Cold Kill (16 page)

There were two solemn newsreaders on screen, a pretty blonde girl and a man in his late forties, hair greying at the temples. Both had perfect teeth and a movie-star tan. The man was recapping earlier terrorist incidents – Madrid, Bali, New York.

‘But if they did do something, people would die, wouldn’t they?’

Katra stirred Liam’s eggs and cheese. The toaster pinged, and she pulled out the toast.

‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd, ‘but we can’t let that worry us. If we’re scared all the time the terrorists have won. That’s what they want, to scare us. So if we aren’t scared, they can’t win.’

‘But you’re going to help catch them, aren’t you?’

‘I’m going to try.’

‘And they’ll go to prison, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘And you’ll get a medal?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Maybe.’

There were more images on the screen. A Sydney hospital with ambulances unloading the injured. A voiceover saying that at least a hundred people had been killed but that the final death toll was likely to be much higher. Shepherd wondered what sort of men would set off a bomb to kill civilians. He could understand combat: man against man, weapon against weapon. Terrible things happened in wars, but it was always soldier against soldier. He’d killed in combat, but the men who had died might just as easily have killed him. He’d been shot, too, taken a sniper’s bullet in the shoulder in Afghanistan and only survived because of the skill of an SAS medic and the fact that a chopper had been nearby. Shepherd felt no hatred for the guy who’d shot him: Shepherd had been doing his job and so had the sniper. Shepherd had been trained in the use of explosives, but only in military situations. He knew how to place a shaped charge to destroy a bridge or bring down a building, and he knew how to handle grenades. But if he had ever been ordered to plant a bomb that served no purpose other than to kill civilians, he would have refused, no matter what the circumstances.

Katra put down a plate of scrambled eggs and cheese on toast in front of Liam and he attacked it enthusiastically. ‘Chew it properly,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s scrambled eggs,’ said Liam. ‘You can’t chew scrambled eggs.’

‘And don’t talk with your mouth full.’

‘What would you like, Dan?’ asked Katra.

‘Just toast, please,’ said Shepherd. The newsreaders were back on screen. The woman was talking via a video link to a so-called terrorism expert, a balding, bespectacled academic in a turtleneck sweater who was trying to explain the aims and objectives of the various Muslim extremist groups around the world. To Shepherd, it was obvious: they wanted to kill as many Westerners as possible. They wanted to provoke a backlash against Muslims so that they could point the finger at the West and say, ‘See? We told you they hated us.’ The West was in an impossible situation. If it did nothing, the deaths would continue. But in invading Iraq, in locking people up without trial, it was playing into the hands of the enemy. It was a no-win situation for which Shepherd had no solution. That was for the politicians to work out. Shepherd was a policeman: his job was to uphold law and order. It was for politicians to solve the insoluble, but most of those he saw on television didn’t have the intellectual skills necessary to programme a video recorder, never mind broker a peace with Islamic fundamentalists.

Shepherd scowled at the academic’s woolly language and even woollier thinking. He seemed to have no clearer understanding of the aims of al-Qaeda than Shepherd did. What
did
al-Qaeda want? The dismantling of Israel? Death to all infidels? A world of Muslims? All women covered from head to foot in black and walking ten steps behind their men? If that was their aim, there would be no negotiating with them. And if negotiations were pointless, what then?

Katra put a plate of buttered toast in front of him. ‘You look very serious,’ she said.

Shepherd smiled up at her. ‘Busy week,’ he said.

‘Can we watch cartoons?’ asked Liam.

Shepherd pushed the remote control across the table to him. ‘Watch whatever you want,’ he said.

Liam flicked through the channels and stopped at a cartoon. Roadrunner was doing what he did best, running through the desert. A gleeful Wile E. Coyote was unwrapping an Acme bomb, a black sphere with a long fuse and ‘
BOMB
’ written on the side. Shepherd drank some coffee and wondered when bombs had stopped being funny. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he said and picked up a piece of toast. ‘I’ll be upstairs. You two stay down here, okay? I don’t want to be disturbed.’

