‘But fate took a hand and blew them all to kingdom come,’ mused Macmillan. ‘Any more thoughts on that?’
‘I just wish it had been fate,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a loose end…’
‘And I know how much you hate those,’ said Macmillan. ‘But maybe, in our current circumstances, we shouldn’t look a gift horse too closely in the mouth.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Steven. ‘In fact, I think they should make your gut instinct a national treasure. You were right in just about everything.’
TWENTY-TWO
Edinburgh, Friday 21 May 2010
The man came into the room at the back of the Edinburgh bungalow, carrying a box designed to transport bottles which he’d just removed from a large American-style fridge in the kitchen. He laid it down gently on the table in the middle of the room and removed a series of metal flasks. The two younger Asian men in the room couldn’t take their eyes off them as they were lined up.
‘The time has come,’ said the older man. ‘You both know exactly what to do. We have been over it many times in the past few weeks. You know where your targets are, and you know what to say to the caretakers or anyone else who asks what you’re doing. You know what to do with these.’ He indicated the flasks. ‘You put on masks and gloves before opening them, and nothing must be spilled. Take great care not to contaminate yourselves with even the slightest drop. When you’ve finished your task, you drive south to the house in Northumberland to meet up with the others, and you’ll be given details of your flights. You will not be returning to your families but they will know you are with the army of the righteous and you will live on in their hearts. Are you ready, my brothers?’
‘I am,’ answered Anwar Khan.
Muhammad Patel nodded, his throat too dry to say anything.
‘You are both blessed. Your names will live for ever and your families will stand tall. The American imperialists and their British lapdogs will learn that their greed for oil will not stop us reclaiming what is rightfully ours. The tide of filth that covers this country will be swept away by the pure waters of Islam. Do your duty. Allah is great. Praise be to Allah.’
The two men echoed the sentiment and opened their tool bags to pack the flasks inside, taking care to wedge them upright and cushion them with plastic bubble wrap.
The older man embraced each youth in turn and saw them to the door. He watched as they got into the white van with the Scottish Water logo on the side and drove off. Then, as he turned to go back inside, a woman’s voice said, ‘Oh, dear. Not having problems with your water supply, are you, Mr Malik?’
He turned to see his next-door neighbour, Gillian McKay, looking anxiously over the small hedge. ‘No, no, Mrs McKay. My nephew works with the water company. He was in the area, just dropped in to say hello.’
‘Oh, good. Maybe you could ask him next time you see him about the amount of chlorine they put in the water. Sometimes I’d swear my tea tastes like the swimming baths.’
‘I’ll certainly do that, Mrs McKay. But you can’t be too careful with water, you know.’
Khan and Patel didn’t speak during the journey to the north of the city where they stopped outside a fifteen-storey block of flats, one of four towers standing in close proximity to each other like giant skittles in a concrete alley. Khan parked close to the entrance and reached behind him to grasp a clipboard. ‘Ready?’
‘Let’s go.’
The two men entered the graffiti-adorned ground floor of Inchmarin Court and paused for a moment as the lift doors opened to let a young woman with two small children get out and cross their path. Khan pretended to check his clipboard. Patel swallowed and smiled at the woman, who ignored him as she turned to berate the smallest of her children, lagging behind.
Khan pushed the call bell for the caretaker and waited with his ear close to the grille.
‘Who is it?’
‘Scottish Water, here to check your pressure.’
‘Naebody telt me anything aboot that.’
‘We’ve had complaints of low water pressure from tenants on the top three floors.’
‘They said bugger all tae me.’
‘Do you want it checked or not?’
‘Shit. Gimme a minute. I’ll be doon.’
An elderly man appeared a few minutes later, grossly overweight, wearing green corduroy trousers and carpet slippers, and carrying a large bunch of keys. He scratched at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘This way.’
Khan and Patel followed him into the pump room, where the main water tank for the building was situated. From here water was pumped electrically up to three further storage tanks located on the upper floors.
‘Great. No need for you to hang around, mate,’ said Khan. ‘It’s a Yale. We’ll see it’s closed before we go.’
‘Fair enough. Want me tae sign anythin’?’
‘No, it’s just a routine test. If there’s a problem they’ll send another team out.’
The caretaker shuffled off and Patel closed the door gently behind him. He stood for a moment with his back against it. ‘He’s seen us,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Khan. ‘We all look the same. Besides, we’ll be on a plane to Pakistan before anyone comes calling.’
He and Patel donned the plastic coveralls they extracted from their tool bags and put on gloves and masks before gingerly removing two of the flasks and putting them down on the floor beside the big water tank. They worked on undoing the lid clasps before sliding the cover back to expose the surface of the water. Patel jumped as one of the pumps started up in order to replenish water being used on an upper floor. It stopped again after about ten seconds.
‘Ready?’
Patel nodded.
The men picked up the flasks and undid the caps. Then, holding the rims very close to the surface of the water to avoid splashing, they tipped the cloudy straw-coloured liquid contents slowly into the tank.
‘Done,’ said Khan, replacing the cap on his flask and putting it down on the floor. ‘I’ll get the bag.’ He brought over a heavy-gauge plastic sack — of the type used for garden refuse — and both flasks were put into it, followed by their gloves, masks and coveralls. Khan sealed the end with a series of knots, and the men slid the lid of the tank back into place.
They put the sack in the back of the van and drove the two hundred metres or so to the next tower block to begin the same ritual. It took them just under an hour and a half to do all four buildings in their schedule. At a little after eight in the evening they started heading east along the shore of the Firth of Forth on the first leg of their journey south.
Rather than join the A1 they stuck to the minor coast road and, after a few miles, stopped in one of the sprawling beach car parks which at that time was empty, the day trippers having gone home and the lovers not yet arrived. Khan dumped the sacks in the refuse bins outside the closed public toilets while Patel scrubbed off the Scottish Water transfers from the van. Using satnav directions, they continued heading for Northumberland.
At four in the morning a police patrol car stopped on the road outside the four tower blocks in Edinburgh. ‘Notice anything strange?’ the driver asked his colleague.
The officer, looking for signs of activity, said not.
‘Lights in the windows,’ said the driver.
‘Jesus, you’re right. It’s like Hogmanay.’
‘What d’you suppose they’re up to?’
‘Could be planning a revolution.’
The driver opened his window and listened. ‘If they are, it’s a quiet, orderly one.’