The three men get off the bus at Dunstable Road and walk beneath the railway underpass and along Leagrave Road. Syd and Rafiq are kicking a squashed Coke can along the pavement while Taj listens to music on his headphones.
Syd is puffing hard, unfit and overweight. He’s hungry. They stop at a chippy opposite the Britannia Estates and buy five quid’s worth of chips with curry sauce, sharing a feast on butcher’s paper. Afterwards they throw rocks at an abandoned bus propped on bricks and push a supermarket trolley into the stormwater drain, where it bounces end over end and settles in the mud.
When they reach the Traveller’s Rest, they follow a side path along the chain-link fence, out of sight from the main road. The air smells of exhaust fumes and chemicals that blow across the industrial lots and freight yard. Syd goes first because he knows how to work the lights. As he puts the key in the lock he hears something behind him, beyond the fence in the freight yard. Maybe it’s a dog scavenging for food, he thinks, peering through the fence. There are shipping containers stacked in neat rows and freight cars rusting on the sidings.
Stepping inside the room, he kicks aside a crumpled cardboard box and closes the curtains, before turning on the lights.
The others follow him. Taj sniffs the air. “What’s that stink? Smells like somebody rubbed shit on the walls. Did you take a dump, Syd?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“It’s always you,” says Rafiq.
Syd is banging on the top of an old TV that has never worked, trying to get a signal. Taj is sitting on a sofa that is spilling foam. Rafiq keeps watch at the window. Through a half-inch gap in the curtains, he sees the Courier coming, moving along the walkway.
“He’s here.”
The young men take their places. Standing. Showing respect. Aware of how the atmosphere in the room changes whenever this man appears.
The Courier looks from face to face, stopping at Syd.
“Have you been talking to anyone?”
“No, not me, not a soul, nobody.”
“I heard you were bragging to your mates.”
“No fucking way.”
“The next time you come in here, lock the door.”
The Courier paces the room, checking the light fittings, power sockets, running his fingers under the edge of tables and along the underside of the windowsills. His lips are flat and thin against his teeth.
Satisfied, he returns to the table and opens the cardboard flaps of the box. He pulls out a canvas vest-a simple garment tailored to fit a man or a woman’s body. Thick shoulder straps hold the midsection in place.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks.
Nobody answers.
“This large disc just under the breast area is filled with three-millimeter steel balls. Behind that, next to the skin, is a compartment filled with C-4 plastic explosive. Two detonators, one on either side, are rigged to timing devices or can be triggered manually or via a text message from a mobile phone. When that happens the vest becomes a bomb, killing or maiming anyone within a hundred-foot radius.”
Syd looks like he might vomit.
The Courier tosses the vest towards him. “Here, try it on.”
“We’re not suicide bombers,” says Taj.
The Courier breathes loudly through his nose, as though smelling the odor of fear rising from their armpits. “So you’re not willing to die?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?”
“You didn’t say anything about suicide vests,” says Rafiq.
The Courier shows his teeth in something approximating a smile. At the same moment he slips a vest over his arms, buckling it in place.
“You only have to wear the vests until you get inside. After that, you place them near the dance floor under tables or next to the bar. Crowded areas.”
The Courier unfurls a map on the table, holding it down with broken bathroom tiles. On top he places the floorplan of a nightclub called Nirvana in Piccadilly, just off Regent Street. There are galleries on each of the three floors. The main dance area is on the ground level, while the loft level has a VIP area next to an open-air terrace. The basement has another dance area and bar.
“You park the van here,” he says, pointing to a loading area a block away. “You’ll be wearing the vests by then.”
“How do we get inside?” asks Taj. “Most nightclubs have metal detectors at the doors.”
The Courier produces a key from his pocket. “This is for a service entrance.” He points to the floorplan. “It takes you into a storage area used for liquor deliveries. One door leads to the bar. The other into a storeroom used by the cleaners. It’s dark. Noisy. Lights are flashing. On a good night they get a thousand people in Nirvana. Nobody is going to see you come out of the storeroom.”
“What about the CCTV?”
“You wear baseball caps. Keep your heads down. Once you’re inside you split up. Go to the toilet. Get a cubicle. Take off the vests. Once you plant them you leave as quickly as possible through the main door, without drawing attention. Don’t talk to each other. Don’t communicate at all.”
Syd raises his hand, as though in a classroom. “Who’s going to detonate them?”
“You’ll each have a mobile phone that has been programmed with the number. The explosions must be synchronized. Two early. One later. The vest on the ground floor must be detonated after the police and fire brigade arrive.” The Courier points at Taj. “You will detonate the last one.”
“Why me?”
“Because God is giving you an opportunity to prove yourself.”
Taj puts out his cigarette in an ashtray, mashing it methodically. His eyes go to the open box.
“What about the passports and tickets?”
“You’ll have them.”
“And the money?”
“Tomorrow.”
The two men size each other up, their eyes like sharpened sticks. Taj is talking before he thinks. “What if the vests go off accidentally?”
The Courier drops a vest at Taj’s feet and stamps down on it with his heel. Once… twice… three times. Then he picks it up and throws it to Taj, who catches it cautiously.
“If you are caught you must detonate the vests. I don’t care if you’re wearing them or not-it’s better to die than rot inside a British prison for the rest of your lives. It will be fast. You will not feel a thing.”
25
Daniela and Luca have been up all night, fueled by machine coffee and the scent of something big. Both of them feel like college kids pulling an all-nighter, their heads tipped tensely forward, checking facts, comparing figures, picking apart the details of hundreds of transactions.
Often the numbers pose more questions than they answer. Luca has to console and cajole Daniela, pushing her to keep going. She circles the desk, scribbling numbers and tapping a calculator. Luca stares at her in awe. “Whoever said accountants were boring?”
“Are you saying I’m boring?”
