‘Leaving me high and dry? You do love your metaphors, don’t you?’
‘In your line of work, your boss means everything,’ said the Major.
‘I’ve changed bosses before,’ said Shepherd.
‘But this is different,’ said the Major. ‘She’s not with SOCA because she wants to put criminals away. She’s there because MI5 sent her. And when they click their fingers, she’ll be back. You want a boss who’s committed, not one who’s plotting her career path.’
‘I hear you,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m just watching your back, Spider, same as always.’
‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, do you want to put the targets back to fifty yards and see who’d be better off with the iPod?’
The Judge fiddled with the papers in front of him, then peered across the crowded court at the man in the dock, who stared back at him, head held high. The Judge had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and looked over the top of them as he addressed the man.
‘Noel Marcus Kinsella, you have pleaded guilty to the callous murder of Inspector Robert Carter, a man who was murdered on the orders of the Provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army, for no other reason than that he was a serving police officer.’
Kinsella folded his arms and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart.
The Judge spoke slowly. The regular court reporters had perfect shorthand but he knew that most of those in his court were from the British media and usually depended on electronic recording equipment, which was banned in courtrooms, and he didn’t want to be misquoted.
‘I therefore sentence you to life imprisonment with a recommendation that you serve a minimum of sixteen years.’ He leant back in his seat. ‘But, as we both know, my recommendation counts for nothing, and neither does the sentence I have imposed on you.’ He gazed coldly at Kinsella. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement I have no doubt that you will not serve a single day in prison for the brutal murder of a brave young police officer. While I, like most of the population, are grateful for what the Peace Process has achieved, I have to say that some issues concern me greatly. The murder of Robert Carter is one such. Mr Carter was doing his job, protecting both sides of the community. He was a good father and a loving husband. You were part of a group who decided to murder him, to shoot him in the knees and then the head in front of his wife and young child. You have shown no remorse, and you have made it clear that you are pleading guilty for no other reason than to expedite the process so that you can gain your freedom.’
The Judge took a deep breath as if steadying himself. ‘Get on with it!’ shouted a man in the public gallery.
The Judge ignored the interruption. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, a minimum of two years must be served before early release can be considered. But it has been made clear to me that, in your case, you will be freed under the Royal Prerogative of Mercy, which means that you will serve no time.’ The Judge scowled at Kinsella. ‘There is a certain irony in that, considering that you showed Mr Carter not one iota of mercy.’
The Judge lifted a glass of water to his lips and drank slowly, his eyes continuing to burn into Kinsella’s. He put down the glass, then dabbed his lips with a handkerchief before he went on. ‘The court system is charged with deciding guilt or innocence,’ he said slowly, ‘but we are also charged with apportioning punishment. The murder of a brave young police officer should not go unpunished. Yet that is what is happening here. You have pleaded guilty, but there is no doubt in my mind that you feel no guilt. You deserve to be punished for what you did that evening in nineteen ninety-six, but that will not happen, which disgusts me today. Justice is not being served, but political expediency is.’ He paused again. ‘Take him down,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust.
Two uniformed prison officers reached for Kinsella, who shook them away. ‘You’re not to touch me,’ he said. He looked at his two lawyers.
‘Take him down, but do not restrain him,’ said the Judge.
The British lawyer stood up. ‘Your Honour, in view of the fact that Mr Kinsella will almost certainly be released later this afternoon, could he simply not walk free from the court now?’ he said, in an upper-class English accent.
The Judge scowled at him. ‘Mr Kinsella can sit in a cell until the paperwork arrives,’ he said. ‘If it was up to me he’d rot in Hell.’
Kinsella grinned at the Judge. ‘Thank you, your Honour,’ he said. ‘You have a nice day, now.’ He went down the stairs leading to the cells below the court, followed by the two prison officers.
There were loud cheers from the public gallery and two young men at the front unfurled an Irish flag. Two burly bailiffs moved to grab it but the Judge waved them back. There was nothing to be gained from confronting the demonstrators. He left the room by his private entrance. He had a bottle of malt whisky in his office and intended to make full use of it.
Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed removed the leather hood from the falcon’s head and studied its inquisitive jet black eyes as he made soft shushing sounds. The few seconds after the hood had been removed were always tense. The bird needed reassurance and to hear the voice of its master. The Saker falcon was beautiful, one of the old man’s favourites. It had a wingspan of more than a metre but he barely felt its weight as it gripped his arm with its curved talons. The Saker generally hunted rodents but the falconer had been training it to take birds in flight and it had proved an able pupil. It cocked its head, then opened its beak and called, ‘Kiy-ee, kiy-ee.’ Othman and the falcon stood in the shade of a large yellow and red umbrella held aloft by Masood.
‘Yes,pretty one,’said the old man. ‘It is time to hunt. Time to kill.’ He peered out over the desert dunes. Two white Range Rovers stood to his left, with his falconer, Sandy Macgregor. The old man had met Macgregor while he was staying at the prestigious Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland, and had hired him shortly afterwards. Now Macgregor earned a six-figure salary and a range of expatriate privileges, including a luxurious five-bedroom villa, business-class flights home for himself and his family, and a place at a top international school for his twelve-year-old son. Half a dozen other falcons waited on block perches attached to the rear of one of the Range Rovers. They were still hooded and cocked their heads as they listened intently, knowing that one of their number was about to be flown and that soon it would be their turn. Two of Othman’s bodyguards waited beside them, big men in safari jackets, their heads wrapped in red and white checked shumag scarves, their eyes shielded with impenetrable wraparound Oakley sunglasses. Both men were Americans, former Delta Force soldiers. Othman had no love for America or Americans but, like the Saudi Royal Family, he had come to appreciate that Delta Force produced bodyguards second to none.
He rubbed the falcon’s brown chest feathers. It arched its neck, spread its wings and called again, ‘Kiy-ee, kiy-ee.’ It was a female, almost six years old. Females generally made better hunters than males. They were larger, had keener eyesight and were better suited temperamentally to the task. They were patient: a male would rush in and waste its energy chasing anything that moved, but the females watched and waited until sure of making a kill. It was one of the few instances in male-dominated Saudi life when the male was regarded as inferior to the female.
Macgregor only gave the falcon water once a week. The bird took enough liquid otherwise from the blood of its prey. All the birds were weighed twice a day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. The key to keeping a falcon alert was to make sure it wasn’t too well fed. Overfeeding led to laziness, but underfeeding made it resentful and testy. The trick was to keep it just hungry enough to make it a determined hunter. The Saker hunted every day under Macgregor’s watchful eye, and the old man flew it several times a week, as he did all his hunting birds. The falcons were trained in the cool air of the early evening, but hunted best in the hours between sunrise and midday. Othman had been driven out into the desert as the sun was edging over the horizon, smearing the black sky with a reddish glow. Macgregor had prepared the birds as the sun had climbed higher and now, an hour into the day, a slight breeze was blowing from the west, ruffling the falcon’s feathers.