Cold Kill

by Stephen Leather

  Hotels were practically the perfect target, the Saudi knew, especially American-owned chains. Embassies were good for shock value, but generally more locals were killed than foreign nationals. Hotels were full of wealthy foreigners. The sort that newspaper editors liked to splash across their front pages. It was the way the world worked. Kill a hundred Pakistanis in Lahore and no one outside the country would care. Kill five hundred Nigerians in Lagos and the world’s newspapers wouldn’t devote more than a few paragraphs to the story. But kill a single American in Sydney and it would be on the front page of every newspaper in the United States, and a breaking story on every television channel.

  The Saudi chewed a sliver of tuna, but barely tasted it. A young couple were sitting at a table by the window, drinking cappuccino and discussing whether or not to take one of the guided walking tours across the bridge. They had London accents, and the man was wearing a Chelsea football shirt. A German couple at the next table were drinking a bottle of white wine and encouraging their two young children to eat their pasta. One of the children, a chubby-faced toddler, smiled at the Saudi and waved a fork at him. The Saudi smiled back. He imagined a bomb going off in the middle of the restaurant. The flash of light, the explosion, the shrapnel ripping through bodies, the glass exploding across the walkway and into the blue-green waters of the harbour. Dismembered limbs, blood, entrails, the moans of the injured and dying, the screams of the living. The Saudi didn’t make a habit of visiting the targets he intended to destroy, but sometimes it was too good an opportunity to miss. There was little police presence at the harbour, and he’d seen hardly any CCTV cameras. Not that it mattered. There was nothing to connect him with what was about to happen. By the time the bombs exploded he would already be out of the country. His flight to the United Kingdom left at just before five o’clock in the afternoon but the cell who would carry out the operation wouldn’t arrive for another week. They had all been trained and the explosives and detonators were already in the country, hidden in a self-storage facility in Melbourne.

  The Saudi sipped his white wine. He liked Australian wine, especially the whites: it was unpretentious, like the Australian people.

  A blonde woman in a beige hijab walked by, a flowing blue coat over her shirt and jeans. A convert after marriage, the Saudi was sure. An Australian, maybe. She was talking into a mobile phone, and laughing. The Saudi hoped there wouldn’t be any Muslims in the vicinity when the bomb went off, but if there were, so be it. There were always casualties in a war, and the jihad was no exception. Hundreds of Muslims had died when the World Trade Center collapsed, but what had happened on that September morning had been a clarion call to the whole Muslim world.

  The Saudi put down his fork, emptied his glass and paid his bill. His waitress was a cheerful girl with a bright smile, her dark brown hair held back from her face with a large blue plastic clip. The Saudi wished her a good day as he left the restaurant, and wondered whether she would be among the dead.

  He strolled along the wooden boardwalk and watched the ferries ploughing through the water and behind them a flotilla of sailing boats, toys for the city’s rich. It was a hot day and he walked slowly, seeking out shade where he could. The heat meant that the martyrs couldn’t use vests packed with explosives so the bombs would be packed into rucksacks. There were plenty of backpackers around and no one was paying them any attention. He turned right in to George Street and walked up the sloping road through the weekend stalls of Rooks Market. Under tented canopies stallholders were selling things only tourists would want to buy: painted boomerangs, home-made fudge, soft toys, framed photographs of Sydney landmarks, bowls made from local wood.

  It was another perfect target, thought the Saudi, with lots of wealthy tourists for the Western media to mourn. He paused by the Mercantile Hotel. The first bomb would go off there, detonated by a martyr sitting at one of the tables outside the Molly Malone bar. Nuts and bolts would be packed round the explosives to turn into deadly shrapnel that would rip through the stalls and the shoppers. Those who survived would run down the road towards the harbour. The second bomb would go off just a minute later, at the La Mela Café opposite the Old Sydney Holiday Inn, and catch them as they fled.

  The Saudi looked at his watch. There was a concert at the Sydney Opera House later that night and he was looking forward to it. He always enjoyed Mozart. He had acquired his taste for classical music from his father, although the older man preferred Schubert and Brahms. The Saudi’s father had taken him to concerts and the opera since he was seven. He remembered two things in particular of his childhood: his father’s lectures on classical music, and his hatred of the West. The war to end all wars, his father had said, would be the battle between Islam and Christianity. And Islam would prevail. He had rubbed the back of his son’s neck and told him that, one day, he would have a part to play in it. The Saudi’s father had worked for the Saudi Royal Family, which had brought him his wealth and their British passports. He had insisted that a British education was the best in the world, even though it had meant that his son spent most of his childhood away from his family. The Saudi’s father had beamed with pride when he had left Eton with a clutch of A levels, and on the day he’d graduated from the London School of Economics he’d presented him with a gleaming red Ferrari.

  The Saudi had been with his father on 11 September 2001 in the family’s compound in Riyadh, and they had watched the destruction of the World Trade Center on CNN. It was the start of the war, the Saudi’s father had said, and it was time for the son to play his part. Introductions were made, oaths were sworn, and the Saudi had started on his path to jihad.

