Thanks to Hafiz Razak’s forgery skills, Sami al-Qasr was now Serif Okse, a Kurdish migrant worker from southeastern Turkey. He had shaved his head completely, wore thick plastic glasses and displayed a gold wedding ring. His base was an apartment in Antonistrasse, a steep hill that ran from the port and fish market right up to the Hein-Köllisch-Platz in the St Pauli district of Hamburg.
Al-Qasr sat down on a bench opposite the Babylon bar and lit a cigarette. He had a hunch that chance visits to the square, repeated randomly, might secure him a first glimpse of his prey. This time it had been a washout. He got up, shook his legs, and walked briskly round the sunlit square to a corner newsagent. He fumbled in his blue zip-up cotton jacket for the requisite money, bought a packet of Marlboro and a Turkish newspaper, then slipped into the Teufel Café for breakfast. He had just enough German and more than adequate English to make himself comfortable in the trendy bar; his escape from the Americans on the transatlantic flight had made him feel big again.
Al-Qasr had no doubt that the Baba Sheykh was somewhere in the city; he had a spy.
Cemal Goksel was a thirty-two-year-old Kurd who had worked as a border guard on Iraq’s northeastern border with Iran. Unfortunately for Goksel, a large part of his family lived on the Iranian side of the border. It was short work for members of Ansar al-Sunna operating in the hills to find his family and threaten Goksel into cooperating with the insurgency. The terrorist network had arranged for Goksel to be brought to Germany via Chechnya, and Goksel had got himself a job at the Babylon after the regular cook had disappeared. He consoled himself knowing his family was better off with the extra money he received, but he missed his life at home. Here in Europe, the Yezidis were suspicious of the Muslim Kurds. That wasn’t so surprising considering that, in the homelands of the old days, Yezidis would be threatened with death if they didn’t convert to Islam, and their children would be indoctrinated in Muslim schools to reject what their teachers called ‘Devil worship’. But the reality nowadays was very different. In Goksel’s experience, generations of living in close proximity had created acceptance and tolerance – just last month he had attended a Yezidi rite of circumcision where a Muslim had held the baby boy.
The Babylon was popular with Kurdish Turks, and Goksel had already established contacts within the Yezidi community, which was based in a converted aircraft hangar and disused government supply centre near Giessen in the state of Hessen. There was currently great excitement in the community as two men had recently arrived from Istanbul, bearing the ancient bronze image of the Peacock Angel: the symbolic representation of Tawusi Melek, the Supreme Angel, whom Yezidis believed governed this world. These two men were named Sinàn and the Baba Sheykh.
Al-Qasr watched as Goksel crossed the cobbles towards the Teufel Café. Goksel entered, swept back his greasy black hair and surveyed the bar. The manager poured him an espresso. Goksel took the cup and ambled over to the narrow wooden table where al-Qasr was sitting.
Goksel took out some cigarette papers and rolling tobacco. He laid a cigarette paper out on the table. Al-Qasr looked over his newspaper at the rolling paper. On it was written a message in pencil:
Doktor. Freitag. 18.00
Goksel tipped out a finger-full of halfzware shag into the paper and rolled it up. As he lit it, al-Qasr turned two pages of his newspaper: an agreed code; they would meet at the same time in two days.