Hunter Killer

by Chris Ryan

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked her, keeping his voice low.

  The girl was less haughty now. A little unsure of herself. ‘Go home, I suppose. Like he told us.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think we’re going to be all right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jamal said. ‘Course.’ He peered upwards. The enormous glass tower loomed threateningly above them. Then he looked across the plaza to the other side of the fountain. There was a row of Boris bikes neatly lined up, and next to them his own bike, chained to a cycle rail. ‘Better make a move,’ he said.

  He nodded, then hurried across the plaza and unchained his bike. He looked back at the tower block again. A window-cleaning cradle was descending to the ground floor. The guys inside were wolf-whistling the girl. Jamal felt a surge of anger. He wanted to go over and defend her honour. To tell the men that he was the Paddington bomber, and see how arrogant they felt then. But the girl was in charge of the situation. She gave the window cleaners an evil look before turning her back on them. Jamal calmed himself, then suddenly felt uneasy again. He realised that those window cleaners could easily have observed them when Abu Ra’id had opened the blinds in the penthouse, and he wondered again how the cleric could be so sure that he was safe.

  As he pedalled back across London, Jamal’s mind was ablaze. Abu Ra’id seemed so certain that they were beyond the reach of the authorities. So certain that Sarim’s death had been an accident. But did Jamal believe him? Did he dare to believe him? Sarim had trusted Abu Ra’id implicitly, and look where that had got him. The cleric had insisted on Jamal returning home, but surely to do that would be madness.

  Then again, did he really dare to disobey Abu Ra’id? He knew, better than most, just what he was capable of.

  It took a long time to cross London. The traffic was bad, the police presence high. But as he cycled through Bayswater and past Shepherd’s Bush, he realised that he was not heading back to the B&B in Ruislip, but to his own flat in Perivale. And in a flash, he realised he had made his decision.

  To run. To go into hiding from both the authorities and from Abu Ra’id. Tonight.

  Ten

  Clara went about her work in a kind of daze. The dead were everywhere. The hospital mortuary was overflowing. Injured men women and children were dying, one an hour, at the very least. It had become necessary to set up an overflow mortuary in a ward deep in the bowels of the hospital, where rented air-conditioning machines sucked the warmth from the air to stop the corpses decaying before they could be released back to the families. A poor substitute for the hospital cold room. Clara had already seen a fly crawling on the face of a dead woman.

  When she was at school, she saw her history lessons not as an endless succession of facts, but a succession of pictures: injured men laid out in field hospitals in the wake of the Crimea, in the trenches of the Great War, on the outskirts of Saigon. Those grainy black and white images didn’t look so different from the sights that surrounded her now. London was at war. The enemy was unseen, the casualties were civilian. But it was a war nevertheless.

  It wasn’t just the endless procession of injury and death that seemed to suck everything out of Clara. After Paddington, she had been able to talk about what she had seen with Danny. He wasn’t the type to try to comfort her, but he did listen. And she knew that beneath it all, he cared. She missed him more than she knew how to express. It was a constant dull ache somewhere deep inside her. She had told herself that morning that she would deal with it by throwing herself into her work, and the influx of casualties from the shock bombing in the Trocadero meant she didn’t have much choice. But in a corner of her mind, she felt his absence more than she would ever have admitted to anyone.

  She worked long past her shift time. They all did. It was gone nine o’clock when she scrubbed down, disinfected her hands for one last time, put on her ordinary clothes and clocked out. She walked alone through the foyer of the hospital and flashed her ID at one of the crowd of policeman guarding the front entrance. Police guarding a hospital? Had it really come to this? She shuffled out in the cold night air with her head down. She was exhausted, but dreaded going home. Now was not a time to be alone.

  She could walk to Maida Vale from here, and a good thing too – there was no public transport running, and every cab in the city seemed to be taken. She set off. She could get home in half an hour if she kept her pace up. There was a short cut round the back of the hospital that very few people knew about. It was a narrow, dark alleyway, uninviting at the best of times and especially this evening. Clara stumbled along it, her head down, barely aware of her surroundings, her mind lost in unpleasant thoughts.

