Bombproof

by Michael Robotham

  He looks from face to face.

  ‘Are you smiling at me, son?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You look like you’re smiling.’

  ‘I’m nervous, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you something to be nervous about. Do you know what happens when police shoot innocent people? There are inquiries, internal ones and public ones and political ones. Police officers get suspended, careers get ruined, bosses get blamed and newspaper columnists have a field day calling us Keystone Cops who can’t be trusted to carry firearms.’

  Piper is breathing hard through his nostrils. The last of the weapons has been checked. He turns to his second in charge.

  ‘Have any of these weapons been switched or tampered with?’

  ‘No, sir, they were collected at the scene.’

  For a fleeting moment he feels a sense of relief but just as quickly his eyes frame a question. If none of his firearms officers discharged their weapons, who shot the van driver?

  Piper looks at his watch. It has just gone 2.00 a.m. The Commissioner wants a report on his desk by seven. What is Piper going to tell him? A security operation that cost a million pounds and shut down the West End for eight hours has resulted in a missing terrorist (who may or may not have a bomb) and a murdered hostage shot by some person or persons unknown.

  Then there’s the other problem. Radio stations are reporting that the terror suspect was shot dead by police. Sooner or later they’re going to discover it was a hostage. If Piper denies police involvement in the shooting they’ll call it a cover up and put a blowtorch to his balls. The truth is equally uncomfortable. In the middle of a massive security operation involving a hundred of Scotland Yard’s finest, a sniper infiltrated a police cordon and shot a suspected terrorist who turned out to be a delivery driver who stopped off at the restaurant for lunch.

  Oh, yeah, they’ll just love that.

  It’s going to be a long day.

  46

  Sami opens the curtains and examines the morning. The sun is shining, joggers are jogging and the Thames is flowing, sluggish and brown. He watches a lone rower skim across the surface like a water beetle sliding beneath a bridge. How can a day look so normal?

  First he showers and shaves. Then he turns on the TV and watches a media conference at Scotland Yard. A senior policeman is answering questions. The voice is unmistakeable. It’s the negotiator.

  Bob doesn’t sound so confident any more. His eyes are bloodshot and the collar of his shirt is bent upwards at one side. Reaching for a glass of water, he doesn’t get a chance to drink. The questions are coming too quickly, shouted by reporters who are up, out of their seats, refusing to sit down.

  ‘I want to reiterate that police firearms officers did not discharge their weapons. A homicide investigation has been launched and we are confident …’

  ‘How did a gunman get through the cordon?’

  ‘We’re not sure at this—’

  ‘How did he get away?’

  ‘We’ll know more when—’

  ‘So the terrorist and the gunman both escaped? Could they be the same person?’

  Bob doesn’t understand the question.

  ‘Could Macbeth have shot the hostage?’

  ‘Nothing has been ruled out.’

  ‘How did he escape?’

  Bob rubs his mouth with the flat of his hand. The microphones pick up the sandpaper-like scratching of his unshaven chin. ‘We believe he may have had help of some sort.’

  ‘Are you saying he may have had an accomplice?’

  ‘We haven’t ruled it out. We are interested in knowing why Macbeth chose this particular restaurant. Was it planned? Had he arranged to meet someone?’

  ‘Could the victim have been his accomplice?’

  Bob blinks at the cameras.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment at this stage.’

  Oh, that’s clever, thinks Sami. Shoot the wrong guy and then deflect the blame. Drop an inference, a vague suggestion: we didn’t get the right geezer but we got a bad ’un anyway.

  Bob is trying to ward off more questions. ‘I want you to understand that we’re dealing with a very clever, well-trained terrorist operative, perhaps the most dangerous criminal I’ve come across in twenty years of service. He is utterly ruthless and hell-bent on causing maximum destruction and loss of life.’

  A reporter interrupts the speech.

  ‘One of the hostages, Lucy Ho Fook, says she doesn’t think he’s a terrorist and that he didn’t have a bomb.’

