Free The Black Madonna by Peter Millar Page A

bits of body, just like our bits of body, belonged to …’ she consulted another piece of paper, ‘one Ahmed Abdul Rashid al-Zahwani . Moroccan by birth, last known place of residence: Algeciras , Spain. Served six months in 1999 for incitement to violence. Part-time Islamist, full-time hood, not so much martyr as materiel supplier with links to Chechen gangs and anybody else who can make holy war into a nice little money-spinner. He’s been high on Interpol’s wanted list since 2002, suspected of having sourced the explosives used in the Madrid bombings and possibly even involved in the attacks in London as well. Scotland Yard say he was suspected of being a courier between Islamist groups on the continent and in England.’
    ‘Well that certainly deals with any sympathy I might have been feeling for the dear deceased.’
    ‘Indeed, on the other hand, there’s no suggestion here that he himself was a prospective martyr.’
    ‘You mean?’
    ‘I mean that according to Interpol, and the portfolio the Spanish and British police and security services had put together on him, his personality profile does not match that normally attributed to suicide bombers. He wasn’t even one of those who goads others on to do his dirty work. He liked women – preferably not heavenly virgins – gambled heavily and drank alcohol. In short, al-Zahwani was a thug, a criminal who saw Islamic fundamentalism as nothing more than a nice little earner.’
    ‘You’re saying you don’t believe he volunteered for this mission.’
    ‘Let’s just say he wouldn’t have had the balls for it.’

14
    The first indication Marcus had that Nazreem had not walked out of his life as abruptly as she had re-entered it was the sound of running water coming once again from the adjoining bathroom around six-fifty p.m. Ten minutes later, promptly, there was a knock on his door.
    He opened it to find her there in jeans and a white T-shirt. Not a headscarf in sight, but not acres of bare midriff exposed either: she could have been French or Italian, a picture of understated Mediterranean sophistication. Marcus was impressed and he smiled to show it.
    She smiled back, somehow indefinably more relaxed, as if she really had spent the better part of two hours in the bath. Curious as he was, Marcus had no intention of quizzing her. If she wanted to she would tell him in her own good time, though he could provide the opportunity:
    ‘Did you get a good rest?’ he asked, trying to sound as natural as possible.
    ‘Yes,’ the reply came without a second’s hesitation. ‘I fell asleep. I’m sorry, I hope you didn’t want the bathroom.’
    ‘It’s okay, there’s one along the corridor.’ Her own good time might not be any time soon. ‘So, where would you like to go for dinner? And then you can tell me all about it.’ Or not, he thought. ‘There are several Lebanese restaurants around.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Maybe something local would be nice though. But not something boiled. I have heard things about English food.’
    ‘It’s not as bad as it used to be. How about the national dish?’
    Nazreem looked sceptical: ‘Fish and chips, yes?’
    Marcus laughed. ‘Not any more, these days they reckon it’s Chicken Tikka Masala. Indian food, sort of.’
    She laughed back: ‘Sounds excellent.’
    ‘Good. I know just the place.’
    It was raining when they got downstairs, one of those seasonal thunderstorms that alternated with hot spells, and had recentlybecome part of what the newspapers had started calling the ‘English monsoon season’. Marcus insisted Nazreem stay in the lobby while he went to fetch the Peugeot. He had thought of taking a cab, but the pouring rain meant there were few free and this was not the sort of hotel that had doormen in top hats who stepped out into the street to summon them. Also the Peugeot needed to be rescued from its exorbitant meter before full rates cut in again at eight a.m.
    As they made their way eastwards