Bombproof (19 page)

They’re shouting at each other.

Sami tells them to be quiet.

Persephone joins the argument. ‘I don’t want any favours.’

‘I bet that’s what you say when the Government gives you hand-outs,’ says the driver.

‘You’re an arsehole.’

‘And you’re in a wheelchair.’

Sami snaps and drives his fist into the driver’s stomach. He follows up, hooking him just below the right eye with the butt of the semi-automatic, knocking him across a table.

‘I told you to shut up,’ he yells, waving the gun like he’s conducting an orchestra. Sami balls up a serviette and shoves it in the driver’s mouth, sealing it with a length of masking tape ripped from a spool.

‘You don’t know me,’ he says, pressing his face close, squeezing the words out through his teeth. ‘I’m not a Moslem and I’m not a terrorist. I’m as British as you are but arseholes like you make me wonder if I should be proud of that.’

The driver’s eyes are brimming. Sami has seen guys like him before - fearless on his own turf but a coward in a confrontation.

Rolling him to one side then the other, he pulls back his arms and tapes his wrists together, behind his back. Then he pulls him up onto a chair and loops tape over the curved wooden backrest.

Nobody in the restaurant has spoken. Sami puts the gun away. Wipes his hands.

‘Who wants a drink? I’m thirsty.’

31

Bones McGee is considering his position and calculating the odds. Maybe he could cut a deal with vice and roll on Tony Murphy. He could cop a plea to something minor, blame his lack of judgement on work stress, which allowed him to be compromised by a gangster.

He could wear a wire. Set Murphy up. Seek redemption. His police career would be over, of course, but he’d stay out of prison. A man with his background should avoid jail at all costs: a detective, a veteran of the serious crime squad. Dozens of his former collars would be waiting for him inside and they wouldn’t be baking cakes and bringing cell-warming presents.

Tony Murphy would turn on Bones like a ballerina in a jewellery box, but that still doesn’t mean Bones should do the same. Murphy has a family tree like a parasitic vine. Lop off one branch and a dozen more come looking to strangle you.

And what about Ray Garza? A person couldn’t travel far enough or dig a hole deep enough to hide from Garza. The guy has contacts in the security services, the Home Office and the Met. He plays golf with the Assistant Commissioner for fuck’s sake.

None of the options are panning out for Bones. Everything depends on some kid who’s holed up on a restaurant in Chinatown. An amateur. A fish. He’s probably going to sing like Fat Pav the moment they prise him out of that restaurant. Not the dead Fat Pav but the one who turned ‘Nessun Dorma’ into an anthem and made a white hankie into a fashion accessory.

Best for all concerned if the kid doesn’t make it out alive. Best if he blows himself up. Best if someone puts a bullet in his head.

Leaving his office, Bones steps outside and lets a cold breeze slap him in the face. The sun is a dying orange smudge above the rooftops and traffic is moving again.

He catches a cab to Kings Cross, keeping his head turned to the window so the driver doesn’t see his face. Twenty minutes later he catches a second cab back to Piccadilly Circus and takes the stairs to the Underground.

The station is closed, but shops on the concourse have reopened and people are milling around signs announcing the line closures.

Bones has changed his clothes. He’s swapped his wool and cashmere jacket for a vomit-stained overcoat and a woollen hat that belonged to a tramp at Kings Cross. It wasn’t a straight swap. The tramp wanted a tenner to close the deal.

A dozen payphones are lined up along one wall. A phone is free. Bones punches in the number for the counter-terrorism hotline. Muffles his voice. Tries to put on a Middle Eastern accent but sounds more like the char wallah in
It Ain’t Half Hot Mum
.

‘Today is just the beginning,’ he says, ‘a small illustration of what we can do. Next time the Al Qaeda Martyrs Brigade will kill thousands. We will stain the streets of London with the blood of infidels, the Jews and the Jew lovers, the true terrorists. Praise Allah or prepare to die. We will not negotiate. We will not surrender.’

Bones hangs up. Wipes his fingerprints from the phone. Pulls the woollen hat low over his eyes and exits the station. He ducks into a narrow lane and puts the overcoat and hat in a plastic shopping bag. Later, he’ll toss them into a clothing bin in Bayswater. Within a fortnight they’ll be on sale in Romania or Albania. Recycling is a wonderful thing.

