Osama

SIXTEEN

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA. 0700 hours EST.

‘Chocolate bourbon?’

Mason Delaney indicated a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The man sitting at the other end of the comfortable sofa gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

‘You don’t mind if I do?’

‘Please…’

Delaney helped himself to a biscuit, placed it on the bone-china saucer that held his cup of tea, lifted the cup and took the tiniest of sips. Then he held the chocolate bourbon up in the air and examined it as if it were a precious stone. ‘I became very fond of these when I was stationed in the UK,’ he said. ‘The British have given the world many things, but for me their greatest achievement will always be tea and biscuits.’ To emphasize his point, he dunked the chocolate bourbon in his tea, before biting off a third of it and chewing it slowly and with emphasis. He did not take his eyes off his guest.

‘I’m sure Her Majesty would be delighted to know that you approve.’

Delaney’s guest had one of those British accents that ordinarily made him shiver with joy. So clipped, so restrained, so white. Now Delaney ignored the hint of diplomatically repressed sarcasm and leaned forward, his eyes sparkling behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his lips trembling with amusement. ‘There are people in this very building who will try to tell you that the doughnut is a superior—’

‘Mason, I wonder if we might move the subject on?’

Delaney smiled, dunked the remainder of his biscuit, and waited for his guest to continue.

‘First, on behalf of the service I’d like to congratulate you on Operation Geronimo.’

‘Come, Peter. MI6 played its part. Your people were very helpful.’

Peter Schlessinger, like Delaney himself, had no official title within the British Secret Service – at least none that Delaney was aware of. The Brit continued in a businesslike fashion: ‘We have, of course, seen increased terrorist activity in the past few days. That’s only to be expected. Our services are liaising, naturally, but I’m not sure how much of the day-to-day stuff reaches you.’ Schlessinger bent down, picked up a leather briefcase, opened it and removed a sheaf of papers. ‘Most of it’s low-level, of course, but not all. Three men arrested at our East Midlands Airport, one of whom was trying to smuggle ammonium nitrate in a colostomy bag onto a flight to Newark.’

‘Delightful,’ Delaney murmured.

‘We have three individual cells planning to plant explosive devices in the foundations of the Olympic Village in east London at some point during the next two months…’

‘A year ahead of schedule,’ Delaney observed. ‘I didn’t know they had it in them to be so well prepared.’

‘Nobody wants another 9/11, Mason,’ Schlessinger said, perhaps a little piously. ‘We’ve had our people watching the site ever since the games were announced. A single watch battery could power a hidden detonator for several years. But that’s by the by – all three cells are compromised. Frankly they won’t be laying so much as a turd without us knowing about it.’ Delaney’s eyes widened in surprise at the director’s language. ‘There won’t be another Munich – our combined intelligence is too good. We can guarantee the safety of any American athletes in 2012.’

Delaney returned his cup to the table, then sat back on the sofa and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Do I sense the word “but” peeking over the hill, Peter?’

For a moment, Schlessinger didn’t reply. He returned the papers to his briefcase and clicked it shut before replying to his American counterpart.

‘Fifty per cent of our intelligence comes from sources outside the UK or the US, Mason. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

Delaney inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘We will be withdrawing from Iraq in the next few months, and the President’s rhetoric with regard to Afghanistan has not gone unnoticed.’

‘Your point, Peter?’

‘My point, Mason, is that the fewer people we have in the region, the more difficult our job of collecting information. Yours and mine. Does the President really believe that just because Osama bin Laden’s at the bottom of the Indian Ocean with rocks in his shoes, the terror threat level is going to reduce?’

‘We confiscated several hard drives—’

‘Oh, come on, Mason. You know as well as I do that there are a hundred bin Laden replacements out there as we speak, just waiting for the chance to light up the sky. Don’t tell me you disagree.’

A pause. Delaney removed his glasses, scrutinized the lenses from a distance, then replaced them.

‘I do not disagree.’

‘Then why… ’

Delaney held up one chubby finger.

‘I do not disagree, but this agency does not dictate American policy, no matter what some people would like to believe. We are a tool of the federal government, nothing more. In many ways, you British have more influence in this matter than the entire agency.’

Schlessinger looked confused.

‘Let me explain, Peter. Some presidents establish their popularity by sending their soldiers to war. Others establish it by bringing them back home. Both approaches have their supporters among the little people.’

‘The little people?’

