Sleeper Cell (11 page)

There was a photograph of the woman on the wall beside him. With the gun still in his hand he tore it off its hook and peered at it. On the woman’s left was a girl, fourteen maybe, thin, with her hair all straightened and highlighted like a Beyoncé mini-me. On her right was a bigger kid, or possibly – they say black don’t crack, after all – her husband. Big face, big dumb grin, but keen eyes. He smashed the frame and stuffed the picture into his jacket pocket.

Someone screamed just behind him. A girl in baggy pyjamas, long straight hair, headphones around her neck, stood in the doorway blinking hard in the light. For a moment she just stared at him then turned and ran for the front door. In an instant Jordan was on her. He wrapped her hair around his free fist and dragged her towards the living room.

‘Where’s the computer?’ he said. She tried to shake her head and pointed at the passageway leading to the bedrooms.

As he passed, Jordan kicked open the bathroom door, then the door to the first bedroom. Both were empty and dark. His third kick revealed the room he was looking for. Three computer monitors stood on a desk, their screens alive with rolling text. A single low energy bulb burned in a lamp, angled down on the keyboard. He shoved the girl against the desk.

‘This all of it?’

‘What?’

‘This what you’ve been working on?’

‘It’s not…’ she said. Her voice was tight with terror. He pushed her to the wall and smashed one of the monitors with the butt of the gun.

‘Talk to me and you might live,’ he said. ‘I’m only interested in files that were put on here in the last twenty four hours.’

‘I don’t know what he’s got. He was working on the print out.’

‘He?’

‘My brother. This is his…’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. He went…’

He raised the gun and shot her down through the right shoulder. The bullet was a custom low-velocity hollow-point, designed to be slow and extremely disruptive. The girl doubled over, clutching at her chest. Blood began to seep from her mouth. The wound would be fatal in ten minutes or so, but he could work on her until it was.

‘He went where? Next door? The city?
Fucking Africa?’

She coughed a glob of blood onto the carpet. Lightning illuminated the room and the girl flinched when a sharp crack of thunder rattled the windows.

‘When’s he coming back?’ Jordan said. ‘Talk to me.’

The girl was getting unsteady on her feet. He lifted her head with the barrel of the pistol and looked into her eyes. There wasn’t much left in them.

‘Shit. You’re not going to die on me, are you?’ He’d nicked something important with that bullet. Something that was going to take her out in a lot less than ten minutes anyway.

The girl coughed and more blood poured down her chin. A volley of firecrackers exploded close to the building and he could hear people shouting.

The girl retched and coughed again. Jordan stepped backwards, narrowly avoiding being sprayed. She gasped for breath and looked up at him with pleading, wide eyes.

‘I can make this stop if you tell me where he is,’ he said.

Her eyes grew even wider and her chest hitched as she tried to draw more air into her lungs. Her left hand waved in the direction of the window.

‘I know he’s fucking out.
Where?’

Her hand dropped and she took a half-step towards him.

‘Fuck you then.’

He threw her backwards and put a bullet in her chest and another in her head before she even hit the bed. In the low light the red pool that blossomed around her Beyoncé hair-do looked black as oil.

Rain began to patter against the flat’s windows. He needed to move. He might not be in the middle of a proper riot, but he was in the middle of some wide awake nutters who could seriously slow him down, and they were going to be swarming all over the building in a few minutes. No one parties in the rain.

He crouched and turned the computer side on. It was housed in an old mac case: easy to open. He dropped the side and located the hard disk. With no need for subtlety, he smashed it out of its housing with the grip of the Kimber.

He heard footsteps running along the concrete walkway outside.

‘Shit,’ he hissed. He stood up and scanned the desk. A knock at the door. He took the external hard disk and yanked it away from its cable. He stuffed the pistol into his belt and a disk into each back pocket and grabbed the pile of papers from beside the computer.

He reached the end of the short corridor as fists pounded on the front door, much more insistently this time.

‘Hey, you OK in there?’ a voice called. ‘Miz Shaw, you in there?’

The door was shoved. Jordan heard whispered voices against the background hiss of rain.

