Secret Asset

23

For the second time in a month Dave Armstrong found himself in Wolverhampton. It should have been a two-hour drive—at least the way Dave drove—but the congestion at the M6/M42 junction made it closer to three before Dave found himself sitting with a local Special Branch officer in McDonald’s. The night before, Dave, who liked to think of himself as fairly fit, had watched a TV documentary about the effects of a McDonald’s diet, and now he watched fascinated as the officer tucked into a Big Mac, large fries and a chocolate shake. Dave stuck to black coffee, so hot it burned his tongue on the first sip.

The Special Branch man suppressed a belch, then said, “We’re still not entirely clear how you want to handle this. I’ve got armed officers at the ready, but you said something about ‘softly softly’ on the phone.”

“Do we know who’s in the house?”

“Not precisely. It’s a family residence. People named Khan. Respectable couple—the man is a sales rep for a restaurant supply business. His wife works part-time in a laundry. Three kids—all teenagers. Two boys and a girl. Your guy’s the eldest but hasn’t—as far as we know—left home yet.”

Dave had already planned his approach. He certainly had no intention of risking his life or the life of any officer entering the house of Rashid Khan. He was also well aware how much ill will a heavy-handed approach might cause. If Rashid’s family were in the house, it seemed unlikely that a police presence would provoke an armed response, at least not immediately, or that Rashid would blow himself up as soon as he realised it was the police at the door, but he didn’t intend to risk it.

“I wouldn’t call it softly, but I’d like to start with just a knock on the door. I want concealed backup that’s armed and ready and expecting trouble, but they’re not to do anything until they see what the initial response is.”

“And who’s going to be the man at the door?”

“I am,” said Dave.

He rang the bell and waited. Unarmed, he could not help but think of how helpless he would be if someone answered the door with a gun. He was surprised when a girl, still in her teens and in school uniform, opened the door.

“Yes?” she ventured timidly. It was teatime, and Dave wondered who else would be in the house.

“I’m from the Benefits Office,” said Dave, “and I wanted a word with Rashid Khan. It’s just a routine check about his claim. Is he in?”

Her astonishment seemed genuine to Dave. “No, but why? Is he in trouble?”

“Is your mother or father at home?”

Ten minutes later Rashid’s father’s bewilderment was growing. “Are you sure it is our son you are looking for?” he asked yet again.

“I’m afraid so,” said Dave patiently.

“It doesn’t make sense. It cannot be the son I raised. He shared everything with us.”

“Everything?” asked Dave, who had learned nothing from either parent that would explain their son’s disaffection—they thought Rashid had been in Holland for work experience before he went to university.

“Everything,” repeated the father defiantly.

“Then why don’t you know where he is now?”