  Bob’s composure is shaken. He stares at the reporter, his mouth locked in a fixed grimace. An aide steps close and whispers in his ear. Bob’s mouth moves again.

  ‘Stockholm Syndrome - it’s a well-documented phenomenon. ’

  Sami stares at the TV screen, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Any moment now they’re going to blame him for global warming and Diana’s death in the tunnel.

  He turns off the TV and stares at the blank screen. Bob said the police didn’t shoot the van driver. Surely he must have been lying - covering his arse.

  Sami takes out the Beretta and lays it on the bed. It’s a monster, a hand cannon, oiled and gleaming. He flicks a switch, the magazine drops into his hands. Eighteen plump bullets fill the clip. Two are missing.

  Sami can understand how a person might appreciate the engineering of a weapon like this, but guns aren’t something you get sentimental about. Yet this one means something to Murphy. It’s the only thing he cared about when Sami called him - not Dessie or the explosion on the Tube, just the gun. He wanted it destroyed.

  Sami repacks the magazine and turns the shooter in his hands, looking for a serial number. There isn’t one. It’s been filed off. The semi-automatic must have a history. Maybe it was used in another crime - something Ray Garza or Tony Murphy don’t want known.

  Murphy wanted the gun destroyed, which means that Sami has leverage. He turns on Lucy’s mobile and makes a call.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Sami Macbeth.’

  There is a long pause. Sami wonders if this is what they mean by a pregnant pause: pregnant with possibilities, pregnant with import, fucked-up pregnant?

  Tony Murphy finally answers. ‘You’re supposed to be dead, son, said so on the news.’

  ‘Not me. I’m bullet-proof and bombproof.’

  ‘That you are.’

  ‘You sound disappointed to hear from me.’

  ‘Not at all, son, I’m pleased as punch. It’s not every day I get to talk to someone who’s dead. My ex-wife comes close. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get out of that restaurant? ’

  ‘I took a rooftop stroll.’

  ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Like you said, Mr Murphy, I have a talent. How’s Nadia?’

  ‘She’s a bit under the weather today.’

  ‘You better be looking after her.’

  ‘She’ll be right as rain when I tell her the good news.’

  ‘I have the package you wanted.’

  ‘A package?’

  ‘We had a deal.’

  ‘I don’t make deals with wanted terrorists.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll be off. I’ll offer the semi-automatic to the cops instead. Tell them the whole story.’

  ‘I’ll give Ray Garza the good news.’

  Sami’s heart flip flops in his chest. ‘What’s Garza got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything, you cocky little gobshite,’ says Murphy, spitting down the phone. ‘You think you know the whole story. You don’t know a fucking thing. You’re wasting your time trying to threaten me, son. Nobody died and made you king of the castle.’

  ‘I just want my sister. I’ll swap her for the gun.’

  ‘What makes you think I want it back?’

  ‘You don’t. You want it destroyed.’

  Murphy doesn’t answer. Sami’s hunch was right.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Murphy.’

  He hangs up. His hands are shakin
g.

  He hears an entry card being skimmed. The door opens. Sami slides the semi-automatic under the pillow and pretends to be asleep. Kate Tierney tiptoes around the bed and wakes him with a kiss.

  She notices the gun peeking out from under the pillow.

  ‘Can I hold it? Please. I’ve never held a gun.’

  ‘It isn’t a toy.’

  ‘I know.’

  Sami lets her.

  ‘Where is the safety catch?’

  ‘There.’

  She flicks the switch; points the gun at his head. ‘I could call the police right now and have you arrested. I’d sell my story to the News of the World for fifty grand: “My night with the Tube bomber”.’

  ‘I didn’t bomb the Tube.’

  ‘They’re not going to care. I’ll say you had your evil way with me at gunpoint, six times.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to believe that.’

  ‘Four times then.’

  Sami reaches out to retrieve the gun. Kate knocks his hand away.

  ‘You think I’m joking? I’m serious.’

  For a fleeting moment the mad light in her eyes almost convinces him. Then she laughs and points the barrel of the Beretta at the knot on his bathrobe.