‘The public, Peter. The naive, uninformed public. If their opinion sways, then mark my words: the President’s opinion will sway in a similar direction. Does the CIA have the ability to sway public opinion? Alas, no.’

There was a knock on the door. It opened immediately. Delaney looked up with sudden annoyance that fell away when he saw Scott Stroman. His assistant’s handsome young face was serious, yet not without a gleam of triumph.

He turned back to Schlessinger. ‘I do enjoy our little chats, Peter.’

Schlessinger looked confused. ‘Mason, we have a lot to discuss. I’ve flown in especially to—’

‘We’ll do it again soon, no?’

The British man blinked, clearly angry, but then stood up. Delaney smiled blandly at him, but remain seated. ‘So long, Peter,’ he said in a sing-song voice, and his eyes followed his guest to the door.

Neither Delaney nor Stroman spoke until it was shut.

‘Tell me, Scott,’ Delaney demanded in a bored tone. ‘What do the British put in their tea that makes them all such fucking idiots? They’re so passive-aggressive you just want to give them a slap.’ And when Stroman failed to respond, he asked quietly: ‘You have something?’

The triumph in Stroman’s face grew more pronounced. He stepped over to where Delaney was sitting and handed him a single sheet of paper. Delaney’s eyes scanned it: a list of ten alphanumeric strings.

Flight numbers.

‘How?’ he asked quietly.

‘Shampoo,’ Stroman replied. ‘They have people working in a factory in Delaware that supplies pretty much every drugstore in the country. Including outlets past security at JFK, LAX, you name it.’

Delaney smiled. ‘Would you be so good, Scott, as to tell Herb Sagan that I would like a word in his exquisitely crafted ear?’

Stroman nodded. ‘Anything else sir?’

‘Yes. I’d like to speak to Ashkani. I want to thank him personally.’

Stroman nodded, but instead of turning and leaving the room, he lingered awkwardly.

‘Come, Scott, we’ll have time to play when this is over.’ Delaney approached his assistant and brushed one finger against his perfectly formed right cheekbone. ‘He is a greater patriot than you know,’ he breathed.

Scott gave him one of those nervous, handsome smiles he so adored.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then left the room quietly.

Three thousand miles away, in a solitary house by the sea, an old lady was frowning. ‘What in heaven’s name is that noise, Dandelion?’ Bethan Jones asked her cat. Dandelion seemed more interested in Jeremy Kyle and didn’t respond.

It had started at about ten o’clock – two hours ago – the monotonous, regular knocking. It was coming from upstairs. She was used to the pipes banging in this old house – her Gethin had been able to fix it when he was alive, but there was no way she could tackle the plumbing at her time of life. She supposed she could call out a plumber to look at it, but from what she’d read in the papers they would probably be immigrants and she wouldn’t even be able to understand them. No, she’d ask Mr Ashe to take a look. He wouldn’t mind.

She wondered where he was and why he hadn’t come in to say hello. She had heard him return in the early hours. She knew it had to be him, because Dandelion would have yowled and mewed and stuck her claws into the blankets of Bethan’s bed if a stranger had entered the house before dawn, or indeed at any time. Besides, she had heard him moving around upstairs as she lay there dozing. He had been noisier than usual, but she couldn’t complain: he was normally so quiet that you wouldn’t know he was there. Such a nice man. So thoughtful…

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound was suddenly louder than before, and the old lady grew agitated. It didn’t, on reflection, really sound like the pipes. ‘Oh dear,’ she muttered. ‘What should we do, Dandelion? Go and look? Oh dear…’

She heaved herself up from the sofa. Dandelion jumped off her lap and gave her a reproachful miaow as she hit the floor. Bethan was too preoccupied with the stiffness in her joints to notice. Once she was on her feet, she fumbled for her stick and, leaning heavily on it, struggled to the door.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It was even louder now. Did it sound like it was coming from Mr Ashe’s room? Her hearing really wasn’t what it once was…

Bethan didn’t like using her stairlift. Oh, it was better than the alternative, but it made her rather giddy and at her age it could take the best part of a day to recover. With her frail, trembling hands, she strapped herself in securely, brought down the arms so that she had something solid to hold on to, and pressed the button that would take her upstairs. The motor hummed noisily as the chair started its slow ascent.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It was definitely coming from the room at the top of the stairs. ‘Mr Ashe?’ she called weakly. ‘Mr Ashe, is everything all right?’

