CHAPTER 40
On Lansdowne Road, Dalia was watching morning TV in an armchair when Kevin and Roger arrived.
“They are friends, Herach,” he said to her. “You can say shalom?” But Dalia’s head only fell to one side, and her mouth opened.
Greg placed the new package Kevin brought on the table. He opened it and out fell a small pile of passport-size photos together with a slip of white paper.
“Instructions?” Roger asked.
Greg nodded. “I already have the blank passports. I now attach the photos, or I digitalise them and overlay them with a stamp or an impression. It depends on the type of passport, you see. It is routine. I will do it later.” He sighed loudly, resignedly, took out his handkerchief, wiped his nose, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Would you like to see my workshop, Kevin? You can then use the computer.”
If asked what a workshop looked like, Kevin might have used Gordon’s garage as an example. Greg’s workshop was not like Gordon’s. It was smaller with a shiny grey-painted floor, strip lights, and work tops as good and clean as a restaurant kitchen.
On a bench behind a clear plastic curtain sat a green machine. “A mini lathe,” Greg said proudly, passing a finger over the top, as if checking for dust. “It’s the best—a 100mm chuck and a brushless motor.”
There was a cupboard with paper. “This is not ordinary paper,” he said. “Modern high-security passports use polycarbonate data pages, and there are companies who make the most advanced machines for digital printing for credit cards and licences. It was always my wish to . . . but then, things do not always work out as one might wish. Nevertheless, it is surprising what you can do with ingenuity.”
Roger had had the tour and lecture the night before, so he perched on Greg’s stool and listened.
“The solution is to use techniques that incorporate multiple security features,” Greg explained. “Papers and inks are only sold to secure printing companies, so there is always some risk in trying to create good copies. Printing passport numbers to avoid detection is also highly specialised. Beneath the microscope, you will see that the tiny dots that make up the numbers are not all circular discs but squares, triangles, and stars. I can show you if you like.”
He didn’t but moved on, with his eyes sometimes shutting and his white hands clasped together, as if in prayer. It was pride, Roger decided as he watched. It was as if Greg had been waiting for visitors to view his workshop for years.
“I would like to experiment with lasers,” Greg continued. “With lasers, it is possible to burn undetectable but coded microscopic holes through pages. I could also etch patterns into metal plates that can, with multicoloured inks and high pressure, add to the difficulties of copying passports and produce the most wonderful tactile feel to paper. Printing is the most exciting technology. No?”
He then removed the protective cloth from a microscope fitted with an array of attachments. “A second-hand Nikon that I have adapted,” he told Kevin.
“And this?” Kevin asked, looking at an old black-and-gold hand-turned Singer sewing machine that sat next to Greg’s computer.
“It belonged to Dalia. Stitching is another skill, but I have modified this machine. It is now very sensitive and extremely accurate.”
Above the sewing machine hung a picture frame with a collection of old photos. “Who are these people, Mr. Greg?”
“It is my mother, Eva, and my father, Isaac.”
“He looks like you, Mr. Greg. Same glasses. So when did you become a forger, Mr. Greg?”
Roger winced at Kevin’s question.
“I am not a forger,” Greg replied, with a force that surprised Kevin. “I am a printer. Just as others enjoy gardening, making model aircraft, or watching football, printing is my hobby. All I ever wanted to do was experiment with printing technology.” He sighed and put a soft hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “My apologies. I did not mean to shout. Do you want to know how my problem began?”
Kevin nodded and then listened to Greg’s description of his first encounter with Kooky Akram.
“He is not a nice man. Very aggressive. He wanted me to copy some birth certificates and university diplomas, but I refused. Then he threatened to inform Councillor Mohamed Basra that I’d broken building regulations and that I’d be made to dismantle my workshop or I would need expensive insurance and fire certificates and that there would be other problems because I was running an unregistered business from home. Dalia was upset by his manner. The next day, a car followed me to the hospital with Dalia. It followed us home and parked outside. The next morning, he came again, asking me to print industrial health and safety certificates. Again, I refused.
“The next day, I received a letter from the council—an enforcement notice advising me that the fine for noncompliance with planning was a minimum of £20,000. I did not know what to do, but Akram then came again. He asked me if I had received a letter. I said yes. He then reminded me that he had warned me of this, but that he could arrange for it to be cancelled if I helped him. What could I do? He forced his way into the house and stood over Dalia, so I copied his certificates and told him never to come again and to stop intimidating me and Dalia. He laughed.
“Two days later, he came again. This time, he wanted me to change the photo in a Turkish passport. I knew how to do it because I’d made a reasonable copy of my own passport as an experiment, but I refused. That night, a stone was thrown through our front window. I called the police. The police asked me to call in to make a statement and lodge a complaint, but Dalia was not well. She’d fallen from the wheelchair. I took her to the hospital. She had injured her wrist. Akram called again . . . You want me to continue?”
Roger stood. “It’s enough,” he said. “We understand.” He looked at Kevin. “You see now how intimidation, harassment, and threats work, Kevin?”
Kevin nodded. “Councillor Mohamed Basra again? Just like my mum said.”
Greg nodded. “He has been a city councillor for a long time,” he said. “I remember him from the time of the demonstrations.”
He sat down, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and took a deep breath, as if to control his anger. Then, as if to distract himself, he pulled out a maroon-coloured British passport from a drawer and flipped the blank pages. “Blank passports arrive in packages that you deliver, Kevin. A British one is rare, but someone knows how to obtain them.”
