Stella Rimington - Rip Tide

It was disappointing, but at least he’d made contact with the boy and confirmed not only that he was from Birmingham, but also that he came from the Sparkhill area. At last he had something to report. And Fazal seemed vulnerable – that could be useful if things got heavy.

At the end of the hour, Dave locked up the surgery and went back to his cabin. He checked the slightly primitive security measures he set every time he left his room: a single strand of hair balanced across the handle of the top drawer in his desk; and the items in his shaving kit, seemingly a random jumble of toothpaste, razors and shaving cream, which were in fact carefully arranged.

The hair was missing, and he found it only when he got down on his hands and knees and inspected the linoleum floor. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – the draft when he opened the door could easily have blown it off. The contents of the drawer seemed fine; his laptop was where he’d left it, apparently untouched. He went across to the washbasin to look at his shaving bag. Everything was there, he saw to his relief, but then he realised something was wrong. The tube of toothpaste was the wrong way round.

Someone had been in his room.

They were putting up a stage at the bottom end of Springfield Park. From the bench where Tahira sat, she could see scaffolding and two workmen fitting stairs at one end of the platform. Beside a van, parked on the grass, an electrician was sorting out a spaghetti-like tangle of wires.

Tahira was waiting for Malik. He’d rung her on her mobile the day after their first conversation in the café, and she had agreed to meet him here. Other ears were listening when he rang – Liz’s colleagues were tracing all calls going to and from Malik’s mobile phone.

He had suggested they meet in the park, specifying this particular bench on the hill, where large chestnut trees offered shade and privacy. Tahira sensed he was torn between a wish to see her, and an unwillingness to be seen talking to an unmarried young woman who was known more for her forthright character than for her Islamic piety.

Turning round, she spotted him coming through a rear entrance to the park. He was wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt, and carried a mobile phone in his hand. As he sat down beside her on the bench he looked round anxiously, though there was no one within a hundred yards of them.

‘Hello, Malik, it is nice to see you again.’

‘Likewise. You look lovely today.’

‘Do you see what’s going on down there?’ asked Tahira brightly, pointing to the stage at the bottom of the hill. ‘There’s going to be a pop concert here on Saturday.’

‘I know.’ Malik sounded unimpressed.

‘I’ve got tickets. My cousin and I are going.’

‘What do you want to do that for?’

‘It’s the Chick Peas. I love their music.’ Which was true. The all-girl Asian group had recently become famous with their single ‘Biryani for Two ’. Their lead singer, Banditti Kahab, had been on Celebrity Big Brother, wearing lots of make-up and an ever-skimpier succession of miniskirts. Tahira knew the girls were vulgar, but their songs were catchy, and in any case she admired them for their gutsiness. She liked the way they defied the conventions they’d grown up with and still managed to remain as much Asian as English.

Malik groaned. ‘Oh, Tahira, you’ve got so much to learn. The way you talk, you sound as though you’ve been brainwashed.’

‘Brainwashed. Who by?’

‘The so-called culture of the West, what else? Can’t you see? The girls in that band stand for the very worst things in this country – sexy clothes, flashy jewellery, lots of make-up. Flaunting their bodies. All the things they have been seduced into thinking are glamorous. And what has seduced them? The TV and the tabloids and adverts – especially the ads. You see them everywhere. For short skirts and bare skin and all the things our own religion condemns.’

‘They’re just a girl band, Malik.’

‘That makes it even worse – their only aim is to be famous. They’ve sold out in the worst possible way.’

He sounded angry now, and Tahira didn’t argue. Liz had told her to play him along, whatever she really felt about the things he said. He went on, ‘When will we ever learn? The way ahead is not through aping the West. We should be getting the West to accept our standards, not the other way around.’

‘But is that possible?’ asked Tahira hesitantly.

‘It may take time,’ Malik conceded. ‘But it will happen some day. You watch. I have seen for myself Westerners who have embraced Islam.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He gave a patronising laugh. ‘One of them was even a woman. A blue-eyed devil,’ he added, laughing at the cliché.

‘Where did you meet her?’ she asked.

Malik hesitated. ‘It had to do with the mission I told you about. I hope you have kept that secret.’

‘Of course.’ She paused then ventured, ‘I’m sorry you’re going away.’ She hoped the words didn’t sound as ridiculous to him as they did to her, but she was gambling on his ego being big enough for him to accept them without question.

To her surprise, he said, ‘I’m not going to Pakistan after all.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No. Plans have changed.’

‘But what about the others?’

‘They’ve already gone.’

‘Gone without you?’ She was surprised but didn’t dare ask why he had stayed behind. So she just said, ‘Well, that’s nice for me.’

But Malik looked uncomfortable. She wondered why – if he was keen on her, he ought to be glad he wasn’t going away. She looked at him. ‘What’s the matter, Malik? Are you upset that you aren’t going?’

He shrugged and said nothing, but Tahira knew there was something wrong.

‘Perhaps you are more interested in this blonde blue-eyed devil than in me,’ she teased.

‘I didn’t say she was blonde,’ Malik snapped. He looked around, suddenly tense again. ‘I’ve got to be going.’

‘All right,’ she said, as if her feelings were hurt. ‘Do you want to meet again, Malik?’

He hesitated, and she could see his conflict reflected in his face. He was obviously attracted to her, but there was another side to him – the side that had him looking around tensely, the side that had no place for her or any woman.

Eventually Malik smiled at her. ‘Of course we’ll meet again. It is the one good thing about my change of plans.’ He reached out and put a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s see each other on Saturday, before you go to the concert. We could meet at the café.’ He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke; his mind was on something else, and she had no idea what that was.

They came under cover of darkness and mist just before sunrise. Captain Guthrie had sent for Dave Armstrong, and when he arrived in the pilot’s house on the top deck of the accommodation block, the Captain pointed silently at the newly installed radar screen. It showed four tiny blips making straight for the Aristides.

Like the crew and the officers, Dave was unarmed. No weapons were allowed on board: the owners of ships sailing through the pirate-infested waters off the Horn had long ago decided that resisting the pirates would only lead to violence. It had turned out to be the right decision – not one hostage had been killed during the spate of hijackings in recent years. But just at that moment, Dave would have liked to have a weapon in his hands to defend himself.

He watched as the blips drew closer to the centre of the screen, then began to fade. He looked questioningly at Guthrie, who said, ‘The radar starts to dissolve at five hundred yards. That means they’re very close. Look.’ He pointed to the monitor where a larger blip had appeared in its upper corner. ‘That must be the French corvette. Our chaps should be in view any moment now.’