Target (21 page)

The interior of the lorry's cab still reeked of death, even though they'd removed the driver's body more than an hour earlier, and Eamon Donald was pleased when he'd finished drilling the holes through to the back that were needed for the bomb's wires, and could finally get out into the comparative fresh air for a much-needed smoke. He'd been trying to give up for the best part of a decade now, a process that had started when his old man, a lifelong smoker, contracted terminal lung cancer, but he'd never managed to last for more than a week, and for the time being at least he'd given up giving up.

He lit a Marlboro Light and approached Stone and O'Toole, both of whom were hard at work among the pieces of drainpiping Stone had been sawing up earlier. O'Toole was using a large measuring jug to fill up each tube with a ready-made explosive slurry mix of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil that he was getting from a barrel next to him, while Stone was on his hands and knees attaching handfuls of six-inch nails to the tube exteriors using thick rolls of industrial masking tape. Every ingredient they were using could be bought legally by people who knew what they were doing.

'How's it going, lads?' Donald called out, making sure he stood well back from them with the cigarette.

'Another hour, I reckon,' answered O'Toole. 'Then we're going to need a break.'

Stone grunted something that sounded like agreement.

'And when you're done you can have one, don't worry.'

Donald looked at his watch. It had just turned half past twelve and they were well ahead of schedule. He was also beginning to get hungry, and hoped that Hook had got in some supplies. Donald liked his food, and he'd always found it difficult to function on an empty stomach. Somehow, though, he knew Hook wouldn't have anything tasty on offer. He wasn't the kind to get pleasure from eating. He wasn't really the type to get pleasure from anything bar, it seemed, rape and murder.

As he thought these unkind thoughts about his current employer, the barn doors opened and Hook appeared in his
Friday the 13th
-style boiler suit and gloves, his anaemic face looking like something out of a 'plastic surgery gone wrong' documentary. Donald wondered how the guy ever managed to blend into a crowd, as he was reputed to be able to do. To him, Hook blended in like a go-go dancer in a nunnery.

As Donald took a long, much-needed pull on the cigarette, Hook came over and guided him towards the front of the lorry, well away from Stone and O'Toole, and out of earshot.

'How's it coming along?' he asked.

'We're doing fine. Your bomb'll be ready on time.'

Hook nodded. 'Good. That's what I want to hear.' But there was something tense about him. He wrinkled his nose, glancing at the cigarette, and Donald remembered that he didn't like smoking.

Tough titty. He took another drag, savouring the taste.

They stopped at the cab, and Hook fixed him with a probing stare. 'I hear that when mustard gas ignites it loses its effect. How are you intending to fix that?'

'Ah, I see you've done your homework.'

'I always do my homework, Eamon.'

'Well, it's very simple really,' he said, unable to mask the enthusiasm he always felt when talking about bombs. 'When those two over there have finished filling the tubes with explosive mix, I'm going to put a detonator in each one and run them through the gaps in the pallets holding the gas. By my calculation there should be two tubes for each pallet. Then we wire them up to a connector box, which is basically the bridge between the explosive-filled tubes and the main detonator in the cab. When we set off the main detonator, the connector box will send a signal through the wiring and our thirty-two mini bombs will explode simultaneously, sending the nails attached to the outside of the tubing flying everywhere, and with enough force to puncture all the cylinders.

'But' – and here Donald paused for effect, feeling especially pleased with himself – 'the beauty of the design is that, because the tubes are made from toughened plastic, the power of the blast will be contained within each tube itself – think of it like a blanket smothering the flames – so the cylinders will get peppered with holes and thrown all over the place, but the gas itself won't get ignited. We might lose a couple, because it's not entirely foolproof, and a few won't get punctured, but I'm reckoning that ninety-five per cent of the cargo will be released into the surrounding air undamaged. With a little bit of a breeze and no rain, everyone in a mile radius will be breathing in pure poison. It'll be the most lethal terrorist attack in UK history. The Brits won't know what fucking hit them.'

'And you've put in the modifications we talked about?' asked Hook quietly.

When he'd hired Donald, Hook had stipulated that the bomb had to explode no matter what, even if the lorry was intercepted by the security forces, otherwise none of them would get their money. Technically speaking, this wasn't a problem at all, as Donald had explained. All it required was a pressure pad placed under the driver's seat connected to the bomb's battery pack. Once the bomb was live – and it could be made live with the flick of a switch before the lorry had even begun its journey – then the moment the driver lifted his weight from the seat, the movement from the pressure pad would set off the bomb, so even if he was shot dead while driving and toppled over, it would still explode. It was a tactic used by terrorist groups with vehicle bombs across the Middle East to ensure that, even if their suicide bombers experienced a sudden loss of nerve, their deadly cargoes would still detonate.

There was only one problem. When Donald had agreed to do the job, he hadn't realized that the driver was going to be a volunteer from the old days.