  She didn’t realise that she was being followed until she felt someone grab her by the arm.

  On another occasion, she might have screamed. But not tonight. Whoever had grabbed her had done so from behind, and in an instant 24 hours of frustration seemed to come steaming out of her. She spun round. ‘What the hell . . .’

  It was so dark. She couldn’t see clearly at first. She blinked and tried to clear her head.

  Then she stopped.

  Danny?

  She started at him. He was in a terrible state. His right eye was purple, bulging and bruised. There was a cut on his upper lip, sealed together with a length of steristrip. She caught a whiff of stale booze from his body.

  And only then did she realise that it wasn’t Danny at all.

  ‘Kyle?’ she whispered. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to you?’

  ’S nothing,’ Kyle said. His speech was slurred.

  ‘Then let go of me.’

  Kyle let his hand fall.

  ‘Who did this?’ Clara asked. And then, almost immediately, she answered her own question. ‘The Poles? The ones you were talking about?’

  Kyle nodded, and averted his gaze. He looked humiliated. He was also shivering.

  The doctor in her decided that what Kyle needed most was a hot drink. ‘Come with me,’ she said, and she started striding along the alleyway. A moment later they were in the main street. Kyle trotted to keep up with her, and as they passed a pub he looked longingly towards it. But Clara knew that more booze would be a disaster, and five minutes later they were sitting opposite each other in Starbucks. There was a copy of the Evening Standard on the table. The front page showed the devastated frontage of the Trocadero, and the baristas, when they weren’t looking at Kyle’s beaten face, were talking feverishly about the latest explosion. Kyle had his shivering hands wrapped round a hot drink. The smell of booze was more obvious in here. It turned her stomach.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Told you already. ’S nothing.’

  ‘It’s not nothing. How much do you owe them, Kyle?’

  Danny’s brother shrugged. ‘Five Gs. It’s not a problem. I’ll get my hands on the money somehow.’ He took a sip of coffee and winced as the hot liquid scalded his damaged lips.

  Clara stared at him. ‘Where are you going to get five thousand pounds from?’

  Another shrug. ‘There’s always Danny. Been trying to call him. Fucker’s not answering.’

  ‘How long have you been waiting for me outside the hospital?’ She vaguely remembered telling him where she worked when he’d turned up in Hereford and Danny had left them alone for a few minutes. But the thought of him stalking her like this creeped her out.

  ‘Couple of hours. Thought Danny might pick you up. He’s not around Hereford, least not as far as I can tell.’ He took another painful sip of coffee. ‘So where is the cunt?’

  ‘Don’t . . .’ Clara felt her pulse rising at his language, but she managed to hold her tongue. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said.

  Kyle clearly couldn’t hide it – the flicker of panic that shadowed his face, the frown that creased his forehead. He was even less successful at keeping the emotion from his voice. ‘Don’t matter,’ he said. ‘I know people. I’ll get it sorted.’

  Clara couldn’t help a pang of sympathy. Kyle was like a bolshie kid, unab
le to confess that he was in trouble. If she’d had five grand in her pocket, she reckoned she’d probably have given it to him. But she didn’t have that sort of money, either in her pocket or in her bank account.

  ‘These Poles,’ she said. ‘You can go to the police about them, you know.’

  Kyle gave a harsh, mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Right,’ he said.

  Silence. There was something unspoken between them. Clara tackled it first. ‘If you give them something, will they lay off you for a while?’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Maybe,’ he said. There was a sudden eagerness in his eyes, and a wiliness too. ‘Depends what I give them.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be much,’ Clara said. ‘I don’t have much.’

  It was as if Kyle couldn’t stop himself from being offensive. ‘Yeah, right. You sound like a right daddy’s girl.’ He looked like he was going to say something else, but perhaps he noticed the steel in Clara’s eyes.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  The nearest cashpoint was three doors down. There was no queue. Clara had the impression that nobody wanted to stay in the same place for long, and the passers-by did just that: pass by. She had two credit cards. The maximum withdrawal on each was £250. She maxed each of them out. Kyle couldn’t keep his eyes off the money, and Clara was honest enough with herself to admit that this was probably a very bad idea. But Kyle was Danny’s brother, and he was in trouble. And she never had been able to refuse help to a person in trouble.

