CHAPTER 51
By 9:00 a.m., Colin Asher was back in his office in a clean red shirt, pressed trousers, and fresh socks. He’d tidied his office, bagged up the trash, taken it downstairs, and even wiped away the greasy dust-laden film that had formed on the computer screens.
A sound from the main office suggested the arrival of either Ritchie or Else or both. The fourth member of the Asher & Asher team, Ching, was already there, having been on night duty. “That you, Ritchie?”
Ritchie came in dressed in blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, with the longer black curls at the back of his head tied with a string of colourful beads.
“Lovely,” said Colin. “How long did it take you to do your hair this morning?”
“Not long.”
“Sit.”
“Wow, it’s a chair, Colin. And tidy.”
“Improvements require just a little effort and some sacrifices, Ritchie. Now then, listen up.” Colin took a breath. “The Cass Siddiqui affair,” he said. “In a way, it is most fortunate that this young man has emerged after two years in Turkey and turned up in our main stomping ground of Southeast Asia.”
“Is it, Colin? Please explain.”
“As you know, we specialise in international commercial crime, but this case is leading us into matters of a somewhat more sinister Islamic nature.”
“An Islamic nature?”
“Yes,” Colin said thoughtfully. “You remember Mark’s debrief when he was here two weeks ago?”
“After I’d got back from Bangkok and he’d gone to Taiwan and Malaysia and—”
“That’s it. Mark’s debrief. He didn’t mention it during the debrief itself, but he mentioned it to me one night in the Kings Arms. We were on our third or fourth beer when he mentioned he’d picked up information of—”
“A sinister Islamic nature, Colin?”
“That’s it. The first time was a few months ago in Indonesia.”
Colin scratched his head. To Ritchie, it was a sign that his thoughts were already straying way ahead of his words. If Ritchie wasn’t careful, he’d jump ahead to something that would only make sense if you could read his previous thoughts.
“What did Mark find?” Ritchie asked.
“Bambang.”
Ritchie stared. “Bambang?”
“Yeh . . . Bambang Sudarsono. Bambang is one of our clients, Ritchie. A paying one at that. Bambang’s a fruit and timber merchant based in Jakarta with a base in Saba, Malaysia—Kota Kinabalu, the state capital to be precise. Tricky business at best of times, but Bambang seemed a nice enough fellow, as honest as the day he was born as far as Mark could tell when they met by chance in a hotel in Kuching. Kuching’s next door in Sarawak in case your geography is holding you up, Ritchie. City of Cats, as it’s called. Mark and I were there once on a money laundering case, but enough of that.”
Ritchie thought it best just to nod his head.
“In that hotel in Kuching, Mark broke the news to Bambang that he was a commercial crime investigator. Whereupon Bambang went all quiet for a moment until—in a quiet whisper I imagine—admitting he’d had illegal hardwoods planted by someone in his warehouse with threats to report him unless he paid something.”
“Protection racket?” Ritchie suggested.
“It sounded like that, until Bambang explained to Mark where they’d wanted the money sent. It was a charity.”
“Strange. Did Bambang pay up?”
Colin nodded. “Yes, but only after even more pressure. His warehouse in Kota Kinabalu caught fire. Not a big one but enough to frighten Bambang.
“But—and here’s the next point—Mark then heard a similar story about arson being used to extract money when he was in Malacca working on the counterfeit cosmetics job. We thought nothing more of it until Mark picked up an old copy of The Guardian at Frankfurt Airport with a story on charities sponsoring Islamic terrorism.”
Colin’s stories were always interesting, invariably colourful, and always accurate down to the smallest detail, but they were often long winded. Ritchie was still waiting for the relevance.
“You know the population of Indonesia, Ritchie?”
“280 million.”
“And how many are Moslems?”
“Eighty percent? It’s the biggest Moslem population in the world.”
“Correct. Add in Malaysia and you’ve got almost 250 million Moslems. The whole of the Middle East has only got 300 million including Iran, Turkey, and Egypt. But Indonesia is nothing like as religiously tolerant as it once was. Trouble brews, Ritchie. It simmers, aggravated by social tensions—the usual mix.”
“What’s the relevance, Colin?”
“Bambang’s protection money, his charitable donation, went to a charity called Friends of Aceh. Mark checked them out. It’s now known as a cover for Islamic Defenders, a terror group with splinter groups all across Southeast Asia.”
“I still don’t see the relevance.”
“I agree it’s difficult to see at first sight. Try to concentrate. Money from charities like Friends of Aceh is going to fund terrorist groups like the BRN.”
“BRN, Colin?”
“The Barisan Revolusi Nasional Patani.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m losing the plot, Colin.”
Colin sighed, as if the thought of having to explain was just too much.
“The BRN is like one of those layer cakes with different colours, textures, and layers of jam, cream, and sponge, Ritchie. Instead of layers, however, we have splinter groups.
“The last time we looked at the BRN, it had at least six insurgent groups and ten different flags. Did you know that flags and tee shirts are a must for any aspiring modern terrorist? Indeed, if you were a good artist instead of a bad actor and a trainee international commercial crime investigator, Ritchie, you could make a good living out of designing new Islamic flags.
“So, when Mark and I decided we needed to understand the BRN better, we treated it like a cake. We took some intelligence from our own software cupboard, sprinkled in some inspired thoughts from Mark and myself, stirred it around, baked it, and then applied some icing in the form of our own sweet Ching, our inhouse expert on offshore businesses.
