Salih toyed with the almond croissant on his plate. He preferred to work alone but there were times when he needed assistance and this was such an occasion. One person alone could not do what he had planned. There had to be three, which meant he needed Mazur and Tariq. He took out his mobile phone and called the number Hakeem had given him. A few seconds later an Asian pop tune sounded from the taller man’s pocket. He fished in his jacket and pressed his phone to his ear. ‘I am here,’ said Salih.
The man frowned. ‘What?’
‘Across the room.’
The man looked round and Salih held up his coffee cup, then cut the connection. The man said something to his friend and they both looked in Salih’s direction. Salih sipped his coffee, then put down his cup and beckoned them over.
‘You are Hassan?’ asked the taller of the two.
Salih held up the mobile phone and smiled.
‘Of course it is. He called you, didn’t he?’ said the other man. He held out his hand. ‘I am Mazur.’
Salih shook it. ‘Yes, I am Hassan. Please sit.’ Salih took the tall man’s hand. ‘You are Tariq?’
‘I am.’
He had a tight grip and his nails had been neatly trimmed. Salih could smell expensive cologne. Tariq sat down opposite Salih, and Mazur on Salih’s right.
The waiter brought over the hookah. Salih caught the fragrance of green apples from the smouldering tobacco. ‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Tariq.
Salih drew the fragrant smoke into his mouth, then blew it out and sighed. ‘That’s good,’ he said. He handed the pipe back to Tariq.
‘Hakeem said you needed help,’ said Tariq.
Salih kept his voice low. ‘There is something I need doing, and I need the services of men who are prepared to do whatever it takes to serve Allah.’
‘That’s us,’ said Mazur.
‘You were trained in Pakistan?’
Both men nodded.
‘Do you mind telling me why?’
‘We learnt what we could in London, through the Internet and books, but we needed real training,’ said Tariq. ‘We had to know how to use weapons and explosives.’
‘But why did you want such training?’ pressed Salih.
‘To fight for Islam,’ said Mazur.
‘But you’re British,’ said Salih.
‘We’re Muslims first,’said Tariq,‘Pakistanis second,British third. If we don’t stand and fight as Muslims, the infidels will crush us.’ His eyes were burning with the intensity of a zealot.
‘What started you on this journey?’he asked. ‘Nine Eleven?’
Mazur nodded, but Tariq shook his head. ‘I realised long ago that Muslims were in danger of being exterminated from the face of the earth,’ he said. ‘Look at what happened in Kosovo, in Palestine, in Chechnya. When I was a kid Abu Hamza came to our mosque to give a talk and collect funds. I had never heard a man who spoke like him. Afterwards he said he recognised something in me and that when I was ready I should seek him out at the Finsbury Park mosque. As soon as I was old enough I went to see him and that was when I learnt about jihad, that Muslims have to fight our oppressors until we have established a true Islamic state.’
‘It was Nine Eleven that changed me,’ said Mazur. ‘It was the way the Americans reacted. The Saudis flew the planes into the World Trade Center, but the Americans were too cowardly to attack them. Instead they attacked the Muslims in Afghanistan and then in Iraq. What did Afghanistan have to do with the attacks on the World Trade Center? Nothing. And the Iraqis? Saddam Hussein hated al-Qaeda. Hated bin Laden.’
‘It’s true,’ agreed Tariq. ‘And then what did the Americans do? They picked up Muslims around the world and took them to Cuba to interrogate and torture them. The Americans are on a crusade, a crusade to destroy all Muslims. We have to defend ourselves, we have to meet violence with violence.’ Tariq had a movie-star smile, but there was no doubting his sincerity.
