35

THE BMW drew to a halt outside the giant iron gates which had been shut for months. The passenger’s window rolled down to access the remote control and the gates swung wide. The vehicle drove along the estate road, eventually sliding to a halt on the white stones. Two men jumped out and made for the the imposing oak doors.

The driver, a swarthy man attired in an immaculate Armani suit, watched as his companion inserted a key in the door, softly saying, “Ah, Tara, it’s good to be home.” Meechan turned to the driver adding, “You’ll be glad to know, Mr Rahman, that the drinks cabinet has been kept well stocked. A glass of Talisker?”

“Thank you,” replied Rahman in his accented English and he followed Meechan through to the drawing room.

Drinks poured, the two men sat down and Meechan cut to the chase. “Are we on course for the Nikah?”

Rahman smiled thinly before replying. “Farouk is dead, Mr Meechan, and the balance of the sum agreed has been paid into the Swiss bank account you stipulated. The Imam has one more little diversion planned for your friends before the Nikah is carried out.”

Meechan looked at the golden-brown liquid for a moment, swirling it in the glass before taking a draught and sighing in appreciation.

“I had this house built as my family home. I planned to fill it with the voices of my children and the woman I loved. I was this close,” Meechan held up his thumb and a forefinger almost touching, “until these bastards ruined everything and I was left with nothing.”

Again Rahman’s sleek smile; clearly he was interested in the circumstances behind Meechan’s flight from his homeland and his desperation to return to Glasgow.

“Your circumstances interest me Mr Meechan,” he said. “We have talked for many months in order to make this business happen and to cheat the Jews out of the enriched uranium but business has always come first …” he finished, giving Meechan the option to elaborate.

Meechan raised his glass in salute. “First, a toast to the ancient system and right of the Hawalidar. For without it, you and I would not be sitting here anticipating the realisation of our respective dreams.”

“The Hawalidar.” They both raised their glasses but yet the discomfort and distrust between them was mutual.

Rahman had rarely experienced the level of Meechan’s intensity, even when dealing with the religious fervour of Tariq and his Jihadists. The thick dark beard and mane of hair framing his ghoulish grey eyes gave Meechan an intimidating appearance that left Rahman feeling threatened. The banker had done his homework and knew of Meechan’s expertise in killing to order, extortion and intimidation, of his meteoric rise within the Rising Sun after his way in was paved by his associate O’Driscoll. It was said his rapid rise was down to the personal interest of the Russian Mafia’s leader Omar Youssef Tipsarevich himself.

Appraising the banker with icy fire burning from his eyes Meechan could smell fear and enjoyed the sensation.

“All of this and almost all of Glasgow was mine, Rahman. Almost within my grasp until I found out that the woman I loved was in love with a copper. She claimed the baby she carried was mine but I could not believe her and that meant that she had to die.”

Meechan finished the sentence in matter of fact manner leaving it hanging in the air.

Rahman sipped nervously at his whisky before replying, “As you say, Mr Meechan, I am no more than a hawaladar, a banker. I thank Allah himself that your path has led you to us and our arrangement which I hope will be most profitable for both parties.”

Meechan sneered then continued, aggression and anger bubbling near the surface of his voice, “This is not about money for me, Rahman, it’s about revenge on the people and the city that spat me out. Total revenge starting with the death of Balfour and his hangers-on and from which there is no way back. The execution of the hostages is no more than a sideshow. I hope for your sake and your friend the Imam’s that it does not jeopardise the Nikah. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly,” said Rahman.

Meechan got up and headed to a large oil painting at the back of the room. He pulled it away from the wall, twisted the combination lock and the safe door opened.

He removed an attaché case and placed it on the table between them.

“This, Mr Rahman, is what you paid seven figures for. The key substances needed for your Holy Grail, the dirty bomb that al-Qaeda have been so desperate to get their hands on. And it’s all yours.” Meechan barked out a harsh laugh. “The weapon the West have been pissing themselves over for years; smuggled in on a Russian Trawler. It’s laughable Rahman, is it not?”

“Nevertheless you have taken a great risk to get it here and we are grateful. May I ask where you brought it onto the mainland?”

“Oh, we washed up on the Isle of Barra then shipped down to a wee cove near Oban which I’m told used to be a smugglers’ haunt. The rest is history.” Meechan added, “Now it is up to you and your organisation to make history of your own.” The smile that had temporarily lit his face was gone and the calculated viciousness returned.

“It is almost unbelievable,” stammered Rahman.

“Unbelievable maybe, but, with regards to this case, the proof is in the pudding. Your responsibility is to get it to the secure location without being intercepted. The Caesium 137 in the second vial is extremely soluble and reactive. You are confident that you have the expertise to help it, shall we say, reach its full potential?”

Rahman shifted nervously but smiled that he was.

For a moment Meechan seemed about to lose his temper. “Because I can assure you that if you fail it will matter not whether you are incarcerated or not, your life will be over.”

Meechan took a quick slug of his Talisker but his cold eyes never left Rahman’s.

He continued, his Northern Irish accent becoming markedly more pronounced, “You are aware that Mossad have sanctioned a Kidon squad to terminate my life for double-crossing them? That the Rising Sun are denying all accountability and that, at least in public, the blame will be all on my head?”

Rahman nodded.

“So you can see that the price I will have to pay for the revenge I want your organisation to help me achieve is very high.”

“I appreciate all of that,” said Rahman, running his fingers over the suitcase, “I know how hard it must have been to procure the substances. I can assure you that it will not go to waste. We have men ready to make sure the bomb achieves its intended purpose.”

Meechan smiled. “Good. Very good,” and he ran his fingers through the beard that had so altered his appearance since he last left Tara.

But he had not finished. “Tell me about Professor Farouk? I believe he got cold feet?”

Rahman finished his drink and stood up. “I can assure you Mr Meechan that he has been dealt with. The last loose end has been well and truly tied up and the police and MI5 have no route to me. Tariq’s headquarters are underground and will not be traced. We have an army of well paid observers watching the security services as they try to watch us. In short, we know what their moves are almost before they make them.”

Meechan raised his glass in salute. “You know that there can be no contact between us via cellphone or email from now on? How do you propose to circumvent that?”

Rahman surprised Meechan with a sneer of his own. “All communication with the Imam has been outwith both these channels for sometime now. We are aware that M15 are monitoring everything and that is why we reward our trusted street runners so well. Do not worry, Mr Meechan, we will remain in contact with you as needed.”

“Remember this and remember it well Rahman. I am here to settle a personal score as well as a business one and I will allow no one to stop me achieving both.”

After Rahman’s departure Meechan poured another Talisker and took himself on a tour of his property. The experience left him with mixed emotions.

As he walked round the empty pool the memories came flooding back. The knife fight that should have ended Thoroughgood’s life but instead confirmed what he had dreaded all along. That Celine would never truly be his and that somehow Thoroughgood would always find a way to come between them. That was why she had to die.

He opened the French doors and took his whisky out to the lochan, sitting on the grassy verge which overlooked it. Losing himself in its cooling blue hues, he knew that these moments of reflection at the estate would be the last he would spend at the place he had once called home.

As his eyes swept the panoramic beauty of the Campsies, sheathed in the noon sunshine, he knew he had nothing to lose. The threat of a death squad had condemned his life to one of anonymity spent in the shadows – if he chose to live. To risk that marginal existence by exacting the revenge the desire for which burned his every wakened moment was no risk at all.

He would not leave without Thoroughgood’s complete destruction. Raising the glass in the air Meechan spoke into the silence, “Count your hours Thoroughgood because they will be your last.”