Die Alone

his area of west London, and information he’d provided about possible radicals had led to us breaking up two potentially very dangerous terrorist cells, long before they could properly get going.
I’d left CT two years earlier, and hadn’t seen Zafir for a year prior to that, but he wasn’t the type of man who would have travelled far, and during the time I’d known him – a period of close to four years – he’d lived in the same Hounslow flat. I was hoping he still lived there now.
I knew I was taking a big risk by leaving the safehouse for an extended period of time. I couldn’t take the phone they’d supplied me with in case Lane had placed a tracker in it, and if she called to check up on me and I didn’t answer, she might call the whole thing off. I didn’t think I’d miss Sheridan turning up at the brothel, though. I had a feeling he’d turn up at night when he could relax rather than on a working day, especially as today was the last day before Parliament broke up for summer. Either way, I figured it worth the risk.
I left by the front door and just over an hour and a half later, after a mix of walking and a ride in a minicab with a supremely disinterested driver, I arrived at my destination.
Hounslow’s not the most attractive London borough, and where Zafir had lived in the old days was in one of the crappier parts, not far north of the Mogden Sewage Treatment Works where, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, it was best to hold your breath. Today, with the air temperature already in the mid-twenties, it was certainly best to hold your breath. It was also right beneath the flight path into nearby Heathrow and the planes were passing only a few hundred feet overhead with a deafening roar as I made my way up to a group of five tower blocks formed in a rough semi-circle around a litter-strewn green with a kids’ playground in the middle. A couple of mums were watching their toddlers but otherwise the place was deserted.
Zafir’s flat was on the fifth floor of the central block. Number 27, set right back in the south-western corner. I remembered all this because I’d helped kick the door in on my one and only visit. That had been on a raid, and we’d led him out in handcuffs, one of six men arrested as part of a major anti-terrorist operation his information had initiated in the first place. The raid had been a sham to deflect attention away from him and he’d been expecting us, but had played the part perfectly, being dragged yelling and cursing from the building as neighbours looked on, and the plan had worked. Three of the six had gone down for a total of twenty-two years, whereas Zafir had been released without charge after four days, and had received a payment of £5,000 a few weeks later for his services, courtesy of the taxpayer, which I have to say was money well spent.
I climbed the concrete staircase, sweating under my jacket, found number 27 and knocked hard on the door, hoping I hadn’t had a wasted journey.
There was no answer, but that wasn’t unexpected. Zafir was a career criminal and, like many of that ilk, wasn’t an especially early riser.
I knocked again, harder this time, and put my ear to the door. I could definitely hear movement. I knocked a third time, keeping it going for a good ten seconds, then waited until I heard footfalls.
‘Who is it?’ came a voice slurred with sleep that I recognized immediately as belonging to Zafir.
‘Police. Open up.’
‘What the fuck?’ he said wearily, opening the door a few inches on a heavy chain. His face appeared in the gap, staring at me. There was no immediate sign of recognition, which meant that either he hadn’t been watching the news much or that my new disguise, which I’d added to on the way here by buying a baseball cap and sunglasses, was working. ‘You’re not the police.’
I took off the glasses and gave him a smile. ‘Hello, Zafir. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
He frowned, still not entirely sure, then it dawned on him. ‘Shit. Ray Mason?’
I put a finger to my lips. ‘Keep it down.’
He didn’t look happy to see me but removed the chain and moved aside to let me in.
His flat was tidier than I remembered but there was still a stale food smell in the air.
‘Are you on your own?’ I asked, following him into his sitting room.
‘Yeah, I am,’ he said, pulling on a pair of sweat pants that were conveniently lying in the middle of the floor. ‘Luckily for you.’ He turned to face me. ‘What do you want? You’re taking a big risk coming here.’
‘Am I? No one’s given me a second glance so far. Even you didn’t recognize me. I’m here because I need a new passport and preferably a driving licence fast. I’ve got the cash to pay for it.’
‘I’ve never been in that game,’ said Zafir.
‘But you know who is, and you’re going to take me to him.’
‘No way,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve got a girlfriend now. I don’t need to take risks helping you.’
‘Look, I don’t want to involve you either, but I’ve got no choice. Help me and I’ll be out of your hair. But if you don’t, I’ll make sure the whole world knows you’re an informant, and that you’ve been putting your friends and associates away for years. You won’t last five minutes.’
Zafir sat down hard on his sofa, and it made a squeaking noise. He wasn’t a big man but he was running to fat, no doubt courtesy of spending his life idling in this place. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and looked up at me.
‘You got the money to pay for it,