The gloved hand took the photograph away from his face.
‘I did my time,’ said McEvoy. ‘I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have a gun. I drove the car. I waited and I drove them away. That’s all.’ McEvoy felt a warm wetness spread round his groin and smelt his own urine. He’d pissed himself. He was crying like a baby and he’d pissed himself. Anger flared through his system and he lowered his hands, his tear-filled eyes blazing with hatred. He clenched his hands into fists. ‘I’m not going to die like this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you, I’m not going to . . .’
The gun barked and McEvoy felt a searing pain in his left leg, as if he’d been hit with a hammer. He staggered to the right and almost immediately there was a second bang and his right leg buckled. McEvoy screamed. He lurched forward, arms flailing. His knees felt as if they were being pierced by red-hot pokers and the strength drained from his legs. ‘This isn’t fair . . .’ he said. He didn’t hear the shot that blasted through the back of his skull and tore through his face, spraying his brains and blood across the wall in front of him.
It took Shepherd less than twenty minutes to drive to the ferry terminal. He was directed to one of the lines of cars waiting to board, and an hour later he was sitting in the cafeteria eating an egg-mayonnaise sandwich and drinking coffee as the ferry headed across the Irish Sea. The Norfolkline ship took just over eight hours to make the crossing and he had booked a cabin so that he could get some sleep. His fellow passengers were a mixed bag. There were middle-aged motorcyclists in black leathers, families with children, and groups of workmen travelling with the tools of their trade.
Shepherd studied a Belfast street map as he ate. He had been to Belfast three times in the past when he had worked for Superintendent Sam Hargrove’s police undercover unit, twice to infiltrate drugs gangs and once as back-up for a local Irish cop who had been trying to penetrate a counterfeit-currency ring. He had missed out on the IRA years, when members of the SAS put their lives on the line working under cover in Northern Ireland. It had been a dirty war, with casualties on both sides. There had been successes and failures, and war stories were still told in the bars and pubs of Hereford by the guys who had been through it.
Shepherd had come up against paramilitaries from both sides during his time in Belfast, but only as members of criminal gangs. As both sides downgraded their terrorist activities, the men with the guns found other ways to fill their time, from drug-dealing to armed robbery. Going up against criminal gangs in the city had been tough, not least because Shepherd’s English accent marked him as an outsider. The city’s criminal fraternity had split along tribal lines, but he’d been surprised to find that his nationality had never been held against him. The anger and hostility seemed to be directed between Catholics and Protestants, and as an Englishman he was deemed almost superfluous to the conflict. They were hard men, though, and most had started out throwing stones and petrol bombs at armoured Land Rovers before graduating to shootings, punishment beatings and, eventually, sectarian murder. That was the big difference for Shepherd. Most of the criminals he dealt with in mainland Britain were hard men, but few had seen a dead body and the vast majority had never killed anyone. But Belfast was brimful of men who had been trained to kill and who had taken lives for no other reason than that the victim was of the wrong religion. He was interested to see how the city had changed following the historic agreement for power-sharing.
He headed for his cabin at just after midnight and went straight to sleep. He woke at five thirty, shaved and washed, then went back to the cafeteria for coffee. At just before six the captain announced over the loudspeaker system that they were arriving in Belfast and Shepherd went down to the vehicle deck and sat in his Audi.
There were no checks as he drove off the ferry. There was little traffic on the roads and he was soon on a dual-carriageway on the outskirts of Belfast. He drove up into the Castlereagh Hills and turned on to Castlemore Avenue. The first houses he passed were detached, but then he came to a neat row of semis. He slowed and checked the numbers. His house was on the right, a neatly tended garden in front with a wrought-iron gate. He stopped the car, opened the gate, then drove up to the garage door. It was just before eight o’clock.
A white VW Golf was parked outside the garage attached to Elaine Carter’s house, but no tell-tale movement of the curtains on the ground or upper floor. Shepherd guessed she was probably still in bed. He looked at the house that would be his home for the next few weeks. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for a while but the white-painted wooden frames were in good condition, as was the front door.
He took out the keys Button had given him and unlocked the front door,which opened into a small hallway. Two rooms led off to the right, a front room with a brick fireplace and a dining room with a single bare bulb hanging from a ceiling rose. Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The one at the front was the largest, with built-in wardrobes. The window gave over the city, and in the distance he saw the giant yellow cranes of the Harland and Wolff shipyards, which had built the ill-fated Titanic, and beyond the urban sprawl, the Belfast hills. The sky was cloudless and the sun glinted on the cars driving through the city streets below.
There was a small shower room off the bedroom, and a bathroom off the landing. The two other rooms overlooked the back garden.
Shepherd went downstairs. There was no furniture in the house, but most rooms were carpeted. He went into the kitchen. Cheap wooden units, a twenty-year-old fridge and a gas cooker that didn’t appear to have been cleaned for a few years. Worn lino with a tile effect covered the floor and there was a table with a Formica top in one corner. He opened the fridge. Inside, he found a plastic-wrapped piece of mouldy cheese and a can of beer. He flicked on the switch at the socket and the fridge buzzed.
Shepherd sat at the table. He looked at his wristwatch, a Casio with a miniature calculator keyboard under the digital display. It was the watch of a computer nerd, part of his cover. The removal van was due that afternoon and he had to stay in the house until then. He rested his head against the wall. ‘Home, sweet home,’ he muttered to himself.
Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed sipped his sweet tea and consulted his diamond-encrusted gold Rolex. He had a full thirty minutes before he was due downstairs. He had taken a suite at the Al Faisaliah, one of Riyadh’s top five-star hotels, even though his palatial villa was only an hour’s drive away. The hotel was hosting a three-day defence exhibition and conference, and although he was semi-retired he liked to maintain the contacts he had built up over the years. All the major defence companies had set up shop, showcasing the latest communications and surveillance technologies. The British were there, of course, the Americans and the French, wearing fake smiles and five-thousand-dollar suits. The Russians were still trying to sell their post-Cold War junk, shamed by the Japanese and their state-of-the-art electronics. Othman was especially interested in meeting the Chinese. They had come a long way in recent years, and had moved from copying Western technologies to developing their own cutting-edge equipment. They already had a fighter jet on the market and Othman was sure that within the next twenty years they would be rivalling the Americans in arms sales. Othman planned to bring a few Chinese up to his suite for drinks, then to the lounge above the restaurant at the top of the hotel to sample his private stock of Havana cigars. A telephone rang and his lips thinned in annoyance.
His manservant picked up the receiver, listened, then placed his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It is Muhammad Aslam,’ he said.
Othman put his teacup on to the silver tray in front of him, then stood up slowly, his knees cracking like dry twigs as they always did when he stayed in one position for too long. Stiff joints were one of the many penalties of age. He went to his manservant and took the phone from him. Masood padded discreetly away as Othman put the receiver to his ear. ‘What you asked has been arranged,’ said Aslam.