Dead Men Page 4

  The man sat cross-legged and put his hands on his knees, still reluctant to meet Othman’s gaze.

  Masood hovered at the man’s shoulder and asked him if he wanted tea or water. The man shook his head. Masood went back to the tent’s entrance.

  Othman was used to people being uncomfortable in his presence. He was rich and powerful in a country where the rich and powerful held the power of life or death over lesser mortals. ‘What do you need from me?’ he asked quietly.

  The man swallowed nervously. ‘I bring you a message, sir, from your son.’

  ‘I have many sons,’ said Othman.

  ‘From Abdal Jabbaar,’ said the man.

  Othman’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Abdal Jabbaar is dead,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know. I spoke to him before he died.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I was in Guantánamo Bay. I was held by the Americans, as was your son.’

  The man was mumbling and Othman strained to hear him. ‘The Americans let you go?’ he asked.

  ‘After four years. They decided I was not a threat.’

  ‘And are you a threat to them?’

  The man looked up and smiled cruelly. ‘I was not when they took me to Cuba, but I am now,’ he said. ‘I hate the infidels and I will do whatever I can to eradicate them from the face of the earth. But first your son said I was to speak with you, and to tell you what they did to him.’

  Othman studied the man in front of him with unblinking eyes. The other lowered his own, reluctant to meet Othman’s baleful stare.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Othman.

  ‘I am Khalid Wazir.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Othman, picking up the silver teapot. This time the man nodded. Othman poured mint tea into a glass and handed it to him. ‘So, Khalid Wazir, I am listening. Do not be nervous, my friend. You have done me a great service in coming here. Tell me what my son said.’

  ‘He was tortured by the Americans,’ Wazir whispered. He sipped his tea, then placed the glass on a small wooden table inlaid with ivory.

  ‘I assumed that,’ said Othman. ‘They said my son took his own life, but I know that he would never have done such a thing.’

  ‘They tortured us all,’ said Wazir. ‘They are animals. They have no honour.’ He sighed mournfully. ‘Sir, I do not know how to tell you what I must.’

  ‘My son is already dead. What else can you tell me that would be worse?’ said Othman quietly.

  Khalid Wazir took a deep breath, then laid a hand over his heart. ‘Sir, your son wanted me to tell you that they killed his younger brother, your son Abdal Rahmaan.’

  The old man frowned. ‘Abdal Rahmaan died in a car crash,’ he said.

  Khalid Wazir shook his head. ‘He was burnt alive by the Americans,’ he said. ‘Tortured and killed to put pressure on Abdal Jabbaar.’

  The old man sat back in his seat. Abdal Rahmaan had been found in the burnt-out wreckage of his SUV in Qatar after the car had careered off the highway and slammed into an electricity pylon. That was what the police had told Othman and he had had no reason to doubt them. Until now. ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘I can only tell you what your son told me,’ said Khalid Wazir. He took a deep breath. ‘There is more.’

  ‘Tell me,’ snapped Othman. His patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Your daughter,’ said Khalid Wazir. ‘The infidels tortured your daughter, Kamilah.’

  ‘That cannot be so,’ said Othman, coldly.

  ‘They assaulted her. They threatened to rape her when she was pregnant with your grandchild. They did this and showed Abdal Jabbaar what they were doing. They wanted information from Abdal Jabbaar so they killed Abdal Rahmaan and assaulted Kamilah. Your son wanted you to know this.’

  ‘Did he tell you who did this to him? Did he give you their names?’

  Khalid Wazir nodded. ‘An American called Richard Yokely. And an English woman, Charlotte Button.’

  Othman sat with his back ramrod straight. He forced himself to stay impassive though his instinct was to scream, curse and swear vengeance on those who had abused his family.

  ‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Khalid Wazir.