  ‘I’ll drop mine if you drop yours. I’m horny.’

  47

  Monday morning. Ruiz walks along a metal landing with prison cells along one side and a two-storey drop on the other. Every thirty yards a warder unlocks a heavy metal gate. Ruiz steps through, continues walking. Hand mirrors extend from hatches as he passes; disembodied eyes, watching him.

  He climbs another set of metal stairs. Nets are strung between the railings to discourage heavy objects such as bodies being thrown from above.

  This is the isolation wing where the sex offenders, ponces, prison snitches and the incorrigibly violent are separated from the general prison population.

  The interview room has bare walls, three folding chairs and a scarred wooden table bolted to the floor. One of the chairs is already taken. Derek Raynor looks like an Irish navvy with a crop of ginger hair and a long beard reaching down his chest. His top lip is shaved. which makes the beard look like a ginger hammock slung between his ears.

  ‘I’d like to be alone with him,’ says Ruiz. ‘You can take off the cuffs.’

  The older guard shrugs and unshackles the prisoner.

  Raynor has made violence his vocation. Banged up at sixteen on a burglary conviction, he was sent to juvenile detention where he attacked a youth-worker, crushing his thorax and cracking open his skull. It was the first of three murders committed in prison. Now he’s never getting out.

  ‘Hello, Derek.’

  ‘My name is Abdul Mohammad.’

  ‘Is that right? How is Allah these days? He’s getting a higher profile.’

  ‘Are you mocking the Prophet, Mr Ruiz?’

  ‘Me? No. I’ve seen what happens to people who mock the Prophet. Writers. Cartoonists. Women. Allah isn’t famous for his sense of humour.’

  Ruiz pulls up a chair opposite, rests his elbows on the table. He fixes Raynor with an ambivalent stare.

  ‘Tell me something, Derek. Does Allah think a murdering scumbag like you turning religious is taking the piss?’

  Raynor doesn’t respond immediately. Behind the reinforced glass, Ruiz can see the screws at a table. One of them is doing a crossword, while the other is drinking coffee.

  ‘I wasn’t a violent man when I entered prison,’ says Raynor, his eyes flat and dry. ‘The system took a troubled teenage boy and turned him into a monster. Allah has forgiven me and he’s taught me to forgive.’

  ‘Who have you forgiven?’

  ‘All those who have wronged me.’

  ‘The youth worker you killed had a widow. I’ll be sure to tell her that you’ve forgiven her husband.’

  Raynor stares hard at Ruiz. Small dark flecks are floating in his irises like dead flies caught in amber.

  Ruiz changes the subject. ‘Ever had anything to do with a con called Sami Macbeth?’

  Raynor shakes his head.

  ‘You don’t remember him coming to any prayer meetings or asking about joining the Brotherhood?’

  ‘The truth grows in men’s souls. I can’t see inside all of them.’

  ‘Is that so? Tell me, Derek, how far would you go for the faith? Would you blow up a train?’

  Raynor smiles benignly. ‘I’d tear down the world so God could rebuild it again in six days.’

  ‘I thought that was the Bible.’

  ‘Read the Koran sometime.’

  Ruiz leans across the table, keeping his palms flat on the scarred wood. ‘I don’t have a problem with you finding God, Derek, and I don’t even have an issue with you playing the downtrodden religious martyr, I just want to know if Macbeth mixed with the brothers while he was inside.’

  ‘Not that I can remember. What’s he done?’

  ‘The police say he’s an Islamic terrorist.’

  Raynor smiles to himself. ‘Like I said, I can’t look into a man’s soul.’

  The assistant governor turns sideways on a swivel chair, blinking at Ruiz from behind rimless glasses that seem to make his eyes float an inch from his face.

  On the windowsill behind him there are dozens of small origami birds, flowers and animals, a white menagerie seemingly frozen in a blizzard.

  Ruiz takes a seat. The assistant governor is folding a piece of paper into some sort of antelope, hardly bothering to look at his fingers.

  ‘You released a parolee on Thursday. Sami Macbeth. Name mean anything?’