Salih understood why the two men had become such hard-line fundamentalists. It had all been part of al-Qaeda’s grand plan. Until the moment that the four planes had been hijacked in the United States, most Western countries had given little thought to the Muslim populations in their midst. Muslims and Christians were getting on just fine, but Islamic fundamentalists knew that peaceful coexistence was a threat to their religion. Religions spread best when fired by fundamentalism, and fundamentalists need someone to struggle against. It was the backlash after Nine Eleven that had fired Muslims like Tariq and Mazur and thousands more like them. The man with the beard and the Kalashnikov had known exactly what he was doing when he attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. He had no interest in the men, women and children who had died. Neither did he care about the damage to the buildings. What he wanted was for the West to lash out at Muslims, and he had succeeded. The West had gone to war with Afghanistan and Iraq, and Muslims round the world had united to rise up in protest.
Salih had watched the second airliner smash into the World Trade Center live on CNN as he sat in a hotel room in Zurich. He had been paid a quarter of a million dollars to kill an Iraqi biochemist who was planning to defect to America with details of Saddam Hussein’s biological-warfare programme. Salih had watched the towers collapse and had realised then that the world had changed for ever – and changed for the worse.
Salih was a Muslim but he wasn’t a fundamentalist. He hated the Israelis but he hated them because of what they had done to his country, not because of their religion. Salih killed for money, not for his beliefs. He did it coldly and dispassionately. But men like Tariq and Mazur would kill because they were angry and because they hated non-Muslims. And because they believed that if they died for Allah, they would go to Heaven. That was what made them so dangerous.
Salih sipped his coffee. ‘I need your total obedience,’ he said. ‘Whatever I ask you to do, you must do without question.’
Mazur and Tariq looked at each other, then nodded. ‘Hakeem said we can trust you,’ said Tariq.
‘It’s not about trust,’ said Salih. ‘It’s about obedience. If I do not have that, we should part company now.’
‘We shall obey you,’ said Mazur. ‘Whatever you ask, we shall do.’
Salih stared at them for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. ‘There is a girl that has to die,’ he said quietly. ‘She betrayed two of our men in Pakistan, and because of that one of the men is dead and another is being held by the Americans.’
‘Bitch,’ said Tariq, venomously.
‘She has to be killed, and she has to be killed with violence,’ said Salih. ‘Are you prepared to do that?’
Mazur swallowed nervously. ‘I am,’ he said, his voice a hoarse croak.
Tariq nodded enthusiastically. ‘I am too,’ he said.
‘There is one more thing,’ said Salih.
Mazur and Tariq leant forward, eager to hear more.
Shepherd woke up just after eight. He shaved, showered, pulled on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, then went downstairs. He cooked himself eggs and bacon, made a cup of coffee and read the Belfast Telegraph as he ate. A packet of Marlboro lay on the table in front of him but at no point did he consider lighting up. The cigarettes were a prop, nothing more. He couldn’t go more than a few hours without a cup of coffee, but he had never craved nicotine.
He washed up, then looked out of the sitting-room window. Elaine’s driveway was empty. He sat down to watch daytime television with the sound low so that he would hear her return. At just after midday he made himself another cup of coffee and gazed out of the sitting-room window as he drank it. The driveway was still empty. When he’d finished his coffee he washed his mug, then paced round the kitchen. He hated doing nothing. At least if he was penetrating a criminal gang he could hang out with villains. He felt like a dog that had been locked in the house while his master was at work and could see why it might chew the furniture.
He’d taken a risk in searching Elaine’s house, and he’d only gone throug
h the rooms on the ground floor before he’d called it quits. But he knew, too, that the only way to find out whether or not she had a gun was to be proactive. He opened the front door. There wasn’t a car or a pedestrian in sight. Everyone was either at work or in front of the television. Shepherd closed the door behind him and went to Elaine’s front door. He pressed the bell and heard it buzz in the hallway. He pressed it again, for longer this time, but there was no response. Her car wasn’t in the driveway but the garage door was down. Perhaps it was inside.
He stood back. All the curtains were drawn at the upstairs windows. He took the keys out of his pocket and inserted the first in the lock. As he turned it he heard a car driving up the road. He pulled out the key, palmed it, pressed the doorbell and took a pace back. He heard the car slow and pressed the bell again.