There was no other way out of the flat, so he backtracked to the first bedroom on the left. He slipped into the darkness, leaving the door open. If whoever was outside decided to come in, they would make a less thorough search of a room with its door left open than one that looked as if someone was trying to hide in it.

There was another knock at the door, then it burst open. As the door bounced off the inside wall, Jordan slipped under the bed in the far corner of the room.

‘Hey, anyone home?’

The question was met only by another crack of thunder.

‘There’s no one here,’ the voice said.

‘That was muzzle-flash, sure of it,’ a second man said.

Two sets of footsteps crept along the hall to the living room.There was a pause. Jordan could hear nothing over the sound of the rain, but they couldn’t have avoided finding his first kill by now.

A shadow passed along the corridor. He slipped the gun out and aimed it at the open bedroom door but the figure did no more than glance into the room. He had no intention of shooting these guys. He’d kicked the wasps’ nest now. The more he killed the more of the bastards would turn up, and he had no way of outgunning or outrunning them.

He heard the door at the end of the corridor creak open.

‘Hey, Bones, get in here.’

The second man jogged past. Jordan heard whispered voices from the computer room.

He had about ten seconds to get clear of the building before one of them came back out and started examining the flat properly.

With the stack of papers clutched to his chest, he ran from the bedroom and along the short passage to the open front door. Behind him he heard one of the men speaking to the emergency services. There seemed to be some debate about whether police or ambulance was the more important.
Bit fucking late for either
, he thought as he swung around the door and out onto the concrete walkway. He ran down the steps and along the road back to his car. Within fifty yards he was soaked to the skin.

He slammed the car door and beat the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. There was no point in waiting for the kid to come back. He knew what the boy looked like, but there was very little chance he’d be able to get close enough to finish him off tonight. If he was caught, the police would find the hard disks and the entire mission would go south. Prison would be the best he could hope for: anyone prepared to pay through the nose to get those disks wouldn’t hesitate to erase the idiot who cocked the job up. He’d have to leave it. Hope. Without the disk or the printed evidence the missing kid was of little importance anyway. He might have read the file, but he wouldn’t be able to remember it. Anything he could say would be purely circumstantial.

Sirens in the distance. He took the gun from his belt and wiped it over with his shirt. He pushed it deep under the passenger seat and started the car.

He’d drop off the disks, papers and photo then head out to Heathrow with the pre-packed case he took on every job. The gun would stay in the car and the car would be picked up from airport parking in the morning. Nothing could trace back to him. By 9.45 he’d be sipping margaritas on a flight to Miami.

James French could come back to the Farm tomorrow and try to find the missing kid. Just to be sure.

The attack on Faran Jaafar had been witnessed by over two dozen people. Only one of them called the police. Amid the jeers of S52 thugs and guarded by a police escort, the paramedics loaded the unconscious and bleeding man onto a gurney and drove him to the nearby Royal London Hospital. There his expensive clothes were cut away, his few possessions bagged and tagged, and he was taken for emergency cranial surgery.

They established his identity very quickly. Although he carried no wallet or identity papers, a call to the first person listed in his phone’s directory gave them a name, and that quickly led to an address. The information, however, was not considered of immediate importance, so it was filed while the evening’s main event was still number one priority.

Only when the storm broke at eleven thirty and the riots began to quieten down was the incident formally logged.

It took until 3am before a connection was made between the injured man’s address in Vallance Road and the shootings at the same building.

Leila Reid arrived at the Royal London at 3.30. Jaafar was sedated but his injuries had not proved to be life-threatening. A shattered orbital socket and severe concussion were the worst of his problems, and he was expected to make a full recovery, even if he would never quite regain his perfectly symmetrical looks.

Two armed officers stood at the door to Faran’s private room. Leila flashed her ID at them and let herself in.

A nurse was adjusting the drip that fed sedatives into the young Kuwaiti’s arm. One of his eyes was heavily bandaged.

‘Can he talk?’ Leila said.

‘Who are you?’

‘Counter-terrorism. I need to speak to Mr Jaafar. Now.’

