Blood Wedding (21 page)

Omar Rahmin, the French Algerian, also seemed capable of violence: a fundamentalist, full of resentment, so convinced that the day of judgement was coming and that Allah was on their side, that he could easily do something to hasten that day. His business plan was definitely a joke. But nothing concrete. Hakim Lasnami, the German citizen, son of the Iraqi doctor, was a well-educated middle-class youth, bitterly opposed to Saddam, but against the invasion of Iraq, carried out, he thought, to give the Americans a new military base in the Middle East and thus increase their control of the oil market. Max found it hard to disagree with that assessment. His bitterness at the Allies’ conduct came through strongly. The political motivation was there, but was he a likely terrorist? His business plan seemed thoroughly researched and well thought out.

Nevertheless, the more Max interviewed them, the more something just didn’t seem right. Individually there was nothing. But there was something odd about the group, something smelled fishy. They didn’t feel like a bunch of guys on a business training course. Max had always distrusted intuition, gut feelings, but this time? Who knows? Or was he just being prejudiced? Would he feel the same if they were a bunch of white Europeans? Only the murder suspect, Hassan Khan, was left to interview. It was getting late now, but better get it done.

Hassan was lying on a bench, asleep, when he entered. Max signalled to the guard to wake him up. The guard roughly shook him until he sat up like a startled rabbit. Max noticed the pained expression . . . the broken rib? Hassan rubbed his eyes, barely able to keep them open.

‘Hassan Khan?’ Max said.

Hassan looked round, puzzled, then remembering who Max was, said, ‘Allah. Peace be upon him. You’re the man who got me out of prison after they beat me. Have you come to release me again? Is Rizwan Ahmet okay?’

‘We don’t know yet. He’s still in intensive care. Let’s sit at the table, shall we? And talk.’

‘Another interrogation? But I’ve told the others over and over again, everything.’

‘Maybe. But I need to know everything again now.’

Hassan sighed, put his hand on his side, and shuffled over to the table. Max sat down opposite him. There were grimy, smudged tears on his face, a ghost of stubble, his eyes weary with pain and tiredness. He looked weak and vulnerable. If anyone were to break, it would be Hassan. How should he do it? Where was his weak spot? Max started his questions with Leila’s death.

‘You tried to impress her, didn’t you? You said you were involved in something dangerous. Then realized you’d said too much. Panicked and killed her. You didn’t mean to kill her. But you pushed her, and she fell down the ravine. That was it, wasn’t it?’

‘No. Where did you get this terrorism stuff? You’re mistaken.’

‘We’ll see. Okay.’

Max went over the details of Hassan’s relationship with Leila, his whereabouts, and his alibi. There was nothing new.

‘Let’s go back to the beginning.’ Max steered the questions to Hassan’s childhood. ‘Your mother was English, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘She left you and your father when you were eight, I believe. Bit cruel to just abandon you, wasn’t it?’

‘Sh—she had to leave.’

Max noticed that Hassan’s slight stammer had suddenly emerged. Emotionally this might be his weak spot. Best push hard. ‘Ran off with another bloke, you mean?’

‘No. Nothing like that. She had b—become a Muslim. But she had p—problems at the mosque. Nobody accepted her. She questioned things.’

‘Questioned things?’

‘The role of women. Things like that. Dad started hitting her.’

‘Hitting her?’ Max felt like a cad, but he knew he had to press deeper on this. ‘You mean your dad beat her up? Frequently?’

‘T—towards the end. Yes.’ Hassan lowered his head, the pain obvious.

Max persisted, a hard, cutting edge to his voice now. ‘So she just ran away? Just left you behind?’

‘Sh—she had to.’ Angrily, Hassan lifted his head, and looked straight at Max. The stammer for a minute disappeared. ‘She loved me, you see. She left to save me.’

‘Funny sort of love?’

‘You don’t understand. She told me she had to leave. She wanted to, but couldn’t take me with her. Dad would come after us. He threatened to harm us both if she tried to take me.’

Hassan stopped, and looked Max full in the face. ‘You know what her last words to me were? “I love you.”’

‘Loved you?’ Max knew he had to be cruel. ‘Loved you? You never saw her again, did you? She never got in touch again, did she? And you? What happened to you? That father of yours. Beat you up regularly, didn’t he?’