  Othman acknowledged the man’s apology with a wave of his liver-spotted hand but said nothing. He had come to terms with the death of his two sons, and even accepted that Abdal Jabbaar had killed himself while in the custody of the Americans, but what Wazir had told him had shocked him to the core. The police in Qatar had shown him photographs of Abdal Rahmaan’s burnt-out car and told him that no other vehicle had been involved, that it had been a simple accident, that Abdal Rahmaan had probably fallen asleep at the wheel. But that had been a lie. A deliberate lie. More than a lie – there had been a conspiracy. And if Abdal Rahmaan had been murdered, then perhaps Abdal Jabbaar had not killed himself. Perhaps he, too, had been murdered by the Americans.

  He had not seen Kamilah for three months. She was living with her husband in Nice, in the South of France. Othman had held his granddaughter soon after she was born, and had never suspected that anything was wrong. He understood why. Kamilah’s husband was a good man but he was a devout Muslim and would be unable to live with a wife who had been defiled by unbelievers. No matter how much he loved his wife, Kamilah’s husband would shun her for ever. Othman’s daughter had known this so had said nothing, preferring to hide her shame and suffer in silence.

  Khalid Wazir was watching Othman nervously and Othman forced himself to smile. No doubt the man feared for his safety, that Othman would lash out at the bringer of bad news. But Othman bore him no ill will. It had taken courage to tell a father that two of his sons had been murdered, and Othman would reward him handsomely. What Khalid Wazir had told him was heart-breaking, but at least now Othman could take his revenge on those responsible. Othman made a small beckoning motion with his right hand. Masood padded over and bent down so that his ear was level with Othman’s mouth. Othman whispered that he should give Khalid Wazir fifty thousand dollars from the ornate silver casket that stood on a low table to the left of the tent’s entrance. Masood bowed and went to it as Othman continued to scrutinise Khalid Wazir. ‘They tortured you, the Americans?’ Othman asked.

  ‘It was nothing compared to what they did to your sons.’

  ‘They beat you?’

  ‘In my case the abuse was mental more than physical. They would not let me sleep. I had to kneel with my hands on my head for hours at a time. They said they would keep me for ever unless I told them everything I knew about al-Qaeda.’

  ‘And what do you know about the Base?’ asked Othman. ‘The Base’ was the meaning of al-Qaeda, though the term was rarely used in the Western media. ‘The Base’ sounded too normal, too non-threatening, so they preferred to use the more sinister Arabic name.

  ‘Nothing.’ Wazir smiled bitterly. ‘I was a mechanic, working in Philadelphia. My boss was Iraqi, an old friend of my father’s, and he took me on when I arrived in the country. He worked me hard and paid me little, but I was there illegally so I could not complain. I was not political. I just wanted to make money to send back to my family. But my boss hated the Americans, even though he had lived there for twenty years. He was helping a group of fundamentalists who were planning an anthrax attack in New York, and he had me work on one of their vehicles. The group were arrested and they found my fingerprints on the truck. Men from Homeland Security came to my apartment in the middle of the night and three days later I was in Guantánamo Bay. They kept me there for four years. It was where I met your son.’

  ‘And what will you do now?’

  ‘I was deported to Iraq. I swore to your son that I would come to see you, but then I will return to my country and fight the infidel. I have many skills that will be useful.’

  ‘My manservant will give you money,’ said Othman. ‘And you have my gratitude for ever. If there is anything you need in the future, you have only to ask.’

  ‘I did not do this for money
, sir,’ said Wazir, but Othman silenced him with a languid wave. Wazir realised that to argue would cause offence, so he lowered his eyes and mumbled his thanks. He stood up, and as he left the tent, Masood handed him a bulky package containing brand new hundred-dollar bills.

  Othman put a hand to his forehead. A headache was building. Masood was at his shoulder. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ he asked. He had obviously heard everything Wazir had said, but knew better than to admit as much to his employer.

  Othman shook his head. ‘How many are still waiting?’ he asked.

  ‘A dozen at most, sir,’ said Masood. ‘I shall send them away.’

