Catalyst (48 page)

“I know what you mean,” said Jad, “but I don't believe it's like that. I think the factors were stacked up to work in our favour.” He began to count on his fingers. “Cullen Field is packed with decent people; there was a very strong gang leadership, and, within the estate, it seems just the one gang; the killing hit the press at a time when people were gagging for a solution, and the news was slow elsewhere; our esteemed Opposition party” – he nodded towards Tom – “were quick enough and ready to exploit it; Meadow Village – one of the affected areas – had an exceptional man in a position to develop and spread the message.

“There's probably other stuff as well, but I believe all those things being lined up in place contributed to this – well – phenomenon wouldn't be too strong a word, would it? Like you just push one domino over and end up with a spectacular display. So I reckon it was just lucky – right thing, right place, right time. If it had happened on another estate, in another area, half a dozen others could have been ready to step up to the plate, or another gang taken over. Remember the summer riots back in 2011. The police took out the ringleaders then, and there were scores of young pretenders stepping into their places. Inexperienced, wild, out of control. Made the situation even worse. Here there was just a vacuum, and the good folk on the estate seemed to fill it, took over their own streets. For a time, anyway.”

“Well, whatever,” said Tom, with a sigh. “You've quite probably got us elected, and… ”

“Hey, not me,” said Jad. “The wee guy who you probably passed in the corridor. He's the man. He's actually
planning
the election right now, wielding a block vote of forty percent of the electorate. Easy, peasy for you. You won't need to bother with a manifesto or campaigning or any of that time-consuming stuff. Saint George will get you there by himself. I hope you're going to give him a job in government when you take over.”

Tom smiled. They were silent again for a while.

“Come to think of it, Jad, you've always been a mystery.” Tom mimicked Jad's finger-counting. “Good-looking, articulate, sensitive, empathetic, charm by the ton-load. Mags and I were talking about this the other week; it's amazing you've never had a meaningful, lasting relationship. God knows you've had plenty of opportunities and potential takers. Or have we missed something? I suppose that might just have been John Deverall; perhaps James Lorimar's been putting himself about big-time.”

Jad laughed.

“No, he hasn't. Not allowed. The fact is, Tom,” he said, frowning pensively at the ceiling, “I guess I've just never found anyone good enough. I set astronomical standards, you know.”

“That's not an answer,” said Tom, still smiling, but sadly now, “but I guess it's none of our business. Although I think it's a shame – almost a tragedy as far as Mags and I are concerned – that the person we love the most outside the family – the person we owe more to than any other human being – should prefer a life of isolation to one of close friendship. And I mean close in the geographical sense, Jad; I know we couldn't have been closer spiritually. You said it's been five years since you heard someone call you ‘Jad' – I guess that must have been me or Mags. Well, you've only been dead for three years – that's a full two years you just didn't get in touch. Why was that?”

“Yes, I could have handled that better, I suppose,” said Jad, considering his answer carefully before replying. “The fact was that I'd become a target myself. On a couple of occasions, while I was on leave, I got the distinct impression that I was being watched. Turned out I was right – watched by MI5 who'd had a tip-off there was some sort of contract out on me. Apparently, they – the bad guys – figured I would be easier to isolate and eliminate away from the front line than on it. And our guys had intelligence that I was going to be hit back in the UK. I just couldn't put anyone else at risk – especially your family – who were virtually
my
family in all but name.”

“But why didn't you say?”

“Because you'd have tried to persuade me just to carry on as normal. And I wouldn't have taken much persuading. But I knew it was too big a risk. Easier just to stay away and say nothing.”

The door opened and the prison officer leant into the room.

“Two minutes,” he said, stepping back and this time leaving the door open. Tom called after him.

“Could you make that ten – or twenty?”

There was a brief pause.

“Fifteen minutes; no more.” The reply came and the door was closed again.

“Good, because I have to ask you this,” said Tom. “You were always real cagey about that incident in the Hindu Kush. Did you really have Abu el Taqha lined up for oblivion and the Yanks stopped you firing? The story gets bigger and better and less plausible the more it's told. Last time I heard it, the US guy threw himself in front of el Taq to take the bullet.”

Jad laughed.

“The Shadow,” said Jad. “It wasn't quite like that.”

“Why the Shadow, anyway?” asked Tom.

“The Turks called him ‘Golgesi' after the bombings in Istanbul in 2003, which means ‘the Shadow'. There's an ancient Turkish belief that if a man is evil enough, his shadow alone can bring death and disaster. It doesn't stand up to close examination as a piece of folklore, because for the shadow to be there the guy casting it has got to be as well. But anyway, as you know, for quite a while el Taqha was Bin Laden's right hand; ‘the hand that rocks the world'; reputed to be the one co-ordinating their world-wide terror campaign and also the main conduit to the affiliated al Qaeda-inspired attacks. And as such, he was almost certainly linked – directly or indirectly – to the carnage in New York, Bali, Madrid and London. Quote – the man who turns al Qaeda dreams into global nightmares – unquote.”

“Actually, I didn't know all that,” said Tom. “So what happened?”

“It was later in the same year as Shah-e-Kot; I was with Ptarmigan trying to flush out the Taliban. To be honest there wasn't much action at all. They were spread too thin; small groups difficult to track. Then one day we were out on patrol with a US group; overall commander was a Major Marty Kade. Good guy; newly promoted. We decided to split up into two groups – SBS and SEALS – to cover more ground more quickly, not expecting to see anything. We went east; they continued north.”

“You were still SBS then?”

“Yes, last mission before transferring across. Anyway, after about thirty minutes we got intelligence that Abu el Taqha was close by, less than a mile from our current position, but quite a bit further away for the Yanks. So we headed straight there and got there well ahead of Kade. El Taqha was down in this basin with around fifty guys; we got to this ridge above him less than five hundred yards away.” Jad was becoming agitated with the recollection. “He was standing on the back seat of this jeep, the others in a semicircle in front of him. I had a clear shot; he wasn't moving; easy peasy!”

