‘He was a forward air controller,’ said the man.
‘Exactly,’ said Bradshaw. ‘The controllers call in bombers and planes to attack, to bring death and destruction raining down on innocent civilians, on women and children, our brothers and sisters. That was my eureka moment, as you call it, the realisation that the Government and the Royal Family didn’t care about our religion or our people. That was when I decided it was time to do something. That the time for reading and talking were over.’
‘You know that his first choice was Iraq? He wanted to join the army of occupation.’
Bradshaw nodded enthusiastically. ‘It was a slap in the face to all Muslims in the UK. But it showed us once and for all where the Establishment stood. Before that the public was happy to blame the invasion on Bush and Blair, but when they sent the prince to fight we saw the true face of the great British public. They supported him, which meant they supported the war, which meant they approved of the fight against Islam. That is why I decided I had to fight back.’
‘Do you know why the casualties were not higher,’ the man asked thoughtfully, ‘when your two bombs exploded?’
Bradshaw had been expecting the question but the sudden change of subject took him by surprise. It was a tactic to wrong-foot him, but he knew he had no alternative other than to be truthful. He took a deep breath. ‘It was the design of the bomb,’ he said. ‘I did not have access to high explosives. It was designed to start as a simple petrol fire, which would then cause the gas cylinders to explode. They would add to the shrapnel.’
‘Because it is the shrapnel that does the damage?’
‘Exactly. But in both cases only the petrol ignited. The cylinders remained intact.’
‘So the design was flawed?’ The man studied Bradshaw’s face to see how he would react to the implied criticism.
Bradshaw didn’t answer and returned the man’s baleful stare.
‘It is nothing to be ashamed of, brother,’ said the man. ‘You are on a learning curve. And you have achieved on your own far more than many of your brothers have, even those who have been through the training camps in Pakistan.’
‘I want to do more.’ His eyes burned with a fierce intensity. ‘That is why I need the funding. With the money I can strike fear into their hearts like never before.’
‘And when you were in the army, you were trained in the use of the equipment you are seeking to purchase?’
‘No.’
The man frowned. ‘Then who is going to operate it?’
‘The two men who were in Pakistan have been fully trained.’
‘Live fire?’
‘Live fire,’ repeated Bradshaw. ‘They were trained in Pakistan but spent three months in Afghanistan. They were with a team that brought down an American helicopter.’
‘And where do you plan to buy the equipment?’
‘It is available in the former Yugoslavia, for a price.’
‘You have a connection?’
‘A man has promised me a connection. A former soldier I served with has a friend in the arms trade.’
‘And you will travel there to make the purchase?’
‘That is my intention,’ said Bradshaw.
‘You understand that if you lose the money we give you, there will be consequences?’ said the man.
‘I understand,’ said Bradshaw. ‘So when will I get the funds I seek?’
‘When you have proved yourself.’
Bradshaw felt a flare of anger deep inside, but he quelled it and smiled good-naturedly. ‘Have I not done that already?’
The man stood up and took off his jacket. ‘You think what you have done is proof?’ he said. ‘It proves nothing.’ He pulled off his sweater to reveal a chest pockmarked with irregular scars. ‘This was a fragmentation grenade in Afghanistan,’ he said. ‘It killed two brothers, blinded a third, and it was only Allah’s mercy that saved my life that day.’ He removed the shirt and turned around. He raised his left arm. A chunk of muscle was missing just above the elbow, as if a dog had taken a bite, and the skin was puckered and wrinkled, like plastic that had come into contact with a naked flame. ‘This was an American bullet from a machine-gun in Baghdad,’ he said. ‘Again, it was only Allah’s mercy that kept me alive. That, and the three brothers who bound my arm and took me to a doctor.’ The wound had healed but the scarring was horrific. The medical care he had received had been basic, to say the least. ‘It is not pretty, is it?’ said the man.
‘No,’ said Bradshaw.
‘I am proud of this arm,’ he said. ‘It shows that I faced the enemy and I survived. What about you? Do you have any scars to show me?’ He slipped on his shirt.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I was in the army but Allah in His benevolence kept me from harm.’
‘Scars are proof, and you have no scars,’ said the man. ‘And it is proof that we need. Proof of who you are and proof of what you say you have done. Yes, two bombs exploded in London and, yes, you provided us with photographs of the bombs being constructed. But what do we really know about them? Do we really know that two people died?’ He finished buttoning his shirt.