32

Lucy’s mobile rattles on the table. Sami picks it up and listens. A hostage negotiator has found the number. He has one of those matey, avuncular voices that makes him sound like he wants to take Sami under his wing and teach him the ways of the world.

‘My name is Bob, what’s yours?’

‘Is that important?’ asks Sami.

‘It makes it easier to communicate.’

‘We’re doing pretty well so far.’

‘Just give me a name.’

‘David Beckham.’

‘A proper name.’

‘I’m sure David Beckham thinks it’s a proper name.’

‘I don’t think you’re in a position to be glib,’ says the negotiator, who seems to lose his place on the page for a moment. ‘Can you tell me how many hostages you’re holding?’

Hostages? Sami hadn’t really thought of them as being hostages.

‘They have families,’ says Bob. ‘I’d like to be able to reassure them that everything is okay.’

Sami can see he has a point. ‘There are six of us counting me,’ he says.

‘Are any of them injured?’

‘They’re fine.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Holding people hostage?’

Sami doesn’t know the answer. It just sort of happened. It’s not what the negotiator expects.

‘Would you consider giving yourself up?’

‘Would you consider letting me go?’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Well, it looks like a stand-off,’ says Sami.

‘Listen, I don’t know your name, but my job is to make sure that nobody gets hurt and that includes you. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. There are people out here who aren’t very patient.’

‘Tell them patience is a virtue.’

‘The people you are holding have families and jobs and friends. They’ve done nothing wrong. I promise you, you have my word, if you let them go, if you walk out of there, hands in the air, unarmed, I’ll guarantee your safety. Nobody has to get hurt.’

‘And I’ll live happily ever after.’

‘I’m giving you a chance. We can do this the easy way or—’

‘The hard way,’ says Sami, finishing the sentence for him.

‘I’m just saying you’ll make things easier for yourself in the long run.’

Bob is beginning to irritate Sami. He’s treating him like an amateur or some wet-behind-the-ears wannabe. Sami isn’t a terrorist at all but if he were going to be one, he’d be bloody good at it.

‘Maybe we could send in some food,’ suggests Bob. ‘Are you hungry?’

Sami glances at the stack of takeaway menus on the counter, wondering what sort of IQ a person needs to get a job as a hostage negotiator.

‘I’m in a restaurant, Bob. I could send something out if you’re feeling peckish.’

‘I thought you might want something else … other than Chinese.’

‘Like what?’

‘Pizza. Indian.’

‘Chinese is fine.’

Next Bob suggests he send in a two-way radio so they can talk whenever they want.

‘Why can’t we keep talking on the phone?’

‘Two-ways are better. I could send someone in with one.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

Sami hears a low rumble from outside. Crouching behind an upturned table, he peers through the window and sees a bulldozer manoeuvre through the gates of Gerrard Street and swing to face the doors of the restaurant. The bucket is raised, shielding the driver.

Sami is still holding the mobile.

‘What’s happening out there, Bob?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you pissing on my Wheaties, Bob?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Sami kicks a chair aside and pulls a ski mask over his face. Then he forces the van driver to his feet and opens the front door, using him as a shield. Two steps. He’s on the pavement, pressing the semi-automatic to the back of the driver’s head.

‘You see me, Bob?’ he shouts. ‘You get that bulldozer out of here or I shoot someone, you understand? Pull a stunt like that again and I’ll turn this place into a crater.’

Sami walks backwards through the door, pulling the driver with him. Within a minute the bulldozer has started moving, spinning on wide metal treads and withdrawing.

The van driver’s knees buckle. He might have pissed his pants. Sami helps him to a chair.

Bob is still on the phone. ‘That wasn’t necessary.’ He sounds like a schoolmaster.

‘Shut up, Bob.’ Sami hangs up.

A dripping tap in the kitchen sounds like a clock ticking. Nobody in the restaurant has said anything. Lucy’s parents are holding hands. They could be praying. They might be planning their escape.

Persephone is drawing at a table as if trying to ignore what’s happening. She has a portfolio in a zip-up folder. Sami glances over her shoulder and sees an image of a half-woman and half-bird, with a hooded beak and a naked body.

‘Can I look at some more?’ he asks.

She nods.

