really.’
‘I got that impression too.’
‘You worked Miami, then?’
‘Yep — and New York for a while.’
‘And what happened to your partner, Joe, was it?’
Donaldson gulped. ‘Dead. Hit by a mobster in Miami.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah, sometimes part of the territory,’ Donaldson said. ‘But, reality is, these things are usually damp squibs, even when the bad guys turn up.’ He checked his watch and wondered why he’d really decided to hop in with Bill. Mainly to avoid spending time with FB and Beckham, he supposed. But he’d had enough now and there was no need for him to be out and about. ‘How’s about dropping me off at the police station, bud?’
‘No stamina?’
‘Agreed — no stamina.’
‘Not a problem.’ Bill started up the Vauxhall, weaved his way to the promenade and drove south, past the Hilton and Imperial Hotels on his left, reaching the huge Metropole building on the right, then to the traffic lights at Talbot Square. Donaldson, slumped low in his seat, absent-mindedly watched pedestrians on the pavement to his left. Lots of them. As the lights changed, Bill set off slowly, past Talbot Square, with Blackpool Tower on the nearside stretching towards the clear blue sky. Across to the right, the tide had crept in and the sea was still and silvery, the horizon clearly pencilled in.
Donaldson thought briefly about his earlier meeting with Henry Christie, who was obviously still reeling from Kate’s death. It was early days and Henry, though often brittle at the best of times, was pretty resilient. He’d come out the other side, Donaldson guessed. Hoped.
They hit another set of lights at New Bonny Street. At the next set, Chapel Street, Bill would turn left and loop around to the lower ground floor of the police station to drop Donaldson off at the public enquiry desk. Then Bill would head back to the stake-out area and hope something would happen.
Donaldson yawned and stretched. The lights seemed to stay red for ages. He turned his head lazily to the left, rolling his neck muscles, and he looked slightly back over his shoulder.
As the lights turned green and Bill, who happened to be at the front of the line of traffic, moved the Vauxhall forwards, Donaldson suddenly shot upright.
‘That’s one of them,’ the American uttered, craning his neck as he tried to keep track of the youth.
‘What?’ Bill said.
‘One of the two we’re after.’
‘You certain?’
Donaldson shot him a withering look. ‘Pull in here, let me out — and get on your radio. Let everybody know we somehow missed them leaving the flat.’
Bill swerved, mounted the kerb. ‘I’m coming too. We need to keep in touch somehow.’
Donaldson was already out, walking briskly back to the lights about fifty metres away, his senses, his instincts, whirring. Bill scuttled behind him, abandoning the car with three wheels on the pavement, causing a slight blockage on the prom.
Donaldson weaved through a sea of day trippers and holiday-makers, all of whom seemed to be walking in the opposite direction to him. All of a sudden he had a flashback. Just for an instant he was transported back a few years, to that time when, on foot in Barcelona, he was chasing a terrorist. Although Blackpool was no Barcelona, then as now, the streets had been crammed with people. On that occasion he’d been pushing against the tide of bodies washing up Las Ramblas like a human tsunami and today he was on Blackpool promenade. A culture away — but still the same fear stalking the streets.
He paused briefly on the kerb at New Bonny Street, remembering to check right before stepping out. His conditioning, even after more than a dozen years of UK living, was to glance left for vehicles first.
He rushed across to the central reservation, then diagonally across from there, striding purposefully towards the town centre, a large amusement arcade on his left. Bill was a few paces behind, gabbling into his PR to alert people to the change of events. He had no details as yet.
Bill was shocked when Donaldson stopped, turned quickly and dragged him up to the building line, hissing, ‘No radios now — unless it’s covert.’ Meaning hidden, able to be used without anyone realizing. Which Bill’s wasn’t. He was holding the PR up to his mouth as he transmitted and it was as large as a house phone, so no discretion there. ‘If we catch up and he spots us and we spook him, it’s game over. Could be game over anyway,’ Donaldson said bleakly.
‘What game?’
‘Suicide bomber game.’
It had been a fleeting glimpse, seconds only, but long enough for Donaldson to do two things. First, to ID the young man. Second, to take in all the points that suggested — nay, screamed — he was a suicide bomber.
First the ID. Donaldson had spent over twenty years looking at faces, memorizing them, remembering names. One of his pastimes, if you could call it that, was to peruse the Wanted Persons files and put names to faces. It was a basic skill of being an FBI agent, learned and constantly updated. Even on quick reveals Donaldson was one hundred percent certain he could identify someone in a crowd.
As in the case of Zahid Sadiq, one of the two faces he’d seen only for the first time that morning at Beckham’s iffy briefing. Donaldson had taken in the face, the eyes, the ears, the nose, the forehead of a young good-looking Asian boy.
And he was sure he’d seen that same lad walking along the promenade. Even though he was now clean- shaven, Donaldson recognized him. Which led to point two.
Suicide bomber.
Only that brief glimpse as he passed in the car had told Donaldson that.
First the beard — or lack of it. The boy, who was only nineteen and who had a pretty crappy beard anyway, as shown on the photograph at the briefing, had shaved it off, a procedure that had the effect of lightening the skin in the shaved area, under the nose, on the chin, on the side of the face. He had also shaved his head to the bone. Although he was wearing a skullcap, Donaldson had clearly seen that the head was devoid of hair. That was just one of the many things that Donaldson took in and processed.
Next was the three-quarter length coat, bulky and inappropriate for a day that was getter hotter by the minute. Everyone else on the prom had shed their coats and was down to shirtsleeves and light clothing. The lad’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets and Donaldson also caught sight of a white wire coming out of the right- hand pocket and up the sleeve. He saw only a half-inch of it. But he saw it. Initial thought: was this hand gripping a detonator, thumb on button? Why was the coat extra bulky? Were explosives strapped to the boy’s torso? The lad was also staring dead ahead as he walked, as though he was walking down a tunnel, another classic sign of a suicide bomber. And he was mumbling to himself, lips moving
… praying?
The thought that he might be completely wrong was in his mind, too. Perhaps the lad was chilly. Had a few pullovers packed on and was simply listening to his iPod. Donaldson hadn’t seen an earpiece, though.
But he also did not care if he was wrong. Better that than the other.
Bill fumbled in his own earpiece, connected it to his PR and shoved the radio in his pocket. ‘I need to tell ’em something,’ he said, pointing to the PR, meaning he’d alerted comms and they now needed more information.
‘Tell them Zahid Sadiq is walking into the town centre and he could be carrying a bomb.’ Donaldson said it matter-of-factly, then spun away from Bill and started walking quickly, turning the corner into Central Drive hoping he hadn’t lost Sadiq, but spotted him immediately. It helped being a few inches taller than most of the people around him. Sadiq was about seventy metres ahead, walking straight on to Adelaide Street, the big McDonald’s on the corner to the right, then into Bank Hey Street, which ran along the back of the Tower, where the main entrance to that attraction was situated.
Donaldson rushed forwards, wondering how best to deal with the situation. Sadiq was entering an area chock-full with people, but was that the target? A suicide bomb on a shopping street? Just by standing there and detonating it outside WHSmith he would probably kill over fifty people, wound another fifty and cause a huge amount of damage. Easy. But as a target, a statement? Donaldson doubted that would be the case.
Perhaps the Tower itself?
