Famie saw Sophie flush with realization. Hunter saw it too.
‘I understand that. You came here to tell us about Hari Roy and about how you think he is warning us of something terrible that is about to happen. If you have anything, anything at all, that might help us prevent that, please help us.’
Sophie looked at Famie. Famie understood.
‘We’d like DC Milne to leave the room, please,’ Famie said. ‘We came voluntarily, we are not under investigation. And we’d like him to leave.’
Milne shot a furious glance at Hunter, then got up and walked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.
‘What you tell me now, I have to share with my colleagues,’ said Hunter. ‘Just so you know. Just so we’re clear.’
Sophie nodded. She reached into her bag and placed the laptop on the table.
39
1.45 p.m.
Marseille
ALWAYS THE SAME. The jug of iced water and bottle of orange juice. The table under the blue and white Olympique de Marseille flag. The Café Montelu, rue d’Endoume, Marseille. Always the same. Sometimes he was there, usually he wasn’t, but he paid well, so the proprietor made sure the routine was set in stone. If that was how his wealthiest client wished to proceed, that was fine with him. Today he was there, and he was early.
Amal Hussain poured the water into a worn glass tumbler, and drank it in three swallows. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, then the condensation from his fingers. He folded the napkin as small as it would go, then dropped it into a plastic bin at his feet.
He was a squat man, round-shouldered and brooding. He sat hunched over the table as though protecting it from prying eyes. He wore his black hair long, tied in a bun. Some strands had fallen loose, framing a wide, doughy face. Beneath his trousers, a fixed-blade boot knife was strapped to his ankle.
The café was empty save for an elderly couple by the door. They were already well into their second bottle of rosé. Hussain ignored them. There were nine empty wooden tables, each set with cutlery, large salt and pepper grinders and olive oil. Two large floor-standing black fans pushed the smells of pine shrubs and fried fish around, without any noticeable cooling. The glass front door and all the windows were open. Football memorabilia hung on the whitewashed walls – photos of teams and players mixed with blue and white pennants, scarves and shirts.
Amal Hussain had no interest in football, couldn’t name a single Marseille player, even the ones whose faces stared down at his corner table. The café was no distraction for him, which was why he liked the place. There were usually no women, the only music came from the kitchen’s small, ancient radio, and the talk was rarely of politics or religion. He didn’t trouble them and they didn’t trouble him.
Hussain checked his watch, poured the orange juice. He had no phone, tablet or laptop, just a copy of Libération folded at his side. No computers, no emails, no texts. His rules. Any messages he received were typed or handwritten and he burned them all. No money changed hands. He was invisible and untraceable. He waited for his visitor.
The corner table gave its occupant a clear view out of the café and up the chaotic, claustrophobic street outside. Early afternoon was quiet, less traffic, fewer shoppers. Hussain preferred it that way. So when a man in khaki shorts, pale blue linen shirt, sunglasses and a white beanie hat appeared from the market square, strolling affably along the road, buying fruit then a pastry from a street vendor, Hussain was the only one who took any notice.
He poured more water and waited. Eventually the visitor ambled into the café, glanced around at the empty tables, removed his hat and earbuds, then pulled up a chair opposite. He tossed the earbuds into his hat, then placed a copy of Le Monde on the table in front of him. Folded, it fitted perfectly within the place setting.
The proprietor appeared from the kitchen, glanced at Hussain, who shook his head. The proprietor ducked back again. Hussain poured his visitor a tumbler of water, then clinked his own against it.
‘Salut, salut. Ça va?’ His accent was recognizably English-educated Egyptian.
The visitor shrugged. ‘Ça va,’ he said. He was unshaven, with a flushed, serious face. The rim of his collar was dark with sweat.
Hussain pointed at his paper. ‘Your Le Monde for my Libération, yes?’ he said.
‘It’s a good swap.’
Hussain handed the man what he had come for. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ he said. ‘They’re both full of shit.’
The visitor shrugged.
They exchanged newspapers. Hussain unfolded Le Monde, dislodging a brown rectangular envelope which he pocketed.
‘For tonight?’ he asked.
‘For tonight,’ said his visitor, ‘as you requested. The last flight. An unfortunate business.’
Now Hussain shrugged. ‘Family business. But business none the less,’ he said. ‘And I will finish it this time. It is a blasphemy, Leo, you understand that.’
‘Of course.’ The visitor spread his arms magnanimously. Forgiving. ‘You must act as you see fit. Of course. My friends are grateful for your commitment.’
Business concluded, he picked up his hat, recovered the earbuds and stood. ‘I hope to see you again soon.’ He bowed slightly.
Amal nodded. ‘You will hear from me on Thursday, after our work has been concluded.’
40
3.40 p.m.
DON HARDIN HAD engineered a tea in the University’s Social Studies building. The small ground-floor canteen was packed, each of its square orange tables surrounded by six or seven students. Some were still studying, open reference books propped up against ketchup bottles, but most were talking or sharing video clips on their screens. A despairing handwritten sign behind the counter read, ‘We don’t need to hear your music. It’s why headphones were invented.’
Just one table had a lone occupant. Hardin had made a beeline for his friend, explained his plan.
‘You’re actually demonstrating?’ Bathandwa Bambawani had interrupted her cake-eating, the sponge halfway between the plate and her open mouth. ‘Shouting, marching, placards? All of that?’
Hardin looked sheepish. ‘I’m still a priest in the Church of England, BB,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I’ll respond. But yes, I’m going. I’m not sure I’ll be shouting. I won’t have a placard. But I will march.’
‘But you’ve always said you’re not a flag waver,’ said Bambawani. ‘That you find zealots deeply troubling.’
‘Still do,’ said Hardin. ‘Imagine being so certain about anything! So certain you want to shout at people! I’ve never been able to do that. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I got. If you can’t join an anti-fascist march, there’s not much point in any of the gospel really. We try to be one religious community in the Chaplaincy. Of course I should be there. All the chaplains should be there.’
‘You know that some of the Antifa groups have quite a reputation, don’t you? Direct action. Property damage. Physical violence sometimes. That kind of thing. Tends to be as much anti-capitalist as anti-fascist. Quite a mixed crowd, to put it mildly.’