He went into the kitchen and replaced the keys he’d taken. He knew he shouldn’t stay in the house for more than thirty minutes, in case she returned early. Where would she hide a gun? He kept his own weapon in a locked drawer, but Elaine would have to be more circumspect because she could never be sure that the police wouldn’t turn up with a search warrant. He smiled to himself. That, of course, assumed she was guilty and was using her husband’s service revolver to murder his killers. If she didn’t have the gun, he could search the house until kingdom come and not find anything. He looked at the key box and wondered whether he should start with the garden shed. He decided against it. Elaine had been married to a cop so she’d know how cops think. The shed was one of the first places they’d look. Garden sheds were also vulnerable to break-ins, so if she had it she’d be more likely to hide it in the house. People tended to conceal guns in the same sort of places that drug-dealers hid their wares – under floorboards, behind skirting, in toilet cisterns and water tanks, in the back of stereos and televisions. Or buried in the back garden. Shepherd realised he was wasting time. He would do it methodically and search one room at a time.
Charlotte Button’s mobile rang and she picked it up off the bedside table. It was her husband. ‘Graham, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,’ she said. ‘I was rushed off my feet.’
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Belfast. I’m staying at the Europa but use the mobile because I’m not in the room much.’
‘It’s a good thing I trust you because you’re behaving like an unfaithful wife,’ said Pickering, but she could tell he was joking.
‘I wish I had time for a lover,’ she said. ‘It’s been non-stop the last few days.’
‘All for the greater good, I’m sure,’ said Pickering, with a touch of irony. ‘Zoe phoned yesterday. She’s lost her mobile.’
‘What? She’s only had it a couple of months.’
‘I’m just the messenger, darling,’ said Pickering. ‘She made a reversed-charge call from the school to my office, bless her, and asked if you’d call her back. I did try her mobile number but it’s not ringing.’
‘I’ll phone the school tomorrow,’ said Button. ‘Did she sound okay?’
‘Same as usual,’ said Pickering. ‘Getting information out of her is like getting blood from a stone.’ He chuckled drily. ‘Just like her mother.’
‘What about you? Everything okay?’
‘Only just got home and I’m knackered,’ said Pickering. ‘There’s a small chain in Ascot that we might be able to buy if we can get the financing lined up.’
‘Well done you,’ said Button.
‘It’s not a done deal yet, darling. I’ve got to get my ducks in a row and there’s a lot of ducks. But if I can pull it off we’ll be twenty per cent bigger in one fell swoop.’
‘Fingers crossed, and we’ll celebrate when I get back,’ said Button.
‘Which will be when, do you think?’
‘A couple of days. Maybe three. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
She ended the call. Suddenly she missed him, and thought about calling him back to tell him that she really did love him and that she was so glad she was sharing her life with him. She realised just as quickly that if she did he’d think something was wrong. She’d make it up to him when she got home. She had some very sexy underwear in the bottom drawer of her dressing-table that she’d bought on a whim from Agent Provocateur a few months ago. It was still in its wrapper, a black and red lacy bra, sheer matching panties and black suspenders with silk roses. It was time to give it all a trial run. She was sure it would make him feel a lot better than a phone call.
The sunlight glinted on the massive golden dome atop the mosque. It was quite a sight, and distinctly out of place in Regent’s Park, thought Salih, as he strolled across the grass towards it. The hundred-and-forty-foot-high minaret was the tallest structure around and the mosque dominated the area. He had taken the Tube to Baker Street station and the mosque was just a short walk away.
The building was less impressive close up, drab, seventies-style concrete that had been pitted and darkened by the capital’s pollution. Salih walked through the courtyard, slipped off his shoes and went into the main prayer hall. It was Friday, the main Muslim day of worship, and the hall was crowded but not full. Men were standing, bowing and kneeling on the red carpet, which had been woven in a pattern of a thousand prayer mats, all facing Mecca. The favoured places were closest to the wall nearest Mecca, and it was there that the men wearing traditional Muslim dress prayed, their heads covered. Towards the back of the hall they were more casually dressed, many in jeans and sweatshirts.