  The Saudi would have liked to have taken his father to the concert that night, but he was old now and rarely left Riyadh. Besides, he refused to wear anything but traditional Arab garb and he would have attracted too much attention.

  He walked through the stalls, listening to the different languages being spoken by the tourists: Chinese, French, German, British, a veritable smorgasbord of victims. He stopped by a stall selling didgeridoos. A middle-aged white man wearing a black and white bandana tied round his head was showing an American family how to play the Aboriginal instrument. A little blonde girl was jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly. ‘Can we buy it, Daddy?’ she pleaded. ‘Can we?’

  The Saudi took no pleasure in killing children – he took no pleasure in killing anyone, but there was no alternative. The Israelis had killed thousands of innocent Palestinians. The Americans had killed tens of thousands of men, women and children in Iraq with bombs and bullets. The Saudi saw no difference between what the Israelis and the Americans did and the actions of the shahid. Death was death, whether it was carried out by soldiers or martyrs.

  The jihad was continuing in Iraq, with Allied soldiers dying almost every day. But it was only when civilian contractors were kidnapped and beheaded that the world took notice and governments acted. The death of a civilian was worth the death of a hundred paid soldiers. It was simple economics.

  The father handed over the money for the didgeridoo and picked up his daughter. She squealed, threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek. The Saudi walked away towards the harbour. He had never married and had no children. What he was doing was too important to jeopardise with a family. Families were a weakness for soldiers of the jihad.

  Superintendent Hargrove arrived at the hospital with two of his agents playing ordinary detectives. They flashed their warrant cards at the uniformed officer and told him they would be taking Corke to Newcastle police station and that they would be accompanied by his solicitor. Hargrove said nothing, playing the part of a solicitor who was about to break bad news to his client.

  The men with him were wearing dark raincoats over shabby suits and the world-weary look of policemen who had been in the job long enough not to be surprised by anything. Shepherd knew one of them – Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police. As soon as the uniform had left the room Sharpe wink
ed and unlocked Shepherd’s chain. ‘Always the hero, Spider,’ he said, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Why is it they always call on you when I need a taxi service?’ said Shepherd, slipping his legs over the side of the bed.

  Sharpe grinned and nodded at his companion. ‘Spider, this is DC Paul Joyce. Joycie, this is DC Dan Shepherd, Spider to his friends. Spider is ex-SAS so we use him whenever we need someone to jump out of a plane or a burning building or throw themselves into the North Sea in the middle of the night. Personally, I think he does it just to make the rest of us look bad.’

  Joyce handed Shepherd a kitbag, containing the clothes he had been wearing when he had been dragged out of the water: a blue denim shirt, cheap jeans, boxer shorts and socks. They had been cleaned and pressed. His work boots had been stuffed with newspapers and dried out.

  ‘I brought you a denim jacket and a pullover,’ said the superintendent. ‘I gather it’s what the best-dressed human trafficker’s wearing this season.’

  Shepherd stood up. Sharpe and Joyce chuckled at his surgical gown. ‘Maybe we should take him to the factory as he is,’ said Joyce.

  ‘Careful, Joycie,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spider’s trained to kill.’

  Shepherd flashed Hargrove a pained look. ‘Did you have to bring Cannon and Ball with you?’

  Hargrove smiled. ‘Manpower shortage.’

  The three men turned their backs while Shepherd changed.

  ‘We’re going to have to cuff you,’ said Hargrove, once Shepherd was tying his bootlaces. ‘It’s got to look right.’

  Shepherd held out his arm. Joyce cuffed the wrist and fastened the other end to himself. Then the four men walked along the corridor and out into the car park. They took Shepherd to a black Vauxhall Vectra. Sharpe sat in the driver’s seat next to Hargrove, while Shepherd and Joyce climbed into the back.

  Joyce waited until Sharpe had driven away from the hospital, then removed the handcuffs. Hargrove opened the glove compartment and passed Shepherd a flask and a carrier-bag containing two plastic-wrapped sandwiches.

  Shepherd unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. Ham and mustard. He poured himself some coffee and settled back in the seat.

  ‘They’re going to drop me in town,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ve got to get back to London. Anyway, there’s no reason for your solicitor to be with you as you’re not going to be interviewed.’

  ‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The local cops will transfer the father later this afternoon. I’ve cleared it with the local chief super that he’s to be put into a holding cell with you.’

  ‘He knows I’m undercover?’

  ‘He’s sound – Garth Carpenter. I’ve known him for years.’

  Shepherd nodded. He was never happy about strangers knowing his true role, but there were times when it was necessary.

  Sharpe wound down his window and showed the young uniformed constable his warrant card. ‘He’s expected,’ said Sharpe, and waved at Shepherd, who was again handcuffed to Joyce.

  The constable scrutinised Shepherd’s face. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Name’s Corke. Floats like one, too. Pulled him out of the water after he jumped off a trawler full of illegal immigrants. He’s here to be questioned before we put him up before a magistrate.’

  Joyce held out his warrant card and the constable nodded. He straightened up and waved at his colleague, who was watching from a cubicle at the entrance to the car park. The metal gate rattled back and Sharpe edged the Vectra forward. ‘Wonder if he joined the force so that he could be a bloody security guard,’ he muttered.

