James Patterson - Private London

‘We have no intention of releasing him. Not yet, at least.’

‘What’s the point, then?’

‘Our homeland for over a thousand years was taken from us to create the state of Israel. A crime in which the governments of both America and the United Kingdom were complicit.’

I noticed the guard pass again. Clearly he had a regular patrol around the grounds of the house.

‘I am familiar with the arguments. Terrorism isn’t the solution.’

The professor snorted derisively. ‘You know nothing about it. People resort to what you call terrorism when they have no other choice. Israel has a nuclear capability and Palestinians have slingshots.’

Mary Angela came over and took the gun from the professor, keeping it pointed at Harlan Shapiro. She was clearly the one in charge here. ‘Do you know what Gandhi said of the situation, Mister Carter?’ she asked.

I shrugged, as best I could, given that I was tied up pretty tightly. ‘You say tomato, I say tomato… let’s call the whole thing off?’

Mary Angela didn’t smile. Tough crowd.

‘He said “Palestine belongs to the Arabs in the same sense that England belongs to the English or France to the French. Nothing can be said against the Arab resistance in the face of overwhelming odds.” And this is not an act of religion. It is an act of peace.’

‘You lost me there, princess,’ I said. ‘Seems to me that’s a gun you are holding, not an olive branch or a banana.’

I wanted to keep her talking. By my reckoning the guard should have passed by again and he hadn’t.

‘The only way peace can be brought about in that part of the Middle East is by parity,’ Annabelle Weston said, the passion sparking in her turquoise eyes.

‘All the Palestinians can do by way of retaliation against the fact that a part of their country has been made a concentration camp is to fire small rockets over the border from Gaza.’

‘And kidnapping Harlan Shapiro does what, exactly?’

Mary Angela looked at me and smiled. I took no comfort from it.

‘It will guide those rockets, Mister Carter.’

The penny dropped.

Jack had told me that Harlan Shapiro had been working on localised missile-guidance systems.

‘And not just over the borders into Israel. Our people have had to resort to the use of suicide bombers to target areas. People prepared to sacrifice themselves to the cause because there was no way of guiding small missiles to a specific target.’

The professor smiled at me. It didn’t make me feel a whole lot better.

‘Hannah’s father here has been developing a system that can track to a mobile phone. It means that the missile can be dialled in. The suicide bomber doesn’t even have to be present.’

She was right. The implications were enormous. Anywhere could be targeted. If you didn’t have to take the explosives through security, you wouldn’t need car bombs and bombers could just, as she said, dial destruction right in.

And it wouldn’t end there. If this technology got into the hands of Al Qaida who knew what could happen? Their aim wasn’t just to drive Israel out of the Middle East, it was to make the whole world Muslim. Jihad didn’t do conference tables.

I looked out of the window. The guard had seemingly grown an inch or two taller. About Sam Riddel’s height.

I needed to create a distraction. I stood up as best I could, my knees bent.

Mary Angela Al-Massri pointed the gun at me. There was no humour in her eyes, no matter how beautiful they were. ‘Just sit down, Mister Carter. Like I said, nobody needs to get hurt here. Trust me – I am well trained.’

Hamas-trained, I was guessing, just like her brother. Which did not bode well.

I hopped backwards and smashed myself into the wall, shattering the chair and loosening the ropes. I stumbled up to my knees.

‘I am quite prepared to shoot you.’

‘Believe her, Dan. You wouldn’t be the first,’ said Annabelle Weston.

The guard came in through the French windows and turned to me.

‘If he moves again, shoot him,’ Mary Angela shouted, her voice ugly now. That’s the thing with some of these peace activists: they are so damn keen on killing people.

I stood up and Sam Riddel tossed me the gun and stood aside. I pointed the gun at an astonished Mary Angela and grinned. ‘Mexican stand-off,’ I said.

She moved closer to put the gun against Harlan Shapiro’s head.

‘He’ll be the first to die,’ she said.

I put a single round in her forehead. Turned out she was wrong about that.

Outside I could just about feel the cold night air on my face.

I was vaguely aware of uniformed men running past me, weapons raised. United States Air Force by the looks of them. They were shouting but I couldn’t hear them. I was in a bubble.

I was remembering the unblemished beauty of Mary Angela Al-Massri’s face. Her wide, brown, mesmerising eyes. I remembered the sound that the pistol made, and I remembered the beauty of that face I’d wrecked. The life behind it snuffed out in an instant.

And then I leaned against a tree in the garden and threw up.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I dragged my hand across my lips and looked up. It was Del Rio.

‘You okay?’

‘I will be.’

He nodded, working his jaw.

‘Something I need to take care of first,’ I said. ‘Close this case.’

He nodded again. ‘You need some backup?’

I shook my head. ‘Things are going to get complicated here. I need to make a move.’

Del Rio shook his head. ‘It’s all taken care of. We can sort out the details later.’

‘How so?’

‘Jack Morgan has reach.’

I nodded gratefully. It was true.

‘So. Like I said, you need some backup?’

I shook my head again. ‘I’ll be good.’

Del Rio slapped me on the shoulder. ‘You got some, anyway. And your man who don’t handle guns wouldn’t be much use in this, I’m guessing.’

I nodded gratefully. He was guessing right.

Brendan ‘snake’ Ferres lived in the downstairs maisonette of a converted Victorian town house in Lady Margaret Road on the border of Kentish Town and Tufnell Park.

Del Rio and I had parked the car further down the street and we approached on foot. The curtains were drawn at the front of the house but there was some light spilling from a small gap between them. A television was playing loudly.

I gestured to Del Rio and we made our way around the side of the maisonette into the back garden. The bottom half belonged to the flat above Ferres: it was neat, well ordered. The top part belonged to Ferres and was the opposite. I stepped over an upturned milk crate in the long grass of what should have been his lawn and walked up to the side door that led into his kitchen.

I had the enforcer gripped in both hands. Del Rio positioned himself to the right-hand side of the door and took his weapon from his holster, holding it two-handed.

The door looked flimsy enough to be simply kicked in but I wasn’t taking any chances. I swung the heavy metal ram against the lock.

I stepped back as Del Rio rushed into the house, sweeping his gun from side to side in front of him. I followed behind as he ran forward through the short hallway towards the lounge. I stayed back, dropping the enforcer and taking out the gun I had got from Gary Webster.

A scream rang out from the other room.

Holding the gun, I kicked the first door open.

Behind it was an empty bedroom. I waited a moment or two and then did the same with the second door. Another bedroom. No one in it. I let out a sigh of relief, realising I had been holding my breath, and walked into the lounge.