‘What do you think’s going on, Spider?’
Shepherd sat down. ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling,’ he said.
‘They couldn’t be planning something on the train, could they?’
‘All the bags are X-rayed and everyone has to go through the metal detectors. And they can’t hijack the bloody thing, can they?’
‘Poison? Anthrax? Gas? Remember the attack in Tokyo by those religious nutters?’
Shepherd took out his phone. ‘I’ll call Bingham,’ he said.
Scarred Lip untied the webbing from round the Saudi’s neck and tossed it on to the table. Broken Nose helped him to his feet. Button stood by the door, arms folded across her chest, eyes on the plasma screens.
Scarred Lip used a piece of webbing to tie the Saudi’s hands behind his back. His legs buckled and Broken Nose hurried to support him. The two men carried him to the chair and dropped him on to it.
As Button sat down, one of the plasma screens flashed white, then black. A test card appeared. It stayed up for a few seconds and was replaced with a view of what appeared to be the inside of a warehouse or factory. There was a bare concrete floor, prefabricated steel walls and, overhead, a metal roof criss-crossed with girders. Fluorescent lights hung from the girders, and there was a skylight off to the left.
‘Please look at the screen, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button.
Broken Nose grabbed his hair, twisted it savagely and forced him to confront it. The Saudi gasped in pain.
A man appeared on the screen, short and squat in a leather bomber jacket that stretched tight across his shoulders. He was wearing a black ski mask and gloves, and holding a length of chain in his right hand. He threw one end over a girder above his head. Button realised she could hear the chain rattling. This time there was sound.
The Saudi tried to turn his head away but Broken Nose punched him and forced it back.
The man in the ski mask waved at someone out of view. Two more men in ski masks appeared, holding an Arab man in his early thirties. He was struggling but the men holding him were big and powerful and had already bound his wrists behind his back. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt, shorts and training shoes and looked as if he had been jogging when they had taken him. His struggles intensified when he saw the chain but there was nothing he could do.
The two men threw him to the ground and tied one end of the chain round his ankles. The masked man in the bomber jacket pulled at the other end, and all three hauled the Arab into the air feet first. He was screaming in Arabic – Button caught the gist: he was begging for his life.
Button was staring open-mouthed at the screen and moved to stand by the door so that she could see the Saudi. She caught sight of her reflection and was shocked by how pale she was.
The Saudi was muttering under his breath, praying. It wouldn’t help, Button thought. Begging and pleading wouldn’t help. The only way out for the Saudi was a full and immediate confession.
The three men moved out of vision. They must have been tying the free end of the chain to something because they reappeared a few seconds later.
‘Your brother,’ said Button. ‘Abdal-Rahmaan. Servant of the Merciful. Another illustrious name.’
‘I know who it is,’ said the Saudi. He started to cough.
A wet patch appeared at the bound man’s groin.
‘Tell us what you have planned and it ends now,’ said Button.
‘I have nothing to say. I have done nothing wrong.’
The masked man in the bomber jacket walked off screen.
The Arab was begging in English now, his words distorted by the satellite link. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he sobbed. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Please, Mr Ahmed. You saw what they did to your cousin.’
The Saudi shook his head.
‘They are serious,’ said Button.
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘You will talk eventually so you might as well talk now and save your brother any further pain.’
‘You will kill him anyway.’
‘That’s not true, Mr Ahmed. You have my word.’
‘You are not in control,’ said the Saudi. ‘You are a pawn. A minion. A dog crawling at the feet of her master.’
On the screen, Bomber Jacket reappeared, holding a red metal can with a black plastic spout. He started to splash its contents over the Arab, who started screaming again.
Button swallowed. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the screen. Petrol dripped down him, over his face, through his hair and on to the concrete floor.
The Saudi groaned. ‘You cannot do this,’ he said. ‘My brother has done nothing. He works for my father, nothing more.’
‘He has been involved in arms deals for the Saudis,’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.