Liam nodded, his eyes on the television.

‘It’s a work call,’ Shepherd said to Katra. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’

Shepherd went upstairs to his bedroom and took the Tony Corke mobile out of his bedside cabinet. He checked the call register. They hadn’t rung back and there were no texts.

Shepherd pressed ‘redial’. The call was answered on the third ring. ‘Who are you?’ said an Asian voice. Shepherd was fairly sure it was the second man he’d spoken to the last time he’d called. ‘I can’t deal with someone I don’t know. You could be the police.’

‘If you really thought I was a cop, you wouldn’t be talking to me at all. Now, do you want these cans or not?’

‘They are my property.’

‘So, let me ask you a question,’ said Shepherd. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘You don’t need to know my name,’ said the man. ‘I want what belongs to me.’

‘So now it’s “I”, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Yesterday it was “we”. Today it’s “I”. Am I talking to you or am I talking to a group?’

‘You’re talking to me.’

‘So, I need a name. I need someone to ask for if I call again.’

‘I will be the only one answering this phone from now on,’ said the man, ‘but you can call me Ben.’

‘That’s a start,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can call me Bill. That makes us Bill and Ben.’

‘Bill,’ repeated Ben. ‘You are English?’

‘As English as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, about my money.’

‘We have it.’

‘There’s that “we” again,’ said Shepherd.

‘Please, do not play games with me,’ said Ben.

‘Where do I get my money?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We will meet you at Paddington station. You give us the cans, we give you the money. Providing the cans have not been opened.’

‘Don’t worry, they haven’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Paddington isn’t good for me.’ Shepherd doubted that Hargrove would want the tracking device to disappear underground.

‘Where, then?’

‘What part of London are you in? Are you close to Paddington?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I was trying to make it easy for you,’ said Shepherd.

‘What’s wrong with Paddington?’

‘I’m scared of trains,’ said Shepherd. ‘I choose the venue, okay? That’s the way it’s going to be. What about Hyde Park? Speaker’s Corner. Sunday. Three o’clock. It’ll be busy. Lots of people. Safety in numbers.’

‘Okay.’

‘We’ll be out in the open, which means we’ll have plenty of time to check each other out.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And come alone,’ said Shepherd. ‘One more thing. The price has gone up. To thirty thousand pounds.’

‘You are a thief!’

‘I haven’t stolen anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m the guy who’s returning your property and I deserve a decent finder’s fee.’

‘You are a thief.’

‘Call me all the names you want, Ben, but if you don’t come up with thirty grand I’ll open the cans and take my chances with what’s inside.’

‘Do that and we’ll track you down and kill you. I swear on my children.’

‘It’s not nice to bring your kids into a business transaction. Are you going to come up with thirty grand or do I get me a can-opener?’

‘We have a deal,’ hissed Ben. ‘But I warn you, my friend, if you increase the price again, you will die in agony.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Speaker’s Corner.’ He cut the connection and went downstairs.

Katra was standing in the kitchen waggling the landline receiver. ‘It’s Liam’s grandmother,’ she said, holding it out.

Shepherd smiled and took it from her. ‘Moira, how are you?’ he asked.

‘We’re fine, Daniel,’ said Moira. She was the only person in the world who ever called him by his full first name. He’d long ago given up trying to persuade her to call him Dan. ‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.

‘He’s great,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re just going out to play football.’

‘It’s been ages since we saw him. And you, of course. Tom and I were wondering when you’d be coming up here.’

‘I’m sorry, Moira. Liam’s got school and I’ve been up to my eyes in work.’

‘We haven’t seen you since Christmas.’

‘I know.’

‘Why not come today? Liam’s old room is ready. You can stay overnight and drive back on Sunday.’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Moira. I’m working tomorrow.’

‘Next weekend, then.’

‘Okay.’

‘Excellent!’ said Moira. ‘Tom will be delighted.’

‘Do you want to chat with Liam now?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He’s here.’