  She handed over the money. Kyle snatched it from her and stuffed the wad into his pocket. His eyes darted around again. He didn’t have the grace to utter a word of thanks. He just turned on his heel and walked back down the street. After ten metres or so, he looked over his shoulder to see if Clara was still watching him. When he saw that she was, he continued on his way.

  Quickly, Clara crossed the busy road. There was a doorway set back from the pavement, where she hid in the shadows. She only had to wait a couple of minutes before she saw Kyle again, walking back the way he’d come. He looked around furtively, then shuffled into the pub they’d walked past.

  Clara shivered with the cold. She felt so stupid. She wondered if she should follow him into the pub and demand the money back, but she quickly discounted that idea. She’d half known he’d drink it away. At least she’d confirmed one thing: that Danny had been right about his brother all along. He was past anyone’s help.

  The thought of Danny made her shiver again. She wondered where he was now. And then she felt the familiar twist of anguish when she remembered that it wasn’t her business any more.

  But that didn’t stop her thinking about him. About the abrupt way he’d finished with her. About what was going on in his head.

  About where he was now, and what he was doing.

  About whether the man she still loved was safe.

  Jamal had already decided that if he wanted to get far away from London, the pushbike would be no good. He needed to fetch his motorbike. And he needed to do it tonight. It was a risk returning home to Perivale, he knew that. But as he kept his bike in a lock-up a good 50 metres from the flat itself, he could collect it without even showing his face at home.

  It was ten o’clock exactly when he stopped cycling. He left his bike against the railings of the local primary school, and didn’t even bother to lock it up. He knew perfectly well that it would be stolen, but that was okay – it wasn’t like he was going to need it again, after all. He covered the last half mile to the lock-up on foot, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep them warm. His skin tingled. He felt like everyone he passed – small groups of youths, couples hand in hand – were staring at him. But that was ridiculous, he told himself. Nobody knew he was here. On the corner of one main road, a squat man in a black leather jacket who looked uncannily like Phil Collins did make eye contact. But then he pulled out his phone and started having an argument with his girlfriend, and Jamal carried on his way.

  He stopped about 20 metres from the lock-up – it was a line of three sectional concrete garages in a quiet side street, with a patch of cracked tarmac in front of them. He looked up and down the street, checking that nobody was watching him. The place was deserted, so he crossed to his lock-up – the middle of the three – and opened it up with the key he had in his back pocket.

  It was dark in the lock-up, and entirely empty apart from the bike, and the helmet which he kept slung over the handlebars. Jamal hurried in and, moments later, was sitting on the vehicle. There was half a tank of petrol – enough to get him out of London. He had already decided that when he needed to refuel, he would fill up a plastic jerry can, so he didn’t have to expose his bike to the security cameras at any petrol stations. He pulled on his helmet, started the ignition, revved the bike a couple of times and slowly moved out of the lock-up. He was so eager to get away that he didn’t even bother to close the garage door. He wouldn’t be returning, anyway.

  The air temperature had dropped. It was a cold night. But Jamal couldn’t risk returning to the flat for warmer clothes. He would just have to man it out. He peered to the end of the side street. No sign of anyone. He drove on, to the corner of the side street and the main road. Here he stopped again and checked around him. There were a handful of pedestrians on the street, but none of them seemed to be paying him any attention. A bus trundled past, its windows misted up, followed by some regular cars. On the other side of the road, exactly opposite the side street, was a black Land Rover Discovery. A broad-shouldered man was behind the wheel reading a newspaper. Probably just a cab driver from the cab firm up the road, waiting for a fare, Jamal told himself. He turned left and followed the bus, which was now 50 metres ahead of him.

