Capital Punishment (42 page)

The silver Golf GTI was waiting outside, ready to go.

Time moved inexorably towards 10.30 p.m., which was the latest they could leave it before they would have to head for the rendezvous at the Rich Mix Cinema in Bethnal Green.

Boxer was used to this, never allowed it to get to him. He’d spoken to Martin Fox and asked him to do his best to raise the money from other sources.

Rick Barnes sat with his hands splayed out on the arms of his chair, staring straight ahead, doing breathing exercises, listening to the words playing through his head. He’d taken no part in the money problem. The public purse was never open for ransom payments.

The doorbell rang, which jolted Isabel, as if she’d come unwound by about half a yard before retightening.

Barnes didn’t react.

Boxer went for the door.

D’Cruz. Finally. He looked shattered, his charismatic swagger shot to pieces.

‘Here it is,’ he said, holding out the briefcase.

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred and fifty. That’s all I could get in the time.’

‘That’s good,’ said Boxer. ‘Isabel and the Met’s kidnap consultant can count it out and pack it. You’d better come and have a drink with me. You look done in.’

Boxer put him in the kitchen with a bottle of scotch and a tray of ice, took the money into the sitting room, dumped it on the table. Barnes had his earphones out now, was standing, almost crouched, ready to pounce.

‘I’ll
kill
him,’ said Isabel.

‘That’s why you and Rick are going to count out a hundred thousand from that money and pack it in ten bundles as per Dan’s instructions, and I am going to talk to Frank in private.’

‘I’m calling the DCS,’ said Barnes.

‘I imagine MI5’ll want a debrief, too,’ said Boxer.

Back in the kitchen, D’Cruz hadn’t moved, not even to the whisky bottle. Boxer broke ice into a tumbler, poured three fingers of scotch over it, rattled the glass in front of D’Cruz to break his concentrated stare into the table.

‘Drink, and let’s talk.’

D’Cruz socked it back, put the glass back on the table, clasped his hands between his knees. His shoulders shook; he was sobbing.

‘Apart from what you’ve just put Isabel through,’ said Boxer, ‘MI5 are, to use the least exaggerated vocabulary possible, concerned. What have you been doing and why did you do it without their surveillance in place?’

‘I had to find out what this was all about,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I had to make connections to the sort of people who, if I brought MI5 to their door, would annihilate me, my family, my business ... everything.’

‘Are we talking about organised terrorists?’

‘No, just people who are in the know. I suppose you could call them intermediaries,’ he said, nodding and beckoning more whisky into his glass. ‘Are you joining me?’

‘I’m driving tonight,’ said Boxer, pouring the whisky, suspecting that D’Cruz was overacting.

‘You’ve got to get my little girl back for me,’ he said, suddenly desperate, as if to confirm Boxer’s suspicions. ‘You’ve got to make it work with these people holding her now.’

‘That’s my intention,’ said Boxer, ‘and you’ve arrived just in time. Another half hour and I couldn’t have guaranteed it. So what did you find out in your little interlude from MI5?’

‘There’s a man on his way to London,’ said D’Cruz. ‘A very powerful man. His name is Lieutenant General Amir Jat. He is a retired but very active officer from the ISI, living in Lahore. He arrived in Dubai under that name on an Emirates flight EK601 from Karachi at one-fifteen local time this afternoon. There has been no Amir Jat on any outgoing flights from Dubai International, but I am told that there was a man travelling on a German passport, who landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at seven-thirty local time this evening and answers to the description of Amir Jat, although he is wearing different clothes, has changed his hair style and has shaved off his beard. He was met, and it is thought he has been given another identity, probably a British passport and a ticket for onward transportation to London. His arrival time here is unknown.’

‘And what is Amir Jat here for?’

‘I’m not sure, but I have been given the impression that the kidnap was ordered by him,’ said D’Cruz.

‘Has he come here to rescue the situation now that Alyshia has changed hands?’

‘He wouldn’t have known that by the time he left Pakistan,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Although I’m sure he will have been informed by now and it will be high on his list of priorities.’

‘Why was he using a London gang and not ISI operatives to run the kidnap?’

‘Because the kidnap was designed as a personal attack on me for a reason that he would like to remain unknown.’

