‘It means Father of the Earlobe,’ said Khan. ‘Afghans and Arabs don’t always see eye to eye, but we do have our sense of humour in common, and it is quite strange and very dark. You have heard of Abu Hamza, for instance? Well, his name translates as “Father of the Five”. Know why?’
Joshua shook his head.
‘It’s because he blew off one of his hands in an explosion, so he now has only five fingers.’ He studied Joshua for a moment. ‘I told you our sense of humour was strange.’
‘So this Abu Qartoob is likely to have a physical distinguishing mark too: big earlobes, or no earlobes at all, or something?’
‘Possibly. I shall watch out for such a man.’
Joshua completed briefing Khan on codes, systems for contacting Joshua or another American agent-handler, dead drops in which messages could be left, and emergency procedures, and then stood up. ‘Give me a few moments to brief the Brit guy,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll introduce you.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Captain Harry Todd. He’s a British Army officer serving a three-year tour with the SAS, but he’s been detached from his SAS squadron to the Intelligence Clearing Centre, where we collect and evaluate all the intelligence from human and electronic sources.’ While Joshua went in search of Todd, another American handler entered the room and began chatting to Khan.
Joshua returned half an hour later with the English officer. Todd’s long, floppy blond hair and pink, fresh-faced complexion gave him an air of boyish innocence. ‘I’m Harry,’ Todd said, extending his hand. ‘It sounds like you have an interesting story to tell.’
‘Salaam alaikum, Harry, I hope you’ll find it worthwhile,’ Khan said. He repeated his account to Todd, noting to himself that the Englishman asked far fewer questions about it than Joshua, and those that he did ask were less perceptive and incisive. After they had talked for some time, Todd nodded slowly. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m convinced, let’s go and get them.’ He glanced at Joshua. ‘If you’ve finished with Khan, I’ll take him back to our section and arrange for some transport up to our FOB.’
Joshua reached into a desk drawer and handed a bundle of dollars to Khan.
‘What’s this?’ Khan said.
‘Payment.’
Khan shook his head. ‘I don’t need your money. That’s not why I’m doing this.’
Joshua spread his hands wide. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘But everyone needs money. Take it for your daughter, if not for yourself.’
Khan hesitated, then shrugged, took the dollars and stuffed them into the money belt that he wore around his waist. Most men in Afghanistan kept their cash and valuables in money belts, pockets were not to be trusted.
Khan followed Todd out of the American section of the base and into the British area. The British section appeared chaotic compared with the order and efficiency of the American operation, with its banks of computers, new-looking desks and equipment. Todd’s desk was covered with stacks of papers and files and there were more piled on top of the filing cabinet behind him, and a row of Post-it notes stuck to the edge of his desk heightened the impression of disorganisation. ‘I hope you take better care of your informants than you do of your documents,’ Khan said with a smile that belied his unease.
‘Don’t worry,’ Todd said. ‘Every document is locked away before I leave this office and every room is checked by the guards during the night. If there’s so much as a scrap of paper on show when they do so, I’ll be up on a charge.’ He smiled confidently. ‘You’re in safe hands, I promise you.’
His words would have been more reassuring, Khan thought to himself, had Todd not left all his documents on open display while he’d been spending more than an hour talking to him in the American section. But Khan knew that he had no choice other than to trust the British officer. Todd and Joshua were Khan’s only hope of escaping Afghanistan with his daughter.
The Bentley pulled up in front of the West Stand of Stamford Bridge stadium, home to Chelsea Football Club. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning and the street was pretty much deserted. They were well away from the main entrances where every match day more than forty thousand fans would pour in to cheer on their team. Popov gestured at a blue door, from which led a small flight of stairs to the left, and to the right a concrete wheelchair ramp. ‘That leads to the lift that goes straight up to Mr Abramovich’s private box.’ Two CCTV cameras covered the door and there was an intercom set into the wall to the left of the door.
‘It doesn’t look very VIP,’ said Shepherd. He was sitting in the back of the Bentley, directly behind Popov. Ulyashin was sitting next to him with his aluminium crutches between his legs, and Serov was squashed up against the other door, behind the driver. Shepherd could feel the transceiver pressing against the small of his back and he was having trouble getting used to the Bluetooth earpiece.
‘It’s not advertised,’ said Popov. ‘But it means high-profile visitors can get in and out without being snapped by the paparazzi.’
‘But it’s generally known that Mr Grechko would use it?’
Popov nodded. ‘More for convenience than because he wants to avoid publicity. Mrs Grechko likes to have her photograph taken.’
‘I bet she does,’ said Shepherd. ‘And this was where the car was parked, when it happened?’
‘For sure,’ said Popov. He said something to Chayka in Russian and the driver grunted and nodded. ‘Absolutely sure,’ said Popov.
‘And you came out of the door, with Mr Grechko?’
‘Me and Leo and Mikhail were with him in the box. We came down in the lift together after I confirmed that the cars were here.’
‘Cars?
‘The Bentley and one of the SUVs. Alexei and Boris were in the SUV with Nikolay driving.’
‘So there were two cars?’
Popov nodded.
‘Dmitry, I said I wanted everything to be the same.’
Popov frowned, not understanding the point Shepherd was making.
Shepherd sighed and reached for the door handle. ‘OK, run through it with me.’ He climbed out and then helped Ulyashin out with his crutches. His leg had a plastic protector around the dressing which reached from his ankle up to his knee and he had put an old sock over his foot. Popov got out of the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.
Popov, Tarasov and Shepherd walked up the steps to the door. Ulyashin looked at the steps, thought better of it and walked around and up the wheelchair ramp.
‘So in what order did you come out of the door?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I came out first,’ said Popov. ‘I had a quick look around to check that we were clear and then Leo joined me. Once we were in place Leo moved down the steps and Mr Grechko came out.’
‘Show me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s pretend I’m Mr Grechko.’
Tarasov walked slowly down the steps, his arms swinging by his side. ‘So at this point I’m at the door, you’re to my left and Leo is in front of me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Then what?’
‘Then Mikhail came out.’
‘And did what? Stayed behind me?’
Popov nodded.
‘And what about the men in the SUV? Alexei and Boris?’
‘They stayed there. Watching from the car.’
Shepherd was about to point out that a bodyguard’s place was next to his principal, not sitting in a car watching what was going on, but he bit his tongue. He had meant what he’d said about not embarrassing the man in front of his colleagues. ‘OK, and what was the plan? Leo’s on the step, you’re on my left and Mikhail is behind me.’
‘Leo moves down to the car and opens the rear door. I go down and stand to the front of the car, next to Leo. You – Mr Grechko – walks down the stairs and gets into the car. Mikhail covers his rear, Leo gets in next to you, I get in the front and Mikhail goes back to the SUV.’