all, and most of that he’d probably puked up downstairs. He shook out a handful of sleeping pills, no more than three or four, and tipped them on to his tongue. He found the Maker’s Mark under the bed, uncorked it and took a swallow.
30 Diplomatic vs Kinetic
DATELINE: British Embassy, Kabul, Afghanistan, July 8th
Mariscal’s cab nosed slowly towards the black metal gates of the Embassy and stopped. The sentry box was empty and the gates locked. The driver kept the car engine running and waited, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glancing regularly in his rear-view mirror. Rob remembered that the British Embassy had been targeted by suicide bombers twice in three years; the driver didn’t want to hang around. After a few moments he turned in his seat and gave Rob a questioning look. Rob shrugged. He wasn’t happy to be dropped outside a locked embassy and left there. The driver checked his watch, tutted and then muttered something in Arabic just as two Gurkha guards appeared from behind their sentry post. Then Rob noticed Roydon walking towards them across the yellowed lawn. He carried a bulky-looking black sports holdall and was wearing a light grey suit and a thin tie. Raising a free hand, he waved in Rob’s direction, beckoning him from the car. Rob shuffled across the back seat and climbed out of the cab. The mid-morning heat hit him full in the face and he immediately felt a prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. His hangover had turned nasty in the last hour and it seemed that his headache was beyond the reach of even Lucia’s painkillers.
He reached into the pocket of his black suit and found his wallet, while Roydon looked on. Rob took out two Afghani notes and was about to hand them to the driver, when Roydon intervened: ‘One of those is plenty.’ The cabbie took the money and flung a dark look at Roydon before putting his car into reverse. Rob looked through the gates and down the gravel drive towards the Ambassador’s residence. It was a modest-looking villa flanked by thin strips of lawn. Off to the right, a Union Jack hung limply from a white-painted pole.
Roydon leant in close. ‘I heard what happened to the Afghan kid. Nasty. You all right?’ He had no real interest, you could hear it in the question.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good. Be grateful it wasn’t your boy Reid. So I thought we’d have a little chat on our own, before we bother the Ambassador,’ Roydon said. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
Rob looked down the street. It was deserted. Roydon sensed his unease. ‘Don’t worry. Safe as houses round here and these two will keep an eye on us.’ He nodded towards the Gurkhas. ‘Ugly little fuckers but as hard as nails, aren’t you boys?’ They smiled thin, cold smiles. Roydon set off down the road, swinging the sports bag at his side. ‘Gurkha versus Mossad … Who d’you reckon is gonna win that?’ Rob shook his head. ‘Most people would go Mossad. Mossad versus anyone and most blokes would say Mossad, but I’m not so sure. Tricky fuckers, Gurkhas – clever, and difficult to kill. Robust. Is that the word?’ Roydon looked at Mariscal. This question required an answer.
‘Er, robust, yeah. Or durable?’
‘Durable. Durable. That’s the one. You are the man for the right word, aren’t you. Gurkhas are durable. Mossad are flash but maybe a bit flash in the pan with it.’ Roydon switched the holdall from one hand to the other. It brushed at Rob’s leg.
‘What have you got in there?’
‘Odds and sods. So, tell me about last night. Had a good time, did you? Get your dick wet?’
‘No, it wasn’t that kind of place.’
‘Ah … Shame. My bloke said it looked a bit boring. Mainly for locals and politicians, I’ve heard. I know somewhere you’d like better. I’ll take you there, once all this is over. My treat.’
‘Great,’ Rob mumbled.
‘You’ll like it. This old bird runs it, real hospitable. She’s got about a dozen girls in there. She calls them her daughters. No sign of a father, but I guess that’s no surprise; imagine being dad to a house full of whores. You’d die of shame.’
Rob wondered briefly whether it was possible to die of shame.
‘There’s a girl down there, the youngest one, skinny like a rake. There’s nothing she won’t do for twenty dollars. Or if there is, I haven’t thought of it yet.’ The two men reached a junction and Roydon paused. He turned to Mariscal. ‘So, what does Carver know?’
Rob sighed. It was time for him to perform. ‘William’s got some pictures of you outside the tailor’s shop just before the blast. He’s got your name in the appointments book. He’s got a post-mortem that says Jabar was killed by a bullet fired from close range and a recording of a gunshot that some army expert he knows says is a Sig.’ Rob glanced sideways at Roydon. ‘I take it you’ve got a gun like that?’
Roydon cocked his head. ‘I might do, but he’d need a bullet for that to be a problem and I don’t think he’s got one of those, has he?’
Rob nodded reluctantly. ‘No, he hasn’t’
‘Well then, no big deal.’
‘Then he’s got a load of documents on Aftel. Something that links Aftel with Rook Security … That’s where he thinks you come in, though he’s not sure.’
‘Good, the longer he’s not sure, the better for us.’