‘Are you going to tell me that reason?’

‘If you want to do business in Pakistan, selling the kind of heavy-duty industrial material that I am manufacturing, then you have to have contacts in the military. The kingpin is Amir Jat. If he recognises you, then all the other senior military officers will fall into line.’

‘How does he have so much power?’

‘He controls funding ostensibly from the Pakistani government; enormous amounts of it.’

‘Ostensibly?’

‘There’s so much of it and it moves down so many different channels that we have to assume that some of it comes from his powerful relationship with the Afghan Taliban.’

‘Opium?’

‘We don’t actually know this, but we think it is the case.’

‘So how did you develop a relationship with Amir Jat?’

‘Even to get an audience with him takes time. You only get to him by coming through one of the approved lines of communication. In my case, this was through Lieutenant General Abdel Iqbal in Karachi.’

‘And what did you have to do to persuade Iqbal that you were worthy?’

‘I knew his brother in Dubai. We were on the same team in my earlier ... career. He is the reason I am so strong in the Mumbai Muslim community,’ said D’Cruz. ‘And when Abdel Iqbal’s eldest son developed a very rare brain tumour, I was on hand to find an American surgeon in Los Angeles who would perform the necessary surgery that nobody else would. I paid the two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bill. It was the best investment of my life.’

‘And that brought you into Amir Jat’s orbit,’ said Boxer. ‘He doesn’t sound like someone who gives things away for free.’

‘I don’t know how much you know about business relationships,’ said D’Cruz. ‘Putting it simply, they are all about power. It sounds obvious, but if you allow a person to maintain a more powerful position over you, it will forever weaken you in that relationship. So what you’re trying to do in developing a business relationship is to bring the power of each individual into balance.’

‘It sounds as if you’re describing the rationale behind corruption,’ said Boxer. ‘But Amir Jat’s probably a very devout Muslim if he has a strong relationship with the Afghan Taliban.’

‘Yes, and although he controls a great deal of money, he is not interested in having any of it for his own account. He only uses it to demonstrate his far-reaching power. His personal needs are extremely limited. He drinks boiled water. He behaves as if it’s Ramadan every day, eating only in the morning before daybreak and at night after sundown. He prays, of course, five times a day.’

‘So, not an obvious candidate.’

‘But I succeeded in corrupting him,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I found his most vile weakness and exploited it.’

‘And what would that weakness be?’ asked Boxer.

‘You don’t need to know,’ said D’Cruz, dead-eyed.

And Boxer could see that it would be an admission that would take a heavy toll.

‘It’s something I learned very early on,’ said D’Cruz. ‘No man is incorruptible.’

Boxer didn’t like the way D’Cruz was looking at him. He began to understand how Amir Jat, and Isabel Marks, and all the people who’d ever come into contact with the beguiling charisma of Frank D’Cruz were made to feel. He stared back at him, unblinking.

‘And what was the demonstration of sincerity he was asking from you?’

‘That, I still don’t know for certain. It could be that I just have to keep my mouth shut, but about what, apart from his vile weakness, I do not know. I think maybe he’s just rebalancing the scales of power in his favour,’ said D’Cruz. ‘I am well-protected among the Muslim community in Mumbai, and he wouldn’t have been able to pull it off there unless he’d gone to one of the Hindu gangs, and that was never a possibility. In London it’s easier.’

‘But normally people instigate kidnaps for particular reasons,’ said Boxer. ‘To earn a ransom is the most obvious. Or to guarantee someone’s silence, but only until a crucial moment has passed. Buying your silence about how you corrupted him sounds too general a reason for a kidnap. How long is he supposed to keep Alyshia in order to ensure you keep your mouth shut? For life? There has to be something specific as well, something like, say, an imminent terrorist attack.’

‘No. My intermediaries assured me that is not the case. The heat is too intense in the run up to the Olympics. The established terrorist organisations don’t want to risk a failure and compromise their networks.’

‘Well, Frank, to me there’s a logic breakdown in this scenario and if I see it, you can bet your life MI5 will see it, too.’