‘It was on the television,’ said Bradshaw.
‘And do you believe everything you see on the television, brother?’ asked the man, sitting down again. ‘Do you think that the security services do not feed false information to the media? Did you believe it when the BBC told you Saddam had weapons of mass destruction?’
‘The car bombs were real,’ said Bradshaw.
‘I am sure they were,’ said the man. He sat down, picked up another cigarette paper and sprinkled tobacco onto it. ‘But the bombs alone are not proof that you are a true soldier of Islam. It shows only that you had access to the bombs while they were being constructed.’
‘You think I’m a spy?’ said Bradshaw.
‘Not a spy,’ said the man. ‘But a trap, perhaps. Bait, to lure in the true soldiers of Islam.’
‘I’m an engineering student,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I used to be a soldier.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘And now I am fighting for
jihad
,’ said Bradshaw. ‘
Jihad
is my life.’
‘That you must prove,’ said the man. He lit the cigarette and took a deep pull on it.
‘You think that MI5 set off two bombs in central London so that I could claim credit for it and get close to you? Is that what you really think?’
‘You would be surprised what MI5 has tried,’ said the man, flicking ash into the ashtray.
‘Why would MI5 send someone white? Someone who has been in the army? On paper I’m the last person they’d send to infiltrate the Muslim fundamentalist movement.’
‘It is not easy to persuade a true Muslim to spy on his own people,’ said the man. He smiled. ‘Perhaps you are a double bluff. Perhaps they think you are the last person we would trust, and therefore we would trust you. Who knows how they think?’
Bradshaw took a deep breath and interlinked his fingers. There was logic to the man’s argument, and it was not of the sort that could be overruled by a raised voice or a display of anger. It was up to Bradshaw to prove himself worthy of the man’s trust. He bowed his head. ‘Tell me what you want done and,
inshallah
, I shall do it.’
Inshallah
. God willing. The phrase that all Muslims used to show that everything a mere human did was only accomplished because the all-powerful God permitted it.
The man put down his cigarette. He rested a hand on Bradshaw’s shoulder and, in a low, hushed voice, spelled out slowly what he wanted him to do.
Shepherd woke, and for a few seconds he was disoriented. Hotel rooms were always the same, no matter where in the world they were. A bed, a dressing-table, a cupboard with a television on it and a fridge. The television was still on and this time it was Bruce Willis preparing to save the day. Pattaya. He was in Pattaya. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and squinted at the Breitling. It was three o’clock and beams of sunlight were lancing through the gaps in the curtains so Shepherd figured it was three o’clock in the afternoon, but then he realised he hadn’t reset his watch to Thai time so he had to add six, which meant it was nine o’clock in the morning.
He rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom to shower and shave. Then he he pulled on a polo shirt and a pair of jeans. He opened the curtains. The sky was an unrelenting azure blue and the sun was blinding. Jet-skis with plumes of water spurting from the back sped across the bay. The floating restaurants he’d seen the previous night were still there, bobbing in the water amid dozens of smaller craft, motor-cruisers and sailing-boats. Half a dozen speedboats were zipping to and fro, towing parachutes behind them. On the hill overlooking the bay giant orange letters spelled out ‘PATTAYA’ and, in smaller white letters, ‘
CITY
’. The view to his left was less inspiring, a patchwork of roofs and terraces with rusting metalwork and peeling paint, forests of television aerials and mobile-phone masts, and clothes strung from lines, flapping in the wind blowing towards the sea.
His room looked down on the hotel’s swimming-pool where already a dozen men were lying on loungers, their skin glistening with suntan lotion. They were all overweight and flabby, with almost no muscle tone. One was face down while a young Thai girl in a dark blue bikini gave him a massage. She had a large scorpion tattooed across her left shoulder. Her face was a blank mask as she stared into the middle distance, her fingers working on the man’s back.
The hotel served breakfast in the lobby but Shepherd decided to go out for a walk to get the lie of the land. The bellboy who had carried his suitcase upstairs was on duty. He pulled the main door open for Shepherd and wished him a good morning. Shepherd headed down the road towards the beach. A group of Thai men in green vests were sitting on motorcycles, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Their skin was uniformly mahogany brown and leathery from years in the burning sun. ‘Where you go?’ asked one.