Rob looked again at the man and wondered who the us Roydon referred to really was.
‘And he’s got Aftel accounts and company reports, that kind of thing. Someone in London’s been helping him. He wouldn’t tell me much about his contact but he reckons he might persuade him to go on the record.’
Roydon smiled. ‘I think he’ll find that tricky.’ He slowed his pace. ‘So where’s he got all this stuff? The snaps of me and all the rest? Has he been sending it back to the office, someone else at BBC HQ?’
‘I doubt it. William’s not exactly a team player. It’s all on his laptop, which never leaves his bloody side.’
‘So everything’s in the one place, Carver’s computer?’
‘Two places. That’s good practice and he’s a good journalist. He’s got duplicates of everything on Patrick’s laptop too. That was William’s idea of a backup.’
‘Reid has copies, too?’
‘Yes.’
Roydon stopped and gazed back along the street. He bent, untied, then retied his shoelace. He took his time, chewing the new information over. ‘That’s annoying. There’s a chance Carver suspects you, isn’t there? In which case he might be bullshitting. Laying a false trail. What do you think?’
‘He trusts me.’
Roydon gave an ugly laugh. ‘Yeah? Better journalist than a judge of character, then, isn’t he?’
They walked back to the Embassy gates. Rob’s head was pounding. ‘I need to get out of this sun.’
Roydon smiled. ‘Sure, we’ll get inside. That’s good work, Rob, comprehensive. I’m proud of you.’
Mariscal looked away. A heat haze rose from the yellow road.
‘Thanks. So do I get my bag of silver now or later?’
‘Don’t be melodramatic Rob, doesn’t suit you. So that’s everything is it? That’s all Carver told you?’
Mariscal paused. ‘I think so. That’s all he’s got that’s solid. But he’s got a load of unanswered questions. The thing he’s really hung up on is the tailor, Mr Savi.’
Roydon’s face shaped itself into something like confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t know what happened to Savi. His corpse didn’t arrive at the mortuary with the other bodies. Seems like the tailor just disappeared.’
Roydon scratched at his chin. ‘Probably the blast did for him. Pound to a penny the Afghan ambulance boys just dropped whatever was left straight in the incinerator. Let’s get you inside mate, you look like you’re melting. I’ll introduce you to the Ambassador and then I need to make a quick call.’
The Gurkha guards unlocked a large padlock, removed the thick steel chain, and pulled the Embassy gates open just sufficiently for Roydon and Mariscal to walk in, relocking again straight afterwards. The two men walked up the dusty drive. On the wall beside the door was a shiny brass plate announcing this to be Her Majesty’s small corner of Kabul. Roydon rapped his knuckle on the door and within a minute it was answered by the Ambassador himself. He nodded briefly at Roydon and smiled at Rob.
‘Good morning. Mr Mariscal, I assume?’ The Ambassador’s hand was cold and dry, his handshake firm.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A pleasure, please, come in.’ He stepped to one side to let his visitors pass. Lever wore a cream suit and white shirt. His sandy-coloured hair was thinning but carefully combed. The Ambassador ushered the men down a long hall, and as he walked, Mariscal glanced left and right at an array of gold-framed oil paintings crammed closely together along both walls. Lever noticed Rob’s interest. ‘Please excuse those dreadful paintings, Mr Mariscal. They’re the pictures the bureaucrats who look after the Government Art Collection saw fit to send me,’ he explained. ‘I have to put them somewhere; I hang them in the hall so I don’t have to look at them for any length of time. Dark and dreary little English landscapes, every one. The best that can be said for them, Mr Mariscal, is that they help keep homesickness at bay.’ Lever stopped and waved a finger at the nearest picture. Through the oily gloom, Rob could just about make out a water mill and alongside that, a wisteria-clad cottage. ‘Stick a representation of my ex-wife in the foreground there, and I’d never want to see England again.’ They moved through the hall and turned right, into a small library. The Ambassador led them on through a dimly lit dining room to the rear of the residence, where he pulled aside some heavy curtains, drenching the room in light and revealing French windows overlooking a surprisingly verdant garden.
Lever put his shoulder to the door, shoved it open and walked out. Rob followed. Stepping into the light, he felt he’d been transported. Kabul was gone, and in its place the sort of view one might expect to find when staying at a good English country house hotel. There was a flagstone patio, cast-iron garden furniture painted glossy white with green candy-striped cushions, and a blue Spode tea service set for three. Out beyond the flagstones were a series of raised flower beds planted with a variety of different tulips and, in front of these, a green lawn that was being watered by a complicated arrangement of sprinklers.
Mariscal toed the edge of the grass and gave an appreciative nod. ‘It’s a beautiful garden. Must be a lot of work for someone.’ He felt the Ambassador arrive at his side.
