Cold Kill (51 page)

‘Because I’m not an assassin.’

There was a long pause, and for a moment Shepherd thought he’d lost the connection. ‘Are you sure about that, Dan?’ Yokely said eventually, his voice little more than a soft whisper. ‘Are you one hundred per cent sure about it?’

Shepherd cursed and flung the mobile at the wall. He found himself looking at the bottle of Jameson’s. He stared at it for several seconds, then went upstairs to change into his running gear.

The Saudi rested his head against the fuselage and looked out of the window at the lights of London far below. They had beaten him, drowned him, abused him. They had killed his cousin. They had burned his brother alive. They had done their worst and they thought they had triumphed. The English woman had thought she was so clever. He could see it in her eyes: the contempt as she questioned him, so sure that she was his intellectual superior. The Saudi would have given almost anything to see her expression when she discovered he had outsmarted her.

The plane banked to the left as it climbed. The Saudi was manacled, hand and foot. He was wearing a white paper suit and paper slippers. Sitting next to him was a marine, square-jawed with a crew-cut and hard blue eyes. A typical American, thought the Saudi, big-boned and stupid. He regarded the Saudi with undisguised hatred. The Saudi didn’t care. There was nothing else they could do to him.

He didn’t know who else was on the plane. He’d been taken from the embassy in a van with a hood over his head. Once he was seated on the plane the hood had been removed and the marine had told him not to turn round. There were definitely other passengers on board, though. As he’d been helped up the stairs to the plane he’d caught a glimpse of black loafers with tassels. The Saudi didn’t know if they belonged to one of the Americans or to another prisoner.

He’d heard shouts as they’d boarded the plane, an Asian man insisting he was British and that they had no right to be taking him out of the country. The Saudi hadn’t bothered protesting. Citizenship no longer counted for anything in a world dominated by the United States.

No one had told him where he was being taken, but the Saudi knew they were going to Cuba. Guantanamo Bay. The interrogation would go on for years. Followed by imprisonment. Execution if he was lucky. The offer of money and a new life had always been a lie, even if he had been prepared to co-operate. The Americans had him and they would never let him go. But they hadn’t beaten him. The Saudi smiled to himself. They hadn’t won. They thought they had, but they were wrong.

Shepherd slept badly. He tossed and turned and didn’t fall asleep until the early hours of the morning. Even then he was plagued with nightmares about what had happened on the train. He had reacted instinctively – his training had taken over as it always did when he was in combat – but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with the taking of life. And he’d killed a woman. That she’d been a woman hadn’t occurred to him as he’d pulled the trigger. He’d seen her stab Sharpe, the blood, the screwdriver in her hand, and he’d fired. He’d been aiming for her head but the bullet had caught her in the throat, and even if he’d had all the time in the world he’d still have gone for a killing shot. In his dreams he wasn’t firing a single shot, he was blasting away with both hands on his gun. And the woman he was shooting wasn’t the terrorist on the Eurostar. It was Charlotte Button. Then it was Katra. Then it was Moira. Then it was Kathy Gift. And even though he recognised the faces in his dream, he kept firing.

When he woke, it was almost eleven o’clock and sunlight was streaming through the curtains. His leg muscles ached from his late-night run and he had a throbbing headache. He grabbed his towelling robe and ran downstairs. He made himself a cup of coffee, went into the sitting room and switched on the television. He sighed and put his feet on the coffee table as he flicked through the channels. He frowned as he stared at the pictures on the screen. Police in yellow fluorescent jackets were cordoning off a section of a London street. The picture changed. Ambulances were arriving at a city-centre hospital. A sombre Sky newscaster summed up what had happened. Three bombs had gone off in the Tube system. A fourth had destroyed a London bus.

The city had ground to a halt. The Tube system had been closed, buses had stopped running, the police were advising everyone not to travel unless it was absolutely necessary.

Shepherd flicked to BBC1. There had been a bomb on a Circle Line Tube near Liverpool Street station. On the Piccadilly Line between King’s Cross and Russell Square. On the Circle Line at Edgware Road. A fourth had destroyed a bus in Tavistock Square.

Shepherd stared at the screen in horror. A news reporter said that no one had claimed responsibility for the carnage, but Shepherd knew it wouldn’t be long before al-Qaeda took the credit. Innocent men, women and children had been murdered, and the terrorist organisation would claim that they were casualties of war.

Shepherd felt sick. He’d done his best – he’d given everything he could – but he hadn’t stopped the killing. He’d taken out one terrorist cell but there had been another in place, who had carried out their murderous mission and would already be in hiding. He’d won one battle and saved lives – Yokely had been right on that score – but the terrorists were winning the war. There had been dozens of deaths, and hundreds of casualties. Maybe the American was right. Maybe the only way to beat the terrorists was to take them out before they committed atrocities. But Shepherd wasn’t sure if that was a line he was prepared to cross. Not yet, anyway. He was sure of one thing, though: he’d made the right decision to move out of London. The capital city would not be safe for many years to come.