‘For a walk,’ said Shepherd.
‘Too hot to walk,’ said the man. His hair was jet black and spiky and he had a spider’s-web tattoo on his neck that might have been done with a needle and a bottle of ink.
‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd.
‘We take you,’ said the man, after a drag on his roll-up. ‘Where you go?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Shepherd.
The group laughed. ‘We motorcycle taxi,’ said a younger man. He had a thick gold chain around his neck from which hung three circular amulets. ‘You pay us, we take you.’
Finally Shepherd understood. They were waiting for customers. A teenage girl with waist-length hair in a pale blue knee-length suit spoke to one of them in Thai and he kick-started his bike. She climbed on and sat sidesaddle, her handbag in her lap, smiling sweetly at Shepherd as she sped off down the road. ‘Later,’ he said, and headed down the beach road. The side furthest from the sea was lined with stalls selling cheap clothing, counterfeit DVDs and tacky souvenirs. Two Thai toddlers giggled and squirted his legs with water pistols. Their mother spoke to him in Thai and she was smiling, so Shepherd smiled back. ‘Happy new year,’ she said.
Shepherd said, ‘Happy new year,’ back to her. It was a strange way to celebrate the new year but it was so hot that the water had been welcome.
As he crossed a side road, he saw three Jeeps parked by the kerb with ‘
FOR RENT
’ signs on the windscreens. He walked up and looked at them. They were open-topped with wide wheels. One was black, another vivid red and the third metallic blue with ‘Born To Rock’ in silver across the bonnet. An old man with a huge mole on his nose was sitting at what appeared to be an old school desk. ‘You want car?’ he grunted.
‘How much to rent the black one?’
A fat woman, her hair tied back with a metal bulldog clip, waddled over. ‘One thousand baht, one day,’ she said.
‘What if I wanted it for a week?’ asked Shepherd.
‘One thousand baht one day. One week seven days, seven thousand baht.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘What if I wanted it for a month?’
‘Which month?’
‘This month.’
‘This month thirty days, one day one thousand baht, thirty days—’
Shepherd held up his hand to silence her. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Thirty thousand baht.’
‘You smart
farang
,’ she said, then muttered to the old man at the desk. He chuckled, cleared his throat and spat greenish phlegm into the road.
‘I’ll come back with the money,’ said Shepherd. ‘Keep the black one for me, yeah?’
‘You not want the blue one? Bigger engine.’
‘I wasn’t born to rock,’ said Shepherd.
‘I need your driving licence,’ she said.
‘I’ll bring it with me,’ promised Shepherd. He headed back to the Sandy Spring.
Next door to the hotel a bar called the Sportsman, with a blackboard outside, was touting its Mega-breakfast. Shepherd’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since he’d been on the plane, and he pushed open the door. Four waitresses sprang to attention. True to its name, the bar had three televisions, all showing different sports – rugby, cycling and tennis. Shepherd sat down at a circular table and ordered coffee and the special Mega-breakfast – double egg, double sausage, double bacon, bubble and squeak, baked beans, mushroom, tomato, black pudding, fried bread, toast and marmalade. Cholesterol on a plate, but it was exactly what he felt like eating.
The bar was dotted with horse brasses, and a rack of English newspapers stood by the door. There were only two other customers – a man in his sixties, who seemed to have fallen asleep over a copy of the
Sun
, and a middle-aged man in a running vest, who didn’t look as if he’d done much running in the past decade or so. He had a beer belly as full as a late pregnancy hanging over his shorts as he played pool with a girl half his age at the far end of the room.
Shepherd sipped his coffee and half-heartedly watched the tennis. His food arrived on a huge rectangular plate. ‘Enjoy your breakfast,’ said the waitress, with a beaming smile. Already on the table there were bottles of Heinz tomato ketchup, HP brown sauce and malt vinegar. He tucked in with relish.
After he had finished, he paid his bill and went back to his hotel room. He was bathed in sweat so he showered again and changed into a shirt and a pair of shorts. He checked himself in the mirror and smiled at his reflection. It wasn’t his style, but it was the sort of outfit that an armed robber on the run might wear. He put on his Ray-Bans. ‘Perfect,’ he said.