‘Isn’t it? Magnificent. I can take none of the credit. It’s all Mrs Ansari’s good work. She’s my housekeeper.’
Roydon, who had wandered away to make his phone call, now reappeared and stepped in between the two men, draping an arm around each. Rob felt Lever bristle and pull away. Roydon ignored this and used the free hand to point towards the centre of the lawn. ‘It’s a bloody waste of good space, if you ask me. You could fit a decent-sized helipad in there, no bother.’
Lever did his best to ignore Roydon. He turned to Mariscal. ‘Those raised flower beds are built up around old ammunition boxes, the compost is made from shredded Embassy documents, among other things. The garden is a peaceful place, don’t you think? Maybe the most peaceful place in Kabul.’
Rob noticed a churned-up patch of rich red ground at the side of the house. ‘Vegetables as well?’
Lever smiled broadly. ‘Oh yes. And fruit. Mainly melons and squash. We were just putting up some new netting this morning. Mrs Ansari is at war with the local hedgehogs. They decimated her last little crop. Absolute beasts. She’ll win though, she’ll win.’ He shepherded the two men to the table. Rob took a seat and his host set about pouring the tea. Roydon sat too, and reaching into his holdall pulled out a half-bottle of whisky.
‘How about a sharpener before we get started on the tea?’
The Ambassador shot him a disapproving look. ‘It’s a little early for me, thank you.’
‘It’s never too early for a good glass of whisky, Ambassador. Mr Mariscal has already had to unwrap a decapitated head this morning; a stiff drink’s exactly what he needs. And this is Jameson’s. Rob likes Jameson’s, don’t you, Rob?’
Mariscal was having difficulty understanding the relationship between these two men, but it seemed obvious who was in control. Both men were waiting on his response. He wanted the drink, but he didn’t want to offend his host. ‘A cup of tea first, and perhaps a whisky to follow? Thank you. It has been a difficult day.’
Lever sighed, chiding himself. ‘It must have been dreadful. I apologise, I should have suggested a drink myself. How is Mr Carver holding up? I gather that he and his translator were close?’
‘He’s badly shaken by it, I think, Ambassador. He went straight to his room. I get the impression he was as close to Karim as he gets to anyone these days.’
‘I understand.’
‘He’d like to see you again, Ambassador, if that’s okay? After he’s had some rest.’
‘I’ll ask Mrs Ansari to contact him and arrange that.’
Rob was aware of Roydon shifting uncomfortably in his seat while listening to this, but he kept his counsel. Lever rang the small silver dinner bell that sat alongside the teapot, and in moments an attractive, middle-aged Afghan woman appeared at the French windows wearing a shameez in the same cream colour as the Ambassador’s suit.
‘Sir?’
‘Mrs Ansari. This is Mr Mariscal, from the BBC, and of course you know Mr Roydon.’
The woman dipped her head to acknowledge the two men but said nothing.
‘Mr Roydon has brought us some whisky and we thought we might have a glass after we’ve had your tea. Would you be kind enough to pour some for us, with water and ice?’
Roydon held the bottle out for the housekeeper, but when she tried to take it from him, he kept his grip. An uncomfortable tug-of-war ensued until Roydon suddenly let go of the bottle. Mrs Ansari lost her balance and had to take a step back to steady herself. It was a nasty little game which amused no one apart from Roydon, who laughed loudly. He removed his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of his seat, loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt before pouring himself a cup of milky tea. As he did this, Rob stared at his arms. There was the blurred blue tattoo, the corner of which he’d noticed before, and – more striking still – what looked like a series of puncture marks in the fleshy part of the forearm just below the elbow. The scar tissue formed star shapes, lighter in colour than the freckled and sun-darkened skin around it.
Roydon saw Rob staring. ‘Three shots from an AK. One bullet went right through.’ He pointed out the entry and exit wounds. ‘One I dug out with a bowie knife and the third’s still in there. A keepsake. I took half a dozen more in the chest but the flak jacket stopped the lot.’
‘Lucky.’
Roydon deposited three heaped teaspoons of sugar into his cup and stirred vigorously. ‘Luckier than the kid who did the shooting. I emptied two cartridges into him. When I’d finished, he looked like steak tartare.’
The Ambassador cleared his throat in a manner clearly meant to bring his guests to attention. ‘Mr Mariscal, before we begin I’d just like to clarify your role here.’
Rob turned his teacup in its saucer. He spoke carefully. ‘I’m here to represent the BBC and to help in any way I can to secure the safe return of Patrick Reid.’
Lever nodded. ‘Yes, that I understand. But Mr Roydon tells me that you’re slightly more—how can I put it? Involved.’
Rob sighed. He suddenly felt very tired. ‘Yes, yes I suppose so. I’ve been asked by Mr Roydon and others in London to find out about William’s investigation into the death of Fazil Jabar. I understand that Carver is caught up in something which has national security implications.’
