agony.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Speaker’s Corner.’ He cut the connection and went downstairs.
Katra was standing in the kitchen waggling the landline receiver. ‘It’s Liam’s grandmother,’ she said, holding it out.
Shepherd smiled and took it from her. ‘Moira, how are you?’ he asked.
‘We’re fine, Daniel,’ said Moira. She was the only person in the world who ever called him by his full first name. He’d long ago given up trying to persuade her to call him Dan. ‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.
‘He’s great,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re just going out to play football.’
‘It’s been ages since we saw him. And you, of course. Tom and I were wondering when you’d be coming up here.’
‘I’m sorry, Moira. Liam’s got school and I’ve been up to my eyes in work.’
‘We haven’t seen you since Christmas.’
‘I know.’
‘Why not come today? Liam’s old room is ready. You can stay overnight and drive back on Sunday.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Moira. I’m working tomorrow.’
‘Next weekend, then.’
‘Okay.’
‘Excellent!’ said Moira. ‘Tom will be delighted.’
‘Do you want to chat with Liam now?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He’s here.’
Shepherd gave the receiver to his son and went out into the garden to call Hargrove.
The Saudi liked the Savoy. It had been one of his favourite hotels since his father had taken him there as a child. The staff at the Oriental in Bangkok were more attentive, the rooms in the Hong Kong Peninsular were a touch more luxurious, the beds at the George V in Paris had the edge in comfort, but the Savoy was where he felt most at home. From the moment he walked up to the reception desk until the moment he checked out, all his needs and desires were taken care of. They knew the type of pillows he favoured, that he liked irises in his room, that he preferred white toast to wholemeal, took skimmed milk with his coffee, lemon with his tea, and wanted unscented soap in his bathroom.
He refilled the delicate china cup with Earl Grey and dropped in a slice of lemon. He could never understand why people put milk and sugar into Earl Grey. It destroyed the tea’s delicate flavour. He sipped and watched the devastation on the television set in the corner of his suite. Everything had gone exactly as he’d planned. The bomb in the Hyatt had gone off at one o’clock on the dot, destroying the restaurant at its busiest time. He remembered the young waitress with the bright smile and wondered if she was among the dead. The first bomb in the street market had detonated at the same time, ripping through the throngs of tourists as they shopped for trinkets to take home to their families and friends. Those who hadn’t been killed in the first market bomb had fled straight into the path of the second. CNN was saying that a hundred and twenty people had died, but the Saudi could tell from the pictures on the screen that the death toll would be much higher.
Sydney had been a good choice. It wasn’t the capital city, but it was one that everyone identified as quintessentially Australian. Bringing the jihad to Australia would make the world realise that no one was safe. If the shahids could strike in Sydney, they could strike anywhere. CNN didn’t refer to them as shahids, of course – or martyrs. They called them suicide-bombers, as if somehow it was their own deaths that had been the objective. It was always that way with American journalists. If the bombers were on the Americans’ side, they were freedom- fighters; if they were against them, they were terrorists. They didn’t bother to try to understand: they sought only to label.
The Saudi spread honey across his toast and took a bite. The use of shahids served two functions. It meant that there were no perpetrators to put on trial, and it brought home to the world that the fighters for the Muslim cause were prepared to die for their beliefs. It was easy for Western soldiers to go into battle with their weapons, armour and mobile hospitals: they were better-armed and equipped than their adversaries, and rarely went into battle without being sure that they would win. But at heart they were cowards, hiding behind walls as they fired their high-powered weapons, dropping bombs from planes high above the clouds and shooting artillery shells from afar, going in with tanks and armoured cars, only ever fighting from a position of strength. But the shahids fought alone: they went into battle knowing they would die, and died happily, knowing their death would serve the greater good. It was impossible to defeat such men and women. Nothing could be said or done to sway them from carrying out their mission. They were true heroes, but the Western media would never describe them as such.
The Saudi took another sip of tea. Already there were calls for the Australian government to pull their troops out of Iraq. The same thing had happened after the Madrid bombings: the Spanish had obeyed the calls and brought their soldiers home. The Saudi doubted that the Australians would pull out as easily. Not that he cared what happened in Iraq. This wasn’t about the occupation of Iraq, who controlled the oil or decided who should or shouldn’t hold elections. It was about the struggle between Islam and Christianity, between Allah and the infidels, and it was a struggle that could end with only one victor.
Liam kicked the ball hard and low, and Shepherd had to stretch to stop it going into the net. ‘Nice shot,’ he called, and threw the ball back. Liam caught it on his chest and let it drop to his feet. ‘You’re getting good at this,’ said Shepherd.
‘I scored two goals last week,’ said Liam. He kicked the ball and this time it went straight past Shepherd into the back of the net.
‘You play at school, yeah?’
‘Every Thursday.’
‘Is there a school team?’
‘Yeah, but Mr Williams says I’m too small to play for it. I have to wait until next year.’
Shepherd retrieved the ball and tossed it to Liam. Liam headed it back.
‘Are you going to get married again, Dad?’ he asked.
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Pete’s dad’s getting married next week and Pete says his new mum’s really cool,’ said Liam.
‘What happened to Pete’s old mum?’
‘She and his dad got divorced. She went to live in America with her new husband and Pete got to live with his dad.’
Shepherd tried to spin the football on his right index finger but it fell to the ground. He trapped it with his foot. ‘And you want a new mum, is that it?’
Liam shrugged awkwardly. ‘It might be fun.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
Liam’s cheeks reddened. ‘Katra, maybe.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Katra? She’s not much older than you.’
‘She’s twenty-three,’ said Liam.
‘And I’m thirty-five. I’m almost old enough to be her dad, too.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Liam. ‘You’d have been twelve when she was born and you can’t be a dad when you’re twelve.’
‘The way things are going, these days, you can,’ said Shepherd.
‘I like Katra,’ said Liam.
‘You marry her,’ said Shepherd.
Liam pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to marry her,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want a wife. I want a mum.’
‘I miss your mum, too,’ said Shepherd.
‘All the time?’
‘Of course.’
‘I dream about her.’
‘Me too,’ said Shepherd.
‘Sometimes I dream that she comes back. She says she’s been away on holiday and now she’s going to live with us again.’
Shepherd picked up the ball and tossed it back to his son. He had the same dreams, less often now, but they still came every few weeks. She’d be back with him and Liam, back in the house, back in his bed.
