The Kill Zone

by Chris Ryan

  The very thought of Lily made her want to cry again. Alice’s words resounded in her mind. They ship them out. Africa, they say. Places where white girls fetch a price . . .

  She wanted to howl, but she tried to concentrate on the job in hand. All she could do for Lily right now was to blow a hole in the heroin trade that had dragged her down to God knew what depths. No matter how much she wanted to storm into that pub, put a Glock to O’Callaghan’s head and tell him to talk, she knew that wasn’t the right play. Siobhan needed leverage, otherwise she was helpless.

  The loudspeaker crackled. This was old technology, but that was O’Callaghan through and through. Most dealers of his calibre had five or six mobile phones and discarded them on a regular basis. O’Callaghan was at the other end of the scale. As far as Siobhan could tell, he didn’t use any mobile phones – or indeed any phones at all. To catch someone with such an old-fashioned way of doing business, you had to use old-fashioned policing. Siobhan could only hope Kieran’s little bug would pay dividends.

  Voices. Not for the first time that day, but up till now everything had been idle chit-chat. O’Callaghan was in the room – she’d established that much – and there was a woman called Betty who brought him teas and coffees. But that was it. Boring.

  You get bored, you get careless. You get careless . . .

  ‘Someone says he wants to see you.’ Betty’s voice on the loudspeaker. ‘Foreign fella. Already told him to fuck off back to Dagoland, but he won’t go.’

  ‘Show him in, Betty. I’m expecting him.’ O’Callaghan’s voice was so soft that Siobhan had to strain to hear it.

  The sound of someone entering the room.

  ‘Leave us alone, Betty. No one to disturb us.’

  Another pause. And then a new voice. No greetings. No pleasantries. Just straight down to business.

  ‘The merchandise.’ The newcomer spoke with the quiet precision of someone for whom English was not his first language. Whoever he was, he wasn’t born and bred in Belfast. ‘You are finding it satisfactory?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cormac replied. His voice was just audible above the sudden crackling of the loudspeaker. ‘The product’s good. I’m surprised to see you here, though. I thought we agreed, minimal contact.’

  ‘My presence makes you uncomfortable?’

  ‘I like to keep my suppliers at arm’s length. It’s better for all of us.’

  ‘Indeed. But there are some conversations that should be conducted face to face.’ A shuffling sound. ‘I am going away for a few days. Business abroad.’

  ‘I heard something of the sort.’

  ‘Good. Your next delivery is due very soon. I would like to receive my payment in advance.’

  More crackling.

  ‘That was never the deal,’ Cormac said quickly. ‘Cash on delivery. That’s the way it works in these parts, my friend. Only way I can do it.’

  ‘Mr O’Callaghan, you’re a man of business. I am sure you understand that flexibility is a most important attribute in a businessman. I would like my money in advance, otherwise I will be forced to find another distributor.’

  ‘You’ll never find one. You know how good my distribution networks are. I can get product into every city in the UK within a day of receiving it. If you can’t get the stuff on to the streets, it’s worthless—’

  ‘Mr O’Callaghan,’ the stranger interrupted. ‘I am supplying you with large quantities of very pure heroin at an extremely attractive rate.’

  ‘You are that, my friend, you are that. But let’s not forget that you’re not the only one who’s been supplying people with things. How’s the white gold you’ve got stashed in a hole somewhere? Seeing to your needs, I hope . . .’

  The stranger carried on as if he hadn’t even heard O’Callaghan. ‘There are plenty of other people who would be more than happy to take your place should you find my terms unacceptable. Since it is clear that you would prefer me to go elsewhere—’

  ‘No . . .’ O’Callaghan cut in. For the first time he sounded slightly hesitant. ‘No. I’ll get you your money. Just make sure the product arrives safely.’

  ‘It will arrive just when you are expecting it.’

  ‘Well that’s something.’

  ‘I have a final request, Mr O’Callaghan.’ The newcomer’s voice remained mild.

  ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’

  ‘Over the coming days, I will have some extra packages. I would like you to have them delivered to the mainland. I would, of course, expect to pay you a small fee—’

  ‘Shit!’ Suddenly, without warning, the speaker had fallen silent. Siobhan tapped it. Nothing. The feed was dead.

  She had heard enough to realise she needed to know this guy’s identity. She had to get out. Exiting a boot fit on your own was dangerous. If you had a partner, it was different – just drive somewhere out of sight. Siobhan didn’t have that luxury. She looked through the peepholes. They gave her a limited view of the side street in which she’d parked. She gave it five seconds. No sign of anybody so she unlatched the boot from the inside, raised it slightly and slipped unnoticed out of the gap. Climbing into the driver’s seat, she removed a shell-suit jacket and a baseball cap that she fitted over her blonde hair. For a run-down part of town like this, she needed to chav herself up.

  The car was parked in a street running down the back of the pub; now she got out of the vehicle and sprinted round to the front. The place was a shithole – you could tell that just from the facade, with its blacked-out windows and rusting pub sign swinging gently in the breeze. She knew she could hardly walk in and demand to see the proprietor; but on the other side of the road there was a café. She went in, ordered a coffee and took a seat by the window.

  The glass was smeared and greasy, but it gave her a direct view of the pub’s entrance. By the time the coffee arrived, no one had emerged. It wasn’t until her untouched drink was practically cold that the pub door swung open and a man emerged.

  Siobhan’s blood ran cold. The man’s features were Middle Eastern. The white gold you’ve got stashed in a hole somewhere. She remembered what Alice had said and a sense of dread filled her veins. She also knew that this man’s face was familiar. But where from?

  She stood up, left a fiver on the table and walked out of the café. By the time she was on the pavement, she’d already removed her small digital camera from her jacket pocket. Her window of opportunity to get a snap of his face was tiny, so she started raising it to her eye.

  At that exact moment, he turned to look at her. A look so chilling and intense that her arms fell to her side and she found herself just walking away. Siobhan was not easily spooked, but there was something about the way he had looked at her that made her want to get the hell out of there.

  Twenty seconds later, when she glanced over her shoulder, the man was gone.

  Siobhan’s memory was very good. Well trained. Even now she kept up the memory exercises she used to perform when she was in the Det: Kim’s game, remembering lists of random objects with unerring accuracy and speed; memorising number plates as she walked down the street; staring at photographs of major players so that she would recognise them instantly on sight.

  The man who had walked out of the Horse and Three Feathers wasn’t a major player. Not so far as Siobhan knew, anyway. That was why it had taken a moment for the penny to drop. But it had dropped now.

  She knew who he was. And it didn’t make sense. Which was why she sprinted to her car and burned the rubber back to her flat, where she would be able to check that her suspicion was right.

  Siobhan burst into her flat and rushed into the living room, where her laptop was on one of the chairs. She booted it up and navigated through a few websites. It didn’t take long to find his photograph.

  She stared at the face gazing at her from the screen. There was no doubt about it. The Middle Eastern skin. The neatly trimmed beard. The little round glasses. That was him. That was definitely him.

  But it made no sense.
Because why, she asked herself, would Habib Khan, director of the Islamic Council for Peace and one of the most respected Muslims in the country, have any kind of dealings with a piece of shit like Cormac O’Callaghan?

  1 JULY

  12

  ‘Heads up, Danny boy. It’s your fancy girl.’

  Frank Maloney’s tie was fully done up, which meant it must be first thing in the morning. By lunchtime he’d have loosened it; by teatime he’d have stuffed it in the pocket of his crumpled suit. Come closing time, he’d have used it to wipe flecks of vomit from the corner of his mouth. It was no secret that Frank enjoyed a jar or two after work.

  Danny looked up from his desk to see Siobhan Byrne walking purposefully through the office.

  ‘Will you not be trying your luck then?’ Frank persisted.

  Danny ignored him.

