More Than You Can Say (16 page)

‘Do you know what you believe in?’ I asked her.

‘I know exactly what I believe in, Richard,’ she replied in a soft voice. ‘And that is more than you can say. That is more than any of you can say.’

For a long moment we looked at each other and then I looked away. I couldn’t face her gaze. I didn’t want to know any more. I didn’t want to think about what she had said.

We arrived at Euston in the early evening and made for the Underground. I hurried Adeena along through the crowds, clutching her arm above the elbow to keep her with me.

‘Why are we hurrying?’ she asked.

‘In case someone is looking for us at the station.’ I was thinking about how I had used an ATM earlier in the day. Could the security services have picked up on that transaction already? How efficient were they? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to take any risks. We took the tube to Camden Town and then walked through the streets to my flat. When we came to the head of the road, opposite Mohan’s grocery shop, I hesitated.

‘Adeena, go into that shop and buy something. Here’s some money.’

‘Buy what?’

‘Anything. I just want you out of sight for the next five minutes while I look around the flat and make sure that nobody is waiting for us. Can you do that?’

She took the money, nodding, and hurried across the road. I walked on, looking for … I was not quite sure what. Large unmarked vans or silver people carriers with aerials sticking up from the roof; men peering into shop windows and not moving on; people fiddling around at manholes, pretending to be workmen or telephone engineers. As far as I could remember most of the cars parked along the road were familiar. But this was Camden, not Baghdad. I hadn’t a hope of spotting a watcher if there was one in this safe, familiar environment.

There was no point in waiting. I went back up the road and found Adeena coming out of the shop with a family-sized pack of porridge oats.

‘What am I meant to do with that?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I had to buy something. This is English food, is it not?’

We walked back to my flat, and I opened the door with my key. I stood for a moment on the threshold. Was there an unfamiliar smell? A stale smell, of someone’s body odour? I sniffed for a moment and then shook my head. I was imagining it. I looked into each room to check no one was lurking there, but it is difficult to lurk in a flat the size of a shoebox.

‘Are we going to stay here tonight?’ asked Adeena.

‘No. It’s too dangerous. Let me get some things and then we’ll go and check into a hotel for the night. In the morning we’ll decide what to do next.’

I found a bag and packed a few clothes, then grabbed my passport and my chequebook. I thought about taking the gun from its hiding place in the sofa but hesitated. If I was stopped and searched with that on me, life really would
become very difficult. I hid it in a new place, in my sock drawer. That would fool them.

We were not in the flat for more than ten minutes. I had it covered. Keep moving, and they can’t catch you. I was determined to be too smart for whoever might be interested in us: the man called Nick Davies that Eck had told me about. Or Aseeb, wanting Adeena back.

From the moment we left my flat my pulse started racing. I was paranoid: that was all there was to it. Two years of living on the edge in the Middle East had turned me paranoid. I was looking over my shoulder again. I was imagining people following us. There was a man walking along the pavement opposite, keeping abreast of us. As I glanced at him he went into a takeaway. It was probably nothing. I tried to calm down. We walked back to Camden High Street. From time to time I glanced behind me. The man I had noticed earlier was nowhere to be seen. God, I was jumpy.

As we passed a large supermarket Adeena said:

‘I need to get some things.’

‘What things?’

‘Woman’s things. Please can you give me some money? I have none.’

I gave her a couple of twenty-pound notes.

‘You go in there,’ I said, pointing her in the direction of the entrance. ‘Keep walking until you find what you want. I’ll wait for you here by the newsagent’s stand.’

‘Then afterwards we can eat,’ she announced. ‘I am hungry.’

While Adeena was in the supermarket, I tried to think where we could stay that wouldn’t involve too much more walking; and where we could eat. I wondered what sort of
food Adeena liked. We could try a little Indian restaurant I knew not far from here.

After a few minutes there was no sign of Adeena. I waited a few minutes more, then decided to try to find her.

