‘And is it them? I remember in the Stanhope attacks there were white guys, ex-soldiers, involved.’
‘The coffee shop bomb was delivered by a suicide bomber who, according to the news, got spooked at the last minute and ran off. Ended up under the wheels of a lorry, but word is he’s a local Asian.’ Cain stopped and looked at me. ‘This country’s under attack, Jones. The Islamics are going to keep launching attacks like this because the government hasn’t got the backbone to fight back. They’d rather innocent British civilians died than stop people who don’t belong here pouring into the country and trying to destroy us. Cecil tells me you’ve got a family.’
‘I’ve got a daughter,’ I said carefully, reluctant to have Maddie dragged into this.
‘Do you want her to grow up as a minority in her own birthplace? Because that’s what’s going to happen if the government keep going with their multicultural experiment. The whites are going to end up outnumbered. There’ll be mosques on every street, and the government won’t do a damn thing to stop it because, like always, they’re too interested in showing how PC they are, and lining their own pockets. Look at Tony Blair. He’s a multimillionaire now on the backs of all those soldiers he sent to war.’ Cain’s vein was throbbing angrily in his cheek. ‘Cecil tells me you’re interested in fighting back.’
So, this was it. If I answered him correctly, I could be joining what was possibly the most dangerous terror cell in the country. I thought of my family. Thanked God they weren’t anywhere near central London. ‘Yeah,’ I said, looking him firmly in the eye, ‘I am.’
‘Cecil says you killed in Afghanistan.’
I shrugged. ‘I fired my gun at the enemy plenty of times.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said quietly. ‘He said you killed.’ He emphasized the last word, stretched it out.
So, Cecil had told him the secret that we’d carried since Afghanistan, something we’d all sworn we’d never repeat.
Cain gave me a predatory smile, his upper lip curling to reveal a perfect row of white teeth. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Jones. But I want to know how far you’re willing to go in this war.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes, Mr Cain,’ I said steadily. ‘You know my background. You know the shit I’ve been through. I only want two things. Revenge on the system that ruined my life and career, and humiliated my family. And money. I need money, so I can pay for my ex-wife and my kid. I don’t much care what I have to do to get either.’
So that was it. I’d laid my bait.
Cain was silent for a long few seconds before he spoke again. ‘I can get you both, Jones. I’ll put you on a retainer. Three grand a month cash. For that you need to be available at short notice for jobs which may involve guns, like today. Every time you do a job, there’ll be a serious bonus paid up front. How does that sound?’
I nodded slowly, not wanting to appear too enthusiastic. ‘It sounds OK.’
‘Good. Then do we have a deal?’
I said we did, and we shook on it.
He pulled a phone from his jacket and handed it to me. ‘Keep this on, and keep it with you. The only person who’ll phone it is me. Have you got any plans for today?’
‘Nothing that I can’t put on hold.’
‘Good. I’m trying to set up a meeting with some business associates on neutral ground. It may well happen later today, and I want you and Cecil there to back me up. I’ve done business with them before, and they’re generally pretty reliable, but there’s money involved, and money can sometimes make people do stupid things, so you’ll both be armed. The bonus is another grand.’
‘Who are the people we’re dealing with?’
‘The prisons are full of people who talk too much, Jones. With us, everything’s on a need-to-know basis. It’s a lot easier for everyone that way.’
I turned away from him, looking across the field to the woodland. ‘Still don’t trust me, eh?’
‘Let me tell you something,’ said Cain, lighting a cigarette with a gloved hand. ‘When I was in Lashkar Gah a few years back, we had an interpreter called Abdul. He came from a good family. Not exactly pro government, but not exactly anti it either. One of his brothers had been murdered by the Taliban, so he was considered safe. He was a nice guy too. Well educated, even quite enlightened by Afghan standards. He often used to eat with the men, and would ask us all these questions about England. What was the Queen like? Did the police really not carry guns? He liked talking about football too.’ Cain chuckled. It was an odd, artificial sound, as if he’d been practising it but still had some way to go. ‘I remember, Abdul supported Liverpool. He could name their 1978 and 1981 European Cup-winning teams. We used to test him, and he was never wrong.
‘One day, he was chatting with a couple of the privates over tea in one of the sangars. The next thing we heard a burst of gunfire, followed by screams. We rushed over there, weapons at the ready, just in time to see Abdul come walking out. At first we thought he’d been hit, and then he lifted up one of the private’s SA80s and pointed it at us. His expression was totally calm, almost dreamy, as he started firing. I always remember that. He wasn’t a bad shot either. He hit one of my corporals who made the mistake of hesitating a couple of seconds because he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, before the rest of us opened up and finally shot Abdul dead.
‘When we got inside the sangar we found the two privates Abdul had been talking to lying on the floor. One of them, a Geordie called Peterson, was already dead. The other was this big Fijian with an unpronounceable name who we used to call Hula and, although he was in a bad way, he was still conscious. He told us that one minute they’d all been chatting away like good friends, and the next, Abdul had grabbed Peterson’s gun and opened up on them. No rhyme. No reason. Hula never made it. Neither did Abdul, so we never did find out what motivated him. Whether he was a sleeper agent all along, or whether the Taliban had got to him somehow.’ Cain shrugged. ‘Personally, I believe it was the former. Not that that matters to either Peterson or Hula. Either way they’re still dead. But the point of the story, that’s easier.’ He gave me a hard stare. ‘You can never be too careful.’
And that was what was worrying me.
Fifteen
11.22
Tina called Mike Bolt from an empty interview room. She’d asked the warder if she could smoke since the prisoners seemed to do so with impunity, but was told she couldn’t, which pissed her off no end.
‘Jetmir Brozi,’ she said when he picked up. ‘Apparently he was involved in procuring the weaponry for the Stanhope siege, and Fox reckons he may well be involved in the attacks today too.’
She gave Bolt a brief rundown of the details of the interview.
‘He’s sure the attacks this morning are linked, and by the way, Mike, it would have really helped me if I’d known there’d been a second bomb before I spoke to him. I felt a right fool when he told me about the Bayswater attack.’
‘I called you as soon as I had the chance, but your phone was on silent.’ He sounded stressed and tired, which wasn’t like him at all.
‘How many casualties have there been so far?’
‘Nine dead from the first bomb. Five from the two in Bayswater. The Bayswater attack was designed to take out police officers attending a flat where they’d traced the phone used to claim responsibility for the first explosion.’
‘So it was a sophisticated attack, and similar to the bombs set off prior to the Stanhope siege.’
‘Very much so. But that doesn’t mean they’re connected. Our one suspect is a British national of Pakistani origin. The ID he was carrying says he’s Akhtar Mohammed, aged thirty-one and married with three children. He’s not on any watchlists, but then neither were the 7/7 bombers. But the point is, nothing links this man to any previous attacks. I’ll get our people to find out what they can about Jetmir Brozi, but I reckon it’s going to be a long job to gather any evidence against him.’