  ‘Ah, Danny boy. There was me thinking she was the love of your life. That you’d be taking her out, wining and dining her, whispering sweet words of love into her shell-likes. And then taking her back to your place to give her a face like a painter’s radio—’

  ‘Ah, shut the fuck up, Frank,’ Danny interrupted him.

  Frank shrugged. ‘Your wish is my command, Danny boy. You know that.’ His eyes followed Siobhan as she wove her way through the maze of desks in that enormous office, towards the glass-fronted room in which their DCI sat – as he always did – ploughing through file after file. Frank scratched his head so vigorously that little flakes fell on to the shoulders of his jacket; and he watched DI Byrne with such intensity that Danny was forced to wonder whether he himself harboured romantic feelings towards the woman . . .

  Siobhan knocked on DCI Robertson’s glass door. The DCI was an arsehole, with piggy little eyes, a jowly face and both the physique and the mentality of a man who spent too much time at his desk. Siobhan avoided contact with him as much as possible. But Jack hadn’t called her back, and some things were too heavy for her to carry completely on her own. Having slept on it she’d decided this was one of them. The boss looked up, and was unable to hide his dismay at seeing Siobhan standing outside. But he gestured her in.

  ‘Yes, DI Byrne. What is it?’

  ‘Mind if I take a seat, sir?’

  ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘Not long, sir, no.’ Siobhan sat opposite the DCI. ‘I’ve been getting my teeth into Cormac O’Callaghan, sir,’ she said.

  ‘So I’ve heard. It’s a waste of time and resources. We’ve had guys trying to pin him down for years, but it’s like nailing jelly to a wall. I want you to lower your sights. Concentrate on more achievable goals.’

  ‘I think I’ve stumbled on to something, sir,’ she replied, ignoring his suggestion.

  ‘I’m not interested in stumbles, DI Byrne. I’m interested in police work.’

  Siobhan took a deep breath. Don’t rise to it, she told herself. Keep calm. This is about Lily, nothing else. She handed him two pages that she’d printed out from her computer the night before. It was an article about Habib Khan, his organisation and his forthcoming expedition to Somalia. DCI Robertson glanced at it. ‘I saw this guy on the news,’ he said. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s been in Belfast.’

  ‘So what?’ Robertson handed the papers back to her. ‘Last time I checked, that wasn’t an off—’

  ‘I saw him yesterday walking out of Cormac O’Callaghan’s pub. I think he’s involved in the O’Callaghan drug network.’ She kept quiet about the reference to ‘white gold’.

  Silence. Robertson stared at her. Then he scraped his chair back, stood up and looked through his glass wall out on to the busy office beyond. For a moment it was almost as if he’d forgotten Siobhan was there. When he did speak, he sounded like he was doing his best to keep his voice slow and measured. ‘DI Byrne,’ he said. ‘I know you have certain . . . certain personal issues to deal with.’

  Siobhan looked down. ‘That’s got nothing to do—’

  ‘Damn it!’ her boss suddenly exploded. ‘It’s got everything to do with this. Look, detective, ever since you arrived here you’ve been a bloody liability. You see shadows at every corner and you refuse to work alongside the other officers in this department.’

  Siobhan set her jaw. ‘Do I have permission to interview Habib Khan, sir?’

  ‘Of course you don’t have fucking permission to interview him. Look who he is! Do you have any idea what sort of stink it would cause if we go harassing the guy on some trumped-up idiocy like this.’ Robertson turned to look at her. His face was red and, in the office, people were starting to take an interest in what was going on between them.

  ‘I’m telling you, sir. I saw him—’

  ‘Fine,’ the DCI shouted. He stormed back to his seat, picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘This is Robertson,’ he snapped. ‘I need to know if there’s any record of one Habib Khan entering Northern Ireland within the last week. Get back to me immediately.’

  He replaced the handset, folded his arms and looked at Siobhan.

  Siobhan looked back. She could feel her face moulding into an expression of disgust for this man. Sometimes she wished she could stop her emotions showing. Right now, she didn’t care.

