At Slocombe Avenue she hesitated, realising she had been putting off the decision. She turned round abruptly to see if she was being followed. No one. Then she turned into the street.
‘She’s on her way. All clear,’ said a voice in Dave’s ear as he waited under cover of a line of tall trees outside the gate of the small park further up the street. The A4 surveillance van parked in Slocombe Avenue was monitoring Tahira’s walk from the shop and Dave was ready to abort the meeting if any sign of danger was observed.
Tahira walked on, passing a line of semi-detached houses, lights on in their sitting rooms, the noise of televisions plainly heard in the street, until the houses gave way to the park, a favourite of mothers with toddlers, now gloomy and deserted, its gate shadowed by the line of trees set back from the street. At the gate she hesitated.
‘Tahira.’ The voice was soft and English. It startled her. She turned and there was the man in the parka again, standing ten feet in from the pavement, under the branches of one of the lime trees. He was still smiling and looked entirely unthreatening, but she felt frightened nonetheless. How did he know her name? What did he want? She looked around, but there was no one nearby, and the light was fading now that the sun had set.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ the man said.
‘Who are you?’ Tahira demanded, trying to project an air of confidence she didn’t feel. Then a woman emerged from the shadows behind the man. Tahira recognised her at once – it was the same woman who’d come to her father’s house to tell them about Amir. Tahira had liked her directness. She relaxed slightly, though she still wondered what they wanted from her.
The Englishwoman said, ‘Tahira, there’s a bench over here, behind me. If you go in and sit there, I’ll join you in a minute.’ When Tahira didn’t respond, she added, ‘My friend here will keep watch. No one will see us, I promise you.’
Tahira thought hard. It was all very well to say there was no danger, but she knew that was nonsense. If she were spotted talking to this woman, word would get around right away – if not to the young men from the mosque, then to her father, who would be furious that she’d met the officials who had come to see him, off on her own. There would be no explanation for it that he would accept.
But the note had said they wanted to talk about Amir. Her adored younger brother Amir. She realised now how worried she had been about him, how much she had wanted to know where he was, how fearful she had grown that something had happened to him. It had been a relief to learn he was being held in Paris – at least he was alive – but a new wave of worries had set in then. He was alive, but she had no confidence she would see him again soon.
Concern and plain curiosity won over caution. Tahira took a deep breath and turned into the park through the open gate. She went to sit on the bench, trying to slow down her breathing.
She heard a step behind her, then the woman was sitting on the bench beside her. ‘It’s quite safe, Tahira,’ she said soothingly. ‘There’s no one else around.’
‘What has happened to Amir?’
‘He’s fine. Still in Paris, but there’s a good chance he will be coming back to this country. Then it might be possible for you to visit him.’
‘Really?’ she asked, hope overcoming the suspicion in her voice. ‘When?’
‘Soon. I can’t tell you an exact date. Weeks rather than months. But you can help him before then.’
‘Me? How?’
‘We need to know what happened to your brother. Someone got to him; someone persuaded him to leave home. We think it might have been at the mosque.’
‘Of course it was at the mosque,’ hissed Tahira crossly. There wasn’t any doubt in her mind. ‘He should never have switched.’
‘To the New Springfield Mosque?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did some of his friends switch as well?’
‘Not that I know of. But he made new friends there. That was part of the problem – none of us knew any of them, or their families. Suddenly he was with a different set.’
‘Did they go to Pakistan as well?’
‘Yes.’ She had learned two names and said them aloud now.
‘What happened to them?’
‘I don’t know for sure. But neither has come back to Birmingham.’
‘Were they students of the same imam?’ The woman’s voice was calm but insistent.
‘There is only one imam at that mosque. Abdi Bakri. He sent them all to Pakistan. My father doesn’t realise that – he still thinks Amir went to see the family there and work for our cousin.’ She frowned, thinking of her father’s naiveté.
‘Do you know anything about this Abdi Bakri?’
Tahira shook her head. ‘Only that he hasn’t been in Birmingham more than a few years.’
‘Was he in Pakistan before that?’
‘Pakistan? I don’t think so. He’s North African. But why, is that important?’
‘It could be very important.’
‘I suppose I could try and find out.’
And as Tahira spoke the words, Liz knew she had a new agent. Did Tahira realise what she’d volunteered for? She would soon find out.
Chapter 28
Berger was on edge, though he did his best not to show it in the office. It had been a shock for everyone when the police had arrived on Monday afternoon and told them that Maria Galanos had been found murdered in her flat. Apparently her parents had spent the weekend trying to reach her on the telephone; the concierge had finally relented on Monday morning and used her key to open the poor girl’s door. With Greek efficiency, it had taken the police most of the day to contact her employers.
Falana had fainted when she’d heard the news, and Berger had sent her home right away. But he knew that her alarm was felt by everyone else in the office, and even now, three weeks later, the atmosphere remained tense as well as mournful. In his experience, sudden deaths were upsetting; a murder had the added effect of being frightening.
Katherine Ball was due out in a couple of days, and Berger was looking forward to her arrival – her imperturbable confidence might rub off on his edgy staff. He wished it could rub off on him as well. Unlike the staff, he didn’t think Maria’s murder had anything to do with her personal life, or was the random act of some homicidal psychopath. He was sure that her real role in the office had been discovered, either because she had asked too many questions or because she had found something out which she hadn’t been able to tell anyone in time – Berger’s secretary said that Maria had been looking for him on the day he had gone away for a long weekend.
So perhaps there was a spy in the office after all, one prepared to kill to keep their identity secret. Which meant they might kill again. Berger had not felt so exposed for several years, not since moving out of his risky former life and joining the calm backwaters of charitable work. Or rather, calm no longer; he kept wondering if Maria’s death was not an end but a beginning, and if the killer would continue to kill anyone who might get in the way. In the way of what, though? Berger didn’t know, but it had to include the hijacking of the UCSO shipments.
He wanted back-up – protection, yes, but also someone with a fresh perspective who might see what was going on here in a way that Berger couldn’t. The people from the British Embassy who’d sent Maria had been no help at all. They’d just told him to keep his head down and say nothing about them to the Greek police while they awaited instructions from London. He’d heard no more from them. That wasn’t good enough for him. He hated returning to his former way of life, but he hated being in danger again even more.
The switchboard put him through right away. ‘Trade Affairs,’ a flat Midwestern voice announced. ‘This is Hal Stimkin.’
‘My name is Mitchell Berger. I run the UCSO office here in Athens. I’m Brown Book status.’ This was the register of former employees. ‘I need a meet – ASAP.’