Bombproof

by Michael Robotham

‘They’re going to kill you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I need you to come. They won’t shoot me if I have you.’

  Lucy searches Sami’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘My mother and father?’

  ‘They’ll be safe. I’m leaving them behind.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘My promises aren’t really legal tender any more.’

  Her voice hardens. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘OK.’

  Sami begins by taping Lucy’s hands behind her back and strapping bags of flour around her waist.

  ‘This doesn’t look much like a bomb,’ she says.

  ‘Do you know what a bomb looks like?’

  ‘I’ve seen them on TV.’

  ‘I’m going to put this hood over your head.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a pillowcase. It’s clean. It came from your bed.’

  ‘You’ve been in my bedroom?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I took.’

  ‘I’m scared. Don’t make me do this.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. It’s going to be over soon.’

  ‘Where are you going to take me?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have to go anywhere.’

  Sami tears tape from the spool.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m taping the barrel of the gun to your head.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So they know I’m serious.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll shoot me?’

  ‘If anyone shoots, it won’t be me.’

  ‘But if you do …’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Sami calls the negotiator.

  ‘My watch has stopped Bob. Time’s up.’

  ‘I’m working as fast as I can.’

  ‘You’re trying to delay me. I’m coming out in ten minutes. And listen to me, Bob. I don’t want to see a police car, or a van, or a helicopter, or a bike. And I don’t want any of your men-in-black taking me out JFK style with a bullet from the grassy fucking knoll. Any sign of Old Bill and she dies. I’ve got a bomb strapped to her waist that will cut her in two if you try to take me down.’

  ‘You don’t need her.’

  ‘Sure I do.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘I’m leaving the rest behind. And I know what you’re thinking, Bob. You think I won’t risk blowing myself up because I bottled it the first time. Well let me tell you something for nothing. I don’t give a shit any more. I’m not a terrorist. Never have been. To me an intifada sounds like an all-you-can eat Mexican meal. So this has nothing to do with religion or politics. I’m a musician, for fuck’s sake. I play guitar. My name is Sami Macbeth and I’ve had a shitty day.’

  ‘I hear you,’ says Bob. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Give it up. Surrender to me.’

  ‘I’ve still got a shot.’

  ‘You’ll never get away.’

  ‘Sure I will. I just opened a fortune cookie. It said I’m going to lead a long and fruitful life.’

  41

  Ruiz drops back beside the bomb squad truck where blast barricades fan out from the chassis, forming a protective shield around the vehicle. A robot with a mechanical arm is poised at the top of a metal ramp.

  Elsewhere Wardour Street is strangely empty. Mesh screens are pulled down over shop windows, which are criss-crossed with blast tape. It’s like a scene from Day of the Triffids or one of those end-of-the-world films where Will Smith or Clive Owen get to be heroes.

  The Red Emperor is less than a hundred yards south, partly obscured by the red, gold and black painted gates of Chinatown.

  A police radio hacks out static as if clearing its throat. Bob Piper is instructing all units to be in position.

  ‘Target Alpha is coming out. He’s taking a hostage.’

  The restaurant door opens a crack. A small figure with a pillowcase covering her head and shoulders comes first. Her hands are bound behind her back and her feet are hobbled like a geisha in training. She stumbles down the lone step.

  Macbeth is behind her, dressed in a blue boiler suit and a ski mask. He’s a foot taller and has to crouch to shield his body behind her. The barrel of a gun is pressed to the back of her head.

  Bob Piper is watching the same scene on a closed circuit TV with adrenalin singing in his veins. Macbeth has stepped onto the pavement. His hostage is probably the daughter, Lucy, the smallest and easiest to handle.

  Piper hears a voice in his earpiece.

  ‘Sierra one - I have visual contact. A head shot …’

  ‘Does the hostage have anything around her waist?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  Piper studies the screen. Macbeth’s right hand is holding the gun, but his left is behind Lucy. He could be holding her belt or a pressure trigger.