'They'll be put in before the end,' he answered. 'It's only a five-minute job. But does it have to be O'Toole who drives? He's one of our people. Why not use Stone? He's nothing to us.'

Hook stared at him blankly. 'Stone's too stupid. We need someone reliable. It's going to be O'Toole.'

Donald dragged hard on his cigarette, looking over Hook's shoulder to where O'Toole and Stone were working away. O'Toole would never suspect that his old comrades would betray him, and the fact that the man who'd hired him couldn't give a shit pissed Donald off.

'You never really believed, did you, Michael?' he said rhetorically, using the other man's real Christian name. 'In any of what we were doing.'

'That's none of your business.'

'You know, what I can't understand is why you're doing this. I'm doing it because I hate the Brits. Because I owe them for four hundred years of oppression, and because they never baulked at killing innocents, so why the hell should I? But what do you get out of this? I mean, I know your client, whoever he is, is bound to be paying you a lot of money, but it strikes me that a man like you has already got plenty of cash, and this kind of job, leaving so many dead and every cop in the country hunting you down . . . No amount of money's worth that.' He took a last drag on his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. 'So, what's your motivation?'

Hook leaned forward and his whole face seemed to darken. 'Because I fucking can,' he hissed, eyes sparkling maliciously. 'Now, do me a big favour, Eamon Donald, and get back to work.'

The two men eyeballed each other for several seconds, but it was Donald who backed down and turned away, immediately regretting that he'd seen fit to rile the other man. Regretting, too, that he'd ever agreed to work with him in a freelance capacity. The pay was good – a hundred and fifty grand, fifty already in his hands, the other hundred following as soon as the job was finished. But for the first time he wondered if he was going to actually receive this last instalment. If Hook was prepared to leave O'Toole dead, why not Donald himself as well?

He decided he was going to have to watch his back.

I was sitting up in bed, thinking about Jenny Brakspear, when there was a knock on the door and who should step inside but my old friend Dom, holding a box of chocolates in one hand and a Waterstone's book bag in the other. He was dressed in an open-neck shirt and well-cut suit, and his face was lean and tanned. He'd lost weight and it looked like he'd been working out.

I grinned, pleased to see him, but a part of me was also jealous. This was Jenny's boyfriend, the man she'd been with for close to a year, and who'd been living it up in Dubai when she'd needed him most. Unlike me. I'd been there when it mattered.

'Hello mate,' he said with a supportive smile. 'How are you? Brought you a few bits and pieces.' He laid the chocolates and the book bag on the table beside the bed and shook my good hand. His grip was weak. Usually it was tight and confident, but I guess I didn't look like I could handle a firm handshake.

'Thanks, mate, it's appreciated.'

He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and awe. 'I can't believe what's happened to you. I really can't.'

'The evidence is here.' I gestured at the police guard still outside the room. 'It happened.'

'I heard Maxwell's dead.' I'd introduced Dom to Maxwell a while back because he'd always wanted to meet a real live gangster. Maxwell had told me he thought Dom was an arsehole.

I nodded. 'I saw him die.'

And then it all seemed to hit me in one go, a huge rolling wave of shock: how close I'd come to death, not once but twice; the crystal-clear image of Maxwell's corpse in that muddy grave... For several seconds I couldn't speak.

Dom looked worried and asked me if I was all right.

'Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a moment.' I ran my good hand through my hair, amazed that my body didn't ache more than it did, although I suspect that was the drugs, then took a slug of water. 'I don't know what's happened to me, Dom. It's like I've stepped into some kind of nightmare.'

'I can't believe anyone could get to Maxwell.'

I grunted, remembering the way he'd begged for his life. 'These people are way out of Maxwell's league. They're way out of anyone's league. And the worst thing is, they've still got Jenny.'

'I know,' he said.

'Why would anyone kidnap her? And kill so many people to cover it up? That's what I can't understand.'

'Have the police not given you any ideas why she might have been snatched?'

'Not that they've told me, but I'm out of the loop now. I've asked them to keep me posted, but I'm not holding my breath.'

'What are you going to do now?'

It was a good question. I couldn't go home as my flat was now a crime scene – not that I wanted to go back there anyway. To be honest, I never wanted to go back there again. 'I don't know,' I told him. 'I don't want to stay here any longer, and apparently they're removing my police guard because I'm no longer considered to be in danger, so...' I let the sentence trail off, hoping it would act as a hint.

It did. 'Why don't you come and stay with me for a few days?' he suggested, looking like he meant the offer. 'I took today off. I should be able to get the rest of the week too.'

'Are you sure?' I asked, hoping he was.

'You're my mate, Rob. Course I'm sure.'

I was touched. So much so I felt like shedding a tear, though thankfully I managed to stop myself. Instead I immediately climbed out of bed, desperate to get out of the place. Hospitals aren't much fun at the best of times, but when someone's tried to kill you in one, it acts as a pretty sizeable incentive to leave.