Roger nodded. “Another question that needs an answer.”
Greg agreed. “Yes,” he said. “I am ashamed of my participation in such fraud, but my responsibility is Dalia, Roger. If something happens to her, then my plan is to give myself up. When I told Akram that, he laughed. He said they’d kill me first.”
He paused. “But . . .” he said. A flicker of a smile appeared. “Let me show you my trick. My alibi.”
He walked over to the microscope and carefully fitted a small stainless-steel tool to the eyepiece. “My father used to tell me that whenever life throws stones, I should pick them up and turn them into diamonds.”
Kevin grinned. “Revenge?”
Greg shook his finger. “He would also tell me that I should erase all feelings of revenge from my heart.”
“So what happened to an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?” Roger asked.
The smile reappeared. “Ah, my father would also say that everything depends on the context. He would quote King Solomon who said that there is a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for peace and a time for war.”
He picked up a blank Turkish passport, opened it on the first page, placed it on the microscope stage, moved it around, and stood back.
“I will go to war,” he said. “They sought my skills through intimidation and threats, so I will give them something in return. If an artist or a writer is expected to sign their work, then why shouldn’t an engineer and inventor?”
He moved aside for Roger to peer through the eyepiece. “You see? On the front page of every passport I have ever made is a small dot created with my own nano printing technology. It is only visible under a microscope, but you will see a star of David. Do you see it?”
Roger nodded.
“And inside each star there is a single word written in Hebrew.”
“What word?” Kevin asked, intrigued.
“Ziyuf,” Greg said. “Ziyuf is such a nice short word. It means fake or forgery.” He paused, perhaps to let the significance sink in. Then, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see Dalia. Feel free to use the computer.”
***
Within minutes, Kevin and Roger were scrolling through two hundred and eighty-six passport photos, all with names, and most of them were with passport numbers and country of issue.
“Right then, Kevin,” Roger said. “I’ve got something to tell you. You might think that an old man needs his regular eight hours sleep, but that’s not always the case.”
He then explained Hamish’s suggestion about how to handle evidence. “You’re darned lucky, Kevin, you know that? If Hamish hadn’t given you a chance, I reckon you’d be sat peering through bars in Her Majesty’s Prison in Edinburgh. What he suggested about saying and doing nothing while we gather evidence makes sense. Tiptoeing, he called it. Otherwise, we’ll end up with you getting all the blame and living on bread and water, while Khan and everyone else deny all knowledge and carry on as usual. It made even more sense when he suggested I talk to a friend of his in London, an international crime investigator called Colin Asher. Mr. Asher and I talked for an hour during the middle of the night, and he’s on the case. So what I propose is that we send all this information to Colin Asher. See what he makes of it. Agree?”
They agreed.
Then Kevin’s phone rang. It was Cass.
“Yeh, we got it, man,” Kevin said. “Nice work. We’re sending it to London . . . Yeh, London, you heard . . . Don’t worry man . . . Stay cool . . . You’re wasting time, Cass. Stop asking stupid questions . . . Where are you?”
“I’m sitting by the roadside. I got a lift, hiding at the back of a truck, but it suddenly turned off and headed into the jungle. Wasted my time. I had to jump off and walk back. This battery’s going, and the credit must be nearly finished. I need a decent phone, Kev, but I’m too scared to show my face in a phone shop or on a bus. I saw my photo in a newspaper, and I keep seeing police. But I’m never sure if it’s me they’re looking for or . . . I’m dripping sweat and knackered, Kev. My trainers are falling apart and I need a good sleep and I think I’m going crazy. I’m dehydrated and—”
“Stay cool, Cass.”
“Stay cool? You’re an idiot, Kev. It’s thirty-eight degrees here. I need a new phone.”
“You said that already. We’ve hired a private investigator.”
“A what?”
“A private investigator that Roger says tracks fuselages.”
“A what?”
“A fuselage.”
“Fugitive, you plonker.”
“What’re you eating, Cass?”
“Peanuts. It’s my dinner.”
“I had a bacon sandwich.”
“I gotta move again, man, but I can’t even read the road signs.”
“Where’re you heading, Cass?”
“I told you before. Bangkok. It’ll take six months at this rate, but if you keep calling, it’ll take a year.”
“It was you who called me.”
“Oh, yeh. Anything else to tell me?”
“Nothing, except I sort of panic each time you call. I’ll check with Roger. Hang on.”
Roger raised his hand, ready to smack the back of Kevin’s head but, instead, took the phone. “Sorry about Kevin, Cass. Listen, we know you’re not in a good position right now, but explanations about what we’re up to can wait. Anything more you can tell us about the photos you sent?”
“Photo 104 is me—Cemil Demir, Turkish passport. And number 36 and 48 bother me.”
“OK. We’ll check them out. Do you have enough money to buy a better phone, even a used one?”
“I’m too scared to go in shops.”
“I understand. Be patient.”
“Yes,” Cass said thoughtfully. “Is Kevin still there?”
“He’s always here. I haven’t been able to rid myself of him for days. You want a last word?”
Kevin grabbed the phone again. “Sorry, mate. I never know what to say on the phone.”
“No problem. I’ve got to move.”
“Yeh, me too. I’m breaking into Khan’s office tonight with Walid.”
“You’re what?”
Then the phone died.