‘Abdal-Rahmaan is an arms-dealer,’ said Button, but even as she said it she knew it was no excuse for what they were doing to him. He wasn’t about to be burned alive because he dealt in weapons but because he was related to the Saudi.
‘He is a businessman,’ hissed the Saudi. ‘My brother has never hurt anybody.’
‘No, but you have,’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.
Button didn’t like the American putting words into her mouth. ‘Tell us what you are planning, Mr Ahmed, and your brother goes free. You go free, too. You have my word.’
‘I am British. You are British. You cannot do this to me,’ said the Saudi. ‘You cannot do this to me in Britain. It’s not allowed.’
Button smiled sadly. ‘We’re not in Britain, Mr Ahmed.’
The Saudi frowned, not understanding.
‘We’re in the basement of the American embassy in Grosvenor Square. You are on American soil.’
The Saudi stared at her. Then he sneered. ‘You are a lapdog of the Americans. Same as your prime minister.’
The Arab had stopped pleading and was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating.
‘Tell me what you have planned,’ said Button. ‘Tell me, and your brother will be released.’
The Saudi pulled back his face and spat across the room. Bloody phlegm splattered across Button’s face.
Broken Nose stepped forward and stamped on the Saudi’s bare foot, grinding his boot into the flesh. The Saudi shrieked. Button took a handkerchief from her top pocket and calmly wiped her face.
Yokely’s voice crackled in her earpiece. ‘Tell him we have his sister.’
Button’s stomach lurched. But before she could say anything, she saw the Saudi’s eyes dart to the clock. Yokely was right: time was running out. She hardened her heart. ‘Mr Ahmed,’ she said, ‘we have your sister.’
‘What do you mean you can’t find them?’ said Bingham. ‘They can’t have disappeared.’
‘They’re not in any of the carriages,’ said Shepherd. ‘The only place they can be is in the toilets. And if they’ve both gone to the toilets at the same time, there must be something up. I know their luggage has been scanned, but this is too much of a coincidence. And they had similar suitcases. That’s what worries me.’
‘I agree,’ said Bingham. ‘But why did one get on at Waterloo and the other at Ashford? Security is the same at both stations, so it can’t be that.’
Shepherd kept his voice to a low whisper. He didn’t want anyone else in the carriage to hear what he was saying. ‘We were thinking maybe chemical,’ he said.
‘It’s possible,’ said Bingham. ‘Confined space like the tunnel.’
‘Look, I’m going to be in the tunnel in seconds. What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s got to be your call, Dan.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Shepherd.
‘You’re going to have to do whatever you have to do,’ said Bingham. ‘I’ll back you up, I swear.’
‘I’m not armed, you know that?’ The train plunged into the tunnel and the phone buzzed in his ear. The line was dead.
Shepherd put the phone down and looked at Sharpe.
‘Now what?’ said Sharpe.
‘Now it gets interesting,’ said Shepherd.
Button paced up and down in front of the two-way mirror. The Saudi was sobbing quietly, his arms wrapped round his chest. Blood was dribbling from his nose, down his chin and on to the floor between his feet.
‘Mr Ahmed, please . . . min fadlik.’
The Saudi shuddered. ‘Hill ’annii,’ he spat. The literal translation was ‘Get out of my sight’, but it was closer to ‘Fuck off’ in meaning.
Button pointed up at the plasma screens. The Saudi’s brother was on the top left screen, still hanging from the girder. On the bottom right screen, a woman in a black burkha sat on a wooden chair, back ramrod straight, hands on her knees. Behind her, a man in a ski mask held a baseball bat.
‘Mr Ahmed, they are your brother and sister,’ said Button. ‘You know what’s going to happen if you continue to refuse to co-operate. Please. It doesn’t have to be like this.’
‘Laa tastatii’ an taf’al dhaalika,’ he said quietly.
‘They can do what they want,’ she said. ‘You must have realised that by now.’
A second man appeared next to the woman. He was also wearing a ski mask. He grabbed the headpiece of the burkha and ripped it off. The woman shrieked and covered her face with her hands.