A horn beeped twice and he looked over his shoulder. It was Elaine in her white VW Golf. He waved with his left hand as he slipped the key into his back pocket. His heart was pounding. If she’d been a minute later she’d have caught him red-handed and the whole operation would have been blown.
She pulled up in the driveway and climbed out of the Golf. ‘Hi, Jamie, what’s up?’ she called.
‘You’ll never guess what happened,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your phone and your purse.’
‘You have not,’ she said.
‘A couple of cops came round this morning. They stopped a car and the guys in it did a runner, but they left behind half a dozen stolen mobile phones, your purse and my wallet.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.
‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ said Shepherd. ‘Put the kettle on and I’ll bring your stuff round.’
Tariq looked down at the girl. She had been bound and gagged with strips of insulation tape. ‘She’s awake,’ he said. ‘She’s pretending to be unconscious.’
Salih walked over and stood next to him. He kicked the girl’s side and her eyes opened. She stared up at the two men in horror. ‘Good,’ said Salih. ‘We can begin.’
Mazur was sitting on the sofa, drinking a can of orange Fanta. ‘Why don’t we wear masks?’ he asked.
‘Because the people in Pakistan who want this done want it done by Muslims,’ said Salih. ‘Don’t worry, once I’ve shown them the picture I’ll delete it.’
‘It’s okay, Mazur,’ said Tariq. ‘If it wasn’t okay, Hakeem wouldn’t have asked us to do this.’
Mazur drained his can and dropped it into a black plastic bag. He stood up. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
The girl was lying on a large sheet of clear plastic. There would be blood. A lot of blood. Salih had rented the serviced apartment for a month. It was close to Paddington station and its two main attractions were that it had a varnished hardwood floor and that it could be accessed from a lift in the underground car park.
Salih picked up his mobile phone. ‘You know what you have to do,’ he said. ‘Untie her, but keep the gag in place because there are other people in the building. Strip off her clothes.’ He handed Tariq a carving knife. ‘Then you slit her throat.’
The girl bucked and writhed on the floor but she was helpless. The Valium injection Salih had given her when they had abducted her had worn off. It was important that she was conscious when she died, that she was fighting for her life. In an ideal world he’d have taken the gag off but he couldn’t risk her screams being heard.
Salih stood back and raised his phone. He pressed the button to start its video camera, the signal that Tariq and Mazur should begin.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. He was sitting on the black leather sofa in Elaine’s front room. She’d put an Oasis CD on her stereo before making them both coffee and putting out a plate of Jaffa Cakes. She sat down next to him. ‘Everything’s there,’ she said, closing her purse. ‘Even the money. There’s not a quid missing.’ A big-screen Panasonic plasma television hung on the wall in front of them, with Bang and Olufsen tower speakers at either side. A bookcase had been built into the wall and on it was a framed photograph of Elaine and Robbie Carter on their wedding day. He had worn his RUC uniform, and she was in a white dress. There was only one other photograph on show, of Elaine and Robbie on a sofa with a small boy lying across their laps, grinning. It was in a silver frame on the mantelpiece.
‘He was a good-looking man,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the wedding photograph.
Elaine smiled fondly. ‘There must have been fifty cops there, it would have been a great day to carry out a robbery in the city.’
‘He died, you said.’
‘He was shot by the IRA,’ she said quietly. She reached for her packet of Marlboro and lit one, then passed the pack to Shepherd.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Shepherd, hating his fake sincerity. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’ he asked, then added hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask.’ He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘It’s all right, Jamie. It was a long time ago. There were five of them and they burst into the house one night and shot him.’
‘Elaine, no! That’s terrible.’
‘It’s what it was like back then. It was a war.’
‘And you saw it happen?’
‘It was in the kitchen.’
‘Did they catch them?’
‘They caught four of them. They were sent to prison but they were all released under the Belfast Agreement.’
