Bombproof (23 page)

That’s when Sami looked back and saw the van driver lying on the pavement. A black stain leaked from beneath his head and his right arm seemed to be reaching out, pointing to a real target, the one the rozzers should have shot.

Dragging his eyes away, Sami tries to think straight. They’re going to blame him for this as well. Another death. Add it to the list.

Forcing himself to move, he heads across the rooftops, keeping to the shadows and trying to avoid creating silhouettes against the sky. He walks on the brickwork and steps around the skylights so he doesn’t drop in on some spotty Herbert and his missus.

A chopper suddenly sweeps overhead. Sami dives onto his stomach behind a trio of chimney pots. A searchlight turns the rooftop into a brightly lit stage. The chopper seems to hover for a moment and then swings away.

Sami keeps moving. Not looking back. He crosses another half dozen roofs and comes to the next corner, where he shimmies down a drainpipe, hand over hand, jumping the final six feet. The semi-automatic is tucked into the waistband of his jeans, nestled against his back. He heads towards Charing Cross Road and into Long Acre, looking for a park. Parks have trees and shrubs. Parks have hiding places. Parks are good news.

That’s when he remembers Kate Tierney. Blonde. Sexy. Darling Kate. Why sleep in a park when he could stay at the Savoy?

43

Bones disassembles his rifle and packs it away, wrapping each component into squares of cloth. He vacuums the carpet with a mini-vac, wipes surfaces clean and washes gun residue from his hands. Satisfied, he takes the lift downstairs and finds the security guard at a console with a dozen TV screens showing footage from cameras inside and outside the hotel.

‘I heard shooting,’ says the guard.

‘We got him.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I’m going to need your security footage.’

‘Which cameras?’

‘All of them.’

Bones takes the DVDs from the machines and slides them into the holdall.

‘Will I get those back?’ asks the guard.

‘In due course.’

He swings the bag over his shoulder and waits for the front door to unlock. Outside, he turns right and follows Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly Circus. The police cordon is stopping people getting in, not out of the area.

As he passes the Trocadero, he doesn’t notice a short, thick-necked man with a shaved head, who is standing in a doorway, watching the police cars pass. Sinbad has both hands cupped around the phone, which looks like a child’s toy against his ear.

‘Mission accomplished,’ he whispers, ‘the kid’s no longer a problem.’

Tony Murphy sounds relieved. ‘How did you do it?’

‘Not me. I couldn’t get within a mile of the joint. Must have been the rozzers.’

‘Chalk one up for Old Bill.’

‘One of ’em must of learned to shoot straight.’

Bones takes a bus from Piccadilly as far as Hyde Park Corner and then walks north to Marble Arch. Then he hails a cab along the Edgware Road as far as Maida Vale and drops the barrel of the rifle into the Grand Union Canal. Other pieces will be disposed of separately, bagged, buried or melted down.

A shame, but you can’t be too careful in this day and age. Guns tell stories.

44

The fire door opens. Kate grabs Sami’s jacket and throws him against the wall, pressing her body against his like she’s trying to flatten her curves. Her tongue traces across his lips.

She pulls back, holds him at arm’s length. ‘They’re saying you’re dead … on the news … you were shot.’

‘Someone else.’

‘What about the bomb?’

‘I never had a bomb. It’s a misunderstanding.’

‘So you’re not a terrorist.’

‘No.’

‘And you’re not hurt?’

‘No.’

She slaps him hard across the face. ‘That’s for scaring the crap out of me.’

Sami holds his cheek. Kate tugs down her blouse which has ridden up and straightens her skirt. ‘You can’t stay here. I think you’re sweet, Sami, but I need this job and I could get into a lot of trouble if someone finds you.’

‘Put me in a broom cupboard, a storeroom. I won’t tell anyone.’

‘You don’t understand.’

Sami begs. ‘The police are looking for me. I have to find Nadia.’

‘How did this happen?’

‘It’s a long story. Nadia’s in trouble.’

Kate reaches out and touches Sami’s cheek. ‘She’s not the one in trouble.’

Sami kisses her fingers.

‘If you weren’t so adorable …’ Kate doesn’t finish the statement. Instead, she takes him upstairs in her service lift; checks the passageway; opens a suite, closes the curtains.

‘I’ll register you as a guest on the computer. Housekeeping won’t clean the room until midday. Don’t answer the door if anyone knocks. Don’t touch the phone. I’ll try to come back later, but it might be difficult. I’m working a double shift. Please be careful. I’m trusting you.’

Kate kisses him on the lips; wrinkles her nose at his smell. She gently closes the door behind her.

Sami doesn’t take a shower. He doesn’t have the energy. Instead he collapses on the bed and listens to his heart pounding. How many people died today? They’re going to blame him.

He has to sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep will stop him turning paranoid. Right now his head is his own worst enemy. This isn’t about thinking straight; it’s about thinking around corners.

45

A dozen firearms officers are assembled at Scotland Yard, still wearing dark overalls and bootblack on their faces. Rifles and ammunition are lined up on a table like they’re preparing to invade a small African country.

Commander Bob Piper paces back and forth, trying to stop himself from exploding in anger. He wants an explanation. He wants to know which one of these men disobeyed his direct orders and pulled the trigger.

The officers look at each other, waiting for someone else to own up. Nobody does.

Piper’s blood pressure is topping out. ‘What is this, primary school? I want the officer who discharged his firearm to step forward and explain his actions.’

Still nobody moves.

Piper picks up the nearest rifle, unclips the magazine and begins counting the shells. Slamming it down on the table, he picks up the next one.

‘You think I’m some shit-for-brains moron who earned this rank by sniffing arse-cracks? That man you shot today was a decent hard-working delivery driver from Essex who lived with his mother and father and had a dog called Bitzy. I told you to hold fire. Is there anyone in this room who did not hear my command?’

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.