Dead Line

TWENTY-SEVEN

It had been raining continuously since four. Now it was evening, and Ben Ahmad left the Park Royal Underground with his raincoat soaked. The front had come in from Ireland, a day earlier than forecast. He supposed it was difficult predicting weather on an island, but he missed the certainty of the forecasts in Syria, where there were no surprises and it stayed dry for months on end.

The vacuum cleaner shop was just closing when he arrived, and he exchanged the briefest of nods with Olikara, the ‘owner’. In the back yard he hurried to the Portakabin, and was surprised to find when he put his keys in that the metal door was already unlocked. When he opened it, to his astonishment Aleppo was sitting behind the desk.

‘How did you get in?’ he started to demand.

Aleppo dismissed the question with a curt nod of his head. ‘Sit down,’ he said sharply. His black leather jacket and charcoal high-necked pullover made him look especially sinister in the fading light.

Ahmad found himself with no option but to take the seat in front of the desk. He was alarmed. The control of the meeting had already slipped from him and Aleppo’s steely gaze unnerved him.

‘I want you to listen very carefully.’ Aleppo put his hands on the desktop and leaned forward threateningly. His voice was icy. ‘I have at great personal risk supplied your government with crucial information. I did this on the clear understanding that they would act upon it – otherwise I would be a fool to have taken such risks. I am not a fool.’

Ahmad fought to keep his mind clear. He’d been right to be frightened of this man. There was something so ruthless about him that it seemed pathological. He said earnestly, ‘No one has suggested you’re anything of the sort. But these things take time. I have explained that to you before.’

Aleppo chopped the air abruptly with his hand, as if mincing the argument. ‘Time is the one thing neither of us has.’

What was the urgency? wondered Ahmad. Was something going to happen soon that he didn’t know about? Before he had summoned up the nerve to ask, his thoughts were cut short by Aleppo. ‘I do not want lies, I do not want waffle. I want action. Do you understand?’

Ahmad took a deep breath. He had never found himself so dominated by an agent before. ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.

But Aleppo was dissatisfied; that was clear from the impatient way he shook his head. ‘Let me tell you something. The last man who told me yes while meaning no was South African. They found his torso washed up on a beach near Cape Town. They never found the legs.’

‘I give you my word. Something is going to happen this very week.’

When Aleppo stood up suddenly, Ahmad felt uncomfortable. Would Olikara hear him if he shouted out? No, the shop was closed and he would have gone home by now. He glanced out of the dusty window of the Portakabin and saw that it was dark outside. No one would still be at work in this squalid little precinct of shops.

Aleppo stepped forward and Ahmad tensed, waiting for the assault. But the agent laughed harshly. ‘Don’t be so frightened,’ he ordered. ‘Not yet, that is.’ And he walked straight out of the Portakabin door, leaving it swinging and squeaking gently on its hinges as the Syrian sat still, trying to regain his composure. Aleppo might be a valuable source, but Ahmad was now convinced he was also crazy.

He sat there for several minutes until his breathing returned to normal. The odd thing was, he thought as he left the Portakabin, locking the door carefully behind him, he had been telling Aleppo the truth. Something was going to happen that week. Only it wasn’t going to happen in England.