Twenty hours later, as they filed wearily back into the meeting room Hood had shown them into the previous day, Goren was struck by a sudden feeling of deja vu and a sense of slight unreality. As they slumped into their seats, he replayed the events of the past day, beginning from the moment he, Eames and Hood had run through the corridors of Scotland Yard, twisting and turning through the building and scattering bemused police officers in their wake as they descended towards the interrogation rooms where Khaleel and his co-conspirators were being held…
…This was no ordinary interrogation; there were no lawyers present, no advocates for the accused, just the sweating, terrified, young suspects and their interrogators, and as Goren and Eames watched, pacing the floor behind the one-way glass, the Special Branch officers tried every trick in the book to get a confession, and, more importantly, the full details of the planned attack.
Elsewhere in London, they knew, armed officers in black body armour were breaking into the houses of anyone suspected of a connection with Khaleel and his small organisation. Khaleel's house had yielded not only plans of the stadium, presumably stolen from his cousin, but the ingredients, stolen from Khaleel's university, to generate deadly hydrogen sulphide gas. Their plan had apparently been to pose as workmen contracted to finish the fittings on the temporary roof at the stadium; Khaleel had also taken the details of the firm supplying the workmen, and he and his colleagues had gotten jobs at the firm.
The roof, hurriedly thrown up into order to allow the match to take place, used a standard sprinkler system in order to meet fire regulations. Goren had seen the plans, taken from Khaleel's house, for a nasty little device which fit over the sprinkler heads. When the sprinklers were turned on, the water flooding through the device generated deadly hydrogen sulphide, which was then pushed out into the space below the roof as the water continued to flow.
Combined with the panic caused by a false fire alarm – Khaleel's house had also contained several smoke bombs – and the casualties would have been considerable. According to information given up by one of the other members of the Newcomers group who'd cracked under interrogation, they had planned to claim the credit for it shortly afterwards…
Goren, remembering the Veterans' Parade Day case from just under two years ago, repressed a shiver. He'd not thought twice about tackling the suspect at the time – he'd had no time to, sheer adrenaline had propelled him forward and into grappling with the man, knowing all the time that one wrong move, one slip of his grip on the man's hands, yielding to the horrendous pain of the bite wound on his shoulder for just one second, would mean his death in a blaze of fiery oblivion – but he hadn't slept properly for a week afterwards as the implications of what could have happened sunk in, and when Sienna had visited from the Ukraine two weeks after the case and seen him for the first time, her first words to him had been "Ye gods, what happened to you?" He had no sympathy at all for fanatics.
But as the interrogation went on, and the news of the capture of the entire Newcomers cell flooded in from outside, he found himself growing more and more uneasy. It was going too well. Eames, picking up on his mood, fretted restlessly. Like him, he knew, she was itching to get in there and see what the two of them could get out of the suspects… but, also like him, she was feeling the little twinges of instinct that said we're not getting the full story here. Or, worse, we're being led by the nose, right to where someone wants us to be.
Wasn't Khaleel's pulling the knife just so convenient, ensuring that he got taken into custody? Exactly what you'd do to make yourself a viable suspect, so that when your story was reluctantly dragged out of you, it looked more believable? They still didn't know what had caused this small student group, many of whose members had joined only recently, to cross the line from simply talking about their hatred of the West, into planning a very complicated and highly lethal attack. From reading the background information Davenport had given him, Goren had the distinct impression that something – or someone – had persuaded them into it, and they had no idea who that was.
The more he looked at Khaleel, the more Goren was certain that they didn't know the whole story. To his experienced eyes, the young fanatic didn't seem angry enough. He was acting angry, alright, but Goren would have expected him to start yelling empty threats about how there were more of them out there, about how the police would never stop them all. Instead, he was ranting about the righteousness of his cause, which to Goren suggested that, underneath it all, he still expected some form of attack to go ahead. He seemed far too sure of himself for someone whose carefully planned atrocity had just been foiled by the police.
"Bobby."
Eames' voice roused him from his thoughts, and the two of them withdrew to the corner of the room, scarcely noticed by the other officers, whose attitude to them seemed to be basically; "Jolly good, thanks for the information, now, since you've served your purpose, would you mind buggering off back across the Atlantic because frankly you're a bit in the way".
Eames' expression of concern mirrored his. "I'm not at all happy about this. The hit on Elahi was professional, but these guys are strictly home-grown amateurs."
