Boxer entered the password for access to the Pavis system. He clicked on the recruitment file. The screen demanded another password, which he did not have. He looked at his watch: 3.30 a.m. A bit early to be calling Fox’s PA, but there was no one else but the man himself and he would not take kindly to such an early call. He woke the PA on the third ring. She was groggy with sleep but gave him the password.
‘Once you get in, you’ll see there’s just a list of specialisations. Once inside there, you’ll find it broken down into languages spoken. Finally, you’ll get to a list of names.’
‘Are they names from all CVs that Pavis has ever received?’
‘No, they’ve been sorted by Martin and categorised,’ she said. ‘There will still be files you can’t open – the ones with confidential information in them. Martin’s the only one with the password for those files.’
‘What about CVs from unsuitable candidates?’
‘They’re trashed immediately.’
Just as the PA had said, the recruitment file was broken down into specialisations. By far the biggest file was Pavis’s bread and butter: Physical Security. Companies needing security for their personnel working in dangerous places: telephone engineers in Chechnya or software programmers in Iraq. That file was broken down into the languages spoken, mostly ‘English speakers’. The names were in alphabetical order. He glanced down to see if any leapt out. The first was a friend from the Staffords and the second was in the Ds – Michael Dowd. He opened it. First thing: no photo. Second thing: only six lines of CV.
Born: 1967, Boston, Mass., USA
Mathematics Major, Virginia Tech
CIA: 1990–2005
Languages: English
Contact: Schwab
Read more
Boxer clicked on ‘read more’ but another password was required. He closed the file, went back to the list of specialisations and scrolled down, but found no PsyOps. He went through the specialisations one by one, thinking you really could take over a small country with this level of expertise: Consultancy, Corporate Due Diligence, Investigative, Kidnap, Maritime, Pathfinding, Physical Security, Research and Intelligence, Risk Consultancy, Security Systems and Technology, Specialist Training. And it was in that last category where he found the name Sean Quiddhy, under ‘English speakers’, and with the same six-line CV as Dowd and again, no photo.
Born: 1966, Boston, Mass., USA
Psychology Major, Virginia Tech
CIA: 1989–2005
Languages: English, German, Russian, Arabic, Urdu and Pashto
Contact: Schwab
Read more
Again, ‘read more’ needed another password. He went back to the main file. What were these names doing in the Pavis system? Martin Fox was always banging on about what a clean ship he ran, the governments he wouldn’t work for, the personnel he wouldn’t even keep on file. And yet here were the names of two people that Dick Kushner wouldn’t have touched.
He had a thought, went back to the Physical Security file and found his old colleague from the Staffords. He clicked on his name and up came the full CV, with photo attached. He closed up and went to the ‘Kidnap’ file, opened up ‘English speakers’, scrolled down to Reece, Gerry. He opened the file: no photo and a six-line CV. He scrolled back up to his own name, clicked on the file: no photo and the tell-tale six-line CV. Fox knew. This was where the leak was coming from about his special service.
‘Found what you’re looking for?’ asked Fox, standing in the doorway, a dark presence, no light on him from anywhere.
He came in, sat in the chair on the visitor’s side of the desk.
‘Didn’t expect to see you up at this time,’ said Boxer.
‘Technology,’ said Fox. ‘I get an SMS alert if my computer is turned on without me being here.’
‘I’ve always been a bit of a Luddite in that respect.’
‘You worked it all out yet, Charlie?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting there.’
‘How?’
‘Sean Quiddhy and Michael Dowd,’ said Boxer. ‘Skin gave a very good physical description and I went to Dick Kushner.’
‘Yes, I heard from DCS Makepeace that they’d caught that idiot,’ said Fox. ‘Had a look at your own file yet?’
‘That’s where I am now.’
‘So you’ve found out. I know about your . . . special service,’ said Fox. ‘Click on “read more” and enter “CBE” in caps and “sme” in lower case and the numbers “7042”. I used your mother’s Christian name, because you’re already using her maiden name.’