  ‘Sierra two - I have visual contact. I can take down target.’

  ‘Is Macbeth holding anything in his left hand?’

  ‘It’s behind the hostage, sir.’

  They’re nearing the van. Edging sideways. Macbeth is jumpy. Nervous. Every time he jerks his right arm, Lucy’s head moves. The barrel of the gun must be taped to her head. He’s making sure he doesn’t miss.

  Macbeth will likely want Lucy to drive. He’ll have to undo her hands and feet and take off her hood. He also has to open the van door, which will mean taking one hand off the gun or the detonator. That’s the moment.

  ‘Sierra units: look for the target’s left hand. If he takes it away from the hostage, neutralise him with all necessary force.’

  They have reached the van. Macbeth stops suddenly and seems to be shaking his head. He drops to his knees dragging Lucy with him because the gun is taped to her head. Kneeling on the pavement, he begins yanking his right arm, jerking Lucy’s head from side to side like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  It could be an epileptic fit or some sort of seizure. Maybe he’s trying to surrender.

  Piper is out of his chair. He leaps from the steps of the Winnebago, landing on heavy boots, and charges towards the restaurant.

  ‘Hold fire. Hold fire,’ he bellows, almost crushing a two-way radio in his fist.

  Macbeth is still on his knees. Lucy is trying to pull herself free.

  ‘It’s over, Sami,’ yells Piper. ‘Let her go and put your hands in the air.’

  Macbeth shakes his head and tries to regain his feet. He’s a stubborn bastard.

  Pffft! Pffft! Two rounds zoom over Piper’s head and there is a hollow throp like a watermelon being dropped from a window. Blood sprays across the side of the van and the top of Macbeth’s head seems smaller. Half the ski mask has disappeared. He topples sideways, taking Lucy with him. Her body lands across his chest and her legs kick helplessly at the air.

  Piper stops dead, holding his breath. Nothing happens. There is no explosion.

  ‘Move! Move! Move!’ he yells into the radio. SWAT teams sprint past him, bursting through the doors of the restaurant.

  Piper lurches forward towards Lucy. She’s hysterical, twisting and squirming on the ground, trying to get away. He tells her to stay calm, worried about the gun, which is still taped to her neck. The barrel is encased in masking tape, which is wrapped around Macbeth’s fist. Why would he tape his hand to the gun?

  Piper pulls the pillowcase from Lucy’s head. Her eyes are wide. She’s terrified. The tape is looped around her neck and across her mouth.

  ‘You’re safe. It’s over. Try not to move.’

  A pair of scissors is found. He reaches under the corner of the tape, carefully snipping it away. ‘Just lie still until the paramedics take a look at you.’

  Lucy isn’t listening. She fights to get up. Her clothes are covered in blood and brain and a dark stain has leaked along a crack in the pavement and soaked the knees of her jeans.

  ‘My parents,’ she blurts out.

  Piper looks up. The hostages are being shepherded out of the restaurant. Lucy’
s mother and father are clutching each other. Piper lifts Lucy easily and she runs to her parents, hugging them. They huddle together on the footpath with their heads bowed.

  A sense of relief floods through Piper. He told his men to hold fire. He told them not to take the shot, but things have worked out OK. Minimal damage, minimal disruption, minimal loss of life; he might even get a commendation.

  A voice interrupts this thought.

  ‘You shot the wrong guy.’

  Vincent Ruiz is looking down at the body.

  ‘We got the bastard holding the gun.’

  ‘He’s not holding a gun.’

  Piper follows his gaze. He wants to tell him it’s bullshit but a buzz-saw blade of uncertainly is already spinning in his chest. Reaching out he begins to unravel the blood-soaked tape, fighting the dead weight of Macbeth’s arms. He peels off the tape, loop by loop, until it lies curled at his feet like the shed skin of a snake.

  Even before he finishes, he knows the truth. It’s not a sawn off shotgun or a semi-automatic. It’s a sealant gun used for fixing leaks around windows and shower screens.

