“Of course.”
Sobel has another piece of news. Hesitates in the telling.
“We may have an ID for the guy who killed Holly Knight’s boyfriend. MI6 identified a suspect coming through Heathrow a fortnight ago. He was travelling on a Moroccan passport. Facial recognition software has linked him to the suicide of a Lebanese politician in Athens six years ago. He’s also been tied to the death of the Egyptian industrialist Ashraf Marwan in London in 2007. Marwan was suspected of being an Israeli spy. Fell off his balcony. Fifth floor. Ground broke his fall.”
“This guy got a name?”
“Four or five of them. Calls himself the Courier.”
“Droll. What have we got on him?”
“A grainy CCTV picture from Athens six years ago.”
“Last known location?”
“Mombasa in April.”
“Don’t you love the fucking Africans? We give them an extra twenty-five billion in aid and they repay us by harboring every low-life scumbag terrorist they can fit through the door.”
Chalcott presses the cool down button. The incline on the treadmill begins to flatten out. His calves are burning and sweat has stretched the collar of his T-shirt. Toweling down, he keeps talking.
“Listen to me, Brendan, things want to start getting better real soon. I just heard from Jennings. Luca Terracini didn’t catch a flight to New York. He’s in Istanbul and he’s just used his credit card to buy two tickets to London.”
“Two tickets?”
“He’s with the woman from the UN.”
“Why is he coming here?”
“Yesterday he briefed a freelance journalist in Damascus, who has since been knocking on doors, asking questions about Yahya Maluk and Ibrahim.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Put Terracini on a plane to the US.”
“This is England. I can’t just extradite people.”
“I don’t give a fuck how you do it, Brendan. Plant drugs on him or kiddie porn or whatever other dirty little tricks they taught you in spy school. If this guy gets close to Ibrahim he’ll blow this operation.” Chalcott sits in the locker room, splaying his legs. “I got people here shitting themselves about this. And it costs a lot of money to get people to shit themselves these days.”
“I’ll take care of Terracini. He can be my problem.”
“Your other problem,” says Chalcott. “One solitary fucking girl-you had her on a plate and missed her. Now she’s hiding somewhere and running rings around you. I cannot fucking believe…”
“Can I just say… we’ve had some-”
“Don’t say bad luck, Brendan. You’re starting to whine like a Limey. Make this right. No loose ends.”
5
Luca and Daniela have a long walk to Heathrow immigration and a longer queue. They go to the counter together. A Sikh man wearing a bright blue turban flicks through Luca’s passport, looking at the many stamps.
“Where have you come from today?”
“Istanbul.”
“And before that?”
“Iraq.”
“What was in Iraq?”
“Oil. Sand. Terrorists.”
“Are you making a joke about terrorism, sir?”
“I never joke about terrorism.”
The immigration officer holds the information page over a scanner then waits. He picks up a phone and presses a button before placing it down again. Then he tucks Luca’s passport under his keyboard and begins processing Daniela. He stamps her passport and hands it back to her.
“Enjoy your stay in the United Kingdom.” Then he turns to Luca. “Please step to one side, Mr. Terracini.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The computer has flagged your name. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Luca glances at Daniela. Over her shoulder he can see three armed airport police officers making their way quickly along the rows of immigration desks.
“Pick up the bags. I shouldn’t be long.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“I need someone on the other side. Call Keith Gooding.”
As he embraces her, he slips his notebook into her shoulder bag.
The police officers have arrived and Luca is escorted past the queues of hollow-eyed travelers to an interview room furnished with a table and three plastic chairs. The white walls seem to blur the corners and the only sound is the hum of the air conditioning.
An hour passes. Luca takes a copy of the Herald Tribune from the front pocket of his small rucksack. More suicide bombings in Iraq. Fifty-nine dead in Baghdad. More than a hundred injured. Most of them young men lining up to enlist outside an army recruiting centre. Luca keeps turning the pages. Another ship captured by Somali pirates; the Lockerbie bomber still alive after a year; Robert Pattinson the world’s sexiest man; a missing banker in London…
The door opens. A head comes into view. He’s in the right place. The tall thin man is dressed in a pinstriped suit and trousers that are fractionally too short for his legs. His name is Douglas Evans and he reeks of public service.
He has brought Luca a sandwich and a bottle of water.
“Sorry about the delay,” he says, businesslike. “I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Is that your only luggage?”
“I travel light.”
“I will need to search your bag.”
“Is that necessary?”
“A routine requirement of anyone coming through UK Customs.”
“I thought you were immigration.”
“Two hats.”
“You’ll have some form of identification then?”
Evans smiles with less enthusiasm and produces a Home Office ID card.
“You sound quite paranoid, Mr. Terracini.”
“I’m just very careful.”
Evans unzips Luca’s bag and searches through the underwear and clean shirts that Luca purchased in Istanbul. Daniela helped choose them.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“We’ve had a complaint from the caretaker government in Iraq, via the US ambassador, that you fled their jurisdiction while still the subject of a criminal investigation.”
“My visa was revoked two days ago. I was told to leave the country. Check with the American Embassy in Baghdad. Mr. Jennings.”
“Why was your visa revoked?”