  ‘We can’t all be high-flyers,’ said Joyce, grinning at the constable as they drove past him.

  They parked between two white vans with mesh-protected windows and walked into the rear entrance of the station. Sharpe flashed his warrant card and asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Carpenter. Then Shepherd was taken to a holding cell that contained a mattress on a concrete plinth, a single plastic and metal chair and a stainless-steel toilet.

  He sat on the bunk and bent forward, arms resting on his legs, to run through his legend. Tony Corke. Fifteen years at sea, mostly on cross-Channel ferries, married but divorced, one child, a boy, a short spell inside for assault after a drunken brawl in a Portsmouth bar. Not a particularly nice guy, but not an outright villain. He lay back on the bed and relaxed, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had scraped ‘ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS’ into the plaster. He smiled to himself. Not all coppers were bastards, but he had met a fair few whose parentage might be called into question. He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep.

  Time seemed to crawl by. He wondered what was taking so long. An hour passed. Then another. The only light filtered in through a square of glass breeze blocks in the wall close to the ceiling. As the sky darkened, he stood up and switched on the light. Something must have gone wrong. He glanced at his watch. He’d been in the cell for almost five hours and all he’d had to eat were the sandwiches in the car. There was a bell push beside the door but Shepherd didn’t want to start asking for favours.

  He sat down on the bunk again. It wasn’t his first time in a cell and he was no stranger to long waits. On SAS surveillance operations he’d spent days at a time lying in a rain-swept hide, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, so a few hours in a cell with plumbing was no real hardship. But that didn’t make it any less boring. He should have asked Sharpe for a newspaper or magazine.

  He lay back on the bed. The concrete was hard against his back through the thin plastic mattress but, considering the number of drunks who had probably spent the night here, the smell wasn’t too bad.

  Hargrove had definitely said that Rudi would be put in the cell that afternoon. Now it was evening. Hargrove wasn’t the sort of man who made mistakes so something must have disrupted his plans. It happened on every operation, and Shepherd knew there was nothing he could do but ride it out.

  It was almost seven o’clock when he heard footsteps, then the rattle of a key. The door was pushed open and Rudi stood on the threshold. Shepherd grinned at him. ‘Hello again,’ he said.

  A uniformed constable gave Rudi a nudge and he stepped inside the cell. The door clanged shut behind him. ‘You are not still in the hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘They said I’m okay,’ said Shepherd, standing up. ‘How’s Jessica?’

  ‘She’s good. Not in danger any more.’

  ‘Why didn’t they let you stay in the hospital?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘My wife is with her,’ said Rudi. He sat down on the plastic chair. ‘Everything will be okay. I have asked for asylum already. Now they have to get me a lawyer. Soon they will find us a place to live and then I can work.’

  Shepherd smiled, but he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as that. Even without the million euros of counterfeit currency in Rudi’s bags, life as an asylum-seeker wasn’t as rosy as Rudi seemed to imagine. ‘Have they given you anything to eat?’ he asked.

  ‘Last night, but nothing today,’ he said.

  ‘You should tell them you want food,’ said Shepherd, and sat on the bunk. ‘They have to feed you. These people, they won’t do anything for you unless you stand up for your rights.’

  Rudi wiped his face with his hands. ‘I want to be with my wife and daughter,’ he said.

  ‘You can ask your lawyer,’ said Shepherd. ‘They should at least let you see your daughter.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Rudi. ‘Have they said what will happen to you?’

  ‘Prison,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But you are a good man,’ said Rudi. ‘You saved my daughter.’

  ‘I was smuggling people,’ said Shepherd. ‘They will send me to prison for that.’

  ‘You have a wife?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘But we are not together any more.’

  ‘And you have children?’

  ‘A boy.’

  ‘It will not be easy for them if you go to prison.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ said Shepherd. �
��Two years, maybe three.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s nobody’s fault but my own. I decided to break the law so I have to take the consequences.’

  ‘It makes no sense,’ said Rudi. ‘I broke the law but your government will find me a place to live and take care of my family. You broke the law and you will go to prison.’

  ‘Shit happens,’ said Shepherd.

  Rudi frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes bad things happen. No matter what you do, no matter how carefully you make plans, things go wrong.’

  ‘Shit happens,’ Rudi repeated. ‘It is true.’

  Shepherd lay back on the bunk. Rudi was about to discover how true it was. Shepherd would take no pleasure in what he was about to do, but Rudi was a means to an end. ‘I heard the police talking about you,’ said Shepherd, quietly.

  Rudi stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They found something on the boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘They think it belongs to you.’

  The legs of the chair scraped along the floor as Rudi got up. ‘What did they find?’ he said. ‘What did they say?’

  Shepherd sat up again slowly and swung his feet to the floor. He shrugged. ‘I just overheard two cops talking, that’s all. About some cans in your luggage.’

  ‘Cans? They said cans?’

  ‘Cans of oil. Did you have some with you?’

  Rudi had paled. ‘Did they open them?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was in the corridor and there were two policemen talking. Detectives, I think.’

  ‘Detectives?’

  ‘They weren’t wearing uniforms. Why?’