Hassan was crying now. ‘He knew no better. He was b—bitter, confused. Lost in a hostile land. All he had left was his faith.’

‘How did you get away?’ Max asked more gently.

‘My local Iman. Discovered I was really good at maths. Encouraged me to study. My dad could not refuse the Iman. So I got out to university.’

‘And it was there you became a member of Hisb ut-Tahir, wasn’t it?’

‘No. I never joined them. I went to a few meetings, that’s all.’

‘You were a member, weren’t you? They told you it was a religious duty to defend your fellow Muslims by attacking those countries killing Muslims. Didn’t they?’

‘No. You’ve got it all wrong.’

‘Come on. We’ve got photographs of you with them. We know what they say. We know what they preach. Just admit it all. It’ll be easier for you.’

‘I’ve t—told you the t—truth.’

‘The truth? You went to the mosque in Finchley Road, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. It was my local mosque.’

‘Tell me about the Iman?’

‘He’s famous. He doesn’t hide his views. He tells us what is happening to our b—brothers round the world.’

‘Doesn’t just tell you, does he? He says it’s your religious duty to fight back. Kill or harm anyone whom he sees as an enemy of Islam. Kafirs, unbelievers, were legitimate targets. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘He sometimes went too far. But he also collected money to help the refugees in Chechnya and P—Palestine. He helped our b—brothers when they arrived in London with nowhere to stay, with no money.’

‘You mean extremists, don’t you? Were you one of those pledging allegiance to Al-Qaeda?’

‘I never heard of that. Sounds like one of those stories in the
Sun.’

‘Did you ever meet Shagufta Hanif? Were you ever instructed on how to make ricin?’

‘No. No. Why all these questions about ricin? I was never very involved in the mosque. Went there for p—prayers, that’s all.’

‘You went to Northern Pakistan in the summer of 2000?’

‘Yes. I went with my father. His b—brother was dying.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘About three months.’

‘Three months? A long time, isn’t it?’

‘I hadn’t been b—back to Pakistan since I was a child. My last visit was with my mother.’

‘Your mother?’

‘She wanted to meet my dad’s family.’

‘Okay. Back to this visit in 2000. You crossed over into Afghanistan, didn’t you?’

‘No. I’ve told the others hundreds of times. I didn’t leave Pakistan. I was with family the whole time.’

‘How about a madrasah? Attend one of them?’

‘I’ve told you, yes. My dad wanted me to renew my faith. After a difficult period, I too wanted that.’

‘Difficult period?’

‘With my dad and all. I hated him for what he did to my mother. She loved me, you see.’

‘Don’t give me that crap again. Loved you, my arse! She just got off with another bloke. Better in bed probably.’

‘It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.’ Hassan started sobbing again.

‘Come on, pull yourself together. An extremist madrasah, yes?’

‘No. It helped me and my dad come together. We sort of made up. He died soon after we got back to the UK.’

‘So you’ve got no one? Easy bait for extremists then.’

‘No. I’ve told you. I did not get involved in anything at that mosque. Nor was I involved with any extremists.’

‘Yet the London Iman gave you a recommendation for your course?’

‘Yes. We were asked to have a recommendation from our mosque.’

‘But you hardly knew him, you claim?’

‘No, of course I knew him. He was a p—powerful p—preacher. I didn’t agree with everything he said. He showed us some videos on what was happening in Chechnya. It’s unbelievable.’

‘And then he encouraged you to go and fight, carry out jihad.’

‘No. Yes. He said we should support our b—brothers, that was the duty of all true Muslims. I heard that some did volunteer to go to Chechnya. But I just wanted to get on with my life.’

‘Nice and quiet like?’

‘You know all about my anti-war work. I’ve told you everything. Yes, I demonstrated, I handed out p—pamphlets. I collected money. Yes, I was angry. But how often do I have to repeat that was all?’

‘Come on. Just tell us what you were planning to do here in Spain. What was the target? You can then wash, rest. You’ll feel better just admitting what you were planning.’

‘Nothing. Nothing.’

‘It’s quite a set-up you have at this Ibn Rush’d Centre, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Javeed has put a lot of work into it.’

‘You look up to Javeed, don’t you?’

