‘I asked the Major to do me a favour and I’m not going to let him down.’
‘And I respect that,’ said Button. ‘They won’t be here to investigate. They just want to know what happened and what, if anything, is needed in the way of damage limitation.’ She winced. ‘Damn it.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just my shoulder. It was a deep wound but I can’t be in any other position because of the other cuts. You knew, didn’t you?’
‘Knew what?’
‘That someone was after me.’
After what O’Brien had told her, Shepherd knew there was no point in lying. ‘I had a hunch,’ he said, which wasn’t quite a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth.
‘Must have been a pretty strong hunch to have Martin O’Brien tailing me.’
Shepherd sat back and folded his arms, then realised he was adopting a defensive pose. He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Was he easy to spot?’
‘Give me a break, Spider.’
‘Not long, obviously.’
‘The thing is, O’Brien and his pals were tailing me before I got the nod from my former colleagues at MI5,’ said Button, ‘so that must have been one hell of a hunch. I know you’ve got a photographic memory, but I didn’t realise you also had supernatural powers.’
At least he hadn’t actually lied to her, Shepherd thought.
‘Was Richard Yokely involved in your hunch by any chance?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Spider, Yokely is one dangerous son-of-a-bitch.’
‘I know.’
‘He knew I was under threat? O’Brien said you told him there was a contract out on me.’
‘He thought it possible.’
‘Possible enough for you to assign me protection? But not possible enough for you to mention it to me?’
Button winced again, and Shepherd knew that this time it wasn’t because her shoulder was hurting. ‘Yokely thought it best you weren’t told,’ he said.
‘Because?’
‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’
‘You dance with Yokely, you dance with the devil,’ said Button.
‘I know that,’ said Shepherd.
A man and a woman appeared at the door, and Shepherd turned to look at them through the glass. They were both wearing dark coats. The man was grey-haired with steel-rimmed spectacles, tall and thin with the sombre face of an undertaker consoling the recently bereaved. The woman was a decade younger, with short blonde hair framing a sharp face and inquisitive eyes. The man knocked on the door with a gloved hand.
‘Time for my debrief,’ she said.
‘What will you tell them about me?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘They’ll want to know, surely.’
‘Screw them,’ she said. ‘The gun can’t be traced, right?’
‘Everything identifiable has been destroyed and the weapon is back where it belongs.’
‘So I’ll tell them my husband was murdered, the bastard was about to kill me and someone got to him first. I was out of it, didn’t see who it was, et cetera et cetera.’
‘They won’t believe that.’
‘Screw them. I’m going to quit anyway.’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. ‘You can’t,’ he said.
‘I can do what the hell I want,’ she said flatly. ‘My husband’s dead and my daughter’s going to need all the support she can get.’
‘You’re good at what you do,’ he said.
‘That’s not true,’ she said. ‘I don’t have what it takes. I’m not hard enough.’
‘It’s not about being hard,’said Shepherd. ‘It’s about caring. It’s about giving a damn.’ The man knocked on the door again but Shepherd ignored him. ‘I might not know much, Charlie, but I know one thing for sure. The world would be a much kinder and safer place if it was run by women.’
Button smiled tightly. ‘Not the sort of women I know,’ she said.
‘You know what I mean. There’s too much testosterone around at the moment, too much chest-beating and men trying to prove how hard they are. Don’t let the bastards beat you. You’re better than they are.’
She smiled, this time with warmth. ‘You should go, Spider.’ Shepherd stood up. Button reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Shepherd winked at her, then opened the door. ‘She’s all yours,’ he said, and walked past the two visitors. The nurse glared at him with undisguised loathing as he passed her on the way to the lifts. He gave her a friendly wave and blew her a kiss.
Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed smiled as the hawk slammed into the dove and ripped off the bird’s head. What was left of it tumbled to the ground, its white feathers spattered with blood. The smile was for his host’s benefit. The Kuwaiti prince who had arranged the trip into the desert was proud of his hawks. Othman did not want to offend him, but they were of poor quality and the prince thought it acceptable to have them hunt caged birds. The prince’s falconer was also incompetent. The hawks were not hungry enough and two had refused to fly. Othman’s manservant stood behind him, shading the old man with an umbrella. The two American bodyguards stood by the cars that had been provided by the prince, their eyes, as always, hidden behind wraparound sunglasses. The prince’s bodyguards were Gurkhas, wiry men with leathered faces. Othman didn’t like the way they whispered to each other in their own language. He hadn’t enjoyed his three-day trip to Kuwait and was looking forward to returning to Saudi Arabia.
The trip had been forced on him by one of his longest-standing Saudi patrons, who had set his heart on acquiring a top New York hotel owned by the Kuwaiti prince. Money was no object but the Kuwaiti had been reluctant to sell, mainly because one of his favourite mistresses was ensconced in a penthouse suite there. Othman knew the prince well so he had been sent to broker a deal. It had been hard work. The Kuwaiti was a renowned womaniser and, on the second night, had invited Othman to a party at his palace where there had been more than fifty girls, all young and pretty. There had been blondes, brunettes, Africans, Asians, Orientals, though noticeably no Arabs. The Kuwaiti had kept asking Othman to choose, but he had politely declined, citing his inflamed prostate. The truth was that the old man had long since lost interest in sex as anything other than a means of procreation and had no intention of allowing a prostitute to bear his child. At one point during the party one of the prince’s servants had walked round with a huge silver tray piled high with Rolex and Cartier watches. The squealing girls had been told to help themselves. Othman had smiled serenely, privately disgusted by the ostentatious display. As far as he was concerned, money should be treated with respect. Like power and love, it was not to be squandered.
Othman’s host walked over, clearly elated by the kill. He was accompanied by two of his fifteen sons, both toddlers. Othman smiled his appreciation and made small-talk as they walked together to the waiting cars. The prince was driving in the second car with his fourth wife, who was barely twenty and the mother of the toddlers. There were four of the prince’s bodyguards in the first car, Othman was in the third Mercedes with his bodyguards and a driver provided by the prince. Bringing up the rear a white Toyota Landcruiser contained four more Gurkha bodyguards. The vehicles sat low on reinforced suspension, weighed down by armour plating and bulletproof glass.
One of Othman’s bodyguards opened the rear door to the third Mercedes and the old man climbed in. One bodyguard sat next to him as the second got into the front passenger seat.
Othman settled back and closed his eyes as the convoy drove off. He had much on his mind. Muhammad Aslam had come to see him in Riyadh two days before Othman had flown to Kuwait. The assassin had failed. He had been killed by the infidels before he had been able to exact revenge on either the American man or the English woman. The one small piece of good news was that the woman’s husband had been killed, so at least she would know some of the pain Othman had felt when he had learnt of his sons’ deaths.
