Stella Rimington: Rip Tide

Liz looked calmly at Khan and said, ‘I don’t know about you, but my French stopped at GCSE.’

His eyes widened at the sound of her English voice, then he sat stiffly upright and gave her a defiant look.

Liz shrugged. ‘Amir, I haven’t come all this way to give you a hard time. But let’s not pretend: you speak English just as well as I do. Probably with a Birmingham accent.’

Khan stared at her for a moment, as if making up his mind. The key now was to get him to say something – anything would do for a start. Liz had been taught this during initial training at MI5: a complete refusal to speak – even to say yes or no – was disastrous; there was no way forward from there. It reminded her of being taught to fish by her father. When she took too long setting up her rod, he would always say, ‘If your fly’s not on the water, you can’t catch a fish.’

Fortunately Khan decided to speak, saying slowly, ‘Are you from the Embassy?’

‘Not exactly. But I am here to help.’

‘Then get me a lawyer.’

‘Well, perhaps we should first establish who you are. I take it that you are indeed the Amir Khan, of 57 Farndon Street, Birmingham, whose driving licence you were carrying when you were arrested by the French Navy?’

‘I said, I want a lawyer.’

‘Ah, if only it were that easy. We’re in France, Amir, not England. They do things differently here. You’ve heard the phrase “ Habeas corpus”?’ She didn’t wait for him to nod. ‘Well, over here, they haven’t. You can be held on a magistrate’s word for as long as he likes. It could be months. Or longer, if you won’t co-operate.’

Khan was gnawing his thumbnail. A good sign, thought Liz, who wanted him on edge. He said sharply, ‘So why should I talk to you?’

‘Because I may be able to help.’

He scoffed, ‘How, if the French can hold me as long as they want?’

‘If we can get a few things sorted out, we might be able to arrange your transfer to the UK.’ She looked around at the room. ‘I think you’d agree things would be better for you there. But that would depend on your co-operating, of course.’

‘With what?’

She put the battered driving licence on the table. ‘Is this yours? Are you Amir Khan?’

He nodded. ‘You know I am.’

‘You were arrested with a group of pirates from Somalia, trying to hijack a ship in the Indian Ocean. Let’s talk about how you got there from Birmingham. And why you were helping to hijack a Greek cargo ship.’

‘I wasn’t,’ he said flatly. Seeing surprise in Liz’s eyes, he said, ‘They forced me to go along.’

‘Who did?’

‘The pirates. I don’t know their names… I couldn’t understand a word they said. It was some African dialect.’

‘They weren’t African.’

He ignored her. ‘They told me to get in their boat, and I didn’t argue. I was sure they were going to kill me.’

‘Why did they take you along?’

‘You’d have to ask them.’ His tone was surly.

‘Why don’t we take a step back? Tell me how you ended up in Somalia in the first place.’

‘I thought we were heading for Kenya.’

‘Who’s “we”?’ She knew it was important to cut off these tangents right away, or they’d sprout like suckers at the base of a tree. Soon there’d be so many of them she wouldn’t be able to see the tree, much less the forest.

‘A friend. I met him in London.’

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘We called him Sammy, but I think his name was Samir.’

‘Samir what?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you meet him in London?’ Seeing as you’re from Birmingham, she thought.

‘Last year, or maybe two years ago. I have a cousin who moved down there and I used to visit him. He has a newsagent’s in Clerkenwell and-’

Liz interjected quietly, ‘We know you went to Pakistan.’

For a moment Khan looked uneasy. But then he simply shifted gear, moving back into the narrative that Liz could tell he had pre-prepared. ‘Of course I did. I’ve got relatives there. Another cousin, in fact – you can check it out. He has a shop in Islamabad – not a newsagent’s, but a butcher’s shop. He’s done well. In fact, he’s thinking of opening another shop-’

This time Liz cut in less gently. ‘How did you get from Pakistan to Somalia?’

Khan looked at her as if outraged that she should interrupt him. Liz pressed, ‘I said, how did you get there?’

He sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Let’s hear it. We’ve got all day if necessary.’

And for the next hour or so it looked as if all day was what Liz would need. For Khan launched into a lengthy, voluminously detailed, yet utterly preposterous account of his whereabouts since leaving Pakistan – involving a flight to Turkey, a boat trip to the Greek islands, another to Tunisia (where he claimed to have picked grapes for a month), three weeks of hitchhiking that included a harrowing jeep ride in the middle of the night… on and on he went with his story, an account so obviously fabricated that Liz could only smile.

Each time she tried to pin him down – what airline had he taken to Turkey? What Greek island had he visited? – Khan’s memory would suddenly falter. ‘I can’t be sure,’ he’d say. Or, ‘Maybe I’ve got that wrong.’ And for every reluctant step towards Somalia his story took, he did his best to take two backwards.

As Khan went on – by now he was trying to reach Egypt overland from Lebanon – she interrupted less, and gradually stopped asking any questions at all. He continued talking, apparently thinking that his avalanche of words somehow made his story credible. Finally he seemed to realise that he was not convincing her, and came to a sudden halt. There was silence in the room.

‘So,’ said Liz eventually, ‘where is your passport?’

‘I lost it.’

‘Then how did you get across all these borders?’

He said nothing, obviously trying to think of an answer that would not incriminate him.

It was time to up the pace. ‘Come on, Amir. Why were you in Somalia?’

‘I just wanted to see it.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘A couple of guys I met.’

‘Where did you meet them?’

‘In Egypt. We met in Cairo.’

‘What were their names?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘How did you get to Somalia?’

‘By car. Jeep, actually.’

‘Whose car?’

‘It was rented.’

‘What, there’s a Hertz agency in Mogadishu?’

Khan said nothing.

Liz went on. ‘Were you in Yemen before then?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever been to Yemen?’

‘No,’ he said crossly.

‘Who in Pakistan gave you your orders?’

And before he had time to think, he snapped back, ‘It wasn’t in Pakis-’ Then stopped, aware of his slip. He looked down at the table, mortified.

Liz smiled. ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth now? You must be tired of inventing.’

Khan hesitated, and for a second Liz thought his moment of carelessness might have broken down his guard. He seemed on the very edge of caving in. She waited but he said no more. Lifting his head, he looked straight at her.

‘Do you have any message for your parents?’ she asked.

His eyes widened with shock. ‘What have they got to do with this? They don’t know anything about it.’ But as he looked at Liz tears started to well up. He bent his head to wipe them away with the shirt sleeve on his manacled arm.

Liz waited but something, whether determination, fear or training, reasserted itself. Having regained control of himself, Khan’s features hardened and he squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you,’ he declared.