Cold Kill (7 page)

‘Makes sense,’ said Shepherd.

‘We need to know where the notes were made, and where they were going.’

‘And I stay in character?’

‘Let’s see how it works,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ll put you in the police station with them and give you a chance for a chat. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get Immigration to sweat them.’

‘How good are the notes?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They’re not good,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re perfect, the real McCoy. Watermark, ink, paper, all genuine. The only way to tell they’re not real currency is by the numbers, which are sequential but haven’t been issued by the European Bank.’

‘Which means what?’

Hargrove shrugged. ‘The only people with access to that sort of printing equipment are governments. North Korea, maybe. They did the US superbills a few years back. But that’s hypothetical. Which is why I need you to talk to the girl’s parents.’

‘Okay. Where and when?’

Hargrove took a set of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘We’ll get them in here, just to start the ball rolling. Then we’ll run them down to Newcastle nick and process them. We’ll put you in a cell with the father and you can take it from there.’

Shepherd shook his left leg and the chain rattled. ‘This is a pain,’ he said.

‘It’s got to look like you’re one of the bad guys,’ said the superintendent.

‘Some way to treat a hero,’ Shepherd said ruefully. ‘I told the woodentop outside that I needed to use the loo and they offered to give me a bottle to piss in. They haven’t given me any food either.’

‘I’ll get it sorted,’ promised Hargrove.

‘I wouldn’t mind a phone, too, so that I can call Liam.’

‘Tomorrow. Soon as you’re in the van to the station.’ The superintendent stood up. ‘I’m serious about the commendation.’

‘I’m serious about the loo,’ said Shepherd.

It was late evening when a female uniformed police officer brought the little girl’s parents to Shepherd’s room. A male nurse had brought him a cheese sandwich and a lukewarm cup of tea. Shepherd hadn’t eaten anything since he’d left France and he’d wolfed it down.

The police officer opened the door and ushered the couple in. ‘Five minutes,’ she said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

The young uniformed officer who had been guarding Shepherd all afternoon was sitting on a metal chair in the corner of the room, reading a copy of the
Sun
.

‘Any chance of a bit of privacy?’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m not your bloody butler,’ said the policeman.

‘And I’m not going anywhere, chained to the bed, am I?’ He jerked his head at the door. ‘Besides, it’d give you a chance to chat her up, wouldn’t it?’

The officer sighed, stood up and dropped his paper on to the chair. He glared at Shepherd as he left the room.

‘Alone at last,’ said Shepherd.

The man and woman frowned, not understanding. Shepherd hadn’t paid them much attention on the boat. They’d been wrapped in warm clothes, their heads swathed in thick scarves, the man carrying two bulky suitcases, the woman fussing over their daughter. Without their heavy clothing and under the hospital’s fluorescent lights he could see that they were in their early thirties. The man was square-jawed with a two-day growth of stubble, and the woman’s face was pinched with deep worry lines etched into the forehead.

‘How is your daughter?’ Shepherd asked.

The woman stepped forward, took his left hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. She spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand. They were from Kosovo, Hargrove had said, which would make them economic migrants, rather than genuine refugees, Shepherd knew. The ethnic-cleansing horrors of the former Yugoslavia were a thing of the past, but few economic migrants travelled with a million euros.

‘My wife says we owe you everything,’ said her husband, in halting English.

‘Is she okay, your little girl?’

The man’s eyes glistened, as if he were close to tears. ‘Her name is Jessica. The doctors say she will be good soon,’ he said. ‘Because of you she is alive.’

The woman spoke to Shepherd again, tears running down her cheeks. She looked into his eyes as she spoke, and even though Shepherd couldn’t understand what she was saying he could feel gratitude pouring out of her.

‘My wife says we can never thank you enough,’ said her husband. ‘She is Edita. I am Rudi.’

He stuck out a hand and Shepherd shook it. ‘Tell her I’m a father,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just glad I was able to help.’