‘No!’ shouted the Saudi.
The earpiece crackled. ‘Tell him we have a list of all his family and friends. Tell him we’ll—’
Button pulled out the earpiece. She went over to the Saudi and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You have to talk,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘They’re not going to stop until everyone you love is dead. Do you understand that?’
The Saudi wailed and rolled off the chair on to the floor. Broken Nose and Scarred Lip moved to pick him up but Button waved them away. ‘Leave him alone!’ she shouted. She pointed at the door. ‘Get out – get out now! Both of you!’
The two men stopped dead and stood, watching her. Then Scarred Lip put his fingertips to his earpiece, frowned, and nodded at Broken Nose. The two men left the room, faces impassive.
The Saudi scuttled backwards across the floor, like a frightened crab, and sat with his back to the wall, his knees under his chin. His body was racked with spasms and he stared at the screens.
Button walked over to him slowly and knelt by his side. She touched his arm, but he flinched as if he’d been stung. ‘Abdal-Jabbaar, please. You can stop this now,’ she whispered.
His trembling intensified and his eyes flicked from screen to screen.
‘Whatever you are, whatever you believe in, it can’t be worth this,’ said Button. Tears filled her eyes. ‘They’re going to keep on until they kill everyone you’ve ever cared for. They’re relentless, these people. Relentless and uncaring.’
The Saudi began to sob and tears ran down his cheeks. Button realised she was crying, too. She sat down next to the Saudi and pulled her legs up against her chest, instinctively adopting the same posture. They were both hugging their knees, tears streaming down their faces.
The Saudi’s brother was babbling now, Arab phrases mixed with English, a stream of words that made little sense. He was close to passing out.
The man in the ski mask threw more petrol on to him – some went up his nose, making him cough and choke.
A second masked man stepped forward with a bronzed Zippo lighter. He held up the lighter to the camera and flicked back the lid with his gloved thumb.
The Saudi started to mutter an Arabic prayer, his lips barely moving.
‘Please, don’t let them do this,’ whispered Button. Her mouth was completely dry and the strength had faded from her limbs. ‘Just tell them what they want to know and it’ll be over. There are others who can take over from you – you know that. You’re a soldier in a huge army – no one will blame you if you talk now. You’ve given enough. You’ve done enough. No one will blame you, Abdal-Jabbaar. Please. Min fadlik.’
The Saudi’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and he was staring at his brother. ‘A’tinii waqtan lit-tafkiir bidhaalik,’ he whispered.
‘We don’t have time,’ said Button. ‘If you don’t talk now, you know what they’ll do.’
On the other screen, the Saudi’s sister was glaring defiantly at the camera, a gun pressed to her temple. She steadfastly ignored it. She was brave, thought Button, but the men hadn’t started to work on her yet. Once they did, they’d see just how brave she was.
The man with the Zippo flicked the small wheel at the top of the lighter. It sparked but did not light.
The Saudi screamed in terror.
Button could barely breathe. She couldn’t believe that the men in ski masks would set the man alight. It was inhuman. Worse than inhuman. But Yokely’s words echoed in her head: ‘The thing about threats is that they have to be carried out.’ And so far he’d carried out every threat he’d made.
She turned to the Saudi. ‘Abdal-Jabbaar, listen to me,’ she said. ‘Don’t let your brother die. If he dies they’ll start on your sister. And once they’ve killed her they’ll find someone else. End it now. Please. End it now.’
The Saudi didn’t appear to hear her. He continued to stare at his brother and mutter under his breath.
‘You can end it. Just tell me you’ll co-operate.’ She leaned closer to him so that her mouth was close to his ear, but she kept her eyes on the screen. The masked man flicked the Zippo’s wheel again. Sparks, but no flame. ‘Just tell them, even if you don’t mean it,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll stop. Tell them anything. For God’s sake, man, lie. Tell them anything.’
The Saudi ignored her.