He knew what she meant. It increasingly looked like Khaleel and his fellow would-be killers had simply spotted the opportunity presented by his having access to the plans via his cousin Elahi, then gotten the details on how to make bombs and planned the attack. They had all the would-be terrorists now, consisting of the two men arrested with Khaleel, plus two others whose details they'd finally got out of the group's ringleader after two interrogators had threatened him for an hour, hinting heavily that he'd be sent abroad and tortured, then simply disappear without trial… low tactics, Goren thought unhappily, but what else could you do? In any case, he and Eames had no power to intervene or make suggestions.
He'd tried to tactfully suggest that perhaps he could assist, and been sharply reminded that this was not a domestic police interrogation, but instead a matter for the British security services, thank you, Detective Goren. And, after all, they had the culprits, now, the plot was foiled, and at this very moment, Scotland Yard's public relations team were debating whether to squash the story entirely, or instead go ahead and let it out, with headlines blazing that the British security services had foiled a deadly attack on British soil.
Davenport's boss Mulligan appeared to be arguing for the former option, on the grounds that Khaleel and his crew were about as representative of British Muslims as the anti-abortionist sniper Goren and Eames had caught some years back had been of American Christians, and there was no point in further inflaming tensions in the community. "Besides," he'd said with a slight air of complacency, "if the public knew how many attacks we foil every month, they'd be wetting themselves."
Goren sighed as he gazed round the room at the faces of the men and women of the security team, haggard yet triumphant. He was still not happy at the unresolved question of why exactly Ranjit Elahi and his wife had been killed. If it was unrelated, then why was someone as deadly as Mikhail Andropov involved in the killing? They had yet to turn up anything else about Ranjit Elahi, who had to all appearances led a blameless life, that connected him to a professional killer. If it was related, then how exactly had Khaleel, a British kid in his twenties who'd never been out of the country, managed to get hold of Mikhail Andropov in New York, and arrange for the hit on his cousin and his wife?
He rubbed the back of his neck, noting that Eames' head was beginning to droop, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She snapped back awake, and gave him a weary smile. They'd both managed about four hours' sleep, snatched in stages and in shifts, along with the other people on the team, heads down on desks as the interrogators switched over, never letting up whilst the rest of them grabbed what little rest they could, until finally the case began to break. He had the nagging sensation that he'd missed something, but two busy days with poor sleep, snatched meals and far too much caffeine and sugar had left his brain feeling like packing foam.
His attention was snatched sharply back to the room, as the door was thrown open and Graham Mulligan hastened into the room, followed by Davenport, who looked about as weary as Goren felt, and even more disgruntled. Hmm, it looked as though there was at least one other person present who didn't share the general mood of triumph, relief, crisis over…
"Ladies and gentlemen." Mulligan's rather nasal whine cut across the various conversations. Everyone fell silent. "I've just come from a meeting with the Home Secretary. He's asked me to pass on his thanks to you all." A murmur of appreciation. "The arrests are continuing, as many of you know. This will be regarded as a landmark for British security and intelligence gathering, and you can all feel justly proud of yourselves. The match will continue as planned. Thank you, and you can all go and get some sleep."
Just as the mood changed in the room, as people were beginning to stand up and move around and stretch, relaxing for the first time in hours, another voice, this one sardonic and angry, cut through the air.
"Did you inform the Home Secretary that we still haven't found the link between a ex-Russian Special Forces hitman killing Elahi in New York and five idiot kids screwing around in a chemistry lab?"
Everyone fell silent. Goren looked across to see that Davenport had risen to his feet and was facing Mulligan – his boss, Goren reminded himself – across the table. The two exchanged glowers. They were about the same height, about six feet, but where Davenport resembled nothing so much as a coiled spring, unable to sit still for very long, Mulligan, a lanky red-headed man with a face best described as "lived-in", had the annoying habit of standing with his hands planted on his hips, reminding Goren of no-one so much as a patronising instructor he'd always disliked during his Army training.
"Yes, I gave him a full briefing, Mr Davenport. Sit down, please."
"And he's quite happy to let this match go ahead? He fully understands that for all we know, someone else planned this attack, paid for Andropov to kill Elahi, and we still don't know why?"
"Are you questioning my ability to give an accurate brief, Davenport? Because if so, may I remind you that you're only recently back from being suspended from duty."