What on earth could it be?

The stairlift stopped. It was only halfway up. Bethan pressed the button again, but there was no movement. ‘Oh dear…’ She was getting agitated again. ‘Oh…’

‘Good morning, Mrs Jones,’ said a quiet voice from the bottom of the stairs.

Bethan started, and looked down to her left.

‘Oh, Mr Ashe,’ she said, patting her chest lightly to demonstrate her relief that it was him. ‘I didn’t hear you. My hearing’s not what it…’ She looked from the bedroom door back down to her lodger.

Mr Ashe smiled, and continued to gaze up at her from the bottom of the stairs.

‘There’s a dreadful knocking sound, Mr Ashe. I didn’t know what it was. I thought perhaps you were—’

‘It’s nothing, Mrs Jones. Come back downstairs. I’ll deal with it.’

Bethan found herself frowning slightly. She glanced up at the door of Mr Ashe’s room again. ‘Of course,’ she said finally. ‘Thank you, you’re so kind.’

Mr Ashe smiled again and, after he reset the power switch, the stairlift descended. Bethan unstrapped herself and accepted his arm as he helped her back into the sitting room. The knocking sound returned as they entered. ‘Probably just the pipes, Mr Ashe,’ she said. ‘My Gethin used to see to all that, you know.’

Mr Ashe helped her onto the sofa. Dandelion jumped back onto her lap.

‘I wonder, Mr Ashe, if you’d mind having a look?’

‘Of course.’

He inclined his head towards her, then walked towards the door.

‘Oh, Mr Ashe!’

‘Yes, Mrs Jones?’

‘It is good to have you back again. Isn’t it, Dandelion?’

But Jeremy Kyle was in full flow, and yet again Dandelion failed to reply.

Mr Ashe checked that the sitting-room door was firmly closed behind him. As he crossed the musty hallway, he heard the sound again. He calmly climbed the stairs, inserted his key into the door of his bedroom, and opened it. Standing in the doorway, he observed the source of the knocking.

The boy was where he had left him: his body and legs tied to a ladder-back chair, his hands bound behind his back and with packing tape stuck over his mouth. The bruises on his face were substantially worse than when Mr Ashe had inflicted them – great purple welts, some of them weeping a colourless liquid, like tears. The chair was tied to the ancient yellow radiator on the far wall. At first his abductor couldn’t work out how the boy was making this noise. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the room – past the single bed on the left with its patchwork quilt, past the round table bearing his laptop and satellite phone, along with piles of books and documents. Only when he was a few paces away from his prisoner did he see what had happened. The boy had managed to wriggle his left foot out of the rope that had previously bound his ankle. Now, knowing that it was his last chance, he started banging his free foot repeatedly and more rapidly on the floor.

Within twenty seconds Mr Ashe had silenced it, retying the rope so tightly around the boy’s ankle and the chair leg that he whimpered with the pain. Standing back, he examined the child’s face. Although he could see the fear in his eyes, he felt a measure of respect that he had tried to raise the alarm. Maybe he was, after all, his father’s son.

With a sudden swipe he slapped the back of his hand across the boy’s face, making sure to hit an existing welt.

Pulling a chair up to the round table, he sat down and removed his leather-bound copy of the Koran from his coat pocket. He then rearranged some of the books on the table to access a small radio, boxy and bright orange, which he switched on. The radio emitted crackly white noise. He fully extended the aerial, then minutely adjusted the wheel on the side until the white noise subsided somewhat and a male voice became audible. It said a single word – ‘Three’ – before the white noise returned.

Mr Ashe laid the radio on his laptop and looked back at the boy. The petrified child was staring at him, shaking with fear and pain. Mr Ashe raised one finger to his lips, but otherwise remained expressionless.

Two minutes passed. The male voice returned to the radio.

‘Fifty-five. Seven. Three.’

Mr Ashe picked up his Koran. He turned to page fifty-five, then carefully counted down seven lines before reading the third word. It was صْبِرْ – sabr. That made him smile. It meant ‘patience’.

He opened the laptop, concentrating hard, deaf now to the white noise of the radio, and switched it on. He did the same to the satellite phone to which it was connected. Even if there had been ordinary internet connectivity in this out-of-the-way location, he would not have used it. The encrypted satellite connection was many times more secure, and without the decryption key, the online conversation he was about to have would be quite meaningless.