His file and photo came up. The complete CV, including the jobs he’d done for Zhang Yaoting and Bruno Dias, as well as a comment from the Russian businessman.
‘So what is this?’ asked Boxer.
‘There are certain jobs for which I will only use people I can absolutely rely on to keep their mouths shut right into the grave.’
Silence.
He didn’t like Fox knowing this about him; worse than someone knowing about a sexual deviancy.
‘Why?’ said Boxer. ‘You’re always telling me and the rest of the world how squeaky-clean Pavis is.’
‘I’m paying the bills,’ said Fox. ‘Until the special risks underwriters recognise Pavis, I’m picking up scraps. Some of those scraps are very well paid, if you’re prepared to . . . provide a special service.’
‘Right,’ said Boxer. ‘Are we going to put our cards on the table, Martin?’
‘If you like,’ said Fox. ‘But I’d rather see yours first.’
‘We know about Quiddhy and Dowd,’ said Boxer. ‘There’s an English guy that Skin heard the Irishman call Reecey. I presume that’s Gerry Reece. Skin reckoned Quiddhy had hired him and that he’d subcontracted the Bermondsey gang leader, Archibald Pike, to provide facilities and security for the kidnap, if not more.’
‘I’ve never used him,’ said Fox, holding out a reassuring hand, ‘but Gerry’s work is organising kidnaps. Mainly in South and Central America. And I’m sure he’d like me to tell you that he’s not all bad. He won’t take anybody under the age of twenty-five years old, for instance. He’s also kidnapped some very bad people in his time: dodgy politicians, drug smugglers, mafia thugs and the like. I’d have to check on this, but I should think the only problem he had with this one was that he’s never done a London-based job.’
‘Reece’s Irish partner? Quiddhy gave his name to Skin as McManus.’
‘I know. James McManus. Not a pleasant character, by all accounts. He was ex-UDA; got a taste for killing during the Troubles.’
‘Reece got it in the end – you know that, don’t you?’
‘Skin and Dan,’ said Fox, shaking his head. ‘What a pair.’
‘Not the consummate professionals,’ said Boxer, ‘but they still managed to do what none of us could. They got Alyshia away from some highly trained operatives who were going to kill her.’
‘A couple of lucky chancers, if you ask me.’
‘Part of their motivation, apparently, for taking over the kidnap was that they didn’t like what Quiddhy and co were doing to Alyshia: heavy interrogation, mock execution. So what did they have to get out of her to set about breaking her down like that?’ asked Boxer, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Why the brutal escalation of tactics? Quiddhy was winning on the psychological front; he didn’t have to frighten us half to death with that mock execution. I mean, not at that particular moment.’
They sat in silence, thinking.
‘Time,’ said Fox. ‘Maybe time suddenly became an important factor.’
‘Time?’
Mahmood Aziz was waiting in his brother’s auto electrics and engine parts shop in the Sher Shah Kabari Market in West Karachi. At 4.30 a.m., most of the other workshops and traders were still closed up, but his brother had got in early to start work on stripping down an old truck that had arrived late the night before. Aziz was in the back office, which had a view onto the adjoining street where towers of used tyre
s had been stacked to the eaves. After some minutes, his guest arrived in this street and Aziz let him into the back office, unseen by his brother and the other workers.
Aziz made some tea and they sat on the rickety furniture and commented on the coolness of the night.
‘You probably haven’t heard it yet, but I can confirm that our mutual friend had an unfortunate accident late last night in London,’ said Aziz.
‘Amir Jat is dead?’ asked Lt General Abdel Iqbal, wanting it confirmed in words rather than between the lines.
‘He was shot in the head.’
‘And where is his body?’
‘It will turn up somewhere in London tomorrow.’
‘And Alyshia D’Cruz?’
‘She is safe.’