Davenport's eyes narrowed to slits. "That's irrelevant. I'm paid for my judgement, and right now I'm doing my job. Can you say the same thing?"
Mulligan's eyes narrowed, and a vein stood out on his neck. The room was dead still, attention focussed on the two men. Goren wondered if he should stand up and offer support, but Davenport's eyes flicked to him, just for a second, and the spy shook his head, a barely perceptible but clear signal, don't get involved, stay off Mulligan's radar…
"The Home Secretary has judged that it will not serve the public interest for the match to be cancelled. We have the suspects in custody, and the full details of their bombing. Cancelling the match now will cause an extreme loss of public confidence in the security services, and have severely negative knock-on effects for the economy."
"We have no proof that Elahi's killing isn't related to this attack. His cousin stole the plans from his house and cloned his ID so that he could be sure of getting into the stadium; a few days later, Elahi is dead."
"We have no proof that his death was related. We don't even know for sure that Detectives Goren and Eames have correctly identified his killer. For all we know, he was killed for an entirely unconnected reason."
Davenport gestured at Goren and Eames. "Then, instead of slapping yourselves on the back, assign some more officers to Goren and Eames and let them determine it one way or the other."
"We are here to ensure the security of this match, not to carry out murder investigations for the NYPD Major Case squad." Mulligan's face had gone red. "We have the suspects in custody, and all the details of their plan. We have nothing to justify cancelling this match. The Home Secretary has made his decision, and we are here to implement it."
"A decision based on your briefing. You're taking too big a risk that this isn't related."
Mulligan's face went red, and Goren suddenly had images of removing the man's fingers from Davenport's throat. One look at Davenport, and he suddenly had another image, this time of the same situation the other way round. He had seen that look once before on the spy's face, one second before he threatened to shoot a rogue CIA agent in the face at point-blank range. Davenport's words at the time echoed through Goren's head; there won't be enough of your fucking face left to identify you…
"One more word from you, and you will not be suspended from duty, you will be fired with no reference and no notice. As things stand, you are now removed from this team and this investigation. GET OUT!" Mulligan roared. The two men held eye contact for a few seconds, neither giving ground, then Davenport picked up his briefcase and jacket, turned on his heel and left without another word.
There was a collective exhalation. The mood had soured slightly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, go home and get some sleep. We'll reconvene seven hours from now." Detective Superintendent Barrett's abrupt words brought the meeting to a close, amid much yawning. Goren and Eames stared at each other blankly for a few seconds, then staggered up, wishing they could head back to their hotel but knowing they had one very important duty left to perform. Goren planted himself firmly in front of Barrett and Mulligan, effortlessly preventing their leaving the room.
"We need to speak to Omar Khaleel."
The two men looked slightly surprised, then Mulligan replied: "It's out of the question."
"I'm sorry?" Eames took up a position beside her partner and fixed Mulligan with a stare that would have unnerved even Ron Carter. "It's essential to our investigation into the deaths of the Elahis that we interrogate him. He may have been involved in their killing."
Barrett looked regretful. "He may well, but I'm afraid it's out of the question until the security services finish with him. This takes priority."
Goren gestured exasperatedly. "We only need half an hour. Half an hour. Superintendent, two innocent people are dead. Their killer should be brought to justice, and if Khaleel's involved, we need to know for sure so that you can add that charge to the rap sheet."
Mulligan shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. "Sorry, Detective, we can't allow it. If it becomes possible in the future, I'll let you know."
"Our leads will go cold if we wait any longer. We need to speak to Khaleel now."
Mulligan glared. "Detective, excuse my frankness, but go back to New York and do the job you're paid to do over there. You have no authority to make demands here; I suggest you chalk this one up to experience. Khaleel is ours to interrogate. Excuse me." He pushed past the two of them, leaving them standing there seething.
Eames turned to him and sighed wearily. "Bobby, I'm practically dead on my feet. Let's get some sleep and then get back out there."
"We need to speak to Khaleel," he repeated stubbornly, then relented at the sight of how tired she was. He wondered if he looked the same, and decided he probably looked worse. A few hours' sleep, then we'll… get back out there. One way or the other, Ranjit and Miya Elahi's killer isn't going to escape.
Five hours later, having slept patchily, plagued by the knowledge that they should be out there trying to track down the Elahis' killer, they were eating lunch downstairs in the hotel's restaurant. Eames was wearing loose white pants and a green T-shirt. He himself was in jeans and an old black t-shirt, more comfortable than a formal suit in the heat of the summer afternoon.