“And guess what Ching found when she shone a light into the thick fog of Moslem hospices searching for keywords, etcetera. Ching came up with . . . wait for it . . . an address in Shipley Street.”
At last, Ritchie’s mind began to clear and focus once again.
“To be precise,” Colin went on, “she found Number 14, Shipley Street—the house that Kevin was born in and which Khan manages like a landlord. Checking with Land Registry, Ching then found that number 14 is owned by someone called Mohamed Jagrawan, which is where we hit a brick wall. We cannot find this fellow anywhere.”
Colin looked at Ritchie over his glasses like a professor of some rare and little understood science. “Now isn’t that interesting?”
For a moment, Ritchie could only nod as he digested it. But then he sprang to his feet. A minute later, he was back with an A4 scribbling pad.
“More paper, Ritchie?”
“Notes, Colin. From the searches we did yesterday.”
He wet a finger and flipped through pages, as Colin sat sighing with impatience. Then he leaned forward and pointed. “Mohamed Jagrawan,” he said. “We saw the name yesterday while searching for the identical twins, Hassan Bashir and Mahmoud Al-Sahili. Then . . .”
He licked another finger and flipped a few more pages.
“Mohamed Jagrawan took a flight from Islamabad to London Heathrow on September the fourth. His name also appears on Pakistan International Airlines passenger lists airline going to and from Kuala Lumpur as recently as a week ago. At present, there is no such name on any flights leaving Malaysia. Theoretically, he is still there, though, as you’ve told me on more than one occasion, theory plays no part in this business.”
Colin looked at Ritchie’s scribbled notes. “Isn’t Jagrawan the place where our friend Khan from Faisal World Travel was born?”
Ritchie nodded. “And so were some others, Colin. We found Shah Massoud’s details. Place of birth: Jagrawan, Alandhar District, Punjab State.”
Colin turned, touched a key on his computer, and moved a few things around, and up came another list.
“Ureka,” he muttered, though with little of the excitement Archimedes might have shown while sitting in his bath.
“There he is. Muhammad Khokhar, Kevin’s father. Born in Jagrawan in 1976. Kevin’s mum may already know that, but hey ho, they’re all related, Ritchie.”
“But what use is it, Colin?”
“Mounting evidence,” Colin replied. “Add it to what Kevin and his helpers found, and we’re finally edging towards inviting action from officialdom.”
“And Cass?”
Yes,” Colin said thoughtfully, as if he’d almost forgotten why they’d been asked to intervene. “Cass is still a problem. We’ve got Jimmy and Cass’s friend Kurt sat waiting for instructions but—”
Ritchie’s phone suddenly trilled in his pocket. “Excuse me, Colin.”
He swiped, realised it was an overseas call, and waited for a faint voice. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Are you Colin Asher?”
“No, I’m Ritchie Nolan.”
“Oh yes. My name’s Cass. Kevin gave me your number.”
Ritchie mouthed something to Colin. “Cass! What’s up? Where are you?”
Cass was clearly stressed. “I’m at a temple with a big white Buddha on the hillside to the west of the highway to a place called Surat Thani.”
Colin jumped to his feet. “Ching!” he yelled. “Set up a trace through Ritchie’s phone. Quick.”
“You know the name of the temple?”
“No. Is someone coming to get me?”
“Soon, Cass.”
“Did you see the photos I uploaded?”
“Yes. Brilliant work. We’re still analysing them. It’s producing all sorts of useful leads. No need to tell you right now.”
“Kett,” Cass said as if that was enough.
“Yes,” Ritchie said. “The man behind it. Go on.”
“His photo is amongst those I sent.”
“Which one, Cas?”
“I don’t remember the number,” Cass said with a sound of desperation in his voice. “I’ve only seen those photos once, and that was when I was uploading them. I was in a hurry.”
“I understand. No problem.”
“Maybe Kett is in more than one photo.”
“More than one? OK. Stay calm. What’s your phone number?”
“I don’t know. It belongs to a monk. But if they catch me, then . . . then you’ll never know who Kett is or—”
“We’ll get you out, Cass. Jimmy and Kurt are close by. We just need your exact location. Keep this phone switched on. We’ll try to get your exact location so—”
There was a bleep from the phone, and the connection was lost.
Ritchie turned to Colin. “He’s gone. He’s very stressed.”
“Yes,” Colin replied. “We’ve got to get him out. We then need to get him out of the country, but first things first.”
Colin’s smiles were a rare sight. Genuine ones rarer still. “But nice approach, Ritchie. It might go some way to rebalance your overuse of paper. Right now, call Jimmy.”
“OK,” Ritchie said, ready to rush to the other room.
“Before you go, here’s another job.”
In his hand, Colin was holding a pink Post-It note with a number on it.
“What is it?”
“Ching will know what it is and what to do next,” Colin said.
“Can I know?”
“It’s Cass’s UK passport number.”
Ritchie handed Ching the Post-It but then heard Colin calling him back.
“Look at this, Ritchie.”
On the computer screen sat images 36, 48, and 239 alongside a new set of facial measurements.
“Christ almighty,” Ritchie said.
“Yes,” Colin said. “Kevin’s father according to Silvia. Then there’s the link with Khan and the Punjabi birthplace of Jagrawan and the charity, Moslem hospices, and Shipley Street. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Ritchie?”
Ritchie frowned. “Maybe, Colin. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Kett could be Kevin’s father. Now, have you called Jimmy yet?”
“I’ll do it now. You just told me to . . .”
Colin sighed.