  ‘No,’ said Othman. ‘I shall see them.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Masood, and padded over the rugs to the entrance.

  Othman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had to be strong. He could not afford to show weakness in front of the men who wanted an audience with him. With wealth and power came responsibility. It was the Bedouin way.

  Shepherd stopped his black BMW X3 in the road and switched off the engine. His other car, a Honda CRV, was parked in the driveway. Katra would have picked up Liam from school by now. Shepherd had been away from his son for just over a fortnight, and although he had tried to phone home every evening he hadn’t always managed it. Being under cover meant working unsociable hours and as David Hickey didn’t have children he could only use his personal phone when no one was within earshot.

  He climbed out of the SUV and walked up the driveway to the cottage. Liam’s bike was lying on the front lawn and Shepherd wheeled it to the back door. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table reading a football magazine and yelped when he heard the door open. ‘Dad!’ he yelled.

  ‘Who were you expecting? Father Christmas?’ Liam rushed over to him and hugged him. ‘Have you got bigger while I was away?’

  ‘It was only two weeks,’ said Liam. He released his father and squinted up at his head. ‘What happened to your hair?’

  ‘I had to cut it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You look like a skinhead.’

  ‘It’ll grow,’ said Shepherd.

  Katra appeared from the kitchen in a blue tracksuit, her hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘I was about to play football with Liam,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have a kick-about with him,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Great, it’ll give me time to make mavzlji.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Dad, don’t you know anything? Mavzlji are meatballs. Made from pigs’ brains.’

  Katra grinned. ‘My grandmother used pigs’ brains,’ she said to Shepherd, ‘but I use minced pork.’ Her Slovenian accent had all but disappeared during the three years she had worked for Shepherd, but the hours she spent watching daytime soap operas meant she had picked up the Australian habit of ending every sentence as if it was a question.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Shepherd, and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Come on, let’s see if you can get any past me.’

  They went out into the garden and Liam picked up a muddy football. He dropped it at his feet then kicked it to Shepherd, who dribbled it across the lawn. The grass needed cutting. He hadn’t mown it since they’d moved in. He kicked the ball back to his son. ‘The garden’s a mess, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Because Mum isn’t here,’ said Liam. ‘She always looked after the garden.’

  ‘Hey, I did a lot of digging in the old one, remember?’

  ‘Only because Mum told you what to do,’ said Liam. ‘She decided where to plant things.’ He kicked the ball hard and it sailed past Shepherd. He turned and jogged after it, retrieving it from an overgrown vegetable patch. Liam was right. Sue had designed their old garden in Ealing, and although he’d done the spadework and helped her carry bedding plants and fertiliser from the garden centre, it had been her vision. ‘So how about you and me get to work here?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘How hard can it be? Anyway, we need a big lawn to play football on, right? And the trees are fine as they are. We just need plants and bushes and stuff. Maybe a rockery or two.’

  Liam grinned. ‘A rockery?’

  ‘Your mum liked rockeries. Don’t ask me why.’ Shepherd kicked the ball back so Liam, who caught it on his chest, let it fall to the ground and trapped it with his right foot. ‘You’ve been practising,’ called Shepherd.

  ‘I’m on the school team now,’ said Liam. He flicked the ball into the air, headed it three times, then let it drop on to his right foot. There was a strip of plaster just below his knee.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd, pointing at it.

  ‘I tripped,’ said Liam. ‘It’s just a graze.’ He kicked the ball, which whizzed past Shepherd and banged against the shed.

  ‘Why didn’t Katra call me?’

  ‘I told her not to. Are we going to play?’

  Shepherd went to Liam and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Why did you tell her not to phone me?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to worry, Dad. It’s only a graze. It’s not like I needed stitches or anything.’

  ‘I’m your dad, it’s my job to worry,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, but what could you have done? Would you have come home?’

