Quinn didn’t like the implication. “Why wouldn’t he be? Despite yesterday’s editorial tirade, I assure you London police are not Stasi-like brutes.”
“We’ll see, won’t we? Where should I come?”
At 3:00 p.m., Scott waited in his car at the front entrance of a modern red brick building less than a mile from New Scotland Yard. Scott had never noticed the building. He had no idea the Metropolitan Police Service used it. He suspected not many people did.
At ten after, Quinn, bulky and disheveled, dressed in a camel raincoat, walked out of the front door, squinting against the bright sunlight. He held Abdul by the elbow and steered him into the back seat of Scott’s BMW. Quinn climbed in the passenger seat.
“Goddamn, Quinnborne!” Scott said, when he saw a yellowing bruise on Abdul’s right cheek.
“He slipped going up the stairs,” Quinn said.
“Sure.”
“Actually, I did, Mr. Shearer,” Abdul said. Scott looked into the boy’s eyes. He was telling the truth.
“Ha!”
“What’s so funny?” Quinn asked.
“No one’s going to believe it. Welcome back, Abdul. You okay?”
“I am now. Can we drive away from here, please, sir?”
Scott moved into traffic. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“No. We need to go to your office,” Quinn said.
Scott looked in the driver’s mirror. Quinn looked right back, his face set and serious.
“He’s right,” Abdul said. “Ghazi sent me an e-mail. I told the police I wouldn’t reply unless they released me. They don’t have the secret password he gave me, so they had no choice.”
Scott smiled. Not so naive after all. He reached into the back seat and passed his cell phone to Abdul. “Call your parents. They’re worried.”
Ten minutes later, they parked in The Times’ underground lot and took the elevator to the sixth-floor.
Amy sat in Scott’s outer office. When they walked in, she beamed at Abdul.
“Amy, can you rustle up some tea, please?” Scott asked.
“Pleasure. Welcome home, Abdul.” Amy patted his arm as she passed.
Scott led them into his room and closed the door. “Now what?” he asked.
Quinn nodded to Abdul. “Abdul’s agreed to let me act as an intermediary with Special Branch.”
Scott could well imagine that, after two days of questioning, Abdul wouldn’t want any more to do with Special Branch; another intelligent move from the young man. “I’ll bet Frank Browning’s pissed off about that.”
Quinn said, “I’m working for Frank.”
Scott stared at Quinn, but the policeman’s face was a mask. He decided against commenting. Abdul sat in Scott’s chair, logged onto his e-mail, and opened the message Ghazi had sent while he was in custody. Scott and Quinn stood behind him and read the screen.
“We demand release of the following prisoners. They must be transported to The Dome of the Rock and released into the holy shrine. If you do not comply, we will use the Weapon of Allah to strike off the heads of the infidel regimes.”
Below the message was a list of thirty names.
Quinn said, “The Israelis confirm those named are known terrorists. We’ve passed on the release request, but they won’t say whether they are in custody.”
“And?” Scott asked.
Quinn upturned his hands and shrugged. “They don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“So what do the brainiacs at Special Branch plan to do?”
Quinn turned to his friend. “They want Abdul to arrange another meeting with Ghazi.”
“What! No way. You told me I should never have sent him to Israel!” Scott said. He matched Quinn’s stance and they faced off — two boxers waiting for the bell. “Last time we didn’t know who we were dealing with. Now we do. I can’t let Abdul do this. You’ll have to send a cop.”
Quinn’s tone became officious. “Special Branch thinks they’ll sever the link if we try to push a substitute.”
“And you agree with them?”
He nodded. “If Abdul will go, I’m detailed to accompany him. We’ll have Israeli ground support. Abdul won’t be involved.”
“No, he’s just the bait!” Scott said.
Abdul stood, placed a hand on each of their chests and pushed them apart. “I told them I would,” Abdul said.
Scott squeezed Abdul’s shoulder. “This isn’t your job. You’re a reporter. These guys are crazies. Just last week they murdered two hundred people with their ‘Weapon of Allah’.”
“That’s why I have to go, before they kill some more.”
Quinn took a step back, opening a space, reducing the tension. He softened his voice. “They may not agree to meet. Why not make the offer, see their response, then decide?”
“No harm in trying,” Abdul said. He turned to the keyboard and clicked Reply.
Scott pressed his lips together to stifle another protest. Quinn handed Abdul a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “Special Branch recommends this wording.”
“Your proposed release mechanism is not acceptable. I wish to meet in person to present an alternative.” Abdul typed the message and hit send.
“What about the password?” Quinn said.
Abdul turned to him and smiled.
“I see.” Quinn didn’t smile back.
“Can your people trace the e-mail?” Scott asked.
“They’ll try, but they weren’t able to locate the sender. I don’t understand this Internet stuff, but apparently Ghazi does.”
Amy brought tea. Scott handed Abdul a copy of yesterday’s Times. The Allah’s Revenge story was on the front page. Abdul grinned and began to read. Quinn nodded toward the door.
“Walk with me, Scott.”
“Just hang on here, Abdul,” Scott said. The young man was reading his first lead story; he nodded absently but didn’t lift his eyes from the newspaper as the two men left.
“Let’s take the stairs,” Quinn said.
They descended seven flights in silence. When they reached the parking garage and found no one there, Quinn faced his friend.
“Scott, I understand you want to protect Abdul, but give me some credit. No one’s going to get near him while I’m there. It wasn’t the password that got him released. Frank overstepped when he brought him in.”
“No shit. Legal went ballistic.”
“Doesn’t matter, he’s a marked man from here on in. Frank got his wrist slapped is all. Everyone’s paranoid about Muslim terrorists, and Frank’s convinced Abdul is his man. Every time Abdul farts, one of Frank’s people will be there to smell it. I can help him, Scott.”
“I’m not worried about you. Those Special Branch thugs will throw him under a bus if it helps them get Ghazi. And the Israelis… come on, Quinn. This stinks. No one knows who Allah’s Revenge is, where they are, or what they’re capable of. And let’s face facts, their first calling card indicates how they feel about murdering innocent people.”
Quinn held up both hands. “Okay… okay, but, like it or not, he’s involved. Don’t you think he’s safer with me than on his own, having e-mail conversations with a mass murderer?”
Scott sighed and changed the subject. “And the train? Any leads?”
“Off the record?” Quinn asked.
“Sure. Shoot.”
“The perp was male. We picked him up on CCTV footage. We sent a mug shot to Interpol; perhaps we’ll get lucky and ID him. That’s all I’ve got.”
“And the gas?”
Quinn broke eye contact. “The lab boys don’t know.”
Scott’s head snapped up at the hesitation. “How do you expect me to trust you to protect Abdul when you’re lying right to my face?”