  ‘Not since yesterday when I turned on the box.’

  ‘They say he’s a terrorist.’

  ‘Human beings do bad things sometimes.’

  ‘You normally keep track on the Islamists?’

  ‘Where possible.’

  ‘Did Macbeth ever attend a meeting or ask for a copy of the Koran or a prayer mat?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Didn’t mingle with the Brotherhood?’

  ‘Kept pretty much to himself.’

  ‘He ever kick off about anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He get hassled by any of the prison sisters?’

  ‘Didn’t complain.’

  So we got a fresh fish, mid-twenties, good-looking and nobody touches him in nearly three years. All of which means he either had a benefactor or a reputation that kept him safe.

  ‘What did you hear about the Hampstead jewellery job?’

  ‘I heard Macbeth did it.’

  ‘He only got done for possession.’

  ‘Everyone knew he did it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He played up to it.’

  That’s not an argument, thinks Ruiz, as he pops a boiled sweet into his mouth. He offers one to the assistant governor, who shakes his head and pats his waistline.

  The lolly rattles against Ruiz’s teeth. ‘Did Macbeth have any regular visitors?’

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  The assistant governor swings in his chair; opens a filing cabinet; licks his thumb; pulls out a file. The cover sheet is a history. The second sheet is a log.

  ‘Nobody visited him more than twice.’

  ‘What about letters?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘We’re on dangerous ground here, Mr Ruiz. Normally I’d want to see a warrant.’

  ‘Or we could save time and I could look over your shoulder. ’

  The assistant governor blinks his magnified eyes and rolls back on his chair.

  ‘Have you seen the view from this side of the desk?’

  48

  The morning papers are tucked under Sami’s door. His face is on every front page.

  TUBE BOMBER SLAIN, declares the Sun while The Times gives him the benefit of the doubt and calls him a ‘Terror Suspect’.

  Being reported dead is an odd feeling. It’s like imagining your own funeral and trying to picture those who might turn up. Sami’s frien
ds and old workmates have been contacted by reporters. Nothing positive emerges from the quotes, most of which seem to suggest that Sami’s fall from grace was always on the cards.

  Kate zips up her skirt. ‘You can’t stay. They’re going to be cleaning the rooms.’

  Sami knows she’s right, but the streets will be crawling with police and they’re all looking for him.

  ‘You need a disguise,’ says Kate.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  She disappears for ten minutes and comes back with a set of scissors and a bottle of hair dye. Sami sits on a chair in the bathroom while Kate trims his hair, giving him a fringe. Then he leans over the sink and she applies the hair dye.

  Kate talks a lot when she’s nervous. It’s a constant, stream of thought monologue about her job and her family and how she wants to tell her friends about Sami, but she can’t because nobody can know and they probably wouldn’t believe her anyway.

  This whole fugitive business seems to excite her as though she imagines herself to be Bonnie to Sami’s Clyde or she’s Patricia Arquette and he’s Christian Slater in True Romance.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Sami looks in the mirror. ‘I look like the sixth Beatle.’

  ‘I think black hair suits you. Now you need some new clothes.’

  She takes him to a storeroom on the floor below. His hair is damp and leaving dark stains on the towel around his neck.

  She unlocks the door. There are clothes racks, boxes and suitcases. Kate pulls a charcoal grey pinstriped suit from a hanger. ‘These are clothes that guests have left behind,’ she explains, as she finds Sami a business shirt and holds up half a dozen ties until she’s satisfied.

  ‘You can’t carry that rucksack around.’

  She moves boxes and pulls an attaché case from the back of the storeroom, blowing dust off the handle.

  ‘The ensemble is complete.’

  ‘I look like a prat.’

  ‘You look kinda cute.’

  ‘If you’re into stockbrokers.’

  ‘Only if they’re naughty.’

  It’s almost midday. Sami dumps his old clothes in the rubbish-chute while Kate checks him out of the room. He ponders what to do with the semi-automatic, the drugs and the money. He doesn’t want to get caught with them.