‘You could have died,’ said Rudi. ‘You do not know us but you risked your life to save our daughter.’ He translated for his wife. She nodded and kissed the back of Shepherd’s hand.

‘Where are you from?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Kosovo,’ said Rudi. ‘We want a new life in England. For us and for our daughter.’

The wife spoke to her husband and pointed at the chain attached to Shepherd’s leg.

‘Why are you chained?’ he asked.

‘The police did it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m under arrest.’

‘But you saved our daughter.’

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘They don’t care,’ he said. ‘All they care about is that I was helping to bring you to England. I’ll probably go to prison.’

Rudi spoke to his wife, then nodded sympathetically at him. ‘I am sorry for what is happening to you,’ he said.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Shepherd.

‘The captain, he was trying to make us jump into the sea.’

‘He’ll be going to prison too.’

‘He is an evil man.’

‘No question about that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have they said what will happen to you?’

‘The police say they want us to go to court, to tell what happened. I am not sure that is a good idea.’ Rudi glanced around nervously as if he feared being overheard. ‘The men we paid to go on the boat, they are dangerous. If we help the police . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘The police can help you,’ said Shepherd. ‘They might let you stay in England.’

‘That is what they said,’ said Rudi. ‘But I cannot risk my wife and daughter. We will say nothing and they will send us back to Kosovo. We will try again, maybe next year.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘We are very grateful,’ he said. ‘We will never forget you. What is your name?’

‘Tony,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tony Corke.’

‘We will never forget you, Tony Corke,’ he said. ‘And we will make sure that our daughter never forgets the name of the man who saved her life.’

‘I’m just glad she’s okay,’ said Shepherd.

The female officer returned and took them away. Her colleague closed the door and stood at the end of the bed. ‘You jumped into the sea to save a little girl?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd.

‘They said you nearly died.’

‘It was pretty close.’

‘Bloody brave.’

‘Spur of the moment.’

‘No life-jacket or anything?’

‘There wasn’t time,’ said Shepherd. ‘Like I said, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She went over the side and I went in after her.’

‘There’s not many would have done the same.’

‘The kid was going to die. I couldn’t stand by and watch.’ Shepherd lay back and closed his eyes. He heard the officer walk to the chair and the legs scrape as he sat down.

‘If you want anything, a coffee or whatever, let me know,’ said the policeman. ‘Or if there’s anyone you want me to call, I’ll pass on a message.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just fuck off and leave me be.’ He could have done with some coffee but it was important to stay in character. He couldn’t afford to give the impression that he was more than a criminal facing a jail term.

The Saudi toyed with his salad of seared tuna niΜoise and looked over Circular Quay towards the Sydney Opera House, which squatted by the water like a huge beetle unfolding its wings. It would have been a superb target, but the area around it was too open, the tourists too spread out, and casualties, even from a large bomb, would be limited. He was sitting in a much better target, logistically and politically. The Hyatt Hotel was at the base of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which spanned the entrance to Circular Quay and was one of the most recognisable structures in the world. A bomb in the hotel’s restaurant on a Sunday lunchtime would kill up to a hundred people, and images of the devastation would be shown round the world, the aftermath of the explosion and, behind it, the bridge. It would be as powerful an image as that of the airliners flying into the Twin Towers in New York.

Hotels were practically the perfect target, the Saudi knew, especially American-owned chains. Embassies were good for shock value, but generally more locals were killed than foreign nationals. Hotels were full of wealthy foreigners. The sort that newspaper editors liked to splash across their front pages. It was the way the world worked. Kill a hundred Pakistanis in Lahore and no one outside the country would care. Kill five hundred Nigerians in Lagos and the world’s newspapers wouldn’t devote more than a few paragraphs to the story. But kill a single American in Sydney and it would be on the front page of every newspaper in the United States, and a breaking story on every television channel.