She wasn’t in Fresh Fruit and Vegetables. I imagined that she was probably in that shopping trance people sometimes go into, staring at the shelves. If she’d just come here from Kabul she wouldn’t be used to shops like this. She wasn’t in Wines and Spirits. She wasn’t in Dairy Products, or Frozen Foods. Then where was she? She wasn’t at the Bakery, or the Fish Counter. I continued to walk along the last aisle. Then, not finding her, I started to search the shop more thoroughly.

I felt a little ‘ting’ of anxiety going off in my head. I walked along the front of the shop, looking at all the checkout queues, but couldn’t spot her. She wasn’t in any of the aisles. I hurried from one end of the shop to the other, attracting curious glances from one or two shoppers. Still no Adeena.

I ran outside, my heart thumping within my chest, as if it would burst. She wasn’t in front of the shop. She wasn’t in the street anywhere that I could see. I went a few yards in one direction, and then a few yards in the other. Every now and then I blinked, as if a film showing another world had fallen across my eyes, and if I wiped it away, there would be Camden High Street as it really was, with Adeena standing there smiling at me. Perspiration was running down my forehead. I stopped for a moment, trying to make myself think.

There was no Adeena. There was no sign of her anywhere. She had vanished. It was as if she had never been.

I don’t know how long I stood there, opening and shutting my mouth like a stranded fish. I took a step, and then another step, quite unable to think of what I should do next. My mind was utterly blank. Then a question formed in it, like a single message scrawled on a huge sheet of paper:

‘Did she run, or was she taken?’

I needed to do something. I could not stand here for the rest of my life. In any other emergency I had ever been in, training and reflexes took over. I never hesitated; I went straight into action. But not on this occasion. I tried to get a grip of myself and started to walk rapidly along Camden High Street in search of Adeena. As if I would find her, among ten million people. As if she wasn’t miles away by now, being carried off in a car, or walking rapidly away down side streets, doubling and turning to confuse any pursuer. After a few more moments I gave up and walked slowly back to my flat. There was no point in going anywhere else now.

When I arrived at the entrance to the flat the door was still locked. All the same, when I opened it and stepped inside I called out: ‘Adeena? Nadine?’

There was no answer.

I went into the sitting room, sat down in a chair near the window and tried to think. She wouldn’t have left me;
someone had taken her. It must have been Aseeb. In a few minutes, when my heart had stopped racing, I would get up, go to Oxford and find that house again. Aseeb was no different to some of the people I’d dealt with in Baghdad. I could deal with him too. It wasn’t a great plan, but in my present state of mind I could not think of a better one.

Then a new thought struck me. She was gone: did it matter? Wasn’t that the idea? I should thank whoever had so neatly removed Adeena from my life. Yes, it was a bit brutal. But I had had no idea what to do about her. She was a problem. Of course, she was also my wife – legally or illegally – but easy come, easy go. Problem solved. Job done. Tomorrow I would use Aseeb’s money to pay off the arrears on my rent, and start looking for work.

I got up and went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. An image of Adeena talking to me on the train suddenly came into my mind, her body leaning forward, her face vivid and animated. It was as if I could reach out and touch her.

While I stood there waiting for the kettle to boil I realised that in the last few days Adeena had got inside my head in a way that nobody had done since Emma. There was no question about it: I had to find her, and bring her back.

As I was getting ready to go I heard faint sounds outside: a step on the stairs; a sound that could have been a whisper; a creak. Before I could react there was a bang as the front door of the flat flew open. Several men were suddenly in the kitchen with me: large men, moving very fast. Someone kicked my feet from under me and I was on the floor, catching my forehead on the edge of the kitchen table as I fell. A man dropped on top of me, pinning me to the ground. More doors banged, and someone shouted:

‘No one else here.’ Another voice replied: ‘Well then, go back to the van and wait while I have a word with Matey here.’

From my vantage point on the floor I could see little. Then two pairs of feet came into view: one wearing trainers, the other, battered suede shoes.

‘Let him up,’ said the voice that had spoken a moment ago. I was released and I heard someone leave the room. I took a moment or so to get my breath back and then got slowly to my feet. I found my handkerchief and wiped away the trickle of blood that was running into my eyes from the cut on my forehead. I was not at all surprised to see the man in the pale raincoat I’d spotted outside Hartlepool Hall, standing in front of me. He didn’t look happy. His thin, unshaven face was scowling as he held up a warrant card.

