newsreader was on the screen. Behind her was a head-and-shoulders photograph of the man himself, his eyes blank, his straggly brown beard streaked with grey, a white skullcap on top of his head: the most hated man in the western world.
‘Navy Seals blew him away,’ said Malik. ‘Shot one of his wives and maybe one of his kids — they’re not sure.’
Chaudhry shook his head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.
‘It’s on all the channels,’ said Malik. ‘Why would they say it if it wasn’t true?’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Today. Last night. But he’s dead, Raj. They bloody well killed him.’
‘And it was at the house? The house in Abbottabad?’
Malik nodded enthusiastically. ‘They went in with helicopters. Stormed the compound.’
Chaudhry stared at the television. His whole body was trembling and he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. ‘That’s not what John said would happen. He said they’d take him out with a Predator. Shoot him from the sky. That’s what John said.’
‘Yeah, well, John’s a British spook and it was the American military who killed him so maybe the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.’ Malik’s eyes blazed with a fierce excitement. ‘You know what this means, Raj? We did it. You and me. We killed Bin Laden.’
Chaudhry folded his arms to try to stop them trembling.
‘Don’t you get it, Raj? We’re bloody heroes.’
Chaudhry turned and glared at his flatmate. ‘Are you crazy? Talk like this is going to get us killed.’
‘There’s only you and me here,’ said Malik. ‘What’s crawled up your arse and died?’
‘Have you any idea of the danger we’re in? What if anyone finds out it was us?’
‘How would they find out? On TV the Yanks are claiming the credit for the whole thing.’
‘Then let’s leave it that way. No more cracks about heroes, okay? If anyone asks then it’s Americans murdering Muslims and we need to stand up to them blah blah blah. You got that?’
Malik nodded. ‘I hear you, brother.’
‘Where’s the remote? I want to check the other channels. Let’s see what the BBC are saying.’
Malik groped under a cushion, pulled out the remote and tossed it to Chaudhry. ‘You think we should call John?’
‘Let’s wait until he gets in touch with us,’ said Chaudhry, flicking through the channels.
Shepherd’s BlackBerry rang when he was in a black cab a mile from his rented flat in Hampstead. It was Charlotte Button. He took the call.
‘You’re back, then?’ she said.
‘Almost home,’ he said. ‘I’m in a cab.’
‘We need to talk, obviously.’
‘Yeah. Obviously.’
‘Do you want to do it tonight? I can swing by your place.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Shepherd. ‘But yes, we need to discuss a few things and the sooner the better.’
‘I didn’t know what was going to happen,’ said Button. ‘You know that if I had known I’d have told you.’
‘Yeah, I’m not sure that the fact they kept you in the dark inspires me with confidence,’ said Shepherd, as the taxi pulled up at a red light.
‘Be with you as soon as I can,’ said Button, ending the call.
Shepherd’s flat had been supplied by MI5 as part of his cover. He was a freelance journalist and the flat was in keeping with a journalist’s lifestyle: a cramped one-bedroom flat in a side road off Hampstead High Street. The taxi dropped him outside and Shepherd paid the driver. The taxi drove off just as Shepherd realised that he hadn’t asked for a receipt and he cursed under his breath.
The flat was in a block built during the sixties to fill the gap left when two mews houses were demolished by a stray German bomb during the Second World War. Shepherd’s flat was on the second floor with a small sitting room overlooking the street, a bedroom at the back, a small shower room and a kitchen that wasn’t much bigger than the shower room.
He let himself in, tapped in the burglar alarm code and then dropped his kitbag behind the sofa before taking a quick shower.
He was combing his still-damp hair when the intercom rang and he buzzed Button in. He had the door open for her when she came up the stairs, and as always there was the briefest hesitation when it came to greeting her. A handshake always seemed too formal but she was his boss and a kiss on the cheek always seemed somehow wrong. She made the decision for him, putting her right hand on his arm and pecking him just once on the cheek.
‘Good to see you back in one piece, Spider,’ she said, moving past him into the hallway. She was wearing a black suit and black heels and her chestnut hair was loose, cut short so that it barely touched her shoulders.
‘I’ve got wine,’ said Shepherd, closing the door. ‘Or are you driving?’
‘I’m being driven,’ said Button. ‘One of the perks. So anything white would be good, preferably without bubbles.’
Shepherd went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘I’ve got Frascati.’
‘No Pinot Grigio?’ asked Button.
‘Sadly, no. I’m a freelance journo, remember?’
‘Then Frascati it is.’
‘Screw top, I’m afraid.’
Button laughed. ‘Corks are overrated.’ She took off her jacket and sat down in an armchair. It and the two- seater sofa were the only places to sit and there was no dining table. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ she said as he walked in from the cubbyhole of a kitchen.
‘It’s close to the Heath so I get to run whenever I want to. And it’s close enough to Stoke Newington so that I can be over there in a hurry if necessary.’
‘Have you fixed up a meet with them?’
‘I will do,’ said Shepherd, sitting down on the sofa with the bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘So, you had no idea that they were going to kill him?’ asked Shepherd. ‘No hint? No clue?’
‘How can you even ask that?’ said Button. ‘I was as much in the dark as you were. All I was told was that we could have one operative on the team. My understanding was that providing Bin Laden wasn’t armed he was to be held for interrogation and eventual trial.’
‘He was unarmed,’ said Shepherd. ‘They all were.’
‘There was no firefight? The Americans are saying they came under fire.’
‘The only shots fired were fired by the Yanks,’ said Shepherd as he poured wine into the two glasses. ‘They shot one of his wives and then they shot him. A double tap to make sure. Then they all cheered and did that stupid whooping thing. They shot an unarmed man and then act like they’re bloody heroes. Twats.’
‘I’m sorry it worked out that way, Spider.’
‘You know, it seems to me that we would have been better off sending in the SAS. I said at the time it was a mistake trusting it to the Seals. They like to go in with guns blazing, kill everyone and let God sort them out.’ He shook his head and sneered in disgust.
‘At least you’re back in one piece.’
‘Yeah, well, no thanks to the Yanks. You heard about the helicopter they crashed, right?’
Button nodded.
Shepherd tapped his chest. ‘Well, I nearly bought it when it came close to crashing into the chopper I was in. Missed us by feet. I tell you, if it had hit us it would have been thank you and good night.’
‘What happened?’ She picked up her glass, sniffed the wine, then sipped it.
‘The pilot got too close to the compound wall and the rotor blast got deflected back. Instant loss of lift and down they went. Lucky no one was hurt. I tell you, Charlie, from start to finish it was a disaster. The plan was to lower us by rope inside the compound. The chopper crashes so we’re on the wrong side of the wall. They tried to break down the gate and when that didn’t work they had to use C4 to blow it. By the time we got into the compound every man and his dog for miles must have heard us.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It just pisses me off how badly organised they are. And after all that they still start shooting unarmed men and women. They killed Bin