He paused. Tom waited.

“And… ” he said eventually. “What happened?”

“VTI, that's what fucking happened.”

“VTI?”

“Our patrol leader contacted Kade and told him the situation. Asked him for permission to take him out. I could hear his side of the conversation. Anyway, long story short, Kade said to wait for them to arrive –
only
twenty fucking minutes away, they said. Our guy asked why; Kade said VTI – verification of target identity! For Christ's sake! Too late by the time they arrived. He'd moved; no target. I nearly shot Kade instead!”

“I thought you said this Kade was a good guy… ”

“Not his fault. Never stopped apologising; he was just as pissed off as we were – and we were
really
pissed off. Just following orders, he said.”

“And the reason for the orders? As if I didn't know – or couldn't guess. Same as Tora-Bora.”

“Something similar. At Tora Bora it was – allegedly – insufficient air cover. This time, if you want my opinion, it was because they wanted one of the Yanks to get him. Show the folks back home that
they
were getting their own back for 9/11. Not leaving it to the Brits or the Aussies.

“In both cases, though,” Jad went on, “it was somebody behind a desk in Washington who took the decision – a political rather than military one. And who knows how many lives could have been saved in Bali and Madrid and London. Possibly none at all, but maybe also hundreds. Whatever the truth, I can't tell you how much I regret not disobeying orders and taking him out.”

His recounting of the story had taken its toll on Jad and his mood had dipped dramatically.

“I think that's why I didn't hesitate to get the Bradys,” he went on. “Different scale, same principle. Remove the few and save the many.”

The door opened. “Two minutes.”

“You'll come again?” asked Jad, anxiously, as Tom started getting to his feet.

“Of course. I'm going to keep a close watch on you from now on. Probably bring Mags next time.”

Jad shook his head.

“I'm not sure I really want her to see me in here, Tom. But I'll leave it to you – and Maggie – to decide. Give her my love, won't you? What is she doing with herself these days? I see her picture all over the place. Business journals, conservation stuff, human rights… She must be one of the most photographed women in the country. I could never understand why she didn't become a model.”

“Well, she had her chance,” said Tom. “In her late teens she was offered the opportunity; really big bucks, as well. Anyway, she was in her ‘down with the sexual exploitation of women' phase at the time and turned it down. She wasn't always the shy, reticent weakling she is today, you know.”

Jad laughed. “I can't imagine she's very supportive of your new justice plans – I am right in saying they're yours, aren't I? Not really Jackie Hewlett's.”

“Right on both counts,” said Tom. “They
are
my plans and Mags is
not
very supportive. In fact, that is the biggest understatement I've heard this century.”

Both men laughed.

“Well, perhaps the second biggest,” he added, becoming serious and showing the emotion in his eyes. “Number one has got to be what Mags said the night we found you again. She said ‘John Deverall is a very special man.'”

The guard stepped in again and then back, not speaking or looking at them but leaving open the door as a clear signal for Tom to leave. Both men stood up, Jad swallowing hard to control his tears.

“Look,” said Tom, “if there's anything you want me to do – apart from springing you, of course – then just ask. I owe you more than I could ever repay.”

They did not shake hands this time; just repeated the long embrace. There were tears in both men's eyes as they parted.

CHAPTER 17

Twenty-five days after his near-death experience outside the Dog and Duck, Ben Neville was taken by ambulance from the hospital back to his farm. The damage to his neck and throat had healed, but the experience had left him frail and weak. Although there were no medically assignable causes, he was now unsteady and slow compared to his previous robust self.

With him in the ambulance were one of the nurses who had attended him during the previous ten days in the recovery ward, and an occupational therapist who would be carrying out a survey of his property to assess to what extent he would need ongoing assistance, and whether any modifications to kitchen, bathroom, stairs or bedroom would be required.

Following the ambulance was a police car with two uniformed officers, which parked in front of the house, its occupants still inside, as the survey was carried out. Some time afterwards, a pink Toyota Yaris pulled up and disgorged a very large dark-haired woman in a navy-blue pin-striped trouser suit carrying a calf-skin brief case. She walked over to the police car and identified herself.

“Shaney Levenbrooke,” she said. “Mr Neville's lawyer. I assume he's home.” She nodded at the ambulance.

“Hospital staff are just checking out the place,” said the driver. “Shouldn't be long now. They've been in there for nearly an hour.”

“And what exactly are you here for?” asked the lawyer. It was more of a challenge than a question. “Are we to expect a twenty-four hour watch on him from now on?”

“We're not sure, ma'am,” said the other officer. “We'll do as we're told, as always. We sort of assumed it was for your client's protection.”

He looked away with obvious distaste. Ms Levenbrooke bristled, and then turned back to her car.

“I guess I'll wait until they've finished,” she said, half to herself, and squeezed back into the driver's seat.

When the medical staff had departed, the lawyer spent a couple of hours with Ben, leaving around 3.30 pm. She told him she would return at 10.00 am the next morning to accompany him to Marlburgh Central Magistrates Court, where he would be formally charged. As she walked from the house to her car she looked across at the police vehicle and nodded goodbye. The driver waved a friendly hand while his passenger looked pointedly the other way.

At 4.30 pm Ben's GP arrived, leaving at 5.15, just as his afternoon carer pulled in through the gate to make his evening meal. The police watched the comings and goings with cynical amusement.

“Christ, you're never alone with a murder charge, are you?” said the driver.

“Too right! If you want to be waited on hand and foot, seems you've got to either win the lottery or blow somebody's head off.”