Above them was the dome he had seen from outside, the inside decorated with brightly coloured mosaics. A huge chandelier hung from the centre, and around the dome’s edge there were inscriptions from the Koran.
There were no women in the prayer hall, of course. They were prohibited from praying with the men and banished to a gallery upstairs. It was the way of Islam, Salih knew, but he disagreed with the way that the sexes were segregated. He had never been married, but one day he hoped to have a wife and when he did he would not force her to cover herself from head to foot when she went outside. Salih considered himself a good Muslim and he had read the Koran many times, but he knew that most religious leaders had twisted the words of the Holy Book for their own ends.
Salih began to pray. Like all good Muslims he prayed five times a day, though more often than not he didn’t go to a mosque to communicate with God. As he prayed, he looked around and eventually spotted the man he had come to see. His name was Hakeem and, like Salih, he was Palestinian. Hakeem’s family had been killed by the Israelis and he had fled to Europe, first to France and then to Britain where he had applied for asylum. Hakeem had been less than truthful with the Bangladeshi lawyer who had handled his application and with the Home Office panels he had appeared before. While it was true that his wife and two sons had been killed when Israeli soldiers stormed his house in Gaza, it was because Hakeem was a skilled bombmaker who had sent more than a dozen suicide-bombers to kill civilians in Tel Aviv. Four years after he had arrived in London, Hakeem was granted British citizenship.
As Hakeem got to his feet and headed out, Salih caught his eye. Hakeem hurried over and the two men embraced like the old friends they were. Hakeem kissed Salih on both cheeks. ‘Finally you come to England,’ he said, squeezing Salih’s shoulders. ‘I can show you the sights.’
‘I’m here for work, not pleasure,’ said Salih.
‘You said you needed my help and, as always, I am here for you,’ said Hakeem. ‘Nothing is too much trouble for the man who saved my life. Come, let me buy you a drink and we can talk.’
Hakeem put his arm around Salih’s shoulders and they left the prayer hall. ‘Have you been here before?’ asked Hakeem.
‘London, or the mosque?’
‘The mosque.’ Salih shook his head. ‘Quite a coup,’ said Hakeem. ‘It was designed by an Englishman – can you believe that? King Faisal of Saudi Arabia put up a third of the cost. I don’t think he could believe his luck – can you imagine the Saudis agreeing to build a cathedral in one of their royal parks?’ He laughed. ‘The British, they think they are so magnanimous, but in reality they are stupid. They think so little of their heritage that they throw it away.’
‘They see being multicultural as a strength,’ said Salih.
‘It is a weakness,’ said Hakeem. He slapped his chest. ‘I have a British passport, but I am a Muslim first.’ He waved at the men filing out of the prayer hall. ‘Every single man here would say the same. That is what the British will never understand. Our religion is what defines us. It makes us what we are. What do they have? A hollow church that bends with the wind, that allows abortion, adultery and men to lie down with men. Up to fifty thousand Muslims come here to pray during the Eids, and there isn’t a church in the country that can boast that. Islam is growing stronger by the week as
their religion withers and dies.’
They walked to a cafe close by a bookshop that specialised in Muslim publications. Hakeem ordered two glasses of fruit juice and the two men took a quiet table where they couldn’t be overheard. ‘So how can I help you?’ asked Hakeem. ‘What is it you need from me?’
Salih lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I need two men. Two men who can be trusted.’
‘To do what?’
‘To kill.’
Hakeem sipped his juice. ‘Who is to be killed?’
‘A woman.’
‘An infidel?’
‘A Muslim. A young girl. But it has to be done, and it has to be done with violence.’
‘The men who help you, will they be at risk?’
Salih shook his head. ‘Everything will be planned to the last detail.’
‘I have two young men who are eager to prove themselves. They will need to be told a story, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘They would have to think that what they are doing is for the jihad.’
