could hear the Kiwi barman saying: “OK, let’s do this. Everybody leave,” in a steady, level voice. It was now a matter of Shahpour’s personal pride, as much as it was of saving lives, that he should succeed in evacuating the building.
“Didn’t you fucking hear me?” he shouted at a group of bewildered customers huddled at the top of the stairs. They were holding bottles of beer, pool cues, staring at him as if determined to make a point. “Get out of here. There’s a fucking bomb.”
Others were still eating. They had belongings. In all, it took about three minutes to clear the upper level and a further four to search every nook and cranny of the building-including the kitchen, the bathrooms, the office at the back-and to be certain that Larry’s was empty. This was an act of extraordinary bravery on Shahpour’s part because, for all he knew, the bomb could have gone off at any moment. Finally, when he was done, he walked out onto Nanyang Road and saw to his disbelief that most of the customers were standing within ten feet of the entrance. Still fired with adrenalin, he shouted at them to move “at least one hundred meters back down the street.” Staff from a neighbouring Chinese bar received the same instruction in Mandarin when he saw them staring blankly outside through an open door.
“Get inside!” he shouted, a raised voice in China as rare as it was potentially humiliating. “Get to the back of your building! It’s not a fire!” and while three of them joined the crush of bemused local residents and Westerners on the road, two remained rooted to the spot, not prepared to lose face at the hands of a wild-eyed, screaming Arab.
They were two of the eighteen people who suffered minor injuries as a result of the subsequent explosion. Shahpour remembers feeling the eyes of perhaps 200 people boring into him as he began to suffer the awful, humiliating possibility of being wrong. He cursed Joe Lennox, staring at a street of dumb faces. Seconds later he was wrapped in a different kind of silence, his ears howling, his body covered in debris, a hero who had saved at least 150 people from the wreckage of a Shanghai bomb.
Memet Almas returned to his home in Astana, where he was seized by Kazakh police.
Five hours after paramedics and rescue crews had hospitalized the survivors in Screen Four, police discovered an unexploded bomb wedged beneath a seat in the back row of Screen Eight of the Silver Reel multiplex. A technical fault with the IED had prevented the bomb from exploding. Ansary Tursun was subsequently arrested in Guiyang on 17 June, his role in the attacks having been leaked to the Chinese authorities by a source in MI6.
The device planted by Abdul Bary in the metal bin on the sixth floor of the Paradise City mall was never found, because Bary had removed it at the last minute, having suffered a change of heart. Surveillance footage showed that he returned to the disabled toilet with his rucksack, then left the mall minutes later in the company of his wife and daughter.
He is still at large.
52
Joe Lennox was taken first to the Rui Jin Hospital in Luwan and then to a private room at the Worldlink on Nanjing Road. For the first thirty-six hours he was unconscious.
Waterfield had called me in Beijing late on the night of 11 June to tell me that he had been unable to reach Joe by telephone and was concerned that he might have been caught up in the Xujiahui bomb. At that early stage, the explosion at Larry’s had not been linked to what had happened in Paradise City. For all anyone knew, the two incidents were unrelated.
I flew to Shanghai at dawn on Sunday and was at Joe’s bedside by eleven o’clock. An undeclared SIS officer from the embassy-let’s call him Bob-almost beat me to it, and before I had a chance to find anything out about Joe’s condition I was being ushered downstairs to the canteen, where Bob bought me “a quiet cup of coffee” and proceeded to lay out what he described as “the respective positions of the British and Chinese governments.”
“Here’s the thing. It’s obvious to local liaison that Joe was one of us.” Bob was an overweight man in his mid-forties with a tense, persuasive manner. I thought that I recognized his face but couldn’t place him. “They’ve got closed-circuit of RUN going bananas in the mall ten minutes before the bomb went off. There are dozens of eyewitnesses. At the same time, you’ve got a CIA officer going through the same routine in Nanyang Road. The Chinese are obviously keen to find out how the hell we knew what was going on.”
I was about to speak when Bob silenced me with his eyes. A young Chinese doctor walked past our table. There was a smell of sickly sweet cakes in the canteen and I started to feel nauseous.
“What happened in Nanyang Road?” I asked.
Bob told me about Larry’s. Until further notice, he said, the Chinese were calling it a gas explosion. Then there was an eyebrow, a half-smile, and he gave me what bureaucrats like to call “the bigger picture.”
“Look. About nine hours ago a second IED was found in Screen Eight at the cinema. Unexploded. Rucksack. That makes what happened last night a co-ordinated terrorist strike on the Chinese mainland. And who tried to stop it? We did. The Brits did. One point three billion Chinese and not a single one of them knew what the hell was happening in their own back yard. Now it doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand how that makes the Chinese feel. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Do you follow?” Bob must have thought that he wasn’t getting through to me because he added, “I’m talking about a loss of face, Will.”
I nodded. He was going to ask me to agree to something. It felt like I was getting out my cheque book for a plot of land I didn’t want to buy.
“Joe is a bloody hero,” he said, with what seemed like genuine professional admiration. “He’s also persona non grata. The Chinese want him out of the country as soon as he recovers. Far as they’re concerned, what happened at the Silver Reel was an isolated incident, a grudge. You’ve seen today’s papers. They’re blaming a single Uighur fanatic. Ablimit Celil. Apparently he’s got previous. Joe Lennox, the second IED, the bomb at Larry’s, all of them will be airbrushed from the historical record.”
In the canteen, somebody dropped a tray of cups. There was a hole of silence into which we all turned. I had a sudden mental image of tapes being erased, of witnesses threatened, of surveillance recordings being consigned to a vault in Beijing. Everything would have to comply with the myth of modern China. Everything would be twisted, manipulated and spun.
Bob leaned forward.
“Over the past few weeks, Joe gave London a number of names which he believed were linked to Uighur separatism.” He produced a crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket and proceeded to decipher his own seemingly illegible script. “Ansary Tursun. Memet Almas. Abdul Bary. We’ve now given these names to the Chinese authorities. Professor Wang Kaixuan as well. I’d bet my house they were responsible for what happened at Larry’s and Xujiahui.”
“And what does Joe get in return?” I was appalled that SIS were prepared to give up Wang before they knew the full story, but couldn’t say anything about Joe’s meeting with him in May because he had sworn me to secrecy.
“What Joe gets in return is a first-class air ticket to Heathrow and the chance to recuperate in London. What he gets is no awkward questions asked about a supposed employee of Quayler pharmaceuticals nosing around Shanghai under non-official cover. He’s Beijing Red, of course, but there’s not much any of us can do about that, is there?”
It was a typical British climbdown in the face of Chinese power. Don’t upset Beijing. Think of the contracts. Think of the money. It made me intensely angry. Five floors above us was a man who had risked his life to save hundreds of innocent people, a man lying in a coma who was unable to play any part in negotiations which would effectively decide the next twenty years of his life. It seemed absurd, against the background of everything that had happened, that SIS were trying to protect the integrity of their operations in China at Joe’s expense. Bob-and probably Joe, too-would have argued that the Office had no choice, but it still felt like a rushed and shoddy compromise.
“Don’t look so upset,” he had the nerve to say. “The Yanks are going through exactly the same routine with Moazed.”
