Rip Tide

Liz had been in many safe houses in her career. This one was larger than normal – a detached house unlike most of them, particularly those in London, which were usually flats of various kinds. But in every other way it was familiar. Off the square hall was a sitting room containing two well-used sofas covered in a familiar flowery fabric which Liz had seen before. It made its appearance in many MI5 safe houses and was known to the agent runners who used these places as ‘Ministry of Works chintz’. A couple of chairs with wooden arms, dating from the eighties, and a coffee table of light veneer, marked by white rings where hot mugs had rested, completed the furnishing of the sitting room. Poking her head round the door of the dining room next door, Liz found it similarly spartan. Safe houses were one of civilisation’s dead ends. Strictly utilitarian, they were kept stocked with essentials for making coffee and tea, but there was never any food in their kitchen fridges, which contained nothing but milk.

Liz had once had to live in a safe house for almost a week in order to keep up a cover story. They had been some of the gloomiest, most uncomfortable days of her life.

On the dining-room table, K had put a small pile of photographs; there was also a new notebook in the sitting room, and a bottle of mineral water and three glasses stood on the coffee table. ‘Boatman will only take water,’ he said, seeing Liz looking at his preparations. ‘He doesn’t drink tea or coffee.’

Liz spent some time looking through the photographs in the dining room before going to join Kanaan in the sitting room. He was sitting on one of the flowery sofas, scanning the Guardian. She sat down opposite him on the other sofa and they made desultory conversation. But as the time for the meeting drew nearer, they fell silent. Even after years doing this sort of work, Liz still felt a tension in her stomach, a quickened beating of the heart, as she waited for the phone to ring. Kanaan must be much more nervous, she thought, though to do him credit he didn’t show any sign of it.

The phone rang, breaking the silence; one ring and then nothing. Kanaan went to the front door and looked through the peephole; then, just as Boatman walked up the path, he opened the door and closed it again as soon as the young man was inside.

Liz heard them in the hall exchanging greetings. ‘ Salaam alaikum,’ Boatman said to Kanaan.

‘ Wa Alaikum as-Salaam,’ Kanaan replied. ‘I have brought someone to meet you like I told you,’ he said, as they walked into the sitting room. ‘This is Jane. I work with her. She can be trusted.’

Boatman peered at Liz, then nodded. She smiled and nodded in reply. The young Asian was wearing a white embroidered skullcap and the traditional white shalwar kameez; his feet were in sandals. His face was young but his expression very serious. He looked, Liz thought, as though he had considered the follies most young men opt for and rejected them. If the weight of the world was not yet on his shoulders, his expression seemed to say, it was only a matter of time. Liz was used to agents being scared, even sometimes cracking jokes to allay their nerves. But Boatman seemed entirely composed and serious – almost forbiddingly so. There was a rather chilly air of religious probity about him.

Kanaan said brightly, ‘How is married life treating you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Boatman answered gravely, like a potentate accepting a subject’s best wishes.

‘How long have you been married?’ Liz asked, though she knew from her briefing that his wedding was four months ago.

‘Not long,’ he said, then his voice brightened. ‘But I find I like my wife more and more each day. She is very kind, and more intelligent than I expected.’

Liz was startled, then realised that it would have been an arranged marriage. It was not a practice she approved of, but at least Boatman seemed pleased to have discovered unexpected virtues in his bride.

‘How are things at the mosque?’ asked Kanaan, getting down to business.

Boatman shrugged. ‘They have stopped pressing me to go to Pakistan – they accept that with a new bride, I don’t wish to go away. Especially…’ he said, and Liz understood at once – especially since he might then never see his wife again.

Boatman went on, ‘The others are going. We still meet together once a week, but there are meetings to which I am not invited.’

‘At the mosque?’ asked Liz.

‘Yes, but elsewhere also. Malik says they have been to London.’

‘Did he say where?’ asked Kanaan.

‘Only that it was in North London. They went for a briefing about what they should expect when they arrive in Pakistan.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Liz.

‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t feel I could press him.’

‘No, that’s quite right. Let him tell you what he wants to. You mustn’t push him too hard for information.’

‘He did say something about the meeting though. He said they were addressed at one point by a Westerner. Not an Asian.’

Kanaan interjected, sounding excited. ‘Wasn’t Malik surprised?’