‘Richard Gaunt?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Security services,’ he said. ‘My name is Nick Davies. Where’s the girl?’

There was another man in a leather jacket, jeans and trainers beside him. I recognised him as well. He was the second man who had got out of the silver people carrier. Nick Davies pushed past me and went into the sitting room. I followed, while the other man lounged against the door jamb, watching us both.

‘Where the hell did you go this morning?’ asked Nick Davies, without any further preamble. ‘You were at Hartlepool Hall last night, weren’t you? Why did you run? What are you afraid of?’

‘Hang on a second,’ I said. ‘Before we go any farther with this, I don’t know anything about you. Who are you, and why the hell did you break down my door and assault me?’

‘We didn’t break down the door,’ said Nick Davies. ‘We slipped the catch. And I’m sorry if our entry was a little noisy. My colleagues from CO15 didn’t quite know what to expect when we got here. You’ve seen the warrant card. You know why we want to talk to you and the girl.’

‘I haven’t a clue,’ I replied. My head was aching from where it had struck the kitchen table and I wasn’t feeling very helpful.

‘Eck Chetwode Talbot rang us and told us you had met up with a man called Aseeb. He also emailed us a photograph of a girl. We understand she has some connection with Aseeb, and that she’s a foreigner. We want to interview her. We also very much want to find Aseeb.’

‘I’m not responsible for what Eck does, or says. I barely know him.’

‘Don’t waste time,’ said Nick Davies. ‘Where’s the girl? And Aseeb?’

I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. Nick Davies reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small photograph in a clear plastic envelope. He handed it to me.

‘Do you know who this is?’

It was a picture of Adeena at Hartlepool Hall, looking straight into the camera, an expression of displeasure on her face. For a moment I didn’t understand: then I remembered Eck holding up his mobile phone and fiddling with it. The sneaky bastard had been taking a picture of Adeena.

‘Her name is Adeena,’ I said. Then I added: ‘She’s my wife.’

‘She’s your wife, now, is she?’ Nick Davies leaned back on the sofa and yawned, then said to the other man, who was still leaning against the kitchen door frame:

‘Basil, make us all some coffee, would you? I’m dead.
We’ve been up and down the length and breadth of this country chasing after you, Mr Gaunt, and a cup of coffee would be much appreciated. Your wife’s name again?’

‘Adeena.’ I spelled it out for him. ‘She’s from Afghanistan.’

‘You say you’re married. For how long?’

‘We were married at Oxford Register Office four days ago,’ I told him.

‘And where is your wife now? Out shopping in the dark?’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

Nick Davies looked at me as Basil came back in and handed us both mugs of coffee.

‘You don’t know where she is,’ he repeated. ‘Married life going a bit stale already, is it, Mr Gaunt? Not too bothered about her whereabouts? And how do you know Aseeb?’

The sudden switch in the questions threw me off balance.

‘I met a man who called himself Mr Khan in a house in Oxfordshire,’ I said.

‘Is this him?’

Nick Davies pulled another photograph from his pocket, and showed it to me. It was of a man in a dark suit, getting out of a car. He was half turned towards the camera and it did not look as if he knew he was being photographed. I could see just enough of the face: the high forehead, the dark hair brushed straight back, the dark eyes and aquiline nose. I nodded.

‘That’s him.’

‘Then your Mr Khan is our Aseeb. Where exactly in Oxfordshire was this house? What were you doing there?’

I told Nick Davies the name of the house and where I thought it was. He turned to his colleague.

‘Phone it in, Bas. Ask them to get someone down to the location to take a look. Not a copper in a panda, though.
Send a team with a search and entry warrant, as soon as they can get one.’

He turned back to me.

‘So how exactly did you come to be Aseeb’s guest at this house? How did you meet?’

‘One of his employees knocked me down with a Range Rover, and then took me there in the boot of the car.’

Nick Davies stared at me. Then he laughed.

‘Well, that’s different. Are you capable of telling me the whole story, or do I have to drag it out of you bit by bit?’