‘But I am definitely getting a dog?’
‘You’re starting to nag me now,’ said Shepherd.
‘I won’t nag if I know I’m getting a dog.’
‘Liam . . .’
‘Is that a yes? Yes, I’m getting a dog?’
O’Brien grinned. ‘At times like this I’m glad I don’t have kids,’ he said.
‘You can have this one if you want,’ said Shepherd.
‘Dad!’ Liam protested.
‘I’m joking,’ said Shepherd, and introduced the brothers. ‘This is Jack, and this Billy.’
Liam’s mouth fell open. ‘Wow, you’re twins!’
They faked astonishment. ‘We are?’ said Billy.
‘No way,’ said Jack. ‘I’m much better-looking.’
‘You’re the same,’ said Liam. ‘That’s so cool.’
‘Billy and Jack are going to be staying here for a few days,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just until I get back. Where’s Katra?’
They heard footsteps and looked up to see her coming down the stairs in baggy grey cargo pants and a Nike sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She frowned when she saw the four men, but then her face brightened. ‘Dan!’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you today.’
‘It’s a flying visit,’ said Liam.
‘Do you all want coffee?’ asked Katra, and smiled when she recognised O’Brien. ‘Oh, hi, Martin,’ she said. ‘Long time no see.’
O’Brien winked at her. Then Katra did a double-take. ‘They’re twins,’ Liam explained. ‘Jack and Billy.’
‘I’m Jack,’ said Billy.
‘I’m Billy,’ said Jack.
‘Leave the girl alone,’ warned O’Brien, ‘and drop the Tweedledum and Tweedledee routine.’ He grinned at Katra and cuffed Billy. ‘He’s Billy.’
‘How can you tell them apart?’ asked Katra.
‘Billy’s the ugly one,’ O’Brien told her.
‘Ignore them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you make us coffee while I show Billy and Jack around the house? Liam, finish your dinner.’
Katra headed for the kitchen with Liam in tow. Billy and Jack watched her go.
‘Slovenian, huh?’ said Billy.
‘Pretty,’ said Jack.
‘Guys, please don’t even think about it,’ said Shepherd.
Richard Yokely had set his cellphone to silent but it vibrated in his pocket to let him know he had received an SMS. He took it out and flipped it open. The message was from Dean Hepburn at the NSA. ‘Phone dead. Last location Little Venice, London.’
Yokely closed his phone and cursed. So Salih had either removed the Sim card in his phone or destroyed it. Either way Yokely no longer had any way of tracking him.
Salih stopped his rented Ford Mondeo under the railway bridge. A train rattled overhead and pigeons scattered. It was eleven o’clock and he was on time, but the road was deserted. Salih disliked tardiness. There was no excuse for it.
The man he was there to meet was a Yardie thug called Coates. His nickname was ‘Fur’. Fur Coates. A stupid pun. Salih couldn’t understand the cavalier way the blacks treated their names, as if one’s name was a joke, something to be laughed at. Names like Ice T, P. Diddy and Snoop Doggy Dogg’. As far as Salih was concerned, names were chosen by parents, they were special, they had meaning, and they were not to be toyed with. Coates was a drug-dealer who also sold guns. Salih had not met him before but the man had sold several to Hakeem, good weapons at a fair price.
A large black Mercedes with gold wheel rims drove up behind the Mondeo and halted next to him. Throbbing rap music vibrated through Salih’s seat. The tinted window rolled down and Salih winced as the music assaulted his eardrums. The driver had sunglasses pushed back on his head and a thick gold chain round his bull neck. He was holding the steering-wheel with two giant hands, each encrusted with chunky gold rings. A younger man was in the passenger seat, his eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses, lanky dreadlocks hanging around his shoulders. The driver jabbed a finger at Salih, then motioned that he should follow the Mercedes. The window rolled up and the Mercedes drove off.
They went through the streets of Harlesden, past littered pavements and uncared-for houses, past shops with steel shutters down, walls covered with graffiti and tatty hip-hop posters. A police car rushed in the opposite direction, siren wailing.
The Mercedes made a left turn and Salih followed. They drove past an off-licence with barred windows and a bookmaker’s with posters offering odds on Liverpool’s next European Cup game. A group of black teenagers in hooded sweatshirts and gleaming white training shoes looked enviously at the Mercedes, then glared at the Mondeo with undisguised contempt. One made a gun with his hand and pointed it at Salih as he went by.
The Mercedes slowed, then drove down a narrow, unlit alley between two rows of terraced houses. It stopped and Salih parked a few yards behind it. He climbed out of his car. The passenger of the Mercedes walked over to him. ‘I’m gonna need to pat you down,’ he said, tossing his dreadlocks.
Salih held out his arms to the sides. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
The man patted down his arms. ‘If I already had a gun, why would I want to buy one?’ asked Salih.
‘You might want to rip us off,’ said Dreadlocks. ‘Can’t trust anyone these days. You a friend of Hakeem?’
‘Yes,’ said Salih.
‘He’s one crazy Arab,’ said Dreadlocks, running his hands carefully up and down Salih’s legs. ‘One day I’m gonna pick up the
‘No, I’m not al-Qaeda.’
‘That Nine Eleven was something, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose,’ said Salih.
Dreadlocks straightened. ‘The black man should learn from you Arabs. No one listens to us, no one cares about the shit in our lives, but everyone’s bending down to make life better for you guys. Why? ’Cos they’re scared of you. And they’re not scared of us. You got the right attitude.’ He turned to the Mercedes. ‘He’s clean, Fur,’ he shouted.
Coates popped the boot of the Mercedes and got out. He was a big man, well over six feet six inches tall, with muscled calves that suggested hours in the gym coupled with active steroid use. He cracked his knuckles as he walked, bowlegged, towards Salih.
‘You’re Coates?’ asked Salih.
‘That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.’ Coates opened the boot wide. There were three holdalls and a cardboard box inside. ‘Hakeem said you wanted a handgun. Untraceable.’
‘A Glock, if you have one.’
‘Glock 17, if you want it. But it’s not cheap.’
‘I don’t want a cheap weapon, I want a reliable one,’ said Salih. ‘And I want one that hasn’t been used.’
‘You’ve come to the right man,’ said Coates. He unzipped the middle holdall. ‘I know everything there is to know about guns,’ he said. ‘Everything and anything.’
‘Is that right?’ said Salih.
‘Ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about firepower,’ said Coates, pulling a Glock from the holdall and handing it to Salih.
Salih took the gun and examined it. ‘You told Hakeem he could take a Glock on to an aeroplane because it’s made of plastic,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Coates. ‘You can walk right through a metal detector. Damn thing won’t beep or shit.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Salih. ‘Only forty per cent of the Glock is plastic and there are more than enough metal parts to set off a detector. There’s the slide and the barrel, and that’s before you take into account the ammunition.’
