Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘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 Guantanamo 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.’