Sami leafs through the portfolio. Mostly the images are of dark angels and Goddesses, who are semi-naked with powerful bodies and demonic eyes. There’s nothing pornographic about their nudity.

Persephone tells him her idea for a fantasy comic: a girl in a wheelchair who turns into a crime fighter, a half mythical creature who can’t be killed. The idea embarrasses her a little, but she doesn’t seem so angry any more. If anything, Sami senses she might be coming on to him. Maybe she’s one of those women who get turned on by outlaws and rebels. Kate Tierney is a bit like that, but Sami would forgive Kate anything.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Persephone tells him.

There is no disabled bathroom and her wheelchair won’t fit in the cubicle.

‘I can do it myself. I just need someone to take me to the door.’

‘What then?’

‘I crawl.’

‘I can’t let you crawl. I’ll lift you.’

‘I don’t want you there.’

‘I won’t stay.’

Sami expects her to say no, but Persephone accepts. He tucks the shooter into the back of his jeans and slips one arm behind her back and another beneath her knees. She doesn’t weigh much.

She rests her head against his chest. It’s a different girl, he thinks.

The toilets are beside the kitchen. There are two cubicles and a small washroom in between with a basin and mirror.

Sami nudges the washroom door with his hip. Slides sideways, carrying Persephone with her feet first. Making sure he doesn’t bump her head.

‘You’re good at this,’ she says. ‘I have so many bruises.’

He doesn’t feel her hand on his back. She snatches the gun from his waistband and holds it under his chin with both hands. Her eyes are wide.

He pauses. ‘Do you still want to go?’

‘No. Take me back.’

‘I could drop you here.’

‘I could shoot you in the head.’

‘You won’t shoot me.’

‘Try me.’

Sami squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Go on, then. Do it. Shoot me.’

Her finger closes on the trigger.

‘Let everyone go and I’ll let you stay here.’

‘I can’t do that.’

Consternation clouds her eyes. ‘Do you want to die?’

‘No.’

‘I will shoot.’

‘No you won’t.’

Sami takes his arm from under her knees, letting her legs drape but holding her against him with his face close to hers. The gun is still pressed beneath his chin. He reaches up and closes his fingers around hers, pointing the barrel away from his face and then takes the gun from her hand. He can feel her heart fluttering against his chest, her warm breath against his neck.

She grows soft in his arms. Deflating. He carries her back to her chair.

‘For future reference,’ he says. ‘This switch here is the safety. The gun won’t fire unless you take it off.’

33

Ruiz is in a pub on Fleet Street, one of those dark boltholes panelled in wood, with leather benches that are scuffed and nicked with age. Clocks don’t matter in a place like this. It’s a location for serious drinking and romantic meetings and for people who want to know what it feels like to be living back in a cave.

He spent the afternoon ringing hospitals and drug rehab centres, hoping he might find Nadia Macbeth. Fruitless. Thankless. Now a bomb has gone off on the Underground and put things back into perspective.

The barman has a bullet-shaped head, polished until it catches light like the bottles suspended above the bar. He glances up at a TV, which is tuned to the siege in Soho. A message is being broadcast. People are being told to ‘Go in, Stay in and Tune in’. Nobody in the bar is listening to the warning except the barman.

‘Makes you want to kill a raghead, don’t it,’ he says.

‘Not really,’ answers Ruiz, who takes his Guinness and finds a table as far away as possible.

He was supposed to take Darcy for a curry tonight but it’s going to take him hours to get home. Most Sundays they go to Brick Lane and she orders a proper thali and a mango lassi.

It’s the only time Darcy seems to eat a proper meal, thinks Ruiz, who likes watching her spoon the dhal, pickles and curry sauces onto her rice and fashion it into balls with her fingers before scooping them into her mouth.

A woman shrieks with laughter on the far side of the bar. Ruiz raises his eyes reluctantly and wonders what anyone could find to laugh about on such a day.

What’s he doing here? He’s not getting paid. He’s not on a promise. Miranda isn’t suddenly going to invite him into her bed as a thank you if he finds Nadia Macbeth. Although he wouldn’t admit it to Miranda, a part of him is quite pleased to be working on a case again. Retirement has never sat particularly well with him, despite his dislike for modern policing and most of the people who populate the Metropolitan Police.