Button grunted in frustration. She sat back and rested her head against the wall, then banged it twice, hard. She gritted her teeth and relished the pain. She banged her head again, harder this time. This wasn’t why she’d joined MI5. She’d joined because she’d wanted to do a job that meant something, a job that made a difference. After she’d graduated with her double first, all sorts of doors had been open to her. Stockbroking, banking – any firm in the City would have hired her. But she’d applied to join the Foreign Office, envisaging a career in embassies around the world, and had been soaring through the interviews when she was asked if she’d consider something more challenging, with the country’s intelligence service. She’d accepted, and until today she had never regretted her decision. But nobody had said she’d be involved in torture and murder. And if they had, she would have turned them down flat. What was happening went against everything she believed in. It made them no better than the enemy. No better than al-Qaeda. No better than any terrorist or serial killer. And they had forced her to be part of it. She banged her head again.
On the screen, the man in the ski mask flicked the Zippo again. It burst into life and the man waved the inch-long flame at the camera.
Button stopped banging her head. ‘Tell them,’ she whispered. ‘Please, tell them.’
The Saudi continued to mutter, eyes fixed on the screen. He was talking in Arabic but so fast she couldn’t follow what he was saying. She heard ‘Allah’ and ‘Abdal-Rahmaan’ but the rest was incomprehensible. The Saudi’s eyes were blank and he’d stopped crying.
‘Please,’ Button implored him. ‘Whatever your beliefs, it can’t be worth this. It can’t be worth the deaths of your brother and sister. You know that blood means more than anything. More than friends, more than country, more than politics. You know they will do it. You know they will kill and keep killing. And they will keep torturing you until you talk. So stop it now. Tell them why you’re in London. Tell them what you’re planning to do.’
The Saudi’s mutterings intensified. His hands were clenched into tight fists, knuckles white.
‘It’s your brother, God damn you,’ said Button. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Just tell them.’
On the screen the man in the ski mask turned away from the camera and walked over to the bound Arab, who had closed his eyes and, like the
Saudi, was muttering a prayer.
The man with the ski mask put his left hand up to his ear and Button realised he was wearing an earpiece. Yokely was in contact with them, wherever they were. The man nodded, then went back to the camera. ‘Last chance,’ said the man. A Mid-west American accent. He waved the Zippo in front of the camera and the flame smoked. Even beneath the ski mask, Button could see that he was grinning. Her stomach churned: he was enjoying it.
‘Abdal-Jabbaar, please . . .’ she begged.
She slumped back against the wall and put her hands over her face, fingers splayed, as she had when she’d watched horror movies with her brothers when she was a child. One had died of leukaemia when he was eleven and she was nine: she’d never forgotten the pain, and life had never been the same. Ricky’s death had been unavoidable, a case of nature going wrong, but the loss to Button had been almost unbearable. What the Saudi was going through now was infinitely worse, though. Abdal-Rahmaan’s death would be horrific and the Saudi knew that it was within his power to stop it. Button remembered that, as a child, she had knelt at the foot of her bed and prayed to God, promising anything if he’d let Ricky get better. But Ricky had died and Button had stopped believing in God. She wondered how strong the Saudi’s faith was. Was he prepared to let his brother die an agonizing death for no other reason than that he wanted others to die? All that the Saudi stood to gain was another terrorist atrocity. But he faced losing his entire family and eventually his own life. It made no sense to Button. If her family was about to be slain, Button had no doubt that she would say whatever it took to save them.
The man with the Zippo walked away from the camera. As Button watched though her fingers, he seemed to be moving in slow motion: each step took an eternity.
‘Don’t let this happen,’ she whispered.
Part of her wanted to believe that everything on the screens had been faked, that Yokely was using special effects to make it look as if the Saudi’s loved ones were being killed. But the shooting of the cousin had been real, she was certain: the look on the boy’s face, the shower of brain matter and blood, the way the body had slumped forward. None of that had been faked. So what was about to happen to the Saudi’s brother was real, too. And Yokely had made her a part of it.
Cold Kill Page 37