‘Look, Charles, because Amir Jat is a man I do business with, I make it
my
business to know everything there is to know about him. He doesn’t operate in a vacuum and I have the means to draw information from those around him. I won’t name my sources, not even to MI5, but I can assure you I have them,’ said D’Cruz. ‘It is the nature of these kinds of relationships that you are always trying to reach beyond the level you have already achieved. So, as soon as I’d brought Abdel Iqbal onside, I reached for Amir Jat. When I attained him, I looked for the next man in the chain. Amir Jat is a man who keeps his enemies as close to him as his friends. I’m not sure that he differentiates between them. I was able to find out which of his friends were, in fact, his enemies and, to my great misfortune, he was also able to find out who one of them was. Yes.
Was.
Amir Jat is not a man who tolerates traitors.’

Boxer was entranced by the spiralling logic of what D’Cruz was saying. It seemed to make some sort of sense, but gave him no hard information to hold on to.

‘So you think he’s had Alyshia kidnapped in retaliation for you turning one of his “friends” into your spy?’ said Boxer. ‘That still doesn’t make sense.’

‘Unless, as you said at the beginning, he’s out to punish me,’ said D’Cruz, ‘for corrupting him and for turning his people against him.’

Silence. D’Cruz poured himself another shot, downed it without taking his eyes off Boxer.

The doorbell rang, which broke the spell between them. Barnes went for it and a moment later appeared in the kitchen.

‘It’s Mr D’Cruz’s limo to Thames House,’ he said. ‘And it’s time for you to go, Charles. The money’s ready.’

Dan walked back to the unit, taking a different route in. He was excited; he’d been having some ideas about how the drop was going to work. How they could do it better. He took a different way in by going up Canal Walk, crossing the bridge and coming in to Branch Place from the west. He saw nobody. But one of Tarar’s men, hiding behind a low wall topped by the council’s blue railing in front of a block of flats, saw him. He watched as Dan let himself into the unit and then phoned in his report.

The studio area was dark, with a curious silence to it. Dan padded up the stairs, wondering what he would find this time. As soon as he entered the flat, he knew something was wrong. There was no chatter, no laughter, no flirtation. Skin was sitting on his own next to the table, smoking a joint, looking at the blank wall. Dan checked on Alyshia; she returned his stare, said nothing. Her other wrist was handcuffed to the bed head. Her hair was wet. He closed the door, went back to Skin.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Dan.

Skin shrugged.

‘I thought you were getting on?’ said Dan. ‘So what’s the score?’

‘Not a lot. I let her have a shower.’

‘Fucking luxury round here.’

‘Water was cold,’ said Skin. ‘She complained. That’s it.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Skin, looking for a new chapter now, his blue eyes gone to black. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘I’ve just been rethinking how we’re going to do this,’ said Dan.

‘Glad you’re here,’ said Skin, taking a huge drag, closing his eyes, ‘doing the thinking.’

More silence.

‘Are you with me, Skin?’

‘All ears,’ he said.

‘I hope the walk down the canal clears that shit out of your system.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll drop a dexy and get there in half the time.’

‘All right, listen carefully. These are
instructions
I’m giving you now,’ said Dan. ‘When you get to the end of the canal, you’ll go through the tunnel under Commercial Road. At that point you’ll find yourself between the road and the arches of the DLR in front of the Limehouse Basin marina. There’ll be a lock there. I want you to go up the steps on the left and on to the south side of Commercial Road. Got that?’

‘Got it.’

‘I want you to look over the bridge wall and down onto the tow path where you’ve just come from and give me a marker.’

‘A marker?’

‘Something on the bridge. A mark. Where I can tell Alyshia’s mother to stop, get out and throw the sports bag with the money over the wall. And where you’ll be down below, waiting to catch it. That way nobody sees you and if they have got people following, it’s going to be more difficult for them to chase you. They’ll have to stop, find their way down there and then find you. It’ll give you a few minutes head start to sprint to the car you’ve already stolen and get your arse through the Blackwall Tunnel.’

‘The Blackwall Tunnel?’

‘You’d better hope the car you’ve nicked has got SatNav.’

Skin looked at his watch, began to understand what he had to do in the time.

‘Don’t worry about the time too much. I can delay them until you’re ready,’ said Dan, and handed him a phone. ‘This is the mobile you’re going to use. I’ve put my number in there already. Check it now.’