A window appeared on the screen, and at the top a blank text-entry box with a flashing black cursor. Below it, a virtual keypad displayed the Arabic alphabet. He used the trackpad to fill in the word صْبِرْ , then pressed ‘enter’. The screen went black. And then, after ten seconds, a line of white text appeared at the top: ‘Confirm UK strike to proceed?’

Mr Ashe stared at the screen. Very slowly he looked over his left shoulder. The boy was watching him. Staring with what was perhaps a foolish lack of understanding. It didn’t matter either way. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell anybody.

‘Repeat: confirm UK strike to proceed?’

The words appeared for a second time and he sensed his correspondent’s impatience coming down the line. He turned his attention to the keyboard. Using his two forefingers, he typed slowly but deliberately: ‘C… O… N… F… I… R… M… E… D’.

He pressed ‘enter’. Two seconds later the screen went black again. The connection had been broken remotely.

It was the miaowing of a cat that warned him. Dandelion, on the other side of the door. He glanced up and saw the handle opening slowly. He was still calculating whether he could get to the door quickly enough, when it became academic anyway. It swung open. Dandelion was there. So was Mrs Jones.

She was leaning on her stick, and the stairlift was visible just behind her.

‘Fifty-five. Seven. Three.’

Mr Ashe’s eyes shot towards the radio and he silently berated himself for not having turned it off and so not hearing the stairlift ascend. He stood up, just as the boy, who was in full view of the old lady at the door, started to make desperate, inarticulate sounds from beneath the tape that covered his lips.

‘Mr Ashe…’ stammered Bethan. Her watery eyes darted between the boy and her lodger. ‘I… I don’t understand…’

Mr Ashe remained calm. There was, he knew, nothing to be gained from panicking. Ignoring the boy’s helpless noises, he stepped towards the doorway, put his hands on Bethan’s shoulders, and encouraged her to turn round.

‘But Mr Ashe… that… that poor boy.’

‘There is no boy, Mrs Jones. You’re getting confused.’

He closed the door behind them.

‘But I saw…’

‘Sit down, Mrs Jones. I’m sure you’d like a nice cup of hot Ribena.’

‘The knocking, Mr Ashe. Was that… ’ she asked as she eased herself onto the stairlift.

‘You don’t need to worry about the knocking any more, Mrs Jones. Let me help you down.’

He pressed the control and the stairlift started to descend, then he followed.

‘Mr Ashe!’ cried Bethan. ‘I’m not strapped in. Mr Ashe! Please stop the chair.’

He did as he was asked.

The old lady was flustered. She looked back up at the open door of the bedroom, from which the boy’s muted cries were still audible, but her hands were fumbling for the strap without which she clearly felt so nervous.

‘Let me help you,’ Mr Ashe said.

Perhaps it was something in his voice that startled her. She stared as though she was looking at him through new eyes. ‘There is a boy in your room,’ she whispered. ‘You think I’m confused, but I’m not. I… I can still hear him.’

He bent down and seized her around the waist. She started to whimper and shake her head. She was tiresome, he thought to himself, but not a complete fool because she seemed to know what was coming.

Mr Ashe spoke very softly, his lips just a couple of inches from her ear. This time, however, his precise English had fallen away, to be replaced by the harsh, guttural accent of his native Arabic. ‘You should never forget, old lady,’ he whispered, cruelty dripping from his lips, ‘to strap yourself in.’

He did it in one movement: a sudden, brutal tug that lifted her up from her seat and knocked her down the stairs. She made a feeble attempt to grab hold of him as she fell, but there was not enough strength in those frail, knotted hands. She tumbled backwards and slid to the bottom of the stairs, her decrepit spine sledging over the edges of the treads. There was a sickening crack as she hit the hallway floor and Mr Ashe could tell, from the thirty-degree angle at which her head was pointing from her body, that her neck had broken with the impact.

There was silence. Even the boy had stopped his pathetic noise. Perhaps he had guessed what had just happened. Perhaps he thought the same fate awaited him.

Mr Ashe left her body where it was. He didn’t know how long it would be before anybody found it, but he did know how few visitors Mrs Jones had. She would probably be putrid and maggoty by the time she was discovered. But by then Mr Ashe would be long gone. His tasks would be complete. It was a relief to know that soon he would never have to visit this remote, disgusting house again. It would just be a fading memory to him, much as Mrs Jones, crooked and broken at the bottom of the stairs, was already.

