Khalid Wazir had told him was heart-breaking, but at least now Othman could take his revenge on those responsible. Othman made a small beckoning motion with his right hand. Masood padded over and bent down so that his ear was level with Othman’s mouth. Othman whispered that he should give Khalid Wazir fifty thousand dollars from the ornate silver casket that stood on a low table to the left of the tent’s entrance. Masood bowed and went to it as Othman continued to scrutinise Khalid Wazir. ‘They tortured you, the Americans?’ Othman asked.
‘It was nothing compared to what they did to your sons.’
‘They beat you?’
‘In my case the abuse was mental more than physical. They would not let me sleep. I had to kneel with my hands on my head for hours at a time. They said they would keep me for ever unless I told them everything I knew about al-Qaeda.’
‘And what do you know about the Base?’ asked Othman. ‘The Base’ was the meaning of
‘Nothing.’ Wazir smiled bitterly. ‘I was a mechanic, working in Philadelphia. My boss was Iraqi, an old friend of my father’s, and he took me on when I arrived in the country. He worked me hard and paid me little, but I was there illegally so I could not complain. I was not political. I just wanted to make money to send back to my family. But my boss hated the Americans, even though he had lived there for twenty years. He was helping a group of fundamentalists who were planning an anthrax attack in New York, and he had me work on one of their vehicles. The group were arrested and they found my fingerprints on the truck. Men from Homeland Security came to my apartment in the middle of the night and three days later I was in Guantanamo Bay. They kept me there for four years. It was where I met your son.’
‘And what will you do now?’
‘I was deported to Iraq. I swore to your son that I would come to see you, but then I will return to my country and fight the infidel. I have many skills that will be useful.’
‘My manservant will give you money,’ said Othman. ‘And you have my gratitude for ever. If there is anything you need in the future, you have only to ask.’
‘I did not do this for money, sir,’ said Wazir, but Othman silenced him with a languid wave. Wazir realised that to argue would cause offence, so he lowered his eyes and mumbled his thanks. He stood up, and as he left the tent, Masood handed him a bulky package containing brand new hundred-dollar bills.
Othman put a hand to his forehead. A headache was building. Masood was at his shoulder. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ he asked. He had obviously heard everything Wazir had said, but knew better than to admit as much to his employer.
Othman shook his head. ‘How many are still waiting?’ he asked.
‘A dozen at most, sir,’ said Masood. ‘I shall send them away.’
‘No,’ said Othman. ‘I shall see them.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Masood, and padded over the rugs to the entrance.
Othman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had to be strong. He could not afford to show weakness in front of the men who wanted an audience with him. With wealth and power came responsibility. It was the Bedouin way.
Shepherd stopped his black BMW X3 in the road and switched off the engine. His other car, a Honda CRV, was parked in the driveway. Katra would have picked up Liam from school by now. Shepherd had been away from his son for just over a fortnight, and although he had tried to phone home every evening he hadn’t always managed it. Being under cover meant working unsociable hours and as David Hickey didn’t have children he could only use his personal phone when no one was within earshot.
He climbed out of the SUV and walked up the driveway to the cottage. Liam’s bike was lying on the front lawn and Shepherd wheeled it to the back door. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table reading a football magazine and yelped when he heard the door open. ‘Dad!’ he yelled.
‘Who were you expecting? Father Christmas?’ Liam rushed over to him and hugged him. ‘Have you got bigger while I was away?’
‘It was only two weeks,’ said Liam. He released his father and squinted up at his head. ‘What happened to your hair?’
‘I had to cut it,’ said Shepherd.
‘You look like a skinhead.’
‘It’ll grow,’ said Shepherd.
Katra appeared from the kitchen in a blue tracksuit, her hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘I was about to play football with Liam,’ she said.
‘I’ll have a kick-about with him,’ said Shepherd.
‘Great, it’ll give me time to make
‘What’s that?’
‘Dad, don’t you know anything?
Katra grinned. ‘My grandmother used pigs’ brains,’ she said to Shepherd, ‘but I use minced pork.’ Her Slovenian accent had all but disappeared during the three years she had worked for Shepherd, but the hours she spent watching daytime soap operas meant she had picked up the Australian habit of ending every sentence as if it was a question.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Shepherd, and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Come on, let’s see if you can get any past me.’
They went out into the garden and Liam picked up a muddy football. He dropped it at his feet then kicked it to Shepherd, who dribbled it across the lawn. The grass needed cutting. He hadn’t mown it since they’d moved in. He kicked the ball back to his son. ‘The garden’s a mess, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Because Mum isn’t here,’ said Liam. ‘She always looked after the garden.’
‘Hey, I did a lot of digging in the old one, remember?’
‘Only because Mum told you what to do,’ said Liam. ‘She decided where to plant things.’ He kicked the ball hard and it sailed past Shepherd. He turned and jogged after it, retrieving it from an overgrown vegetable patch. Liam was right. Sue had designed their old garden in Ealing, and although he’d done the spadework and helped her carry bedding plants and fertiliser from the garden centre, it had been her vision. ‘So how about you and me get to work here?’ he asked.
‘Do you know how?’
‘How hard can it be? Anyway, we need a big lawn to play football on, right? And the trees are fine as they are. We just need plants and bushes and stuff. Maybe a rockery or two.’
Liam grinned. ‘A rockery?’
‘Your mum liked rockeries. Don’t ask me why.’ Shepherd kicked the ball back so Liam, who caught it on his chest, let it fall to the ground and trapped it with his right foot. ‘You’ve been practising,’ called Shepherd.
‘I’m on the school team now,’ said Liam. He flicked the ball into the air, headed it three times, then let it drop on to his right foot. There was a strip of plaster just below his knee.
‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd, pointing at it.
‘I tripped,’ said Liam. ‘It’s just a graze.’ He kicked the ball, which whizzed past Shepherd and banged against the shed.
‘Why didn’t Katra call me?’
‘I told her not to. Are we going to play?’
Shepherd went to Liam and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Why did you tell her not to phone me?’
‘I didn’t want you to worry, Dad. It’s only a graze. It’s not like I needed stitches or anything.’
‘I’m your dad, it’s my job to worry,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yeah, but what could you have done? Would you have come home?’
Shepherd screwed up his face. His son had the knack of asking disconcerting questions. ‘If you’d needed me, sure.’ Shepherd could hear the lack of conviction in his voice and it was clear from Liam’s face that he’d heard it too. ‘But you’re a big boy, right? You’ll be eleven soon.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ said Liam. ‘That’s why I told Katra not to call you.’
‘I’m your dad, Liam. I care about you more than anyone else in the world.’