  Ignoring the brain matter, Piper peels the ski mask over the dead man’s chin and taped mouth.

  Why would he tape his own mouth shut?

  He uncovers the nostrils and the remaining eye, which is locked open in a vacuous star as though some terrible revelation had been whispered into the dead man’s ear just as a bullet tore through his brain.

  A voice shouts from the door of the restaurant. ‘Hey, boss, we got four hostages inside. Where’s the other one?’

  Piper rocks back on his heels, unable to focus, staring at the blood on his hands. Right now it feels as though someone has pulled a pin and dropped a grenade down his throat. The loud dull thud is his heart exploding.

  42

  Perched on the crest of the rooftop, holding onto a chimney-pot, Sami Macbeth watches the scene below with a weird sense that he’s having an out of body experience except it’s not his body lying on the pavement.

  The bastards shot me, he thinks. I was on my knees, trying to surrender and they blew my head off.

  To be more precise they blew the van driver’s head off, but they thought he was Sami so it’s almost the same as being shot except Sami isn’t the one who’s dead.

  And even if the van driver was a complete wanker, which he was, he didn’t deserve to take one in the canister and have his brains decorating the pavement.

  Up until this point, Sami’s plan had been perfect. To begin with he made the jump, which was never a certainty. He had climbed out Lucy’s window and scaled the drainpipe onto a narrow bitumen terrace three storeys above Horse and Dolphin Yard. Below him lay a yawning gap. He told himself it was only fourteen feet, but it looked further. It always does when you’re three storeys above the ground.

  Sami waited until he heard the yelling, when he knew everyone’s attention was focused on the front door of the restaurant. Then he took a deep breath, made a sign of the cross, and hurled his body across the gap, his arms wheeling like propellers.

  For an age he thought he was going to make it easily because he seemed to be going up, instead of down. And then he realised he might not make it at all. He was falling short.

  He reached out as he crashed into the wall, hooking his right arm around the bracket of a satellite dish. His hip and shoulder crashed into the bricks and air punched from his lungs. Somehow he managed to cling on through the pain until his head cleared and his chest filled. He scrambled up onto the tiled roof, avoiding the flimsy gutter.

  That’s when Sami looked back and saw the van driver lying on the pavement. A black stain leaked from beneath his head and his right arm seemed to be reaching out, pointing to a real target, the one the rozzers should have shot.

  Dragging his eyes away, Sami tries to think straight. They’re going to blame him for this as well. Another death. Add it to the list.

  Forcing himself to move, he heads across the rooftops, keeping to the shadows and trying to avoid creating silhouettes against the sky. He walks on the brickwork and steps around the skylights so he doesn’t drop in on some spotty Herbert and his missus.

  A chopper suddenly sweeps overhead. Sami dives onto his stomach behind a trio of chimney pots. A searchlight turns the rooftop into a brightly lit stage. The chopper seems to hover for a moment and then swings away.

  Sami keeps moving. Not looking back. He crosses another half dozen roofs and comes to the next corner, where he shimmies down a drainpipe, hand over hand, jumping the final six feet. The semi-automatic is tucked into the waistband of his jeans, nestled against his back. He heads towards Charing Cross Road and into Long Acre, looking for a park. Parks have trees and shrubs. Parks have hiding places. Parks are good news.

  That’s when he remembers Kate Tierney. Blonde. Sexy. Darling Kate. Why sleep in a park when he could stay at the Savoy?

  43

  Bones disassembles his rifle and packs it away, wrapping each component into squares of cloth. He vacuums the carpet with a mini-vac, wipes surfaces clean and washes gun residue from his hands. Satisfied, he takes the lift downstairs and finds the security guard at a console with a dozen TV screens showing footage from cameras inside and outside the hotel.

  ‘I heard shooting,’ says the guard.

  ‘We got him.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I’m going to need your security footage.’

  ‘Which cameras?’

  ‘All of them.’

  Bones takes the DVDs from the machines and slides them into the holdall.

  ‘Will I get those back?’ asks the guard.

