Death by Design by Barbara Nadel Page A

proud to call myself a Londoner too. But Kirsty, when you talk about Islam you have to understand that Islam as a religion has nothing whatsoever to do with terrorism.’
    ‘Yes, but the terror organisation that has most threatened London in recent years is a radical Islamic one. These counterfeiters are, it is thought, bankrolling organisations like al Qaeda.’
    ‘And other terrorist groups too. Some Islamic, some not.’ He smiled again. ‘It is my mission to protect all Londoners from terror threats wherever they come from. If we can cut off just one source of income that emanates from this country then we are winning. My message is simple: fakes hurt people, money from them translates into bombs and guns. Those who make the fakes are little more than slaves. This has to stop and I am going to make sure that it does.’
    İkmen hadn’t known that the new mayor of London had a Turkish background. He came across as very gutsy and seemed very young to be holding such a high office. He was also very handsome and reminded İkmen of Mehmet Süleyman when he was younger. But Üner seemed to have much more energy than Süleyman had ever had. And unlike his İstanbul colleague, who was lugubrious by nature and disillusioned by life, the mayor was a man with a mission. Like an American-style superhero he was going to ‘clean up’ his city and make it safe for old people, women and children, and he was going to do so with his Islamic credentials out for all the world to see. İkmen admired him even if he couldn’t help feeling that the mayor was being really very naïve. The fakers and their terrorist backers, if such parties really did exist, wouldn’t put up with Üner having their shops raided, breaking into their factories, destroying their goods and seizing their money. He had declared war on them on TV and probably via all sorts of other media too. İkmen could not help but feel a little fearful for Mr Haluk Üner.

Chapter 9
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    ‘Mr Riley sends his best,’ the man, whose name was Terry, said to İkmen. Terry was about his own age, a coppers’ copper who smoked, swore and wore clothes that looked sorely in need of a good dry-clean. He was a type that was familiar to İkmen from his first visit to the UK in the seventies. The only other member of the British police he had met so far had been Ayşe and she was very unfamiliar indeed. Terry was İkmen’s handler while he was undercover.
    ‘My regards to him also,’ İkmen replied with a smile.
    ‘Yeah.’
    Terry had told İkmen to meet him at a place that had turned out to be a very long way away from Stoke Newington and its environs. Brixton was the last and most southerly stop on the Victoria underground line, with a large Afro-Caribbean population. Back in the seventies Brixton had had a reputation, İkmen recalled, as a place where cannabis was easy to get, where parties were known to last for days and where some of the black men grew long and intricate hair locks.
    ‘Called dreadlocks,’ Terry explained when İkmen told him what he remembered about Brixton from his first visit. ‘Worn by the Rastafarians.’ Then seeing the puzzled look on İkmen’s face he said, ‘It’s a Jamaican religion. The hair’s all part of it.’
    When he’d arrived at Brixton tube station, İkmen had followed the instructions Terry had given him to Brockwell Park. This had been a considerable walk for İkmen who generally tried to avoid any sort of exercise. He had turned up out of breath, which had evinced a smile from Terry who had been sitting on a bench smoking when the Turk arrived. What had also made Terry smile was the automatic way in which the gasping İkmen had lit up himself. In Terry’s opinion, fags were rapidly giving way to intense jogging and occasional cocaine use amongst the young. He didn’t approve.
    ‘Now then, Çetin,’ he said, ‘I know Ayşe has told you what you have to do and, in your guise as her uncle, you can pass on information to her at