  Shepherd screwed up his face. His son had the knack of asking disconcerting questions. ‘If you’d needed me, sure.’ Shepherd could hear the lack of conviction in his voice and it was clear from Liam’s face that he’d heard it too. ‘But you’re a big boy, right? You’ll be eleven soon.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ said Liam. ‘That’s why I told Katra not to call you.’

  ‘I’m your dad, Liam. I care about you more than anyone else in the world.’

  ‘I know.’ He seemed unwilling to meet Shepherd’s eye.

  ‘Just because I’m away, it doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you or that I’m not thinking about you.’

  ‘Are you going away again?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Hopefully not for a while,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You always say that,’ said Liam, ruefully.

  ‘And I always mean it,’ said Shepherd. ‘But sometimes there’s work that needs doing and I have to do it.’

  ‘Why can’t someone else do it?’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘But you could get another job, couldn’t you?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Like what?’

  ‘You could work in a bank, like Granddad.’

  ‘Liam, I was a soldier. Now I’m a policeman. Well, sort of a policeman. Anyway, guys like me, we can’t work in an office.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’d be bored,’ Shepherd said. It was the best answer he could come up with.

  ‘So you do it because it’s exciting, not because it’s your job?’

  ‘Everyone has to work,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everyone has to do something.’

  ‘I just wish you weren’t away such a lot,’ said Liam.

  ‘If I was a salesman I’d be away all the time. People have to travel for all sorts of jobs. Look at airline pilots. If I was a pilot, I’d never be here, would I?’

  ‘At least people don’t shoot at pilots,’ said Liam, flatly.

  ‘What?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Who says I’m being shot at?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Have Gran and Granddad said something?’

  ‘I just heard them talking, that’s all, last time I was at their house.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Liam. ‘Really, nothing.’

  ‘They said I was shot at?’

  Liam shrugged. ‘That’s what Mum used to say, too.’

  Shepherd flopped down on to the grass. ‘Sit,’ he said. Slowly Liam sank down next to him, but turned his back. ‘I help to catch criminals,’ said Shepherd, ‘but it’s not like on the TV – the bad guys don’t go around shooting the men who are trying to catch them. They honestly don’t. They know that if they shoot someone,
they’ll go to prison for a long, long time.’

  ‘Sometimes policemen get killed.’

  ‘Not very often, Liam, and if I do my job properly, which I do, no one’s going to get the chance to hurt me. I have partners, I have a boss, I have a whole lot of people watching out for me.’

  ‘But you have a gun, right?’

  Shepherd sighed. Yes, he had a gun. It was in the house, locked in a drawer in his wardrobe. A SIG-Sauer,his favourite weapon. It had always been a bone of contention with Sue, but Shepherd had argued that it was just a tool he needed to carry out his job effectively. She had always insisted that it be hidden from Liam, but when the boy was ten Shepherd had decided he was old enough to know about firearms. Most firearm accidents involving children arose from ignorance so he had shown the gun to Liam and explained how it worked, how dangerous it was, and that it was never, ever, to be taken from the locked drawer. ‘I have a gun, yes.’

  ‘Because you shoot people, right?’

  ‘Liam, I don’t go around shooting people.’

  ‘Granddad says you do.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘He said you’ve shot people. Is that true, Dad? Have you shot people?’

  ‘What did Granddad say to you?’

  ‘Nothing. I was upstairs and he was talking to Gran.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I just want to know what he was saying, Liam. You’re not in any trouble. And neither is your granddad.’

  Liam sighed. ‘Gran said she wished you had a job that wasn’t so dangerous because I’d already lost one parent and it was stupid of you to take risks when you were all I had left. Granddad said you were a hero and that you only shot people to save lives.’

  Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘They’re both right.’

  Now Liam turned to him. ‘So you have shot people, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s not something I want to talk about now. Maybe when you’re older.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Because it’s not easy to explain, Liam. And because you’re too young to understand.’

  ‘I’ll be a teenager in two years.’

  ‘And I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’ He put his arm round his son. ‘One day I’ll talk it all through with you, I promise. Okay?’