‘I will make sure of it,’ said Salih.
Hakeem glanced around the room, but no one was paying them any attention. ‘Their names are Mazur and Tariq. British-born, they were brought up as Muslims but became fundamentalist three years ago. They have spent time in Pakistan and were selected for special training.’
‘Special training?’
‘They were considered shahids,’ said Hakeem. ‘And I think it would have not taken much to persuade them to take the final step. They are both committed. The fire burns inside them already. It just needs to be fanned.’
Salih nodded. The shahids were happy to die for Islam as martyrs, the front-line warriors of the jihad. They believed that if they died serving Allah, they would be rewarded with a place in Heaven, alongside seventy of their relatives. And Heaven for the shahids meant an eternity of sex with seventy-two black-eyed virgins and eighty thousand servants to take care of them. Salih didn’t believe in the seventy-two virgins- in fact, he was dubious about Heaven as a concept – but the shahids believed, which was what made them so dangerous. A man who truly believed in a glorious afterlife would have no hesitation in crashing an airliner or blowing up a Tube train, providing that the last words on his lips were Allahu Akbar. God is great.
‘Do they worship here?’ asked Salih.
‘They used to go to the Finsbury Park mosque,’ he said. ‘They were selected and groomed by Abu Hamza himself.’
Salih knew of the hook-handed preacher who had taken control of the inner-city place of worship and turned it into an al-Qaeda training camp. ‘They must not look like fundamentalists,’ he said.
‘They shaved off their beards when they came back from Pakistan, and they wear Western clothing,’ said Hakeem. ‘We moved them away from Finsbury Park when Abu Hamza became a publicity junkie.’
The British authorities had tolerated Abu Hamza’s brand of racial hatred for years, but eventually their patience had worn thin. He had been sent to prison, convicted of inciting murder and racial hatred, but not before he had despatched hundreds of British Muslims to training camps in Pakistan and Afghanistan. ‘They are below the official radar?’ asked Salih.
‘They are what the authorities here call “invisibles”. They can travel freely in and out of Britain, yet they have dual citizenship so they arrive in Pakistan as nationals and can stay there as long as they like. I heard of them and suggested that they return to London. They can make a bigger impact here.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘We are trying to get them into Heathrow,’ he said. ‘We already have two of our people working on the security staff at Terminal Three. Now we are trying to get Mazur and Tariq on the baggage-handling staff. The British are so politically correct that they aren’t even allowed to question why so many Muslims are applying to work at the airports. But the day will come when we have everything in place and you will see an event to rival Nine Eleven in the United States.’ He raised his glass in salute. ‘And while I give my life to Allah, what are you doing? Creating havoc for money?’
‘If I create havoc, I’m not doing my job properly,’ said Salih.
‘But you do what you do for your own ends,’ said Hakeem. ‘Where is the glory in that?’
‘There is no glory,’ agreed Salih.
‘But there is money?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Salih. ‘There is money.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over a bulky envelope. ‘This is for your expenses.’
Hakeem weighed it in his hand.
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ said Salih. ‘That is for the introduction. There will be another forty thousand if the two men are suitable.’
‘I shall use it wisely,’ said Hakeem.
‘I am sure you will,’ said Salih.
As soon as Charlotte Button had had breakfast, over the Irish Times and the Independent, she phoned Culford School and asked to speak to her daughter. She had to wait almost ten minutes before Zoe came to the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Zoe, I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday but I didn’t get back until late. Daddy says you lost your phone.’
‘It wasn’t lost, it was stolen,’ said Zoe.
‘Have you told the school?’
Zoe’s sigh was loaded with sarcasm. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘And will they tell the police?’
‘Mum, it’s a phone. The police don’t care about phones.’
‘I’ll need a police report to make a claim on our insurance,’ said Button.
‘I don’t think the school likes to call in the police. They handle things themselves.’
‘Oh, so they’ll find it for you, will they?’
‘Mum, please. Just send me a new phone, okay? Dad said you would.’