Shepherd gave the receiver to his son and went out into the garden to call Hargrove.

The Saudi liked the Savoy. It had been one of his favourite hotels since his father had taken him there as a child. The staff at the Oriental in Bangkok were more attentive, the rooms in the Hong Kong Peninsular were a touch more luxurious, the beds at the George V in Paris had the edge in comfort, but the Savoy was where he felt most at home. From the moment he walked up to the reception desk until the moment he checked out, all his needs and desires were taken care of. They knew the type of pillows he favoured, that he liked irises in his room, that he preferred white toast to wholemeal, took skimmed milk with his coffee, lemon with his tea, and wanted unscented soap in his bathroom.

He refilled the delicate china cup with Earl Grey and dropped in a slice of lemon. He could never understand why people put milk and sugar into Earl Grey. It destroyed the tea’s delicate flavour. He sipped and watched the devastation on the television set in the corner of his suite. Everything had gone exactly as he’d planned. The bomb in the Hyatt had gone off at one o’clock on the dot, destroying the restaurant at its busiest time. He remembered the young waitress with the bright smile and wondered if she was among the dead. The first bomb in the street market had detonated at the same time, ripping through the throngs of tourists as they shopped for trinkets to take home to their families and friends. Those who hadn’t been killed in the first market bomb had fled straight into the path of the second. CNN was saying that a hundred and twenty people had died, but the Saudi could tell from the pictures on the screen that the death toll would be much higher.

Sydney had been a good choice. It wasn’t the capital city, but it was one that everyone identified as quintessentially Australian. Bringing the
jihad
to Australia would make the world realise that no one was safe. If the
shahids
could strike in Sydney, they could strike anywhere. CNN didn’t refer to them as
shahids
, of course – or martyrs. They called them suicide-bombers, as if somehow it was their own deaths that had been the objective. It was always that way with American journalists. If the bombers were on the Americans’ side, they were freedom-fighters; if they were against them, they were terrorists. They didn’t bother to try to understand: they sought only to label.

The Saudi spread honey across his toast and took a bite. The use of
shahids
served two functions. It meant that there were no perpetrators to put on trial, and it brought home to the world that the fighters for the Muslim cause were prepared to die for their beliefs. It was easy for Western soldiers to go into battle with their weapons, armour and mobile hospitals: they were better-armed and equipped than their adversaries, and rarely went into battle without being sure that they would win. But at heart they were cowards, hiding behind walls as they fired their high-powered weapons, dropping bombs from planes high above the clouds and shooting artillery shells from afar, going in with tanks and armoured cars, only ever fighting from a position of strength. But the
shahids
fought alone: they went into battle knowing they would die, and died happily, knowing their death would serve the greater good. It was impossible to defeat such men and women. Nothing could be said or done to sway them from carrying out their mission. They were true heroes, but the Western media would never describe them as such.

The Saudi took another sip of tea. Already there were calls for the Australian government to pull their troops out of Iraq. The same thing had happened after the Madrid bombings: the Spanish had obeyed the calls and brought their soldiers home. The Saudi doubted that the Australians would pull out as easily. Not that he cared what happened in Iraq. This wasn’t about the occupation of Iraq, who controlled the oil or decided who should or shouldn’t hold elections. It was about the struggle between Islam and Christianity, between Allah and the infidels, and it was a struggle that could end with only one victor.

Liam kicked the ball hard and low, and Shepherd had to stretch to stop it going into the net. ‘Nice shot,’ he called, and threw the ball back. Liam caught it on his chest and let it drop to his feet. ‘You’re getting good at this,’ said Shepherd.

‘I scored two goals last week,’ said Liam. He kicked the ball and this time it went straight past Shepherd into the back of the net.

‘You play at school, yeah?’

‘Every Thursday.’

‘Is there a school team?’

‘Yeah, but Mr Williams says I’m too small to play for it. I have to wait until next year.’

Shepherd retrieved the ball and tossed it to Liam. Liam headed it back.