cried in triumph as it glided in a full circle, then landed on its prey and began to feed.
Macgregor hurried across the sand to retrieve the falcon before it ate too much.
Othman heard an engine buzz in the distance, sounding like an angry wasp. He narrowed his eyes. A quad bike with large tyres was heading his way, spurts of sand spraying up behind it. Othman had been expecting its driver. His name was Muhammad Aslam – Servant of the Kind One. It was an appropriate name, Othman knew, because Muhammad Aslam was a fixer. Not a fixer in the way that Othman himself acted as a facilitator, organising multi-million-dollar deals and overseeing complex financial transactions. Muhammad Aslam operated at the other end of the spectrum, arranging violence for those who did not want to get their hands dirty. He could make bad things happen – at a price – his ability to do that enhanced by his employment with al-Shurta, the Saudi public security police.
Othman’s two bodyguards reached for their handguns but Othman nodded at Masood, who called that the visitor was expected. The men took their hands from their weapons but kept their eyes on the quad bike as it slowed and came to a standstill close to the Range Rovers.
As Muhammad Aslam climbed off it, a bodyguard went over and patted him down, then motioned for him to join Othman. Aslam was forty-two years old, but two decades with the Saudi police had aged him. There were dark patches under his eyes, deep wrinkles across his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and he had a badly trimmed drooping grey moustache. He was wearing a red baseball cap and sunglasses, both of which he removed as he approached. He bowed his head as he greeted Othman.
‘Let us go to the shade,’ said Othman. ‘The sun is fierce today.’
They walked together to a large marquee that had been set up some distance away from the Range Rovers. Inside, a jug of iced mint tea, another of iced water, and a plate of fruit had been set out on a table, with three chairs. Aslam waited until Othman was seated, then sat down himself. Masood poured tea for them, then backed out of the marquee, leaving them to talk alone.
Othman pushed the plate of fruit towards Aslam, who nodded his thanks and took an orange segment. ‘I need your help,’ said Othman.
‘Whatever you need, I am here,’ said Aslam. He bit into the orange and sucked noisily.
‘I need a man who can hunt,’ said Othman. ‘I need a man who can hunt and kill.’
‘There are many such men in the world,’ said Aslam.
‘My sons have been killed,’ said the old man. ‘I want revenge. It was the infidels who killed them, and I want them killed by a Muslim. They used their religion against my sons, so I will use Islam against them.’
‘I can find you such a man,’ said Aslam. ‘
‘The infidels who killed my sons made sure they suffered, so I want them to suffer in the same way. I want them killed by hand, I want them to bleed and to scream. I want them to hear the names of my beloved sons as they die.’
‘It shall be done, I swear,’ said Aslam.
‘Money is no object,’ said Othman. ‘I shall pay whatever I must, but I want it done quickly. I am an old man and I do not know how much time I have left.’
‘You have a long and fruitful life ahead of you, I am sure,’ said Aslam.
A slight smile creased Othman’s weathered face. ‘Do not flatter me, my friend,’ he said. ‘I am too old for sweet words.’
‘I did not mean to offend,’ said Aslam. ‘I shall carry out your wishes immediately.’
Othman nodded. ‘I thank you for that. Let me know your fee and I shall have the money transferred to your account.’
‘Do you wish updates on my progress?’
‘I require only to know that the man and the woman are dead, that they died in pain, with the names of my sons in their ears.’
Aslam stood up, bowed, then walked back through the sand towards his quad bike. One of the bodyguards went with him.
Macgregor came into the marquee with the falcon. Othman held out his gloved hand, palm down, and the bird hopped on to it. He caught the jesses between his thumb and first finger, and with his other hand he stroked the falcon’s chest feathers. ‘So, sweet thing,’ he whispered, ‘are you ready to kill again?’
The bird returned the old man’s cold stare for several seconds, then it arched its neck and cried to the sky.
Shepherd finished his coffee, folded his copy of the
The door buzzed and he pushed it open. Button hadn’t closed the door to the office and she smiled as he came up the stairs. She was wearing a red suit, the skirt cut just above the knee, and red high heels. ‘You could have at least brought me a tea,’ she said. You were in the coffee shop for fifteen minutes, weren’t you? Doing the
‘The Sudoku, actually,’ said Shepherd, ‘so I guess that means you weren’t looking over my shoulder. Anyway, I was just checking I was clean. I wouldn’t want to blow a perfectly good SOCA safe-house.’ He followed her into the office, unable to stop himself admiring her legs. Button often wore jeans or other trousers so they were rarely on display. She had very good ones, he decided. Firm and shapely, the ankles smaller than his wrists.
‘I’ve got a meeting at SOCA headquarters this afternoon,’ she said, ‘and flashing a bit of skin tends to cut me a lot of slack.’
‘If my legs were as good as yours, I’d be flashing them too,’ said Shepherd.
‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’
The office was lined with filing cabinets and volumes on tax law. There were four desks, one in each corner of the room, and a door. Button went through it and sat on a high-backed executive chair behind a large oak desk. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
Shepherd took one of the two wooden chairs on his side of the desk. ‘Raring to go,’ he said.
‘I’m glad your hair’s growing back because we’ll be making use of your roguish good looks,’ she said, as she opened a manila file and passed a photograph across the table.
‘You are joking, I hope,’ said Shepherd, as he scrutinised the photograph. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, ten inches by eight, of a woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length wavy red hair and freckles across her nose. She was laughing and there was a sparkle in her green eyes. ‘Elaine Carter,’ said Button.
‘Pretty,’ said Shepherd.
‘Possible serial killer,’ said Button.
‘Ah,’said Shepherd. ‘I thought serial killers were all middle-aged white males.’
‘That’s if you believe in profiling,’ said Button. ‘Elaine here is a special case.’ She passed over another photograph, of a man lying face down on a terracotta tiled floor, a pool of blood around his head. ‘Her husband was Robbie Carter, an RUC Special Branch officer. An inspector.’
Shepherd looked at the photograph. The hair at the back of the man’s head was matted with blood. ‘She killed her husband?’ he asked.
‘Spider, your psychic skills leave a lot to be desired. We’ll get on a lot quicker if you let me tell you what we know and you make the occasional grunt.’
Shepherd looked more closely at the photograph of the dead man. There were smaller pools of blood around his knees.
‘Robbie Carter was shot by an IRA execution squad in nineteen ninety-six,’ continued Button. ‘They gunned him down in front of his wife and young son.’ She slid five photographs out of the file and spread them in front of Shepherd, like a poker player displaying a winning hand. She tapped the photograph on the far left. ‘Adrian Dunne. He was caught fleeing a punishment shooting a year after Carter was killed. He’d used the same gun as he had for the Carter killing and was sent down for life. Released under the Good Friday Agreement.’ She took another photograph and placed it on top of the first. It was a crime-scene shot. The body in it was naked and lying face down. There were gunshot wounds to the man’s head and knees. ‘Dunne was killed two weeks ago.’