‘Whatever he’s done, while he’s in our care he’s a patient. He’s been through a lot tonight.’

‘He’s not a suspect. Please, I need to speak to him, alone.’

‘You’ve got five minutes.’

The nurse pressed the call button into Jaafar’s hand then left. Leila approached the bed.

‘Mr Jaafar,’ she said. The man grunted quietly but did not open his one exposed eye.

‘Look at me, Mr Jaafar. I need you to answer some questions.’

His eye opened a little and he turned his head fractionally in her direction.

‘Good,’ Leila said. ‘I need to ask you about your neighbours. The women who live in the flat below you.’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘They were…’ His eye drifted closed again.

‘Mr Jaafar. Look at me. Look at me.’ He did, slowly. ‘I know you’re in pain, but you’re not going to die, so stay with me, OK? The women who lived below you…’

‘They are nothing to do with this,’ he mumbled.

‘We’re investigating your attack, Mr Jaafar. The police have examined your mobile phone and found the film of the run-up to it. We’ll catch the people who did this to you. I’m here about another matter. What do you know of the women who lived downstairs?’

‘Are they all right? I stopped by on my way…’ He fell silent.

‘Three of them are dead,’ Leila said.

‘What?’ His one good eye opened properly. Now she had his full attention.

‘They were shot tonight,’ she said.

‘You think I had something to do with it?’

‘We know you didn’t shoot them. Did you have anything else to do with it?’

He shook his head minutely and winced in pain. His hand twitched on the nurse’s call button. Leila took it from his weak grip and laid in on the bed just out of his reach.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said.

Jaafar tried to sit up, winced again, and lay back.

‘Kalela is a mature student at SOAS,’ he said. ‘We got the tube in together sometimes. That’s how I know them. Kalela told me about the flat. Her sister did casual kitchen work.’

‘Where?’

‘She’s been at Maroush for the last couple of months.’

‘And the other woman? The one who wasn’t on the lease.’

‘That could have been Ghada or Sireen. God… they’re all dead?’

‘Yes. Who was the other woman?’

Jaafar’s eye slowly closed again. Leila was tempted to slap him awake but he spoke before she was fully decided.

‘What did she look like?’ he said.

‘I can’t tell you.’ Leila had spent only a few minutes looking at the bodies, and as each had been shot in the face she had very little idea what they looked like. She thought for a moment then said: ‘She was the one who wasn’t wearing a ring in the shape of a key.’

‘You mean Ghada.’

‘Ghada was in the flat, or she wore the ring?’

‘If she wasn’t wearing a ring, it wasn’t Ghada. She always wore it. I don’t know why. She would fiddle with it constantly.’

‘Did any of your other friends have a ring like that?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’ He looked at her again. ‘I thought this was about the women who were killed?’

‘We’re trying to get information on all of them. Tell me about your friends, your relationship with them.’

‘They cooked for me, did my laundry sometimes, shopping, that sort of thing.’

‘And what did you do for them?’

‘I looked out for them, made sure they were OK.’

‘Come on, Mr Jaafar. They didn’t wash your clothes and feed you just so you’d glance their way now and then. What did you do for them?’

‘Yeah, OK, I sometimes gave them money if they needed it.’

‘Money for what?’

‘Food, rent, the usual.’

‘They never asked you for large amounts?’

‘No, a few pounds here and there. Why would they need a lot of money? Were they mixed up in something?’

‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’

‘I don’t know. What is this about?’

‘Did you ever discuss politics?’

‘Politics? Like what?’

‘Like the situation in the Middle East.’

‘Oh, right. They were Palestinians so you think they were terrorists. Is that why they would want money?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You’re wrong. They were just trying to make a new life for themselves. Live in peace. They lived modestly, but none of us were exactly devout.’

‘And what about Ghada?’

‘I hardly met her. She was a friend of Sireen’s. She was cold, very quiet. But she was no terrorist. If all you’ve got on her is racial stereotyping, I’m not sure she was even Muslim; certainly not one that gave any indication of adherence.’