‘Six hundred rounds? I could let you have them for two and a half grand.’
‘Two,’ said Ali. ‘Ten for the guns, two for the ammo. Twelve thousand pounds in all.’
Shepherd nodded slowly. The two men clearly had no idea of the true value of the weapons they were buying.
‘The magazines,’ said Fazal. ‘How many magazines would we get?’
‘One for each weapon,’ said Shepherd, ‘plus a spare. That’s standard.’
‘We need more.’
‘How many?’
‘Thirty bullets in each, right?’
‘Yes. But, as Lomas said, we call them rounds.’
‘So we need twenty.’
‘Twenty magazines? You want all the rounds loaded into magazines?’
‘Yeah, we want twenty magazines. How much?’
‘Another five hundred.’
‘So twelve and a half grand for the five guns, twenty magazines and six hundred rounds?’ said Ali.
‘That’s it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do we have a deal?’
‘Yes,’ said Fazal.
‘When do you need them by?’
‘As soon as possible,’ said Fazal.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow to fix a time and place,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll tell you where and when. The time and location are non-negotiable.’
‘I understand,’ said Fazal.
‘Make sure your mobile is on. If I call and you don’t answer, the deal’s off. One more thing.’ Shepherd turned and gestured at Hassan. ‘Tell your mate over there to come here.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Fazal.
‘Your mate with the camera. The one that’s been snapping away at us for the past five minutes. Tell him to come here now or I’ll roll up that copy of the Guardian and force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting out the crossword clues for the next two days.’
Fazal stared at him for a few seconds, then waved Hassan over to him. The man pretended not to understand and looked away, but then Ali called over to him in Urdu.
‘English,’ said Sharpe.
‘Come here!’ shouted Ali.
Hassan walked towards them, swinging the camera back and forth, eyes darting nervously between Shepherd and Ali. He went to stand beside Ali. Shepherd held out his hand for the camera. Hassan put it behind his back, like a guilty schoolboy.
‘Don’t screw around, sonny,’ said Shepherd. ‘Give me the camera.’
Hassan held it out reluctantly and Shepherd snatched it. It was a digital Nikon. ‘What were you thinking?’ he asked Ali.
‘We don’t know you,’ said Ali.
‘So how does having our picture help?’
‘We thought it would give us some security,’ said Ali, ‘if anything went wrong.’
‘If anything goes wrong, I will personally shoot you both,’ said Shepherd, ‘and those idiots playing with the Frisbee. I’ll put you all on crutches, whether or not you’ve got photographs of me.’ He flicked open the slot that contained the memory chip. Hassan protested as he pulled it out: ‘Hey! That’s a gigabyte!’ he said.
‘Yeah?’ said Shepherd. He tossed the camera into the water. ‘And that’s an underwater camera.’
Hassan yelped and jumped into the water memorial.
‘That camera cost two thousand pounds!’ said Ali. ‘His father lent him the money.’
Hassan was groping around in the water, moaning.
‘Well, he should be more careful about where he points it,’ said Shepherd.
He and Sharpe walked away, hands in their pockets. ‘Did you make out the agent?’ asked Sharpe, as they reached the entrance to the park.
‘Not sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘I figured it can’t be the brothers, right? No way would a guy want to put his own brother away. I’d put my money on Fazal. The tall dark silent one.’
‘Could be.’
‘Five Ingrams is one hell of a lot of firepower,’ said Sharpe, ‘and they want all the rounds in magazines, which suggests they’re going to keep blazing away. Can you imagine what five guys with Ingrams could do in a shopping mall?’
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, frowning.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something on your mind?’
‘Just my bloody house. Estate agents, solicitors, removal men. It’s a bloody nightmare. I’ll be glad when it’s over.’
‘Fancy a pint?’
‘I’ll take a rain check, Razor. I want to get home.’
Kamil picked up his queen, smiled apologetically at Mitchell and put it down next to Mitchell’s king. ‘Checkmate,’ he said quietly.
‘You play well,’ said Mitchell.
‘My father taught me, when I was a boy,’ said Kamil.
‘He taught you well.’ Mitchell put the last piece of lamb into his mouth, then Kamil took the paper plate and stood up. ‘Can I borrow the chess set?’ asked Mitchell. ‘I want to practise some openings.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to give you a better game next time.’
Kamil looked as if he was going to refuse, but then handed it to Mitchell. ‘We shall play again tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Mitchell, then went to stand against the wall. Kamil knocked on the door. It opened and he slipped out.
Mitchell waited until the door had been bolted and the sound of footsteps had faded, then knelt in front of the plug. The chess pieces were circular, each about the size of a penny, metal discs covered with plastic, black or white and embossed with a symbol denoting the piece they represented. He took a black pawn and pushed the side into the top screw in the socket. He wiggled the disc until he felt it bite, then pressed hard and twisted anti- clockwise. The screw moved a quarter of a turn and Mitchell grinned. It was going to work. He pulled out the disc and examined it. The plastic was indented, where it had been forced into the screw head, but not ripped. He smoothed it between his finger and thumb, then put it back on the board and picked up another. He used that to turn the screw another quarter turn. This time it moved easily.
Yokely walked into the interrogation room carrying a mug of coffee. The Saudi was wearing an orange jumpsuit and his hands and legs were shackled. He was a lot thinner than he had been the last time Yokely had seen him. He had grown a beard, too, but his hair was cut short. There were dark patches under his eyes and a rash of acne across the right side of his neck, which was raw where he’d been scratching it. ‘So how are you, Abdal-Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed?’ asked Yokely, stretching out the syllables.
The Saudi sneered at him, then pointedly looked away.
‘Taking care of you, are we? Plenty of clean underwear, and there’s an arrow on the ceiling of your cell pointing towards Mecca. Food prepared in accordance with your religious beliefs.’ Yokely sat down and adjusted his shirt cuffs. ‘How long have you been here now? Six months? I’ve lost track of time.’
The Saudi said nothing.
‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’ asked Yokely, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on to the table. He saw distaste in the Saudi’s eyes. ‘Public-school education, first-class degree from the London School of Economics. Well travelled. And me? What am I? The ugly American. Big, stupid, insensitive.’ He raised his coffee mug. ‘Guilty as charged. In the words of the great philosopher Popeye, I am what I am.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I’d