‘What do you mean, it’s not there any more?’

‘Which bit don’t you understand? I watched it once, I tried to watch it a second time, it had been taken down.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I mean…’

‘I know what you mean, Eva. You mean, was it really there in the first place? Did I dream it up? The answer’s no.’

Joe was staring out of the grimy second-floor window of a tacky bed-and-breakfast place on Dagenham Heathway. An ambulance had screamed by three minutes earlier, and now two police cars, in quick succession, were heading towards Hussein Al-Samara’s flat. Eva had protested at the idea of lying low so close to the terrified family of their now-defunct lead, but Joe had overruled her. The owners of places like this, with their damp-ridden walls and cash transactions, were unlikely to ask too many questions of their guests. Besides, Joe hadn’t known where else to go.

There was a faint drizzle, but not enough to clear the pavements of pedestrians, or to encourage the busker, who had set up shop by the post office across the road and had been singing ‘Yesterday’, to pack up his guitar and go home. A bus trundled past with an advertisement for package holidays in Sharm el-Sheikh plastered to the side.

Eva, who was sitting on the edge of the lumpy double bed, looked terrible. Her mousy hair was tangled and greasy, her brown eyes sunken and shady, her lips cracked. Joe was well aware of the haunted expression with which she was looking at him. It wasn’t just the violence he’d inflicted on Al-Samara, or the cold, ruthless way he’d stormed out of there without even a word of apology. It was more than that. He could tell she was wondering if the boy she thought she’d known so well when they were young really was a killer after all. He hadn’t denied, when she confronted him, that he’d taken out the Arab in Barfield, but he’d refused to answer the questions that followed. How had he done it? Why had he done it? How many other men had he killed in his life? These were questions he would never willingly respond to, no matter who was asking. And in any case, he knew Eva wasn’t equipped to deal with the answer.

‘If they’ve got Conor,’ she said, ‘you have to go to the police.’

Joe threw her a dark look over his shoulder and went back to checking out the street below. Eva didn’t pursue that line any further.

‘How did he tamper with the fingerprint records?’ she asked, her voice wavering.

Joe didn’t answer, but the question had already occurred to him. Breaking into the prison service system was hard. Whoever he was dealing with had resources – the kind of resources that were hard to come by unless you worked with or for one of the authorities. He knew he’d be hearing from Ashe again. And, when that happened, he would do whatever it took to get Conor back and avenge Caitlin’s murder. And if that meant adding another body to his unspoken tally of the dead, so be it.

‘Maybe it’s got nothing to do with what you saw?’ Eva said.

‘Maybe.’

‘I mean, it’s not so strange, is it? Two body bags? Perhaps they shot someone by mistake, and—’

‘If they do,’ Joe interrupted, ‘they don’t airlift them out unless they’ve been told to in advance.’ He said it with a note of finality. The truth was, he didn’t give a shit about compounds or body bags or US special forces. All he cared about was finding his son.

Eva took the hint. Almost half an hour passed in silence. There were no more sirens outside.

Then Joe turned to look at Eva. ‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ he said.

She stared at him. ‘I wish that was true,’ she whispered, and she looked down at the brown carpet.

Joe nodded, more to himself than to her. ‘I need to check my email again,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Eva stood up, attempted a smile, and made for the door.

‘Eva?’

She looked back.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She smiled awkwardly, and left the room.

If the owner of the B&B – a sweaty Greek Cypriot with a forest of hair sprouting from the top of his shirt – thought it was odd that they’d only stayed there an hour, he didn’t let on. It was that kind of place. Once outside, Joe scanned the immediate vicinity. The busker was now singing ‘Streets of London’, but his voice was mostly drowned out by the busy traffic. Joe examined the man’s face: late forties, greying beard. He didn’t think anybody could be following him, but busking was a good cover and he mentally recorded that face in case he saw it again. He checked for police vehicles – nothing – then scanned left and right for any sign of surveillance. All he saw was mums with prams and old ladies with headscarves and shopping trolleys, and twenty metres to his right a group of three charity muggers accosting people as they passed.

‘Let’s go,’ he breathed.

He took Eva by the hand. If anyone was looking for him personally, he would be more unobtrusive as one half of a couple. As they walked north up Dagenham Heathway he thought he sensed Eva squeezing his hand ever so slightly. He didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

The busker’s voice faded away, to be replaced by the sound of a drunk couple arguing. The male, mid-twenties, pockmarked, ruddy face, the female hollow-cheeked and with a shaved head. Noted.