"So, what now?" Eames asked.
He shrugged in reply. "I honestly don't know."
"Bobby?" Her voice was tentative. "Bobby, do you think we should… maybe try finding Davenport?"
He sighed. "I don't know. I… just don't know."
She stared at him, and he realised with a jolt that that had perhaps been the first time he'd ever admitted that to her. I have no idea what to do next. Now what?
She sighed thoughtfully. "Bobby, whilst you were asleep, I spoke to Deakins."
"Uh-huh?"
"He wanted a progress update." She waved away his concern. "Don't worry, I took care of it. Anyway, I asked him if he could find out for us why we were assigned to this case, not Homicide. He said he'd look into it, see if any of his connections could help." She smiled wryly, probably reflecting, as he was, on how they were lucky to have Deakins for their captain and not someone who never went to bat for his people, then paused and added, "It still bothers me. There's something we're missing here."
"Yeah. I guess maybe we should just focus on that, for now."
"I don't see how we can. We can't get near Khaleel, and he's the most likely suspect. Looks like the Elahis' family will just have to wait for their answers." She looked dejected. He felt much the same way.
"Eames… I need some fresh air." Once upon a time, that had been a euphemism for "I need a cigarette." His one major achievement this year so far; he'd given up. Now all he needed to do was shed the accompanying weight gain.
She knew better than to accompany him, guessing correctly that this was one time he wanted to be left alone. "Okay. See you later."
As he strolled out of the hotel, he was struck by a pleasant feeling of being at large in a strange city. He wished he could relax and enjoy it, particularly since he couldn't quite push away the thought that had been whispering inside his head since Deakins had first sent them over to England, this is Sienna's city. Somewhere, among these thousands of people, she's out there. If I ask around, I could find out… would Davenport know?
He paused for a moment outside a large bookstore, dropping down onto a bench and watching the traffic, both pedestrian and motorised, flow by. Londoners of all colours, shapes and sizes, every nationality you could think of, laughing and shouting, hurrying by in the late afternoon sun, or not, in some cases, settling down outside a pub for a quick pint after work, planning a spur-of-the-moment meal out, calling friends, checking their cellphones, all the happy busy minutiae of ordinary life, happening right there on the street. It was his job to guard all this, wherever he happened to be, he reflected. But who cared for his happiness? Damn, I miss her. I miss her more than I can say, and two years on, I still want her. I still roll over in the night sometimes and wonder where she is.
But there was no point in dwelling on that, he thought sadly. She would have changed in two years. She would, almost certainly, have acquired a new man in her life, someone with a less screwed-up background than he. He knew he was being nostalgic. Knew he wasn't remembering the misery of their fights, the times he'd looked at her and thought, you just don't understand, life isn't all happiness, you can't wish every problem away with a smile and a happy positive attitude, some things can't be fixed, just endured.
Knew, painfully, that he could never give her the family he knew she'd dreamed they might eventually have together, never father her children. But, even so… a small, rebel part of his mind still thought, get this case out of the way, then go after her. Find her. Throw yourself at her feet and tell her you still love her and you want to give it one last try. And if she says no after you've apologised and explained, then you can finally put her from your mind and move on.
"Buy the Big Issue, sir?"
"Huh?" A young man with a hopeful smile and an air of ragged cheerfulness was standing in front of him, clad in mismatched sandals, a worn T-shirt and shorts and, incongruously, a bright yellow tabard saying Big Issue on his chest.
"Buy the Big Issue, help the homeless."
Oh. A street magazine vendor.
"You'll like this issue, sir, you really should buy it."
Yeah, yeah. "Okay, just give me a minute to find my wallet…" He fished in his pockets, remembering just in time that he'd shoved the English currency he'd bought into the left pocket of his pants and peeling out a five-pound note. "Keep the change."
"Oh, thank you very much sir. There's a good article on page five." The man moved off at a fast clip, not pausing to shout his hopeful message at any other passers-by. Goren guessed he wanted to spend his five pounds as fast as possible, probably on a well-deserved pint. Idly, he flipped through the pages, looking for the article, then froze.
Written in neat black marker pen across the article on page five was a message. "Meet me at the Pig and Whistle, down the street from your hotel at 5.30pm. A.D."