‘And did Dad say why he couldn’t do it?’
‘He said he was busy.’
‘And I’m not?’ Zoe sighed again. Button pictured the contempt in her daughter’s eyes, and the way her lips had pressed into a tight line. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’ll get you a phone and send it to you.’
‘A Sony-Ericsson, okay?’
‘What’s a Sony-Ericsson?’
‘It’s a phone. Everyone here has one.’
‘I thought Nokias were the phones to have.’
‘Oh, Mum, Nokias are so yesterday. The new Sony-Ericsson is savage.’
‘Savage? That’s good, right?’
‘Yes, Mum, that’s good.’
‘Okay. Is everything else all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Zoe. ‘Look, I have to go. Love you.’
‘Love you,’ said Button, but the line was already dead.
She sat on the bed tapping the phone against the side of her head. Zoe was thirteen and had boarded at the school since she was eleven. It had been Graham’s idea, but Button hadn’t needed much persuading. They both had careers, and the only other options would have been a live-in au pair or turning Zoe into a latch-key kid. They had agreed that boarding-school was a better solution, and Zoe had been surprisingly agreeable. It had made her more independent, and she was thriving in the hothouse academic environment, but with that had come a coldness that often brought tears to Button’s eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was normal teenage rebellion or because Zoe had been sent away from home, but either way it was painful.
She tossed the phone on to the bed. Zoe was their only child and there had been complications that made it unlikely they’d have more. Not that she and Graham had planned a big family. Zoe had been an accident, a happy one but an accident nevertheless, and neither Button nor her husband had ever put her in front of their careers. They loved Zoe, of course, but Graham wanted to build his business and Button had always been determined to get to the top of her profession. And to do that she had had to make sacrifices. Button didn’t regret the decision they’d made, but that didn’t make Zoe’s coldness any easier to bear.
She picked up the phone and pressed redial, then cancelled the call. Zoe had lessons to go to, and she wouldn
’t appreciate being dragged back to the phone. In any case, what could she say to her? That she loved her? That she missed her? That she wished she was there to give her a hug? She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dressing-table and flinched. She looked scared.
She stood up and stared out of the window over the city. It was impossible to have everything, no matter what the glossy women’s magazines said. You couldn’t have a successful career, a fulfilling sex life and an adoring family. You had to make choices, and more often than not those choices led to sacrifices. No one had forced her to send Zoe to boarding-school, just as no one had forced her to join MI5 or SOCA. Suddenly she craved a cigarette, and laughed. Once a smoker, always a smoker.
Salih watched the two men from across the restaurant. They were young Pakistanis, with glossy gelled hair, dark brown skin and black eyes. They looked like a couple of male models, tall with broad shoulders and tight stomachs. He toyed with his coffee cup and wondered why two such good-looking young men would consider blowing themselves into a thousand pieces. They were British-born, which meant they had access to the country’s health and education systems, they lived in a country where the police didn’t shoot rubber bullets or worse into crowds, where civilians weren’t dragged off the streets and searched or roughed up, where soldiers couldn’t kill children and receive nothing worse than a reprimand.
Salih had been born in Israeli-occupied Gaza, where children died because hospitals lacked equipment and medicine, where schools had no textbooks, where two-thirds of the population had no jobs and where most families lived on less than ten dollars a month. Salih understood why so many Palestinians wanted to take up arms against the Israelis, and why so many were prepared to give up their own lives. But Mazur and Tariq weren’t Palestinians. They hadn’t grown up under the heel of an occupying power. They were free men in a free country, which was what made their decision to give up everything for Allah so mystifying.
The slightly taller of the two, who was sporting a small gold earring in his left ear, laughed at something the other had said, showing perfect white teeth. A waiter brought them cups of coffee and a hookah pipe, which he lit for them. The guy with the earring took the first smoke, then handed the mouthpiece to his friend. They were early. Salih had told them to be in the cafe at midday, but it was only half past eleven.
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