James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Christina O’Brien shrugged. ‘I was high. Some guy came chasing after me. How was I supposed to know he was a police officer?’

Carlyle pushed out his lower lip, indicating thought. ‘Because he was wearing a uniform?’

‘I told you,’ she said in an increasingly affected, mid-Atlantic drawl. ‘I was high.’

Carlyle slipped into bureaucratic mode. ‘PC Lea, the officer you assaulted, will make a full recovery.’

‘Great.’ Christina’s face brightened considerably. If it didn’t manage to make her pretty, at least she didn’t look quite so hard. ‘So, can I get out of here?’

‘That is not going to be possible,’ Carlyle replied. ‘You have been charged with Actual Bodily Harm. Given that the assault was witnessed by numerous police officers and was also recorded on camera, I think it’s reasonable to assume that you will be convicted.’

Christina raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, man.’

‘If I were you, I would just plead guilty.’

She thought about this for a moment. ‘Will I get sent to jail?’

‘Probably. Or, given that you’re a US citizen, they might just deport you.’

‘Fuck.’ Sitting back in her chair, she folded her arms.

Carlyle closed the file.

Christina eyed the miniature camera hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice. ‘Is that thing on?’

Carlyle turned to check the red blinking light below the lens. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Can you turn it off?’

‘No,’ Carlyle lied.

Christina ran her tongue across her top lip. ‘I give great head,’ she whispered, ‘truly re-markable. Switch that thing off and I’ll do you right here. Make this thing go away and you can come and see me in Everton’s any time.’

Carlyle jumped to his feet before he could start seriously contemplating the offer. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’

Throwing herself back in the chair, Christina banged on the table in frustration. ‘Fucking English faggot!’

Carlyle felt a flash of anger in his chest. Don’t call me fucking English! Grabbing his file, he quickly slipped out of the door.

The exhibition’s curator, an elegant man in his late fifties with the outsized moniker of Simpson Salvador St John, stepped in front of the shimmering crown. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, addressing the small group, ‘this is our star attraction, one of the world’s most beautiful and priceless objects. At the time, it was the ultimate accessory, flat-packed for easy transport in the first century AD.’

‘How much is it worth?’ asked a man hovering at his shoulder.

St John tried not to show his frustration at the vulgarity of the question. ‘Like many of the other items in this exhibition,’ he said patiently, ‘its value is incalculable. It was discovered by Soviet archaeologists in 1978 in an elite nomadic cemetery and has never been shown in Britain before.’ He gestured across the exhibition floor, the sweep of his arm taking in a dazzling array of classical sculptures, gold jewellery, carved ivory and enamelled Roman glass. ‘Most of these pieces are unique in terms of the information they give about ancient trading patterns and Afghanistan’s relationship with the outside world at the time.’

Another of the guests began to say something, but St John, in no mood for any more banality, ploughed on with his prepared spiel. ‘At the heart of the Silk Road, Afghanistan linked the great trading routes of ancient Iran, Central Asia, India and China, and the more distant cultures of Greece and Rome. The country’s unique location resulted in a legacy of extraordinarily rare objects, which reveal its rich and diverse past. Nearly lost during the years of civil war and later Taliban rule, these precious objects were bravely hidden in 1989 by officials from the National Museum of Afghanistan, to save them from destruction. They were kept hidden until 2004, after the fall of the Taliban and the election of the new government. We should salute the courage of the Afghan officials who risked their lives in order to safeguard the treasure.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Dino murmured, finally steering Simpson away from the group.

‘It really is an amazing collection,’ Simpson said, trying to sound grateful for the invite.

‘I know,’ Dino agreed. ‘But they say that everything will go back to the National Museum of Afghanistan in Kabul, so God knows what might happen to it.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, let’s go and get some dinner.’

Sitting in one of the first-class carriages on the Eurostar, heading for home, Dominic Silver looked across the table at Gideon Spanner, who was staring vacantly out the window. For years, Dom had assumed that Gideon was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the Army. Now, he had come to the view that he was just a very closed-off guy, with the enviable ability to switch himself on and off. In the car park in Clichy-sous-Bois with Tuco the gunslinger, Gideon had been totally alert. Now he was resting; on standby mode.

Gesturing to the service assistant for another glass of wine, Dom pulled out his mobile and called home.

Eva picked up on the third ring. ‘Is everything okay?’ He could clearly hear the mixture of irritation and concern in her voice and vowed not to rise to it.

‘It’s fine,’ he said calmly, ‘we’re on our way back. How are the kids?’

‘A handful,’ she sighed, ‘as usual.’

He looked at the clock on the screen of his phone. ‘I should be home about nine.’

‘Do you want some dinner when you get in?’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll eat on the train.’

‘Okay. See you soon.’ She ended the call, letting him know that she was still pissed off with his Parisian adventure. Keeping me on my toes , Dom reflected. Always keeping me on my toes .

He had barely slipped his handset back into his jacket pocket when the sound of Motörhead’s ‘Ace of Spades’ came from the other side of the table. Gideon looked blankly at his crotch before fishing an iPhone out of his pocket. He stared at the screen for what seemed like an eternity before taking the call.

‘Yeah?’

The service assistant arrived with another small plastic bottle of wine and handed it to Dom, who nodded his thanks.

‘I’m on my way back,’ said Gideon to his caller.

Unscrewing the top, Dom emptied two-thirds of the bottle into his glass, conscious of Gideon eyeing him intently as he did so.

‘Uhuh . . . when? . . . Okay, okay, I will come straight there when I get into London.’

Dom sipped his wine. He was getting a nice buzz going now. He smiled as Gideon ended the call. ‘Anything important?’

For a moment, Gideon looked bemused by the question. ‘My brother,’ he said finally.

Dom shifted uneasily in his seat. He didn’t know Gideon had a brother. In fact, he didn’t know anything about Gideon’s family at all.

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’ Almost dropping his wine glass, Dom sent most of his Merlot down his shirt.

‘Shot in Kandahar by a Talib in an ANA uniform. Some Taliban infiltrated the Afghan army. Turned up at a compound where Spencer and his team were waiting to engage the enemy and opened fire.’ He thrust a hopeless hand towards the unchanging gloom of the passing French countryside. ‘Game over.’

Dom gulped down the rest of his wine before he spilled any more. ‘Jesus!’

‘Apparently,’ Gideon said tonelessly, ‘Spencer’s killer was a serving member of the army, rather than an insurgent disguised as a soldier, as if that makes any difference. There is no way the Afghans can pick up rogue officers. The Americans just want to get out as quickly as possible. Just like us. The areas that the Taliban don’t control already, they will do soon enough.’