Shepherd scowled at the academic’s woolly language and even woollier thinking. He seemed to have no clearer understanding of the aims of al-Qaeda than Shepherd did. What did al-Qaeda want? The dismantling of Israel? Death to all infidels? A world of Muslims? All women covered from head to foot in black and walking ten steps behind their men? If that was their aim, there would be no negotiating with them. And if negotiations were pointless, what then?
Katra put a plate of buttered toast in front of him. ‘You look very serious,’ she said.
Shepherd smiled up at her. ‘Busy week,’ he said.
‘Can we watch cartoons?’ asked Liam.
Shepherd pushed the remote control across the table to him. ‘Watch whatever you want,’ he said.
Liam flicked through the channels and stopped at a cartoon. Roadrunner was doing what he did best, running through the desert. A gleeful Wile E. Coyote was unwrapping an Acme bomb, a black sphere with a long fuse and ‘ BOMB ’ written on the side. Shepherd drank some coffee and wondered when bombs had stopped being funny. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he said and picked up a piece of toast. ‘I’ll be upstairs. You two stay down here, okay? I don’t want to be disturbed.’
Liam nodded, his eyes on the television.
‘It’s a work call,’ Shepherd said to Katra. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’
Shepherd went upstairs to his bedroom and took the Tony Corke mobile out of his bedside cabinet. He checked the call register. They hadn’t rung back and there were no texts.
Shepherd pressed ‘redial’. The call was answered on the third ring. ‘Who are you?’ said an Asian voice. Shepherd was fairly sure it was the second man he’d spoken to the last time he’d called. ‘I can’t deal with someone I don’t know. You could be the police.’
‘If you really thought I was a cop, you wouldn’t be talking to me at all. Now, do you want these cans or not?’
‘They are my property.’
‘So, let me ask you a question,’ said Shepherd. ‘Who am I talking to?’
‘You don’t need to know my name,’ said the man. ‘I want what belongs to me.’
‘So now it’s “I”, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yesterday it was “we”. Today it’s “I”. Am I talking to you or am I talking to a group?’
‘You’re talking to me.’
‘So, I need a name. I need someone to ask for if I call again.’
‘I will be the only one answering this phone from now on,’ said the man, ‘but you can call me Ben.’
‘That’s a start,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can call me Bill. That makes us Bill and Ben.’
‘Bill,’ repeated Ben. ‘You are English?’
‘As English as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, about my money.’
‘We have it.’
‘There’s that “we” again,’ said Shepherd.
‘Please, do not play games with me,’ said Ben.
‘Where do I get my money?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We will meet you at Paddington station. You give us the cans, we give you the money. Providing the cans have not been opened.’
‘Don’t worry, they haven’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Paddington isn’t good for me.’ Shepherd doubted that Hargrove would want the tracking device to disappear underground.
‘Where, then?’
‘What part of London are you in? Are you close to Paddington?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I was trying to make it easy for you,’ said Shepherd.
‘What’s wrong with Paddington?’
‘I’m scared of trains,’ said Shepherd. ‘I choose the venue, okay? That’s the way it’s going to be. What about Hyde Park? Speaker’s Corner. Sunday. Three o’clock. It’ll be busy. Lots of people. Safety in numbers.’
‘Okay.’
‘We’ll be out in the open, which means we’ll have plenty of time to check each other out.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And come alone,’ said Shepherd. ‘One more thing. The price has gone up. To thirty thousand pounds.’
‘You are a thief!’
‘I haven’t stolen anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m the guy who’s returning your property and I deserve a decent finder’s fee.’
‘You are a thief.’
‘Call me all the names you want, Ben, but if you don’t come up with thirty grand I’ll open the cans and take my chances with what’s inside.’
‘Do that and we’ll track you down and kill you. I swear on my children.’
‘It’s not nice to bring your kids into a business transaction. Are you going to come up with thirty grand or do I get me a can-opener?’
‘We have a deal,’ hissed Ben. ‘But I warn you, my friend, if you increase the price again, you will die in agony.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Speaker’s Corner.’ He cut the connection and went downstairs.
Katra was standing in the kitchen waggling the landline receiver. ‘It’s Liam’s grandmother,’ she said, holding it out.
Shepherd smiled and took it from her. ‘Moira, how are you?’ he asked.
‘We’re fine, Daniel,’ said Moira. She was the only person in the world who ever called him by his full first name. He’d long ago given up trying to persuade her to call him Dan. ‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.
‘He’s great,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re just going out to play football.’
‘It’s been ages since we saw him. And you, of course. Tom and I were wondering when you’d be coming up here.’
‘I’m sorry, Moira. Liam’s got school and I’ve been up to my eyes in work.’
‘We haven’t seen you since Christmas.’
‘I know.’
‘Why not come today? Liam’s old room is ready. You can stay overnight and drive back on Sunday.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Moira. I’m working tomorrow.’
‘Next weekend, then.’
‘Okay.’
‘Excellent!’ said Moira. ‘Tom will be delighted.’
‘Do you want to chat with Liam now?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He’s here.’
Shepherd gave the receiver to his son and went out into the garden to call Hargrove.
The Saudi liked the Savoy. It had been one of his favourite hotels since his father had taken him there as a child. The staff at the Oriental in Bangkok were more attentive, the rooms in the Hong Kong Peninsular were a touch more luxurious, the beds at the George V in Paris had the edge in comfort, but the Savoy was where he felt most at home. From the moment he walked up to the reception desk until the moment he checked out, all his needs and desires were taken care of. They knew the type of pillows he favoured, that he liked irises in his room, that he preferred white toast to wholemeal, took skimmed milk with his coffee, lemon with his tea, and wanted unscented soap in his bathroom.
He refilled the delicate china cup with Earl Grey and dropped in a slice of lemon. He could never understand why people put milk and sugar into Earl Grey. It destroyed the tea’s delicate flavour. He sipped and watched the devastation on the television set in the corner of his suite. Everything had gone exactly as he’d planned. The bomb in the Hyatt had gone off at one o’clock on the dot, destroying the restaurant at its busiest time. He remembered the young waitress with the bright smile and wondered if she was among the dead. The first bomb in the street market had detonated at the same time, ripping through the throngs of tourists as they shopped for trinkets to take home to their families and friends. Those who hadn’t been killed in the first market bomb had fled straight into the path of the second. CNN was saying that a hundred and twenty people had died, but the Saudi could tell from the pictures on the screen that the death toll would be much higher.
Sydney had been a good choice. It wasn’t the capital city, but it was one that everyone identified as quintessentially Australian. Bringing the jihad to Australia would make the world realise that no one was safe. If the shahids could strike in Sydney, they could strike anywhere. CNN didn’t refer to them as shahids, of course – or martyrs. They called them suicide-bombers, as if somehow it was their own deaths that had been the objective. It was always that way with American journalists. If the bombers were on the Americans’ side, they were freedom-fighters; if they were against them, they were terrorists. They didn’t bother to try to understand: they sought only to label.