‘Yes. He’s been good to me.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘At a P—Palestine Solidarity Meeting. He had started this charity, HosPal, to collect money and medicines for a hospital in Gaza. I got involved in that . . . and then he offered me a work experience p—placement in his London office . . . and that led to the job with the Centre.’

‘And you’re the computer whizz-kid for it all?’

‘Well, I’m in charge of the computers. I also do the accounts and things like that.’

‘There seems very little on the hard disks?’

‘Why should there be a lot of stuff?’

‘Well, websites, emails to your Islamic brothers for example?’

‘We keep in touch with what goes on. But I use the
Guardian
and
BBC
sites a lot.’

There was a knock on the door. An officer entered.

‘Urgent message for Sub-Inspector Romero.’

Max turned to Hassan. ‘Okay, I’ll be back. Just think. Tell us the truth. Tell us what you were planning to do here. In the end it will be better for you. You wouldn’t want to end up in Guantanamo, would you? You might even be sent to Bagram, might be somebody there who recognizes you. You know what happens to you there, don’t you?’

Max left the room. It was bad news. Rizwan Ahmet had died in the hospital. Linda, General Ponte and Bonila would be even more worried, even more determined to get results. Max had had enough. He had got nothing. But he now felt there might be something. Their stories just didn’t convince. There was something odd about the group. He returned to Hassan.

‘Okay. That’s it for now. I’ll be back. We’ll be back. Remember – I’m the nice one. Easier for you just to tell me the truth, just confess to it all – Leila’s death, what you were planning. If not, the others may be less kind. Remember Bagram. Oh. And your mother can’t help you. She never has, has she?’

Max left the room. It is surprisingly easy to be cruel, he thought. But was there something? Yes, there probably was.

Tonight there’ll be blood
To warm my cheeks.

Frederico García Lorca,
Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding)

in a version by Ted Hughes

Max reported to Linda first thing the next morning. She had recovered her poise after a good night’s sleep. However she still looked worried.

‘Max, I’m sorry about Rizwan Ahmet. There will be a full inquiry, of course.’

‘Do you know what happened?’

‘Of course – you weren’t there when it happened. I came in after the elite squad. Apparently they rushed in, saw Rizwan Ahmet reach down for something on the floor. One of the squad thought he was going for a gun, and opened fire. The officer couldn’t take risks. I know we did everything by the book. So I’m not expecting any negative consequences.’

‘But a man’s dead.’

‘I know. The war on terrorism is not pretty. Shit happens, and it’s our job to deal with it. So, what did you find out?’

‘It’s all here.’

Linda skimmed the report.

‘That’s interesting what you say about Javeed Dharwish. That’s the first crack in his self-control. He hadn’t lost his cool once with us. Well done. We’ll have to push him hard and see if we can get any more. Okay – the consensus is that Hassan Khan is the weak link. We’ll concentrate on him. That stuff on their business plans is very useful. I hadn’t thought of that. I agree it doesn’t add up. I’m glad you’ve seen the light. There’s something heavy going on. My money’s on a terrorist attack. But where, Max, where? Malaga Airport? Here in Granada, the Alhambra? The Rota base would be a real spectacular – but that’s too well guarded. It would have to be a soft target? We don’t have much time. I had the PM’s special adviser on national security on the phone to congratulate me. He’s really piling on the pressure – wants a result before the election.’

Max bit his tongue. What did an election have to do with whether someone was guilty or not?

‘I’ve called a review and planning meeting in an hour’s time. Take a break Max, and have a coffee. You’ve done well. It won’t go unnoticed.’

Max went up to the canteen. He looked at the papers. They’d all run the story on the front page. The pro-government press led with the ricin and the ETA connection. The opposition papers were speculating why no evidence had been produced. The opinion polls showed the election would be close, but with the PP still just in the lead.

After coffee Max went into his office to check his mail and emails. There was a testy email from Davila. Max was late with his input to the Service Plan Performance Indicators, and could he give it top priority. Great. A man was dead. The media were gorging on the terrorist plot, but the wheels of bureaucracy ground on regardless. Max filled in the Performance Indicator form and emailed it to Davila. He was tempted to add a sarcastic comment, but decided it was best to refrain. Davila took all these forms very seriously.

Where do we go from here? he thought as he walked down the stairs to the review meeting. There’s not much more we can do except go over the questions again and again. I doubt if Hassan and Javeed will react so emotionally the next time.