‘Absolutely not. Even their head man in London hasn’t any idea we’re putting someone on the Aristides. And we didn’t want this chap Berger to know either, since it looks like the leaks have been coming out of his office.’
For communications, Technical Ted had handed over a laptop containing gizmos which he’d assured Dave would be completely invisible to anyone looking at his machine except the most sophisticated technician. They would enable encrypted messages to be sent directly to and from Thames House. Bruno’s office in the Athens Embassy was to act as fallback communications in case the system failed.
All that sorted out, Bruno ordered another bottle of wine and said, to Dave’s surprise, ‘You’ve worked a lot with Liz Carlyle – tell me about her.’ And for the rest of the dinner Dave had ducked his probing questions about Liz as best he could, saying nothing revealing, and unsuccessfully trying to change the subject. By the end of the evening, he was left with the distinct impression that Bruno’s interest in Liz was not on his own account; he was trying to find out whether she was involved with his boss, Geoffrey Fane.
The ship had already reached the Red Sea and Dave had as yet made very little headway in getting to know the Pakistani crewmen. In the Mediterranean, two small storms had blown up and the Aristides, with no stabilisers, had been tossed about like a yo-yo. All the Pakistani crew members had been seasick for almost two days and Dave himself had had to retire to bed at one point. Even when they were well, the four men did not mingle with the other crew, and at meals occupied a table of their own. When he’d encountered them on deck and had tried to make conversation – about cricket, or the floods in Pakistan that had been on the news – they had just nodded and moved away.
But then one of them, a crewman called Fazal, had gashed his hand lashing down some containers on the deck. Dave had noticed Fazal at the beginning of the voyage, and had thought that he looked much younger and more vulnerable than the other Pakistanis. And, interestingly, when he had first come into the surgery to have his hand treated after the accident, he had answered Dr Macintyre’s questions about it in fluent English, with a definite trace of a Birmingham accent.
Now Fazal was due to come in and have his dressing changed, and Dave was hoping that he could use the opportunity to get him talking. When he suggested that Dr Macintyre might like to go and play cards, leaving Dave in sole charge for the hour the surgery was open, the Scotsman had understood at once, and made himself scarce.
Fazal turned up on time and sat down while Dave changed his dressing. ‘Tell me how it feels now,’ said Dave, assuming a medical manner. ‘Has it stopped hurting?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘I hope you’re not putting any pressure on it.’
‘No. I’m on light duties.’
‘You don’t sound like a Pakistani.’ Dave looked up from his bandaging and smiled. ‘That sounds like a Brummie accent to me. My mum came from Birmingham; grew up near Springfield Park.’
Fazal’s eyes widened. ‘That’s where I come from.’
‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘It was all Irish back then.’
‘Not any more,’ said Fazal, with a hint of a grin.
‘What brings you here then? We’re a long way from home.’
Fazal hesitated, then said, ‘I wanted to see the world. My mum had family in Pakistan; one of them put me on to this.’
Dave pointed through the porthole, where the sandy shoreline of Saudi was still visible. ‘Didn’t you want to go there? To Saudi, I mean. Mecca and all that.’
Fazal thought about this. ‘Some day,’ he said at last. ‘But they’re not true followers of the faith. The ruling family’s corrupt.’
Dave shrugged. ‘Can’t be worse than Africa. Wait till you see Mombasa. We’ll have to bribe the harbour master before we can put the gangplank down.’ He finished off the dressing and laughed. ‘Not many followers of the true faith there, I think.’
Fazal shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’
Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ He was about to ask Fazal if he would be meeting any of these ‘true believers’ when he saw the boy’s face freeze. Someone was standing in the doorway of the consulting room and when Dave looked round he saw it was another of the Pakistani group – an older man called Perjev, who seemed to be in charge of the others. He barked something in Urdu and Fazal looked briefly at Dave, then got up and quickly left.
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.