  He kept one eye on his side mirrors. For 30 seconds or so there was nobody behind him. Then he saw a single pair of headlamps. But there was nothing suspicious about that. It wasn’t like he could expect the streets to himself. He concentrated on driving: safely and not too fast. He certainly didn’t want to be pulled over.

  From Perivale, he headed on to the A40 out of London. There was more traffic here, almost all of it leaving the capital. He found it strangely comforting, as if the camouflage of other vehicles made him more difficult to pick out. The road headed west, past Heathrow. The Terminal Five building glowed in the distance, lighting up the sky, but there were no planes arriving or leaving. London, tonight, was still a no-fly zone for civilian aircraft. He remembered how Sarim used to talk about one day organising a terrorist hit on an aircraft – he had elaborate plans Jamal didn’t fully understand that involved stealing passports in Thailand – and how pleased Abu Ra’id would be with them if they pulled off another 9/11. Up until today, pleasing Abu Ra’id had been all Jamal wanted to do. Now, however, he just wanted to get away from him. He was acting, he realised, out of fear.

  Jamal didn’t really know where he was going. He had no friends, to speak of. No relations who hadn’t disowned him. All he really knew was that he wanted to get someplace quiet. He could get a cheap room in a Travelodge somewhere while he worked out his next move. Maybe he could skip the country. Get over to Pakistan. As one of the Paddington bombers, surely there would be people who would give him sanctuary.

  He was thinking these thoughts as he checked his fuel gauge. It was almost empty. He cursed himself for having passed a petrol station a few moments before. Now he would have to get off the A40 and hunt for another petrol station nearby. He pulled off at the next exit, took a left at the roundabout and continued along an almost empty B road for a mile or so until he came across a Texaco garage on his right. He pulled into a lay-by, killed the bike’s engine, and quickly crossed the road to the petrol station. A red Ford Focus was filling up, but otherwise the forecourt was deserted.

  As he approached the shop to buy a jerry can, however, another vehicle that had come from the same direction as Jamal turned into the petrol station. Its headlamps were very bright, so at first glance he couldn’t tell what kind of vehicle it was. Something
about it, though, made him uneasy. Inside the shop he took another glance. It was parked up by the air and water station. A black Land Rover Discovery.

  Jamal froze.

  He was standing by the sweets. The guy behind the counter was staring at him. He looked round. Green jerry cans were on sale on the far side of the shop. He walked over and picked one up. ‘Going to fill this up, mate,’ he said to the attendant, who nodded back at him.

  He exited the shop and walked up to one of the pumps, watching the Land Rover from the corner of his eye. The driver stepped outside. He had dark hair and black stubble, and was very broad-shouldered. He didn’t even seem to notice Jamal as he filled up his jerry can. He just walked into the shop and stood at the sweet counter, browsing.

  It couldn’t be the same man Jamal had seen reading the newspaper back in Perivale, could it?

  A minute later, the can was overflowing. Jamal swore as the petrol spilled over his hand. He replaced the nozzle in the pump, tightened the can, and returned to the shop. The dark-haired man was at the counter with three Snickers bars and a can of Red Bull. He accepted some change from the attendant, then turned to leave. As he passed Jamal they made eye contact. The man nodded. ‘All right, mate?’ he muttered.

  Jamal put his head down and walked to the counter. As he stood there paying in cash for his petrol, he watched the man return to the Land Rover. Relief crashed over him when he saw the vehicle move. It turned left, back towards the A40.

  His hands were trembling as he accepted his change. He pocketed it, then carried his jerry can out of the shop, across the forecourt and over the road to where his bike was waiting. He could almost feel the attendant’s eyes burning into him, watching him for his strange behaviour. He didn’t care. He’d be away from here soon enough.

  He poured the fuel into the tank, then carelessly chucked the jerry can away into the verge. The sight of the Discovery had churned him up and he struggled to become calm again. Although it had driven away and was therefore clearly not following him, he decided he wasn’t going to head back towards the A40, just in case. He kicked the motorbike into action again and continued in the opposite direction along the B road at a steady thirty, the beam from his headlamp lighting up the road and the high thick bushes on either side.