Chris Ryan - Osama

The Regiment. He’d hardly thought about them since he’d been back in the UK. Had they heard what had happened? Was it being discussed in the squadron hangars of Hereford or ops centres of Bagram, Bastion and Kandahar? Were his mates ready to believe the worst of him? It wouldn’t be the first time one of their number had gone bad.

The black corner boy had returned to his position, clearly expecting Joe to have been warned off by the moron with his .38. His eyes widened as he saw Joe emerge unscathed, and for the second time he scrambled out of sight. Joe dug the keys out of his pocket and opened the Range Rover. Should he risk taking it? He reckoned so. The people he was robbing were unlikely to go to the police and besides, they had nothing to link the vehicle to him. At the very worst it would be just another car crime to add to the stats.

As he turned the ignition, the music blared out again. He silenced it, then checked his rear and side mirrors. There was no sign of the man he’d just cut up. Over in the playground, the kids were still playing on the ropes, the mums still ignoring them with no inkling of what had just happened. He removed the handgun from his jeans and laid it carefully in the glove compartment before pulling away, his mind already working through the detailed logistics of his next move, and wondering if Eva had been successful.

‘What is it, love? Birthday present for the fella? Into all this stuff, is he? Tell you what, we get them all in here.’

The military clothing store to which Joe had directed her, halfway between Mile End station and Stepney Green and just off the Mile End Road, was empty apart from her and the young man in his mid-twenties who broke off reading the Sun behind the counter. The wall behind him was plastered with pictures of short-haired, improbably good-looking men in camouflage gear and with paint smeared artfully on their faces. Eva was no expert, but she was sure they were more familiar with the catwalk than the battlefield.

‘Two hundred and fifty, that one.’ The young man indicated the helmet she was holding. ‘Real McCoy, that. Kevlar, special forces issue. Here…’ He turned his newspaper back a couple of pages to reveal a full-page spread with the headline ‘ Inside the top-secret unit that killed bin Laden ’. It accompanied a picture of a soldier in full military gear, each item labelled. The man jabbed a finger at the soldier’s head. ‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘Best there is. Full head and neck protection, so unless he’s thinking of getting shot in the face…’

The man laughed at his own joke as Eva quietly put the helmet on the counter.

‘Do you sell body armour?’ she asked.

The shop assistant raised an eyebrow, then emerged from behind the counter and led her to an adjoining room, its walls lined with boots and berets. ‘Not much call for it,’ he said as he showed her a rail from which three chunky blue vests were hanging. ‘Just the occasional war reporter, you know, but it’s not the sort of thing you end up buying more than once. Anyway, that’s why they’re all blue. Identifies you as a journalist in a war zone. All good quality, though… Osprey Protective…’ As he spoke, Eva saw his eyes wandering towards the small carrier bag she was carrying, from the top of which an Ordnance Survey map was peeking, the word ‘Pembrokeshire’ just visible. ‘Course,’ said the man, ‘not much call for them in Welsh Wales, eh? Not unless your bloke’s thinking of SAS selection.’ He laughed again and, oblivious to Eva’s discomfort, rapped his knuckles against one of the vests. ‘Good thick ceramic plates… the dog’s bollocks really, ’scuse my French. Got the elbow and shoulder pads to go with it too…’

Eva selected the largest of the three vests. She was surprised how heavy it was, but then she was only used to wearing a stab vest. ‘Do you have side plates?’ she asked, just as Joe had told her.

The young man looked surprised at the question. He shook his head. ‘Like I say, not a lot of call…’

‘Binoculars?’

‘Sure.’

Eva paid with cash, withdrawn, at Joe’s instruction, from a hole in the wall while she was still in Dagenham. If things went to shit, it wouldn’t do her any good at all if her credit card records had shown her buying these items. But then things going to shit was something Eva didn’t really want to contemplate. Had DCI Jacobson reported her little deception of that morning? Her absence from work must have been noted. Were people out looking for her? She was acting as if in a dream, against her better judgement, half of her wanting to run and hide, the other half knowing that she was too far gone for that. She just had to trust that Joe knew what he was doing.

‘Hope it’s what he wanted,’ said the assistant as he handed over the goods.

‘Yeah,’ Eva murmured as she headed towards the exit. ‘Me too.’

The boot of the Range Rover was up. Joe was checking the gear Eva had acquired as he stashed it away carefully.

‘Joe,’ Eva said. He continued working and didn’t even look at her. ‘ Please listen to me, I know what I’m talking about. If this vehicle is reported stolen, we… I mean the police… can track it. There’s number-plate recognition on every major road.’

‘Trust me,’ Joe said. ‘Nobody’s going to report it missing. Did you get the optics?’

‘The what?’

‘Night-vision goggles.’

Eva shook her head. ‘I drained my account, Joe. That was all I could—’

‘Forget it. You got the important stuff.’ He straightened up and looked round.

It was 6 p.m. The light was failing. Joe and Eva had parked at the crossroads of two residential roads in Wandsworth. A man wearing a suit and a woollen overcoat walked past, clearly intent on getting home. Two schoolkids walking their dog went by in the other direction. Joe slammed the rear door of the Range Rover shut and looked towards the crossroads. ‘He lives alone? No girlfriend?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Have you ever been in the flat?’

‘Once,’ Eva replied. Her skin flushed a little. ‘We didn’t…’

‘There was no way of getting in through the back?’

Eva gave a helpless little shrug. ‘It was dark, Joe. But no, I don’t think so.’

‘And he’s definitely gone away?’

Eva nodded. ‘He told me this morning. Spain, I think. Flew at midday. But I don’t understand—’

‘You’re sure he has a bike?’

‘Positive, but—’

‘Wait here.’

Eva nodded, but as Joe stepped away from the car, she called after him. ‘Frank’s a nice guy. A friend of mine. Go easy on his place, OK?’

Joe found the motorcycle he was looking for easily enough, parked in the paved front area of number 63 and covered with a grey tarpaulin. Next to it, upturned on its side, was a bike trailer. Other than that, the front yard was empty, save for an old Pot Noodle carton that had blown in. A set of raised steps to his left led up to the ground- and first-floor flats, but the basement flat had a separate iron staircase. Once Joe had descended this, he was out of sight of the road in a gloomy, poky little entrance area. There was no light from the front window of the basement, and the curtains were shut. He knocked on the front door. It rattled slightly in its frame. Ill-fitting, Joe noted. Easier to barge down. After looking up to check he wasn’t being overlooked, he took a step back, then rammed his shoulder against the door. He felt a little give. Ramming it for a second time, he heard the crack of a mortise lock splintering out of its cavity. A third barge and he was in.

He didn’t enter straight away, but walked casually up the stairs to check nobody had been alerted by the noise. A woman walked past, white earphones plugged in, and didn’t even seem to notice him.