However, what with my somewhat unusual circumstances, coupled with the British penchant for bureaucracy, it didn't prove all that easy. First of all, I had to get permission from Thames Valley Police, who were in charge of guarding me, who had to phone Mike Bolt, who agreed in principle with me leaving but wanted a forwarding address in case he needed to reach me, before the assistant chief constable finally rubber-stamped my request. It was then the turn of the hospital itself to be convinced that I was in a fit state to be released from its care, and for some reason they were even more reluctant to see the back of me than Her Majesty's finest, insisting that I wait for the duty doctor to give me a thorough going-over, even though he was only a third of the way through his rounds. So it was well over an hour before I at last got into Dom's car for the journey back to London, laden down with enough painkillers to knock out a football team.

We didn't speak much. I was still a little shell-shocked by events, and all the drugs I'd had were making me dopey. But when we reached Dom's palatial pad in Wanstead and he cracked open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and told me to relax while he cooked a late lunch, I began to perk up. Dom had never been the best cook in the world – takeaways were our main dietary staple when I was living there – but this time he actually put together a half-decent king prawn stir fry, although given the lack of food over the last few days I'd have devoured pretty much anything.

After we'd eaten, we retired to the front room with the wine and talked about what had happened. Dom asked me plenty of questions but he seemed to take particular interest in the actions of the pale murderous Irishman. 'He sounds stone cold,' he commented after I'd told him about the casual murder of Ramon in my bedroom, and I thought I caught just the slightest hint of admiration in his voice. 'Maybe now Maxwell's gone you should consider writing a book about all this. It'd probably sell millions.'

Dom had always bought into the glamour of the criminal underworld, which was why his bookshelves were full of sensational true crime books, and why he'd been so keen to meet Maxwell. His attitude irritated me, but then I'd been seduced in exactly the same way.

'He was an animal,' I said with a conversation-ending finality.

'Shit, I'm sorry mate, I didn't mean it to sound flippant.' He looked genuinely remorseful. 'It's just, you know, I didn't know people like that really existed.'

The drink continued to flow and we moved on to happier subjects. We began to reminisce about the old days: the laughs we'd had in school; the disastrous teenage double date we'd been on with the twin Queen sisters, when Dom made his date Sam cry and mine, Justine, attacked him with her shoe; the disastrous camping holiday to the south of France when the two of us, aged seventeen, got on the wrong train at the Gare du Nord in Paris and ended up spending four rainsoaked days in Belgium . . . Good times, too long ago now, when the world was a fun and easy place, one in which stone-cold killers had never roamed.

As we laughed and talked, I genuinely forgot my troubles in that soft, comforting embrace of alcohol, but then I remembered that Jenny Brakspear was still out there somewhere, and the thought made me feel guilty.

Seeing the change in my expression, Dom asked me what was wrong, and when I told him, he too grew serious. 'I know how you feel, mate, and if it's any consolation, I feel the same way. But neither of us can beat ourselves up about it, especially you. You did all you could to find her, and now, thanks to you, there are plenty of people out there looking.'

'That doesn't mean they're going to find her, though, does it? Not if she's well enough hidden.'

'You can't think like that, Rob. You've got to be positive. You know with all the technology they've got these days, they can find anybody. Shit, look how easy the Irish guy and his mate found you. One tiny GPS transmitter and they can trace a person down to the nearest metre.'

'I suppose so,' I said, not really sharing his confidence.

He picked up the empty wine bottle from the pine coffee table. 'Shall I crack open another one?'

'I don't know. I'm feeling it already with the painkillers.'

He gave me a sly smile. 'Come on. Drown the sorrows. You can always sleep it off later. Remember, you've done your bit.'

Like a lot of City boys, Dom had always drunk a lot. It was an easy way to handle the pressure and the long hours. I'd never caned it to quite the same extent, but I figured another bottle probably wouldn't do a huge amount of harm. There was nothing else I could do to find Jenny, so I might as well forget about it for a while. 'Go on then,' I said. 'In for a penny and all that.'

He looked pleased – after all, no one likes to drink alone – but as he left the room I realized that something was bugging me, although in the fog of the booze it was difficult to identify what it was.

Then I remembered.

I hadn't told Dom about the GPS transmitter in my mobile. I went back through the conversation we'd had, trying to work out if I was mistaken.

Then something else hit me, its ramifications so immense and terrifying that I suddenly sat bolt upright on the sofa.

Maxwell didn't have mobile reception at his place.

He used to say he was happier without it because only a handful of people had his landline number, which meant only people he wanted to speak to could get hold of him. It meant that when I interviewed him for the book, I never got interrupted.

So the kidnappers couldn't have used the GPS to find me there. Which could only mean one thing: they'd had inside information from somewhere.

And as I turned towards the door, I knew immediately where it had come from.