The Saudi chewed a sliver of tuna, but barely tasted it. A young couple were sitting at a table by the window, drinking cappuccino and discussing whether or not to take one of the guided walking tours across the bridge. They had London accents, and the man was wearing a Chelsea football shirt. A German couple at the next table were drinking a bottle of white wine and encouraging their two young children to eat their pasta. One of the children, a chubby-faced toddler, smiled at the Saudi and waved a fork at him. The Saudi smiled back. He imagined a bomb going off in the middle of the restaurant. The flash of light, the explosion, the shrapnel ripping through bodies, the glass exploding across the walkway and into the blue-green waters of the harbour. Dismembered limbs, blood, entrails, the moans of the injured and dying, the screams of the living. The Saudi didn’t make a habit of visiting the targets he intended to destroy, but sometimes it was too good an opportunity to miss. There was little police presence at the harbour, and he’d seen hardly any CCTV cameras. Not that it mattered. There was nothing to connect him with what was about to happen. By the time the bombs exploded he would already be out of the country. His flight to the United Kingdom left at just before five o’clock in the afternoon but the cell who would carry out the operation wouldn’t arrive for another week. They had all been trained and the explosives and detonators were already in the country, hidden in a self-storage facility in Melbourne.

The Saudi sipped his white wine. He liked Australian wine, especially the whites: it was unpretentious, like the Australian people.

A blonde woman in a beige
hijab
walked by, a flowing blue coat over her shirt and jeans. A convert after marriage, the Saudi was sure. An Australian, maybe. She was talking into a mobile phone, and laughing. The Saudi hoped there wouldn’t be any Muslims in the vicinity when the bomb went off, but if there were, so be it. There were always casualties in a war, and the
jihad
was no exception. Hundreds of Muslims had died when the World Trade Center collapsed, but what had happened on that September morning had been a clarion call to the whole Muslim world.

The Saudi put down his fork, emptied his glass and paid his bill. His waitress was a cheerful girl with a bright smile, her dark brown hair held back from her face with a large blue plastic clip. The Saudi wished her a good day as he left the restaurant, and wondered whether she would be among the dead.

He strolled along the wooden boardwalk and watched the ferries ploughing through the water and behind them a flotilla of sailing boats, toys for the city’s rich. It was a hot day and he walked slowly, seeking out shade where he could. The heat meant that the martyrs couldn’t use vests packed with explosives so the bombs would be packed into rucksacks. There were plenty of backpackers around and no one was paying them any attention. He turned right in to George Street and walked up the sloping road through the weekend stalls of Rooks Market. Under tented canopies stallholders were selling things only tourists would want to buy: painted boomerangs, home-made fudge, soft toys, framed photographs of Sydney landmarks, bowls made from local wood.

It was another perfect target, thought the Saudi, with lots of wealthy tourists for the Western media to mourn. He paused by the Mercantile Hotel. The first bomb would go off there, detonated by a martyr sitting at one of the tables outside the Molly Malone bar. Nuts and bolts would be packed round the explosives to turn into deadly shrapnel that would rip through the stalls and the shoppers. Those who survived would run down the road towards the harbour. The second bomb would go off just a minute later, at the La Mela Café opposite the Old Sydney Holiday Inn, and catch them as they fled.

The Saudi looked at his watch. There was a concert at the Sydney Opera House later that night and he was looking forward to it. He always enjoyed Mozart. He had acquired his taste for classical music from his father, although the older man preferred Schubert and Brahms. The Saudi’s father had taken him to concerts and the opera since he was seven. He remembered two things in particular of his childhood: his father’s lectures on classical music, and his hatred of the West. The war to end all wars, his father had said, would be the battle between Islam and Christianity. And Islam would prevail. He had rubbed the back of his son’s neck and told him that, one day, he would have a part to play in it. The Saudi’s father had worked for the Saudi Royal Family, which had brought him his wealth and their British passports. He had insisted that a British education was the best in the world, even though it had meant that his son spent most of his childhood away from his family. The Saudi’s father had beamed with pride when he had left Eton with a clutch of A levels, and on the day he’d graduated from the London School of Economics he’d presented him with a gleaming red Ferrari.