The next morning, Mufeed served fresh fruits and hot croissants on the terrace. He handed Abdul a note and a business card: “Dear friends, I apologize for leaving in haste. Please linger over breakfast. This number will connect you with my secretary, Keisha. If I can ever be of assistance, you can contact me through her.”
After the chauffeur returned them to Eilat, they checked out of The Dan, and Adiba drove them to Ben Gurion Airport in the rickety old Datsun.
Adiba insisted on parking and walking into the terminal with him. He could hardly believe the chaos that greeted them when they entered the departure area. Line after line, thousands of people snaked around the concourse. He looked to her for an explanation. Surely a bomb must have gone off before they arrived.
“It is normal,” she said.
His mouth dropped open, and she laughed.
“You have much to learn about the Middle East.”
She stayed with him for two hours while he pushed his carry-on along the ground toward the security checkpoints. When only a dozen people remained in front of them, she touched his arm.
“I should leave. It will confuse them if they observe me waiting with you and not traveling.” On tiptoe, she kissed him full on the mouth, then dropped back to the balls of her feet and brushed a lipstick smear from his bottom lip with her thumb. Her eyes were dark pools. Abdul was sure his cheeks were scarlet. She laughed and moved to turn away, but he caught her shoulders, bent, and kissed her with force before wrapping her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She folded into him, held him tightly, and whispered in his ear. “Please e-mail when you are safely home?”
“I will,” he said.
She bounced away into the crowd, but turned to blow him a kiss before she finally disappeared.
Chapter 12
Three days after the attack on the tube train, Detective Chief Inspector Quinnborne perched on the edge of a cluttered table in Scott Shearer’s office at the Times of London. Scott paced in front of his big window and Abdul and Rafiq sat at Scott’s desk. They listened to Abdul’s recording of his meeting with Ghazi.
“Can you describe him?” Quinn asked.
“The light was in my eyes, so I only got a glimpse. He had a scar on his face.” Abdul indicated with his finger where the cut ran. “He was a couple of inches taller than me, I’m five-eleven. And strong; he crushed my hand when we shook.”
“Was anything else said other than what we’ve heard?”
“No, I set up the equipment before he entered the room. That’s the whole recording. The meeting was briefer than I expected.”
Quinn glanced at Scott, who spoke to his staff. “Good work, Abdul. You also, Rafiq, I know you were guiding him all the way. Now, if you two will excuse us, I need a few minutes alone with the Chief Inspector.” Rafiq headed for the door. Abdul retrieved his digital recorder from the table.
“I’d like a copy,” Quinn said, handing Abdul a business card.
Abdul looked at his boss, who nodded. “No problem,” Abdul said.
Quinn had known Scott Shearer for over thirty years. He trusted the newspaper man and considered him a friend. Quinn hopped off the desk and thumped a fist into his palm. “You should have called me. You shouldn’t have let that kid go by himself.”
“I get dozens of these things each year. If I called you every time, I’d never get you out of my office. I couldn’t be sure it was a live one ’till we’d checked. Anyway, the kid did well, and I phoned you the minute I heard about the Oxford Circus attack. So what are we looking at?”
Quinn walked to the window. “You’ve put me in a tough spot. This is sensitive information.”
“It’s the same people who did the train, then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Quinn glared at Scott. “You can’t use this. If you shine a light on these bastards, they’ll be bigger than Elvis overnight.”
“What makes you so sure it’s Allah’s Revenge?”
Quinn’s jaws moved back and forth, grinding teeth. If he lied, Scott would know, and he needed access to Abdul. “Off the record?”
Scott nodded.
“They left a note on the train.” Quinn grabbed his coat from the rack near the door. “Look, give me the afternoon. I’ll get back with you when I can, by tonight at the latest.”
An hour after his meeting with Scott, Quinn played Abdul’s recording in his boss’s office at New Scotland Yard.
“Did you play this for Frank?” Superintendent James Porter spat out the words.
“Not yet.”
“Oxford Circus is his case, Quinn.”
“Frank worked for me for ten years. Sir, in my opinion, he isn’t capable.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” The superintendent glared at Quinn. “Take it to Frank. If he asks for your help, then I’ll assign you to the case. But you’ll report to him. Understood?”
Quinn snatched up the recorder, turned on his heel and slammed the door on his way out. He stormed down three flights of stairs to Frank’s office and burst in. Frank jumped and slid his feet off the desk. His eyes looked heavy.
“Did I wake you?” Quinn’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“Piss off. Don’t you know to knock before you barge into someone’s office?”
Quinn slapped the recorder on the desk and filled Frank in on Abdul’s trip. They played the interview twice.
Quinn sat in a chair and Frank stood over him, shaking a fat finger in his face. “Listen Quinn, I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about your cozy relationship with Scott Shearer. He can’t print this.”
Frank was enjoying the moment a little too much, but Quinn wanted to stay on the case, so he gritted his teeth and sucked it up. “The name’s going to come out. These things always do. Allah’s Revenge, whoever or whatever it is, has chosen young Abdul Ahmed. Close the door on Shearer, and we’ll lose access to Abdul. Better the devil you know.”
“Yeah, what about this Abdul character; he’s an Arab, right?”
Quinn glared at his ex-partner. “Scott trusts him.”
“And you say his family threw him a party in Jerusalem a couple of nights before he made the recording.”
“So what?”
“Maybe Ghazi was there. Maybe he brought a keg. I think we should bring Abdul in.”
“Shearer will go public if you push his boy around.”
Frank’s cell phone buzzed. He picked up and listened for a few seconds. “Shit!” The color drained from his face. “E-mail it to me.” He moved back to his desk and tapped the keyboard to wake his computer. Quinn followed.
Frank opened an e-mail and clicked a link. A grainy video popped up. It showed the inside of a railway car. The passengers were acting crazy, pulling at their mouths and grabbing their throats as if someone had sucked out all the air. The screen was momentarily filled with a close-up of a young woman’s face, red, distorted, terrified. Quinn thought she might be the same girl he’d seen when they visited Mike Mitchell. The camera view shifted higher; along the length of the car, passengers jerked and writhed. There was no sound other than the rattle of the train.
“No screaming?” Frank said.
Quinn didn’t answer. Hardly surprising — considering what was growing inside their lungs. Then, like a macabre game of stop-the-music, the passengers collapsed: on the floor, across seat backs, on top of one another. The video ended on a still picture; identical to the scene Quinn had witnessed when he’d first entered the train carriage three days earlier. The footage ran for less than two minutes.