Iqbal had been anticipating this news and had expected to be pleased by it, but now that he’d been confronted by the reality, he was suddenly aware of the power vacuum left by Amir Jat’s absence.
‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ said Aziz. ‘You have our full support and your steady hands will be much appreciated by our Afghan friends, especially after the ferocious tenacity and paranoia of your predecessor, who they had begun to regard as, shall we say, unhinged.’
‘I took a call from Frank D’Cruz earlier this afternoon. He was still very concerned about his daughter, even though she was out of her original kidnapper’s hands.’
‘You told him about the imminent arrival of Amir Jat?’
‘Yes, and that he could inform the British authorities of that.’
‘Does he believe that Amir Jat was responsible for taking his daughter?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you pointed out to him how he had weakened Amir Jat’s position by corrupting him and infiltrating the people around him?’ said Aziz. ‘Amir Jat could never feel safe again.’
‘I did, but that didn’t seem to convince him. It’s possible that their relationship is well-balanced on that front. I don’t know what hold Amir Jat had over him from when they first met in the early 1990s,’ said Iqbal. ‘What Frank D’Cruz was most concerned about with the arrival of Amir Jat was the prospect of an imminent terrorist attack.’
‘I hope you assuaged his fears.’
‘Of that I did manage to convince him.’
Lt General Abdel Iqbal finished his tea and the two men shook hands and embraced before the ISI officer took his leave. Aziz sat down in the quiet of the office. His brother came in, wiping his hands on an oily cloth.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘All we can do is hope that this unexpected interference has not damaged the original plan,’ said Aziz.
‘When will you know?’
‘Very soon now. In less than thirty-six hours we will gain our greatest victory over the forces of evil and the Ninth Greater Sin,’ said Aziz. ‘And then, finally, the world will have another name to think about now that Osama bin Laden has gone.’
‘What hour did you set the timers for?’
‘Tomorrow morning at the busiest possible moment: eight-thirty London time.’
29
5.30 A.M., WEDNESDAY 14TH MARCH 2012
Wycombe Square, Aubrey Walk, London W8
A soft knock at the front door, not using the bell, raised Boxer’s gaze from the grain of the table.
He was sitting in Isabel’s kitchen, alone with a glass and bottle of whisky. He was exhausted. Not by the rollercoaster but by the knowledge that Martin Fox knew of his special service. It gave Fox power over him. He’d been naïve to think that it could remain a secret. People talk: the business elite with their art collections showing off to each other about another inside track that nobody else has. And yet it was something so intensely personal to him that having someone like Martin Fox know about it, and use it for commercial purposes, drained him.
Another soft knock. He got up, looked through the peephole: young Indian guy, wool hat, cheap heavy coat. He opened the door.
‘I am Deepak Mistry,’ he said, holding out his hand and ducking his head in a polite Asian bow. Boxer shook his hand, drew him in.
‘I’ve been waiting a long time for you to turn up,’ said Boxer.
‘I had no idea,’ said Mistry, smiling. ‘And who might you be?’
‘I was the kidnap consultant until the police took over. Now I’m a friend of the family. Charles Boxer,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure this is the best place for you to be.’
‘Is Frank here?’ asked Mistry quickly, fear in his eyes.
‘No, he’s in a suite at the Ritz, but he’s looking for you. I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t look good.’
‘Do you work for him?’
‘I did,’ said Boxer, grabbing a coat, taking Mistry by the arm. ‘But not anymore. I’ll give you the full story in the car. I think we should leave now.’
‘And why should I trust you?’ asked Mistry, tearing his arm from Boxer’s grip.
‘Why did you knock on this door?’
Silence.
‘I’m not going to wake Isabel so that she can vouch for me. She’s been through hell tonight.’
Mistry nodded. Boxer led the way to the car and they took off down to Holland Park Avenue.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere safe,’ said Boxer.
‘And Alyshia?’
