John Carr. James Deegan
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situations, and he knew the deal: everyone’s hostile until proven otherwise.
In fact, he’d been surprised at the professionalism of the guys who had arrested him and George.
They’d got them face down in the sand, hands on heads, and then he’d felt the muzzle of his No1’s weapon pressed hard into the back of his skull, no room for ambiguity, while the No. 2 conducted a good search.
True, once he’d been cuffed they’d stuck a few punches and kicks in – a lawyer wouldn’t like it, but lawyers operated in quiet, air-conditioned rooms, not with the air filled with gunsmoke and the groans of dying, blood-spattered children.
As far as Carr was concerned, they’d shown good drills.
‘If you feel the treatment was too rough…’
‘Nah,’ he said, with a slight grin. ‘I’ve had worse off my ex-wife. Like I said, don’t worry about it. All I’m interested in is any news on my daughter.’
‘I have good news, there, Mr Carr,’ said de Padilla. ‘I just heard from the officers we sent to your villa. Both she and the other member of your party are safe and well, and at the villa.’
‘I need to go,’ said Carr, pushing back his chair. ‘She’ll be worried to death.’
‘Please, Mr Carr,’ said the policeman, holding up a hand. ‘I told my officers to stay with her, and to tell her that both you and your son are fine, and are helping us.’
Carr sat back in his chair.
‘One hour,’ he said. ‘Then I have to go.’
‘I understand.’ De Padilla picked up a pen. ‘So, I would like to take a statement. Is this okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you want a lawyer?’
‘Do I need one?’
‘As I say, you’re not a suspect. We have broadly the same laws of self-defence as in the UK.’ He smiled. ‘To me, the only question is which of our civilian gallantry awards you and your son will receive.’
Carr thought for a moment. ‘What about the two police officers and their pistols?’
The officer shrugged. ‘You did what you had to do. I am more concerned that you don’t tell people that our guys were running away. They’ll finish their careers in a small town somewhere far away, believe me.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Okay,’ said de Padilla. ‘So, I really want to see if you can help us identify any members of the gang.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Carr.
‘So, we start from the beginning. You went to the beach with your son and the two ladies at what time?’
‘Before we get into that,’ said Carr. ‘I think I saw one of them.’
‘One of the terrorists?’ said de Padilla. ‘I don’t understand.’
Carr sipped his tea.
It was hot and weak.
‘You know my background,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a lot of surveillance work. There was a guy on the beach. Dark hair, dark eyes, white clothing. Carrying flip-flops in his hand. He was trying to act like a normal tourist – playing the grey man, we call it – but he didn’t quite pull it off. There was a group of young Brits, including four girls. Twenties, good-looking. One in a shocking pink bikini, one in a black bikini. A couple of others. I just thought he was scoping them out. I didn’t blame him, to be fair. But given that the girls he was looking at were later taken away… He obviously had other things on his mind.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No. He was so busy trying to disassociate himself from his target that he forgot about third-party. Most basic mistake in surveillance.’
‘What’s third party?’
‘Me. The watcher watching the watcher. He thought it was just him, the target, and a bunch of random civilians. But I’m a paranoid motherfucker, and he stood right in front of me, so I paid attention. He stuck in my mind. He had a big chunk out of his right calf – probably a round, or a bit of shrapnel. It gave him a weird, rolling gait.’ Carr finished off his tea. ‘That’s another mistake. Should have given that job to someone less distinctive.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’ said de Padilla.
‘Aye. At night, in a jungle, blindfolded.’
‘I don’t understand, Mr Carr. Why at night, in a jungle, blindfolded?’
‘Sorry,’ said Carr. ‘Sense of humour trying to kick in. Basically, yes, I would. I’d recognise him anywhere.’
AT AROUND THAT moment, the little green RIB finally came ashore, guided by a Garmin GPS device to a rocky beach on the western end of the Al Hoceima National Park, a remote and empty swathe of northern Morocco which was forested with thuja cypresses, and criss-crossed by dirt tracks.
His dark eyes flashing, Argun Shishani and the surviving shooter – Abdullah el Haloui, in his Manchester United shirt – hustled the three women onto the shallow beach and up into the cover of the trees.
‘Lie down!’ snapped Shishani. ‘Face the ground.’
‘No, please,’ said one of them, but when el Haloui raised his shortened AK they meekly complied.
‘Now be quiet,’ snapped the Chechen.
He cocked his head on one side, listening.
Nothing but crickets, and the rustling of the trees overhead.
He nodded, satisfied. ‘Wait here,’ he said, to his comrade. He nodded toward the water. ‘I have to speak to him.’
With his strange, lopsided walk, Shishani hurried back down to the inflatable, where the boatman, his face weathered by sixty years of sun and salt spray, was in the process of refuelling the engine from a jerry can.
‘Malik, my friend,’ said Shishani. ‘I have a gift for you.’
‘It’s not necessary, saheb,’ said Malik, with an open smile. ‘I am just happy to do my duty.’
‘But it is necessary,’ said Shishani, and as he walked towards the other man he reached into the bag over his shoulder.
When he was six feet away, he pulled out a pistol – an FNP, loaded with .45 ACP subsonic rounds – and an angular Osprey suppressor.
Malik’s eyes widened as he saw the weapon. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, nervously.
‘I’m putting this suppressor on this pistol,’ said Shishani.
‘But why?’
Shishani didn’t answer for a couple of seconds, but continued screwing the suppressor onto the FNP.
Then he said, ‘Because although Al Hoceima is a desolate place I cannot discount the possibility that there may be someone nearby, and I don’t want them to hear this.’
And, with that, he raised the weapon and shot the boatman twice in the chest.
Suppressors do not ‘silence’ gunfire, but the right equipment does greatly reduce the report, and subsonic rounds have none of the crack caused by a faster bullet as it breaks the sound barrier: the noise of the shots, and the brittle, metallic sound of the moving parts in action, was lost in the humid breeze.
Malik fell backwards into the shallows with a splash