  ‘In due course.’

  He swings the bag over his shoulder and waits for the front door to unlock. Outside, he turns right and follows Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly Circus. The police cordon is stopping people getting in, not out of the area.

  As he passes the Trocadero, he doesn’t notice a short, thick-necked man with a shaved head, who is standing in a doorway, watching the police cars pass. Sinbad has both hands cupped around the phone, which looks like a child’s toy against his ear.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ he whispers, ‘the kid’s no longer a problem.’

  Tony Murphy sounds relieved. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Not me. I couldn’t get within a mile of the joint. Must have been the rozzers.’

  ‘Chalk one up for Old Bill.’

  ‘One of ’em must of learned to shoot straight.’

  Bones takes a bus from Piccadilly as far as Hyde Park Corner and then walks north to Marble Arch. Then he hails a cab along the Edgware Road as far as Maida Vale and drops the barrel of the rifle into the Grand Union Canal. Other pieces will be disposed of separately, bagged, buried or melted down.

  A shame, but you can’t be too careful in this day and age. Guns tell stories.

  44

  The fire door opens. Kate grabs Sami’s jacket and throws him against the wall, pressing her body against his like she’s trying to flatten her curves. Her tongue traces across his lips.

  She pulls back, holds him at arm’s length. ‘They’re saying you’re dead … on the news … you were shot.’

  ‘Someone else.’

  ‘What about the bomb?’

  ‘I never had a bomb. It’s a misunderstanding.’

  ‘So you’re not a terrorist.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re not hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  She slaps him hard across the face. ‘That’s for scaring the crap out of me.’

  Sami holds his cheek. Kate tugs down her blouse which has ridden up and straightens her skirt. ‘You can’t stay here. I think you’re sweet, Sami, but I need this job and I could get into a lot of trouble if someone finds you.’

  ‘Put me in a broom cupboard, a storeroom. I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  Sami begs. ‘The police are looking for me. I have to find Nadia.’

 
‘How did this happen?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Nadia’s in trouble.’

  Kate reaches out and touches Sami’s cheek. ‘She’s not the one in trouble.’

  Sami kisses her fingers.

  ‘If you weren’t so adorable …’ Kate doesn’t finish the statement. Instead, she takes him upstairs in her service lift; checks the passageway; opens a suite, closes the curtains.

  ‘I’ll register you as a guest on the computer. Housekeeping won’t clean the room until midday. Don’t answer the door if anyone knocks. Don’t touch the phone. I’ll try to come back later, but it might be difficult. I’m working a double shift. Please be careful. I’m trusting you.’

  Kate kisses him on the lips; wrinkles her nose at his smell. She gently closes the door behind her.

  Sami doesn’t take a shower. He doesn’t have the energy. Instead he collapses on the bed and listens to his heart pounding. How many people died today? They’re going to blame him.

  He has to sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep will stop him turning paranoid. Right now his head is his own worst enemy. This isn’t about thinking straight; it’s about thinking around corners.

  45

  A dozen firearms officers are assembled at Scotland Yard, still wearing dark overalls and bootblack on their faces. Rifles and ammunition are lined up on a table like they’re preparing to invade a small African country.

  Commander Bob Piper paces back and forth, trying to stop himself from exploding in anger. He wants an explanation. He wants to know which one of these men disobeyed his direct orders and pulled the trigger.

  The officers look at each other, waiting for someone else to own up. Nobody does.

  Piper’s blood pressure is topping out. ‘What is this, primary school? I want the officer who discharged his firearm to step forward and explain his actions.’

  Still nobody moves.

  Piper picks up the nearest rifle, unclips the magazine and begins counting the shells. Slamming it down on the table, he picks up the next one.

  ‘You think I’m some shit-for-brains moron who earned this rank by sniffing arse-cracks? That man you shot today was a decent hard-working delivery driver from Essex who lived with his mother and father and had a dog called Bitzy. I told you to hold fire. Is there anyone in this room who did not hear my command?’