‘You mean the Good Friday Agreement?’
Elaine sighed. ‘Depends which side of the divide you’re on,’ she said. ‘The Catholics call it the Good Friday Agreement.’
‘Because of the religious overtones, I suppose.’
‘Or because they want to make it seem like their own agreement,’ she said bitterly. ‘Anyway, whatever you call it, the politicians decided to set free the paramilitaries. All four walked free. The fifth had run away to America.’
‘I’m sorry, Elaine.’
‘It happened. I got over it.’
‘I don’t see how you could ever get over something like that,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s the old cliche. Time heals all wounds.’
Shepherd sipped his coffee. He knew he had to ask about her son. It was an obvious question for Jamie Pierce to ask, but he hated intruding into her personal grief. ‘Where’s your son now?’
Elaine forced a smile. ‘He died too. A few years ago. Leukaemia.’
‘Elaine . . .’
‘Please don’t say you’re sorry, Jamie. I’ve had all the sympathy I need over the years.’
‘What a nightmare for you. What a bloody nightmare.’
‘I’ve had more than my share of bad luck.’ Elaine held up her cigarette. ‘That’s why I’ve got no fear of these things. The one thing I’ve learnt is that people die whether or not they smoke.’
‘Why didn’t you move?’ he asked. ‘How could you stay here after that?’
‘It was our home,’ she said quietly. She looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, I’ve got calls to make before everyone goes home for the day, so I’m going to have to kick you out.’
Shepherd finished his coffee and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Next time the coffee’s on me,’ he said.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
Shepherd went back to his house, feeling guiltier than he’d ever felt in his life. He liked Elaine Carter, he liked her a lot, and despised himself for lying to her.
Frank Khan hated shopping. And he especially hated shopping with his wife. On the rare occasions that he ventured into a shopping mall or a department store, he did so knowing exactly what he wanted and how much he was prepared to pay. But his wife had a totally different approach. Shopping was a hobby, perhaps even a sport, a recreational activity to be relished and, if possible, shared. It was his day off and he had no good reason to refuse when she asked him to go with her to the local shopping mall. He had been working late for the last couple of weeks so he had decided that a shopping trip would get him int
o her good books, but within an hour he was bored and wanted to go home.
‘What do you think?’ said his wife, holding up a green dress that shimmered under the overhead fluorescent lights.
‘How much is it?’ She inspected the price tag and winced. ‘I think I’d better wait outside,’ said Khan. ‘I need a cigarette.’ He walked out of the shop and lit one, inhaled deeply and blew a smoke-ring.
‘Women love to shop, don’t they?’ said a voice. An Asian man in his thirties was standing next to him. He was good-looking, with skin the colour of polished teak and amused dark brown eyes. He was wearing a long black cashmere coat over a suit and tie and his hands were in his pockets. ‘They’d shop all day if they could.’
Khan smiled. ‘If it was an Olympic sport, we men wouldn’t stand a chance. Is your wife inside?’
‘I’m not married, Chief Superintendent,’ said the man.
Khan frowned. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘We almost met at your niece’s funeral,’ said the man. ‘The Saffron Hill Cemetery.’
‘Ah,’ said Khan. ‘You were a friend of Sara’s?’
‘Not exactly,’ said the man. ‘I know you, of course. Chief Superintendent Frank Khan, one of the highest-ranking Muslim police officers in the country. A role model for all British-born Muslims. You must be very proud.’ Khan took another drag on his cigarette and squinted at the man through narrowed eyes. ‘Except, of course, Frank isn’t your given name, is it?’ continued the man. ‘That would be Farook. But I suppose you changed it to make life easier, didn’t you?’
‘They called me Frank at school.’
‘Because Farook was too alien? Too different? And you wanted to blend?’
Khan moved a little away from him. ‘Really, I have to go,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’
‘You were close to Sara, weren’t you?’ said the man. ‘I could see at the funeral how upset you were. It was such a terrible death.’
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