‘That we don’t know anymore,’ said Boxer. ‘We got very close to getting her back tonight but we were pipped at the post.’
He drove past the Royal Crescent, onto the Holland Park roundabout with the Thames Water Tower, half-full with blue water, traffic just beginning to materialise.
‘It looks like you’re the key, Deepak,’ said Boxer, turning into Holland Road. ‘I don’t know what you know, or whose side you’re on, other than it doesn’t appear to be Frank’s. So maybe let’s start with some history.’
‘I left the village with my only friend, Yash, in 1994. He went to Mumbai and joined a gang. It was run by a guy called Chhota Tambe, who had been a friend of Frank’s in the 1980s. I went to Bangalore. When I needed money to set up my IT business, Yash approached Chhota Tambe on my behalf. He agreed to invest and, seeing as it was my only chance, I took it. But I didn’t know what I’d let myself in for.’
‘Chhota Tambe wanted something in return?’
‘Nothing much to start off with. He seemed content with half my business, and making money,’ said Mistry. ‘Then, one day, I was flown to Dubai to meet him. I was an innocent, not streetwise like Yash. We talked. We watched a lot of movies and cricket. At the end of the stay, he gave me a contact name in Konkan Hills Securities and told me that he was a good man to sell into. I went back to Bangalore, made the call. Four weeks later, I signed a contract with Konkan Hills.’
‘The start of a beautiful relationship,’ said Boxer.
‘One thing led to another,’ said Mistry. ‘Frank ended up buying my company and making me head of IT at Konkan Hills. It was only later, when I made it to the inner circle, that I began to realise that Chhota Tambe did not like Frank D’Cruz.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘It dates back to the 1993 bombings in Mumbai.’
‘But that was a Muslim attack and Frank’s a Catholic.’
‘Yes, but I think you can tell from Frank’s underworld connections, like Anwar Masood and his network amongst the military in Pakistan, that although he might not bat for the Muslims, he is a faithful supporter and receives rewards in return.’
‘So what sort of information was Chhota Tambe looking for?’
‘Anything that might bring Frank down,’ said Mistry.
‘So you’re a spy?’ said Boxer.
‘I’m a late developer,’ said Mistry.
‘You must be a natural to have fooled Frank for so long.’
‘Chhota Tambe might be obsessed but he isn’t stupid. He made sure I didn’t start spying for him until Frank and I were already close,’ said Mistry. ‘Once you’re as close as I was to Frank—’
‘Are
we talking father to son?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So Frank’s hurt, as well as betrayed?’
‘No question.’
‘So how did you get so far in?’
‘The houseboys,’ said Mistry. ‘I should have been one myself coming from Bihar, India’s poorest state. It means I know them.’
‘And they told you things?’
‘No. That was my rule. I didn’t want them to tell me secrets. Once you’ve betrayed your master, he will see it,’ said Mistry. ‘I found out where the secrets were being told, which was in the Juhu Beach house, close to the airport where people could go without being seen and be made to feel comfortable, if you’re the sort of guest who finds being corrupted comfortable.’
‘So what was Chhota Tambe interested in?’
‘He wanted all Mumbai to know the extent to which Frank was in bed with the Muslims. How his whole business empire was based on the support he’d given to them, and what he’d received in return,’ said Mistry. ‘And what the houseboys told me was that there were times when Frank cleared the compound. No servants. Only the gateman outside. When the house was in lockdown, nobody could get in – except Alyshia.’
‘Was that why you started an affair with her?’
‘Don’t make it sound so easy,’ said Mistry. ‘Alyshia had the pick of Mumbai society. Cricketers, actors, sons of the best families, all of them eating out of her hand. And she wasn’t interested.’
‘What did the poor boy from Bihar have that they didn’t?’
‘A total lack of interest,’ said Mistry. ‘That, and the accessibility to constantly show it to her. Although I’d met her in London with Frank one time, we worked in the same plant for a year or more before we came across each other again.’