  They sat in silence.

  A minute passed.

  Two.

  And then the phone rang. The DCI picked it up. ‘This is Robertson . . . You sure? OK . . . Good.’ He hung up then gave Siobhan a level look.

  ‘Not only has Habib Khan not travelled here in the last week, DI Byrne, our records suggest that he’s never even been to Northern Ireland.’

  Siobhan felt blood rushing to her skin. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was anger. Frustration.

  Robertson spoke again. ‘Detective Inspector Byrne,’ he said. ‘You’re clearly under some kind of emotional strain at the moment. Or maybe it’s just your time of the month, I don’t fucking know. I’m putting you on a four-week sabbatical. We’ll re-assess the situation after that period of time with a view to moving you to less . . . less stressful duties.’

  Siobhan stared at him. For a moment she didn’t know what to say.

  She stood up and her chair fell to its back. ‘Fuck you, Robertson,’ she hissed, before turning her back on him and stamping away.

  Everyone who saw it happen marvelled afterwards that the glass wall of Robertson’s office didn’t shatter, so forcefully did DI Byrne slam the door as she left.

  After seeing Caroline walk up the steps of Thames House it had taken Jack three hours to get back to Hereford, then about ten minutes to get through the doors of the Spread Eagle. He wasn’t exactly surprised she was on Five’s payroll, but having it confirmed left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d lost men on her account. Men with families who’d never know why their loved ones died. The thought made him want to kick the wall.

  And so he’d started drinking, downing pints of Stella all that afternoon and most of the evening. He couldn’t remember getting back home. It was almost midday when he woke up on his sofa with a head like a splintered bone and a mouth as dry as a shit in the desert. He showered, pulled on some fresh clothes and made hot coffee. It didn’t make him feel much better.

  In his bedroom the answering machine continued to glow, like a little beacon reminding him that he still had a call to make. Speaking to Siobhan still didn’t rank high on his list of priorities, but what was it Red had said to him once? ‘If you’ve got to eat a turd, no point staring at the fucker first.’ He picked up his phone and dialled the number.

  It rang three times. Four times. Jack felt relieved that it would probably go to voicemail. He could leave a message then switch off his phone. Job done.

  But no such luck. A voice. ‘Jack?’

  She sounded breathless. On edge. So nothing new there. ‘What’s up, Siobhan? I got your message.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  Jack sighed. ‘What is this? Twenty fucking questions?’

>   A pause. And then what sounded to an amazed Jack like a sob. From Siobhan? Christ, something must be wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Jack, I’ve got a lead on Lily. I think she might be alive . . .’

  Siobhan carried on speaking, and Jack kept his phone to his ear. But he hardly heard a word. He was already heading out of the house on his way to the airport.

  Jack drove blindly to Birmingham. He bought a ticket for the next plane to Belfast City Airport and didn’t even return the meaningful smile the check-in girl gave him as he handed her his boarding card. ‘Let me know if you need anything, Mr Harker,’ she purred. Jack just took his seat.

  And in Belfast, when everyone else was standing at the carousel for their luggage, he rushed straight through to the cab rank. He stared out the window of his taxi as his driver sped through the streets of the city.

  Belfast. During the Troubles it had seemed to Jack like he would never leave the place. Even now he felt uneasy travelling through its streets unprotected – back then, he wouldn’t so much as put his nose out the door without a Browning on his belt and a PPK strapped to his ankle. As a member of the Regiment, he’d have been a prime target for any Provo shooters – those fuckers would have done anything for an SAS pelt to show off in front of their mates – and there were certain parts of the city, especially West Belfast, where you just didn’t go. Certain bars where you just didn’t drink. Jack always had a cover story in case some suspicious IRA hood heard his accent and asked him what he was doing in the Province. For their purposes he was a BT engineer, over here on a six-month exchange. A reasonable cover story, but it was much better not to get into a situation where he had to explain himself in the first place.