Fifty metres from the B&B, they passed a Currys. The shop was devoid of customers and three assistants were hanging around the till. Along the far wall was a bank of televisions, and the three aisles between that back wall and the entrance were filled with laptops and other electronics.

‘In here,’ Joe said. He let go of Eva’s hand and headed for the laptop closest to the entrance.

It didn’t take more than about ten seconds for one of the assistants to swoop – a young man with wispy facial hair that needed its first shave. ‘You OK, boss?’

Joe jabbed a finger at the laptop. ‘Listen, mate, do you mind if I have a quick go on this? I’m thinking of getting one.’

‘Good deal on that one, boss. Ends today…’

‘Is it online?’

‘Course it is, boss.’ He lingered.

‘I’ll give you a shout if I need anything, mate.’

The assistant took a couple of steps backwards. ‘Course, boss. You just do… you know… whatever…’

But Joe was already navigating towards his Hotmail page. He logged on. He felt his heart stop. A new email was waiting for him. The world around him dissolved into a fog.

He clicked it open.

There was no link this time. No movie to watch, no images to horrify him. Just three sequences of numbers:

He stared at it, vaguely aware that Eva had joined him at the screen.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

He didn’t immediately answer.

‘Joe, what is it?’

‘Instructions,’ he said quietly.

‘I don’t understand.’

He pointed at the first sequence. ‘Tomorrow’s date,’ he said. ‘May 11. Time, 0600 hours.’

‘But what about the last numbers?’

‘Coordinates,’ he said. ‘Latitude and longitude.’

‘But… where?’

Joe navigated to Google Maps, but even as he did so, he was thinking out loud, remembering the details of the YouTube video that was no more. The sea, and the darkness of the sky despite the fact that it had been taken after sunrise. ‘The west coast,’ he said. ‘Somewhere remote.’ As he spoke, he tapped in the grid reference. Five seconds later he had zoomed in to a beach on the Pembrokeshire coast. The satellite image was indistinct.

‘Joe…’

‘That’s where he is,’ he murmured.

Eva tugged on his sleeve. ‘Joe… look!’

He dragged his attention from the laptop. Eva was pointing at the TVs along the back wall. There were about twenty of them, of different sizes and quality, but they all showed the same image.

Him.

Joe’s eyes flickered towards the three assistants. They had convened around the till again, and did not appear to have noticed what was on television. The image changed, to be replaced by a female news reporter standing outside the front gates of Barfield.

Calmly but quickly, Joe examined the map in front of him, scanning the surrounding area: the beach, a cliff behind, a single road leading there and a solitary house about a klick inland. His eyes narrowed as he examined that house.

‘Joe…’ Eva sounded desperate.

The nearest village: Thornbridge.

‘Joe!’

He logged out of his account, then ushered her quickly out of the shop before any of the assistants tried to accost them. ‘West Wales,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘We need to get there.’

Eva stopped walking, and as Joe turned to look at her, she grabbed his hands and held them tightly. Fiercely. Joe glanced at her watch. Midday. He had eighteen hours. ‘Listen to me, Joe,’ she said. ‘We can’t do this alone. We’ve got to tell someone what’s happening. We need to get help. I know people. I can speak to them…’

An old lady trundled along the pavement in an electric mobility vehicle. Her head turned as she passed. Had she recognized him? Or was it just that they were arguing?

‘No,’ he hissed.

‘We have to.’

‘Eva, even you’re not sure this isn’t in my head. Even you’re wondering if I made it all up. Hey, I could have done. Abbottabad. Caitlin. The whole fucking thing. What if I really am out of my mind? What if I really am a psycho?’

Eva frowned and shook her head.

‘You know me,’ Joe insisted. ‘But who the hell else could I go to that won’t just shove me back in a cell and throw away the key?’

Eva had no answer. She just bit her bottom lip. ‘What if it’s a trap?’

‘He killed my wife. He took my son,’ Joe replied. Pulling himself away from her grasp, he continued walking along the pavement. He could feel her tearful eyes burning into his back. And he’d only gone ten metres when he heard her footsteps running along behind him, and felt her tugging at his sleeve once more.

‘But what if it’s a trap?’ she repeated.

Joe gave her a hard stare. ‘Of course it’s a fucking trap,’ he said. ‘Come on, we’ve got a lot to do.’